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And now the Storm-blast came, In mist or cloud, on mast or and he
shroud, Was tyrannous and strong : It perched for vespers nine ; He struck with his o’ertaking Whiles all the night, through fogwings,
smoke white, And chased us south along.
Glimmered the white moonshine. With sloping masts and dipping
'God save thee, ancient Mariner ! prow, As who pursued with yell and
From the fiends, that plague thee
thus ! blow Still treads the shadow of his foe
Why look’st thou so ?'—With my And forward bends his head,
cross-bow The ship drove fast, loud roared
I shot the Albatross. the blast,
The Sun now And southward ay we fled.
rose upon the
right: And now there came both mist Out of the sea came he, and snow
Still hid in mist, and on the left And it grew wondrous cold : Went down into the sea. And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
And the good south wind still As green as emerald.
blew behind, And through the drifts the snowy
But no sweet bird did follow, clifts
Nor any day for food or play Did send a dismal sheen :
Come to the mariner's hollo ! Nor shapes of men nor beasts we
And I had done a hellish thing, ken
And it would work 'em woe : The ice was all between.
For all averred, I had killed the The ice was here, the ice was
That made the breeze to blow. The ice was all around :
Ah wretch! said they, the bird It cracked and growled, and to slay, roared and howled,
That made the breeze to blow ! Like noises in a swound ! At length did cross an Albatross : Nor dim nor red, like God's own Thorough the fog it came;
head, As if it had been a Christian soul, The glorious Sun uprist : We hailed it in God's name.
Then all averred, I had killed the
bird It ate the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it flew.
That brought the fog and mist. The ice did split with a thunder
'Twas right, said they, such birds
to slay, The helmsman steered us through!
That bring the fog and mist. And a good south wind sprung The fair breeze blew, the white up behind;
foam flew, The Albatross did follow,
The furrow followed free ; And every day, for food or play, We were the first that ever burst Came to the mariner's hollo ! Into that silent sea.
The many men, so beautiful !
I looked upon the rotting sea,
Down dropt the breeze, the sails
dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could be ; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea ! All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did
stand, No bigger than the Moon. Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. Water, water, everywhere, And all the boards did shrink ; Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink. The very deep did rot: 0 Christ! That ever this should be ! Yea, slimy things did crawl with
legs Upon the slimy sea. About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green and blue and white. And some in dreams assured were Of the spirit that plagued us so ; Nine fathom deep he had followed
Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,
given ! She sent the gentle sleep from
Heaven, That slid into my soul. The silly buckets on the deck, That had so long remained, I dreamt that they were filled
with dew; And when I awoke, it rained. My lips were wet, my throat was
cold, My garments were all dank ; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank. I moved, and could not feel my
limbs : I was so light-almost I thought that I had died in sleep, And was a blessed ghost.
From the land of mist and snow. And every tongue, through utter
drought, Was withered at the root ; We could not speak, no more
than if We had been choked with soot. Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young ! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About
neck was hung.
The Sun, right up above the mast,
Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide wide sea ! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony.
How long in that same fit I lay,
'Is it he ? ' quoth one, “Is this
the man ? By Him who died on cross, With his cruel bow he laid full
low The harmless Albatross.
“The spirit who bideth by himself
O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
S. T. COLERIDGE.
The other was a softer voice,
O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath
been Alone on a wide wide sea : So lonely 'twas, that God Him
self Scarce seemed there to be.
AN EPITAPH FOR HIMSELF
STOP, Christian passer-by !-Stop, child of God,
S. T. COLERIDGE.
223. THE KNIGHT'S TOMB WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn ? Where may the grave of that good man be?By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, Under the twigs of a young birch tree ! The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, And whistled and roared in the winter alone, Is gone, -and the birch in its stead is grown.The Knight's bones are dust, And his good sword rust ;His soul is with the saints, I trust. S. T. COLERIDGE.
224. CURST BE THE GOLD AND SILVER
Sat was the hour, and luckless was the day,
W. COLLINS (Persian Eclogues).
225. ODE WRITTEN IN 1746
226. TO EVENING IF aught of oaten stop or pastoral song May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine ear,
Like thy own brawling springs,
Thy springs, and dying gales,
With brede ethereal wove,
O’erhang his wavy bed :
Or when the beetle winds
His small but sullen horn,
Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some softened strain,
As musing slow I hail
Thy genial loved return.
The fragrant Hours, and Elves
Who slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,
The pensive Pleasures sweet,
Prepare thy shadowy car.
Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.
That, from the mountain's side,
Views wilds and swelling floods,
Thy dewy fingers draw
The gradual dusky veil.
While Summer loves to sport