Of the tall beetling cliff that juts out o'er the deep.
"The wind wav'd her garments, and April's rash showers
Hung like gems in her dark locks, enwreath'd with wild flowers;
Her bosom was bared to the cold midnight storm,
That unsparingly beat on her thin fragile form;
Her black eyes flash'd sternly whence reason had fled,
And she glanc'd on my sight like some ghost of the dead,
As she sang a loud strain to the hoarse dashing surge,
That rang on my ears like the plaint of a dirge.
"And he who had left her to madness and shame,