She pats the pony, where or whenShe knows not, happy Betty Foy!The little pony glad may be,But he is milder far than she,You hardly can perceive his joy.
"Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor;You've done your best, and that is all."She took the reins, when this was said,And gently turned the pony's headFrom the loud water-fall.
By this the stars were almost gone,The moon was setting on the hill,So pale you scarcely looked at her:The little birds began to stir,Though yet their tongues were still.
The pony, Betty, and her boy,Wind slowly through the woody dale;And who is she, be-times abroad,That hobbles up the steep rough road?Who is it, but old Susan Gale?
Long Susan lay deep lost in thought,And many dreadful fears beset her,Both for her messenger and nurse;And as her mind grew worse and worse,Her body it grew better.
She turned, she toss'd herself in bed,On all sides doubts and terrors met her;Point after point did she discuss;And while her mind was fighting thus,Her body still grew better.
"Alas! what is become of them?These fears can never be endured,I'll to the wood."—The word scarce said,Did Susan rise up from her bed,As if by magic cured.
Away she posts up hill and down,And to the wood at length is come,She spies her friends, she shouts a greeting;Oh me! it is a merry meeting,As ever was in Christendom.
The owls have hardly sung their last,While our four travellers homeward wend;The owls have hooted all night long,And with the owls began my song,And with the owls must end.
For while they all were travelling home,Cried Betty, "Tell us Johnny, do,Where all this long night you have been,What you have heard, what you have seen,And Johnny, mind you tell us true."
Now Johnny all night long had heardThe owls in tuneful concert strive;No doubt too he the moon had seen;For in the moonlight he had beenFrom eight o'clock till five.
And thus to Betty's question, he,Made answer, like a traveller bold,(His very words I give to you,)"The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo,And the sun did shine so cold."—Thus answered Johnny in his glory,And that was all his travel's story.
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 layBeside the Ruin'd Tower.
The Moonshine stealing o'er the sceneHad 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 HarpAmid the ling'ring 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 fitted wellThe 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 pin'd: and, ah!The low, the deep, the pleading tone,With 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 gaz'dToo fondly on her Face!
But when I told the cruel scornWhich craz'd this bold and lovely Knight,And that be cross'd the mountain woodsNor 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 face,An Angel beautiful and bright;And that he knew, it was a Fiend,This miserable Knight!
And that, unknowing what he did,He leapt amid a murd'rous Band,And sav'd from Outrage worse than DeathThe Lady of the Land;
And how she wept and clasp'd his kneesAnd how she tended him in vain—And ever strove to expiateThe Scorn, that craz'd his Brain
And that she nurs'd him in a Cave;And how his Madness went awayWhen on the yellow forest leavesA dying Man he lay;
His dying words—but when I reach'dThat tenderest strain of all the Ditty,My falt'ring 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 maiden shame;And, like the murmur of a dream,I heard her breathe my name.
Her Bosom heav'd—she stepp'd aside;As conscious of my Look, she stepp'd—Then suddenly with timorous eyeShe fled to me and wept.
She half inclosed me with her arms,She press'd me with a meek embrace;And bending back her head look'd up,And gaz'd upon my face.
'Twas partly Love, and partly Fear,And partly 'twas a bashful ArtThat I might rather feel than seeThe Swelling of her Heart.
I calm'd her Tears; and she was calm,And told her love with virgin Pride.And so I won my Genevieve,My bright and beauteous Bride!
The MAD MOTHER.
Her eyes are wild, her head is bare,The sun has burnt her coal-black hair,Her eye-brows have a rusty stain,And she came far from over the main.She has a baby on her arm,Or else she were alone;And underneath the hay-stack warm,And on the green-wood stone,She talked and sung the woods among;And it was in the English tongue.
"Sweet babe! they say that I am mad,But nay, my heart is far too glad;And I am happy when I singFull many a sad and doleful thing:Then, lovely baby, do not fear!I pray thee have no fear of me,But, safe as in a cradle, hereMy lovely baby! thou shalt be,To thee I know too much I owe;I cannot work thee any woe."
A fire was once within my brain;And in my head a dull, dull pain;And fiendish faces one, two, three,Hung at my breasts, and pulled at me.But then there came a sight of joy;It came at once to do me good;I waked, and saw my little boy,My little boy of flesh and blood;Oh joy for me that sight to see!For he was here, and only he.
Suck, little babe, oh suck again!It cools my blood; it cools my brain;Thy lips I feel them, baby! theyDraw from my heart the pain away.Oh! press me with thy little hand;It loosens something at my chest;About that tight and deadly bandI feel thy little fingers press'd.The breeze I see is in the tree;It comes to cool my babe and me.
Oh! love me, love me, little boy!Thou art thy mother's only joy;And do not dread the waves below,When o'er the sea-rock's edge we go;The high crag cannot work me harm,Nor leaping torrents when they howl;The babe I carry on my arm,He saves for me my precious soul;Then happy lie, for blest am I;Without me my sweet babe would die.
Then do not fear, my boy! for theeBold as a lion I will be;And I will always be thy guide,Through hollow snows and rivers wide.I'll build an Indian bower; I knowThe leaves that make the softest bed:And if from me thou wilt not go.But still be true 'till I am dead,My pretty thing! then thou shalt sing,As merry as the birds in spring.
Thy father cares not for my breast,'Tis thine, sweet baby, there to rest:'Tis all thine own! and if its hueBe changed, that was so fair to view,'Tis fair enough for thee, my dove!My beauty, little child, is flown;But thou will live with me in love,And what if my poor cheek be brown?'Tis well for me, thou canst not seeHow pale and wan it else would be.
Dread not their taunts, my little life!I am thy father's wedded wife;And underneath the spreading treeWe two will live in honesty.If his sweet boy he could forsake,With me he never would have stay'd:From him no harm my babe can take,But he, poor man! is wretched made,And every day we two will prayFor him that's gone and far away.
I'll teach my boy the sweetest things;I'll teach him how the owlet sings.My little babe! thy lips are still,And thou hast almost suck'd thy fill.—Where art thou gone my own dear child?What wicked looks are those I see?Alas! alas! that look so wild,It never, never came from me:If thou art mad, my pretty lad,Then I must be for ever sad.
Oh! smile on me, my little lamb!For I thy own dear mother am.My love for thee has well been tried:I've sought thy father far and wide.I know the poisons of the shade,I know the earth-nuts fit for food;Then, pretty dear, be not afraid;We'll find thy father in the wood.Now laugh and be gay, to the woods away!And there, my babe; we'll live for aye.
How a Ship, having first sailed to the Equator, was driven by Storms, to the cold Country towards the South Pole; how the Ancient Mariner cruelly, and in contempt of the laws of hospitality, killed a Sea-bird; and how he was followed by many and strange Judgements; and in what manner he came back to his own Country.
The ANCIENT MARINER.
It is an ancient Mariner,And he stoppeth one of three:"By thy long grey beard and thy glittering eyeNow wherefore stoppest me?"
"The Bridegroom's doors are open'd wideAnd I am next of kin;The Guests are met, the Feast is set,—May'st hear the merry din."
But still he holds the wedding guest—"There was a Ship, quoth he—""Nay, if thou'st got a laughsome tale,Mariner! come with me."
He holds him with his skinny hand,Quoth he, there was a Ship—"Now get thee hence, thou grey-beard LoonOr my Staff shall make thee skip."
He holds him with his glittering eye—The wedding guest stood stillAnd listens like a three year's child;The Mariner hath his will.
The wedding-guest sate on a stone,He cannot chuse 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 Light-house top.
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 Bride hath pac'd into the Hall,Red as a rose is she;Nodding their heads before her goesThe merry Minstralsy.
The wedding-guest he beat his breast,Yet he cannot chuse but hear:And thus spake on that ancient Man,The bright-eyed Mariner.
But now the Northwind came more fierce,There came a Tempest strong!And Southward still for days and weeksLike Chaff we drove along.
And now there came both Mist and Snow,And it grew wond'rous cold;And Ice mast-high came floating byAs green as Emerald.
And thro' 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—A wild and ceaseless sound.
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.
The Mariners gave it biscuit-worms,And round and round it flew:The Ice did split with a Thunder-fit;The Helmsman steer'd us thro'.
And a good south wind sprung up behind.The Albatross did follow;And every day for food or playCame to the Mariner's hollo!
In mist or cloud on mast or shroudIt perch'd for vespers nine,Whiles all the night thro' fog-smoke whiteGlimmer'd the white moon-shine.
"God save thee, ancient Mariner!From the fiends that plague thee thus—""Why look'st thou so?—with my cross bowI 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 followNor any day for food or playCame to the Mariner's hollo!
And I had done an hellish thingAnd it would work e'm woe:For all averr'd, I had kill'd the BirdThat made the Breeze to blow.
Nor dim nor red, like an Angel's 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 slayThat bring the fog and mist.
The breezes blew, the white foam flew,The furrow follow'd free:We were the first that ever burstInto that silent Sea.
Down dropt the breeze, the Sails dropt down,'Twas sad as sad could beAnd we did speak only to breakThe silence of the Sea.
All in a hot and copper skyThe 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.
Water, water, every whereAnd all the boards did shrink;Water, water, every where,Nor any drop to drink.
The very deeps 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 danc'd at night;The water, like a witch's oils.Burnt green and blue and white.
And some in dreams assured wereOf the Spirit that plagued us so:Nine fathom deep he had follow'd usFrom the Land of Mist and Snow.
And every tongue thro' utter drouthWas wither'd at the root;We could not speak no more than ifWe had been choked with soot.
Ah wel-a-day! what evil looksHad I from old and young;Instead of the Cross the AlbatrossAbout my neck was hung.
So past a weary time; each throatWas parch'd, and glaz'd each eye,When, looking westward, I beheldA something in the sky.
At first it seem'd a little speckAnd then it seem'd a mist:It mov'd and mov'd, and took at lastA certain shape, I wist.
A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!And still it near'd and near'd;And, as if it dodg'd a water-sprite,It plung'd and tack'd and veer'd.
With throat unslack'd, with black lips bak'dWe could nor laugh nor wail;Thro' utter drouth all dumb we stoodTill I bit my arm and suck'd the blood,And cry'd, A sail! a sail!
With throat unslack'd, with black lips bak'dAgape they heard me call:Gramercy! they for joy did grinAnd all at once their breath drew inAs they were drinking all.
See! See! (I cry'd) she tacks no more!Hither to work us wealWithout a breeze, without a tideShe steddies with upright keel!
The western wave was all a flame,The day was well nigh done!Almost upon the western waveRested the broad bright Sun;When that strange shape drove suddenlyBetwixt us and the Sun.
And strait the Sun was fleck'd with bars(Heaven's mother send us grace)As if thro' 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 thoseherSails that glance in the SunLike restless gossameres?
Are thoseherRibs, thro' which the SunDid peer, as thro' a grate?And are those two all, all her crew.That Woman, and her Mate?
Hisbones were black with many a crack,All black and bare, I ween;Jet-black and bare, save where with rustOf mouldy damps and charnel crustThey were patch'd with purple and green.
Herlips were red,herlooks were free,Herlocks were yellow as gold:Her skin was as white as leprosy,And she was far liker Death than he;Her flesh made the still air cold.
The naked Hulk alongside cameAnd the Twain were playing dice;"The Game is done! I've won, I've won!"Quoth she, and whistled thrice.
A gust of wind sterte up behindAnd whistled thro' his bones;Thro' the holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouthHalf-whistles and half-groans.
With never a whisper in the SeaOff darts the Spectre-ship;While clombe above the Eastern barThe horned Moon, with one bright StarAlmost between the tips.
One after one by the horned Moon(Listen, O Stranger! to me)Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pangAnd curs'd me with his ee.
Four times fifty living men,With never a sigh or groan,With heavy thump, a lifeless lumpThey dropp'd down one by one.
Their souls did from their bodies fly,—They fled to bliss or woe;And every soul it pass'd me by,Like, the whiz of my Cross-bow.
"I fear thee, ancient Mariner!I fear thy skinny hand;And thou art long and lank and brownAs is the ribb'd Sea-sand."
"I fear thee and thy glittering eyeAnd thy skinny hand so brown—""Fear not, fear not, thou wedding guest!This body dropt not down."
Alone, alone, all all aloneAlone on the wide wide Sea;And Christ would take no pity onMy soul in agony.
The many men so beautiful,And they all dead did lie!And a million million slimy thingsLiv'd on—and so did I.
I look'd upon the rotting Sea,And drew my eyes away;I look'd upon the ghastly deck,And there the dead men lay.
I look'd to Heaven, and try'd to pray;But or ever a prayer had gusht,A wicked whisper came and madeMy heart as dry as dust.
I clos'd my lids and kept them close,Till the balls like pulses beat;For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the skyLay like a load on my weary eye,And the dead were at my feet.
The cold sweat melted from their limbs,Nor rot, nor reek did they;The look with which they look'd on me,Had never pass'd away.
An orphan's curse would drag to HellA spirit from on high:But O! 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.
The moving Moon went up the skyAnd no where did abide:Softly she was going upAnd a star or two beside—
Her beams bemock'd the sultry mainLike April hoar-frost spread;But where the ship's huge shadow lay,The charmed water burnt alwayA still and awful red.
Beyond the shadow of the shipI watch'd the water-snakes:They mov'd 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 blackThey coil'd and swam; and every trackWas a flash of golden fire.
O happy living things! no tongueTheir beauty might declare:A spring of love gusht from my heart,And I bless'd them unaware!Sure my kind saint took pity on me,And I bless'd them unaware.
The self-same 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 thingBelov'd from pole to pole!To Mary-queen the praise be givenShe sent the gentle sleep from heavenThat slid into my soul.
The silly buckets on the deckThat had so long remain'd,I dreamt that they were fill'd with dewAnd 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 dreamsAnd still my body drank.
I mov'd and could not feel my limbs,I was so light, almostI thought that I had died in sleep,And was a blessed Ghost.
And soon I heard a roaring wind,It did not come anear;But with its sound it shook the sailsThat were so thin and sere.
The upper air burst into lifeAnd a hundred fire-flags sheenTo and fro they were hurried about;And to and fro, and in and outThe wan stars danc'd 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 cloudThe 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 jagA river steep and wide.
The loud wind never reach'd the Ship,Yet now the Ship mov'd on!Beneath the lightning and the moonThe dead men gave a groan.
They groan'd; they stirr'd, they all uprose,Nor spake, nor mov'd their eyes:It had been strange, even in a dreamTo have seen those dead men rise,
The helmsman steerd, the ship mov'd on;Yet never a breeze up-blew;The Mariners all gan work the ropes,Where they were wont to do:They rais'd 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 nought to me.
"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 thro' their mouthsAnd from their bodies pass'd."
Around, around, flew each sweet sound,Then darted to the sun:Slowly the sounds came back againNow mix'd, now one by one.
Sometimes a dropping from the skyI heard the Sky-lark sing;Sometimes all little birds that areHow 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 songThat makes the heavens be mute.
It ceas'd: 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 night,Singeth a quiet tune.
Till noon we silently sail'd onYet never a breeze did breathe:Slowly and smoothly went the ShipMov'd onward from beneath.
Under the keel nine fathom deepFrom the land of mist and snowThe spirit slid: and it was HeThat made the Ship to go.The sails at noon left off their tuneAnd the Ship stood still also.
The sun right up above the mastHad fix'd her to the ocean:But in a minute she 'gan stirWith 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 into a swound.
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 lay'd full lowThe harmless Albatross."
"The spirit who 'bideth by himselfIn the land of mist and snow,He lov'd the bird that lov'd 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.
"But tell me, tell me! speak again,Thy soft response renewing—What makes that ship drive on so fast?What is the Ocean doing?"
"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."
"But why drives on that ship so fastWithout or wave or wind?"
"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."
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 eyesThat 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 theirsNor turn them up to pray.
And now this spell was snapt: once moreI view'd 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 onAnd turns no more his head:Because he knows, a frightful fiendDoth close behind him tread.
But soon there breath'd a wind on me,Nor sound nor motion made:Its path was not upon the seaIn ripple or in shade.
It rais'd my hair, it fann'd my cheek,Like a meadow-gale of spring—It mingled strangely with my fears,Yet it felt like a welcoming.
Swiftly, swiftly flew the shipYet she sail'd softly too:Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—On me alone it blew.
O dream of joy! is this indeedThe light-house top I see?Is this the Hill? Is this the Kirk?Is this mine own countrée?
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 less:That stands above the rock:The moonlight steep'd in silentnessThe steady weathercock.
And the bay was white with silent light,Till rising from the sameFull many shapes, that shadows were,In crimson colours came.
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 roodA man all light, a seraph-man,On every corse there stood.
This seraph-band, each wav'd his hand:It was a heavenly sight:They stood as signals to the land,Each one a lovely light:
This seraph-band, each wav'd his hand,No voice did they impart—No voice; but O! the silence sank,Like music on my heart.
But soon I heard the dash of oars,I heard the pilot's cheer:My head was turn'd perforce awayAnd I saw a boat appear.
The pilot, and the pilot's boyI heard them coming fast:Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy,The 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 shrive my soul, he'll wash awayThe Albatross's blood.
This Hermit good lives in that woodWhich slopes down to the Sea.How loudly his sweet voice he rears!He loves to talk with MarinersThat come from a far countrée.
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 ner'd: I heard them talk,"Why, this is strange, I trow!Where are those lights so many and fairThat signal made but now?"
"Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said—"And they answer'd not our cheer.The planks look warp'd, and see those sailsHow thin they are and sere!I never saw aught like to themUnless perchance it were"
"The skeletons of leaves that lagMy forest brook along:When the Ivy-tod is heavy with snow,And the Owlet whoops to the wolf belowThat eats the she-wolf's young."
"Dear Lord! it has 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 strait a sound was heard!
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.
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 mov'd my lips: the Pilot shriek'dAnd fell down in a fit.The Holy Hermit rais'd his eyesAnd 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 see,The devil knows how to row."
And now all in mine own CountréeI stood on the firm land!The Hermit stepp'd forth from the boat,And scarcely he could stand.
"O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy Man!"The Hermit cross'd his brow—"Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee sayWhat manner man art thou?"
Forthwith this frame of mind was wrench'dWith a woeful agony,Which forc'd me to begin my taleAnd then it left me free.
Since then at an uncertain hour,That agency returns;And till my ghastly tale is toldThis heart within me burns.
I pass, like night, from land to land;I have strange power of speech;The moment that his face I seeI 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-bellWhich 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 meTo walk together to the KirkWith a goodly company.
To walk together to the KirkAnd 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 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'dAnd is of sense forlorn:A sadder and a wiser manHe rose the morrow morn,
LINESWritten a few miles above TINTERN ABBEY, an revisiting the banks ofthe WYE during a Tour.July 13, 1798.
Five years have passed; five summers, with the lengthOf five long winters! and again I hearThese waters, rolling from their mountain-springsWith a sweet inland murmur. [6]—Once againDo I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,Which on a wild secluded scene impressThoughts of more deep seclusion; and connectThe landscape with the quiet of the sky.
[Footnote 6: The river is not affacted by the tides a few miles above Tintern.]
The day is come when I again reposeHere, under this dark sycamore, and viewThese plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,Among the woods and copses lose themselves,Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturbThe wild green landscape. Once again I seeThese hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little linesOf sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farmsGreen to the very door; and wreathes of smokeSent up, in silence, from among the trees,With some uncertain notice, as might seem,Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,Or of some hermit's cave, where by his fireThe hermit sits alone.
Though absent long.These forms of beauty have not been to me,As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the dinOf towns and cities, I have owed to them,In hours of wariness, sensations sweet,Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart,And passing even into my purer mind,
With tranquil restoration:—feelings tooOf unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,As may have had no trivial influenceOn that best portion of a good man's life;His little, nameless, unremembered actsOf kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,To them I may have owed another gift,Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,In which the burthen of the mystery,In which the heavy and the weary weightOf all this unintelligible worldIs lighten'd:—that serene and blessed mood;In which the affections gently lead us on,Until, the breath of this corporeal frame,And even the motion of our human bloodAlmost suspended, we are laid asleepIn body, and become a living soul:While with an eye made quiet by the powerOf harmony, and the deep power of joy,We see into the life of things.
If thisBe but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft,In darkness, and amid the many shapesOf joyless day-light; when the fretful stirUnprofitable, and the fever of the world,Have hung upon the beatings of my heart,How oft, in spirit, have I turned to theeO sylvan Wye! Thou wanderer through the woods,How often has my spirit turned to thee!
And now, with gleams, of half-extinguish'd thought,With many recognitions dim and faint,And somewhat of a sad perplexity,The picture of the mind revives again:While here I stand, not only with the senseOf present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughtsThat in this moment there is life and foodFor future years. And so I dare to hopeThough changed, no doubt, from what I was, when firstI came among these hills; when like a roeI bounded o'er the mountains, by the sidesOf the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,Wherever nature led: more like a manFlying from something that he dreads, than oneWho sought the thing he loved. For nature then(The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,And their glad animal movements all gone by,)To me was all in all.—I cannot paintWhat then I was. The sounding cataractHaunted me like a passion: the tall rock,The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,Their colours and their forms, were then to meAn appetite: a feeling and a love,That had no need of a remoter charm,By thought supplied, or any interestUnborrowed from the eye.—That time is past,And all its aching joys are now no more,And all its dizzy raptures. Not for thisFaint I, nor mourn nor murmur: other giftsHave followed, for such loss, I would believeAbundant recompence. For I have learnedTo look on nature, not as in the hourOf thoughtless youth, but hearing oftentimesThe still, sad music of humanity,Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample powerTo chasten and subdue. And I have feltA presence that disturbs me with the joyOf elevated thoughts; a sense sublimeOf something far more deeply interfused,Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,And the round ocean, and the living air,And the blue sky, and in the mind of man,A motion and a spirit, that impelsAll thinking things, all objects of all thought,And rolls through all things. Therefore am I stillA lover of the meadows and the woods,And mountains; and of all that we beholdFrom this green earth; of all the mighty worldOf eye and ear; both what they half create, [7]And what perceive; well pleased to recognizeIn nature and the language of the sense,The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soulOf all my moral being.
[Footnote 7: This line has a close resemblance to an admirable line of Young, the exact expression of which I cannot recollect.]
Nor, perchance,If I were not thus taught, should I the moreSuffer my genial spirits to decay?For thou art with me, here, upon the banksOf this fair river; thou, my dearest Friend,My dear, dear Friend, and in thy voice I catchThe language of my former heart, and readMy former pleasures in the shooting lightsOf thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little whileMay I behold in thee what I was once,My dear, dear Sister! And this prayer I make,Knowing that Nature never did betrayThe heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,Through all the years of this our life, to leadFrom joy to joy: for she can so informThe mind that is within us, so impressWith quietness and beauty, and so feedWith lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor allThe dreary intercourse of daily life,Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturbOur chearful faith that all which we beholdIs full of blessings. Therefore let the moonShine on thee in thy solitary walk;And let the misty mountain winds be freeTo blow against thee: and in after years,When these wild ecstasies shall be maturedInto a sober pleasure, when thy mindShall be a mansion for all lovely forms,Thy memory be as a dwelling-placeFor all sweet sounds and harmonies; Oh! then,If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughtsOf tender joy wilt thou remember me,And these my exhortations! Nor perchance,If I should be, where I no more can hearThy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleamsOf past existence, wilt thou then forgetThat on the banks of this delightful streamWe stood together; and that I, so longA worshipper of Nature, hither came,Unwearied in that service: rather sayWith warmer love, oh! with far deeper zealOf holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,That after many wanderings, many yearsOf absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,And this green pastoral landscape, were to meMore dear, both for themselves, and for thy sake.