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 tabulâ, 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: Archæol. Phil., p. 68.
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 beard and glittering eye, “Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?
“The Bridegroom’s doors are opened wide, “And I am next of kin; “The guests are met, the feast is set: “May’st hear the merry din.”
He holds him with his skinny hand, “There was a ship,” quoth he. “Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!” Eftsoons his hand dropt he.
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: The Mariner hath his will.
The wedding-guest sat on a stone: He cannot chuse but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed mariner.
The ship was cheer’d, the harbour clear’d, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the light-house top.
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, Out of the sea came he! And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea.
Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon— The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon.
The 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 The merry minstrelsy.
The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot chuse but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner.
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, As who pursued with yell and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe, And forward bends his head, The ship drove fast, loud roar’d the blast, The southward aye we fled.
And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wondrous cold: And ice, mast-high, came floating by, As green as emerald.
The land of ice, and of fearful sounds where no living thing was to be seen.
And through the drifts the snowy clifts Did send a dismal sheen: Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken— The ice was all between.
The ice was here, the ice was there, The ice was all around: It cracked and growled, and roar’d and howl’d, Like noises in a swound!
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, 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 steer’d us through!
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, It perch’d for vespers nine; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white Moon-shine.
The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of good omen.
“God save thee, ancient Mariner! From the fiends, that plague thee thus!— Why look’st thou so?”—With my cross-bow I shot the Albatross.
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
Part the Second.
The Sun now rose upon the right: Out of the sea came he, Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea.
And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow, Nor any day for food or play Came to the mariners’ hollo!
His shipmates cry out against the ancient Mariner, for killing the bird of good luck.
And I had done an hellish thing, And it would work ’em woe: For all averred, I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow!
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. ’Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist.
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* stream’d off free: We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea.
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!
All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon.
Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion, As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean.
And the Albatross begins to be avenged.
Water, water, every where, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, every where, Nor any drop to drink.
The very deep did rot: O Christ! That ever this should be! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea.
About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch’s oils, Burnt green, and blue and white.
And some in dreams assured were Of the spirit that plagued us so: Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow.
And every tongue, through utter drought, Was wither’d at the root; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choak’d with soot.
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 Constantino-politan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more.
Ah! well a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung.
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.
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
Part the Third.
There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time! a weary time! How glazed each weary eye, When looking westward, I beheld A something in the sky.
The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar off.
At first it seemed a little speck, And then it seem’d a mist: It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist.
A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist! And still it near’d and near’d: As if it dodged a water-sprite, It plunged and tacked and veered.
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 unslack’d, with black lips baked, We could nor laugh nor wail; Through utter drought all dumb we stood! I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, And cried, A sail! a sail!
A flash of joy.
With throats unslacked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call: Gramercy! they for joy did grin, And all at once their breath drew in, As they were drinking all.
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!
The western wave was all a-flame. The day was well nigh done! Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright Sun; When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the Sun.
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 peer’d With broad and burning face.
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!
The Spectre-Woman and her Death-mate, and no other on board the skeleton ship.
And those her ribs through which the Sun Did peer, as through a grate? And is that Woman all her crew? Is that a Death? and are there two? Is Death that woman’s mate?
Like vessel, like crew!
Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold: Her skin was as white as leprosy, The Night-Mair Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man’s blood with cold.
Death and Life-in-Death have diced for the ship’s crew, and she (the latter) winneth the ancient Mariner.
The naked hulk alongside came, And the twain were casting dice; “The game is done! I’ve won! I’ve won!” Quoth she, and whistles thrice.
A gust of wind sterte up behind And whistled through his bones; Through the holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth, Half whistles and half groans.
No twilight within the courts of the Sun.
The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out: At one stride comes the dark; With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea, Off shot the spectre-bark.
At the rising of the Moon,
We listen’d and look’d sideways up! Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seemed to sip! The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steerman’s face by his lamp gleam’d white; From the sails the dew did drip— Till clombe above the eastern bar The horned Moon, with one bright star Within the nether tip.
One after another,
One after one, by the star-dogg’d Moon Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turn’d his face with a ghastly pang, And cursed me with his eye.
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.
But Life-in-Death begins her work on the ancient Mariner.
The souls did from their bodies fly,— They fled to bliss or woe! And every soul, it passed me by, Like the whizz of my cross-bow!
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
Part the Fourth.
The Wedding-Guest feareth that a Spirit is talking to him;
“I fear thee, ancient Mariner! I fear thy skinny hand! And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand.*
I fear thee and thy glittering eye, And thy skinny hand, so brown.”— Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! This body dropt not down.
But the ancient Mariner assureth him of his bodily life, and proceedeth to relate his horrible penance.
Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide wide sea! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony.
He despiseth the creatures of the calm,
The many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie: And a thousand thousand slimy things Liv’d on; and so did I.
And envieth that they should live, and so many lie dead.
I look’d upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away; I looked upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay.
I look’d to Heaven, and tried to pray; But or ever a prayer had gusht, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust.
I closed my lids, and kept them close, And the balls like pulses beat; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky Lay like a load on my weary eye, And the dead were at my feet.
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 Had never pass’d away.
An orphan’s curse would drag to Hell A spirit from on high; But oh! more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man’s eye! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die.
The moving Moon went up the sky, And no where did abide: Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside–
Her beams bemock’d the sultry main, Like April hoar-frost spread; But where the ship’s huge shadow lay, The charmed water burnt alway A still and awful red.
In his loneli-ness 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 appoint-ed 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.
By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God’s creatures of the great calm.
Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watch’d the water-snakes: They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes.
Within the shadow of the ship I watch’d their rich attire: Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam; and every track Was a flash of golden fire.
Their beauty and their happiness.
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: Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware.
The spell begins to break.
The self-same moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea.
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
Part the Fifth.
Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, Belov’d from pole to pole! To Mary Queen the praise be given! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my soul.
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.
My lips were wet, my throat was cold, My garments all were dank; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank.
I moved, and could not feel my limbs: I was so light—almost I thought that I had died in sleep, And was a blessed ghost.
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; But with its sound it shook the sails, That were so thin and sere.
The upper air burst into life! And a hundred fire-flags sheen, To and fro they were hurried about; And to and fro, and in and out, The wan stars danced between.
And the coming wind did roar more loud, And the sails did sigh like sedge; And the rain pour’d down from one black cloud; The Moon was at its edge.
The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The Moon was at its side: Like waters shot from some high crag, The lightning fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide.
The bodies of the ship’s crew are inspired, 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.
They groan’d, they stirr’d, they all uprose, Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; It had been strange, even in a dream, To have seen those dead men rise.
The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; Yet never a breeze up blew; The mariners all ’gan work the ropes, Where they were wont to do: They raised their limbs like lifeless tools— We were a ghastly crew.
The body of my brother’s son Stood by me, knee to knee: The body and I pulled at one rope, But he said nought to me.
But not by the souls of the men, nor by dæmons 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!” Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! ’Twas not those souls that fled in pain, Which to their corses came again, But a troop of spirits blest:
For when it dawned—they dropped their arms, And clustered round the mast; Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies passed.
Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the Sun; Slowly the sounds came back again, Now mixed, now one by one.
Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the sky-lark sing; Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seem’d to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning!
And now ’twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute; And now it is an angel’s song, That makes the Heavens be mute.
It ceased; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune.
Till noon we quietly sailed on, Yet never a breeze did breathe: Slowly and smoothly went the ship, Moved onward from beneath.
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. The sails at noon left off their tune, And the ship stood still also.
The Sun, right up above the mast, Had fixt her to the ocean; But in a minute she ’gan stir, With a short uneasy motion— Backwards and forwards half her length, With a short uneasy motion.
Then like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound: It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swound.
How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare; But ere my living life returned, I heard and in my soul discerned Two voices in the air.
“Is it he?” quoth one, “Is this the man? By him who died on cross, With his cruel bow he laid full low The harmless Albatross.
The Polar Spirit’s fellow-dæmons, 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.
The spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow, He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow.”
The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew: Quoth he, “The man hath penance done, And penance more will do.”
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
Part the Sixth.
But tell me, tell me! speak again, Thy soft response renewing— What makes that ship drive on so fast? What is the ocean doing?
Still as a slave before his lord, The ocean hath no blast; His great bright eye most silently Up to the Moon is cast—
If he may know which way to go; For she guides him smooth or grim. See, brother, see! how graciously She looketh down on him.
The Mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward faster than human life could endure.
But why drives on that ship so fast, Without or wave or wind?
The air is cut away before, And closes from behind.
Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high! Or we shall be belated: For slow and slow that ship will go, When the Mariner’s trance is abated.”
The supernatural motion is retarded; the Mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew.
I woke, and we were sailing on As in a gentle weather: ’Twas night, calm night, the moon was high; The dead men stood together.
All stood together on the deck, For a charnel-dungeon fitter: All fixed on me their stony eyes, That in the Moon did glitter.
The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never passed away: I could not draw my eyes from theirs, Nor turn them up to pray.
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—
Like one, that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turn’d round walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows, a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread.
But soon there breathed a wind on me, Nor sound nor motion made: Its path was not upon the sea, In ripple or in shade.
It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek Like a meadow-gale of spring— It mingled strangely with my fears, Yet it felt like a welcoming.
Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, Yet she sailed softly too: Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze— On me alone it blew.
And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native country.
Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed The light-house top I see? Is this the hill? is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree?
We drifted o’er the harbour-bar, And I with sobs did pray— O let me be awake, my God! Or let me sleep alway.
The harbour-bay was clear as glass, So smoothly it was strewn! And on the bay the moonlight lay, And the shadow of the Moon.
The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, That stands above the rock: The moonlight steeped in silentness The steady weathercock.
The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies,
And the bay was white with silent light, Till rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colours came.
And appear in their own forms of light.
A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were: I turned my eyes upon the deck— Oh, Christ! what saw I there!
Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood! A man all light, a seraph-man, On every corse there stood.
This seraph-band, each waved his hand: It was a heavenly sight! They stood as signals to the land, Each one a lovely light;
This seraph-band, each waved his hand, No voice did they impart— No voice; but oh! the silence sank Like music on my heart.
But soon I heard the dash of oars, I heard the Pilot’s cheer; My head was turn’d perforce away And I saw a boat appear.
The Pilot and the Pilot’s boy, I heard them coming fast: Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy The dead men could not blast.
I saw a third—I heard his voice: It is the Hermit good! He singeth loud his godly hymns That he makes in the wood. He’ll shrieve my soul, he’ll wash away The Albatross’s blood.
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
Part the Seventh.
The Hermit of the Wood,
This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree.
He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve— He hath a cushion plump: It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump.
The skiff-boat near’d: I heard them talk, “Why, this is strange, I trow! Where are those lights so many and fair, That signal made but now?”
Approacheth the ship with wonder.
“Strange, by my faith!” the Hermit said— “And they answered not our cheer! The planks look warped! and see those sails, How thin they are and sere! I never saw aught like to them, Unless perchance it were
The skeletons of leaves that lag My forest-brook along; When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, That eats the she-wolf’s young.”
Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look— (The Pilot made reply) I am a-feared—Push on, push on! Said the Hermit cheerily.
The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred; The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard.
The ship suddenly sinketh.
Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread: It reach’d the ship, it split the bay; The ship went down like lead.
The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot’s boat.
Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote, Like one that hath been seven days drown’d My body lay afloat; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilot’s boat.
Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round; And all was still, save that the hill Was telling of the sound.
I moved my lips—the Pilot shrieked And fell down in a fit; The holy Hermit raised his eyes, And prayed where he did sit.
I took the oars: the Pilot’s boy, Who now doth crazy go, Laughed loud and long, and all the while His eyes went to and fro. “Ha! ha!” quoth he, “full plain I see, The Devil knows how to row.”
And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land! The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand.
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 cross’d his brow. “Say quick,” quoth he, “I bid thee say— What manner of man art thou?”
Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench’d With a woeful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale; And then it left me free.
And ever and anon through out 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.
I pass, like night, from land to land; I have strange power of speech; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me: To him my tale I teach.
What loud uproar bursts from that door! The wedding-guests are there; But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are; And hark the little vesper bell, Which biddeth me to prayer!
O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea: So lonely ’twas, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be.
O sweeter than the marriage-feast, ’Tis sweeter far to me, To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company!—
To walk together to the kirk, And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends And youths and maidens gay!
And to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth.
Farewell, farewell! but this I tell To thee, thou Wedding-Guest! He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast.
He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear God who loveth us, He made and loveth all.”
The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest Turned from the bridegroom”s door.
He went like one that hath been stunned, And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man, He rose the morrow morn.
This version is from Sybilline Leaves (1817).