PART I |
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, |
And I am next of kin ; |
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 he. |
‘Hold off ! unhand me, grey-beard loon
!’ |
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. |
|
He holds him with his glittering eye— |
The Wedding-Guest stood still, |
And listens like a three years’ child : |
The Mariner hath his will. |
|
The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone : |
He cannot choose but hear ; |
And thus spake on that ancient man, |
The bright-eyed Mariner.’ |
|
‘The ship was cheered, the harbour
cleared, |
Merrily did we drop |
Below the kirk, below the hill, |
Below the lighthouse top. |
|
The Sun came up upon the left, |
Out of the sea came he ! |
And he shone bright, and on the right |
Went 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 paced into the hall, |
Red as a rose is she ; |
Nodding their heads before her goes |
The 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. |
|
‘And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he |
Was tyrannous and strong : |
He struck with his o’ertaking wings, |
And chased us south along. |
|
With sloping masts and dipping prow, |
As who pursued with yell and blow |
Still treads the shadow of his foe, |
And forward bends his head, |
The ship drove fast, loud roared the
blast, |
And southward aye we fled. |
|
And now there came both mist and snow, |
And it grew wondrous cold : |
And ice, mast-high, came floating by, |
As green as emerald. |
|
And through the drifts the snowy clifts
|
Did send a dismal sheen : |
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken— |
The ice was all between. |
|
The ice was here, the ice was there, |
The ice was all around : |
It cracked and growled, and roared and
howled, |
Like noises in a swound ! |
|
At length did cross an Albatross, |
Thorough the fog it came ; |
As if it had been a Christian soul, |
We hailed it in God’s name. |
|
It ate the food it ne’er had eat, |
And round and round it flew. |
The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; |
The helmsman steered us through ! |
|
And a good south wind sprung up behind
; |
The Albatross did follow, |
And every day, for food or play, |
Came to the mariners’ hollo ! |
|
In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, |
It perched for vespers nine ; |
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke
white, |
Glimmered the white Moon-shine.’ |
|
‘God save thee, ancient Mariner ! |
From the fiends, that plague thee thus
!— |
Why look’st thou so?’—‘With my
cross-bow |
I shot the ALBATROSS.’ Top |
PART II |
‘The Sun now rose upon the right : |
Out of the sea came he, |
Still hid in mist, and on the left |
Went down into the sea. |
|
And the good south wind still blew
behind, |
But no sweet bird did follow, |
Nor any day for food or play |
Came to the mariners’ hollo ! |
|
And I had done a hellish thing, |
And it would work ‘em woe : |
For all averred, I had killed the bird |
That made the breeze to blow. |
Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to
slay, |
That made the breeze to blow ! |
|
Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head, |
The glorious Sun uprist : |
Then all averred, I had killed the bird |
That brought the fog and mist. |
’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 ; |
We were the first that ever burst |
Into that silent sea. |
|
Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt
down, |
’Twas sad as sad could be ; |
And we did speak only to break |
The silence of the sea ! |
|
All in a hot and copper sky, |
The bloody Sun, at noon, |
Right up above the mast did stand, |
No bigger than the Moon. |
|
Day after day, day after day, |
We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; |
As idle as a painted ship |
Upon a painted ocean. |
|
Water, water, every where, |
And all the boards did shrink ; |
Water, water, every where, |
Nor any drop to drink. |
|
The very deep did rot : O Christ ! |
That ever this should be ! |
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs |
Upon the slimy sea. |
|
About, about, in reel and rout |
The death-fires danced at night ; |
The water, like a witch’s oils, |
Burnt green, and blue and white. |
|
And some in dreams assurčd were |
Of the Spirit that plagued us so ; |
Nine fathom deep he had followed us |
From the land of mist and snow. |
|
And every tongue, through utter
drought, |
Was withered at the root ; |
We could not speak, no more than if |
We had been choked with soot. |
|
Ah ! well a-day! What evil looks |
Had I from old and young ! |
Instead of the cross, the Albatross |
About my neck was hung.’ Top |
PART III |
‘There passed a weary time. Each throat |
Was parched, and glazed each eye. |
A weary time ! a weary time ! |
How glazed each weary eye, |
When looking westward, I beheld |
A something in the sky. |
|
At first it seemed a little speck, |
And then it seemed a mist ; |
It moved and moved, and took at last |
A certain shape, I wist. |
|
A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! |
And still it neared and neared : |
As if it dodged a water-sprite, |
It plunged and tacked and veered. |
|
With throats unslaked, with black lips
baked, |
We could nor laugh nor wail ; |
Through utter drought all dumb we stood
! |
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, |
And cried, A sail ! a sail ! |
|
With throats unslaked, with black lips
baked, |
Agape they heard me call : |
Gramercy ! they for joy did grin, |
And all at once their breath drew in, |
As they were drinking all. |
|
See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more
! |
Hither to work us weal ; |
Without a breeze, without a tide, |
She steadies with upright keel ! |
|
The western wave was all a-flame. |
The day was well nigh done ! |
Almost upon the western wave |
Rested the broad bright Sun ; |
When that strange shape drove suddenly |
Betwixt us and the Sun. |
|
And straight the Sun was flecked with
bars, |
(Heaven’s Mother send us grace !) |
As if through a dungeon-grate he peered |
With broad and burning face. |
|
Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat
loud) |
How fast she nears and nears ! |
Are those her sails that glance
in the Sun, |
Like restless gossameres ? |
|
Are those her ribs through which
the Sun |
Did peer, as through a grate ? |
And is that Woman all her crew ? |
Is that a DEATH ? and are there two ? |
Is DEATH that woman’s mate ? |
|
Her lips were red, her
looks were free, |
Her locks were yellow as gold : |
Her skin was as white as leprosy, |
The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she, |
Who thicks man’s blood with cold. |
|
The naked hulk alongside came, |
And the twain were casting dice ; |
"The game is done ! I’ve won ! I’ve won
!" |
Quoth she, and whistles thrice. |
|
The Sun’s rim dips ; the stars rush out
: |
At one stride comes the dark ; |
With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea, |
Off shot the spectre-bark. |
|
We listened and looked sideways up ! |
Fear at my heart, as at a cup, |
My life-blood seemed to sip ! |
The stars were dim, and thick the
night, |
The steersman’s face by his lamp
gleamed white ; |
From the sails the dew did drip— |
Till clomb above the eastern bar |
The hornčd Moon, with one bright star
|
Within the nether tip. |
|
One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, |
Too quick for groan or sigh, |
Each turned his face with a ghastly
pang, |
And cursed me with his eye. |
|
Four time fifty living men, |
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan) |
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, |
They dropped down one by one. |
|
The souls did from their bodies fly,— |
They fled to bliss or woe ! |
And every soul, it passed me by, |
Like the whiz of my cross-bow!'
Top |
PART IV |
‘I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! |
I fear thy skinny hand ! |
And thou art long, and lank, and brown, |
As is the ribbed sea-sand. |
|
I fear thee and thy glittering eye, |
And thy skinny hand, so brown.’— |
‘Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest
! |
This body dropt not down. |
|
Alone, alone, all, all alone, |
Alone on a wide wide sea ! |
And never a saint took pity on |
My soul in agony. |
|
The many men, so beautiful ! |
And they all dead did lie : |
And a thousand thousand slimy things |
Lived on ; and so did I. |
|
I looked upon the rotting sea, |
And drew my eyes away ; |
I looked upon the rotting deck, |
And there the dead men lay. |
|
I looked to heaven, and tried to pray ; |
But or ever a prayer had gusht, |
A wicked whisper came, and made |
My heart as dry as dust. |
|
I closed my lids, and kept them close, |
And the balls like pulses beat ; |
For the sky and the sea, and the sea
and the sky |
Lay like a load on my weary eye, |
And the dead were at my feet. |
|
The cold sweat melted from their limbs, |
Nor rot nor reek did they : |
The look with which they looked on me |
Had never passed away. |
|
An orphan’s curse would drag to hell |
A spirit from on high ; |
But oh ! more horrible than that |
Is 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 sky, |
And no where did abide : |
Softly she was going up, |
And a star or two beside— |
|
Her beams bemocked the sultry main, |
Like April hoar-frost spread ; |
But where the ship’s huge shadow lay, |
The charmčd water burnt alway |
A still and awful red. |
|
Beyond the shadow of the ship, |
I watched the water-snakes : |
They moved in tracks of shining white, |
And when they reared, the elfish light |
Fell off in hoary flakes. |
|
Within the shadow of the ship, |
I watched their rich attire : |
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, |
They coiled and swam ; and every track |
Was a flash of golden fire. |
|
O happy living things ! no tongue |
Their beauty might declare : |
A spring of love gushed from my heart, |
And I blessed them unaware : |
Sure my kind Saint took pity on me, |
And I blessed them unaware. |
|
The self-same moment I could pray ; |
And from my neck so free |
The Albatross fell off, and sank |
Like lead into the sea.’
Top |
PART V |
‘Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing. |
Beloved from pole to pole ! |
To Mary Queen the praise be given ! |
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, |
That slid into my soul. |
|
The silly buckets on the deck, |
That had so long remained, |
I dreamt that they were filled with dew
; |
And when I awoke, it rained. |
|
My lips were wet, my throat was cold, |
My garments all were dank ; |
Sure I had drunken in my dreams, |
And still my body drank. |
|
I moved, and could not feel my limbs : |
I was so light—almost |
I 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 sails, |
That were so thin and sere. |
|
The upper air burst into life ! |
And a hundred fire-flags sheen, |
To and fro they were hurried about ! |
And to and fro, and in and out, |
The wan stars danced between. |
|
And the coming wind did roar more loud, |
And the sails did sigh like sedge ; |
And the rain poured down from one black
cloud ; |
The Moon was at its edge. |
|
The thick black cloud was cleft, and
still |
The Moon was at its side : |
Like waters shot from some high crag, |
The lightning fell with never a jag, |
A river steep and wide. |
|
The loud wind never reached the ship, |
Yet now the ship moved on ! |
Beneath the lightning and the Moon |
The dead men gave a groan. |
|
They groaned, they stirred, they all
uprose, |
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; |
It had been strange, even in a dream, |
To have seen those dead men rise. |
|
The helmsman steered, the ship moved on
; |
Yet never a breeze up-blew ; |
The mariners all ’gan work the ropes, |
Where they were wont to do ; |
They raised their limbs like lifeless
tools— |
We were a ghastly crew. |
|
The body of my brother’s son |
Stood by me, knee to knee : |
The body and I pulled 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 dawned—they dropped their
arms, |
And clustered round the mast ; |
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their
mouths, |
And from their bodies passed. |
|
Around, around, flew each sweet sound, |
Then darted to the Sun ; |
Slowly the sounds came back again, |
Now mixed, now one by one. |
|
Sometimes a-dropping from the sky |
I heard the sky-lark sing ; |
Sometimes all little birds that are, |
How they seemed to fill the sea and air |
With their sweet jargoning ! |
|
And now ’twas like all instruments, |
Now like a lonely flute ; |
And now it is an angel’s song, |
That makes the heavens be mute. |
|
It ceased ; yet still the sails made on |
A pleasant noise till noon, |
A noise like of a hidden brook |
In the leafy month of June, |
That to the sleeping woods all night |
Singeth a quiet tune. |
|
Till noon we quietly sailed on, |
Yet never a breeze did breathe : |
Slowly and smoothly went the ship, |
Moved onward from beneath. |
|
Under the keel nine fathom deep, |
From the land of mist and snow, |
The spirit slid : and it was he |
That made the ship to go. |
The sails at noon left off their tune, |
And the ship stood still also. |
|
The Sun, right up above the mast, |
Had fixed her to the ocean : |
But in a minute she ’gan stir, |
With a short uneasy motion— |
Backwards and forwards half her length |
With a short uneasy motion. |
|
Then like a pawing horse let go, |
She made a sudden bound : |
It flung the blood into my head, |
And I fell down in a swound. |
|
How long in that same fit I lay, |
I have not to declare ; |
But ere my living life returned, |
I heard and in my soul discerned |
Two voices in the air. |
|
"Is it he ?" quoth one, "Is this the
man ? |
By him who died on cross, |
With his cruel bow he laid full low |
The harmless Albatross. |
|
The spirit who bideth by himself |
In the land of mist and snow, |
He loved the bird that loved the man |
Who 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."’ |
PART VI |
FIRST VOICE |
‘ "But tell me, tell me ! speak again, |
Thy soft response renewing— |
What makes that ship drive on so fast ? |
What is the ocean doing ?" |
|
SECOND VOICE |
"Still as a slave before his lord, |
The ocean hath no blast ; |
His great bright eye most silently |
Up to the Moon is cast— |
|
If he may know which way to go ; |
For she guides him smooth or grim. |
See, brother, see ! how graciously |
She looketh down on him." |
|
FIRST VOICE |
"But why drives on that ship so fast, |
Without or wave or wind ?" |
|
SECOND VOICE |
"The air is cut away before, |
And closes from behind. |
|
Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more
high ! |
Or we shall be belated : |
For slow and slow that ship will go, |
When the Mariner’s trance is abated." |
|
I woke, and we were sailing on |
As 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 fixed on me their stony eyes, |
That in the Moon did glitter. |
|
The pang, the curse, with which they
died, |
Had never passed away : |
I could not draw my eyes from theirs, |
Nor turn them up to pray. |
|
And now this spell was snapt : once
more |
I viewed the ocean green, |
And looked far forth, yet little saw |
Of what had else been seen— |
|
Like one, that on a lonesome road |
Doth walk in fear and dread, |
And having once turned round walks on, |
And turns no more his head ; |
Because he knows, a frightful fiend
|
Doth close behind him tread. |
|
But soon there breathed a wind on me, |
Nor sound nor motion made : |
Its path was not upon the sea, |
In ripple or in shade. |
|
It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek |
Like a meadow-gale of spring— |
It mingled strangely with my fears, |
Yet it felt like a welcoming. |
|
Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, |
Yet she sailed softly too : |
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze— |
On me alone it blew. |
|
Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed |
The light-house top I see ? |
Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ? |
Is this mine own countree ? |
|
We drifted o’er the harbour-bar, |
And I with sobs did pray— |
O let me be awake, my God ! |
Or let me sleep alway. |
|
The harbour-bay was clear as glass, |
So smoothly it was strewn ! |
And on the bay the moonlight lay, |
And the shadow of the Moon. |
|
The rock shone bright, the kirk no
less, |
That stands above the rock : |
The moonlight steeped in silentness |
The steady weathercock. |
|
And the bay was white with silent
light, |
Till rising from the same, |
Full many shapes, that shadows were, |
In crimson colours came. |
|
A little distance from the prow |
Those crimson shadows were : |
I turned my eyes upon the deck— |
Oh, Christ ! what saw I there ! |
|
Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, |
And, by the holy rood ! |
A man all light, a seraph-man, |
On every corse there stood. |
|
This seraph-band, each waved his hand : |
It was a heavenly sight ! |
They stood as signals to the land, |
Each one a lovely light ; |
|
This seraph-band, each waved his hand, |
No voice did they impart— |
No voice ; but oh ! 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 turned perforce away |
And a I saw a boat appear. |
|
The Pilot and the Pilot’s boy, |
I 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 hymns |
That he makes in the wood. |
He’ll shrieve my soul, he’ll wash away |
The Albatross’s blood.’
Top |
PART VII |
‘This Hermit good lives in that wood |
Which slopes down to the sea. |
How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! |
He loves to talk with marineres |
That come from a far countree. |
|
He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve— |
He hath a cushion plump : |
It is the moss that wholly hides |
The rotted old oak-stump. |
|
The skiff-boat neared : I heard them
talk, |
"Why, this is strange, I trow ! |
Where are those lights so many and
fair, |
That signal made but now ?" |
|
"Strange, by my faith !" the Hermit
said— |
"And they answered not our cheer ! |
The planks looked warped ! and see
those sails, |
How thin they are and sere ! |
I never saw aught like to them, |
Unless perchance it were |
|
Brown skeletons of leaves that lag |
My forest-brook along ; |
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, |
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, |
That eats the she-wolf’s young." |
|
"Dear Lord! It hath a fiendish look— |
(The Pilot made reply) |
I am a-feared"—"Push on, push on !" |
Said the Hermit cheerily. |
|
The boat came closer to the ship, |
But I nor spake nor stirred ; |
The boat came close beneath the shipl, |
And straight a sound was heard. |
|
Under the water it rumbled on, |
Still louder and more dread : |
It reached the ship, it split the bay ; |
The ship went down like lead. |
|
Stunned by that loud and dreadful
sound, |
Which sky and ocean smote, |
Like one that hath been seven days
drowned |
My body lay afloat ; |
But swift as dreams, myself I found |
Within the Pilot’s boat. |
|
Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, |
The boat spun round and round ; |
And all was still, save that the hill |
Was telling of the sound. |
|
I moved my lips—the Pilot shrieked |
And fell down in a fit ; |
The holy Hermit raised his eyes, |
And prayed where he did sit. |
|
I took the oars : the Pilot’s boy, |
Who now doth crazy go |
Laughed loud and long, and all the
while |
His eyes went to and fro. |
"Ha ! Ha !" quoth he, "full plain I
see, |
The Devil knows how to row." |
|
And now, all in my own countree, |
I stood on the firm land ! |
The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, |
And scarcely he could stand. |
|
"O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man !" |
The Hermit crossed his brow. |
"Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say— |
What manner of man art thou ?" |
|
Forthwith this frame of mine was
wrenched |
With a woful agony, |
Which forced me to begin my tale ; |
And then it left me free. |
|
Since then, at an uncertain hour, |
That agony returns : |
And till my ghastly tale is told, |
This heart within me burns. |
|
I pass, like night, from land to land ; |
I have strange power of speech ; |
That moment that his face I see, |
I know the man that must hear me : |
To him my tale I teach. |
|
What loud uproar bursts from that door
! |
The wedding-guests are there : |
But in the garden-bower the bride |
And bride-maids singing are : |
And hark the little vesper bell, |
Which biddeth me to prayer ! |
|
O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been |
Alone on a wide wide sea : |
So lonely ’twas, that God himself |
Scarce seemčd there to be. |
|
O sweeter than the marriage-feast, |
’Tis sweeter far to me, |
To walk together to the kirk |
With a goodly company !— |
|
To walk together to the kirk |
And all together pray, |
While each to his great Father bends, |
Old men, and babes, and loving friends |
And youths and maidens gay ! |
|
Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell |
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! |
He prayeth well, who loveth well |
Both man and bird and beast. |
|
He prayeth best, who loveth best |
All things both great and small ; |
For the dear God who loveth us, |
He made and loveth all.’ |
|
The Mariner, whose eye is bright, |
Whose beard with age is hoar, |
Is gone : and now the Wedding-Guest |
Turned from the bridegroom’s door. |
|
He went like one that hath been
stunned, |
And is of sense forlorn : |
A sadder and a wiser man, |
He rose the morrow morn.
|
Samuel
Taylor Coleridge |
Classic Poems
Top |
|
[ Kubla Khan ] [ The Rime of the Ancient Mariner ] |