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"Back, back, all hands! Get what you can—

Or pick, or oar, or stave."
This way and that they breathless ran,
And came and fell to, every man,

To dig him out of his grave!

"Too slow ! too slow ! the weight will kill!

Up, make your hawsers fast!"
Then every man took hold with a will—
A long pull and a strong pull—still

With never a stir o' the mastl

"Out with the cargo!" Then they go

At it with might and main. "Back to the sands! too slow, too slow! He's dying, dying ! yet, heave ho!

Heave ho! there, once again!"

And now on the beach at Garl'ston stood

A woman whose pale brow wore Its love like a queenly crown ; and the blood Ran curdled and cold as she watched the tlood

That was racing m to the shore.

On, on it trampled, stride by stride.

It was death to stand and" wait;
And all that were free threw picks aside,
And came up dripping out o' th' tide,

And left the doomed to his fate.

But lo! the great sea trembling stands;

Then, crawling under the ship,
As if for the sake of the two white hands
Beaching over the wild, wet sands,

Slackened that terrible grip.

"Come to me, Jamie! God grants the way,"

She cries, " for lovers to meet." And the sea, so cruel, grew kind, they say, And, wrapping him tenderly round with spray,

Laid him dead at her feet.

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