Is there, in human form, that bears a heart, A wretch! a villain! lost to love and truth! That can with studied, sly, ensnaring art Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? 85 Curse 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, 95 To 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 100 They round the ingle form a circle wide; The sire turns o'er wi' patriarchal grace The 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; 105 Those 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: 110 Perhaps Dundee's[57] wild warbling measures rise, Or plaintive Martyrs,[57] worthy of the name; Or noble Elgin[57] beets[58] the heavenward flame, The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays. Compared with these, Italian trills are tame; 115 The 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 120 With Amalek's ungracious progeny;[61] Or, how the royal Bard[62] did groaning lie Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; Or Job's pathetic plaint,[63] and wailing cry; Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; 125 Or 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; 130 How 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 pronounced by 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, 140 No 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, 145 In all the pomp of method, and of art; When men display to congregations wide Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart, The Power,[69] incensed, the pageant will desert, The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 150 But 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: 155 The 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, 160 For 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, 170 Studied 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 toil Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content! 175 And, O! may Heaven their simple lives prevent From 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 tide That 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, 185 His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward!) O never, never, Scotia's realm desert, But still the patriot and the patriot-bard In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard!



[*]In printing this poem, it has seemed best to follow the text as given in the scholarly Centenary Burns (1896), edited by Messrs. Henley and Henderson.

NOTE.—The Cotter's Saturday Night was 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, means peasant 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 the k softened; i.e. like such in German), wail, sough.

[4.] Frae, from.

[5.] Pleugh (the gh has 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 of a in all; pronounce kiaugh something like kee-owch', giving the ch a harsh, guttural sound. (In later editions, carking cares was substituted for kiaugh and care.)

[17.] Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in, Presently the older children come dropping in. (The vowel sound in bairns is like that in care.)

[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 like cause) 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 (pronounced haw), 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. the Psalms, which were sung in Jerusalem. Zion is 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. See Genesis.

[61.] Moses bade, etc. See Exodus xvii.

[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 with Job iii.

[64.] The Christian volume, i.e. the New Testament.

[65.] How His first followers, etc. See Acts of the Apostles.

[66.] The precepts sage. See the Epistles.

[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 the Apocalypse, or Book of Revelation. The doom of Babylon is pronounced in Chapter xviii of that book.

[68.] Hope springs exulting, etc. See Pope's Essay on Man, Epistle I, l. 95, and his Windsor Forest, l. 112.

[69.] The Power, the Almighty.

[70.] Haply, perhaps, perchance.

[71.] Princes and lords, etc. See The Deserted Village, lines 53 and 54.

[72.] An honest man's, etc. Pope's Essay 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 his Tales of a Grandfather.



SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

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 called Lyrical Ballads, published in 1798. This included Coleridge's Ancient Mariner and Wordsworth's We are Seven. About the same time Coleridge wrote the first part of Christabel, the ode France, 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 noble Hymn in the Vale of Chamouni brought 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.

ARGUMENT OF THE ANCIENT MARINER

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 man He 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 his Poetical Works, edited by James Dykes Campbell (1893).



THE ANCIENT MARINER

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, 5 And 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] 15 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. 20

"The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk,[6] below the hill, Below the lighthouse top.

"The Sun came up upon the left,[7] Out of the sea came he! 25 And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea.

"Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon———" 30 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 35 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. 40

"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, 45 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. 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] 55 Did 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: 60 It 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, 65 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. 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] 75 It 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!— 80 Why look'st thou so?"—"With my cross-bow I shot the Albatross."

PART II

"The Sun now rose upon the right:[17] Out of the sea came he, Still hid in mist, and on the left 85 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 Come 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 bird That made the breeze to blow. 'Ah wretch!' said they, 'the bird to slay, 95 That made the breeze to blow!'

"Nor dim nor red, like God's own head The glorious sun uprist:[18] Then all averred, I had killed the bird That 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 burst Into 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 break The 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, 115 We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean.

"Water, water, everywhere, And all the boards did shrink; 120 Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink.

"The very deep did rot: O Christ! That ever this should be! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 125 Upon the slimy sea.

"About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires[21] danced at night; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue, and white, 130

"And some in dreams assured were Of the spirit that plagued us so;[22] Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow.

"And every tongue, through utter drought, 135 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! 140 Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung."

PART III

"There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time! a weary time! 145 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; 150 It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist.[23]

"A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! And still it neared and neared; As if it dodged a water-sprite, 155 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, 160 And cried, 'A sail! a sail!'

"With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, Agape[24] they heard me call: Gramercy![25] they for joy did grin, And all at once their breath drew in, 165 As they were drinking all.

"See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more! Hither to work us weal,[26] Without a breeze, without a tide, She steadies with upright keel! 170

"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 175 Betwixt us and the Sun.

"And straight[27] the Sun was flecked with bars,[28] (Heaven's Mother[29] send us grace!) As if through a dungeon grate he peered With broad and burning face. 180

"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?[30]

"Are those her ribs through which the Sun 185 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, 190 Her locks were yellow as gold: Her skin was as white as leprosy, The Nightmare Life-in-Death[31] was she Who thicks man's blood with cold.

"The naked hulk alongside came, 195 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;[32] 200 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! 205 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[33] above the eastern bar The horned Moon, with one bright star 210 Within the nether tip.[34]

"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. 215

"Four times 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,— 220 They fled to bliss or woe! And every soul, it passed me by, Like the whizz of my cross-bow!"



PART IV

"I fear thee,[35] ancient Mariner! I fear thy skinny hand! 225 And thou art long, and lank, and brown,[36] 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! 230 This body dropped not down.

"Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide, wide sea! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. 235

"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, 240 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, 245 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,[37] 250 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 255 Had never passed away.

"An orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high; But oh! more horrible than that Is a curse in a dead man's eye! 260 Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die.

"The moving Moon went up the sky, And nowhere did abide: Softly she was going up, 265 And a star or two beside—

"Her beams bemocked the sultry main,[38] Like April hoar-frost spread; But where the ship's huge shadow lay, The charmed water burnt alway 270 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 275 Fell off in hoary flakes.[39]

"Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire: Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam; and every track 280 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: 285 Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware.

"The selfsame moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank 290 Like lead into the sea."



PART V

"O sleep! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole! To Mary Queen the praise be given! She sent the gentle sleep from heaven, 295 That slid into my soul.

"The silly[40] buckets on the deck, That had so long remained, I dreamt that they were filled with dew; And when I awoke, it rained. 300

"My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank;[41] Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank.

"I moved, and could not feel my limbs: 305 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; 310 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,[42] To and fro they were hurried about! 315 And to and fro, and in and out, The wan[43] 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, 320 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, 325 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. 330

"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; 335 Yet never a breeze up blew; The mariners all gan work[44] the ropes, Where they were wont to do; They raised their limbs like lifeless tools— We were a ghastly crew. 340

"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!" 345 "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, 350 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; 355 Slowly the sounds came back again, Now mixed, now one by one.

"Sometimes a-dropping from the sky[45] I heard the sky-lark sing; Sometimes all little birds that are, 360 How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning![46]

"And now 'twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute; And now it is an angel's song, 365 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, 370 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, 375 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. 380 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, 385 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: 390 It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swound.[47]

"How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare; But ere my living life returned, 395 I heard, and in my soul discerned Two voices in the air.[48]

"'Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man? By Him who died on cross, With his cruel bow he laid full low 400 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.' 405

"The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew;[49] Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done, And penance more will do.'"



PART VI

First Voice

"'But tell me, tell me! speak again, 410 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; 415 His great bright eye most silently Up to the Moon is cast—

"'If he may know[50] which way to go; For she guides him smooth or grim.[51] See, brother, see! how graciously 420 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. 425

"'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 430 As in a gentle weather: 'T was night, calm night, the moon was high; The dead men stood together.

"All stood together on the deck, For a charnel-dungeon[52] fitter: 435 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, 440 Nor turn them up to pray.

"And now this spell was snapped: once more I viewed the ocean green, And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen— 445

"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 450 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. 455

"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, 460 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? 465 Is this the hill? is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree?[53]

"We drifted o'er the harbor bar,[54] And I with sobs did pray— O let me be awake, my God! 470 Or let me sleep alway.

"The harbor bay was clear as glass,[55] So smoothly it was strewn! And on the bay the moonlight lay, And the shadow of the Moon. 475

"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, 480 Till, rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colors came.

"A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were: 485 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![56] A man all light, a seraph-man, 490 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; 495

"This seraph-band, each waved his hand, No voice did they impart[57]— No voice; but oh! the silence sank Like music on my heart.

"But soon I heard the dash of oars, 500 I heard the Pilot's cheer; My head was turned perforce, away, And I saw a boat appear.

"The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, I heard them coming fast: 505 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 510 That he makes in the wood. He'll shrieve[58] my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross's blood."



PART VII

"This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. 515 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: 520 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![59] Where are those lights so many and fair, 525 That signal made but now?'

"'Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said— 'And they answered not our cheer. The planks look warped! and see those sails, How thin they are and sere! 530 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[60] is heavy with snow, 535 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 afeared,'[61]—'Push on, push on!' 540 Said the Hermit cheerily.

"The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred; The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard. 545

"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, 550 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. 555

"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 560 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, 565 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, 570 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.[62] 575 'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say— What manner of man art thou?'

"Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woeful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale; 580 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. 585

"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. 590

"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,[63] 595 Which biddeth me to prayer.

"O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea: So lonely 't was, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be. 600

"O sweeter than the marriage feast, 'T is sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company!—

"To walk together to the kirk, 605 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 610 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; 615 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 620 Turned from the Bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn:[64] A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn. 625



NOTE.—The Ancient Mariner was written in 1797. The plot was suggested by a dream related to Coleridge by one of his friends. While the story is his own invention, he took several points from Shelvocke's Voyages and accepted a few hints from Wordsworth, who furnished also two or three lines of verse. In the beginning the two poets intended to work together, but this plan was found impracticable, and Coleridge proceeded by himself. It is easy to believe that the plot originated in a dream, for the completed poem is one of the strangest, most fantastic dreams that ever formed themselves in a poet's brain. So far as its moral import is concerned, the production will hardly bear close scrutiny, although it teaches the duty of loving all God's creatures, both great and small. The prolonged suffering of the Mariner is a punishment far too severe for his thoughtless act, while his four times fifty comrades, who endure horrible tortures before dying, have been guilty of no crime whatsoever. Still it is not necessary that every piece of literature should teach a consistent moral lesson, and The Ancient Mariner can be enjoyed for its marvelous pictures and its weird melody.

The form chosen by Coleridge for his production, that of the mediaeval ballad, is peculiarly adapted to story-telling on account of the freedom which it allows, and it has never been more artistically used than in this instance. In harmony with the ballad form the poet uses certain old words, such as "trow," "wist," and "countree." It will be seen that the stanzas vary in length, and that there are occasional irregularities in metre. In general the first and third lines of a stanza have four feet each, while the second and fourth lines have three feet. Only the second and fourth lines rhyme, unless the stanza consists of more than four lines.

[1.] Next of kin, nearest relative.

[2.] Quoth, said.

[3.] Loon, worthless fellow.

[4.] Eftsoons, at once, immediately; a favorite word with the poet Spenser.

[5.] And listens, etc. Wordsworth wrote this line and the line following.

[6.] Kirk, church.

[7.] The Sun came up upon the left. This would be the case if a vessel were going from England, for instance, toward the equator; and each day the sun would be more nearly overhead.

[8.] And now there came both mist and snow. They were nearing the south pole.

[9.] Clifts, clefts, cracks.

[10.] Ken, discern.

[11.] Swound, swoon, fainting fit.

[12.] Albatross. The albatross, the largest of sea birds, is found chiefly in the southern hemisphere, and because of its strength in flight is often seen far from land.

[13.] Thorough, through.

[14.] Shroud. The shrouds are sets of ropes which serve as stays for the masts of a vessel.

[15.] Vespers nine, i.e. nine evenings. Vesper and Hesperus are names given to the evening star, especially to the planet Venus when it appears in the west soon after sunset. Consult the dictionary for other meanings of the word vesper.

[16.] Whiles, meanwhile.

[17.] The Sun now rose upon the right. This indicates that the vessel had turned about and was going northward. The poet says in his notes that she soon entered the Pacific Ocean.

[18.] Nor dim nor red, etc. The sun now rose clear and bright, and not dim or red, as when seen through mist or fog; and the sailors justified the Mariner, thinking that by his act the fog had been dispersed. Uprist means uprose.

[19.] The furrow followed free, i.e. the track, or wake, left by the ship appeared to be gladly following her.

[20.] That silent sea. The vessel had reached the equator.

[21.] Death-fires. There is a superstition that death is sometimes foreshadowed by death-fires or fetch-lights. In this instance the fires presaged the death of the sailors.

[22.] The spirit that plagued us so. This was "the lonesome spirit from the south pole," who was seeking revenge for the death of the albatross.

[23.] I wist, I knew.

[24.] Agape, with mouths open as though surprised.

[25.] Gramercy (from the French grand-merci), an exclamation formerly used to denote thankfulness with surprise.

[26.] To work us weal, to do us good.

[27.] Straight, straightway, immediately.

[28.] The Sun was flecked with bars. The frame of the skeleton ship showed clearly against the setting sun as she passed before it.

[29.] Heaven's Mother, the Virgin Mary.

[30.] Gossameres, gossamers, cobwebs.

[31.] The Nightmare Life-in-Death. In this strange being the poet personifies the state of a person who lives, as it were, in the shadow of death. The condition called "nightmare" was formerly believed to be caused by the witch Nightmare, who oppressed people during sleep.

[32.] At one stride comes the dark. This is a wonderful picture of the sudden fall of night near the equator, where there is no twilight.

[33.] Clomb, climbed; an old form.

[34.] The horned moon, etc. Coleridge says in a note: "It is a common superstition among sailors that something evil is about to happen whenever a star dogs the moon."

[35.] I fear thee. The wedding guest imagined that the Mariner died with the rest of the sailors and that he was talking with a ghost.

[36.] And thou art long, etc. This line and the line following were written by Wordsworth.

[37.] For the sky, etc. This line, with its repetitions, and the extra length of the stanza, tend to make one feel the load that was pressing upon the Mariner.

[38.] Bemocked the sultry main, mocked the sultry ocean.

[39.] They moved, etc. This description is true of fish of all kinds on a dark night when there is a great deal of phosphorus in the water.

[40.] Silly, frail.

[41.] Dank, damp, wet; seldom used in prose.

[42.] Sheen, bright, glittering.

[43.] Wan, pale.

[44.] Gan work, did work, or began to work.

[45.] Sometimes a-dropping, etc. Notice what a pleasant interlude is made by this stanza and the three which follow.

[46.] Jargoning, confused sounds.

[47.] I fell down in a swound. The poet explains that the vessel, driven by angelic power, sped on with extreme rapidity, and that the Mariner was put into a trance because he could not have endured the motion.

[48.] Two voices in the air. These were the voices of spirits who felt the wrong that had been done to the Spirit of the South Pole by the killing of the albatross.

[49.] Honey-dew, a sweet substance found in small drops on the leaves of trees and plants.

[50.] If he may know, so that he may know.

[51.] For she guides him, etc., i.e. whether smooth or rough, the ocean is always guided by the moon.

[52.] Charnel-dungeon, a vault where the bones of the dead are kept.

[53.] Countree, country; this form of the word occurs frequently in old ballads.

[54.] Harbor bar, a bank of sand or other matter at the mouth of a harbor, which obstructs navigation.

[55.] The harbor bay, etc. Notice the effect of quietness produced by this line and the eight which follow.

[56.] Holy rood, holy cross.

[57.] Impart, give forth, send forth.

[58.] Shrieve, shrive, hear confession and pronounce absolution. In the earlier ages of the Christian Church it was not uncommon for men to live as hermits, devoting themselves to fasting, penance, and prayer.

[59.] Trow (pronounced tro), think.

[60.] Ivy-tod, ivy-bush.

[61.] Afeared, afraid; an old form.

[62.] The Hermit crossed his brow. He did this to ward off evil, for he feared that the Mariner was a wicked spirit in human form.

[63.] Vesper bell, a bell calling to evening prayer. See note on l. 76.

[64.] Of sense forlorn, deprived of sense, of feeling.

THE END