Blair Collection > Selections from the Gaelic bards

THE HAUNTED WATER. 229
Then at him it eagerly reach'd at last,
And it growl'd like a beast o'er it's prey —
Till he started back with a shuddering haste,
And the vision pass'd away.
Tenfold more wild the night became —
Tenfold more black the sky,
With fiercer leap the billows sweep,
And the winds breathe a sorrowing sigh.
'Tis not the moaning element,
'Tis not the wild, wild wind,
'Tis not the black, black trouble, pent
In the sky, which moves his mind.
'Tis the vision' d form that comes once more
To press, like a weight, on his soul ;
'Tis the darkening again on the lonely shore
Of yon dim and dismal dole.
'Tis the sense that he 's not alone — alone
With the waste and the howling storm;
'Tis the sense of the ill that rises still,
With its dark and vapoury form.
That 's the wind that cries, that 's the billow that roars :
But 'tis neither that groans so near :
'Tis the shadowy form of the night and the storm
Come to torture his listening ear.
And downward it glides, as black in the night
As the deep thunder-cloud in the day;
And it stands by his boat, with its gibbering note,
While he strives in his fear to pray.
Then he crouches down in the ebon gloom,
For his sins have choked his prayer;