Chapter XI

"So passed my morning dreams away,
Like birds that shun a wintry cloud,
And phantom visions, grim and gray,
Came mist-like from the watery shroud:
Prophetic visions of the deep,
Emblems of those within the breast,
Which, summoned from their shadowy sleep,
Ride on the storm by passion pressed!
In ghastly shapes they rose to view,
All gibbering from their crystal caves,
As if some horrid mirth they drew
From the wild uproar of the waves.
With beckoning hands they seemed to urge
My footsteps down the dizzy way,
To join their train upon the surge,
And dance with them amidst the spray:
And such the madness of my brain,
That I was fain to seek the throng;
To meet and mingle on the main,
With their mad revelry and song.
One step, and down the dizzy cliff,
My form had to the waters swung,
But gliding in a wreathy skiff,
That o'er the crested billows hung,
A white form like my mother seemed
To shine a moment on my eye;--
With warning look the vision gleamed,
Then vanished upward to the sky!