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The captive's voice was heard no more,The tow'r's huge fragments strew'd the shore;And nought was seen where once it stood,But the rude cliff above the flood.
And many a year has now gone bySince the rude watch-tow'r frown'd on high,Nor voy'ger's boat, nor pirate band,E'er tread the long-deserted strand.
Yet when the seaman anchors there,Fresh water from the spring to bear;In the lone valley's gloomiest greenA strange and shadowy form is seen.
Sudden along the heaving tide,The passing spirit seems to glide—So ghastly pale—so dimly fair—Then mixes with the viewless air.
GAVIN THE FALSE.
"Again I feel my bosom glow With love, with rapture, and delight;His faith is prov'd, his love I know, Nor time can cool, nor absence blight.
