The Funeral, VIII

But, frowning still in angry mood Unmoved, the men of Aldham stood; A hardy race nursed by the sea, In manners haughty, fierce, and free; Again the smother’d murmur rung, While they were seen to seek the shore; For on their backs the corrock hung, And in their hands the oar, When rose the Priest of Garmilton, With his prophetic eye, “I swear by Hadda-Chuan’s stone, “That storms are in the sky! “Yes, by the tempest-saint I swear, “Of green Iona’s isle! “That to the depths of hell ye steer, “Debarr’d from heaven’s smile! “Backward St Baldred’s rock shall roll, “And choke your navigation up, “While fires shall riot on your soul, “And sea-wolves on you sup, “If ye despise my warning now!” Thus spake the priest, and smote his brow. While back the trembling men return, As if the curse begun they feel; And silent for that vengeance burn Which they dare not reveal.