Like one, that on a lonesome 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, Nor sound nor 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 moonlight lay, And the shadow of the moon. 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. But soon 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. 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 shrive 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 Mariners That come from a far countrée. 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 ner'd: I heard them talk, "Why, this is strange, I trow! Where are those lights so many and fair That signal made but now?"