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Oh ! how she gazed ! — a barge (by friars 't was mann'd) 



Cut the smooth waves, and sought the rocky strand. 



Soon (while his wither'd hands a crosier hold, 



All rich with gems, and rough with sculptured gold), 



Landing alone, a reverend monk appear'd: — 



His jewell'd cross — his flowing silver beard — 



" 'Tis he ! — 'tis he ! " — swift down the steep she flies, 



Falls at the stranger's feet, and frantic cries, 



Down her pale cheek while tears imploring roll, 



" Help, father abbot ! save me ! save my soul ! " 



'Twas he indeed ! that bark which ne'er return'd, 



Well on the cliff her fair wild form discern'd, 



But deem'd some island-fiend had spread a snare 



To lure them with a form so wild and fair. 



Yet oft in Lisbon would those seamen tell, 



How angled for their souls the prince of hell ; 



And warmly paint, their leisure to beguile, 



The fallen angel of th' enchanted isle. 



At length this wonder reach'd the abbot's ear, 



And prompt affection made the wonder clear : — 



66 'Twas Irza ! shipwreck'd Irza ! none but she 



So heav'nly fair, so lonely lost could be ! " 



Straight he prepares anew that sea to brave, 



Which once already seem'd to yawn his grave ; 



Nor ask, how chanced it that he reach'd the shore : 



' T was through a miracle and nothing more. 



Whether on monkish fr ock as safe rode he, 



As night-hags skim in sieves o'er Norway's sea ; 



Or like Arion plough'd the wat'ry plain, 



Horsed on some monster of the astonish'd main, 



Some shark, some whale, some kraken, some sea-cow — - 



St. Francis saved him, and it boots not how. 



And now again the saint his priest survey'd, 



From waves and winds imploring heavenly aid ; 



Resolved for Irza's sake to brave the worst 



Which fate could offer on that isle accurst. 



