The Isle Of Portland

 The star-filled seas are smooth tonight
 From France to England strown;
Black towers above 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 you ever found the day.

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