A mile to cross, and the skies so dread; With a storm around that would wake the dead; And fathoms of boiling depths below; The ferry is hailed, and the boat must go. Snug under that cliff, whence over the Mere, When summer is merry and skies are clear, In holiday times hearts light and gay Look over the hills and far away-- At the Ferry-house Inn, sat warm beside The bright wood-fire and hearthstone wide, A rollicking band of jovial souls With tinkling cans and full brown bowls. Without, the sycamores' branches rode The storm, as if fiends the roof bestrode; Yet stout of heart, to that wild holloa The ferryman smiled--"The boat must go." His comrades followed out into the dark, As the young man strode to the tumbling bark; And, wishing him luck in the perilous storm, With a shudder went back to the fireside warm. An hour is gone! against wind and wave Well struggled and strove that heart so brave. Another! they crowd to the whistling door, To welcome the guide and his freight to shore. But pallid, and stunn'd, aghast, alone, He stood in the boat, and speech had none: His lips were locked, and his eyes astare, And blanched with terror his manly hair. What thing he had seen, what utterance heard, What horror that night his senses stirr'd, Was frozen within him, and choked his breath, And laid him, ere morning, cold in death. But what that night of horror revealed, And what that night of horror concealed Of spirits and powers in storms that roam, Lies hid with the monk in St. Mary's Holm. Still, under the cliff--whence over the Mere, When summer was merry and skies were clear, In holiday times hearts light and gay Looked over the hills and far away-- When the rough winds blew amid rain and cold, The Ferry-house gathered its hearts of old, Who sat at the hearth and o'er the brown ale, Oft talked of that night and its dismal tale. And often the Crier was heard to wake The night's foul echoes across the lake; But never again would a hand unmoor The boat, to venture by night from shore: Till they sought the good monk of St. Mary's Holm, With relics of saints and beads from Rome, To row to the Nab on Hallowmas night, And bury the Crier by morning's light. With Aves muttered, and spells unknown, The monk rows over the Mere alone; Like a feather his bark floats light and fast; When the Crier's loud hail sweeps down the blast. Speed on, bold heart, with gifts of grace! He is nearing the wild fiend-blighted place. Now heed thee, foul spirit! the priest has power To bind thee on earth till the morning hour. He rests his oars; and the faint blue gleam From a marsh-light sheds on the ground its beam. There's a stir in the grass; and there's ONE on a knoll, Unearthly and horrid to sight and soul.