The star-filled seas are smooth to-night 
From France to England strown; 
Black towers above the Portland light 
The felon-quarried stone. 

On yonder island, not to rise, 
Never to stir forth free, 
Far from his folk a dead lad lies 
That once was friends with me. 

Lie you easy, dream you light, 
And sleep you fast for aye; 
And luckier may you find the night 
Than ever you found the day.