Sketch Eighth

"At last they in an island did espyA seemly woman sitting by the shore,That with great sorrow and sad agonySeemed some great misfortune to deplore,And loud to them for succor called evermore."

"Black his eye as the midnight sky,White his neck as the driven snow,Red his cheek as the morning light;—Cold he lies in the ground below.My love is dead,Gone to his death-bed,All under the cactus tree."

"Each lonely scene shall thee restore,For thee the tear be duly shed;Belov'd till life can charm no more,And mourned till Pity's self be dead."