Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/672

 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: It is the Hermit good! 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.

'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 countree.

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.

The skiff-boat near'd: 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