The Death Race

Watch ye, and ward ye ! a ship in sight,
And bearing down for Trebarra Height,
She folds her wings by that rocky strand :
Watch ye, and ward ye ! a boat on land !

Hush ! for they glide from yonder cave
To greet these strangers of the wave ;
Wait ! since they pace the seaward glen
With the measured tread of mourning men.

" Hold ! masters, hold ! ye tarry here,
What corpse is laid on your solemn bier ?
Yon minster-ground were a calmer grave
Than the roving bark, or the weedy wave \n

" Strong vows we made to our sister dead
To hew in fair France her narrow bed ;
And her angry ghost will win no rest
If your Cornish earth lie on her breast."

They rend that pall in the glaring light,
By St. Michael of Carne ! 'twas an awful sight !
For those folded hands were meekly laid
On the silent breast of a shrouded maid,

" God speed, my masters, your mournful way !
Go, bury your dead where best ye may !
But the Norroway barks are over the deep,
So we watch and ward from our guarded steep."

Who comes with weapon ? who comes with steed ?
Ye may hear far off their clanking speed ;
What knight in steel is thundering on ?
Ye may know the voice of the grim Sir John.

" Saw ye my daughter, my Gwennah bright,
Borne out for dead at the deep of night ? "
" Too late ! too late ! " cried the warder pale,
" Lo ! the full deck, and the rushing sail ! "

They have roused that maid from her trance of sleep,
They have spread their sails to the roaring deep ;
Watch ye, and ward ye ! with wind and tide,
Fitz-Walter hath won his Cornish bride.