VII

Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile, O Albion! O my mother Isle! Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers, Glitter green with sunny showers; Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells 125 Echo to the bleat of flocks; (Those grassy hills, those glittering dells Proudly ramparted with rocks) And Ocean mid his uproar wild Speaks safety to his Island-child! 130 Hence for many a fearless age Has social Quiet lov'd thy shore; Nor ever proud Invader's rage Or sack'd thy towers, or stain'd thy fields with gore.

VIII

Abandon'd of Heaven![167:1] mad Avarice thy guide, 135 At cowardly distance, yet kindling with pride— Mid thy herds and thy corn-fields secure thou hast stood, And join'd the wild yelling of Famine and Blood! The nations curse thee! They with eager wondering Shall hear Destruction, like a vulture, scream! 140 Strange-eyed Destruction! who with many a dream Of central fires through nether seas up-thundering Soothes her fierce solitude; yet as she lies By livid fount, or red volcanic stream, If ever to her lidless dragon-eyes, 145 O Albion! thy predestin'd ruins rise, The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap, Muttering distemper'd triumph in her charmd sleep.

IX

Away, my soul, away! In vain, in vain the Birds of warning sing— 150 And hark! I hear the famish'd brood of prey Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind! Away, my soul, away! I unpartaking of the evil thing, With daily prayer and daily toil 155 Soliciting for food my scanty soil, Have wail'd my country with a loud Lament. Now I recentre my immortal mind In the deep Sabbath of meek self-content; Cleans'd from the vaporous passions that bedim 160 God's Image, sister of the Seraphim.[168:1]

1796.

FOOTNOTES:

[160:1] First published in the Cambridge Intelligencer, December 31, 1796, and at the same time issued in a quarto pamphlet (the Preface is dated December 26): included in 1797, 1803, Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, 1829, and 1834. The Argument was first published in 1797. In 1803 the several sentences were printed as notes to the Strophes, Antistrophes, &c. For the Dedication vide Appendices.

This Ode was written on the 24th, 25th, and 26th days of December, 1796; and published separately on the last day of the year. Footnote, 1797, 1808: This Ode was composed and was first published on the last day of that year. Footnote, S. L., 1817, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[160:2] The Ode commences with an address to the great BEING, or Divine Providence, who regulates into one vast Harmony all the Events of Time, however Calamitous some of them appear to mortals. 1803.

[161:1] The second Strophe calls on men to suspend their private Joys and Sorrows, and to devote their passions for a while to the cause of human Nature in general. 1803.

[161:2] The Name of Liberty, which at the commencement of the French Revolution was both the occasion and the pretext of unnumbered crimes and horrors. 1803.

[162:1] The first Epode refers to the late Empress of Russia, who died of an apoplexy on the 17th of November, 1796, having just concluded a subsidiary treaty with the kings combined against France. 1803. The Empress died just as she had engaged to furnish more effectual aid to the powers combined against France. C. I.

[162:2] A subsidiary Treaty had been just concluded; and Russia was to have furnished more effectual aid than that of pious manifestoes to the Powers combined against France. I rejoice—not over the deceased Woman (I never dared figure the Russian Sovereign to my imagination under the dear and venerable Character of WOMAN—WOMAN, that complex term for Mother, Sister, Wife!) I rejoice, as at the disenshrining of a Daemon! I rejoice, as at the extinction of the evil Principle impersonated! This very day, six years ago, the massacre of Ismail was perpetrated. THIRTY THOUSAND HUMAN BEINGS, MEN, WOMEN, AND CHILDREN, murdered in cold blood, for no other crime than that their garrison had defended the place with perseverance and bravery. Why should I recal the poisoning of her husband, her iniquities in Poland, or her late unmotived attack on Persia, the desolating ambition of her public life, or the libidinous excesses of her private hours! I have no wish to qualify myself for the office of Historiographer to the King of Hell—! December, 23, 1796. 4{o}.

[164:1] The first Antistrophe describes the Image of the Departing Year, as in a vision; and concludes with introducing the Planetary Angel of the Earth preparing to address the Supreme Being. 1803.

[164:2] 'My soul beheld thy vision!' i. e. Thy Image in a vision. 4{o}.

[165:1] Gifts used in Scripture for corruption. C. I.

[166:1] The poem concludes with prophecying in anguish of Spirit the Downfall of this Country. 1803.

[167:1] 'Disclaim'd of Heaven!'—The Poet from having considered the peculiar advantages, which this country has enjoyed, passes in rapid transition to the uses, which we have made of these advantages. We have been preserved by our insular situation, from suffering the actual horrors of War ourselves, and we have shewn our gratitude to Providence for this immunity by our eagerness to spread those horrors over nations less happily situated. In the midst of plenty and safety we have raised or joined the yell for famine and blood. Of the one hundred and seven last years, fifty have been years of War. Such wickedness cannot pass unpunished. We have been proud and confident in our alliances and our fleets—but God has prepared the canker-worm, and will smite the gourds of our pride. 'Art thou better than populous No, that was situate among the rivers, that had the waters round about it, whose rampart was the Sea? Ethiopia and Egypt were her strength and it was infinite: Put and Lubim were her helpers. Yet she was carried away, she went into captivity: and they cast lots for her honourable men, and all her great men were bound in chains. Thou also shalt be drunken: all thy strongholds shall be like fig trees with the first ripe figs; if they be shaken, they shall even fall into the mouth of the eater. Thou hast multiplied thy merchants above the stars of heaven. Thy crowned are as the locusts; and thy captains as the great grasshoppers which camp in the hedges in the cool-day; but when the Sun ariseth they flee away, and their place is not known where they are. There is no healing of thy bruise; thy wound is grievous: all, that hear the report of thee, shall clap hands over thee: for upon whom hath not thy wickedness passed continually?' Nahum, chap. iii. 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[168:1] 'Let it not be forgotten during the perusal of this Ode that it was written many years before the abolition of the Slave Trade by the British Legislature, likewise before the invasion of Switzerland by the French Republic, which occasioned the Ode that follows [France: an Ode. First published as The Recantation: an Ode], a kind of Palinodia.' MS. Note by S. T. C.

LINENOTES:

Title] Ode for the last day of the Year 1796, C. I.: Ode on the Departing Year 4{o}, 1797, 1803, S. L., 1817, 1828, 1829.

Motto] 3-5 All editions (4{o} to 1834) read ephmiois for dysphroimiois, and Agan g' for Agan; and all before 1834 mn for m' en.

I] Strophe I C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[1] Spirit] Being 1803.

[4] unchanging] unchanged 4{o}.

[5] free] freed 4{o}.

[6] and a bowd] and submitted 1803, S. L., 1817, 1828, 1829.

[7]

When lo! far onwards waving on the wind I saw the skirts of the DEPARTING YEAR.

C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[11] Ere yet he pierc'd the cloud and mock'd my sight C. I. foreclos'd] forebade 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

II] Strophe II C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[15-16]

From Poverty's heart-wasting languish From Distemper's midnight anguish

C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[22] Ye Sorrows, and ye Joys advance C. I. ye] and 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[25] Forbids its fateful strings to sleep C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[31] O'er the sore travail of the common Earth C. I., 4{o}.

[33-7]

Seiz'd in sore travail and portentous birth (Her eyeballs flashing a pernicious glare) Sick Nature struggles! Hark! her pangs increase! Her groans are horrible! but O! most fair The promis'd Twins she bears—Equality and Peace!

C. I., 4{o}.

[36] thy] the 1797, 1803.

III] Epode C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[40] Ah! whither C. I., 4{o}.

[41] on] o'er C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[43] 'twice mortal' mace C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[45] The insatiate] That tyrant C. I.] drunken] frenzied C. I.

[Between 51 and 52]

Whose shrieks, whose screams were vain to stir Loud-laughing, red-eyed Massacre

C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[58] armies] Army C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[61] Tyrant-Murderer's] scepter'd Murderer's C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[After 61]

When shall sceptred SLAUGHTER cease? A while he crouch'd, O Victor France! Beneath the lightning of thy lance; With treacherous dalliance courting PEACE—[163:A] But soon upstarting from his coward trance The boastful bloody Son of Pride betray'd His ancient hatred of the dove-eyed Maid. A cloud, O Freedom! cross'd thy orb of Light, And sure he deem'd that orb was set in night: For still does MADNESS roam on GUILT'S bleak dizzy height!

C. I.

When shall sceptred, &c.

* * * * *

With treacherous dalliance wooing Peace. But soon up-springing from his dastard trance The boastful bloody Son of Pride betray'd His hatred of the blest and blessing Maid. One cloud, O Freedom! cross'd thy orb of Light, And sure he deem'd that orb was quench'd in night: For still, &c.

4{o}.

[163:A] To juggle this easily-juggled people into better humour with the supplies (and themselves, perhaps, affrighted by the successes of the French) our Ministry sent an Ambassador to Paris to sue for Peace. The supplies are granted: and in the meantime the Archduke Charles turns the scale of victory on the Rhine, and Buonaparte is checked before Mantua. Straightways our courtly messenger is commanded to uncurl his lips, and propose to the lofty Republic to restore all its conquests, and to suffer England to retain all hers (at least all her important ones), as the only terms of Peace, and the ultimatum of the negotiation!

thrasynei gar aischromtis Talaina PARAKOPA prtopmn—AESCHYL., Ag. 222-4.

The friends of Freedom in this country are idle. Some are timid; some are selfish; and many the torpedo torch of hopelessness has numbed into inactivity. We would fain hope that (if the above account be accurate—it is only the French account) this dreadful instance of infatuation in our Ministry will rouse them to one effort more; and that at one and the same time in our different great towns the people will be called on to think solemnly, and declare their thoughts fearlessly by every method which the remnant of the Constitution allows. 4{o}.

IV] Antistrophe I. C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[62] no earthly] an awful C. I.

[65] thy . . . gore] there garmented with gore C. I., 4{o}, 1797.

[65-7]

Aye Memory sits: thy vest profan'd with gore. Thou with an unimaginable groan Gav'st reck'ning of thy Hours!

1803.

[68] ethereal] choired C. I.

[69] Whose purple locks with snow-white glories shone C. I., 4{o}: Whose wreathed locks with snow-white glories shone 1797, 1803.

[70] wild] strange C. I.

V] Antistrophe II. C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[74-9]

On every Harp on every Tongue While the mute Enchantment hung: Like Midnight from a thunder-cloud Spake the sudden Spirit loud.

C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

The sudden Spirit cried aloud.

C. I.

Like Thunder from a Midnight Cloud Spake the sudden Spirit loud

1803.

[83] Arm] God C. I.

[Between 83 and 84]

By Belgium's corse-impeded flood,[165:A] By Vendee steaming [streaming C. I.] Brother's blood.

C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[165:A] The Rhine. C. I., 1797, 1803.

[85] And mask'd Hate C. I.

[87] By Hunger's bosom to the bleak winds bar'd C. I.

[89] Strange] Most C. I.

[90] By] And C. I.

[91] Synod] Senate 1797, 1803.

[94-102]

For ever shall the bloody island scowl? For ever shall her vast and iron bow Shoot Famine's evil arrows o'er the world,[165:B] Hark! how wide Nature joins her groans below; Rise, God of Mercy, rise! why sleep thy bolts unhurl'd?

C. I.

For ever shall the bloody Island scowl? For aye, unbroken shall her cruel Bow Shoot Famine's arrows o'er thy ravaged World? Hark! how wide Nature joins her groans below— Rise, God of Nature, rise, why sleep thy Bolts unhurl'd?

4{o}, 1797, 1803.

Rise God of Nature, rise! ah! why those bolts unhurl'd?

1797, 1803.

[165:B] 'In Europe the smoking villages of Flanders and the putrified fields of La Vende—from Africa the unnumbered victims of a detestable Slave-Trade. In Asia the desolated plains of Indostan, and the millions whom a rice-contracting Governor caused to perish. In America the recent enormities of the Scalp-merchants. The four quarters of the globe groan beneath the intolerable iniquity of the nation.' See 'Addresses to the People', p. 46. C. I.

[102] Here the Ode ends C. I.

VI] Epode II. 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[103] Vision] Phantoms 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[106] phantom] vision 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[107] sweat-drops] sweat-damps 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[113] stranger] uglier 4{o}.

[119] starting] startful 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[121] O doom'd to fall, enslav'd and vile 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[133] proud Invader's] sworded Foeman's 4{o}, 1797: sworded Warrior's 1803.

[135-9]

Disclaim'd of Heaven! mad Avarice at thy side

4{o}, 1797.

At coward distance, yet with kindling pride— Safe 'mid thy herds and cornfields thou hast stood, And join'd the yell of Famine and of Blood. All nations curse thee: and with eager wond'ring

4{o}, 1797.

[135] O abandon'd 1803.

[137-8]

Mid thy Corn-fields and Herds thou in plenty hast stood And join'd the loud yellings of Famine and Blood.

1803.

[139] They] and 1797, 1803, S. L. 1817.

[142] fires] flames 4{o}.

[144]

Stretch'd on the marge of some fire-flashing fount In the black Chamber of a sulphur'd mount.

4{o}.

[144] By livid fount, or roar of blazing stream 1797.

[146] Visions of thy predestin'd ruins rise 1803.

[151] famish'd] famin'd 4{o}.

[156] Soliciting my scant and blameless soil 4{o}.

[159-60]

In the long sabbath of high self-content. Cleans'd from the fleshly passions that bedim

4{o}.

In the deep sabbath of blest self-content Cleans'd from the fears and anguish that bedim

1797.

In the blest sabbath of high self-content Cleans'd from bedimming Fear, and Anguish weak and blind.

1803.

[161] om. 1803.



THE RAVEN[169:1]

A CHRISTMAS TALE, TOLD BY A SCHOOL-BOY TO HIS LITTLE BROTHERS AND SISTERS

Underneath an old oak tree There was of swine a huge company, That grunted as they crunched the mast: For that was ripe, and fell full fast. Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high: 5 One acorn they left, and no more might you spy. Next came a Raven, that liked not such folly: He belonged, they did say, to the witch Melancholy! Blacker was he than blackest jet, Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet. 10 He picked up the acorn and buried it straight By the side of a river both deep and great. Where then did the Raven go? He went high and low, Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go. 15 Many Autumns, many Springs Travelled[170:1] he with wandering wings: Many Summers, many Winters— I can't tell half his adventures.

At length he came back, and with him a She, 20 And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree. They built them a nest in the topmost bough, And young ones they had, and were happy enow. But soon came a Woodman in leathern guise, His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes. 25 He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke, But with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke, At length he brought down the poor Raven's own oak. His young ones were killed; for they could not depart, And their mother did die of a broken heart. 30

The boughs from the trunk the Woodman did sever; And they floated it down on the course of the river. They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip, And with this tree and others they made a good ship. The ship, it was launched; but in sight of the land 35 Such a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand. It bulged on a rock, and the waves rush'd in fast: Round and round flew the raven, and cawed to the blast. He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls— See! see! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls! 40 Right glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet, And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet, And he thank'd him again and again for this treat: They had taken his all, and REVENGE IT WAS SWEET!

1797.

FOOTNOTES:

[169:1] First published in the Morning Post, March 10, 1798 (with an introductory letter, vide infra): included (with the letter, and except line 15 the same text) in the Annual Anthology, 1800, in Sibylline Leaves, 1817 (pp. vi-viii), 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[To the editor of the Morning Post.]

'Sir,—I am not absolutely certain that the following Poem was written by EDMUND SPENSER, and found by an Angler buried in a fishing-box:—

'Under the foot of Mole, that mountain hoar, Mid the green alders, by the Mulla's shore.'

But a learned Antiquarian of my acquaintance has given it as his opinion that it resembles SPENSER'S minor Poems as nearly as Vortigern and Rowena the Tragedies of WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE.—The Poem must be read in recitative, in the same manner as the Aegloga Secunda of the Shepherd's Calendar.

CUDDY.' M. P., An. Anth.

[170:1] Seventeen or eighteen years ago an artist of some celebrity was so pleased with this doggerel that he amused himself with the thought of making a Child's Picture Book of it; but he could not hit on a picture for these four lines. I suggested a Round-about with four seats, and the four seasons, as Children, with Time for the shew-man. Footnote, Sibylline Leaves, 1817.

LINENOTES:

Title] 'A Christmas Tale,' &c., was first prefixed in S. L. 1817. The letter introduced the poem in the Morning Post. In the Annual Anthology the 'Letter' is headed 'The Raven'. Lamb in a letter to Coleridge, dated Feb. 5, 1797, alludes to this poem as 'Your Dream'.

[1-8]

Under the arms of a goodly oak-tree There was of Swine a large company. They were making a rude repast, Grunting as they crunch'd the mast. Then they trotted away: for the wind blew high— 5 One acorn they left, ne more mote you spy, Next came a Raven, who lik'd not such folly: He belong'd, I believe, to the witch MELANCHOLY!

M. P., An. Anth., and (with variants given below) MS. S. T. C.

[1] Beneath a goodly old oak tree MS. S. T. C.: an old] a huge S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[6] ne more] and no more MS. S. T. C.

[7] Next] But soon MS. S. T. C.

[8] belonged it was said S. L. 1817.

[10] in the rain; his feathers were wet M. P., An. Anth., MS. S. T. C.

[15] O'er hill, o'er dale M. P.

[17] with] on MS. S. T. C.

[20] came back] return'd M. P., An. Anth., MS. S. T. C.

[21] to a tall] a large M. P., An. Anth., MS. S. T. C.

[22] topmost] uppermost MS. S. T. C.

[23] happy] jolly M. P., An. Anth.

[26] and he nothing spoke M. P., An. Anth., MS. S. T. C.

[28] At length] Wel-a-day MS. S. T. C.: At last M. P., An. Anth.

[30] And his wife she did die M. P., An. Anth., MS. S. T. C.

[31] The branches from off it M. P., An. Anth.: The branches from off this the MS. S. T. C.

[32] And floated MS. S. T. C.

[33] They saw'd it to planks, and its rind M. P., An. Anth.: They saw'd it to planks and its bark MS. S. T. C.

[34] they built up a ship M. P., An. Anth.

[36] Such . . . ship] A tempest arose which no ship M. P., An. Anth., MS. S. T. C.

[38] The auld raven flew round and round M. P., An. Anth.: The old raven flew round and round MS. S. T. C., S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[39] He heard the sea-shriek of their perishing souls M. P., An. Anth., MS. S. T. C.

[40-4]

They be sunk! O'er the topmast the mad water rolls The Raven was glad that such fate they did meet. They had taken his all and REVENGE WAS SWEET.

M. P., An. Anth.

[40] See she sinks MS. S. T. C.

[41] Very glad was the Raven, this fate they did meet MS. S. T. C.

[42-3] om. MS. S. T. C.

[44] Revenge was sweet. An. Anth., MS. S. T. C., S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829.

After l. 44, two lines were added in Sibylline Leaves, 1817:—

We must not think so; but forget and forgive, And what Heaven gives life to, we'll still let it live.[171:A]

[171:A] Added thro' cowardly fear of the Goody! What a Hollow, where the Heart of Faith ought to be, does it not betray? this alarm concerning Christian morality, that will not permit even a Raven to be a Raven, nor a Fox a Fox, but demands conventicular justice to be inflicted on their unchristian conduct, or at least an antidote to be annexed. MS. Note by S. T. C.



TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT THE THEATRE[171:1]

Maiden, that with sullen brow Sitt'st behind those virgins gay, Like a scorch'd and mildew'd bough, Leafless 'mid the blooms of May!

Him who lur'd thee and forsook, 5 Oft I watch'd with angry gaze, Fearful saw his pleading look, Anxious heard his fervid phrase.

Soft the glances of the Youth, Soft his speech, and soft his sigh; 10 But no sound like simple Truth, But no true love in his eye.

Loathing thy polluted lot, Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence! Seek thy weeping Mother's cot, 15 With a wiser innocence.

Thou hast known deceit and folly, Thou hast felt that Vice is woe: With a musing melancholy Inly arm'd, go, Maiden! go. 20

Mother sage of Self-dominion, Firm thy steps, O Melancholy! The strongest plume in Wisdom's pinion Is the memory of past folly.

Mute the sky-lark and forlorn, 25 While she moults the firstling plumes, That had skimm'd the tender corn, Or the beanfield's odorous blooms.

Soon with renovated wing Shall she dare a loftier flight, 30 Upward to the Day-Star spring, And embathe in heavenly light.

1797.

FOOTNOTES:

[171:1] First published in the Morning Post, December 7, 1797: included in the Annual Anthology, 1800, in Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829, and 1834. For MS. sent to Cottle, see E. R. 1834, i. 213, 214.

LINENOTES:

Title] To an Unfortunate Woman in the Back Seats of the Boxes at the Theatre M. P.: To an Unfortunate Young Woman whom I had known in the days of her Innocence MS. sent to Cottle, E. R. i. 213: To an Unfortunate Woman whom the Author knew in the days of her Innocence. Composed at the Theatre An. Anth. 1800.

[1] Maiden] Sufferer An. Anth.

[In place of 5-12]

Inly gnawing, thy distresses Mock those starts of wanton glee; And thy inmost soul confesses Chaste Affection's [affliction's An. Anth.] majesty.

MS. Cottle, An. Anth.

[14] Maiden] Sufferer An. Anth.

[22] Firm are thy steps M. P.

[25] sky-lark] Lavrac MS. Cottle, An. Anth.

[26] the] those MS. Cottle, M. P., An. Anth.

[27] Which late had M. P.

[31] Upwards to the day star sing MS. Cottle, An. Anth.

Stanzas ii, iii, v, vi are not in MS. Cottle nor in the Annual Anthology.



TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN[172:1]

WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS OF HER INNOCENCE

Myrtle-leaf that, ill besped, Pinest in the gladsome ray, Soil'd beneath the common tread Far from thy protecting spray!

When the Partridge o'er the sheaf 5 Whirr'd along the yellow vale, Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf! Love the dalliance of the gale.

Lightly didst thou, foolish thing! Heave and flutter to his sighs, 10 While the flatterer, on his wing, Woo'd and whisper'd thee to rise.

Gaily from thy mother-stalk Wert thou danc'd and wafted high— Soon on this unshelter'd walk 15 Flung to fade, to rot and die.

1797.

FOOTNOTES:

[172:1] First published in 1797: included in 1803, Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

LINENOTES:

Title] Allegorical Lines on the Same Subject MS. Cottle.

[5]

When the scythes-man o'er his sheaf Caroll'd in the yellow vale

MS. Cottle.

When the rustic o'er his sheaf Caroll'd in, &c.

1797.

[Note. The text of Stanza ii dates from 1803.]

[9] foolish] poor fond MS. Cottle.

[15] Soon upon this sheltered walk, MS. Cottle, Second Version.

[16] to fade, and rot. MS. Cottle.



TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE[173:1]

OF OTTERY ST. MARY, DEVON

With some Poems

Notus in fratres animi paterni. HOR. Carm. lib. II. 2.

A blessd lot hath he, who having passed His youth and early manhood in the stir And turmoil of the world, retreats at length, With cares that move, not agitate the heart, To the same dwelling where his father dwelt; 5 And haply views his tottering little ones Embrace those agd knees and climb that lap, On which first kneeling his own infancy Lisp'd its brief prayer. Such, O my earliest Friend! Thy lot, and such thy brothers too enjoy. 10 At distance did ye climb Life's upland road, Yet cheer'd and cheering: now fraternal love Hath drawn you to one centre. Be your days Holy, and blest and blessing may ye live!

To me the Eternal Wisdom hath dispens'd 15 A different fortune and more different mind— Me from the spot where first I sprang to light Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fix'd Its first domestic loves; and hence through life Chasing chance-started friendships. A brief while 20 Some have preserv'd me from life's pelting ills; But, like a tree with leaves of feeble stem, If the clouds lasted, and a sudden breeze Ruffled the boughs, they on my head at once Dropped the collected shower; and some most false, 25 False and fair-foliag'd as the Manchineel, Have tempted me to slumber in their shade E'en mid the storm; then breathing subtlest damps, Mix'd their own venom with the rain from Heaven, That I woke poison'd! But, all praise to Him 30 Who gives us all things, more have yielded me Permanent shelter; and beside one Friend, Beneath the impervious covert of one oak, I've rais'd a lowly shed, and know the names Of Husband and of Father; not unhearing 35 Of that divine and nightly-whispering Voice, Which from my childhood to maturer years Spake to me of predestinated wreaths, Bright with no fading colours!

Yet at times My soul is sad, that I have roam'd through life 40 Still most a stranger, most with naked heart At mine own home and birth-place: chiefly then, When I remember thee, my earliest Friend! Thee, who didst watch my boyhood and my youth; Didst trace my wanderings with a father's eye; 45 And boding evil yet still hoping good, Rebuk'd each fault, and over all my woes Sorrow'd in silence! He who counts alone The beatings of the solitary heart, That Being knows, how I have lov'd thee ever, 50 Lov'd as a brother, as a son rever'd thee! Oh! 'tis to me an ever new delight, To talk of thee and thine: or when the blast Of the shrill winter, rattling our rude sash, Endears the cleanly hearth and social bowl; 55 Or when, as now, on some delicious eve, We in our sweet sequester'd orchard-plot Sit on the tree crook'd earth-ward; whose old boughs, That hang above us in an arborous roof, Stirr'd by the faint gale of departing May, 60 Send their loose blossoms slanting o'er our heads!

Nor dost not thou sometimes recall those hours, When with the joy of hope thou gavest thine ear To my wild firstling-lays. Since then my song Hath sounded deeper notes, such as beseem 65 Or that sad wisdom folly leaves behind, Or such as, tuned to these tumultuous times, Cope with the tempest's swell!

Those various strains, Which I have fram'd in many a various mood, Accept, my Brother! and (for some perchance 70 Will strike discordant on thy milder mind) If aught of error or intemperate truth Should meet thine ear, think thou that riper Age Will calm it down, and let thy love forgive it!

NETHER-STOWEY, SOMERSET, May 26, 1797.

FOOTNOTES:

[173:1] First published as the Dedication to the Poems of 1797: included in 1803, Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. In a copy of the Poems of 1797, formerly in the possession of the late Mr. Frederick Locker-Lampson, Coleridge affixed the following note to the Dedication—'N. B. If this volume should ever be delivered according to its direction, i. e. to Posterity, let it be known that the Reverend George Coleridge was displeased and thought his character endangered by the Dedication.'—S. T. Coleridge. Note to P. and D. W., 1877-80, i. 163.

LINENOTES:

To the Rev. George Coleridge—Motto] lib. I. 2 S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[10] Thine and thy Brothers' favourable lot. 1803.

[23] and] or 1797, 1803.

[30] That I woke prison'd! But (the praise be His 1803.

[33-4]

I as beneath the covert of an oak Have rais'd

1803.

[35] not] nor 1797, 1803, S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[47-9]

Rebuk'd each fault, and wept o'er all my woes. Who counts the beatings of the lonely heart

1797, 1803.

[Between 52-3] My eager eye glist'ning with memry's tear 1797.

[62] thou] thou all editions to 1834.

[Between 66-7] Or the high raptures of prophetic Faith 1797, 1803.

[68] strains] songs 1797, 1803.



ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S CHILD[176:1]

This day among the faithful plac'd And fed with fontal manna, O with maternal title grac'd, Dear Anna's dearest Anna!

While others wish thee wise and fair, 5 A maid of spotless fame, I'll breathe this more compendious prayer— May'st thou deserve thy name!

Thy mother's name, a potent spell, That bids the Virtues hie 10 From mystic grove and living cell, Confess'd to Fancy's eye;

Meek Quietness without offence; Content in homespun kirtle; True Love; and True Love's Innocence, 15 White Blossom of the Myrtle!

Associates of thy name, sweet Child! These Virtues may'st thou win; With face as eloquently mild To say, they lodge within. 20

So, when her tale of days all flown, Thy mother shall be miss'd here; When Heaven at length shall claim its own And Angels snatch their Sister;

Some hoary-headed friend, perchance, 25 May gaze with stifled breath; And oft, in momentary trance, Forget the waste of death.

Even thus a lovely rose I've view'd In summer-swelling pride; 30 Nor mark'd the bud, that green and rude Peep'd at the rose's side.

It chanc'd I pass'd again that way In Autumn's latest hour, And wond'ring saw the selfsame spray 35 Rich with the selfsame flower.

Ah fond deceit! the rude green bud Alike in shape, place, name, Had bloom'd where bloom'd its parent stud, Another and the same! 40

1797.

FOOTNOTES:

[176:1] First published in the Supplement to Poems, 1797: reprinted in Literary Remains, 1836, i. 48, 49: included in 1844 and 1852. The lines were addressed to Anna Cruickshank, the wife of John Cruickshank, who was a neighbour of Coleridge at Nether-Stowey.



TRANSLATION[177:1]

OF A LATIN INSCRIPTION BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES IN NETHER-STOWEY CHURCH

Depart in joy from this world's noise and strife To the deep quiet of celestial life! Depart!—Affection's self reproves the tear Which falls, O honour'd Parent! on thy bier;— Yet Nature will be heard, the heart will swell, 5 And the voice tremble with a last Farewell!

1797.

[The Tablet is erected to the Memory of Richard Camplin, who died Jan. 20, 1792.

'Ltus abi! mundi strepitu curisque remotus; Ltus abi! cli qu vocat alma Quies. Ipsa fides loquitur lacrymamque incusat inanem, Qu cadit in vestros, care Pater, Cineres. Heu! tantum liceat meritos hos solvere Ritus, 5 Natur et tremul dicere Voce, Vale!']

FOOTNOTES:

[177:1] First published in Literary Remains, 1836, i. 50. First collected in P. and D. W., 1877, ii. 365.

LINENOTES:

[6] Et longum tremul L. R. 1836.



THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON[178:1]

[ADDRESSED TO CHARLES LAMB, OF THE INDIA HOUSE, LONDON]

In the June of 1797 some long-expected friends paid a visit to the author's cottage; and on the morning of their arrival, he met with an accident, which disabled him from walking during the whole time of their stay. One evening, when they had left him for a few hours, he composed the following lines in the garden-bower.[178:2]

Well, they are gone, and here must I remain, This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost Beauties and feelings, such as would have been Most sweet to my remembrance even when age Had dimm'd mine eyes to blindness! They, meanwhile, 5 Friends, whom I never more may meet again, On springy[179:1] heath, along the hill-top edge, Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance, To that still roaring dell, of which I told; The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep, 10 And only speckled by the mid-day sun; Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock Flings arching like a bridge;—that branchless ash, Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still, 15 Fann'd by the water-fall! and there my friends Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds,[179:2] That all at once (a most fantastic sight!) Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge Of the blue clay-stone.

Now, my friends emerge 20 Beneath the wide wide Heaven—and view again The many-steepled tract magnificent Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea, With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles 25 Of purple shadow! Yes! they wander on In gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad, My gentle-hearted Charles! for thou hast pined And hunger'd after Nature, many a year, In the great City pent, winning thy way 30 With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain And strange calamity! Ah! slowly sink Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun! Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb, Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds! 35 Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves! And kindle, thou blue Ocean! So my friend Struck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood, Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing round On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem 40 Less gross than bodily; and of such hues As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makes Spirits perceive his presence.

A delight Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad As I myself were there! Nor in this bower, 45 This little lime-tree bower, have I not mark'd Much that has sooth'd me. Pale beneath the blaze Hung the transparent foliage; and I watch'd Some broad and sunny leaf, and lov'd to see The shadow of the leaf and stem above 50 Dappling its sunshine! And that walnut-tree Was richly ting'd, and a deep radiance lay Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps Those fronting elms, and now, with blackest mass Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue 55 Through the late twilight: and though now the bat Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters, Yet still the solitary humble-bee Sings in the bean-flower! Henceforth I shall know That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure; 60 No plot so narrow, be but Nature there, No waste so vacant, but may well employ Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart Awake to Love and Beauty! and sometimes 'Tis well to be bereft of promis'd good, 65 That we may lift the soul, and contemplate With lively joy the joys we cannot share. My gentle-hearted Charles! when the last rook Beat its straight path along the dusky air Homewards, I blest it! deeming its black wing 70 (Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light) Had cross'd the mighty Orb's dilated glory, While thou stood'st gazing; or, when all was still, Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a charm[181:1] For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom 75 No sound is dissonant which tells of Life.

1797.

FOOTNOTES:

[178:1] First published in the Annual Anthology, 1800, reprinted in Mylius' Poetical Classbook, 1810: included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, in 1828, 1829, and 1834. The poem was sent in a letter to Southey, July 9, 1797, and in a letter to C. Lloyd, [July, 1797]. See Letters of S. T. C., 1895, i. 225-7 and P. W., 1893, p. 591.

[178:2] 'Ch. and Mary Lamb—dear to my heart, yea, as it were my Heart.—S. T. C. t. 63; 1834—1797-1834 = 37 years!' (Marginal note written by S. T. Coleridge over against the introductory note to 'This Lime-Tree Bower my Prison', in a copy of the Poetical Works, 1834.)

[179:1] 'Elastic, I mean.' MS. Letter to Southey.

[179:2] The Asplenium Scolopendrium, called in some countries the Adder's Tongue, in others the Hart's Tongue, but Withering gives the Adder's Tongue as the trivial name of the Ophioglossum only.

[181:1] Some months after I had written this line, it gave me pleasure to find [to observe An. Anth., S. L. 1828] that Bartram had observed the same circumstance of the Savanna Crane. 'When these Birds move their wings in flight, their strokes are slow, moderate and regular; and even when at a considerable distance or high above us, we plainly hear the quill-feathers: their shafts and webs upon one another creek as the joints or working of a vessel in a tempestuous sea.'

LINENOTES:

Title] This Lime-Tree Bower my Prison. A Poem Addressed, &c. An. Anth.: the words 'Addressed to', &c., are omitted in Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[1-28]

Well, they are gone, and here must I remain, Lam'd by the scathe of fire, lonely and faint, This lime-tree bower my prison! They, meantime, My Friends, whom I may never meet again, On springy heath, along the hill-top edge 5 Wander delighted, and look down, perchance, On that same rifted dell, where many an ash Twists its wild limbs beside the ferny rock Whose plumy[178:A] ferns forever nod and drip Spray'd by the waterfall. But chiefly thou 10 My gentle-hearted Charles! thou who had pin'd

MS. Letter to Southey, July 17, 1797.

[178:A] The ferns that grow in moist places grow five or six together, and form a complete 'Prince of Wales's Feather'—that is plumy. Letter to Southey.

[1-28]

Well they are gone, and here I must remain This lime-tree, . . . hill-top edge Delighted wander, and look down, perchance, On that same rifted dell, where the wet ash Twists its wild limbs above, . . . who hast pin'd

MS. Letter to Lloyd [July, 1797].

[3] Such beauties and such feelings, as had been An. Anth., S. L.

[4] my remembrance] to have remembered An. Anth.

[6] My Friends, whom I may never meet again An. Anth., S. L.

[20] blue] dim An. Anth.

[22] tract] track An. Anth., S. L. 1828.

[24] bark, perhaps, which lightly touches An. Anth.

[28] hast] had'st An. Anth.

[31] patient] bowed MS. Letter to Southey.

[34] beams] heaven MS. Letter to Southey.

[38 foll.]

Struck with joy's deepest calm, and gazing round On the wide view[180:A] may gaze till all doth seem Less gross than bodily; a living thing That acts upon the mind, and with such hues As clothe th' Almighty Spirit, when he makes.

MS. Letter to Southey.

[180:A] You remember I am a Berkleyan. Note to Letter.

[40] wide] wild S. L.

[40] (for wild r. wide; and the two following lines thus:

Less gross than bodily; and of such hues As veil the Almighty Spirit

Errata, S. L., p. [xii].)

As veil the Almighty Spirit, when he makes

1828.

[41 foll.]

Less gross than bodily, a living thing Which acts upon the mind and with such hues As cloathe the Almighty Spirit, when he makes

An. Anth., S. L.

[45 foll.]

As I myself were there! Nor in the bower Want I sweet sounds or pleasing shapes. I watch'd The sunshine of each broad transparent leaf Broke by the shadows of the leaf or stem Which hung above it: and that walnut tree

MS. Letter to Southey.

[55] branches] foliage MS. Letter to Southey.

[56] and though the rapid bat MS. Letter to Southey.

[60-64] om. in MS. Letter to Lloyd.

[61-2] No scene so narrow but may well employ MS. Letter to Southey, An. Anth.

[68] My Sister and my Friends MS. Letter to Southey: My Sara and my Friends MS. Letter to Lloyd.

[70] Homewards] Homeward MS. Letter to Lloyd.

[71] om. in MS. Letter to Lloyd. in the light An. Anth., S. L. (omit the before light. Errata, S. L., [p. xii]).

[72] Cross'd like a speck the blaze of setting day MS. Letter to Southey: Had cross'd the mighty orb's dilated blase. MS. Letter to Lloyd.

[73] While ye [you MS. Letter to Lloyd] stood MS. Letter to Southey.

[74] thy head] your heads MSS. Letters to Southey and Lloyd.

[75] For you my Sister and my Friends MS. Letter to Southey: For you my Sara and my Friends MS. Letter to Lloyd.



THE FOSTER-MOTHER'S TALE[182:1]

A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT

[From Osorio, Act IV. The title and text are here printed from Lyrical Ballads, 1798.]

Foster-Mother. I never saw the man whom you describe.

Maria. 'Tis strange! he spake of you familiarly As mine and Albert's common Foster-mother.

Foster-Mother. Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be, That joined your names with mine! O my sweet lady, 5 As often as I think of those dear times When you two little ones would stand at eve On each side of my chair, and make me learn All you had learnt in the day; and how to talk In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you— 10 'Tis more like heaven to come than what has been!

Maria. O my dear Mother! this strange man has left me Troubled with wilder fancies, than the moon Breeds in the love-sick maid who gazes at it, Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye 15 She gazes idly!—But that entrance, Mother!

Foster-Mother. Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale!

Maria. No one.

Foster-Mother. My husband's father told it me, Poor old Leoni!—Angels rest his soul! He was a woodman, and could fell and saw 20 With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam Which props the hanging wall of the old Chapel? Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree, He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool 25 As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home, And rear'd him at the then Lord Velez' cost. And so the babe grew up a pretty boy, A pretty boy, but most unteachable— And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead, 30 But knew the names of birds, and mock'd their notes, And whistled, as he were a bird himself: And all the autumn 'twas his only play To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them With earth and water, on the stumps of trees. 35 A Friar, who gather'd simples in the wood, A grey-haired man—he lov'd this little boy, The boy lov'd him—and, when the Friar taught him, He soon could write with the pen: and from that time, Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Castle. 40 So he became a very learnd youth. But Oh! poor wretch!—he read, and read, and read, Till his brain turn'd—and ere his twentieth year, He had unlawful thoughts of many things: And though he prayed, he never lov'd to pray 45 With holy men, nor in a holy place— But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet, The late Lord Velez ne'er was wearied with him. And once, as by the north side of the Chapel They stood together, chain'd in deep discourse, 50 The earth heav'd under them with such a groan, That the wall totter'd, and had well-nigh fallen Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frighten'd; A fever seiz'd him, and he made confession Of all the heretical and lawless talk 55 Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seiz'd And cast into that hole. My husband's father Sobb'd like a child—it almost broke his heart: And once as he was working in the cellar, He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's, 60 Who sung a doleful song about green fields, How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah, To hunt for food, and be a naked man, And wander up and down at liberty. He always doted on the youth, and now 65 His love grew desperate; and defying death, He made that cunning entrance I describ'd: And the young man escap'd.

Maria. 'Tis a sweet tale: Such as would lull a listening child to sleep, His rosy face besoil'd with unwiped tears.— 70 And what became of him?

Foster-Mother. He went on shipboard With those bold voyagers, who made discovery Of golden lands. Leoni's younger brother Went likewise, and when he return'd to Spain, He told Leoni, that the poor mad youth, 75 Soon after they arriv'd in that new world, In spite of his dissuasion, seiz'd a boat, And all alone, set sail by silent moonlight Up a great river, great as any sea, And ne'er was heard of more: but 'tis suppos'd, 80 He liv'd and died among the savage men.

1797.

FOOTNOTES:

[182:1] First published in the first edition of the Lyrical Ballads, 1798, and reprinted in the editions of 1800, 1803, and 1805. The 'dramatic fragment' was excluded from the acting version of Remorse, but was printed in an Appendix, p. 75, to the Second Edition of the Play, 1813. It is included in the body of the work in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, and again in 1852, and in the Appendix to Remorse in the editions of 1828, 1829, and 1834. It is omitted from 1844. 'The "Foster-Mother's Tale," (From Mr. C.'s own handwriting)' was published in Cottle's Early Recollections, i. 235.

'The following scene as unfit for the stage was taken from the Tragedy in 1797, and published in the Lyrical Ballads. But this work having been long out of print, and it having been determined, that this with my other poems in that collection (the Nightingale, Love, and the Ancient Mariner) should be omitted in any future edition, I have been advised to reprint it as a Note to the Second Scene of Act the Fourth, p. 55.' App. to Remorse, Ed. 2, 1813. [This note is reprinted in 1828 and 1829, but in 1834 only the first sentence is prefixed to the scene.]

LINENOTES:

Title] Foster-Mother's Tale. (Scene—Spain) Cottle, 1837: The, &c. A Narration in Dramatic Blank Verse L. B. 1800. In Remorse, App., 1813 and in 1828, 1829, 1834, the dramatis personae are respectively Teresa and Selma. The fragment opens thus:—Enter Teresa and Selma.

Ter. 'Tis said, he spake of you familiarly As mine and Alvar's common foster-mother.

In Cottle's version, the scene begins at line 4.

[1] man] Moor Osorio, MS. I.

[12-16] O my dear Mother . . . She gazes idly! om. 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[12] me] us Cottle, 1837.

[13] the] yon Osorio, MS. I.

[16] In Lyrical Ballads, 1800, the scene begins with the words: 'But that entrance'. But that entrance, Selma? 1813.

[19] Leoni] Sesina 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[27] Velez'] Valdez' 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834: Valez' S. L. 1817.

[34] To gather seeds 1813, S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[36] gather'd] oft culled S. L. 1817.

[41] So he became a rare and learned youth 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[41-2]

So he became a very learned man. But O poor youth

Cottle, 1837.

[48] Velez] Valdez 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834: Valez S. L. 1817.

[54] made a confession Osorio. A fever seiz'd the youth and he made confession Cottle, 1837.

[57] hole] cell L. B. 1800: den 1813. [And fetter'd in that den. MS. S. T. C.].

[59] in the cellar] near this dungeon 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[62] wild] wide 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[65] He always] Leoni L. B. 1800.

[68-9] om. L. B. 1800.

[73] Leoni's] Sesina's 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834. younger] youngest S. L. 1817.

[75] Leoni] Sesina 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.



THE DUNGEON[185:1]

[From Osorio, Act V; and Remorse, Act V, Scene i. The title and text are here printed from Lyrical Ballads, 1798.]

And this place our forefathers made for man! This is the process of our love and wisdom, To each poor brother who offends against us— Most innocent, perhaps—and what if guilty? Is this the only cure? Merciful God! 5 Each pore and natural outlet shrivell'd up By Ignorance and parching Poverty, His energies roll back upon his heart, And stagnate and corrupt; till chang'd to poison, They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot; 10 Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks— And this is their best cure! uncomforted And friendless solitude, groaning and tears, And savage faces, at the clanking hour, Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon, 15 By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies Circled with evil, till his very soul Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deform'd By sights of ever more deformity!

With other ministrations thou, O Nature! 20 Healest thy wandering and distemper'd child: Thou pourest on him thy soft influences, Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets, Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters, Till he relent, and can no more endure 25 To be a jarring and a dissonant thing, Amid this general dance and minstrelsy; But, bursting into tears, wins back his way, His angry spirit heal'd and harmoniz'd By the benignant touch of Love and Beauty. 30

1797.

FOOTNOTES:

[185:1] First published in the Lyrical Ballads, 1798, and reprinted in the Lyrical Ballads, 1800. First collected (as a separate poem) in Poems, 1893, p. 85.

LINENOTES:

[1] our] my Osorio, Act V, i. 107. 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834. man] men Osorio.

[15] steams and vapour] steaming vapours Osorio, V, i. 121: steam and vapours 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.



THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER[186:1]

IN SEVEN PARTS

Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibiles in rerum universitate. Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit? et gradus et cognationes et discrimina et singulorum munera? Quid agunt? quae loca habitant? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingenium humanum, nunquam attigit. Juvat, interea, non diffiteor, quandoque in animo, tanquam in tabul, majoris et melioris mundi imaginem contemplari: ne mens assuefacta hodiernae vitae minutiis se contrahat nimis, et tota subsidat in pusillas cogitationes. Sed veritati interea invigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut certa ab incertis, diem a nocte, distinguamus.—T. BURNET, Archaeol. Phil. p. 68.[186:2]

ARGUMENT

How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole; and how from thence she made her course to the tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean; and of the strange things that befell; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to his own Country. [L. B. 1798.][186:3]

PART I

[Sidenote: An ancient Mariner meeteth three Gallants bidden to a wedding-feast, and detaineth one.]

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; The guests are met, the feast is set: May'st hear the merry din.'

He holds him with his skinny hand, 'There was a ship,' quoth he. 10 'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!' Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

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

He holds him with his glittering eye— The Wedding-Guest stood still, And listens like a three years' child: 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 harbour cleared, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the lighthouse top.

[Sidenote: The Mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with a good wind and fair weather, till it reached the line.]

The Sun came up upon the left, 25 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—' 30 The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon.

[Sidenote: The Wedding-Guest heareth the bridal music; but the Mariner continueth his tale.]

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

[Sidenote: The ship driven by a storm toward the south pole.]

'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, And it grew wondrous cold: And ice, mast-high, came floating by, As green as emerald.

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

And through the drifts the snowy clifts 55 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: 60 It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, Like noises in a swound!

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

At length did cross an Albatross, Thorough the fog it came; As if it had been a Christian soul, 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

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

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

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 75 It perched for vespers nine; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white Moon-shine.'

[Sidenote: The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of good omen.]

'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: 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 Came to the mariners' hollo! 90

[Sidenote: His shipmates cry out against the ancient Mariner, for killing the bird of good luck.]

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!

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

Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, The glorious Sun uprist: Then all 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.

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

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free; We were the first that ever burst 105 Into that silent sea.

[Sidenote: The ship hath been suddenly becalmed.]

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

[Sidenote: And the Albatross begins to be avenged.]

Water, water, every where, And all the boards did shrink; 120 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 125 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. 130

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

And some in dreams assurd 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, 135 Was withered at the root; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot.

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

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! 140 Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung.

PART III

[Sidenote: The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar off.]

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.

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.

[Sidenote: At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship; and at a dear ransom he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst.]

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, We could nor laugh nor wail; Through utter drought all dumb we stood! I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 160 And cried, A sail! a sail!

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call:

[Sidenote: A flash of joy;]

Gramercy! they for joy did grin, And all at once their breath drew in, 165 As they were drinking all.

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

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

The western wave was all a-flame. The day was well nigh done! Almost upon the western wave Bested the broad bright Sun; When that strange shape drove suddenly 175 Betwixt us and the Sun.

[Sidenote: It seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship.]

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. 180

[Sidenote: And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting Sun.]

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?

[Sidenote: The Spectre-Woman and her Death-mate, and no other on board the skeleton ship.]

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?

[Sidenote: Like vessel, like crew!]

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

Her lips were red, her looks were free, 190 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, 195 And the twain were casting dice; 'The game is done! I've won! I've won!' Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

[Sidenote: No twilight within the[195:1] courts of the Sun.]

The Sun's rim dips: the stars rush out: At one stride comes the dark; 200 With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, Off shot the spectre-bark.

[Sidenote: At the rising of the Moon.]

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 above the eastern bar The hornd Moon, with one bright star 210 Within the nether tip.

[Sidenote: One after another,]

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

[Sidenote: His shipmates drop down dead.]

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

[Sidenote: But Life-in-Death begins her work on the ancient Mariner.]

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

[Sidenote: The Wedding-Guest feareth that a Spirit is talking to him;]

'I fear thee, ancient Mariner! I fear thy skinny hand! 225 And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand.[196:1]

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

I fear thee and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand, so brown.'— Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! 230 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. 235

[Sidenote: He despiseth the creatures of the calm,]

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

[Sidenote: And envieth that they should live, and so many lie dead.]

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 250 Lay like a load on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet.

[Sidenote: But the curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men.]

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Nor rot nor reek did they: The look with which they 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 the curse in a dead man's eye! 260 Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die.

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

The moving Moon went up the sky, And no where did abide: Softly she was going up, 265 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 charmd water burnt alway 270 A still and awful red.

[Sidenote: By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God's creatures of the great calm.]

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.

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.

[Sidenote: Their beauty and their happiness.]

[Sidenote: He blesseth them in his heart.]

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.

[Sidenote: The spell begins to break.]

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

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, 295 That slid into my soul.

[Sidenote: By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient Mariner is refreshed with rain.]

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. 300

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: 305 I was so light—almost I thought that I had died in sleep, And was a blessd ghost.

[Sidenote: He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights and commotions in the sky and the element.]

And soon I heard a roaring wind: It did not come anear; 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, To and fro they were hurried about! 315 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; 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.

[Sidenote: The bodies of the ship's crew are inspired [inspirited, S. L.] and the ship moves on;]

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 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.

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

'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!' 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, And clustered round the mast; 351 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 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!

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.

[Sidenote: The lonesome Spirit from the south-pole carries on the ship as far as the Line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance.]

Under the keel nine fathom deep, From the land of mist and snow, The spirit slid: and it was 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.

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

How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare; But ere my living life returned, 395 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 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: 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 which way to go; For she guides him smooth or grim. See, brother, see! how graciously 420 She looketh down on him.'

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

FIRST VOICE

'But why drives on that ship so fast, Without or wave or wind?'

SECOND VOICE

'The air is cut away before, And closes from behind. 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.'

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

I woke, and we were sailing on 430 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: 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.

[Sidenote: The curse is finally expiated.]

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— 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.

[Sidenote: And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native country.]

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?

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, And I with sobs did pray— O let me be awake, my God! 470 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. 475

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, That stands above the rock: The moonlight steeped in silentness The steady weathercock.

[Sidenote: The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies,]

And the bay was white with silent light, 480 Till rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colours came.

[Sidenote: And appear in their own forms of light.]

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! 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— 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 my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross's blood.

PART VII

[Sidenote: The Hermit of the Wood,]

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! Where are those lights so many and fair, 525 That signal made but now?'

[Sidenote: Approacheth the ship with wonder.]

'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! 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 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 a-feared'—'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

[Sidenote: The ship suddenly sinketh.]

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.

[Sidenote: The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat.]

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.

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

'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!' The Hermit crossed his brow. 575 '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; 580 And then it left me free.

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

Since then, at an uncertain hour, That agony returns: And till my ghastly tale is told, This heart within me burns. 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, 595 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 seemd there to be. 600

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, 605 And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends And youths and maidens gay!

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

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: A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn. 625

1797-1798.

FOOTNOTES:

[186:1] The Ancient Mariner was first published in the Lyrical Ballads, 1798. It was reprinted in the succeeding editions of 1800, 1802, and 1805. It was first published under the Author's name in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, and included in 1828, 1829, and 1834. For the full text of the poem as published in 1798, vide Appendices. The marginal glosses were added in 1815-1816, when a collected edition of Coleridge's poems was being prepared for the press, and were first published in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, but it is possible that they were the work of a much earlier period. The text of the Ancient Mariner as reprinted in Lyrical Ballads, 1802, 1805 follows that of 1800.

[186:2] The text of the original passage is as follows: 'Facil credo, plures esse naturas invisibiles quam visibiles, in rerum universitate: pluresque Angelorum ordines in clo, quam sunt pisces in mari: Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit? Et gradus, et cognationes, et discrimina, et singulorum munera? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingenium humanum, nunquam attigit . . . Juvat utique non etc.: Archaeologiae Philosophicae sive Doctrina Antiqua De Rerum Originibus. Libri Duo: Londini, MDCXCII, p. 68.'

[186:3] How a Ship, having first sailed to the Equator, was driven by Storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole; how the Ancient Mariner cruelly and in contempt of the laws of hospitality killed a Sea-bird and how he was followed by many and strange Judgements: and in what manner he came back to his own Country, [L. B. 1800.]

[195:1] Om. in Sibylline Leaves, 1817.

[196:1] For the last two lines of this stanza, I am indebted to Mr. WORDSWORTH. It was on a delightful walk from Nether Stowey to Dulverton, with him and his sister, in the Autumn of 1797, that this Poem was planned, and in part composed. [Note by S. T. C., first printed in Sibylline Leaves.]

LINENOTES:

Title] The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere. In Seven Parts L. B. 1798: The Ancient Mariner. A Poet's Reverie L. B. 1800, 1802, 1805.

[Note.—The 'Argument' was omitted in L. B. 1802, 1805, Sibylline Leaves, 1817, and in 1828, 1829, and 1834.]

PART I] I L. B. 1798, 1800. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. In Seven Parts. S. L., 1828, 1829.

[1] It is an ancyent Marinere L. B. 1798 [ancient is spelled 'ancyent' and Mariner 'Marinere' through out L. B. 1798].

[3] thy glittering eye L. B. 1798, 1800.

[4] stopp'st thou] stoppest L. B. 1798, 1800.

[Between 8 and 13]

But still he holds the wedding guest— There was a Ship, quoth he— 'Nay, if thou'st got a laughsome tale, Marinere, [Mariner! 1800] come with me.'

He holds him with his skinny hand— Quoth he, there was a Ship— Now get thee hence thou greybeard Loon! Or my Staff shall make thee skip.

L. B. 1798, 1800.

[Between 40 and 55]

Listen, Stranger! Storm and Wind, A Wind and Tempest strong! For days and weeks it play'd us freaks— Like chaff we drove along.

Listen Stranger! Mist and Snow, And it grew wondrous cauld; And Ice mast-high came floating by As green as Emerauld.

L. B. 1798.

[Between 40 and 51]

But now the Northwind came more fierce, There came a Tempest strong! And Southward still for days and weeks Like Chaff we drove along.

L. B. 1800.

Lines 41-50 of the text were added in Sibylline Leaves, 1817. [Note. The emendation in the marginal gloss, 'driven' for 'drawn' first appears in 1893.]

[55] clifts] clift S. L. [probably a misprint. It is not corrected in the Errata.]

[57] Nor . . . nor] Ne . . . ne L. B. 1798.

[62] Like noises of a swound L. B. 1798: A wild and ceaseless sound L. B. 1800.

[65] And an it were L. B. 1798: As if MS. Corr. S. T. C.

[67] The Mariners gave it biscuit-worms L. B. 1798, 1800.

[77] fog-smoke white] fog smoke-white L. B. 1798 (corr. in Errata).

PART II] II L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part the Second, S. L. 1828, 1829.

[83] The Sun came up L. B. 1798.

[85] And broad as a weft upon the left L. B. 1798.

[89] Nor] Ne L. B. 1798.

[90] mariners'] Marinere's L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L. 1817: Mariner's L. B. 1800.

[91] a] an all editions to 1834.

[95-6] om. L. B. 1798, 1800: were added in Sibylline Leaves.

[97] Nor . . . nor] ne . . . ne L. B. 1798. like an Angel's head L. B. 1800.

[103] The breezes blew L. B. 1798, 1800.

[104] [190:A]The furrow stream'd off free S. L. 1817.

[190:A] In the former editions the line was,

The furrow follow'd free:

But I had not been long on board a ship, before I perceived that this was the image as seen by a spectator from the shore, or from another vessel. From the ship itself, the Wake appears like a brook flowing off from the stern. Note to S. L. 1817.

[116] nor . . . nor] ne . . . ne L. B. 1798.

[122] Nor] Ne L. B. 1798.

[123] deep] deeps L. B. 1798, 1800.

[139] well a-day] wel-a-day L. B. 1798, 1800.

[Between 143 and 149]

I saw a something in the sky No bigger than my fist; At first it seem'd, &c.

L. B. 1798.

[Between 143 and 147]

So past a weary time, each throat Was parch'd and glaz'd each eye, When looking westward, &c.

L. B. 1800.

[Lines 143-8 of the text in their present shape were added in Sibylline Leaves, 1817.]

PART III] III L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part the Third, S. L. 1828, 1829.

[154] And still it ner'd and ner'd. L. B. 1798, 1800.

[155] And, an it dodg'd L. B. 1798: And, as if it dodg'd L. B. 1800, S. L. 1817.

[157-60]

With throat unslack'd with black lips baked Ne could we laugh, ne wail, Then while thro' drouth all dumb they stood I bit my arm, and suck'd the blood

L. B. 1798.

[157] With throat unslack'd, &c. L. B. 1800, 1802, S. L. 1817.

[160] Till I bit my arm and suck'd the blood L. B. 1800.

[162] With throat unslack'd, &c. L. B. 1798, 1800, 1802, S. L. 1817.

[167-70]

She doth not tack from side to side— Hither to work us weal. Withouten wind, withouten tide She steddies with upright keel.

L. B. 1798.

[170] She steddies L. B. 1800, S. L. 1817.

[177] straight] strait L. B. 1798, 1800.

[182] neres and neres L. B. 1798, 1800.

[183] her] her 1834, and also in 185 and 190.

[Between 184-90]

Are those her naked ribs, which fleck'd The sun that did behind them peer? And are those two all, all the crew,[193:A] That woman and her fleshless Pheere?

His bones were black with many a crack, All black and bare I ween; Jet-black and bare, save where with rust Of mouldy damps and charnel crust They're patch'd with purple and green.

L. B. 1798.

Are those her ribs which fleck'd the Sun Like the bars of a dungeon grate? And are those two all, all the crew That woman and her mate?

MS. Correction of S. T. C. in L. B. 1798.

Are those her Ribs, thro' which the Sun Did peer as thro' a grate? And are those two all, all her crew, That Woman, and her Mate?

His bones were black with many a crack

* * * * *

They were patch'd with purple and green.

L. B. 1800.

This Ship it was a plankless thing, —A bare Anatomy! A plankless spectre—and it mov'd Like a Being of the Sea! The woman and a fleshless man Therein sate merrily.

His bones were black, &c. (as in 1800).

This stanza was found added in the handwriting of the Poet in the margin of a copy of the Bristol Edition [1798] of Lyrical Ballads. It is here printed for the first time. Note P. and D. W., 1877-80, ii. 36.

[193:A] those] these Errata, L. B. 1798.

[190-4]

Her lips are red, her looks are free, Her locks are yellow as gold: Her skin is as white as leprosy, And she is far liker Death than he; Her flesh makes the still air cold.

L. B. 1798.

Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were as yellow as gold: Her skin was as white as leprosy, And she was far liker Death than he; Her flesh made the still air cold.

L. B. 1800.

[196] casting] playing L. B. 1798, 1800.

[197] The game is done, I've, I've won S. L. 1817, 1828, 1839, 1834, 1844. The restoration of the text of 1798 and 1800 dates from 1852.

[198] whistles] whistled L. B. 1798, 1800.

[Between 198-218]

A gust of wind sterte up behind And whistled thro' his bones; Thro the { holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth { hole L. B. 1802, 1805 Half-whistles and half-groans.

With never a whisper in the Sea Off darts the Spectre-ship; While clombe above the Eastern bar The horned Moon with one bright Star Almost atween the tips. [Almost between the tips. L. B. 1800.]

One after one by the horned Moon (Listen, O Stranger! to me) Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang And curs'd me with his ee.

Four times fifty living men, With never a sigh or groan,

L. B. 1798, 1800.

[Between 198-9] A gust of wind . . . half groans. S. L. (Page 15 erase the second stanza. Errata_, S. L., p. [xi].)

[Between 201-12]

With never a whisper on the main Off shot the spectre ship; And stifled words and groans of pain Mix'd on each murmuring} lip. trembling} And we look'd round, and we look'd up, And fear at our hearts, as at a cup, The Life-blood seem'd to sip—

The sky was dull, and dark the night, The helmsman's face by his lamp gleam'd bright, From the sails the dews did drip— Till clomb above the Eastern Bar, The horned Moon, with one bright star Within its nether tip.

Undated MS. correction of S. T. C. (first published 1893).

[208] dew] dews S. L. 1817.

[209] clomb] clombe S. L. 1817, 1828.

PART IV] IV. L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part the Fourth S. L. 1828, 1829.

[220] The] Their L. B. 1798, 1800.

[224] ancyent Marinere L. B. 1798.

[233-4]

Alone on the wide wide sea; And Christ would take no pity on

L. B. 1798, 1800.

[238] And a million, million slimy things L. B. 1798, 1800.

[242] rotting] eldritch L. B. 1798: ghastly L. B. 1800.

[249] And] Till L. B. 1798, 1800.

[251] load] cloud S. L. (for cloud read load. Errata, S. L., p. [xi]).

[254] Ne rot, ne reek L. B. 1798.

[260] the curse] a curse 1828, 1829.

[268] Like morning frosts yspread L. B. 1798.

PART V] V. L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part the Fifth S. L. 1828, 1829.

[294] To Mary-queen L. B. 1798, 1800. given] yeven L. B. 1798.

[300] awoke] woke (a pencilled correction in 1828, ? by S. T. C.).

[309] The roaring wind! it roar'd far off L. B. 1798.

[313] burst] bursts L. B. 1798.

[315] were] are L. B. 1798.

[317] The stars dance on between. L. B. 1798.

[317-24]

The coming wind doth roar more loud; The sails do sigh, like sedge: The rain pours down from one black cloud And the Moon is at its edge.

Hark! hark! the thick black cloud is cleft, And the Moon is at its side

L. B. 1798.

[325] fell] falls L. B. 1798.

[327-8]

The strong wind reach'd the ship: it roar'd And dropp'd down like a stone!

L. B. 1798.

[332] nor . . . nor] ne . . . ne L. B. 1798.

[Between 344-5]

And I quak'd to think of my own voice How frightful it would be!

L. B. 1798.

[345-9] om. in L. B. 1798, added in L. B. 1800.

[350] The daylight dawn'd L. B. 1798.

[359] sky-lark] Lavrock L. B. 1798.

[Between 372-3]

Listen, O listen, thou Wedding-guest! 'Marinere! thou hast thy will: For that, which comes out of thine eye, doth make My body and soul to be still.'

Never sadder tale was told To a man of woman born: Sadder and wiser thou wedding-guest! Thoul't rise to-morrow morn.

Never sadder tale was heard By a man of woman born: The Marineres all return'd to work As silent as beforne.

The Marineres all 'gan pull the ropes, But look at me they n'old; Thought I, I am as thin as air— They cannot me behold.

L. B. 1798.

[373] quietly] silently L. B. 1798, 1800.

[392] down in] into L. B. 1798, 1800.

PART VI] VI. L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Part the Sixth S. L. 1828, 1829.

[423] Withouten wave L. B. 1798.

[440-1] een from theirs; Ne turn L. B. 1798.

[442-6]

And in its time the spell was snapt, And I could move my een: I look'd far-forth, but little saw Of what might else be seen.

L. B. 1798.

[446] lonesome] lonely L. B. 1798.

[453] Nor . . . nor] Ne . . . ne L. B. 1798.

[464] O dream L. B. 1798, 1800.

[Between 475-80]

The moonlight bay was white all o'er, Till rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, Like as of torches came.

A little distance from the prow Those dark-red shadows were; But soon I saw that my own flesh Was red as in a glare.

I turn'd my head in fear and dread, And by the holy rood, The bodies had advanc'd, and now Before the mast they stood.

They lifted up their stiff right arms, They held them strait and tight; And each right-arm burnt like a torch, A torch that's borne upright. Their stony eye-balls glitter'd on In the red and smoky light.

I pray'd and turn'd my head away Forth looking as before. There was no breeze upon the bay, No wave against the shore.

L. B. 1798.

[487] Oh, Christ!] O Christ L. B. 1798, 1800.

[498] oh!] O L. B. 1798, 1800.

[500] But soon] Eftsones L. B. 1798.

[Between 503-4]

Then vanish'd all the lovely lights;[205:A] The bodies rose anew: With silent pace, each to his place, Came back the ghastly crew, The wind, that shade nor motion made, On me alone it blew.

L. B. 1798.

[205:A]

Then vanish'd all the lovely lights, The spirits of the air, No souls of mortal men were they, But spirits bright and fair.

MS. Correction by S. T. C. in a copy of L. B. 1798.

[511] makes] maketh (a pencilled correction in 1828, ? by S. T. C.).

PART VII] VII. L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part the Seventh S. L. 1829: The Ancient Mariner. Part the Seventh 1828.

[517] marineres] mariners L. B. 1800.

[518] That come from a far Contre. L. B. 1798.

[523] neared] ner'd L. B. 1798, 1800.

[529] looked] look L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L.

[533] Brown] The L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L. [for The read Brown. Errata, S. L. 1817, p. (xi)].

[543] nor . . . nor] ne . . . ne L. B. 1798.

[577] What manner man L. B. 1798, 1800.

[582-5]

Since then at an uncertain hour, Now ofttimes and now fewer, That anguish comes and makes me tell My ghastly aventure.

L. B. 1798.

[583] agony] agency [a misprint] L. B. 1800.

[588] That] The L. B. 1798, 1800.

[610] Farewell, farewell] The comma to be omitted. Errata, L. B. 1798.

[618] The Marinere L. B. 1798.



SONNETS ATTEMPTED IN THE MANNER OF CONTEMPORARY WRITERS[209:1]

[SIGNED 'NEHEMIAH HIGGINBOTTOM']

I

Pensive at eve on the hard world I mus'd, And my poor heart was sad: so at the Moon I gaz'd—and sigh'd, and sigh'd!—for, ah! how soon Eve darkens into night. Mine eye perus'd With tearful vacancy the dampy grass 5 Which wept and glitter'd in the paly ray; And I did pause me on my lonely way, And mused me on those wretched ones who pass O'er the black heath of Sorrow. But, alas! Most of Myself I thought: when it befell 10 That the sooth Spirit of the breezy wood Breath'd in mine ear—'All this is very well; But much of one thing is for no thing good.' Ah! my poor heart's INEXPLICABLE SWELL!

II

TO SIMPLICITY

O! I do love thee, meek Simplicity! For of thy lays the lulling simpleness Goes to my heart and soothes each small distress, Distress though small, yet haply great to me! 'Tis true on Lady Fortune's gentlest pad 5 I amble on; yet, though I know not why, So sad I am!—but should a friend and I Grow cool and miff, O! I am very sad! And then with sonnets and with sympathy My dreamy bosom's mystic woes I pall; 10 Now of my false friend plaining plaintively, Now raving at mankind in general; But, whether sad or fierce, 'tis simple all, All very simple, meek Simplicity!

III

ON A RUINED HOUSE IN A ROMANTIC COUNTRY

And this reft house is that the which he built, Lamented Jack! And here his malt he pil'd, Cautious in vain! These rats that squeak so wild, Squeak, not unconscious of their father's guilt. Did ye not see her gleaming thro' the glade? Belike, 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn. What though she milk no cow with crumpled horn, Yet aye she haunts the dale where erst she stray'd; And aye beside her stalks her amorous knight! Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn, 10 And thro' those brogues, still tatter'd and betorn, His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white; As when thro' broken clouds at night's high noon Peeps in fair fragments forth the full-orb'd harvest-moon!

1797.

FOOTNOTES:

[209:1] First published in the Monthly Magazine for November, 1797. They were reprinted in the Poetical Register for 1803 (1805); by Coleridge in the Biographia Literaria, 1817, i. 26-8[A]; and by Cottle in Early Recollections, i. 290-2; and in Reminiscences, p. 160. They were first collected in P. and D. W., 1877-80, i. 211-13.

[A] 'Under the name of Nehemiah Higginbottom I contributed three sonnets, the first of which had for its object to excite a good-natured laugh at the spirit of doleful egotism and at the recurrence of favourite phrases, with the double defect of being at once trite and licentious. The second was on low creeping language and thoughts under the pretence of simplicity. The third, the phrases of which were borrowed entirely from my own poems, on the indiscriminate use of elaborate and swelling language and imagery. . . . So general at the time and so decided was the opinion concerning the characteristic vices of my style that a celebrated physician (now alas! no more) speaking of me in other respects with his usual kindness to a gentleman who was about to meet me at a dinner-party could not, however, resist giving him a hint not to mention The House that Jack Built in my presence, for that I was as sore as a boil about that sonnet, he not knowing that I was myself the author of it.'