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 Contree.

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 nerd: 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 answerd not our cheer.

"The planks look warpd, and see those sails

"How thin they are and sere!

"I never saw aught like to them

"Unless perchance it were

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