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Mary Darby Robinson - The Haunted Beach
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Upon a lonely desart Beach
    Where the white foam was scatter`d,
A little shed uprear`d its head
    Though lofty Barks were shatter`d.
The Sea-weeds gath`ring near the door,
    A sombre path display`d;
And, all around, the deaf`ning roar,
Re-echo`d on the chalky shore,
    By the green billows made.

Above, a jutting cliff was seen
    Where Sea Birds hover`d, craving;
And all around, the craggs were bound
    With weeds—for ever waving.
And here and there, a cavern wide
    Its shad`wy jaws display`d;
And near the sands, at ebb of tide,
A shiver`d mast was seen to ride
    Where the green billows stray`d.

And often, while the moaning wind
    Stole o`er the Summer Ocean;
The moonlight scene, was all serene,
    The waters scarce in motion:
Then, while the smoothly slanting sand
    The tall cliff wrapp`d in shade,
The Fisherman beheld a band
Of Spectres, gliding hand in hand—
    Where the green billows play`d.

And pale their faces were, as snow,
    And sullenly they wander`d:
And to the skies with hollow eyes
    They look`d as though they ponder`d.
And sometimes, from their hammock shroud,
    They dismal howlings made,
And while the blast blew strong and loud
The clear moon mark`d the ghastly croud,
    Where the green billows play`d!

And then, above the haunted hut
    The Curlews screaming hover`d;
And the low door with furious roar
    The frothy breakers cover`d.
For, in the Fisherman`s lone shed
    A MURDER`D MAN was laid,
With ten wide gashes in his head
And deep was made his sandy bed
    Where the green billows play`d.

A Shipwreck`d Mariner was he,
    Doom`d from his home to sever;
Who swore to be thro` wind and sea
    Firm and undaunted ever!
And when the wave resistless roll`d,
    About his arm he made
A packet rich of Spanish gold,
And, like a British sailor, bold,
    Plung`d, where the billows play`d!

The Spectre band, his messmates brave
    Sunk in the yawning ocean,
While to the mast he lash`d him fast
    And brav`d the storm`s commotion.
The winter moon, upon the sand
    A silv`ry carpet made,
And mark`d the Sailor reach the land,
And mark`d his murd`rer wash his hand
    Where the green billows play`d.

And since that hour the Fisherman
    Has toil`d and toil`d in vain!
For all the night, the moony light
    Gleams on the specter`d main!
And when the skies are veil`d in gloom,
    The Murd`rer`s liquid way
Bounds o`er the deeply yawning tomb,
And flashing fires the sands illume,
    Where the green billows play!

Full thirty years his task has been,
    Day after day more weary;
For Heav`n design`d, his guilty mind
    Should dwell on prospects dreary.
Bound by a strong and mystic chain,
    He has not pow`r to stray;
But, destin`d mis`ry to sustain,
He wastes, in Solitude and Pain—
    A loathsome life away.
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