Chapter 13

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

539. Mutability

FROM low to high doth dissolution climb,And sink from high to low, along a scaleOf awful notes, whose concord shall not fail;A musical but melancholy chime,Which they can hear who meddle not with crime,Nor avarice, nor over-anxious care.Truth fails not; but her outward forms that bearThe longest date do melt like frosty rime,That in the morning whiten'd hill and plainAnd is no more; drop like the tower sublimeOf yesterday, which royally did wearHis crown of weeds, but could not even sustainSome casual shout that broke the silent air,Or the unimaginable touch of Time.

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

540. The Trosachs

THERE 's not a nook within this solemn Pass,But were an apt confessional for oneTaught by his summer spent, his autumn gone,That Life is but a tale of morning grassWither'd at eve. From scenes of art which chaseThat thought away, turn, and with watchful eyesFeed it 'mid Nature's old felicities,Rocks, rivers, and smooth lakes more clear than glassUntouch'd, unbreathed upon. Thrice happy quest,If from a golden perch of aspen spray(October's workmanship to rival May)The pensive warbler of the ruddy breastThat moral sweeten by a heaven-taught lay,Lulling the year, with all its cares, to rest!

William Wordsworth. 1770-1850

541. Speak!

WHY art thou silent! Is thy love a plantOf such weak fibre that the treacherous airOf absence withers what was once so fair?Is there no debt to pay, no boon to grant?Yet have my thoughts for thee been vigilant—Bound to thy service with unceasing care,The mind's least generous wish a mendicantFor nought but what thy happiness could spare.Speak—though this soft warm heart, once free to holdA thousand tender pleasures, thine and mine,Be left more desolate, more dreary coldThan a forsaken bird's-nest filled with snow'Mid its own bush of leafless eglantine—Speak, that my torturing doubts their end may know!

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

542. Proud Maisie

PROUD Maisie is in the wood,Walking so early;Sweet Robin sits on the bush,Singing so rarely.

'Tell me, thou bonny bird,When shall I marry me?'—'When six braw gentlemenKirkward shall carry ye.'

'Who makes the bridal bed,Birdie, say truly?'—'The grey-headed sextonThat delves the grave duly.

'The glow-worm o'er grave and stoneShall light thee steady;The owl from the steeple singWelcome, proud lady!'

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

543. Brignall Banks

O, BRIGNALL banks are wild and fair,And Greta woods are green,And you may gather garlands there,Would grace a summer queen:And as I rode by Dalton Hall,Beneath the turrets high,A Maiden on the castle wallWas singing merrily:—

'O, Brignall banks are fresh and fair,And Greta woods are green!I'd rather rove with Edmund thereThan reign our English Queen.'

'If, Maiden, thou wouldst wend with meTo leave both tower and town,Thou first must guess what life lead we,That dwell by dale and down:And if thou canst that riddle read,As read full well you may,Then to the green-wood shalt thou speedAs blithe as Queen of May.'

Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,And Greta woods are green!I'd rather rove with Edmund thereThan reign our English Queen.

'I read you by your bugle hornAnd by your palfrey good,I read you for a Ranger swornTo keep the King's green-wood.''A Ranger, Lady, winds his horn,And 'tis at peep of light;His blast is heard at merry morn,And mine at dead of night.'

Yet sung she, 'Brignall banks are fair,And Greta woods are gay!I would I were with Edmund there,To reign his Queen of May!

'With burnish'd brand and musketoonSo gallantly you come,I read you for a bold Dragoon,That lists the tuck of drum.''I list no more the tuck of drum,No more the trumpet hear;But when the beetle sounds his hum,My comrades take the spear.

'And O! though Brignall banks be fair,And Greta woods be gay,Yet mickle must the maiden dare,Would reign my Queen of May!

'Maiden! a nameless life I lead,A nameless death I'll die;The fiend whose lantern lights the meadWere better mate than I!And when I'm with my comrades metBeneath the green-wood bough,What once we were we all forget,Nor think what we are now.'

Chorus. Yet Brignall banks are fresh and fair,And Greta woods are green,And you may gather flowers thereWould grace a summer queen.

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

544. Lucy Ashton's Song

LOOK not thou on beauty's charming;Sit thou still when kings are arming;Taste not when the wine-cup glistens;Speak not when the people listens;Stop thine ear against the singer;From the red gold keep thy finger;Vacant heart and hand and eye,Easy live and quiet die.

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

545. Answer

SOUND, sound the clarion, fill the fife!To all the sensual world proclaim,One crowded hour of glorious lifeIs worth an age without a name.

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

546. The Rover's Adieu

A WEARY lot is thine, fair maid,A weary lot is thine!To pull the thorn thy brow to braid,And press the rue for wine.A lightsome eye, a soldier's mien,A feather of the blue,A doublet of the Lincoln green—No more of me ye knew,My Love!No more of me ye knew.

'This morn is merry June, I trow,The rose is budding fain;But she shall bloom in winter snowEre we two meet again.'—He turn'd his charger as he spakeUpon the river shore,He gave the bridle-reins a shake,Said 'Adieu for evermore,My Love!And adieu for evermore.'

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

547. Patriotism 1. Innominatus

BREATHES there the man with soul so dead,Who never to himself hath said,'This is my own, my native land!'Whose heart hath ne'er within him burn'dAs home his footsteps he hath turn'dFrom wandering on a foreign strand?If such there breathe, go, mark him well;For him no Minstrel raptures swell;High though his titles, proud his name,Boundless his wealth as wish can claim;Despite those titles, power, and pelf,The wretch, concentred all in self,Living, shall forfeit fair renown,And, doubly dying, shall go downTo the vile dust from whence he sprung,Unwept, unhonour'd, and unsung.

Sir Walter Scott. 1771-1832

548. Patriotism 2. Nelson, Pitt, Fox

TO mute and to material thingsNew life revolving summer brings;The genial call dead Nature hears,And in her glory reappears.But oh, my Country's wintry stateWhat second spring shall renovate?What powerful call shall bid ariseThe buried warlike and the wise;

The mind that thought for Britain's weal,The hand that grasp'd the victor steel?The vernal sun new life bestowsEven on the meanest flower that blows;But vainly, vainly may he shineWhere glory weeps o'er NELSON'S shrine;And vainly pierce the solemn gloomThat shrouds, O PITT, thy hallow'd tomb!

Deep graved in every British heart,O never let those names depart!Say to your sons,—Lo, here his grave,Who victor died on Gadite wave!To him, as to the burning levin,Short, bright, resistless course was given.Where'er his country's foes were foundWas heard the fated thunder's sound,Till burst the bolt on yonder shore,Roll'd, blazed, destroy'd—and was no more.

Nor mourn ye less his perish'd worth,Who bade the conqueror go forth,And launch'd that thunderbolt of warOn Egypt, Hafnia, Trafalgar;Who, born to guide such high emprise,For Britain's weal was early wise;Alas! to whom the Almighty gave,For Britain's sins, an early grave!—His worth, who in his mightiest hourA bauble held the pride of power,Spurn'd at the sordid lust of pelf,And served his Albion for herself;Who, when the frantic crowd amainStrain'd at subjection's bursting rein,O'er their wild mood full conquest gain'd,The pride he would not crush, restrain'd,Show'd their fierce zeal a worthier cause,And brought the freeman's arm to aid the freeman's laws.

Hadst thou but lived, though stripp'd of power,A watchman on the lonely tower,Thy thrilling trump had roused the land,When fraud or danger were at hand;By thee, as by the beacon-light,Our pilots had kept course aright;As some proud column, though alone,Thy strength had propp'd the tottering throne.Now is the stately column broke,The beacon-light is quench'd in smoke,The trumpet's silver voice is still,The warder silent on the hill!

O think, how to his latest day,When Death, just hovering, claim'd his prey,With Palinure's unalter'd moodFirm at his dangerous post he stood;Each call for needful rest repell'd,With dying hand the rudder held,Till in his fall with fateful swayThe steerage of the realm gave way.Then—while on Britain's thousand plainsOne polluted church remains,Whose peaceful bells ne'er sent aroundThe bloody tocsin's maddening sound,But still upon the hallow'd dayConvoke the swains to praise and pray;While faith and civil peace are dear,Grace this cold marble with a tear:—He who preserved them, PITT, lies here!

Nor yet suppress the generous sigh,Because his rival slumbers nigh;Nor be thy Requiescat dumbLest it be said o'er Fox's tomb.For talents mourn, untimely lost,When best employ'd, and wanted most;Mourn genius high, and lore profound,And wit that loved to play, not wound;And all the reasoning powers divineTo penetrate, resolve, combine;And feelings keen, and fancy's glow—They sleep with him who sleeps below:And, if thou mourn'st they could not saveFrom error him who owns this grave,Be every harsher thought suppress'd,And sacred be the last long rest.Here, where the end of earthly thingsLays heroes, patriots, bards, and kings;Where stiff the hand, and still the tongue,Of those who fought, and spoke, and sung;Here, where the fretted vaults prolongThe distant notes of holy song,As if some angel spoke agen,'All peace on earth, good-will to men';If ever from an English heart,O, here let prejudice depart,And, partial feeling cast aside,Record that Fox a Briton died!When Europe crouch'd to France's yoke,And Austria bent, and Prussia broke,And the firm Russian's purpose braveWas barter'd by a timorous slave—Even then dishonour's peace he spurn'd,The sullied olive-branch return'd,Stood for his country's glory fast,And nail'd her colours to the mast!Heaven, to reward his firmness, gaveA portion in this honour'd grave;And ne'er held marble in its trustOf two such wondrous men the dust.

With more than mortal powers endow'd,How high they soar'd above the crowd!Theirs was no common party race,Jostling by dark intrigue for place;Like fabled gods, their mighty warShook realms and nations in its jar;Beneath each banner proud to stand,Look'd up the noblest of the land,Till through the British world were knownThe names of PITT and Fox alone.Spells of such force no wizard graveE'er framed in dark Thessalian cave,Though his could drain the ocean dry,And force the planets from the sky.These spells are spent, and, spent with these,The wine of life is on the lees.Genius, and taste, and talent gone,For ever tomb'd beneath the stone,Where—taming thought to human pride!—The mighty chiefs sleep side by side.Drop upon Fox's grave the tear,'Twill trickle to his rival's bier;O'er PITT'S the mournful requiem sound,And Fox's shall the notes rebound.The solemn echo seems to cry,'Here let their discord with them die.Speak not for those a separate doomWhom fate made Brothers in the tomb;But search the land of living men,Where wilt thou find their like agen?'

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

549. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

IT is an ancient Mariner,And he stoppeth one of three.'By thy long beard and glittering eye,Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,And I am next of kin;The guests are met, the feast is set:May'st hear the merry din.'

He holds him with his skinny hand,'There was a ship,' quoth he.'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!'Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

The Wedding-Guest is spell-bound by the eye of the old seafaring man, and constrained to hear his tale.

He holds him with his glittering eye—The Wedding-Guest stood still,And listens like a three years' child:The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:He cannot choose but hear;And thus spake on that ancient man,The bright-eyed Mariner.

'The ship was cheer'd, the harbour clear'd,Merrily did we dropBelow the kirk, below the hill,Below the lighthouse top.

The Mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with a good wind and fair weather, till it reached the Line.

The Sun came up upon the left,Out of the sea came he!And he shone bright, and on the rightWent down into the sea.

Higher and higher every day,Till over the mast at noon——'The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,For he heard the loud bassoon.

The Wedding-Guest heareth the bridal music; but the Mariner continueth his tale.

The bride hath paced into the hall,Red as a rose is she;Nodding their heads before her goesThe merry minstrelsy.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,Yet he cannot choose but hear;And thus spake on that ancient man,The bright-eyed Mariner.

The ship drawn by a storm toward the South Pole.

'And now the Storm-blast came, and heWas tyrannous and strong:He struck with his o'ertaking wings,And chased us south along.

With sloping masts and dipping prow,As who pursued with yell and blowStill treads the shadow of his foe,And forward bends his head,The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the blast,The southward aye we fled.

And now there came both mist and snow,And it grew wondrous cold:And ice, mast-high, came floating by,As green as emerald.

The land of ice, and of fearful sounds, where no living thing was to be seen.

And through the drifts the snowy cliftsDid 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 crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and howl'd,Like noises in a swound!

Till a great sea-bird, called the Albatross, came through the snow-fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality.

At length did cross an Albatross,Thorough the fog it came;As if it had been a Christian soul,We hail'd 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 steer'd us through!

And lo! the Albatross proveth a bird of good omen, and followeth the ship as it returned northward through fog and floating ice.

And a good south wind sprung up behind;The Albatross did follow,And every day, for food or play,Came to the mariners' hollo!

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,It perch'd for vespers nine;Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,Glimmer'd the white moonshine.'

The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of good omen.

'God save thee, ancient Mariner!From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—Why look'st thou so?'—'With my crossbowI shot the Albatross.

'The Sun now rose upon the right:Out of the sea came he,Still hid in mist, and on the leftWent down into the sea.

And the good south wind still blew behind,But no sweet bird did follow,Nor any day for food or playCame to the mariners' hollo!

His shipmates cry out against the ancient Mariner for killing the bird of good luck.

And I had done an hellish thing,And it would work 'em woe:For all averr'd, I had kill'd the birdThat made the breeze to blow.Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,That made the breeze to blow!

But when the fog cleared off, they justify the same, and thus make themselves accomplices in the crime.

Nor dim nor red, like God's own head,The glorious Sun uprist:Then all averr'd, I had kill'd the birdThat brought the fog and mist.'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,That bring the fog and mist.

The fair breeze continues; the ship enters the Pacific Ocean, and sails northward, even till it reaches the Line.

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,The furrow follow'd free;We were the first that ever burstInto that silent sea.

The ship hath been suddenly becalmed.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,'Twas sad as sad could be;And we did speak only to breakThe 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 shipUpon a painted ocean.

And the Albatross begins to be avenged.

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 legsUpon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and routThe death-fires danced at night;The water, like a witch's oils,Burnt green, and blue, and white.

A Spirit had followed them; one of the invisible inhabitants of this planet, neither departed souls nor angels; concerning whom the learned Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more.

And some in dreams assured wereOf the Spirit that plagued us so;Nine fathom deep he had followed usFrom the land of mist and snow.

And every tongue, through utter drought,Was wither'd at the root;We could not speak, no more than ifWe had been choked with soot.

The shipmates in their sore distress, would fain throw the whole guilt on the ancient Mariner: in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looksHad I from old and young!Instead of the cross, the AlbatrossAbout my neck was hung.

'There passed a weary time. Each throatWas parch'd, and glazed each eye.A weary time! a weary time!How glazed each weary eye!When looking westward, I beheldA something in the sky.

The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar off.

At first it seem'd a little speck,And then it seem'd a mist;It moved and moved, and took at lastA certain shape, I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!And still it near'd and near'd:As if it dodged a water-sprite,It plunged, and tack'd, and veer'd.

At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship; and at a dearransom he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst.

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,We could nor laugh nor wail;Through utter drought all dumb we stood!I bit my arm, I suck'd the blood,And cried, A sail! a sail!

A flash of joy;

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,Agape they heard me call:Gramercy! they for joy did grin,And all at once their breath drew in,As they were drinking all.

And horror follows. For can it be a ship that comes onward without wind or tide?

See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!Hither to work us weal—Without a breeze, without a tide,She steadies with upright keel!

The western wave was all aflame,The day was wellnigh done!Almost upon the western waveRested the broad, bright Sun;When that strange shape drove suddenlyBetwixt us and the Sun.

It seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship.

And straight the Sun was fleck'd with bars(Heaven's Mother send us grace!),As if through a dungeon-grate he peer'dWith broad and burning face.

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)How fast she nears and nears!Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,Like restless gossameres?

And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting Sun. The Spectre-Woman and her Death-mate, and no other on board the skeleton ship. Like vessel, like crew!

Are those her ribs through which the SunDid peer, as through a grate?And is that Woman all her crew?Is that a Death? and are there two?Is Death that Woman's mate?

Her lips were red, her looks were free,Her locks were yellow as gold:Her skin was as white as leprosy,The Nightmare Life-in-Death was she,Who thicks man's blood with cold.

Death and Life-in-Death have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) winneth the ancient Mariner.

The naked hulk alongside came,And the twain were casting dice;"The game is done! I've won! I've won!"Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

No twilight within the courts of the Sun.

The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out:At one stride comes the dark;With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea,Off shot the spectre-bark.

We listen'd and look'd sideways up!Fear at my heart, as at a cup,My life-blood seem'd to sip!The stars were dim, and thick the night,The steersman's face by his lamp gleam'd white;From the sails the dew did drip—Till clomb above the eastern barThe horned Moon, with one bright starWithin the nether tip.

At the rising of the Moon,One after another,

One after one, by the star-dogg'd Moon,Too quick for groan or sigh,Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang,And cursed me with his eye.

His shipmates drop down dead.

Four times fifty living men(And I heard nor sigh nor groan),With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,They dropp'd down one by one.

But Life-in-Death begins her work on the ancient Mariner.

The souls did from their bodies fly—They fled to bliss or woe!And every soul, it pass'd me byLike the whizz of my crossbow!'

The Wedding-Guest feareth that a spirit is talking to him;

'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!I fear thy skinny hand!And thou art long, and lank, and brown,As is the ribb'd sea-sand.

I fear thee and thy glittering eye,And thy skinny hand so brown.'—'Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!This body dropt not down.

But the ancient Mariner assureth him of his bodily life, and proceedeth to relate his horrible penance.

Alone, alone, all, all alone,Alone on a wide, wide sea!And never a saint took pity onMy soul in agony.

He despiseth the creatures of the calm.

The many men, so beautiful!And they all dead did lie:And a thousand thousand slimy thingsLived on; and so did I.

And envieth that they should live, and so many lie dead.

I look'd upon the rotting sea,And drew my eyes away;I look'd upon the rotting deck,And there the dead men lay.

I look'd to heaven, and tried to pray;But or ever a prayer had gusht,A wicked whisper came, and madeMy heart as dry as dust.

I closed my lids, and kept them close,And the balls like pulses beat;For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky,Lay like a load on my weary eye,And the dead were at my feet.

But the curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men.

The cold sweat melted from their limbs,Nor rot nor reek did they:The look with which they look'd on meHad never pass'd away.

An orphan's curse would drag to hellA spirit from on high;But oh! more horrible than thatIs the curse in a dead man's eye!Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,And yet I could not die.

In his loneliness and fixedness he yearneth towards the journeying Moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward; and everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest and their native country and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival.

The moving Moon went up the sky,And nowhere did abide;Softly she was going up,And a star or two beside—

Her beams bemock'd the sultry main,Like April hoar-frost spread;But where the ship's huge shadow lay,The charmed water burnt alwayA still and awful red.

By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God's creatures of the great calm.

Beyond the shadow of the ship,I watch'd the water-snakes:They moved in tracks of shining white,And when they rear'd, the elfish lightFell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the shipI watch'd their rich attire:Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,They coil'd and swam; and every trackWas a flash of golden fire.

Their beauty and their happiness.

O happy living things! no tongueTheir beauty might declare:A spring of love gush'd from my heart,And I bless'd them unaware:Sure my kind saint took pity on me,And I bless'd them unaware.

He blesseth them in his heart.The spell begins to break.

The selfsame moment I could pray;And from my neck so freeThe Albatross fell off, and sankLike lead into the sea.

'O 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.

By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient Mariner is refreshed with rain.

The silly buckets on the deck,That had so long remain'd,I dreamt that they were fill'd with dew;And when I awoke, it rain'd.

My lips were wet, my throat was cold,My garments all were 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—almostI thought that I had died in sleep,And was a blessed ghost.

He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights and commotions in the sky and the element.

And soon I heard a roaring wind:It did not come anear;But with its sound it shook the sails,That were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life;And a hundred fire-flags sheen;To and fro they were hurried about!And to and fro, and in and out,The wan stars danced between.

And the coming wind did roar more loud,And the sails did sigh like sedge;And the rain pour'd down from one black cloud;The Moon was at its edge.

The thick black cloud was cleft, and stillThe Moon was at its side;Like waters shot from some high crag,The lightning fell with never a jag,A river steep and wide.

The bodies of the ship's crew are inspired, and the ship moves on;

The loud wind never reach'd the ship,Yet now the ship moved on!Beneath the lightning and the MoonThe dead men gave a groan.

They groan'd, they stirr'd, they all uprose,Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;It had been strange, even in a dream,To have seen those dead men rise.

The helmsman steer'd, the ship moved on;Yet never a breeze up-blew;The mariners all 'gan work the ropes,Where they were wont to do;They raised their limbs like lifeless tools—We were a ghastly crew.

The body of my brother's sonStood by me, knee to knee:The body and I pull'd at one rope,But he said naught to me.'

But not by the souls of the men, nor by demons of earth or middle air, but by a blessed troop of angelic spirits, sent down by the invocation of the guardian saint.

'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!'Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest:'Twas not those souls that fled in pain,Which to their corses came again,But a troop of spirits blest:

For when it dawn'd—they dropp'd their arms,And cluster'd round the mast;Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,And from their bodies pass'd.

Around, around, flew each sweet sound,Then darted to the Sun;Slowly the sounds came back again,Now mix'd, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the skyI heard the skylark sing;Sometimes all little birds that are,How they seem'd to fill the sea and airWith their sweet jargoning!

And now 'twas like all instruments,Now like a lonely flute;And now it is an angel's song,That makes the Heavens be mute.

It ceased; yet still the sails made onA pleasant noise till noon,A noise like of a hidden brookIn the leafy month of June,That to the sleeping woods all nightSingeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sail'd on,Yet never a breeze did breathe:Slowly and smoothly went the ship,Moved onward from beneath.

The lonesome Spirit from the South Pole carries on the ship as far as the Line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance.

Under the keel nine fathom deep,From the land of mist and snow,The Spirit slid: and it was heThat made the ship to go.The sails at noon left off their tune,And the ship stood still also.

The Sun, right up above the mast,Had fix'd her to the ocean:But in a minute she 'gan stir,With a short uneasy motion—Backwards and forwards half her lengthWith 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.

The Polar Spirit's fellow-demons, the invisible inhabitants of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to the other, that penance long and heavy for the ancient Mariner hath been accorded to the Polar Spirit, who returneth southward.

How long in that same fit I lay,I have not to declare;But ere my living life return'd,I heard, and in my soul discern'dTwo 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 lowThe harmless Albatross.

The Spirit who bideth by himselfIn the land of mist and snow,He loved the bird that loved the manWho shot him with his bow."

The other was a softer voice,As soft as honey-dew:Quoth he, "The man hath penance done,And penance more will do."

First Voice: '"But tell me, tell me! speak again,Thy soft response renewing—What makes that ship drive on so fast?What is the Ocean doing?"

Second Voice: "Still as a slave before his lord,The Ocean hath no blast;His great bright eye most silentlyUp to the Moon is cast—

If he may know which way to go;For she guides him smooth or grim.See, brother, see! how graciouslyShe looketh down on him."

The Mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward faster than human life could endure.

First Voice: "But why drives on that ship so fast,Without or wave or wind?"

Second Voice: "The air is cut away before,And closes from behind.

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!Or we shall be belated:For slow and slow that ship will go,When the Mariner's trance is abated.'

The supernatural motion is retarded; the Mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew.

I woke, and we were sailing onAs in a gentle weather:'Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high;The dead men stood together.

All stood together on the deck,For a charnel-dungeon fitter:All fix'd on me their stony eyes,That in the Moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, with which they died,Had never pass'd away:I could not draw my eyes from theirs,Nor turn them up to pray.

The curse is finally expiated.

And now this spell was snapt: once moreI viewed the ocean green,And look'd far forth, yet little sawOf what had else been seen—

Like one that on a lonesome roadDoth walk in fear and dread,And having once turn'd round, walks on,And turns no more his head;Because he knows a frightful fiendDoth close behind him tread.

But soon there breathed a wind on me,Nor sound nor motion made:Its path was not upon the sea,In ripple or in shade.

It raised my hair, it fann'd my cheekLike a meadow-gale of spring—It mingled strangely with my fears,Yet it felt like a welcoming.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,Yet she sail'd softly too:Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—On me alone it blew.

And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native country.

O dream of joy! is this indeedThe lighthouse top I see?Is this the hill? is this the kirk?Is this mine own countree?

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar,And I with sobs did pray—O let me be awake, my God!Or let me sleep alway.

The harbour-bay was clear as glass,So smoothly it was strewn!And on the bay the moonlight lay,And the shadow of the Moon.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no lessThat stands above the rock:The moonlight steep'd in silentnessThe steady weathercock.

The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies,

And the bay was white with silent lightTill rising from the same,Full many shapes, that shadows were,In crimson colours came.

And appear in their own forms of light.

A little distance from the prowThose crimson shadows were:I turn'd my eyes upon the deck—O Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,And, by the holy rood!A man all light, a seraph-man,On every corse there stood.

This seraph-band, each waved his hand:It was a heavenly sight!They stood as signals to the land,Each one a lovely light;

This seraph-band, each waved his hand,No voice did they impart—No voice; but O, the silence sankLike music on my heart.

But soon I heard the dash of oars,I heard the Pilot's cheer;My head was turn'd perforce away,And I saw a boat appear.

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy,I heard them coming fast:Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joyThe dead men could not blast.

I saw a third—I heard his voice:It is the Hermit good!He singeth loud his godly hymnsThat he makes in the wood.He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash awayThe Albatross's blood.

The Hermit of the Wood.

'This Hermit good lives in that woodWhich slopes down to the sea.How loudly his sweet voice he rears!He loves to talk with marineresThat come from a far countree.

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve—He hath a cushion plump:It is the moss that wholly hidesThe rotted old oak-stump.

The skiff-boat near'd: I heard them talk,"Why, this is strange, I trow!Where are those lights so many and fair,That signal made but now?"

Approacheth the ship with wonder.

"Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said—"And they answer'd not our cheer!The planks looked warp'd! and see those sails,How thin they are and sere!I never saw aught like to them,Unless perchance it were

Brown skeletons of leaves that lagMy forest-brook along;When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,That eats the she-wolf's young."

"Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look—(The Pilot made reply)I am a-fear'd"—"Push on, push on!"Said the Hermit cheerily.

The boat came closer to the ship,But I nor spake nor stirr'd;The boat came close beneath the ship,And straight a sound was heard.

The ship suddenly sinketh.

Under the water it rumbled on,Still louder and more dread:It reach'd the ship, it split the bay;The ship went down like lead.

The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat.

Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful sound,Which sky and ocean smote,Like one that hath been seven days drown'dMy body lay afloat;But swift as dreams, myself I foundWithin the Pilot's boat.

Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,The boat spun round and round;And all was still, save that the hillWas telling of the sound.

I moved my lips—the Pilot shriek'dAnd fell down in a fit;The holy Hermit raised his eyes,And pray'd where he did sit.

I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,Who now doth crazy go,Laugh'd loud and long, and all the whileHis eyes went to and fro."Ha! ha!" quoth he, "full plain I seeThe Devil knows how to row."

And now, all in my own countree,I stood on the firm land!The Hermit stepp'd forth from the boat,And scarcely he could stand.

The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him.

"O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!"The Hermit cross'd his brow."Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say—What manner of man art thou?"

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'dWith a woful agony,Which forced me to begin my tale;And then it left me free.

And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony constraineth him to travel from land to land;

Since then, at an uncertain hour,That agony returns:And till my ghastly tale is told,This heart within me burns.

I pass, like night, from land to land;I have strange power of speech;That moment that his face I see,I know the man that must hear me:To him my tale I teach.

What loud uproar bursts from that door!The wedding-guests are there:But in the garden-bower the brideAnd bride-maids singing are:And hark the little vesper bell,Which biddeth me to prayer!

O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath beenAlone on a wide, wide sea:So lonely 'twas, that God HimselfScarce seemed there to be.

O sweeter than the marriage-feast,'Tis sweeter far to me,To walk together to the kirkWith 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!

And to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth.

Farewell, farewell! but this I tellTo thee, thou Wedding-Guest!He prayeth well, who loveth wellBoth man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth bestAll 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-GuestTurn'd from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunn'd,And is of sense forlorn:A sadder and a wiser manHe rose the morrow morn.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

550. Kubla Khan

IN Xanadu did Kubla KhanA stately pleasure-dome decree:Where Alph, the sacred river, ranThrough caverns measureless to manDown to a sunless sea.So twice five miles of fertile groundWith walls and towers were girdled round:And there were gardens bright with sinuous rillsWhere blossom'd many an incense-bearing tree;And here were forests ancient as the hills,Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But O, that deep romantic chasm which slantedDown the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!A savage place! as holy and enchantedAs e'er beneath a waning moon was hauntedBy woman wailing for her demon-lover!And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,A mighty fountain momently was forced;Amid whose swift half-intermitted burstHuge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and everIt flung up momently the sacred river.Five miles meandering with a mazy motionThrough wood and dale the sacred river ran,Then reach'd the caverns measureless to man,And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from farAncestral voices prophesying war!

The shadow of the dome of pleasureFloated midway on the waves;Where was heard the mingled measureFrom the fountain and the caves.It was a miracle of rare device,A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimerIn a vision once I saw:It was an Abyssinian maid,And on her dulcimer she play'd,Singing of Mount Abora.Could I revive within me,Her symphony and song,To such a deep delight 'twould win me,That with music loud and long,I would build that dome in air,That sunny dome! those caves of ice!And all who heard should see them there,And all should cry, Beware! Beware!His flashing eyes, his floating hair!Weave a circle round him thrice,And close your eyes with holy dread,For he on honey-dew hath fed,And drunk the milk of Paradise.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

551. Love

ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights,Whatever stirs this mortal frame,All are but ministers of Love,And feed his sacred flame.

Oft in my waking dreams do ILive o'er again that happy hour,When midway on the mount I lay,Beside the ruin'd tower.

The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,Had blended with the lights of eve;And she was there, my hope, my joy,My own dear Genevieve!

She lean'd against the armed man,The statue of the armed Knight;She stood and listen'd to my lay,Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own,My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!She loves me best whene'er I singThe songs that make her grieve.

I play'd a soft and doleful air;I sang an old and moving story—An old rude song, that suited wellThat ruin wild and hoary.

She listen'd with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes and modest grace;For well she knew I could not chooseBut gaze upon her face.

I told her of the Knight that woreUpon his shield a burning brand;And that for ten long years he woo'dThe Lady of the Land.

I told her how he pined: and ah!The deep, the low, the pleading toneWith which I sang another's love,Interpreted my own.

She listen'd with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes, and modest grace;And she forgave me, that I gazedToo fondly on her face!

But when I told the cruel scornThat crazed that bold and lovely Knight,And that he cross'd the mountain-woods,Nor rested day nor night;

That sometimes from the savage den,And sometimes from the darksome shade,And sometimes starting up at onceIn green and sunny glade—

There came and look'd him in the faceAn angel beautiful and bright;And that he knew it was a Fiend,This miserable Knight!

And that, unknowing what he did,He leap'd amid a murderous band,And saved from outrage worse than deathThe Lady of the Land;—

And how she wept and clasp'd his knees;And how she tended him in vain—And ever strove to expiateThe scorn that crazed his brain;—

And that she nursed him in a cave;And how his madness went away,When on the yellow forest leavesA dying man he lay;—

His dying words—but when I reach'dThat tenderest strain of all the ditty,My faltering voice and pausing harpDisturb'd her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and senseHad thrill'd my guileless Genevieve;The music and the doleful tale,The rich and balmy eve;

And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,An undistinguishable throng,And gentle wishes long subdued,Subdued and cherish'd long!

She wept with pity and delight,She blush'd with love and virgin shame;And like the murmur of a dream,I heard her breathe my name.

Her bosom heaved—she stepp'd aside,As conscious of my look she stept—Then suddenly, with timorous eyeShe fled to me and wept.

She half enclosed me with her arms,She press'd me with a meek embrace;And bending back her head, look'd up,And gazed upon my face.

'Twas partly love, and partly fear,And partly 'twas a bashful art,That I might rather feel, than see.The swelling of her heart.

I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,And told her love with virgin pride;And so I won my Genevieve,My bright and beauteous Bride.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

552. Youth and Age

VERSE, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying,Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee—Both were mine! Life went a-mayingWith Nature, Hope, and Poesy,When I was young!When I was young?—Ah, woful When!Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!This breathing house not built with hands,This body that does me grievous wrong,O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,How lightly then it flash'd along—Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,On winding lakes and rivers wide,That ask no aid of sail or oar,That fear no spite of wind or tide!Naught cared this body for wind or weatherWhen Youth and I lived in 't together.

Flowers are lovely! Love is flower-like;Friendship is a sheltering tree;O the joys, that came down shower-like,Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,Ere I was old!Ere I was old? Ah, woful Ere,Which tells me, Youth 's no longer here!O Youth! for years so many and sweet,'Tis known that thou and I were one;I'll think it but a fond conceit—It cannot be that thou art gone!Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd—And thou wert aye a masker bold!What strange disguise hast now put on,To make believe that thou art gone?I see these locks in silvery slips,This drooping gait, this alter'd size:But springtide blossoms on thy lips,And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!Life is but thought: so think I willThat Youth and I are housemates still.

Dewdrops are the gems of morning,But the tears of mournful eve!Where no hope is, life 's a warningThat only serves to make us grieve,When we are old!That only serves to make us grieveWith oft and tedious taking-leave,Like some poor nigh-related guestThat may not rudely be dismist.Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while,And tells the jest without the smile.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

553. Time, Real and Imaginary AN ALLEGORY

ON the wide level of a mountain's head(I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place),Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread,Two lovely children run an endless race,A sister and a brother!This far outstripp'd the other;Yet ever runs she with reverted face,And looks and listens for the boy behind:For he, alas! is blind!O'er rough and smooth with even step he pass'd,And knows not whether he be first or last.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

554. Work without Hope

ALL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—And Winter, slumbering in the open air,Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing,Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.

Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!With lips unbrighten'd, wreathless brow, I stroll:And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,And Hope without an object cannot live.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 1772-1834

555. Glycine's Song

A SUNNY shaft did I behold,From sky to earth it slanted:And poised therein a bird so bold—Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted!

He sank, he rose, he twinkled, he troll'dWithin that shaft of sunny mist;His eyes of fire, his beak of gold,All else of amethyst!

And thus he sang: 'Adieu! adieu!Love's dreams prove seldom true.The blossoms, they make no delay:The sparking dew-drops will not stay.Sweet month of May,We must away;Far, far away!To-day! to-day!'

Robert Southey. 1774-1843

556. His Books

MY days among the Dead are past;Around me I behold,Where'er these casual eyes are cast,The mighty minds of old:My never-failing friends are they,With whom I converse day by day.

With them I take delight in wealAnd seek relief in woe;And while I understand and feelHow much to them I owe,My cheeks have often been bedew'dWith tears of thoughtful gratitude.

My thoughts are with the Dead; with themI live in long-past years,Their virtues love, their faults condemn,Partake their hopes and fears;And from their lessons seek and findInstruction with an humble mind.

My hopes are with the Dead; anonMy place with them will be,And I with them shall travel onThrough all Futurity;Yet leaving here a name, I trust,That will not perish in the dust.