 | Metrical essays |  |
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THE OLD MARINER.
The snow of many hoary winters play'dAround his aged temples—and his form
Was bowed beneath much suffering, strife, and storm:
All save his generous heart Time had decay'd:
The ocean was his passion, gale or calm;
He reverenced each wave on its vast breast,
Its ancient sounds a world of thoughts exprest,
Falling upon his spirit's love like balm;
Morning or noon or night still he was there,
Pacing with lingering steps the breezy shore,
Rejoicing in the ships the proud sea bore,
Rejoicing in the sails and streamers fair:
His last request was that his lowly grave
Might be some spot loved by the sounding wave!
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