The solemn rows in that darksome den, Were dimly seen like the forms of men, Like giant monks in ages agone, Whom the God of the ocean had seared to stone, And bound in his temple for ever to lean, In sackcloth of gray and visors of An everlasting worship to keep, green, And the big salt tears eternally weep. So rapid the motion, the whirl and the boil, So loud was the tumult, so fierce the turmoil, Appalled from those portals of terror they turn, On pillar of marble their incense to burn. Around the holy flame they pray, Then turning their faces all west away, The Monks' Hymn. Thou, who makest the ocean to flow, Thou, who walkest the channels below; To thee, to thee, this incense we heap, Thou, who knowest not slumber nor sleep, Great Spirit that movest on the face of the deep! To thee, to thee, we sing to thee, God of the western wind, God of the sea. To thee, who bring'st with thy right hand To thee, who breathest in the bosom'd sail, Light'st the gleam on the mane of the wave, Bid'st the billows thy reign deform, Laugh'st in the whirlwind, sing'st in the storm; Or risest like mountain amid the sea, Where mountain was never, and never will be And rear'st thy proud and thy pale chaperoon 'Mid walks of the angels and ways of the moon. To thee, to thee, this wine we pour, God of the western wind, God of the shower. To thee, who bid'st those mountains of brine Softly sink in the fair moonshine, And spread'st thy couch of silver light, To lure to thy bosom the queen of the night, We pour this oil and this wine to thee, God of the western wind, God of the sea!— "Greater yet must the offering be." The monks gazed round, the abbot grew wan, For the closing notes were not sung by man. They came from the rock, or they came from the air, From voice they knew not, and knew not where; But it sung with a mournful melody, "Greater yet must the offering be." In holy dread they past away, And they walked the ridge of that isle so gray, An hundred fathoms below their feet; They looked to the countless isles that lie, They looked at all with a silent pain, A little bay lies hid from sight, O'erhung by cliffs of dreadful height; When they drew nigh that airy steep, They heard a voice rise from the deep, And that voice was sweet as voice could be, McKinnon lay stretched on the verge of the hill, And peeped from the height on the bay so still; And he saw her sit on a weedy stone, Laving her fair breast, and singing alone; And aye she sank the wave within, Till it gurgled around her lovely chin, Then combed her locks of the pale sea-green, And aye this song was heard between. The Mermaid's Song. Maltilda of Skye Alone may lie, And list to the wind that whistles by: |