Where, under the moon, upon mounts of frost,
Full many a mariner's bones are tost!
You shadowy bark hath been to that wreck,
And the dim blue fire, that lights her deck,
Doth play on as pale and livid a crew
As ever yet drank the church-yard dew!
To Dead-man's Isle, in the eye of the blast,
To Dead-man's Isle she speeds her fast,
By skeleton shapes her sails are furl'd,
And the hand that steers is not of this world!