When on the deck she was espied, Each trembled to behold; As on she sail'd 'gainst wind and tide, ('Tis scarce believ'd when told) Then sail and oar were both applied, And swift the vessel flew; But where the man--who could abide That vessel to pursue? Ah! who could dare approach the spot Where Isabel did steer? That mariner existeth not, But did that phantom fear. Or where's the man whose courage bold, Could lend him strength one hour, To gaze upon that form so cold, Or place him in her power. And when the spectral sail was spread, That flutter'd to and fro; The hair would bristle on each head, Which awful fear did show. And when the moon-beam seem'd to kiss, That dreaded maiden's brow; Something each knew would go amiss, Nor judg'd such wrong, I trow. For tho' the form was wond'rous fair, 'Twas terrible to view; And to avoid it was the care Of every vessel's crew. Full many a dismal tale was told, Of that fam'd spectre ship; And none were ever known so bold To watch this nightly trip. Why did that troubled shade proceed Along that watery way? Or what the purpose, or the deed, Which caus'd her thus to stray? For good, or bad, did Isabel, Forsake her dreary grave? Or was't because she lov'd to sail On Wye's pellucid wave? The spectre came to meet her dear, Lord Hugh--the young and brave; When dreadful tidings met her ear, "He'd found a traitor's grave." When second Edward rul'd this land, (A wretched prince was he,) Of favourites he'd a numerous band, As worthless as could be. Two noblemen amongst this set Were hated above all; And many were the lords who met, To work the Spencer's fall. Success attends these foe-men's strife, Lord Hugh is doom'd to die; And in his happiest hours of life, That precious life did fly. His manly form did never more, Bless Isabel's fond eyes; With him--the joys of life were o'er, For him--the maiden dies. Yet still the spirit fondly clings, To what in life has been, Thus Isabel, it nightly brings To this beloved scene. But when her feet have touch'd the ground, With silent, noiseless tread; No tender lover there is found, He's number'd with the dead. No more of love the tender strain, Falls on her list'ning ear, In life--her joy, was turn'd to pain, Her hope--gave place to fear. 'Tis then, that dread laments they hear, Who pass by night that way; Which the scar'd traveller, so clear, Hears till returning day; When re-embarks sad Isabel, That spectre shade so fair; Then dashing in the water's swell, She vanishes in air.