Lyrical Ballads, With a Few Other Poems (1798). William Wordsworth

dead men stood together.

      All stood together on the deck,

        For a charnel-dungeon fitter:

      All fix'd on me their stony eyes

        That in the moon did glitter.

      The pang, the curse, with which they died,

        Had never pass'd away:

      I could not draw my een from theirs

        Ne turn them up to pray.

      And in its time the spell was snapt,

        And I could move my een:

      I look'd far-forth, but little saw

        Of what might else be seen.

      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,

        Ne sound ne motion made:

      Its path was not upon the sea

        In ripple or in shade.

      It rais'd my hair, it fann'd my cheek,

        Like a meadow-gale of spring —

      It mingled strangely with my fears,

        Yet it felt like a welcoming.

      Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,

        Yet she sail'd softly too:

      Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze —

        On me alone it blew.

      O dream of joy! is this indeed

        The light-house top I see?

      Is this the Hill? Is this the Kirk?

        Is this mine own countrée?

      We drifted o'er the Harbour-bar,

        And I with sobs did pray —

      "O let me be awake, my God!

        "Or let me sleep alway!"

      The harbour-bay was clear as glass,

        So smoothly it was strewn!

      And on the bay the moon light lay,

        And the shadow of the moon.

      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

        Before the mast they stood.

      They lifted up their stiff right arms,

        They held them strait and tight;

      And each right-arm burnt like a torch,

        A torch that's borne upright.

      Their stony eye-balls glitter'd on

        In the red and smoky light.

      I pray'd and turn'd my 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

        The steady weathercock.

      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

        Those crimson shadows were:

      I turn'd my eyes upon the deck —

        O Christ! what saw I there?

      Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat;

        And by the Holy rood

      A man all light, a seraph-man,

        On every corse there stood.

      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,

        I heard the pilot's cheer:

      My head was turn'd perforce away

        And I saw a boat appear.

      Then vanish'd all the lovely lights;

        The bodies rose anew:

      With silent pace, each to his place,

        Came back the ghastly crew.

      The wind, that shade nor motion made,

        On me alone it blew.

      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.

      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 Contrée.

      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 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