Afloat is his skiff, to her gunwale sunk
(Though empty to mortal sight);
He hoists her sail to the furious gale,
And drifts into blackest night.
Strange shrieks, deep groans from the boat resound—
The ghosts who have died to day—
Babes, women, and men—they wail as they sail
From their loved ones far away.
In an hour they land on the Cornish strand;
Lightly now (see the boat’s keel shows!),
Lightly the swift sea-horses bear
Him home o’er the crested snows.
Speeds to his arms at the shore his bride,
Winged by love, so young and so fair;
She slips and the long black sea-weeds twine
And stream ’midst her golden hair.
Then rises the Evil One seeking his prey,
Drags him back from the Breton shore;
Unshriven, unhouselled, the ghosts may roam,
But his skiff comes nevermore!
All night they flit by Cornuaille’s beach
(You may hear them moan o’erhead);
The peasants still cross their breasts, and call
That bay the Bay of the Dead.
