It was that fatal and perfidious bark, 100

Built in the eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,

That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.

Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,

His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,

Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge 105

Like to that sanguine flower inscribed with woe.

‘Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?’

Last came, and last did go,

The pilot of the Galilean lake;