THE ISLE OF PORTLAND

The star-filled seas are smooth to-night

From France to England strown;

Black towers above the Portland light

The felon-quarried stone.

On yonder island, not to rise,

Never to stir forth free,

Far from his folk a dead lad lies

That once was friends with me.

Lie you easy, dream you light,

And sleep you fast for aye;

And luckier may you find the night

Than ever you found the day.