10
INSIDE PLUM ISLAND.
While, in their friendly multitude Encamped along our quarter,The host of hay-cocks seemed to float With doubles in the water.
Around the sunny distance rose A blue and hazy highland,And winding down our winding way The sand hills of Plum Island—
The windy dunes that hid the sea For many a dreary acre,And muffled all its thundering fall Along the wild South Breaker.
We crept by Oldtown's marshy mouth, By reedy Rowley drifted,But far away the Ipswich bar Its white caps tossed and shifted.
Sometimes we heard a bittern boom, Sometimes a piping: plover,Sometimes there came the lonesome cry Of white gulls flying over.
