And now the Storm-blast came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong: He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
And chased us south along. With sloping masts and dipping
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe And forward bends his head, The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
And southward ay we fled.
And now there came both mist
And it grew wondrous cold: And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.
And through the drifts the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen :
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken
The ice was all between.
The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around: It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, Like noises in a swound!
At length did cross an Albatross : Thorough the fog it came; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God's name.
It ate the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it flew. The ice did split with a thunder-
fit; The helmsman steered us through!
And a good south wind sprung up behind;
The Albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariner's hollo!
'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: O 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
The many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie: And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I.
I looked upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away; I looked upon the rotting deck And there the dead men lay.
Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole! To Mary Queen the praise be 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.
The Sun, right up above the mast, Had fixed her to the ocean : But in a minute she 'gan stir, With a short uneasy motion— Backwards and forwards half her length
With a short uneasy motion.
Then, like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound: It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swound.
How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare; But ere my living life returned, I heard and in my soul discerned Two voices in the air.
'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 In the land of mist and snow, He loved the bird that loved the
Who shot him with his bow.'
The other was a softer voice, As soft as honeydew: Quoth he,The man hath pen- ance done,
And penance more will do.'
O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
Alone on a wide wide sea :
So lonely 'twas, that God Himself
Scarce seemed there to be.
O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company!-
To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray,
While each to his great Father bends,
Old men, and babes, and loving friends,
And youths and maidens gay! Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast.
He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.
The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone: and now the Wedding- Guest
Turned from the bridegroom's door.
He went like one that hath been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn : A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn. S. T. COLERIDGE.
222. AN EPITAPH FOR HIMSELF
STOP, Christian passer-by!-Stop, child of God, And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod A poet lies, or that which once seemed he.- Oh, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C. ! That he who many a year with toil of breath Found death in life, may here find life in death! Mercy for praise-to be forgiven for fame
He asked, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the same!
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
CURST be the gold and silver which persuade Weak men to follow far-fatiguing trade. The lily-peace outshines the silver store, And life is dearer than the golden ore. Yet money tempts us o'er the desert brown, To every distant mart, and wealthy town: Full oft we tempt the land, and oft the sea, And are we only yet repaid by thee? Ah! why was ruin so attractive made, Or why fond man so easily betrayed? Why heed we not, whilst mad we haste along, The gentle voice of peace, or pleasure's song? Or wherefore think the flowery mountain's side, The fountain's murmurs, and the valley's pride, Why think we these less pleasing to behold, Than dreary deserts, if they lead to gold?
Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way. W. COLLINS (Persian Eclogues).
225. ODE WRITTEN IN 1746
How sleep the Brave who sink to rest, By all their Country's wishes blest! When Spring, with dewy fingers cold, Returns to deck their hallowed mould, She there shall dress a sweeter sod, Than Fancy's feet have ever trod. By fairy hands their knell is rung, By forms unseen their dirge is sung; There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey, To bless the turf that wraps their clay, And Freedom shall awhile repair, To dwell a weeping hermit there!
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,
O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts, With brede ethereal wove,
Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat, With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing, Or when the beetle winds His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path, Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum: Now teach me, maid composed,
To breathe some softened strain,
Whose numbers stealing through thy darkening vale, May not unseemly with its stillness suit, As musing slow I hail
Thy genial loved return.
For when thy folding-star arising shows His paly circlet, at his warning lamp 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.
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene, Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells, Whose walls more awful nod
By thy religious gleams.
Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut That, from the mountain's side, Views wilds and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires, And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all Thy dewy fingers draw
While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont, And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve! While Summer loves to sport Beneath thy lingering light;
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