'And at the bows and image stood, By a cunning artist carved in wood, With robes of white that far behind Seemed to be fluttering in the wind. It was not shaped in a Classic mould, Not like a Nymph or Goddess of old, Nor Naiad rising from the water, But modelled from the Master's daughter! On many a dreary and misty night, 'Twill be seen by the rays of the signal light Speeding along through the rain and the dark, Like a ghost in its snow-white sark, The pilot of some phantom bark, Guiding the vessel, in its flight, By a path none other knows aright!.....