The voice ill-boding, and the solemn sound.
What should I do? or whither turn? Amaz'd,
Confounded to the dark recess I fly
Of woodhole; straight my bristling hairs erect
Thro' sudden fear; a chilly sweat bedews
My shudd'ring limbs, and, wonderful to tell!
My tongue forgets her faculty of speech;
So horrible he seems! his faded brow
Entrench'd with many a frown, and conic beard,
And spreading band, admir'd by modern saints,