IX.
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he tide did now its floodmark gain,And girdled in the saint’s domain:For, with the flow and ebb, its styleVaries from continent to isle;Dry-shod, o’er sands, twice every day,The pilgrims to the shrine find way;Twice every day, the waves effaceOf staves and sandalled feet the trace.As to the port the galley flew,Higher and higher rose to viewThe castle with its battled walls,The ancient monastery’s halls,A solemn, huge, and dark-red pile,Placed on the margin of the isle.
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