Like one, that on a lonely road • Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turn'd round, walks on, 'And turns no more his head: Because he knows, a frightful fiend 'Doth close behind him tread. 'But soon there breath'd a wind on me, Its path was not upon the sea 'It rais'd my hair, it fann'd 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? 6 Is this mine own countrée ? "We drifted o'er the harbour bar, "The harbour bay was clear as glass, • The moonlight bay was white all o'er, 'Till rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, • Like as of torches came. 'A little distance from the prow • Those dark-red shadows were; 'But soon I saw that my own flesh Was red as in a glare. 'I turn'd my head in. fear and dread, And by the holy rood, The bodies had advanc'd, and now They lifted up their stiff right-arms, head away 'Forth looking as before, There was no breeze upon the bay, • No wave against the shore. "The rock shone bright, the kirk no less That stands above the rock: The moonlight steep'd in silentness And the bay was white with silent light, 'Till rising from the same • Full many shapes, that shadows were, • In crimson colours came. A little distance from the prow 'I turn'd my eyes upon the deck-- Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat; A man all light, a seraph-man, This seraph-band, each wav'd his hand; 'It was a heavenly sight: They stood as signals to the land, Each one a lovely light: This seraph-band, each wav'd his hand: No voice did they impart, No voice; but O! the silence sank • Like music on my heart. • Eftsones I heard the dash of oars, ◄ Then vanish'd all the lovely lights; With silent pace, each to his place, The wind that shade nor motion made The Pilot and the Pilot's Boy I heard them coming fast: 'Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy • The dead men could not blast. I saw a third-I heard his voice: • He singeth loud his godly hymns That he makes in the wood. He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross's blood. VII. This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea: "How loudly his sweet voice he rears! "He loves to talk with marineres • That come from a far countrée. • He kneels at morn and noon and eve'He hath a cushion plump: "It is the moss, that wholly hides The rotted old oak stump. |