“‘Tis he!—‘tis he!”—swift down the steep she flies,
Falls at the stranger’s feet, and frantic cries,
Down her pale cheek while tears imploring roll,
“Help, father abbot! save me! save my soul!”
‘Twas he indeed! that bark which ne’er return’d,
Well on the cliff* her fair wild form discern’d,
But deem’d some island-fiend had spread a snare
To lure them with a form so wild and fair.
Yet oft in Lisbon would those seamen tell,
How angled for their souls the prince of hell;