Sweet Auburn! loveliest village of the plain;Where health and plenty cheered the laboring swain,Where smiling spring its earliest visit paid,And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed:Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, 5Seats of my youth, when every sport could please,How often have I loitered o'er thy green,Where humble happiness endeared each scene!How often have I paused on every charm,The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, 10The never-failing brook, the busy mill,The decent[1] church that topped the neighboring hill,The hawthorn bush, with seats beneath the shade,For talking age and whispering lovers made!How often have I blessed the coming day, 15When toil remitting lent its turn to play,And all the village train, from labor free,Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree,While many a pastime circled in the shade,The young contending as the old surveyed; 20And many a gambol frolicked o'er the ground,And sleights of art and feats of strength went round.And still, as each repeated pleasure tired,Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired,The dancing pair that simply sought renown 25By holding out to tire each other down;The swain mistrustless of his smutted face,While secret laughter tittered round the place;The bashful virgin's sidelong looks of love,The matron's glance that would those looks reprove, 30These were thy charms, sweet village! sports like these,With sweet succession, taught even toil to please:These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed:These were thy charms—but all these charms are fled.
Sweet smiling village, loveliest of the lawn,[2] 35Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn;Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen,And desolation saddens all thy green:One only master[3] grasps the whole domain,And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. 40No more thy glassy brook reflects the day,But, choked with sedges, works its weedy way;Along thy glades, a solitary guest,The hollow sounding bittern guards its nest;Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, 45And tires their echoes with unvaried cries;Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all,And the long grass o'ertops the mouldering wall;And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand,Far, far away thy children leave the land. 50
Ill fares the land, to hastening ills a prey,Where wealth accumulates, and men decay:[4]Princes and lords may nourish, or may fade;A breath can make them, as a breath has made:[5]But a bold peasantry, their country's pride, 55When once destroyed, can never be supplied.
A time there was, ere England's griefs began,[6]When every rood of ground maintained its man;For him light labor spread her wholesome store,Just gave what life required, but gave no more: 60His best companions, innocence and health;And his best riches, ignorance of wealth.
But times are altered; trade's unfeeling trainUsurp the land and dispossess the swain;Along the lawn, where scattered hamlets rose, 65Unwieldy wealth and cumbrous pomp repose,And every want to opulence allied,And every pang that folly pays to pride.These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom,Those calm desires that asked but little room, 70Those healthful sports that graced the peaceful scene,Lived in each look, and brightened all the green;These, far departing, seek a kinder shore,And rural mirth and manners are no more.
Sweet Auburn! parent of the blissful hour, 75Thy glades forlorn confess the tyrant's power.Here, as I take my solitary roundsAmidst thy tangling walks and ruined grounds,And, many a year elapsed, return to viewWhere once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew, 80Remembrance wakes with all her busy train,Swells at my breast, and turns the past to pain,In all my wanderings round this world of care,In all my griefs—and GOD has given my share—I still had hopes, my latest hours to crown, 85Amidst these humble bowers to lay me down;To husband out[7] life's taper at the close,And keep the flame from wasting by repose:I still had hopes, for pride attends us still,Amidst the swains to show my book-learned skill, 90Around my fire an evening group to draw,And tell of all I felt, and all I saw;And, as an hare[8] whom hounds and horns pursuePants to[9] the place from whence at first she flew,I still had hopes, my long vexations past, 95Here to return—and die at home at last.
O blest retirement, friend to life's decline,Retreats from care, that never must be mine,How happy he who crowns in shades like theseA youth of labor with an age of ease; 100Who quits a world where strong temptations try,And, since 't is hard to combat, learns to fly!For him no wretches, born to work and weep,Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep;No surly porter stands in guilty state,[3] 105To spurn imploring famine from the gate;But on he moves to meet his latter end,Angels around befriending Virtue's friend;Bends to the grave with unperceived decay,While resignation gently slopes the way; 110And, all his prospects brightening to the last,His heaven commences ere the world be past!
Sweet was the sound, when oft at evening's closeUp, yonder hill the village murmur rose.There, as I passed with careless steps and slow, 115The mingling notes came softened from below;The swain responsive as the milk-maid sung,The sober herd that lowed to meet their young,The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool,The playful children just let loose from school, 120The watch-dog's voice that bayed the whispering wind,And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind;—These all in sweet confusion sought the shade,And filled each pause the nightingale had made.But now the sounds of population fail, 125No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale,No busy steps the grass-grown foot-way tread,For all the bloomy flush of life is fled.All but yon widowed, solitary thing,That feebly bends beside the plashy spring: 130She, wretched matron, forced in age, for bread,To strip the brook with mantling cresses spread,To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn,To seek her nightly shed, and weep till morn;She only left of all the harmless train, 135The sad historian of the pensive plain.
Near yonder copse, where once the garden smiled,And still where many a garden flower grows wild;There, where a few torn shrubs the place disclose,The village preacher's modest mansion rose.[11] 140A man he was to all the country dear,And passing[12] rich with forty pounds a year;Remote from towns he ran his godly race,Nor e'er had changed, nor wished to change his place;Unpracticed he to fawn, or seek for power, 145By doctrines fashioned to the varying hour;[13]Far other aims his heart had learned to prize,More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise.His house was known to all the vagrant train;He chid their wanderings but relieved their pain: 150The long-remembered beggar was his guest,Whose beard descending swept his aged breast;The ruined spendthrift, now no longer proud,Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed;The broken soldier, kindly bade to stay, 155Sat by his fire, and talked the night away,Wept o'er his wounds or tales of sorrow done,Shouldered his crutch and shewed how fields were won,Pleased with his guests, the good man learned to glow,And quite forgot their vices in their woe; 160Careless their merits or their faults to scan,His pity gave ere charity began.[14]
Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride,And e'en his failings leaned to Virtue's side;But in his duty prompt at every call, 165He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all;And, as a bird each fond endearment triesTo tempt its new-fledged offspring to the skies,He tried each art, reproved each dull delay,Allured to brighter worlds, and led the way. 170
Beside the bed where parting life was laid,And sorrow, guilt, and pain by turns dismayed,The reverend champion stood. At his controlDespair and anguish fled the struggling soul;[15]Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, 175And his last faltering accents whispered praise.
At church, with meek and unaffected grace,His looks adorned the venerable place;Truth from his lips prevailed with double sway,And fools, who came to scoff, remained to pray. 180The service past, around the pious man,With steady zeal, each honest rustic ran,Even children followed with endearing wile,And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile.His ready smile a parent's warmth expressed; 185Their welfare pleased him, and their cares distressed:To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given,But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven.As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form,[16]Swells from the vale, and midway leaves the storm, 190Tho' round its breast the rolling clouds are spread,Eternal sunshine settles on its head.
Beside yon straggling fence that skirts the way,With blossomed furze unprofitably gay,There, in his noisy mansion, skilled to rule, 195The village master taught his little school.A man severe he was, and stern to view;I knew him well, and every truant knew:Well had the boding tremblers learned to traceThe day's disasters in his morning face; 200Full well they laughed with counterfeited gleeAt all his jokes, for many a joke had he;Full well the busy whisper circling roundConveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned.Yet he was kind, or, if severe in aught, 205The love he bore to learning was in fault;The village all declared how much he knew:'Twas certain he could write, and cypher[17] too;Lands he could measure, terms and tides presage,[18]And even the story ran that he could gauge:[19] 210In arguing, too, the parson owned his skill,For, even though vanquished, he could argue still;While words of learned length and thundering soundAmazed the gazing rustics ranged around;And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew, 215That one small head could carry all he knew.
But past is all his fame. The very spotWhere many a time he triumphed is forgot.Near yonder thorn, that lifts its head on high,Where once the sign-post caught the passing eye, 220Low lies that house where nut-brown draughts inspired,Where grey-beard mirth and smiling toil retired,Where village statesmen talked with looks profound,And news much older than their ale went round.Imagination fondly stoops to trace 225The parlor splendors of that festive place:The white-washed wall, the nicely sanded floor,The varnished clock that clicked behind the door;The chest contrived a double debt to pay,A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day; 230The pictures placed for ornament and use,The twelve good rules,[20] the royal game of goose;The hearth, except when winter chilled the day,With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay;While broken tea-cups, wisely kept for shew, 235Ranged o'er the chimney, glistened in a row.
Vain transitory splendors! could not allReprieve the tottering mansion from its fall?Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impartAn hour's importance to the poor man's heart. 240Thither no more the peasant shall repairTo sweet oblivion of his daily care;No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale,No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail;No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear, 245Relax his ponderous strength, and lean to hear;The host himself no longer shall be foundCareful to see the mantling bliss go round;Nor the coy maid, half willing to be pressed,Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. 250
Yes! let the rich deride, the proud disdain,These simple blessings of the lowly train;To me more dear, congenial to my heart,One native charm, than all the gloss of art;Spontaneous joys, where Nature has its play, 255The soul adopts, and owns their firstborn sway;Lightly they frolic o'er the vacant mind,Unenvied, unmolested, unconfined.But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade,With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed— 260In these, ere triflers half their wish obtain,The toiling pleasure sickens into pain;And, e'en while fashion's brightest arts decoy,The heart distrusting asks if this be joy.
Ye friends to truth, ye statesman who survey 265The rich man's joys increase, the poor's decay,'T is yours to judge how wide the limits standBetween a splendid and an happy land.Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore,And shouting Folly hails them from her shore; 270Hoards e'en beyond the miser's wish abound,[21]And rich men flock from all the world around.Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a nameThat leaves our useful products still the same.Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride 275Takes up a space that many poor supplied;Space for his lake, his park's extended bounds,Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds:The robe that wraps his limbs in silken slothHas robbed the neighboring fields of halftheir growth;[22] 280His seat, where solitary sports are seen,Indignant spurns the cottage from the green:Around the world each needful product flies,For all the luxuries the world supplies;While thus the land adorned for pleasure all 285In barren splendor feebly waits the fall.
As some fair female unadorned and plain,Secure to please while youth confirms her reign,Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies,Nor shares with art the triumph of her eyes; 290But when those charms are past, for charms are frail,When time advances, and when lovers fail,She then shines forth, solicitous to bless,In all the glaring impotence of dress.Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed: 295In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed,But verging to decline, its splendors rise;Its vistas strike, its palaces surprise:While, scourged by famine from the smiling land,The mournful peasant leads his humble band, 300And while he sinks, without one arm to save,The country blooms—a garden and a grave.
Where then, ah! where, shall poverty reside,To scape the pressure of contiguous pride?If to some common's fenceless limits strayed 305He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade,Those fenceless fields the sons of wealth divide,And even the bare-worn common is denied.
If to the city sped—what waits him there?To see profusion that he must not share, 310To see ten thousand baneful arts combinedTo pamper luxury, and thin mankind;[23]To see those joys the sons of pleasure knowExtorted from his fellow-creature's woe.Here while the courtier glitters in brocade, 315There the pale artist plies the sickly trade;Here while the proud their long-drawn pomps display,There the black gibbet glooms beside the way,The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reignHere, richly decked, admits the gorgeous train: 320Tumultuous grandeur crowds the blazing square,The rattling chariots clash, the torches glare.Sure scenes like these no troubles e'er annoy!Sure these denote one universal joy!Are these thy serious thoughts?—Ah, turn thine eyes 325Where the poor houseless shivering female lies.She once, perhaps, in village plenty blessed,Has wept at tales of innocence distressed;Her modest looks the cottage might adorn,Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn: 330Now lost to all; her friends, her virtue fled,Near her betrayer's door she lays her head,And, pinched with cold, and shrinking from the shower,With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour,When idly first, ambitious of the town, 335She left her wheel and robes of country brown.
Do thine, sweet Auburn,—thine, the loveliest train,—Do thy fair tribes participate[24] her pain?Even now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led,At proud men's doors they ask a little bread! 340
Ah, no! To distant climes, a dreary scene,Where half the convex world intrudes between,Through torrid tracts with fainting steps they go,Where wild Altama[25] murmurs to their woe.Far different there from all that charmed before 345The various terrors of that horrid shore;Those blazing suns that dart a downward ray,And fiercely shed intolerable day;Those matted woods, where birds forget to sing,But silent bats in drowsy clusters cling; 350Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriance crowned,Where the dark scorpion gathers death around;Where at each step the stranger fears to wakeThe rattling terrors of the vengeful snake;Where crouching tigers[26] wait their hapless prey, 355And savage men more murderous still than they;While oft in whirls the mad tornado flies,Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies.Far different these from every former scene,The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, 360The breezy covert of the warbling grove,That only sheltered thefts of harmless love.
Good Heaven! what sorrows gloomed that parting day,That called them from their native walks away;When the poor exiles, every pleasure past, 365Hung round the bowers, and fondly looked their last,And took a long farewell, and wished in vainFor seats like these beyond the western main,And shuddering still to face the distant deep,Returned and wept, and still returned to weep. 370The good old sire the first prepared to goTo new found worlds, and wept for others' woe;But for himself, in conscious virtue brave,He only wished for worlds beyond the grave.His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, 375The fond companion of his helpless years,Silent went next, neglectful of her charms,And left a lover's for a father's arms.With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose, 380And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear,And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear,Whilst her fond husband strove to lend reliefIn all the silent manliness of grief.
O luxury! thou cursed by Heaven's decree, 385How ill exchanged are things like these for thee!How do thy potions, with insidious joy,Diffuse their pleasure only to destroy!Kingdoms by thee, to sickly greatness grown,Boast of a florid vigor not their own. 390At every draught more large and large they grow,A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe;Till sapped their strength, and every part unsound,Down, down they sink, and spread a ruin round.
Even now the devastation is begun, 395And half the business of destruction done;Even now, methinks, as pondering here I stand,I see the rural virtues leave the land.Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail,That idly waiting flaps with every gale, 400Downward they move, a melancholy band,Pass from the shore, and darken all the strand.Contented toil, and hospitable care,And kind connubial tenderness, are there;And piety with wishes placed above, 405And steady loyalty, and faithful love.And thou, sweet Poetry, thou loveliest maid,Still first to fly where sensual joys invade;Unfit in these degenerate times of shameTo catch the heart, or strike for honest fame; 410Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried,My shame in crowds, my solitary pride;Thou source of all my bliss, and all my woe,That found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so;Thou guide by which the nobler arts excel, 415Thou nurse of every virtue, fare thee well!Farewell, and O! where'er thy voice be tried,On Torno's cliffs,[27] or Pambamarca's side,[28]Whether where equinoctial fervors glow,Or winter wraps the polar world in snow, 420Still let thy voice, prevailing over time,Redress the rigors of the inclement clime;Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive strain;Teach erring man to spurn the rage of gain;Teach him, that states of native strength possessed, 425Though very poor, may still be very blest;That trade's proud empire hastes to swift decay,As ocean sweeps the labored mole[29] away;While self-dependent power can time defy,As rocks resist the billows and the sky. 430
NOTE.—The Deserted Village, published in 1770, was immediately popular, and to-day few English poems are so widely read or so often quoted. If the poet had in mind any special place when writing of "Sweet Auburn," it was probably Lissoy, in Ireland, where he grew up; but the village of his imagination is lovelier than any actual spot, and there is no use in hunting for it on the map. See the first note onThe Travellerfor remarks on metre, etc.
[1.] Decent, appropriate, fitting. Consult the dictionary for the present meanings of the word.
[2.] Lawn, a cleared space in a wood.
[3.] One only master, etc. Sometimes, in England or in Ireland a wealthy man would buy a large tract of land, pull down the house and turn the entire region into parks or hunting grounds. Such a man was not necessarily a tyrant. In many cases the villages demolished were deserted because the inhabitants had left them to seek more comfortable homes across the ocean.
[4.] Decay,i.e.deteriorate, lose their high moral character. Although this is not the inevitable consequence of great wealth, it is certainly one of its dangers.
[5.] A breath can make them. Breath was used by older writers in the sense of words. The poet's meaning is, that kings can easily make new lords by conferring titles upon their favorites. This was a common practice in former times. Now, in England, titles are usually given as a reward for distinguished merit, as in the case of Alfred Lord Tennyson, the famous poet.
[6.] Ere England's griefs began. The student of history finds that there never was such a time. Although there are serious evils in all civilized countries to-day, especially in the condition of the poorest people in large cities, the workingman is, on the whole, far better off than he was hundreds of years ago, or even at the beginning of the nineteenth century.
[7.] To husband out, to use or manage with economy. Theoutis superfluous in prose.
[8.] An hare.Anwas formerly used before words beginning withh, even when that letter was sounded, and also before words beginning with a vowel.
[9.] Pants to, eagerly longs for.
[10.] No surly porter, etc. While the poet was exaggerating when he said this, nevertheless it is true that the feeling of responsibility for poor and the unfortunate was less widespread among the well-to-do in his day than it is now.
[11.] The village preacher's, etc. There is no doubt that the poet was thinking of his own father when he drew the sketch that follows—one of the most charming character sketches in English literature. To find its like in poetry one must go back to Chaucer's picture of the "poor parson" in thePrologue to the Canterbury Tales. Goldsmith's "village preacher" first appeared in theVicar of Wakefield, in that delightful character, Parson Primrose.
[12.] Passing, surpassingly.
[13.] Unpracticed he, etc. Clergymen have in some instances changed their creeds to gain favor with those in authority.
[14.] His pity gave, etc.,i.e.he gave from warm human sympathy rather than from a religious, and perhaps a colder, sentiment.
[15.] Fled the struggling soul.Fledis sometimes used transitively by older writers.
[16.] Awful form. Notice how effectiveawfulis when properly used.
[17.] Cypher, do sums in arithmetic; not often used now.
[18.] Terms and tides presage,i.e.the schoolmaster could tell when courts were to be held and when certain tides (times), such as Whitsuntide or Easter, would come.
[19.] Gauge, measure. The word is applied especially to determining the capacity of casks and other vessels containing alcoholic liquors. These had to be carefully measured, so that the government should receive the specified tax.
[20.] The twelve good rules. Among these are: "Reveal no secrets," "Keep no bad company." They can be found in Hales'Longer English Poems, p. 353.
[24.] Participate, share.
[25.] Altama, the Altamaha, a river in Georgia.
[26.] Crouching tigers. It is evident that the poet is indulging his imagination. The people of Georgia doubtless find this description of their country amusing if not accurate.
[27.] Torno's cliffs. Perhaps the poet refers to some region near the river Torneo, or Tornea, which flows into the Gulf of Bothnia.
[28.] Pambamarca's side. Pambamarca is a mountain in Ecuador.
[29.] Labored mole, carefully constructed breakwater.
1759-1796
Probably the poetry of "Robbie Burns, the Ayrshire Ploughman," is known to more English-speaking people than that of any other writer—not excepting even Shakespeare, for many a person who never reads a book is familiar withJohn Anderson,My Jo,Auld Lang Syne, andBonie Doon, though he may not know or care who wrote these famous songs.
The Scotch poet was born at Alloway in Ayrshire, where his father cultivated a small farm. He was the eldest of seven children. Before he was eight years old the family removed to Mt. Oliphant, and later to Lochlea. Here, in 1784, the father died, worn out with incessant toil, which ended only in disappointment. The family were so poor that Robert was obliged to work hard even when very young, and at fifteen he was his father's chief helper. In later years he described his life at Mt. Oliphant as combining "the cheerless gloom of a hermit with the unceasing moil of a galley slave." But poets are given to exaggeration, and doubtless the attractive picture of home life which he afterwards painted in theCotter's Saturday Nightis true in the main of the life in his father's cottage.
In his father, Burns was most fortunate, for he was a man of strict integrity, and strong religious faith. The education of his children was, in his judgment, so important that when they were unable to attend school he taught them himself, notwithstanding his exhausting labors on the farm. The family as a whole were fond of reading. Among their books the poet mentions certain plays of Shakespeare, Pope's works,—including his translation of Homer,—theSpectator, Allan Ramsay's writings, and several volumes on religious and philosophical subjects. Probably in this list the Bible should stand first. He himself studied the art of verse-making in a collection of songs. He says: "I pored over them, driving my cart or walking to labor, song by song, carefully noting the true tender or sublime from affectation or fustian. I am convinced that I owe to this practice much of my critic-craft, such as it is!" His first song, composed when he was fifteen, was inspired by a young girl who worked at his side in the harvest field.
Robert and his brother Gilbert had taken a farm at Mossgiel, not far away, while their father was still living, and after his death they removed there, taking with them the rest of the family. Unfortunately the farm did not prosper. On reaching the age of twenty-seven the poet determined to go to Jamaica where he had been promised a position as overseer of an estate. In order to raise money to pay his passage he published a volume of poems. The returns were small, but the fame of the writer spread so rapidly that he was persuaded to remain in his own country and publish a second edition of his poems in Edinburgh.
The two winters which he spent in the Scotch capital at this time form an interesting episode in his life. He was the lion of the day in literary circles. Many persons who met him have told how he impressed them; but the most interesting account is that of Walter Scott, then a youth of sixteen. He says of Burns: "His person was strong and robust; his manner rustic, not clownish; a sort of dignified plainness and simplicity. His countenance was more massive than it looks in any of the portraits. . . There was a strong expression of sense and shrewdness in all his lineaments; the eye alone, I think, indicated the poetical character and temperament. It was large, and of a dark cast, which glowed (I say literally glowed), when he spoke, with feeling or interest. I never saw such another eye in a human head, though I have seen the most distinguished men of my time."
In 1788 the poet married Jane Armour, and the following year settled with her on a farm at Ellisland, near Dumfries. Finding it impossible to make a living for his increasing family as a farmer, he obtained through friends the place of exciseman for the surrounding region. This position obliged him to ride more than two hundred miles a week, collecting government taxes. In 1791 he moved to the town of Dumfries. The following year he came near losing his place through an act of indiscretion which proved him to be more poet than exciseman. He bought four guns which had come into the possession of the government through the seizure of a smuggling vessel, and sent them with expressions of admiration and sympathy to the French Legislative Assembly. These were the early days of the Revolution when young men in many parts of the world were enthusiastic in their support of the movement. Fortunately the guns failed to reach their destination, and the poet having made his peace with the authorities kept his position until failing health obliged him to give it up. During his later years he wrote little but songs, and for these he would take no money, although he was, as ever, a poor man. He died in 1796, at the age of thirty-seven. In 1815 his remains were transferred to a mausoleum built as a tribute to his genius.
As a man, Burns was far from perfect. His passions were strong and he never learned to control them, and in consequence he had reason to repent bitterly many a rash act. Yet he was brave and honest; he had a righteous hatred of hypocrisy; as the champion of the humble, he claimed for the poorest the full privileges of sturdy manhood; he cared heartily for his fellowmen and had a place in his affections even for the field-mouse and the daisy. Because his verse beats with the passions of his fiery and sympathetic nature, the world loves him as it loves few other poets. Among the best known of his productions areThe Cotter's Saturday Night,Tam o' Shanter,Address to the Unco Guid,To a Mouse, andTo a Mountain Daisy. In speaking of his songs, one might mention first,Scots Wha Hae,—composed in the midst of tempests, while the poet was riding over a wild Galloway moor,—and next,Highland MaryandA Man's a Man for a' That; but there is no need of enumerating the songs of Burns. As Emerson has said, "The wind whispers them, the birds whistle them, the corn, barley, and bulrushes hoarsely rustle them. . . . They are the property and the solace of mankind."
My loved, my honored, much respected friend![1]No mercenary bard his homage pays;With honest pride I scorn each selfish end,My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise:To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 5The lowly train in life's sequestered scene;The native feelings strong, the guileless ways;What Aikin in a cottage would have been;Ah! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween![2]
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh;[3] 10The short'ning winter-day is near a close;The miry beasts retreating frae[4] the pleugh;[5]The black'ning trains o' craws[6] to their repose:The toil-worn Cotter frae his labor goes,This night his weekly moil[7] is at an end, 15Collects his spades, his mattocks,[8] and his hoes,Hoping the morn[9] in ease and rest to spend,And weary, o'er the moor, his course does homeward[10] bend.
At length his lonely cot appears in view,Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; 20Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher[11] throughTo meet their dad, wi' flichterin'[12] noise and glee.His wee bit ingle,[13] blinkin bonilie,[14]His clean hearth-stane,[15] his thrifty wine's smile,The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 25Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile,[16]And makes him quite forget his labor and his toil,
Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in,[17]At service out, amang the farmers roun';Some ca'[18] the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 30A cannie errand to a neebor town:[19]Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown,In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e,[20]Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw[21] new gown,Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee,[22] 35To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be.
With joy unfeigned brothers and sisters meet,And each for other's weelfare kindly spiers:[23]The social hours, swift-winged, unnoticed fleet;Each tells the uncos[24] that he sees or hears. 40The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years;Anticipation forward points the view;The mother wi' her needle and her sheers[25]Gars auld claes look amaist as weel 's the new;[26]The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 45
Their master's and their mistress's commandThe younkers[27] a' are warned to obey;And mind their labors wi' an eydent[28] hand,And ne'er, though out o' sight, to jauk[29] or play:"And O! be sure to fear the Lord alway, 50And mind your duty, duly, morn and night;Lest in temptation's path ye gang[30] astray,Implore His counsel and assisting might:They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright!"
But hark! a rap comes gently to the door; 55Jenny, wha kens[31] the meaning o' the same,Tells how a neebor[32] lad came o'er the moorTo do some errands, and convoy her hame.The wily mother sees the conscious flameSparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; 60With heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name,While Jenny hafflins[33] is afraid to speak;Weel pleased the mother hears, it's nae[34]wild, worthless rake.
With kindly welcome Jenny brings him ben;[35]A strappin' youth, he takes the mother's eye; 65Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill taen;[36]The father cracks[37] of horses, pleughs, and kye.[38]The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' joy,But blate and laithfu',[39] scarce can weel behave;The mother, wi' a woman's wiles,[40] can spy 70What makes the youth sae[41] bashfu' and sae grave;Weel-pleased to think her bairn's respected like the lave.[42]
O happy love! where love like this is found:O heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond compare!I've paced much this weary, mortal round, 75And sage experience bids me this declare,—"If Heaven a draught of heav'nly pleasure spare,One cordial, in this melancholy vale,'T is when a youthful, loving, modest pairIn other's arms breathe out the tender tale 80Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev'ning gale."
Is there, in human form, that bears a heart,A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth!That can with studied, sly, ensnaring artBetray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? 85Curse on his perjured arts! dissembling, smooth!Are honor, virtue, conscience, all exiled?Is there no pity, no relenting ruth,[43]Points to the parents fondling' o'er their child?Then paints the ruined maid, and their distraction wild! 90
But now the supper crowns their simple board,The healsome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food;[44]The soupe[45] their only hawkie[46] does afford,That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood;[47]The dame brings forth in complimental mood, 95To grace the lad, her weel-hained kebbuck, fell;[48]And aft he's pressed, and aft he ca's it guid;[49]The frugal wine, garrulous, will tell,How 't was a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell.[50]
The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face 100They round the ingle form a circle wide;The sire turns o'er wi' patriarchal graceThe big ha'-Bible,[51] ance[52] his father's pride.His bonnet[53] rev'rently is laid aside,His lyart haffets[54] wearing thin and bare; 105Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide,[55]He wales[56] a portion with judicious care;And, "Let us worship God!" he says, with solemn air.
They chant their artless notes in simple guise;They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim: 110PerhapsDundee's[57] wild warbling measures rise,Or plaintiveMartyrs,[57] worthy of the name;Or nobleElgin[57] beets[58] the heavenward flame,The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays.Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; 115The tickled ears no heart-felt raptures raise,Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise.[59]
The priest-like father reads the sacred page,How Abram was the friend of God on high;[60]Or, Moses bade eternal warfare wage 120With Amalek's ungracious progeny;[61]Or, how the royal Bard[62] did groaning lieBeneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire;Or Job's pathetic plaint,[63] and wailing cry;Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; 125Or other holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre.
Perhaps the Christian volume[64] is the theme:How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed;How He, who bore in heaven the second name,Had not on earth whereon to lay His head; 130How His first followers and servants sped;[65]The precepts sage they wrote to many a land:[66]How he, who lone in Patmos banished,Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand,And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronouncedby Heaven's command.[67] 135
Then kneeling down to Heaven's Eternal King,The saint, the father, and the husband prays:Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing,"[68]That thus they all shall meet in future days,There ever bask in uncreated rays, 140No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear,Together hymning their Creator's praise,In such society, yet still more dear;While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere.
Compared with this, how poor Religion's pride, 145In all the pomp of method, and of art;When men display to congregations wideDevotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart,The Power,[69] incensed, the pageant will desert,The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 150But haply,[70] in some cottage far apart,May hear, well pleased, the language of the soul,And in His Book of Life the inmates poor enroll.
Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way;The youngling cottagers retire to rest: 155The parent-pair their secret homage pay,And proffer up to Heaven the warm request,That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest,And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride,Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, 160For them and for their little ones provide;But, chiefly, in their hearts with Grace Divine preside.
From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs,That makes her loved at home, revered abroad;Princes and lords are but the breath of kings,[71] 165"An honest man's the noblest work of God:"[72]And certes,[73] in fair Virtue's heavenly road,The cottage leaves the palace far behind;What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load,Disguising oft the wretch of human kind, 170Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined!
O Scotia[1] my dear, my native soil!For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent!Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toilBe blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! 175And, O! may Heaven their simple lives preventFrom luxury's contagion, weak and vile!Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent,A virtuous populace may rise the while,And stand a wall of fire around their much-loved Isle. 180
O Thou! who poured the patriotic tideThat streamed thro' Wallace's undaunted heart,[74]Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride,Or nobly die, the second glorious part,(The patriot's God peculiarly Thou art, 185His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!)O never, never, Scotia's realm desert,But still the patriot and the patriot-bardIn bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!
[*]In printing this poem, it has seemed best to follow the text as given in the scholarlyCentenary Burns(1896), edited by Messrs. Henley and Henderson.
NOTE.—The Cotter's Saturday Nightwas written in 1785 or the beginning of 1786. In all English poetry there are few pictures of home life so charming as that portrayed in this poem. The stanza employed is the Spenserian stanza, named for Edmund Spenser, who first used it. The first eight lines have five feet each, while the last has six feet.
Cotter, as used by Burns, meanspeasant farmer.
[1.] Much respected friend, Robert Aiken, an early friend of the poet's, to whom the poem was inscribed.
[2.] Ween, think, fancy.
[3.] Sugh (pronounced much like sook, with theksoftened;i.e.likesuchin German), wail, sough.
[4.] Frae, from.
[5.] Pleugh (theghhas a guttural sound), plough.
[6.] Trains o' craws, trains of crows.
[7.] Moil, toil.
[8.] Mattocks, implements for digging.
[9.] The morn, to-morrow.
[10.] Hameward, homeward.
[11.] Stacher, totter.
[12.] Flichterin', fluttering.
[13.] Ingle, fireplace.
[14.] Bonilie, cheerfully, attractively.
[15.] Hearth-stane, hearth-stone.
[16.] Does a' his weary kiaugh and care beguile, Does all his weary cark (fret) and care beguile.A'has the sound ofainall; pronouncekiaughsomething likekee-owch', giving thecha harsh, guttural sound. (In later editions,carking careswas substituted forkiaughandcare.)
[17.] Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, Presently the older children come dropping in. (The vowel sound inbairnsis like that incare.)
[18.] Ca', follow.
[19.] Some tentie rin a cannie errand to a neebor town, some, heedful, run on a quiet errand to a neighboring town.
[20.] E'e, eye.
[21.] Braw, fine.
[22.] Sair-won penny-fee, hard-earned wages.
[23.] Spiers, asks.
[24.] Uncos, wonders, news.
[25.] Sheers, scissors.
[26.] Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new, makes old cloth look almost as well as the new.
[27.] Younkers, young people.
[28.] Eydent, diligent.
[29.] Jauk, trifle.
[30.] Gang, go.
[31.] Wha kens, who knows.
[32.] Neebor, neighbor.
[33.] Hafflins, half.
[34.] Nae, no.
[36.] Ben, inside.
[36.] No ill taen, not ill taken;i.e.Jenny's parents are pleased to have the young man come in.
[37.] Cracks, chats.
[38.] Kye, cattle.
[39.] Blate and laithfu', shy and sheepish.
[40.] Wi' a woman's wiles, with a woman's penetration.
[41.] Sae, so.
[42.] The lave, the rest.
[43.] Ruth, pity, tenderness.
[44.] Healsome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food, wholesome porridge, chief of Scotland's food.
[45.] Soupe, milk.
[46.] Hawkie, cow.
[47.] That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood, that beyond the wall snugly chews her cud. In a cottage of this kind the cow lives under the same roof with the family.
[48.] Her weel-hained kebbuck, fell, her well-saved cheese, pungent;i.e.her carefully saved, or kept, strong cheese.
[49.] And aft he's pressed, and aft he ca's (pronounced likecause) it guid, And oft he's urged, and oft he calls it good.
[50.] 'T was a towmond auld, sin' lint was i' the bell, it was a twelve-month old since flax was in flower;i.e.when the flax was last in bloom it was a year old.
[51.] The big ha'-Bible (pronouncedhaw), the big hall-Bible. The name originated in the fact that large Bibles were first used in the hall, or principal room, of the noble's castle, where all the household assembled for worship.
[52.] Ance, once.
[53.] Bonnet, a soft cap made of seamless woolen stuff.
[54.] Lyart haffets, gray side-locks.
[55.] Those strains that once, etc.,i.e.thePsalms, which were sung in Jerusalem.Zionis really the hill on which the old city of Jerusalem was built.
[56.] Wales, selects.
[57.] Dundee, Martyrs, Elgin, well-known psalm tunes.
[58.] Beets, fans or feeds.
[59.] Nae unison hae they, no unison have they;i.e.they are not in harmony with.
[60.] Abram, or Abraham. SeeGenesis.
[61.] Moses bade, etc. SeeExodusxvii.
[62.] The royal Bard, King David. Probably Burns refers to certain of the Psalms which express suffering and repentance.
[63.] Job's pathetic plaint. The "plaint" begins withJobiii.
[64.] The Christian volume, i.e. the New Testament.
[65.] How His first followers, etc. SeeActs of the Apostles.
[66.] The precepts sage. See theEpistles.
[67.] He, who lone in Patmos, etc. St. John the Evangelist is said to have been exiled to the island of Patmos, or Patmo, west of Asia Minor, and there to have written theApocalypse, orBook of Revelation. The doom of Babylon is pronounced in Chapter xviii of that book.
[68.] Hope springs exulting, etc. See Pope'sEssay on Man, Epistle I, l. 95, and hisWindsor Forest, l. 112.
[69.] The Power, the Almighty.
[70.] Haply, perhaps, perchance.
[71.] Princes and lords, etc. SeeThe Deserted Village, lines 53 and 54.
[72.] An honest man's, etc. Pope'sEssay on Man, Epistle IV, l. 247.
[73.] Certes, truly.
[74.] Wallace's undaunted heart. Sir William Wallace, born about 1274, is one of the most famous of Scotch heroes. For a time he was a successful opponent of Edward I of England, but he finally suffered defeat, and in 1305 was captured and taken to London, where he was tried, condemned, and beheaded. One of Burns's most celebrated songs begins: "Scots, wha hae (who have) wi' Wallace bled." Scott tells of Wallace in hisTales of a Grandfather.
1772-1834
Coleridge was born in Ottery St. Mary, in Devonshire England, and spent his early years in the midst of a large family. His father, who was vicar of the town and master of the grammar school, died when the son was only nine years old. His character must, however, have impressed Coleridge deeply, for he said, in after years: "The memory of my father—my reverend, kind, learned, simple-hearted father—is a religion to me." Soon after his father's death he left his happy home in the country to enter a school it=n London, known as Christ's Hospital. Charles Lamb, who was a schoolmate of his, has sketched the life there in two well-known essays. In one of them,Christ's Hospital Fifty Years Ago, he describes the summer holidays, so delightful for himself with his family near, and so dreary for the country boy with no friends in the city; and he pictures Coleridge as forlorn and half-starved, declaring that in those days the food of the "Blue-coat boys" was cruelly insufficient. From early childhood the future poet had been passionately fond of reading, and an occurrence which took place during his early years in London enabled him for a time to gratify his taste. One day while walking down the Strand, he put out his arms as if in the act of swimming, and in so doing touched a passer-by. The man, taking him for a thief, seized him, crying, "What, so young and so wicked!" "I am not a pickpocket," replied the boy; "I only thought I was Leander swimming the Hellespont!" After making some inquiries, his chance acquaintance subscribed to a library for him, and the story runs that in a short time the young bookworm had read "right through the catalogue."
In 1791 Coleridge entered Cambridge University. While there he was deeply stirred by events in France—for the Revolution was in progress—and ran some risk of being expelled by the open expression of his radical views on politics. His fine ode,France, written several years later, was the expression of this intense interest. During his second year of study, while suffering from a fit of despondency, he suddenly left the university—just why, no one knows—and went to London. There he enlisted in the 15th dragoons under the name of Silas Tompkyn Comberback. While he was in the service his awkwardness in doing manual labor, especially in grooming his horse, led to his exchanging tasks with his comrades: they performed his mechanical duties, while he wrote letters for them to their wives or sweethearts. A Latin inscription which he placed above his saddle in the stable led to the discovery of his true condition, and about the same time his friends learned of his whereabouts. At the end of four months in the dragoons he was bought out and enabled to return to his studies. He remained in Cambridge but a short time, however, leaving in 1794 without taking a degree.
The following year he married Miss Sara Fricker. This important step was taken on the strength of a small sum promised by a bookseller for a volume of poems which he was then writing. A month later his friend Robert Southey—afterwards well known as an author—married his wife's sister. Some time before this, the two young men had conceived the idea of crossing the sea with a few congenial acquaintances and forming an ideal community on the bank of the Susquehanna. Fortunately the scheme was abandoned and the two dreamers turned their attention to literary projects.
Coleridge's best work as a poet was done in 1797 and 1798, and probably the inspiration came largely from his friendship with William Wordsworth. During these two years the poets lived near each other in the beautiful Cumberland country, and while taking long rambles over the Quantock Hills they talked, planned, and wrote. The first result of this intercourse was a joint volume of poems calledLyrical Ballads, published in 1798. This included Coleridge'sAncient Marinerand Wordsworth'sWe are Seven. About the same time Coleridge wrote the first part ofChristabel, the odeFrance,Kubla Khan, and a few other well-known poems. The impression which he made at this period of his life upon Dorothy Wordsworth, the poet's sister, was recorded by her in a letter. She says of him: "He is a wonderful man. His conversation teems with soul and mind. . . . His eye is large and full, and not very dark but gray, such an eye as would receive from a heavy soul the dullest expression; but it speaks every emotion of his animated mind; it has more of the poet's eye in a fine frenzy rolling than I ever witnessed. He has fine dark eyebrows and an overhanging forehead."
Of Coleridge as poet there is unfortunately little more to relate, for during the remainder of his life he devoted himself mainly to philosophy and literary criticism, with occasional work in journalism. After a stay in Germany he brought back to England a knowledge of German metaphysics and an enthusiasm for German literature which enabled him to do much towards awakening in his own countrymen an interest in these subjects. He had never been strong, and from the age of thirty-four he suffered seriously from ill-health and from his practice of using opium—a habit begun by his taking the dangerous drug to relieve acute pain. No doubt his powers were impaired by these causes. In 1804, hoping to benefit by change of climate, he went to Malta, and before his return spent some months in Italy. With the exception of a short tour on the Rhine with the Wordsworths, the last sixteen years of his life were passed quietly at Highgate, a village near London, where through the kind care of friends he was enabled to control the opium habit and do a fair amount of intellectual work. His mind dwelt much on religious subjects, and the faith which had earlier found expression in his nobleHymn in the Vale of Chamounibrought light and consolation as the end drew near. Many young men came to see him during these last years, drawn by his fame as a poet and still more by his remarkable powers as a talker. One of them has said of him in this connection: "Throughout a long summer's day would this man talk to you in low, equable, but clear and musical tones, concerning things human and divine." And the same person has described a day spent with him as "a Sabbath past expression, deep, tranquil, and serene." The poet died at Highgate in 1834, at the age of sixty-two.
Coleridge was a many-sided genius, and perhaps the world has benefited as largely by his powers as a thinker as by his gift for poetry. He did much both by talking and writing to broaden English thought, and his keen and suggestive criticism of other authors, of Shakespeare especially, has been of high value to lovers of literature. As a poet he is distinguished for the rare quality of his imagination and the wonderful music of his verse.
The argument, or plot, of the poem is as follows:[*]
Three guests were on their way to a wedding, when one of them—the bridegroom's nearest relative—was stopped by a Mariner with long gray beard and glittering eye, who constrained him to listen to his story. The Mariner once set sail in a ship bound southward. After crossing the equator the vessel was driven by strong winds toward the south pole, and was finally hemmed in by icebergs. An albatross which appeared at this time brought good luck: the ice split and the ship sailed northward. The Mariner, for no apparent reason, shot the bird of good omen. At first his comrades declared that he had done a hellish deed, but when the fog cleared away they justified him, believing that the fog had been brought by the bird. In this way they became accomplices in his crime. By killing the albatross the Mariner had offended the Spirit of the South Pole, who now followed the ship "nine fathom deep" to make sure that vengeance was meted out to the guilty man. As a sign of the Mariner's guilt the sailors fastened about his neck the dead bird. The vessel was now in the Pacific Ocean. On nearing the equator she was becalmed, and before long all the sailors were dying of thirst. Suddenly a skeleton ship appeared in sight, having on board Death and Life-in-Death. The two spectres were throwing dice to see which should possess the doomed Mariner. Life-in-Death won, and the Mariner was hers. If Death had won, his life would soon have ended; as it was, existence for him was to mean—for a time at least—life in the midst of the dead. No sooner had the spectre bark shot by than his comrades, four times fifty living men, dropped lifeless one by one. For seven days and seven nights he suffered agonies from the curse in their stony eyes; but he could not die, and he could not pray.
One day, while watching some water snakes at play, he was charmed with their beauty and blessed them unawares—a sure sign that love for God's lower creatures was springing up in his heart. The next instant the spell began to break: the albatross fell from his neck into the sea and he could move his lips in prayer. He slept, and the Holy Mother sent rain; and when he awoke the wind was blowing. A troop of angelic spirits now entered the bodies of the dead sailors and worked the ropes, and, obedient to the angels, the Spirit of the South Pole helped the ship onward. As she sped on, the Mariner, who lay in a swoon, learned from the talk of two spirits that his penance was not yet accomplished. Soon after waking he beheld the shores of his native country. As the vessel neared the land the angels left the bodies of the sailors, and at the same time a small boat approached bringing a pilot and his boy, and a pious hermit—all known to the Mariner. Suddenly there was a dreadful sound, and the ship sank. On coming to his senses the Mariner found himself in the pilot's boat. When the hermit asked him, "What manner of man art thou?" his agony was fearful until he had found relief in telling his experience. As a punishment for his crime in shooting the albatross the agony was to return at intervals and compel him to travel from land to land relating his strange tale. After admonishing the wedding guest to love well both man and beast, the ancient Mariner departed. The poet says of his listener,
"A sadder and a wiser manHe rose the morrow morn."
[*]When The Ancient Mariner was reprinted in 1800, the poet added explanatory notes in the margin. These have been found useful in writing this argument. The poet's notes are given in hisPoetical Works, edited by James Dykes Campbell (1893).
It is an ancient Mariner,And he stoppeth one of three,"By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?
"The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, 5And I am next of kin;[1]The guests are met, the feast is set:Mayst hear the merry din."
He holds him with his skinny hand,"There was a ship," quoth[2] he. 10"Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!"[3]Eftsoons[4] his hand dropped he.
He holds him with his glittering eye—The Wedding-Guest stood still,And listens like a three years' child:[5] 15The 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. 20
"The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared,Merrily did we dropBelow the kirk,[6] below the hill,Below the lighthouse top.
"The Sun came up upon the left,[7]Out of the sea came he! 25And he shone bright, and on the rightWent down into the sea.
"Higher and higher every day,Till over the mast at noon———" 30The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,For he heard the loud bassoon.
The bride hath paced into the hall,Red as a rose is she;Nodding their heads before her goes 35The 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. 40
"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, 45As who pursued with yell and blowStill treads the shadow of his foe,And forward bends his head,The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,And southward aye we fled. 50
"And now there came both mist and snow,[8]And it grew wondrous cold:And ice, mast-high, came floating by,As green as emerald.
"And through the drifts the snowy clifts[9] 55Did send a dismal sheen:Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken[10]—The ice was all between.
"The ice was here, the ice was there,The ice was all around: 60It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,Like noises in a swound![11]
"At length did cross an Albatross,[12]Thorough[12] the fog it came;As if it had been a Christian soul, 65We 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. 70
"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!
"In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,[14] 75It perched for vespers nine;[15]Whiles[16] all the night, through fog-smoke white,Glimmered the white moon-shine."
"God save thee, ancient Mariner!From the fiends that plague thee thus!— 80Why look'st thou so?"—"With my cross-bowI shot the Albatross."
"The Sun now rose upon the right:[17]Out of the sea came he,Still hid in mist, and on the left 85Went down into the sea.
"And the good south wind still blew behind,But no sweet bird did follow,Nor any day for food or playCome to the mariners' hollo! 90
"And I had done a hellish thing,And it would work 'em woe;For all averred, I had killed the birdThat made the breeze to blow.'Ah wretch!' said they, 'the bird to slay, 95That made the breeze to blow!'
"Nor dim nor red, like God's own headThe glorious sun uprist:[18]Then all averred, I had killed the birdThat brought the fog and mist. 100''Twas right,' said they, 'such birds to slay,That bring the fog and mist.'
"The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,The furrow followed free;[19]We were the first that ever burstInto that silent sea.[20] 105
"Down dropped the breeze, the sails dropped down,'T was sad as sad could be;And we did speak only to breakThe silence of the sea! 110
"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, 115We stuck, nor breath nor motion;As idle as a painted shipUpon a painted ocean.
"Water, water, everywhere,And all the boards did shrink; 120Water, water, everywhere,Nor any drop to drink.