Coleridge Poetry

Coradella Collegiate Bookshelf Editions.
Poems.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge.

Contents
Open
Purchase the entire

Coradella Collegiate
Bookshelf on CD at
http://collegebookshelf.net
Purchase the entire Coradella Collegiate Bookshelf on CD at
Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Poetry. http://collegebookshelf.net
In 1795 Coleridge met poet William Wordsworth and his sister

About the author Dorothy. The two men of letters published a joint volume of poetry,
Lyrical Ballads (1798), which proved to be a manifesto for Romantic
poetry. The first version of Coleridge's great poem The Rime of the
Ancient Mariner appeared in this volume.
Samuel Taylor Coleridge (Oc-
tober 21, 1772-July 25, 1834) Around 1796, Coleridge started using opium as a pain reliever.
was an English poet, critic, and His and Dorothy Wordsworth's notebooks record that he suffered
philosopher and, along with his from a variety of medical complaints, including toothache and facial
friend William Wordsworth, one neuralgia. There appears to have been no stigma associated with merely
of the founders of the Romantic taking opium then, but also little understanding of the physiological or
Movement in England. He is psychological aspects of addiction.
probably best known for his poem
The Rime of the Ancient Mari- The years 1797 and 1798, during which the friends lived in Nether
ner. Stowey, Somersetshire, were among the most fruitful of Coleridge's
life. Besides the Ancient Mariner, he composed the symbolic poem
Coleridge was born in Ottery St. Mary, the son of a vicar. After the Kubla Khan, written as a result of an opium dream, in "a kind of a
death of his father, he was sent to Christ's Hospital, a boarding school reverie", and began the numinous narrative poem Christabel, medi-
in London. In later life, Coleridge idealised his father as a pious inno- eval in atmosphere. During this period he also produced his much-
cent, but his relationship with his mother was a difficult one. His child- praised "conversation" poems This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison, Frost
hood was characterised by attention-seeking, which has been linked at Midnight, and The Nightingale.
with his dependent personality as an adult, and he was rarely allowed
to return home during his schooldays. From 1791 until 1794 he at- In the autumn of 1798 Coleridge and Wordsworth left for a so-
tended Jesus College at the University of Cambridge, except for a journ in Germany; Coleridge soon went his own way and spent much
short period when he enlisted in the royal dragoons. At the university of his time in university towns. During this period he became inter-
he met with political and theological ideas then considered radical. He ested in German philosophy, especially the transcendental idealism of
left Cambridge without a degree and joined the poet Robert Southey Immanuel Kant, and in the literary criticism of the 18th-century dra-
in a plan, soon abandoned, to found a utopian communist-like society, matist Gotthold Lessing. Coleridge studied German and, after his
called pantisocracy, in the wilderness of Pennsylvania. In 1795 the two return to England, translated the dramatic trilogy Wallenstein by the
friends married Sarah and Elizabeth Fricker (who were sisters), but romantic poet Friedrich Schiller into English.
Contents
Coleridge's marriage proved unhappy. Southey departed for Portugal,

but Coleridge remained in England. In 1796 he published Poems on In 1800 he returned to England and shortly thereafter settled
Various Subjects.
with his family and friends at Keswick in the Lake District of

Cumberland. Soon, however, he fell into a vicious circle of lack of con-
fidence in his poetic powers, ill-health, and increased opium depen-
dency.
From 1804 to 1806, Coleridge lived in Malta and travelled in

Contents
Sicily and Italy, in the hope that leaving Britain's damp climate would
improve his health and thus enable him to reduce his consumption of
opium. For a while he had a civil-service job as the Public Secretary of
the British administration of Malta. Thomas de Quincey alleges in his The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
Recollections of the Lakes and the Lake Poets that it was during this Christabel.
period that Coleridge became a full-blown opium addict, using the Kubla Kahn.
drug as a substitute for the lost vigour and creativity of his youth. It has
been suggested, however, that this reflects de Quincey's own experi- Love.
ences more than Coleridge's. France: An Ode
Youth and Age.
Between 1808 and 1819 this "giant among dwarfs", as he was Work Without Hope.
often considered by his contemporaries, gave a series of lectures in Epitaph.
London and Bristol – those on Shakespeare can be, to an extent,
regarded as renewing cultural interest in the playwright.
Click on a poem to go to the first line of
that poem
In 1816 Coleridge, his addiction worsening, his spirits depressed,
and his family alienated, took residence in the home of the physician Note:
James Gillman, in Highgate. ln Gillman's home he finished his major The best way to read this ebook is in Full
prose work, the Biographia Literaria (1817), a volume composed of 25 Screen mode: click View, Full Screen to set
chapters of autobiographical notes and dissertations on various sub- Adobe Acrobat to Full Screen View. This mode
jects, including some incisive literary theory and criticism. The sections allows you to use Page Down to go to the next
in which Coleridge's definitions of the nature of poetry and the imagi- page, and affords the best reading view. Press
nation – his famous distinction between primary and secondary imagi- Escape to exit the Full Screen View.
nation on the one hand and fancy on the other – are especially inter-
Contents
esting. He published other writings while he was living at the Gillman

home, notably Sibylline Leaves (1817), Aids to Reflection (1825), and
Church and State (1830). He died in Highgate on July 25, 1834.
1
The Poetry of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
Samuel Taylor In seven parts
Coleridge. Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibiles

in rerum universitate. Sed horum omnium familiam quis no-
bis enarrabit? et gradus et cognationes et discrimina et
singulorum munera? Quid agunt? quae loca habitant? Harum
rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingenium humanum, nun-
quam 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
NOTICE veritati interea invigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut certa
Contents
Copyright © 2004 thewritedirection.net

Please note that although the text of this ebook is in the ab incertis, diem a nocte, distinguamus—T.
public domain, this pdf edition is a copyrighted publication. BURNET, Archaeol. Phil, p. .
FOR COMPLETE DETAILS, SEE
COLLEGEBOOKSHELF.NET/COPYRIGHTS
2 3
And listens like a three years’ child:

Part One. The Mariner hath his will.
[Sidenote: An ancient Mariner meeteth three Gallants The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
bidden to a wedding-feast, and detaineth one.] He cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
It is an ancient Mariner, The bright-eyed Mariner.
And he stoppeth one of three.
“By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, “The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared,
Now wherefore stopp’st thou me? Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
The bridegroom’s doors are opened wide, Below the lighthouse top.
And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set: [Sidenote: The Mariner tells how the ship sailed south-
May’st hear the merry din.” ward with a good wind and fair weather, till it reached the
Line.]
He holds him with his skinny hand,
“There was a ship,” quoth he. The sun came up upon the left,
“Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!” Out of the sea came he!
Eftsoons his hand dropt he. And he shone bright, and on the right
Went down into the sea.
[Sidenote: The Wedding-Guest is spellbound by the eye
of the old seafaring man, and constrained to hear his tale.] Higher and higher every day,
Till over the mast at noon—”
Contents
He holds him with his glittering eye— The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,
The Wedding-Guest stood still, For he heard the loud bassoon.
4 5
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,

[Sidenote: The Wedding-Guest heareth the bridal music; And southward aye we fled.
but the Mariner continueth his tale.]
And now there came both mist and snow,
The bride hath paced into the hall, And it grew wondrous cold:
Red as a rose is she; And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
Nodding their heads before her goes As green as emerald.
The merry minstrelsy.
[Sidenote: The land of ice, and of fearful sounds where no
The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, living thing was to be seen.]
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man, And through the drifts the snowy clifts
The bright-eyed Mariner. Did send a dismal sheen:
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken—
[Sidenote: The ship driven by a storm toward the south The ice was all between.
pole.]
The ice was here, the ice was there,
“And now the Storm-blast came, and he The ice was all around:
Was tyrannous and strong: It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
He struck with his o’ertaking wings, Like noises in a swound!
And chased us south along.
[Sidenote: Till a great sea-bird, called the Albatross, came
With sloping masts and dipping prow, through the
As who pursued with yell and blow snow-fog, and was received with great joy and hospital-
Contents
Still treads the shadow of his foe, ity.]

And forward bends his head,
6 7
At length did cross an Albatross,

Thorough the fog it came; “God save thee, ancient Mariner!
As if it had been a Christian soul, From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—
We hailed it in God’s name. Why look’st thou so?”—”With my cross-bow
I shot the Albatross.
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! Part Two.
[Sidenote: And lo! the Albatross proveth a bird of good The Sun now rose upon the right:
omen, and followeth the ship as it returned northward through Out of the sea came he,
fog and floating ice.] Still hid in mist, and on the left
Went down into the sea.
And a good south wind sprung up behind;
The Albatross did follow, And the good south wind still blew behind,
And every day, for food or play, But no sweet bird did follow,
Came to the mariners’ hollo! Nor any day for food or play
Came to the mariners’ hollo!
In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perched for vespers nine; [Sidenote: His shipmates cry out against the ancient Mari-
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, ner, for killing the bird of good luck.]
Glimmered the white moon-shine.”
And I had done a hellish thing,
Contents
[Sidenote: The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the And it would work ‘em woe:
pious bird of good omen.] For all averred, I had killed the bird
8 9
That made the breeze to blow. ‘T was sad as sad could be;
Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, And we did speak only to break
That made the breeze to blow! The silence of the sea!
[Sidenote: But when the fog cleared off, they justify the All in a hot and copper sky,
same, and thus make themselves accomplices in the crime.] The bloody Sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head, No bigger than the Moon.
The glorious Sun uprist:
Then all averred, I had killed the bird Day after day, day after day,
That brought the fog and mist. We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
‘T was right, said they, such birds to slay, As idle as a painted ship
That bring the fog and mist. Upon a painted ocean.
[Sidenote: The fair breeze continues; the ship enters the [Sidenote: And the Albatross begins to be avenged.]
Pacific Ocean, and sails northward, even till it reaches the
Line.] Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink;
The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, Water, water, every where
The furrow followed free; Nor any drop to drink.
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea. The very deep did rot: O Christ!
That ever this should be!
[Sidenote: The ship hath been suddenly becalmed.] Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
Contents
Upon the slimy sea.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
10 11
About, about, in reel and rout Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks
The death-fires danced at night; Had I from old and young!
The water, like a witch’s oils, Instead of the cross, the Albatross
Burnt green, and blue and white. About my neck was hung.
[Sidenote: A Spirit had followed them: one of the invis- Part Three.
ible inhabitants of this planet, neither departed souls nor an-
gels, concerning whom the learned Jew, Josephus, and the Pla- [Sidenote: The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the
tonic Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. element afar off.]
They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element
without one or more.] There passed a weary time. Each throat
Was parched, and glazed each eye.
And some in dreams assured were A weary time! a weary time!
Of the Spirit that plagued us so; How glazed each weary eye,
Nine fathom deep he had followed us When looking westward, I beheld
From the land of mist and snow. A something in the sky.
And every tongue, through utter drought, At first it seemed a little speck,
Was withered at the root; And then it seemed a mist;
We could not speak, no more than if It moved and moved, and took at last
We had been choked with soot. A certain shape, I wist.
[Sidenote: The shipmates, in their sore distress, would fain A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
throw the whole guilt on the ancient Mariner: in sign whereof And still it neared and neared:
Contents
they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck.] As if it dodged a water-sprite,
It plunged and tacked and veered.
12 13
Without a breeze, without a tide,

[Sidenote: At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a She steadies with upright keel!
ship; and at a dear ransom he freeth his speech from the bonds
of thirst.] The western wave was all a-flame.
The day was well nigh done!
With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, Almost upon the western wave
We could nor laugh nor wail; Rested the broad bright Sun;
Through utter drought all dumb we stood! When that strange shape drove suddenly
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, Betwixt us and the Sun;
And cried, A sail! a sail!
[Sidenote: It seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship.]
With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
Agape they heard me call: And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,
(Heaven’s Mother send us grace!)
[Sidenote: A flash of joy;] As if through a dungeon-grate he peered
With broad and burning face.
[Sidenote: And horror follows. For can it be a ship that
comes onward without wind or tide?] Alas (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
How fast she nears and nears!
Gramercy! they for joy did grin, Are those her sails that glance in the Sun,
And all at once their breath drew in, Like restless gossameres?
As they were drinking all.
[Sidenote: And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the
setting Sun. The Spectre-Woman and her Deathmate, and
Contents
See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more! no other on board the skeleton-ship.]
Hither to work us weal;
14 15
Are those her ribs through which the Sun With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea,
Did peer, as through a grate? Off shot the spectre-bark.
And is that Woman all her crew?
Is that a Death? and are there two? [Sidenote: At the rising of the moon.]
Is Death that woman’s mate?
We listened and looked sideways up!
[Sidenote: Like vessel, like crew!] Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
My life-blood seemed to sip!
Her lips were red, her looks were free, The stars were dim, and thick the night,
Her locks were yellow as gold: The steersman’s face by his lamp gleamed white;
Her skin was as white as leprosy, From the sails the dew did drip—
The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, Till clomb above the eastern bar
Who thicks man’s blood with cold. The horned Moon, with one bright star
Within the nether tip.
[Sidenote: Death and Life-in-Death have diced for the
ship’s crew, and she (the latter) winneth the ancient Mariner.] [Sidenote: One after another,]
The naked hulk alongside came, One after one, by the star-dogged Moon,
And the twain were casting dice; Too quick for groan or sigh,
‘The game is done! I’ve won! I’ve won!’ Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,
Quoth she, and whistles thrice. And cursed me with his eye.
[Sidenote: No twilight within the courts of the Sun.] [Sidenote: His shipmates drop down dead.]
Contents
The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out; Four times fifty living men,
At one stride comes the dark; (And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
16 17
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,

They dropped down one by one. [Sidenote: But the ancient Mariner assureth him of his
bodily life, and proceedeth to relate his horrible penance.]
[Sidenote: But Life-in-Death begins her work on the an-
cient Mariner.] Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on the wide, wide sea!
The souls did from their bodies fly,— And never a saint took pity on
They fled to bliss or woe! My soul in agony.
And every soul, it passed me by,
Like the whizz of my cross-bow!” [Sidenote: He despiseth the creatures of the calm.]
The many men, so beautiful!

Part 4. And they all dead did lie:
And a thousand thousand slimy things
[Sidenote: The Wedding-Guest feareth that a Spirit is Lived on; and so did I.
talking to him;]
[Sidenote: And envieth that they should live, and so many
“I Fear thee, ancient Mariner! lie dead.]
I fear thy skinny hand!
And thou art long, and lank, and brown, I looked upon the rotting sea,
As is the ribbed sea-sand. And drew my eyes away;
I looked upon the rotting deck,
I fear thee and thy glittering eye, And there the dead men lay.
And thy skinny hand, so brown.”—
Contents
“Fear me not, fear not, thou wedding-guest! I looked to heaven, and tried to pray;
This body dropt not down. But or ever a prayer had gusht,
18 19
A wicked whisper came, and made yet still move onward; and every where the blue sky belongs
My heart as dry as dust. to them, and is their appointed rest, and their native country
and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced,
I closed my lids, and kept them close, as lords that are certainly expected and yet there is a silent joy
And the balls like pulses beat; at their arrival.]
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky
Lay like a load on my weary eye, The moving Moon went up the sky,
And the dead were at my feet. And nowhere did abide:
Softly she was going up,
[Sidenote: But the curse liveth for him in the eye of the And a star or two beside—
dead men.]
Her beams bemocked the sultry main,
The cold sweat melted from their limbs, Like April hoar-frost spread;
Nor rot nor reek did they: But where the ship’s huge shadow lay,
The look with which they looked on me The charmed water burnt alway
Had never passed away. A still and awful red.
An orphan’s curse would drag to hell [Sidenote: By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God’s
A spirit from on high; creatures of the great calm.]
But oh! more horrible than that
Is a curse in a dead man’s eye! Beyond the shadow of the ship,
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, I watched the water-snakes:
And yet I could not die. They moved in tracks of shining white,
And when they reared, the elfish light
Contents
[Sidenote: In his loneliness and fixedness he yearneth to- Fell off in hoary flakes.
wards the journeying Moon, and the stars that still sojourn,
20 21
Within the shadow of the ship Part Five.

I watched their rich attire:
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,
They coiled and swam; and every track Beloved from pole to pole!
Was a flash of golden fire. To Mary Queen the praise be given!
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,
[Sidenote: Their beauty and their happiness.] That slid into my soul.
[Sidenote: He blesseth them in his heart.] [Sidenote: By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient Mari-
ner is refreshed with rain.]
O happy living things! no tongue
Their beauty might declare: The silly buckets on the deck,
A spring of love gushed from my heart, That had so long remained,
And I blessed them unaware: I dreamt that they were filled with dew;
Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And when I awoke, it rained.
And I blessed them unaware.
My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
[Sidenote: The spell begins to break.] My garments all were dank;
Sure I had drunken in my dreams,
The selfsame moment I could pray; And still my body drank.
And from my neck so free
The Albatross fell off, and sank I moved, and could not feel my limbs:
Like lead into the sea. I was so light—almost
I thought that I had died in sleep,
Contents
And was a blessed ghost.

22 23
[Sidenote: He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights and the ship moves on;]
commotions in the sky and the element.]
The loud wind never reached the ship,
And soon I heard a roaring wind: Yet now the ship moved on!
It did not come anear; Beneath the lightning and the Moon
But with its sound it shook the sails, The dead men gave a groan.
That were so thin and sere.
They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
The upper air burst into life! Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;
And a hundred fire-flags sheen, It had been strange, even in a dream,
To and fro they were hurried about! To have seen those dead men rise.
And to and fro, and in and out,
The wan stars danced between. The helmsman steered, the ship moved on;
Yet never a breeze up blew;
And the coming wind did roar more loud, The mariners all ‘gan work the ropes,
And the sails did sigh like sedge; Where they were wont to do;
And the rain poured down from one black cloud; They raised their limbs like lifeless tools—
The Moon was at its edge. We were a ghastly crew.
The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The body of my brother’s son
The Moon was at its side. Stood by me, knee to knee:
Like waters shot from some high crag, The body and I pulled at one rope,
The lightning fell with never a jag, But he said nought to me.”
A river steep and wide.
Contents
[Sidenote: But not by the souls of the men, nor by dae-

[Sidenote: The bodies of the ship’s crew are inspired, and mons of earth or middle air, but by a blessed troop of angelic
24 25
spirits, sent down by the invocation of the guardian saint.] And now it is an angel’s song,
That makes the heavens be mute.
“I fear thee, ancient Mariner!”
“Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! It ceased; yet still the sails made on
‘T was not those souls that fled in pain, A pleasant noise till noon,
Which to their corses came again, A noise like of a hidden brook
But a troop of spirits blest: In the leafy month of June,
That to the sleeping woods all night
For when it dawned—they dropped their arms, Singeth a quiet tune.
And clustered round the mast;
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, Till noon we quietly sailed on,
And from their bodies passed. Yet never a breeze did breathe:
Slowly and smoothly went the ship,
Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Moved onward from beneath.
Then darted to the Sun;
Slowly the sounds came back again, [Sidenote: The lonesome Spirit from the south-pole car-
Now mixed, now one by one. ries on the ship as far as the Line, in obedience to the angelic
troop, but still requireth vengeance.]
Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
I heard the sky-lark sing; Under’ the keel nine fathom deep,
Sometimes all little birds that are, From the land of mist and snow,
How they seemed to fill the sea and air The spirit slid: and it was he
With their sweet jargoning! That made the ship to go.
The sails at noon left off their tune,
Contents
And now ‘t was like all instruments, And the ship stood still also.
Now like a lonely flute;
26 27
The Sun, right up above the mast, With his cruel bow he laid full low
Had fixed her to the ocean: The harmless Albatross.
But in a minute she ‘gan stir,
With a short uneasy motion— The spirit who bideth by himself
Backwards and forwards half her length In the land of mist and snow,
With a short uneasy motion. He loved the bird that loved the man
Who shot him with his bow?’
Then like a pawing horse let go,
She made a sudden bound: The other was a softer voice,
It flung the blood into my head, As soft as honey-dew:
And I fell down in a swound. Quoth he, ‘The man hath penance done,
And penance more will do.’
[Sidenote: The Polar Spirit’s fellow-daemons, the invis-
ible 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 Po- Part Six.
lar Spirit, who returneth southward.]
First voice.
How long in that same fit I lay,
I have not to declare; ‘But tell me, tell me! speak again,
But ere my living life returned, Thy soft response renewing—
I heard and in my soul discerned What makes that ship drive on so fast?
Two voices in the air. What is the ocean doing?’
Contents
‘Is it he?’ quoth one, ‘Is this the man? Second voice.
By him who died on cross,
28 29
‘Still as a slave before his lord, Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!
The ocean hath no blast; Or we shall be belated:
His great bright eye most silently For slow and slow that ship will go,
Up to the Moon is cast— When the Mariner’s trance is abated.
If he may know which way to go; [Sidenote: The supernatural motion is retarded; the Mari-
For she guides him smooth or grim. ner awakes, and his penance begins anew.]
See, brother, see! how graciously
She looketh down on him.’ I woke, and we were sailing on
As in a gentle weather:
First voice. ‘T was night, calm night, the moon was high,
The dead men stood together.
[Sidenote: The Mariner hath been cast into a trance; for
the angelic All stood together on the deck,
power causeth the vessel to drive northward faster than For a charnel-dungeon fitter:
human life could All fixed on me their stony eyes,
endure.] That in the Moon did glitter.
‘But why drives on that ship so fast? The pang, the curse, with which they died,
Without or wave or wind?’ Had never passed away:
I could not draw my eyes from theirs,
Second voice. Nor turn them up to pray.
‘The air is cut away before, [Sidenote: The curse is finally expiated.]
Contents
And closes from behind.

And now this spell was snapt: once more
30 31
I viewed the ocean green, [Sidenote: And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native
And looked far forth, yet little saw country.]
Of what had else been seen—
Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed
Like one, that on a lonesome road The light-house top I see?
Doth walk in fear and dread, Is this the hill? is this the kirk?
And having once turned round walks on, Is this mine own countree?
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows, a frightful fiend We drifted o’er the harbor-bar,
Doth close behind him tread. And I with sobs did pray—
O let me be awake, my God!
But soon there breathed a wind on me, Or let me sleep alway.
Nor sound nor motion made:
Its path was not upon the sea, The harbor-bay was clear as glass,
In ripple or in shade. So smoothly it was strewn!
And on the bay the moonlight lay,
It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek And the shadow of the Moon.
Like a meadow-gale of spring—
It mingled strangely with my fears, The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,
Yet it felt like a welcoming. That stands above the rock:
The moonlight steeped in silentness
Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, The steady weathercock.
Yet she sailed softly too:
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze— And the bay was white with silent light
Contents
On me alone it blew. Till rising from the same,

32 33
[Sidenote: The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies,]

But soon I heard the dash of oars,
Full many shapes, that shadows were, I heard the Pilot’s cheer;
In crimson colors came. My head was turned perforce away,
And I saw a boat appear.
[Sidenote: And appear in their own forms of light.]
The Pilot and the Pilot’s boy,
A little distance from the prow I heard them coming fast:
Those crimson shadows were: Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy
I turned my eyes upon the deck— The dead men could not blast.
Oh, Christ! what saw I there!
I saw a third—I heard his voice:
Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, It is the Hermit good!
And, by the holy rood! He singeth loud his godly hymns
A man all light, a seraph-man, That he makes in the wood.
On every corse there stood. He’ll shrieve my soul, he’ll wash away
The Albatross’s blood.
This seraph-band, each waved his hand:
It was a heavenly sight!
They stood as signals to the land,
Each one a lovely light; Part Seven.
This seraph-band, each waved his hand, [Sidenote: The Hermit of the Wood,]
No voice did they impart—
Contents
No voice; but oh! the silence sank This Hermit good lives in that wood
Like music on my heart. Which slopes down to the sea.
34 35
How loudly his sweet voice he rears! And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,
He loves to talk with marineres That eats the she-wolf ’s young.’
That come from a far countree.
‘Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look—
He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve— (The Pilot made reply)
He hath a cushion plump: I am a-feared’—’Push on, push on!’
It is the moss that wholly hides Said the Hermit cheerily.
The rotted old oak-stump.
The boat came closer to the ship,
The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, But I nor spake nor stirred;
‘Why, this is strange, I trow! The boat came close beneath the ship,
Where are those lights, so many and fair, And straight a sound was heard.
That signal made but now?’
[Sidenote: The ship suddenly sinketh.]
[Sidenote: Approacheth the ship with wonder.]
Under the water it rumbled on,
‘Strange, by my faith!’ the Hermit said— Still louder and more dread:
‘And they answered not our cheer! It reached the ship, it split the bay;
The planks looked warped! and see those sails, The ship went down like lead.
How thin they are and sere!
I never saw aught like to them, [Sidenote: The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot’s boat.]
Unless perchance it were
Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,
Brown skeletons of leaves that lag Which sky and ocean smote,
Contents
My forest-brook along; Like one that hath been seven days drowned
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, My body lay afloat;
36 37
But swift as dreams, myself I found Hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him.]
Within the Pilot’s boat.
‘O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!’
Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The Hermit crossed his brow.
The boat spun round and round; ‘Say quick,’ quoth he, ‘I bid thee say—
And all was still, save that the hill What manner of man art thou?’
Was telling of the sound.
Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
I moved my lips—the Pilot shrieked With a woful agony,
And fell down in a fit; Which forced me to begin my tale;
The holy Hermit raised his eyes, And then it left me free.
And prayed where he did sit.
[Sidenote: And ever and anon throughout his future life
I took the oars: the Pilot’s boy, an agony constraineth him to travel from land to land,]
Who now doth crazy go,
Laughed loud and long, and all the while Since then, at an uncertain hour,
His eyes went to and fro. That agony returns:
‘Ha! ha!’ quoth he, ‘full plain I see, And till my ghastly tale is told,
The Devil knows how to row.’ This heart within me burns.
And now, all in my own countree, I pass, like night, from land to land;
I stood on the firm land! I have strange power of speech;
The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, That moment that his face I see,
And scarcely he could stand. I know the man that must hear me:
Contents
To him my tale I teach.

[Sidenote: The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the
38 39
What loud uproar bursts from that door! Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
The wedding-guests are there: To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
But in the garden-bower the bride He prayeth well, who loveth well
And bride-maids singing are: Both man and bird and beast.
And hark the little vesper bell,
Which biddeth me to prayer! He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been For the dear God who loveth us,
Alone on a wide, wide sea: He made and loveth all.”
So lonely ‘t was, that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be. The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
O sweeter than the marriage-feast, Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest
‘T is sweeter far to me, Turned from the bridegroom’s door.
To walk together to the kirk
With a goodly company!— He went like one that hath been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn:
To walk together to the kirk, A sadder and a wiser man,
And all together pray, He rose the morrow morn.
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

Contents
reverence to all things that God made and loveth.]

40 41
And yet she looks both small and dull.

The night is chill, the cloud is gray:
‘T is a month before the month of May,
Christabel. And the Spring comes slowly up this way.
Part the first. The lovely lady, Christabel,

Whom her father loves so well,
’Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, What makes her in the wood so late,
And the owls have awakened the crowing cock. A furlong from the castle gate?
Tu—whit!——Tu—whoo! She had dreams all yesternight
And hark, again! the crowing cock, Of her own betrothed knight;
How drowsily it crew. And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that’s far away.
Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
Hath a toothless mastiff, which She stole along, she nothing spoke,
From her kennel beneath the rock The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
Maketh answer to the clock, And naught was green upon the oak
Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; But moss and rarest mistletoe:
Ever and aye, by shine and shower, She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,
Sixteen short howls, not over loud; And in silence prayeth she.
Some say, she sees my lady’s shroud.
The lady sprang up suddenly,
Is the night chilly and dark? The lovely lady, Christabel!
The night is chilly, but not dark. It moaned as near, as near can be,
Contents
The thin gray cloud is spread on high, But what it is she cannot tell.—
It covers but not hides the sky. On the other side it seems to be,
The moon is behind, and at the full;
42 43
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. The gems entangled in her hair.
I guess, ’twas frightful there to see
The night is chill; the forest bare; A lady so richly clad as she—
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak? Beautiful exceedingly!
There is not wind enough in the air
To move away the ringlet curl “Mary mother, save me now!”
From the lovely lady’s cheek— Said Christabel, “And who art thou?”
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan, The lady strange made answer meet,
That dances as often as dance it can, And her voice was faint and sweet:—
Hanging so light, and hanging so high, “Have pity on my sore distress,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. I scarce can speak for weariness:
Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!”
Hush, beating heart of Christabel! Said Christabel, “How camest thou here?”
Jesu, Maria, shield her well! And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,
She folded her arms beneath her cloak, Did thus pursue her answer meet:—
And stole to the other side of the oak.
What sees she there? “My sire is of a noble line,
And my name is Geraldine:
There she sees a damsel bright, Five warriors seized me yestermorn,
Drest in a silken robe of white, Me, even me, a maid forlorn:
That shadowy in the moonlight shone: They choked my cries with force and fright,
The neck that made that white robe wan, And tied me on a palfrey white.
Her stately neck, and arms were bare; The palfrey was as fleet as wind,
Contents
Her blue-veined feet unsandal’d were, And they rode furiously behind.
And wildly glittered here and there They spurred amain, their steeds were white:
44 45
And once we crossed the shade of night.

As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, She rose: and forth with steps they passed
I have no thought what men they be; That strove to be, and were not, fast.
Nor do I know how long it is Her gracious stars the lady blest,
(For I have lain entranced I wis) And thus spake on sweet Christabel:
“All our household are at rest,
Since one, the tallest of the five, The hall as silent as the cell;
Took me from the palfrey’s back, Sir Leoline is weak in health,
A weary woman, scarce alive. And may not well awakened be,
Some muttered words his comrades spoke: But we will move as if in stealth,
He placed me underneath this oak; And I beseech your courtesy,
He swore they would return with haste; This night, to share your couch with me.”
Whither they went I cannot tell—
I thought I heard, some minutes past, They crossed the moat, and Christabel
Sounds as of a castle bell. Took the key that fitted well;
Stretch forth thy hand,” thus ended she, A little door she opened straight,
“And help a wretched maid to flee.” All in the middle of the gate;
The gate that was ironed within and without,
Then Christabel stretched forth her hand, Where an army in battle array had marched out.
And comforted fair Geraldine: The lady sank, belike through pain,
“O well, bright dame! may you command And Christabel with might and main
The service of Sir Leoline; Lifted her up, a weary weight,
And gladly our stout chivalry Over the threshold of the gate:
Will he send forth and friends withal Then the lady rose again,
Contents
To guide and guard you safe and free And moved, as she were not in pain.
Home to your noble father’s hall.”
46 47
So free from danger, free from fear, A tongue of light, a fit of flame;
They crossed the court: right glad they were. And Christabel saw the lady’s eye,
And Christabel devoutly cried And nothing else saw she thereby,
To the lady by her side, Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,
“Praise we the Virgin all divine Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall.
Who hath rescued thee from thy distress!” “O softly tread,” said Christabel,
“Alas, alas!” said Geraldine, “My father seldom sleepeth well.”
“I cannot speak for weariness.”
So free from danger, free from fear, Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare,
They crossed the court: right glad they were. And jealous of the listening air
They steal their way from stair to stair,
Outside her kennel, the mastiff old Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. And now they pass the Baron’s room,
The mastiff old did not awake, As still as death, with stifled breath
Yet she an angry moan did make! And now have reached her chamber door;
And what can ail the mastiff bitch? And now doth Geraldine press down
Never till now she uttered yell The rushes of the chamber floor.
Beneath the eye of Christabel.
Perhaps it is the owlet’s scritch: The moon shines dim in the open air,
For what can ail the mastiff bitch? And not a moonbeam enters here.
But they without its light can see
They passed the hall, that echoes still, The chamber carved so curiously,
Pass as lightly as you will! Carved with figures strange and sweet,
The brands were flat, the brands were dying, All made out of the carver’s brain,
Contents
Amid their own white ashes lying; For a lady’s chamber meet:
But when the lady passed, there came The lamp with twofold silver chain
48 49
Is fastened to an angel’s feet. “Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!

I have power to bid thee flee.”
The silver lamp burns dead and dim; Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?
But Christabel the lamp will trim. Why stares she with unsettled eye?
She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright, Can she the bodiless dead espy?
And left it swinging to and fro, And why with hollow voice cries she,
While Geraldine, in wretched plight, “Off, woman, off! this hour is mine—
Sank down upon the floor below. Though thou her guardian spirit be,
Off, woman, off! ’tis given to me.”
“O weary lady, Geraldine,
I pray you, drink this cordial wine! Then Christabel knelt by the lady’s side,
It is a wine of virtuous powers; And raised to heaven her eyes so blue—
My mother made it of wild flowers.” “Alas!” said she, “this ghastly ride—
Dear lady! it hath wildered you!”
“And will your mother pity me, The lady wiped her moist cold brow,
Who am a maiden most forlorn? And faintly said, “’Tis over now!”
Christabel answered—”Woe is me!
She died the hour that I was born. Again the wild-flower wine she drank:
I have heard the gray-haired friar tell Her fair large eyes ‘gan glitter bright,
How on her death-bed she did say, And from the floor whereon she sank,
That she should hear the castle-bell The lofty lady stood upright:
Strike twelve upon my wedding-day. She was most beautiful to see,
O mother dear! that thou wert here!” Like a lady of a far countree.
“I would,” said Geraldine, “she were!” And thus the lofty lady spake—
Contents
“All they who live in the upper sky,

But soon with altered voice, said she— Do love you, holy Christabel!
50 51
And you love them, and for their sake Behold! her bosom and half her side—
And for the good which me befell, A sight to dream of, not to tell!
Even I in my degree will try, O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!
Fair maiden, to requite you well.
But now unrobe yourself; for I Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs;
Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.” Ah! what a stricken look was hers!
Deep from within she seems half-way
Quoth Christabel, “So let it be!” To lift some weight with sick assay,
And as the lady bade, did she. And eyes the maid and seeks delay;
Her gentle limbs did she undress, Then suddenly, as one defied,
And lay down in her loveliness. Collects herself in scorn and pride,
And lay down by the Maiden’s side!—
But through her brain of weal and woe And in her arms the maid she took,
So many thoughts moved to and fro, Ah wel-a-day!
That vain it were her lids to close; And with low voice and doleful look
So half-way from the bed she rose, These words did say:
And on her elbow did recline “In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,
To look at the Lady Geraldine. Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow,
Beneath the lamp the lady bowed, This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow;
And slowly rolled her eyes around; But vainly thou warrest,
Then drawing in her breath aloud, For this is alone in
Like one that shuddered, she unbound Thy power to declare,
The cincture from beneath her breast: That in the dim forest
Contents
Her silken robe, and inner vest, Thou heard’st a low moaning,
Dropt to her feet, and full in view, And found’st a bright lady, surpassingly fair;
52 53
And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity, Seems to slumber still and mild,
To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.” As a mother with her child.
The conclusion to Part the first.
A star hath set, a star hath risen,
It was a lovely sight to see O Geraldine! since arms of thine
The lady Christabel, when she Have been the lovely lady’s prison.
Was praying at the old oak tree. O Geraldine! one hour was thine—
Amid the jagged shadows Thou ‘st had thy will! By tairn and rill,
Of mossy leafless boughs, The night-birds all that hour were still.
Kneeling in the moonlight, But now they are jubilant anew,
To make her gentle vows; From cliff and tower, tu—whoo! tu—whoo!
Her slender palms together prest, Tu—whoo! tu—whoo! from wood and fell!
Heaving sometimes on her breast;
Her face resigned to bliss or bale— And see! the lady Christabel
Her face, oh call it fair not pale, Gathers herself from out her trance;
And both blue eyes more bright than clear, Her limbs relax, her countenance
Each about to have a tear. Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids
Close o’er her eyes; and tears she sheds—
With open eyes (ah woe is me!) Large tears that leave the lashes bright!
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully, And oft the while she seems to smile
Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis, As infants at a sudden light!
Dreaming that alone, which is—
O sorrow and shame! Can this be she, Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep,
The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree? Like a youthful hermitess,
Contents
And lo! the worker of these harms, Beauteous in a wilderness,

That holds the maiden in her arms, Who, praying always, prays in sleep.
54 55
And, if she move unquietly, Which not a soul can choose but hear
Perchance, ’tis but the blood so free From Bratha Head to Wyndermere.
Comes back and tingles in her feet.
No doubt, she hath a vision sweet. Saith Bracy the bard, “So let it knell!
What if her guardian spirit ‘twere, And let the drowsy sacristan
What if she knew her mother near? Still count as slowly as he can!
But this she knows, in joys and woes, There is no lack of such, I ween,
That saints will aid if men will call: As well fill up the space between.
For the blue sky bends over all! In Langdale Pike and Witch’s Lair,
And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent,
With ropes of rock and bells of air
Three sinful sextons’ ghosts are pent,
Part the second. Who all give back, one after t’ other,
The death-note to their living brother;
“Each matin bell,” the Baron saith, And oft too, by the knell offended,
“Knells us back to a world of death.” Just as their one! two! three! is ended,
These words Sir Leoline first said, The devil mocks the doleful tale
When he rose and found his lady dead: With a merry peal from Borrowdale.”
These words Sir Leoline will say
Many a morn to his dying day! The air is still! through mist and cloud
That merry peal comes ringing loud;
And hence the custom and law began And Geraldine shakes off her dread,
That still at dawn the sacristan, And rises lightly from the bed;
Who duly pulls the heavy bell, Puts on her silken vestments white,
Contents
Five and forty beads must tell And tricks her hair in lovely plight,
Between each stroke—a warning knell, And nothing doubting of her spell
56 57
Awakens the lady Christabel. She forthwith led fair Geraldine

“Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel? To meet her sire, Sir Leoline.
I trust that you have rested well.”
The lovely maid and the lady tall
And Christabel awoke and spied Are pacing both into the hall,
The same who lay down by her side— And pacing on through page and groom,
O rather say, the same whom she Enter the Baron’s presence-room.
Raised up beneath the old oak tree!
Nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair! The Baron rose, and while he prest
For she belike hath drunken deep His gentle daughter to his breast,
Of all the blessedness of sleep! With cheerful wonder in his eyes
And while she spake, her looks, her air, The lady Geraldine espies,
Such gentle thankfulness declare, And gave such welcome to the same,
That (so it seemed) her girded vests As might beseem so bright a dame!
Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts.
“Sure I have sinn’d!” said Christabel, But when he heard the lady’s tale,
“Now heaven be praised if all be well!” And when she told her father’s name,
And in low faltering tones, yet sweet, Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale,
Did she the lofty lady greet Murmuring o’er the name again,
With such perplexity of mind Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine?
As dreams too lively leave behind.
Alas! they had been friends in youth;
So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed But whispering tongues can poison truth;
Her maiden limbs, and having prayed And constancy lives in realms above;
Contents
That He, who on the cross did groan, And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
Might wash away her sins unknown, And to be wroth with one we love
58 59
Doth work like madness in the brain. Were base as spotted infamy!
And thus it chanced, as I divine, “And if they dare deny the same,
With Roland and Sir Leoline. My herald shall appoint a week,
Each spake words of high disdain And let the recreant traitors seek
And insult to his heart’s best brother: My tourney court—that there and then
They parted—ne’er to meet again! I may dislodge their reptile souls
But never either found another From the bodies and forms of men!”
To free the hollow heart from paining— He spake: his eye in lightning rolls!
They stood aloof, the scars remaining, For the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he kenned
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; In the beautiful lady the child of his friend!
A dreary sea now flows between.
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, And now the tears were on his face,
Shall wholly do away, I ween, And fondly in his arms he took
The marks of that which once hath been. Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace,
Prolonging it with joyous look.
Sir Leoline, a moment’s space, Which when she viewed, a vision fell
Stood gazing on the damsel’s face: Upon the soul of Christabel,
And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine The vision of fear, the touch and pain!
Came back upon his heart again. She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again—
(Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee,
O then the Baron forgot his age, Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?)
His noble heart swelled high with rage;
He swore by the wounds in Jesu’s side Again she saw that bosom old,
He would proclaim it far and wide, Again she felt that bosom cold,
Contents
With trump and solemn heraldry, And drew in her breath with a hissing sound:
That they, who thus had wronged the dame Whereat the Knight turned wildly round,
60 61
And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid Nay, by my soul!” said Leoline.
With eyes upraised, as one that prayed. “Ho! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine!
Go thou, with music sweet and loud,
The touch, the sight, had passed away, And take two steeds with trappings proud,
And in its stead that vision blest, And take the youth whom thou lov’st best
Which comforted her after-rest, To bear thy harp, and learn thy song,
While in the lady’s arms she lay, And clothe you both in solemn vest,
Had put a rapture in her breast, And over the mountains haste along,
And on her lips and o’er her eyes Lest wandering folk, that are abroad,
Spread smiles like light! Detain you on the valley road.
With new surprise,
“What ails then my beloved child?” “And when he has crossed the Irthing flood,
The Baron said—His daughter mild My merry bard! he hastes, he hastes
Made answer, “All will yet be well!” Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood,
I ween, she had no power to tell And reaches soon that castle good
Aught else: so mighty was the spell. Which stands and threatens Scotland’s wastes.
Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, “Bard Bracy! bard Bracy! your horses are fleet,
Had deemed her sure a thing divine. Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet,
Such sorrow with such grace she blended, More loud than your horses’ echoing feet!
As if she feared she had offended And loud and loud to Lord Roland call,
Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid! ‘Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall!
And with such lowly tones she prayed Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free—
She might be sent without delay Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me.
Contents
Home to her father’s mansion. He bids thee come without delay

“Nay! With all thy numerous array
62 63
And take thy lovely daughter home: That gentle bird, whom thou dost love,
And he will meet thee on the way And call’st by thy own daughter’s name—
With all his numerous array Sir Leoline! I saw the same,
White with their panting palfreys’ foam’: Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan,
And, by mine honour! I will say, Among the green herbs in the forest alone.
That I repent me of the day Which when I saw and when I heard,
When I spake words of fierce disdain I wondered what might ail the bird;
To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!— For nothing near it could I see,
—For since that evil hour hath flown, Save the grass and green herbs underneath the old tree.
Many a summer’s sun hath shone;
Yet ne’er found I a friend again “And in my dream, methought, I went
Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine.” To search out what might there be found;
And what the sweet bird’s trouble meant,
The lady fell, and clasped his knees, That thus lay fluttering on the ground.
Her face upraised, her eyes o’erflowing; I went and peered, and could descry
And Bracy replied, with faltering voice, No cause for her distressful cry;
His gracious hail on all bestowing; But yet for her dear lady’s sake
“Thy words, thou sire of Christabel, I stooped, methought, the dove to take,
Are sweeter than my harp can tell; When lo! I saw a bright green snake
Yet might I gain a boon of thee, Coiled around its wings and neck.
This day my journey should not be, Green as the herbs on which it couched,
So strange a dream hath come to me; Close by the dove’s its head it crouched;
That I had vowed with music loud And with the dove it heaves and stirs,
To clear yon wood from thing unblest, Swelling its neck as she swelled hers!
Contents
Warned by a vision in my rest! I woke; it was the midnight hour,

For in my sleep I saw that dove, The clock was echoing in the tower;
64 65
But though my slumber was gone by, Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
This dream it would not pass away—
It seems to live upon my eye! A snake’s small eye blinks dull and shy,
And thence I vowed this self-same day And the lady’s eyes they shrunk in her head,
With music strong and saintly song Each shrunk up to a serpent’s eye,
To wander through the forest bare, And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread,
Lest aught unholy loiter there.” At Christabel she looked askance!—
One moment—and the sight was fled!
Thus Bracy said: the Baron, the while, But Christabel in dizzy trance
Half-listening heard him with a smile; Stumbling on the unsteady ground
Then turned to Lady Geraldine, Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound;
His eyes made up of wonder and love; And Geraldine again turned round,
And said in courtly accents fine, And like a thing, that sought relief,
“Sweet maid, Lord Roland’s beauteous dove, Full of wonder and full of grief,
With arms more strong than harp or song, She rolled her large bright eyes divine
Thy sire and I will crush the snake!” Wildly on Sir Leoline.
He kissed her forehead as he spake,
And Geraldine in maiden wise The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone,
Casting down her large bright eyes, She nothing sees—no sight but one!
With blushing cheek and courtesy fine The maid, devoid of guile and sin,
She turned her from Sir Leoline; I know not how, in fearful wise,
Softly gathering up her train, So deeply had she drunken in
That o’er her right arm fell again; That look, those shrunken serpent eyes,
And folded her arms across her chest, That all her features were resigned
Contents
And couched her head upon her breast, To this sole image in her mind:
And looked askance at Christabel— And passively did imitate
66 67
That look of dull and treacherous hate! Prayed that the babe for whom she died,
And thus she stood, in dizzy trance, Might prove her dear lord’s joy and pride!
Still picturing that look askance That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled,
With forced unconscious sympathy Sir Leoline!
Full before her father’s view— And wouldst thou wrong thy only child,
As far as such a look could be Her child and thine?
In eyes so innocent and blue!
Within the Baron’s heart and brain
And when the trance was o’er, the maid If thoughts, like these, had any share,
Paused awhile, and inly prayed: They only swelled his rage and pain,
Then falling at the Baron’s feet, And did but work confusion there.
“By my mother’s soul, do I entreat
That thou this woman send away!” His heart was cleft with pain and rage,
She said: and more she could not say: His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild,
For what she knew she could not tell, Dishonoured thus in his old age;
O’er-mastered by the mighty spell. Dishonour’d by his only child,
And all his hospitality
Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, To the insulted daughter of his friend
Sir Leoline? Thy only child By more than woman’s jealousy
Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride, Brought thus to a disgraceful end—
So fair, so innocent, so mild; He rolled his eye with stern regard
The same, for whom thy lady died! Upon the gentle minstrel bard,
O, by the pangs of her dear mother And said in tones abrupt, austere—
Think thou no evil of thy child! “Why, Bracy! dost thou loiter here?
Contents
For her, and thee, and for no other, I bade thee hence!” The bard obeyed;
She prayed the moment ere she died: And turning from his own sweet maid,
68 69
The aged knight, Sir Leoline,

Led forth the lady Geraldine!
The conclusion to Part the second.

Kubla Khan.
A little child, a limber elf,
Singing, dancing to itself, In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A fairy thing with red round cheeks, A stately pleasure-dome decree:
That always finds, and never seeks, Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Makes such a vision to the sight Through caverns measureless to man
As fills a father’s eyes with light; Down to a sunless sea.
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast So twice five miles of fertile ground
Upon his heart, that he at last With walls and towers were girdled round:
Must needs express his love’s excess And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
With words of unmeant bitterness. Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
Perhaps ’tis pretty to force together And here were forests ancient as the hills,
Thoughts so all unlike each other; Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
To mutter and mock a broken charm,
To dally with wrong that does no harm. But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Perhaps ’tis tender too and pretty Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
At each wild word to feel within A savage place! as holy and enchanted
A sweet recoil of love and pity. As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted
And what, if in a world of sin By woman wailing for her demon-lover!
(O sorrow and shame should this be true!) And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
Contents
Such giddiness of heart and brain As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
Comes seldom save from rage and pain, A mighty fountain momently was forced:
So talks as it’s most used to do.
70 71
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst To such a deep delight ’twould win me,
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail: That with music loud and long,
And ‘mid these dancing rocks at once and ever I would build that dome in air,
It flung up momently the sacred river. That sunny dome! those caves of ice!
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion And all who heard should see them there,
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
Then reached the caverns measureless to man, His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: Weave a circle round him thrice,
And ‘mid this tumult Kubla heard from far And close your eyes with holy dread,
Ancestral voices prophesying war! For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device,
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Contents
Could I revive within me.

Her symphony and song,
72 73
Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own.

My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
She loves me best, whene’er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.
Love.
I played a soft and doleful air,
All thoughts, all passions, all delights, I sang an old and moving story—
Whatever stirs this mortal frame, An old rude song, that suited well
All are but ministers of Love, That ruin wild and hoary.
And feed his sacred flame.
She listened with a flitting blush,
Oft in my waking dreams do I With downcast eyes and modest grace;
Live o’er again that happy hour, For well she knew, I could not choose
When midway on the mount I lay, But gaze upon her face.
Beside the ruined tower.
I told her of the Knight that wore
The moonshine, stealing o’er the scene, Upon his shield a burning brand;
Had blended with the lights of eve; And that for ten long years he wooed
And she was there, my hope, my joy, The Lady of the Land.
My own dear Genevieve!
I told her how he pined: and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
Contents
She leant against the armed man,

The statue of the armed knight; With which I sang another’s love,
She stood and listened to my lay, Interpreted my own.
74 75
And how she wept, and clasped his knees;

She listened with a flitting blush, And how she tended him in vain—
With downcast eyes, and modest grace And ever strove to expiate
And she forgave me, that I gazed The scorn that crazed his brain;—
Too fondly on her face!
And that she nursed him in a cave;
But when I told the cruel scorn And how his madness went away,
That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, When on the yellow forest-leaves
And that he crossed the mountain-woods, A dying man he lay;—
Nor rested day nor night;
His dying words—but when I reached
That sometimes from the savage den, That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
And sometimes from the darksome shade, My faltering voice and pausing harp
And sometimes starting up at once Disturbed her soul with pity!
In green and sunny glade,—
All impulses of soul and sense
There came and looked him in the face Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;
An angel beautiful and bright; The music and the doleful tale,
And that he knew it was a Fiend, The rich and balmy eve;
This miserable Knight!
And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
And that unknowing what he did, An undistinguishable throng,
He leaped amid a murderous band, And gentle wishes long subdued,
And saved from outrage worse than death Subdued and cherished long!
Contents
The Lady of the Land!

She wept with pity and delight,
76 77
She blushed with love, and virgin-shame;

And like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved—she stepped aside,

As conscious of my look she stepped—
Then suddenly, with timorous eye France: An Ode.
She fled to me and wept.
1.
She half enclosed me with her arms,
She pressed me with a meek embrace; Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause,
And bending back her head, looked up, Whose pathless march no mortal may control!
And gazed upon my face. Ye Ocean-Waves! that, wheresoe’er ye roll,
Yield homage only to eternal laws!
’Twas partly love, and partly fear, Ye Woods! that listen to the night-birds’ singing,
And partly ’twas a bashful art, Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined,
That I might rather feel, than see, Save when your own imperious branches swinging,
The swelling of her heart. Have made a solemn music of the wind!
Where, like a man beloved of God,
I calmed her fears, and she was calm, Through glooms, which never woodman trod,
And told her love with virgin pride; How oft, pursuing fancies holy,
And so I won my Genevieve, My moonlight way o’er flowering weeds I wound,
My bright and beauteous Bride. Inspired, beyond the guess of folly,
Contents
By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound!

O ye loud Waves! and O ye Forests high!
And O ye Clouds that far above me soared!
78 79
Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky! To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance,
Yea, every thing that is and will be free! And shame too long delayed and vain retreat!
Bear witness for me, wheresoe’er ye be, For ne’er, O Liberty! with partial aim
With what deep worship I have still adored I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame;
The spirit of divinest Liberty. But blessed the paeans of delivered France,
And hung my head and wept at Britain’s name.
2.
3.
When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared,
And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea, “And what,” I said, “though Blasphemy’s loud scream
Stamped her strong foot and said she would be free, With that sweet music of deliverance strove!
Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared! Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove
A dance more wild than e’er was maniac’s dream!
With what a joy my lofty gratulation Ye storms, that round the dawning east assembled,
Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band: The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light!”
And when to whelm the disenchanted nation, And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled,
Like fiends embattled by a wizard’s wand, The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright;
The Monarchs marched in evil day, When France her front deep-scarred and gory
And Britain joined the dire array; Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory;
Though dear her shores and circling ocean, When, insupportably advancing,
Though many friendships, many youthful loves Her arm made mockery of the warrior’s ramp;
Had swoln the patriot emotion While timid looks of fury glancing,
Contents
And flung a magic light o’er all her hills and groves; Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp,
Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore;
80 81
Then I reproached my fears that would not flee; And patriot only in pernicious toils!
“And soon,” I said, “shall Wisdom teach her lore Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind?
In the low huts of them that toil and groan! To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway,
And, conquering by herhappiness alone, Tell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey;
Shall France compel the nations to be free, To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils
Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Earth their own.” From freemen torn; to tempt and to betray?
4. 5.
Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams! The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain,
I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game
From bleak Helvetia’s icy caverns sent— They burst their manacles and wear the name
I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams! Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain!
Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished, O Liberty! with profitless endeavour
And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour;
With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I cherished But thou nor swell’st the victor’s strain, nor ever
One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes! Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power.
To scatter rage and traitorous guilt
Where Peace her jealous home had built; Alike from all, howe’er they praise thee,
A patriot-race to disinherit (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee)
Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear; Alike from Priestcraft’s harpy minions,
And with inexpiable spirit And factious Blasphemy’s obscener slaves,
Contents
To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer— Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions,
O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind, The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves!
82 83
And there I felt thee!—on that sea-cliff ’s verge,

Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above,
Had made one murmur with the distant surge!
Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare,
And shot my being through earth, sea and air,
Possessing all things with intensest love,
O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there.
Dejection: An Ode.
Written April.
Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,

With the old Moon in her arms;
And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
We shall have a deadly storm.
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.
1.
Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made

Contents
The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,

This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
84 85
Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, To other thoughts by yonder throstle wooed,
Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
Upon the strings of this Aeolian lute, Have I been gazing on the western sky,
Which better far were mute. And its peculiar tint of yellow green:
For lo! the New-moon winter-bright! And still I gaze—and with how blank an eye!
And overspread with phantom light, And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
(With swimming phantom light o’erspread That give away their motion to the stars;
But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen:
The coming-on of rain and squally blast. Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew
And oh! that even now the gust were swelling, In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! I see them all so excellently fair,
Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!
And sent my soul abroad,
Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
Might startle this dull pain, and make it move so and live!
3.
My genial spirits fail;

2. And what can these avail
To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, It were a vain endeavour,
A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, Though I should gaze for ever
Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, On that green light that lingers in the west:
Contents
In word, or sigh, or tear— I may not hope from outward forms to win
O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.
86 87
Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne’er was given,

4. Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,
Life, and Life’s effluence, cloud at once and shower,
O Lady! we receive but what we give, Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,
And in our life alone does Nature live: Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower,
Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud! A new Earth and new Heaven,
And would we aught behold, of higher worth. Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud—
Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud—
Than that inanimate cold world allowed We in ourselves rejoice!
To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd, And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
Ah, from the soul itself must issue forth All melodies the echoes of that voice,
A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud All colours a suffusion from that light.
Enveloping the Earth—
And from the soul itself must there be sent
A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
Of all sweet sounds the life and element! 6.
There was a time when, though my path was rough,

This joy within me dallied with distress,
5. And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:
O pure of heart! thou need’st not ask of me For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
What this strong music in the soul may be! And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
What, and wherein it doth exist,
Contents
This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, But now afflictions bow me down to earth:
This beautiful and beauty-making power. Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
88 89
But oh! each visitation Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,

Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, Mak’st Devils’ yule, with worse than wintry song,
My shaping spirit of Imagination. The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.
For not to think of what I needs must feel, Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
But to be still and patient, all I can; Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold!
And haply by abstruse research to steal What tell’st thou now about?
From my own nature all the natural man— ’Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,
This was my sole resource, my only plan: With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds—
Till that which suits a part infects the whole, At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!
And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.
But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
With groans, and tremulous shudderings—all is over—
7. It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!
A tale of less affright,
Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, And tempered with delight,
Reality’s dark dream! As Otway’s self had framed the tender lay,
I turn from you, and listen to the wind, ’Tis of a little child
Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Upon a lonesome wild,
Of agony by torture lengthened out Not far from home, but she hath lost her way:
That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav’st without, And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree, And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.
Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
Or lonely house, long held the witches’ home, 8.
Contents
Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,

Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers, ’Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:
90 91
Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!

Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,
And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,
Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!
With light heart may she rise,
Youth and Age.
Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;
Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying,
To her may all things live, from pole to pole,
Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee—
Their life the eddying of her living soul!
Both were mine! Life went a-maying
O simple spirit, guided from above,
With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
When I was young!
Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.
When I was young?—Ah, woful When!

Ah! for the change ‘twixt Now and Then!
This breathing house not built with hands,
This body that does me grievous wrong,
O’er aery cliffs and glittering sands,
How lightly then it flashed along:—
Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
On winding lakes and rivers wide,
That ask no aid of sail or oar,
That fear no spite of wind or tide!
Contents
Nought cared this body for wind or weather

When Youth and I lived in ‘t together.
92 93
Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; That only serves to make us grieve,
Friendship is a sheltering tree; When we are old:
O! the joys, that came down shower-like, That only serves to make us grieve
Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, With oft and tedious taking-leave,
Ere I was old! Like some poor nigh-related guest,
That may not rudely be dismist;
Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere, Yet hath outstayed his welcome while,
Which tells me Youth ‘s no longer here! And tells the jest without the smile.
O Youth! for years so many and sweet,
’Tis known, that thou and I were one,
I’ll think it but a fond conceit—
It cannot be that thou art gone!
Thy vesper-bell hath not yet tolled:—
And thou wert aye a masker bold!
What strange disguise hast now put on,
To make believe, that thou art gone?
I see these locks in silvery slips,
This drooping gait, this altered size:
But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,
And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
Life is but thought: so think I will
That Youth and I are house-mates still.
Dew-drops are the gems of morning,

Contents
But the tears of mournful eve!

Where no hope is, life ‘s a warning
94 95
Work without Hope. Epitaph.

Lines composed 21st February 1825.
Stop, Christian passer-by!—Stop, child of God,
And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod
All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—
A poet lies, or that which once seemed he.—
The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—
O, lift one thought in prayer for S.T.C.;
And Winter slumbering in the open air,
That he who many a year with toil of breath
Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
Found death in life, may here find life in death!
And I the while, the sole unbusy thing,
Mercy for praise—to be forgiven for fame
Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
He ask’d, and hoped, through Christ.
Do thou the same!
Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,
Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.
Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,
For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!
With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:
And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?
Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,
Contents
And Hope without an object cannot live.

Contents 96 97
Contents 98 99
Contents 100 101
Contents 102 103
Contents 104 105
Contents 106 107
Contents 108 109
Contents 110 111
Contents 112 113
Contents 114 115
Contents 116 117
Contents 118 119
Contents 120 121
Contents 122 123
Contents 124 125
Contents 126 127
Contents 128 129
Contents 130 131
Contents 132 133
Contents 134 135
Contents 136 137
Contents 138 139
Contents 140 141
Contents 142 143
Contents 144 145
Contents 146 147
Contents 148 149
Contents 150 151
Contents 152 153
Contents 154 155
Contents 156 157
Contents 158 159
Contents 160 161
Contents 162 163
Contents 164 165
Contents 166 167
Contents 168 169
Contents 170 171
Contents 172 173
Contents 174 175
Contents 176 177
Contents 178 179
Contents 180 181
Contents 182 183
Contents 184 185
Contents 186 187
Contents 188 189
Contents 190 191

Coleridge Poetry

Uploaded by

Document Information

Copyright

Available Formats

Share this document

Share or Embed Document

Sharing Options

Did you find this document useful?

Is this content inappropriate?

Copyright:

Available Formats

Coleridge Poetry

Uploaded by

Copyright:

Available Formats

Coradella Collegiate Bookshelf Editions.

Purchase the entire

In 1795 Coleridge met poet William Wordsworth and his sister

Coleridge's marriage proved unhappy. Southey departed for Portugal,

with his family and friends at Keswick in the Lake District of

From 1804 to 1806, Coleridge lived in Malta and travelled in

esting. He published other writings while he was living at the Gillman

The Poetry of The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Samuel Taylor In seven parts

Coleridge. Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibiles

Copyright © 2004 thewritedirection.net

And listens like a three years’ child:

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,

Still treads the shadow of his foe, ity.]

At length did cross an Albatross,

Upon the slimy sea.

Without a breeze, without a tide,

With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,

The many men, so beautiful!

Within the shadow of the ship Part Five.

And was a blessed ghost.

[Sidenote: But not by the souls of the men, nor by dae-

And closes from behind.

On me alone it blew. Till rising from the same,

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

To him my tale I teach.

[Sidenote: And to teach, by his own example, love and

reverence to all things that God made and loveth.]

And yet she looks both small and dull.

Part the first. The lovely lady, Christabel,

And once we crossed the shade of night.

Is fastened to an angel’s feet. “Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine!

“All they who live in the upper sky,

And lo! the worker of these harms, Beauteous in a wilderness,

Awakens the lady Christabel. She forthwith led fair Geraldine

Home to her father’s mansion. He bids thee come without delay

Warned by a vision in my rest! I woke; it was the midnight hour,

The aged knight, Sir Leoline,

The conclusion to Part the second.

A damsel with a dulcimer

Could I revive within me.

Amid the lingering light.

Few sorrows hath she of her own.

She leant against the armed man,

And how she wept, and clasped his knees;

The Lady of the Land!

She blushed with love, and virgin-shame;

Her bosom heaved—she stepped aside,

By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound!

And there I felt thee!—on that sea-cliff ’s verge,

Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,

Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.

Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made

The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,

My genial spirits fail;

Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne’er was given,

There was a time when, though my path was rough,

But oh! each visitation Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,

Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,

Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!

When I was young?—Ah, woful When!

Nought cared this body for wind or weather

Dew-drops are the gems of morning,

But the tears of mournful eve!