As is the rock, his seat, gazing whole days
With wandering eye on all the watery waste.
Now striving to believe the albatross
A sail appearing on the horizon's verge;
Now vowing ne'er to cherish other hope
Than hope of death. Thus pass his weary hours,
Till welcome evening warn him that 'tis time
Upon the shell-notched calendar to mark
Another day, another weary day.
……………………………But yet by him,
The hermit of the deep, not unobserved
The Sabbath passes. 'Tis his great delight,
Each seventh eve, he marks the farewell ray,
And loves, and sighs to think, - that setting sun
Is now empurpling Scotland's mountain tops,
Or higher risen slants athwart her vales,
Tinting with yellow light the quivering throat
Of day-spring lark, while woodland birds below
Chant in the dewy shade. Thus all night long
He watches, while the rising moon describes
The progress of the day in happier lands.
And now he almost fancies that he hears
The chiming from his native village church:
And now he sings and fondly hopes the strain
May be the same that sweet ascends at home
In congregation full - where not without a tear,
They are remember'd, who in ships behold
The wonders of the deep.