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And now the Storm-blast came,

and he Was tyrannous and strong : He struck with his o'ertaking

wings, And chased us south along. With sloping masts and dipping

prow, As who pursued with yell and

blow Still treads the shadow of his foe And forward bends his head, The ship drove fast, loud roared

the blast, And southward ay we fled. And now there came both mist

and snow And it grew wondrous cold : And ice, mast-high, came floating

by, As green as emerald. And through the drifts the snowy

clifts Did send a dismal sheen : Nor shapes of men nor beasts we

kenThe ice was all between. The ice was here, the ice was

there, The ice was all around : It cracked and growled, and

roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound !
At length did cross an Albatross :
Thorough the fog it came ;
As if it had been a Christian soul,
We hailed it in God's name.
It ate the food it ne'er had eat,
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-
The helmsman steered us through!
And a good south wind sprung

up behind;
The Albatross did follow,
And every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariner's bollo !

And the good south wind still

blew behind,
But no sweet bird did follow,
Nor any day for food or play
Come to the mariner's hollo !

And I had done a hellish thing,
And it would work 'em woe :
For all averred, I had killed the

bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch ! said they, the bird

to slay, That made the breeze to blow !

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Nor dim nor red, like God's own

head, The glorious Sun uprist : Then all averred, I had killed the

bird That brought the fog and mist. 'Twas right, said they, such birds

to slay, That bring the fog and mist. The fair breeze blew, the white

foam flew, The furrow followed free ; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea.

fit ;

The many men, so beautiful !
And they all dead did lie :
And a thousand thousand slimy

Lived on; and so did I.

I looked upon the rotting sea,
And drew my eyes away ;
I looked upon the rotting deck
And there the dead men lay.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails

dropt down, 'Twas sad as sad could be ; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea ! All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon, Right up above the mast did

stand, No bigger than the Moon. Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. Water, water, everywhere, And all the boards did shrink ; Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink. The very deep did rot: 0 Christ! That ever this should be ! Yea, slimy things did crawl with

legs Upon the slimy sea. About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green and blue and white. And some in dreams assured were Of the spirit that plagued us so ; Nine fathom deep he had followed

us From the land of mist and snow. And every tongue, through utter

drought, Was withered at the root; We could not speak, no more

than if
We had been choked with soot.
Ah ! well-a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young !
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.

Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole!
To Mary Queen the praise be

given ! She sent the gentle sleep from

Heaven, That slid into


soul. The silly buckets on the deck, That had so long remained, I dreamt that they were filled

with dew; And when I awoke, it rained. My lips were wet, my throat was

cold, My garments were all dank; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank. I moved, and could not feel my

limbs : I was so light-almost I thought that I had died in sleep, And was a blessed ghost.

The Sun, right up above the mast,
Had fixed her to the ocean :
But in a minute she 'gan stir,
With a short uneasy motion-
Backwards and forwards half her

With a short uneasy motion.
Then, like a pawing horse let go,
She made a sudden bound :
It flung the blood into my head,
And I fell down in a swound.

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

How long in that same fit I lay,
I have not to declare ;
But ere my living life returned,
I heard and in my soul discerned
I'wo voices in the air.

'Is it he ? ' quoth one, “Is this

the man ? By Him who died on cross, With his cruel bow he laid full

low The harmless Albatross.

"The spirit who bideth by himself
In the land of mist and snow,
He loved the bird that loved the

Who shot him with his bow.'

O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
'Tis sweeter far to me,
To walk together to the kirk
With a goodly company !-
To walk together to the kirk,
And all together pray,
While each to his great Father

Old men, and babes, and loving

And youths and maidens gay !
Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest !
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.
He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small ;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.
The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone: and now the Wedding-

Turned from the bridegroom's

He went like one that hath been

And is of sense forlorn :
A sadder and a wiser man,
He rose the morrow morn.


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STOP, Christian passer-by !-Stop, child of God,
And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod
A poet lies, or that which once seemed he.-
Oh, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C. !
That he who many a year with toil of breath
Found death in life, may here find life in death!
Mercy for praise—to be forgiven for fame
He asked, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the same!


223. THE KNIGHT'S TOMB WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn ? Where may the grave of that good man be ?By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, Under the twigs of a young birch tree ! The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, And whistled and roared in the winter alone, Is gone,-and the birch in its stead is grown. The Knight's bones are dust, And his good sword rust ;His soul is with the saints, I trust. S. T. COLERIDGE.

CURST be the gold and silver which persuade
Weak men to follow far-fatiguing trade.
The lily-peace outshines the silver store,
And life is dearer than the golden ore.
Yet money tempts us o'er the desert brown,
To every distant mart, and wealthy town :
Full oft we tempt the land, and oft the sea,
And are we only yet repaid by thee ?
Ah ! why was ruin so attractive made,
Or why fond man so easily betrayed ?
Why heed we not, whilst mad we haste along,
The gentle voice of peace, or pleasure's song?
Or wherefore think the flowery mountain's side,
The fountain's murmurs, and the valley's pride,
Why think we these less_ pleasing to behold,
Than dreary deserts, if they lead to gold ?

Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way.

W. COLLINS (Persian Eclogues).

225. ODE WRITTEN IN 1746
How sleep the Brave who sink to rest,
By all their Country's wishes blest !
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod,
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung ;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there ! W. COLLINS.

226. TO EVENING IF aught of oaten stop or pastoral song May hope, O pensive Eve, to soothe thine ear,

Like thy own brawling springs,

Thy springs, and dying gales,
O Nymph reserved, while now the bright-haired sun
Sits in yon western tent, whose cloudy skirts,

With brede ethereal wove,

O'erhang his wavy bed :
Now air is hushed, save where the weak-eyed bat,
With short shrill shriek flits by on leathern wing,

Or when the beetle winds

His small but sullen horn,
As oft he rises 'midst the twilight path,
Against the pilgrim borne in heedless hum:

Now teach me, maid composed,

To breathe some softened strain,
Whose numbers stealing through thy darkening vale,
May not unseemly with its stillness suit,

As musing slow I hail

Thy genial loved return.
For when thy folding-star arising shows
His paly circlet, at his warning lamp

The fragrant Hours, and Elves

Who slept in buds the day, And many a Nymph who wreathes her brows with sedge, And sheds the freshening dew, and, lovelier still,

The pensive Pleasures sweet,

Prepare thy shadowy car.
Then let me rove some wild and heathy scene,
Or find some ruin midst its dreary dells,

Whose walls more awful nod

By thy religious gleams.
Or if chill blustering winds or driving rain
Prevent my willing feet, be mine the hut

That, from the mountain's side,

Views wilds and swelling floods,
And hamlets brown, and dim-discovered spires,
And hears their simple bell, and marks o'er all

Thy dewy fingers draw

The gradual dusky veil.
While Spring shall pour his showers, as oft he wont,
And bathe thy breathing tresses, meekest Eve!

While Summer loves to sport
Beneath thy lingering light;

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