Page:Lyrical ballads, Volume 1, Wordsworth, 1800.djvu/248

196 And now all in mine 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 man art thou?

forthwith this frame of mind was wrench'd

With a woeful agony,

Which forc'd me to begin my tale

And then it left me free.

Since then at an uncertain hour,

That agency returns;

And till my ghastly tale is told

This heart within me burns.