This page has been validated.
7
Till cruel chance at length reveal'd
The passion they so long conceal'd,
And William lost his dear.
A friendly voice poor William hail’d,
A ruffian gang the youth assail'd,
’Twas done by cursed gold;
The tender for the offing stood,
The cutter skimm'd the yielding flood,
The hatch’d him in the hold.
She, troubled, walks the beach in haste,
And troubled look’d the watery waste,
And by the floating wave,
A corpse was wash'd upon the shore,
'Twas William! and with tears they bore,
Two lovers to the grave.
The Minute gun.
When in the storm on Albion’s coast,
The night-watch guards his wary post,
From thoughts of danger free,
He marks some vessel's dusky form,
And hears amid some bowling storm,
The minute gun at sea.
