Classic Poem

With sails full set to catch the western breeze,
The stout ship, Holy Cross,
The Channel ploughed;
Nor dreamt those noble hearts on board of loss;
Or that those silvered waves might prove their shroud;
As o'er her staunch bulwarks they pictured home and ease.

"What light is that which glimmers on yon height?"
The gallant captain cried,
"'Tis Ragnor's Tower,"
Sir Harold said, "where dwells my lady bride.
That light she vowed should never quit her bower.
Haste, captain, haste, I pray, and land me there this night."

"Steer straight for yonder light on Ragnor's crown!"
The captain made reply.
They set the helm;
And now with wings outstretched they swiftly fly,
Where demons will with mocking laugh o'erwhelm
And dance with fiendish glee to see them sink and drown.