"But tell me, tell me! speak again, 415
"Thy soft response renewing—
"What makes that ship drive on so fast?
"What is the Ocean doing?
Second Voice.
"Still as a Slave before his Lord,
"The Ocean hath no blast: 420
"His great bright eye most silently
"Up to the moon is cast—
[1042]
"If he may know which way to go,
"For she guides him smooth or grim.
"See, brother, see! how graciously 425
"She looketh down on him.
First Voice.
"But why drives on that ship so fast
"Withouten wave or wind?
Second Voice.
"The air is cut away before,
"And closes from behind. 430
"Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high,
"Or we shall be belated:
"For slow and slow that ship will go,
"When the Marinere's trance is abated."
I woke, and we were sailing on 435
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: 440
All fix'd on me their stony eyes
That in the moon did glitter.
The pang, the curse, with which they died,
Had never pass'd away:
I could not draw my een from theirs 445
Ne turn them up to pray.
And in its time the spell was snapt,
And I could move my een:
I look'd far-forth, but little saw
Of what might else be seen. 450
Like one, that on a lonely 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 455
Doth close behind him tread.
But soon there breath'd a wind on me,
Ne sound ne motion made:
Its path was not upon the sea
In ripple or in shade. 460
[1043]
It rais'd my hair, it fann'd 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, 465
Yet she sail'd softly too:
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—
On me alone it blew.
O dream of joy! is this indeed
The light-house top I see? 470
Is this the Hill? Is this the Kirk?
Is this mine own countrée?
We drifted o'er the Harbour-bar,
And I with sobs did pray—
"O let me be awake, my God! 475
"Or let me sleep alway!"
The harbour-bay was clear as glass,
So smoothly it was strewn!
And on the bay the moon light lay,
And the shadow of the moon. 480
The moonlight bay was white all o'er,
Till rising from the same,
Full many shapes, that shadows were,
Like as of torches came.
A little distance from the prow 485
Those dark-red shadows were;
But soon I saw that my own flesh
Was red as in a glare.
I turn'd my head in fear and dread,
And by the holy rood, 490
The bodies had advanc'd, and now
Before the mast they stood.
They lifted up their stiff right arms,
They held them strait and tight;
And each right-arm burnt like a torch, 495
A torch that's borne upright.
Their stony eye-balls glitter'd on
In the red and smoky light.
[1044]
I pray'd and turn'd my head away
Forth looking as before. 500
There was no breeze upon the bay,
No wave against the shore.
The rock shone bright, the kirk no less
That stands above the rock:
The moonlight steep'd in silentness 505
The steady weathercock.
And the bay was white with silent light,
Till rising from the same
Full many shapes, that shadows were,
In crimson colours came. 510
A little distance from the prow
Those crimson shadows were:
I turn'd my eyes upon the deck—
O Christ! what saw I there?
Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat; 515
And by the Holy rood
A man all light, a seraph-man,
On every corse there stood.
This seraph-band, each wav'd his hand:
It was a heavenly sight: 520
They stood as signals to the land,
Each one a lovely light:
This seraph-band, each wav'd his hand,
No voice did they impart—
No voice; but O! the silence sank, 525
Like music on my heart.
Eftsones 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. 530
Then vanish'd all the lovely lights;
The bodies rose anew:
With silent pace, each to his place,
Came back the ghastly crew.
The wind, that shade nor motion made, 535
On me alone it blew.
[1045]
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. 540
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 545
The Albatross's blood.
VII.
This Hermit good lives in that wood
Which slopes down to the Sea.
How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
He loves to talk with Marineres 550
That come from a far Contrée.
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. 555
The Skiff-boat ne'rd: I heard them talk,
"Why, this is strange, I trow!
"Where are those lights so many and fair
"That signal made but now?
"Strange, by my faith! the Hermit said— 560
"And they answer'd not our cheer.
"The planks look warp'd, and see those sails
"How thin they are and sere!
"I never saw aught like to them
"Unless perchance it were 565
"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-wolfs young. 570
"Dear Lord! it has a fiendish look—
(The Pilot made reply)
"I am afear'd—"Push on, push on!
"Said the Hermit cheerily.
[1046]
The Boat came closer to the Ship, 575
But I ne spake ne stirr'd!
The Boat came close beneath the Ship,
And strait a sound was heard!
Under the water it rumbled on,
Still louder and more dread: 580
It reach'd the Ship, it split the bay;
The Ship went down like lead.
Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful sound,
Which sky and ocean smote:
Like one that had been seven days drown'd 585
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: 590
And all was still, save that the hill
Was telling of the sound.
I mov'd my lips: the Pilot shriek'd
And fell down in a fit.
The Holy Hermit rais'd his eyes 595
And pray'd where he did sit.
I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,
Who now doth crazy go,
Laugh'd loud and long, and all the while
His eyes went to and fro, 600
"Ha! ha!" quoth he—"full plain I see,
"The devil knows how to row."
And now all in mine own Countrée
I stood on the firm land!
The Hermit stepp'd forth from the boat, 605
And scarcely he could stand.
"O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy Man!
The Hermit cross'd his brow—
"Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say
"What manner man art thou?" 610
Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd
With a woeful agony,
Which forc'd me to begin my tale
And then it left me free.
[1047]
Since then at an uncertain hour, 615
Now oftimes and now fewer,
That anguish comes and makes me tell
My ghastly aventure.
I pass, like night, from land to land;
I have strange power of speech; 620
The 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; 625
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 630
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 635
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, 640
Old men, and babes, and loving friends,
And Youths, and Maidens gay.
Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou wedding-guest!
He prayeth well who loveth well, 645
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. 650
The Marinere, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone; and now the wedding-guest
Turn'd from the bridegroom's door.
[1048]
He went, like one that hath been stunn'd 655
And is of sense forlorn:
A sadder and a wiser man
He rose the morrow morn.
FOOTNOTES:
LINENOTES:
[63] And an] As if MS. corr. by S. T. C.
[75] Corrected in the Errata to fog-smoke white.
[179] For "those" read "these" Errata, p. [221], L. B. 1798.
After 338 * * * * * * MS., L. B. 1798.
F
THE RAVEN
[As printed in the Morning Post, March 10, 1798.]
[Vide ante, p. 169.]
Under the arms of a goodly oak-tree,
There was of Swine a large company.
They were making a rude repast,
Grunting as they crunch'd the mast.
Then they trotted away: for the wind blew high— 5
One acorn they left, ne more mote you spy.
Next came a Raven, who lik'd not such folly;
He belong'd, I believe, to the witch Melancholy!
Blacker was he than the blackest jet;
Flew low in the rain; his feathers were wet. 10
He pick'd up the acorn and buried it strait,
By the side of a river both deep and great.
Where then did the Raven go?
He went high and low—
O'er hill, o'er dale did the black Raven go! 15
Many Autumns, many Springs;
Travell'd he with wand'ring wings;
Many Summers, many Winters—
I can't tell half his adventures.
At length he return'd, and with him a she; 20
And the acorn was grown a large oak-tree.
They built them a nest in the topmost bough,
And young ones they had, and were jolly enow.
But soon came a Woodman in leathern guise:
His brow like a pent-house hung over his eyes. 25
He'd an axe in his hand, and he nothing spoke,
But with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke,
At last he brought down the poor Raven's own oak.
His young ones were kill'd, for they could not depart,
And his wife she did die of a broken heart! 30
[1049]The branches from off it the Woodman did sever!
And they floated it down on the course of the River:
They saw'd it to planks, and it's rind they did strip,
And with this tree and others they built up a ship.
The ship, it was launch'd; but in sight of the land, 35
A tempest arose which no ship could withstand.
It bulg'd on a rock, and the waves rush'd in fast—
The auld Raven flew round and round, and caw'd to the blast.
He heard the sea-shriek of their perishing souls—
They be sunk! O'er the top-mast the mad water rolls. 40
The Raven was glad that such fate they did meet,
They had taken his all, and Revenge was Sweet!
G
LEWTI; OR THE CIRCASSIAN'S LOVE-CHANT[1049:1]
[Vide ante, p. 253.]
(1)
[Add. MSS. 27,902.]
High o'er the silver rocks I roved
To forget the form I loved
In hopes fond fancy would be kind
And steal my Mary from my mind
T'was twilight and the lunar beam 5
Sailed slowly o'er Tamaha's stream
As down its sides the water strayed
Bright on a rock the moonbeam playe[d]
It shone, half-sheltered from the view
By pendent boughs of tressy yew 10
True, true to love but false to rest,
So fancy whispered to my breast,
So shines her forehead smooth and fair
Gleaming through her sable hair
I turned to heaven—but viewed on high 15
The languid lustre of her eye
[1050]
The moons mild radiant edge I saw
Peeping a black-arched cloud below
Nor yet its faint and paly beam
Could tinge its skirt with yellow gleam 20
I saw the white waves o'er and o'er
Break against a curved shore
Now disappearing from the sight
Now twinkling regular and white
Her mouth, her smiling mouth can shew 25
As white and regular a row
Haste Haste, some God indulgent prove
And bear me, bear me to my love
Then might—for yet the sultry hour
Glows from the sun's oppressive power 30
Then might her bosom soft and white
Heave upon my swimming sight
As yon two swans together heave
Upon the gently-swelling wave
Haste—haste some God indulgent prove 35
And bear—oh bear me to my love.
(2)
[Add. MSS. 35,343.]
| THE |
CIRCASSIAN'S |
LOVE-CHAUNT |
| |
Wild Indians |
|
High o'er the rocks at night I rov'd
silver
To forget the form I lov'd.
Image of Lewti! from my mind
Cora
Depart! for Lewti is not kind!
Cora
Bright was the Moon: the Moon's bright beam 5
Speckled with many a moving shade,
Danc'd upon Tamaha's stream;
But brightlier on the Rock it play'd,
The Rock, half-shelter'd from my view
By pendent boughs of tressy Yew! 10
True to Love, but false to Rest,
My fancy whisper'd in my breast—
So shines my Lewti's forehead fair
Gleaming thro' her sable hair,
[1051]
Image of Lewti! from my mind 15
Cora
Depart! for Lewti is not kind.
Cora
I saw a cloud of whitest hue;
Onward to the Moon it pass'd!
Still brighter and more bright it grew
With floating colours not a few, 20
Till it reach'd the Moon at last.
LEWTI; OR THE CIRCASSIAN'S LOVE-CHANT
(3)
[Add. MSS. 35,343, f. 3 recto.]
High o'er the rocks at night I rov'd
To forget the form I lov'd.
Image of Lewti! from my mind
Depart: for Lewti is not kind. 25
Bright was the Moon: the Moon's bright bea[m]
Speckled with many a moving shade,
Danc'd upon Tamaha's stream;
But brightlier on the Rock it play'd,
The Rock, half-shelter'd from my view 30
By pendent boughs of tressy Yew!
True to Love, but false to Rest,
My fancy whisper'd in my breast—
So shines my Lewti's forehead fair
Gleaming thro' her sable hair! 35
Image of Lewti! from my mind
Depart—for Lewti is not kind.
I saw a Cloud of whitest hue—
Onward to the Moon it pass'd.
Still brighter and more bright it grew 40
With floating colours not a few,
Till it reach'd the Moon at last:
Then the Cloud was wholly bright
With a rich and amber light!
deep
And so with many a hope I seek, 45
And so with joy I find my Lewti:
And even so my pale wan cheek
Drinks in as deep a flush of Beauty
[1052]
Image of Lewti! leave my mind
If Lewti never will be kind! 50
Away the little Cloud, away.
Away it goes—away so soon
alone
Alas! it has no power to stay:
It's hues are dim, it's hues are grey
Away it passes from the Moon. 55
And now tis whiter than before—
As white as my poor cheek will be,
When, Lewti! on my couch I lie
A dying Man for Love of thee!
Thou living Image
Image of Lewti in my mind, 60
Methinks thou lookest not kin unkind!
FOOTNOTES:
H
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE DARK LADIE[1052:1]
[Vide ante, p. 330.]
To the Editor of The Morning Post.
Sir,
The following Poem is the Introduction to a somewhat longer one, for
which I shall solicit insertion on your next open day. The use of the
Old Ballad word, Ladie, for Lady, is the only piece of obsoleteness in
it; and as it is professedly a tale of ancient times, I trust, that 'the
affectionate lovers of venerable antiquity' (as Camden says) will grant
me their pardon, and perhaps may be induced to admit a force and
propriety in it. A heavier objection may be adduced against the Author,
that in these times of fear and expectation, when novelties explode
around us in all directions, he should presume to offer to the public a
silly tale of old fashioned love; and, five years ago, I own, I should
have allowed and felt the force of this objection. But, alas! explosion
has succeeded explosion so rapidly, that novelty itself ceases to appear
new; and it is possible that now, even a simple story, wholly unspired
[? inspired] with politics or personality, may find some attention amid
the hubbub of Revolutions, as to those who have resided a long time by
the falls of Niagara, the lowest whispering becomes distinctly audible.
S. T. Coleridge.
1
O leave the Lily on its stem;
O leave the Rose upon the spray;
O leave the Elder-bloom, fair Maids!
And listen to my lay.
2
A Cypress and a Myrtle bough, 5
This morn around my harp you twin'd,
Because it fashion'd mournfully
Its murmurs in the wind.
3
And now a Tale of Love and Woe,
A woeful Tale of Love I sing: 10
Hark, gentle Maidens, hark! it sighs
And trembles on the string.
4
But most, my own dear Genevieve!
It sighs and trembles most for thee!
O come and hear the cruel wrongs 15
Befel the dark Ladie!
5
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. 20
6
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
7
O ever in my waking dreams, 25
I dwell upon that happy hour,
When midway on the Mount I sate
Beside the ruin'd Tow'r.
8
The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve, 30
And she was there, my hope! my joy!
My own dear Genevieve!
9
She lean'd against the armed Man
The statue of the armed Knight—
[1055]
She stood and listen'd to my harp, 35
Amid the ling'ring light.
10
I play'd a sad and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story,
An old rude song, that fitted well
The ruin wild and hoary. 40
11
She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace:
For well she knew, I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.
12
I told her of the Knight that wore 45
Upon his shield a burning brand.
And how for ten long years he woo'd
The Ladie of the Land:
13
I told her, how he pin'd, and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone, 50
With which I sang another's love,
Interpreted my own!
14
She listen'd with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes and modest grace.
And she forgave me, that I gaz'd 55
Too fondly on her face!
15
But when I told the cruel scorn,
That craz'd this bold and lovely Knight;
And how he roam'd the mountain woods,
Nor rested day or night; 60
16
And how he cross'd the Woodman's paths,
Thro' briars and swampy mosses beat;
How boughs rebounding scourg'd his limbs,
And low stubs gor'd his feet.
17
How sometimes from the savage den, 65
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once,
In green and sunny glade;
18
There came and look'd him in the face
An Angel beautiful and bright, 70
And how he knew it was a Fiend,
This mis'rable Knight!
19
And how, unknowing what he did,
He leapt amid a lawless band,
And sav'd from outrage worse than death 75
The Ladie of the Land.
20
And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees,
And how she tended him in vain,
And meekly strove to expiate
The scorn that craz'd his brain; 80
21