He hath a cushion plump:

It is the moss that wholly hides

The rotted old oak-stump.

The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,

"Why, this is strange, I trow!

Where are those lights so many and fair,

That signal made but now?"

"Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said—

"And they answered not our cheer!

The planks looked warped! and see those sails,