II.

How dreary was that solitude! Around it scream'd the sea-fowl's brood; The only sound, amidst the strife Of wind, and wave, that spoke of life, Except when Heaven's ghost-stars were pale, The distant cry from hurrying sail. From year to year the weeds had grown O'er walls slow-rotting with the damp; And, with the weeds, decay'd, alone, The Warder of the lamp.