All stood together on the deck, The pang, the curse, with which they died, I could not draw my eyes from theirs, And now this spell was snapp'd: once more I viewed the ocean green, And look'd far forth, yet little saw Like one, that on a lonesome road But soon there breathed a wind on me, Nor sound nor motion made: Its path was not upon the sea It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek, Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, O dream of joy! is this indeed The light-house top I see? Is this the hill? Is this the kirk? Is this mine own countrée ? We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, The harbour-bay was clear as glass, The rock shone bright, the kirk no less The moonlight steeped in silentness And the bay was white with silent light, Full many shapes, that shadows were, A little distance from the prow Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat; A man all light, a seraph-man. On every corse there stood. This seraph-band, each waved his hand; 1 They stood as signals to the land, This seraph-band, each waved his hand; No voice; but O! the silence sank But soon I heard the dash of oars, My head was turned perforce away, The pilot, and the pilot's boy, I saw a third-I heard his voice; He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away PART VII. "This hermit good lives in that wood He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve- The skiff-boat near'd; I heard them talk, 'Strange, by my faith!' the hermit said— I never saw aught like to them The skeletons of leaves that lag My forest brook along: When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, And the owlet whoops to the wolf below 'Dear Lord! it has a fiendish look- I am a-feared.'- The boat came closer to the ship, Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread: Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound. Which sky and ocean smote, Like one that hath been seven days drowned My body lay afloat: But, swift as dreams, myself I found Upon the whirl, were sank the ship, I moved my lips: the pilot shrieked, The holy hermit raised his eyes I took the oars; the pilot's boy, Laughed loud and long, and all the while Ha ha!' quoth he- full plain I see, And now all in my own countrée The hermit stepped forth from the boat 'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man !' The hermit crossed his brow. 'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say What manner of man art thou?' Forthwith this frame of mind was wrenched With a woeful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale, And then it left me free. Since then, at an uncertain hour That agony returns; |