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, up behind; And the good south wind still blew behind, And I had done a hellish thing, bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay, That made the breeze to blow ! 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 ! things I looked upon the rotting sea, 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 Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing, given ! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my 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, length 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, '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 man O sweeter than the marriage-feast, bends, friends, Guest door. stunned, S. T. COLERIDGE. AN EPITAPH FOR HIMSELF STOP, Christian passer-by !-Stop, child of God, S. T. COLERIDGE. 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. 224. CURST BE THE GOLD AND SILVER Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day, W. COLLINS (Persian Eclogues). 225. ODE WRITTEN IN 1746 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, With brede ethereal wove, O'erhang his wavy bed : Or when the beetle winds His small but sullen horn, Now teach me, maid composed, To breathe some softened strain, As musing slow I hail Thy genial loved return. 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. Whose walls more awful nod By thy religious gleams. That, from the mountain's side, Views wilds and swelling floods, Thy dewy fingers draw The gradual dusky veil. While Summer loves to sport |
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