Withered Leaves from Memory's Garland by Abigail Stanley Hanna
page 51 of 371 (13%)
page 51 of 371 (13%)
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Who but the closer to him clung,
As darker rolled life's heaving tide. But though an Angel shar'd the place, There were for him no joys at home; He left his mother and his wife, Reckless o'er earth or sea to roar. He stood upon a sanded deck, With blood-red pennon floating free, And with a daring bloody band, Rode madly o'er the foaming sea. The waves that lashed the coal-black hull Were parted oft their dead to hide; For ocean's surging, billowy foam, Drank deeply of life's crimson tide. He tossed a pointed dagger high, And wore a sabre by his side; And many a gen'rous noble one, Beneath his powerful arm had died. For bloody deeds of daring high, He had won a deathless fame; And o'er that reckless, bloody crew, Had gained a pirate-captain's name. And though their coffers teem'd with gold, Their sordid souls still sighed for more: |
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