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'I took the oars : the Pilot's boy,
* And now,
all in my own countree, I 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 of man art thou ?”
' Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd With a woful
agony, Which forced me to begin my tale ; And then it left me free.
Since then, at an uncertain hour,
tale I teach. -What loud uproar bursts from that door ! The wedding guests are there : But in the garden-bower the bride And bridesmaids singing are : And hark the little vesper bell, Which biddeth me to prayer !
'O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
"To walk together to the kirk,
-Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell
'He prayeth best, who loveth best
-The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
He went like one that hath been stunn'd,
I HEAR a sudden cry of pain !
There is a rabbit in a snare :
But I cannot tell from where.
But I cannot tell from where
He is calling out for aid ;
Making everything afraid.
Making everything afraid,
Wrinkling up his little face,
And I cannot find the place !
And I cannot find the place
Where his paw is in the snare :
50 The Reverie of Poor Susan Ar the corner of Wood Street, when daylight appears, Hangs a Thrush that sings loud, it has sung for three
years : Poor Susan has pass'd by the spot, and has heard In the silence of morning the song of the Bird.
'Tis a note of enchantment; what ails her ? She sees
Lothbury] oth pronounced as in both.
Green pastures she views in the midst of the dale, Down which she so often has tripp'd with her pail ; And a single small cottage, a nest like a dove's, The one only dwelling on earth that she loves.
She looks, and her heart is in heaven : but they fade,
A widow bird sate mourning for her love
Upon a wintry bough;
The freezing stream below.
There was no leaf upon the forest bare,
No flower upon the ground,
We wander'd to the Pine Forest
That skirts the Ocean's foam,
The tempest in its home.
The clouds were gone to play,
The smile of Heaven lay ;
It seem'd as if the hour were one
Sent from beyond the skies, Which scatter'd from above the sun
A light of Paradise.
We paused amid the pines that stood
The giants of the waste, Tortured by storms to shapes as rude
As serpents interlaced, And soothed by every azure breath
That under Heaven is blown,
As tender as its own ;
Like green waves on the sea,
How calm it was !-the silence there
By such a chain was bound That even the busy woodpecker
Made stiller by her sound The inviolable quietness ;
The breath of peace we drew With its soft motion made not less
The calm that round us grew. There seem'd from the remotest seat
Of the white mountain waste, To the soft flower beneath our feet,
A magic circle traced,-
A thrilling, silent life,-
Our mortal nature's strife ;