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THE MARY ROSS
. . . The bitter cold was all—then breath
Again, and something cross’d
My clutching fingers; with a spar
Now was I driven and toss’d.
Where were the rest? My strain’d ear caught
No answer. . . . Dazed and stark,
Moments it may have been, or hours,
Dash’d thro’ the roaring dark.
I thought that I must have traversed Time
And touch’d Eternity,
When, high in the air, a cry, a wail:
“I am afraid! Save me!”
And yonder!—O what’s that blacker black
Bulged out upon the gloom?
By the glint of the whirling spray I saw
Her lifted stern-post loom.
“Save me!” O what’s yon whiter speck
O’er the yeasty glimmer wild?
Terribly flash’d the hasty moon
On—the face of a little child!
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