The Isle Of Portland

The star-filled seas are smooth tonight
From France to England strown;
Black towers above Portland light
The felon-quarried stone.
On yonder island; not to rise,
Never to stir forth free,
Far from his folk a dead lad lies
That once was friends with me.
Lie you easy, dream you light,
And sleep you fast for aye;
And luckier may you find the night
Than you ever found the day.