Section 7 Summary

Lines 94-107

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
Reality's dark dream!
I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
Of agony by torture lengthened out
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without,
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,
Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,
Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,
The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.

• Things only seem to get worse for the speaker in this stanza.
• His thoughts are metaphorically poisonous snakes, and reality is just a figurative bad dream to him. Not fun.
• The speaker turns away from "you"—remember that he's speaking to "Lady" still—only to realize that the wind has been howling all this time ("long has raved unnoticed") (97).
• The metaphorical Aeolian lute from line 7 sounds like the prolonged screaming of a torture victim—eesh.
• Now, before we continue on with the general horrible-ness, we'll note here that it's not clear yet whether the weather has actually gotten worse (remember that the night started out tranquil enough) or if this is just the speaker's imagination. Let's keep an eye out for clues.
• The speaker then turns to address the personified wind directly, saying that he can think of a few more appropriate instruments for it to play than this (still metaphorical) lute.
• How about, for instance, a bare mountain top ("crag") or mountain pool ("tairn") (100)? Maybe a dead tree, abandoned pine grove, or suspected haunted house would be more fitting for this wind. The imagery here is emphasizes the weather's connection to the lonely and decaying state of the speaker's imagination.
• The speaker then doubles down on his metaphors to describe the wind as a crazed lute player ("Lutanist") (104), playing in this month of storms and decaying vegetation (even the flowers are just barely "peeping," or poking through) (105).
• This mad lute-player is apparently celebrating a kind of demonic Christmas ("Devils' yule"), scaring everything in sight (106).
• Even the leaves are nervous ("timorous") (107).

Lines 108-117

Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold!
What tell'st thou now about?
'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,
With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds—
At once they groan with pain and shudder with the cold!
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is over—
It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!

• The wind is now no longer a musician; it's an actor. This wind sure has some creative chops.
• Unfortunately, this wind-actor is perfect at playing tragedies.
• It's also a poet, but again one that kicks up a wild "frenzy" (109).
• What's the poet dishing on, more specifically?
• Oh, it's just the heartwarming story of a fleeing, defeated army ("the rushing of an host in rout"), filled with the groans of wounded, beaten men.
• You were expecting maybe "Roses are red"?
• Just like that, though, this terrible noise is over and another tale starts up.
• It would be nice to get a happy ending here, but we're not holding out hope…

Lines 118-125

A tale of less affright,
And tempered with delight,
As Otway's self had framed the tender lay.
'Tis of a little child,
Upon a lonesome wild,
Not far from home, but she hath lost her way;
And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.

• This new tale, as it turns out, is less frightening and more cheery. Hey, maybe we will get that happy ending after all.
• The speaker says that the story is as if Otway himself wrote it.
• History note: Otway is not "what" in Pig Latin. This refers to Thomas Otway, a seventeenth-century English poet and playwright who was particularly known for his tragedies—uh-oh.
• The story's about a little child (so far so good) who gets lost in the wilderness (not so happy). Even though she's not far from home (hey, maybe it will work out), she's screaming and moaning for her mother (nope, we didn't think so).
• To recap, then, the wind has gone from playing the lute at "the Devils' yule," to being an actor in a tragedy, to being a poet who spins a cheery little yarn about a lost girl in the woods, screaming for her mother.
• This wind, in short, is a howling, terrifying force—yikes.