hantom in appalling stillness stand;
The letters of the book shone through the night,
More blasting! Hide, oh hide me from the sight!
Ocean, to thee and to thy storms I bring 360
A heart, that not the music of the spring,
Nor summer piping on the rural plain,
Shall ever wake to happiness again!
Ocean, be mine,--wild as thy wastes, to roam
From clime to clime!--Ocean, be thou my home!
Some say he died: here he was seen no more;
He went to sea; and oft, amid the roar
Of the wild waters, starting from his sleep,
He gazed upon the wild tempestuous deep;
When, slowly rising from the vessel's lee, 370
A shape appeared, which none besides could see;
Then would he shriek, like one whom Heaven forsook,
Oh! shut the book, dear Mary, shut the book!
In foreign lands, in darkness or in light,
The same dread spectre stood before his sight;
If slumber came his aching lids to close,
Funereal forms in long procession rose.
Sometimes he dreamed that every grief was past
Mary, long lost on earth, is found at last;
And now she smiled as when, in early life, 380
She lived in hope that she should be his wife;
The maids are dressed in white, and all are gay,
For this (he dreamed) is Mary's wedding-day!
Then wherefore sad? a chill comes o'er his soul,--
The sounds of mirth are hushed; and, hark! a toll!--
A slow, deep toll; and lo! a sable train
Of mourners, moving to the village fane.
A coffin now is laid in holy ground,
That, heavily, returns a hollow sound,
When the first earth upon its lid is thrown: 390
That hollow sound now changes to a groan:
While, rising with wan cheek, and dripping hair,
And moving lips, and eyes of ghastly glare,
The spectre comes again! It comes more near!
'Tis Mary! and that book with many a tear
Is wet, which, with dim fingers, long and cold,
He sees her to the glimmering moon unfold.
And now her hand is laid upon his heart.
Gasping, he wakes--with a convulsive start,
He gazes round! Moonlight is on the tide-- 400
The passing keel is scarcely heard to glide,--
See where the spectre goes! with frenzied look
He shrieks again, Oh! Mary, shut the book!
Now, to the ocean's verge the phantom flies,-- 404
And, hark! far off, the les