He greets them once, he sails again; So late!--such storms!--the Saint is mad! He heard, across the howling seas, Chime convent-bells on wintry nights; He saw, on spray-swept Hebrides, Twinkle the monastery lights; But north, still north, Saint Brandan steer'd-- And now no bells, no convents more! The hurtling Polar lights are near'd, The sea without a human shore. At last--(it was the Christmas-night; Stars shone after a day of storm)-- He sees float past an iceberg white, And on it--Christ!--a living form. That furtive mien, that scowling eye, Of hair that red and tufted fell-- It is--oh, where shall Brandan fly?-- The traitor Judas, out of hell! Palsied with terror, Brandan sate; The moon was bright, the iceberg near. He hears a voice sigh humbly: "Wait! By high permission I am here. "One moment wait, thou holy man! On earth my crime, my death, they knew; My name is under all men's ban-- Ah, tell them of my respite, too! "Tell them, one blessed Christmas-night-- (It was the first after I came, Breathing self-murder, frenzy, spite, To rue my guilt in endless flame)-- "I felt, as I in torment lay 'Mid the souls plagued by heavenly power, An angel touch my arm and say: _Go hence, and cool thyself an hour!_ "'Ah, whence this mercy, Lord?' I said; _The Leper recollect_, said he, _Who ask'd the passers-by for aid,_ _In Joppa, and thy charity.
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