VII.
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his Hermit good lives in that woodWhich slopes down to the Sea.How loudly his sweet voice he rears!He loves to talk with MarineresThat come from a far Contrée. He kneels at morn and noon and eve--He hath a cushion plump:It is the moss, that wholly hidesThe rotted old Oak-stump. The Skiff-boat ne’rd: I heard them talk,“Why, this is strange, I trow!“Where are those lights so many and fair“That signal made but now? “Strange, by my faith!” the Hermit said--“And they answer’d not our cheer.“The planks look warp’d, and see those sails“How thin they are and sere!“I never saw aught like to them“Unless perchance it were “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“That eats the she-wolf’s young. “Dear Lord! it has a fiendish look”--(The Pilot made reply)“I am a-fear’d.--“Push on, push on!”Said the Hermit cheerily. The Boat came closer to the Ship,But I ne spake ne stirr’d!The Boat came close beneath the Ship,And strait a sound was heard! Under the water it rumbled on,Still louder and more dread:It reach’d the Ship, it split the bay;The Ship went down like lead. Stunn’d by that loud and dreadful sound,Which sky and ocean smote:Like one that hath been seven days drown’dMy body lay afloat:But, swift as dreams, myself I foundWithin the Pilot’s boat. Upon the whirl, where sank the Ship,The boat spun round and round:And all was still, save that the hillWas telling of the sound. I mov’d my lips: the Pilot shriek’dAnd fell down in a fit.The Holy Hermit rais’d his eyesAnd pray’d where he did sit. I took the oars: the Pilot’s boy,Who now doth crazy go,Laugh’d loud and long, and all the whileHis eyes went to and fro,“Ha! ha!” quoth he--“full plain I see,“The devil knows how to row.” And now all in mine own CountréeI stood on the firm land!The Hermit stepp’d forth from the boat,And scarcely he could stand. “O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy Man!”The Hermit cross’d his brow--“Say quick,” quoth he, “I bid thee say“What manner man art thou?” Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench’dWith a woeful agony,Which forc’d me to begin my taleAnd then it left me free. Since then at an uncertain hour,Now oftimes and now fewer,That anguish comes and makes me tellMy ghastly aventure. I pass, like night, from land to land;I have strange power of speech;The moment that his face I seeI know the man that must hear me;To him my tale I teach. What loud uproar bursts from that door!The Wedding-guests are there;But in the Garden-bower the BrideAnd Bride-maids singing are:And hark the little Vesper-bellWhich biddeth me to prayer. O Wedding-guest! this soul hath beenAlone on a wide wide sea:So lonely ’twas, that God himselfScarce seemed there to be. O sweeter than the Marriage-feast,’Tis sweeter far to meTo walk together to the KirkWith a goodly company. To walk together to the KirkAnd all together pray,While each to his great father bends,Old men, and babes, and loving friends,And Youths, and Maidens gay. Farewell, farewell! but this I tellTo thee, thou wedding-guest!He prayeth well who loveth wellBoth man and bird and beast. He prayeth best who loveth best,All things both great and small:For the dear God, who loveth us,He made and loveth all. The Marinere, whose eye is bright,Whose beard with age is hoar,Is gone; and now the wedding-guestTurn’d from the bridegroom’s door. He went, like one that hath been stunn’dAnd is of sense forlorn:A sadder and a wiser manHe rose the morrow morn. THE FOSTER-MOTHER’S TALE, A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT.
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