'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 man
Who shot him with his bow.'

The other was a softer voice,
As soft as honey-dew:

Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done,
And penance more will do.'

relate, one to the other, that penance long andheavy for the ancient Mariner hath been accorded to the Polar

Spirit, who returneth

southward.

PART VI.

FIRST VOICE.

'BUT tell me, tell me! speak again,

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;

His great bright eye most silently

Up to the Moon is cast

If he may know which way to go;
For she guides him smooth or grim.
See, brother, see! how graciously
She looketh down on him.'

FIRST VOICE.

The Mariner But why drives on that ship so fast,

hath been

cast into a trance; for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward faster than human life could endure.

Without or wave or wind ?'

SECOND VOICE.

'The air is cut away before,

And closes from behind.

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!
Or we shall be belated:

For slow and slow that ship will go,

When the Mariner's trance is abated.'

The superna- I woke, and we were sailing on

tural motion

is retarded; As in a gentle weather:

the Mariner

awakes, and 'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high;

his penance

begins anew. The dead men stood together.

All stood together on the deck,

For a charnel-dungeon fitter:
All fixed on me their stony eyes,
That in the Moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, with which they died,
Had never passed away :

I could not draw my eyes from theirs,
Nor turn them up to pray.

The curse is And now this spell was snapt: once mort finally expi- I viewed the ocean green,

ated.

And looked far forth, yet little saw
Of what had else been seen-

Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turned round walks on,
And turns no more his head;

Because he knows, a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.

But soon there breathed a wind on me,
Nor sound nor motion made:

Its path was not upon the sea,
In ripple or in shade.

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek
Like a meadow-gale of spring-
It mingled strangely with my fears,
Yet it felt like a welcoming.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
Yet she sailed softly too:
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—
On me alone it blew.

Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed
The light-house top I see?

Is this the hill? is this the kirk?
Is this mine own countree?

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar,
And I with sobs did pray-
O let me be awake, my God!
Or let me sleep alway.

And the an cient Mari

ner beholdeth his native country.

The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies.

And appear in their

own forms of light.

The harbour-bay was clear as glass,
So smoothly it was strewn!

And on the bay the moonlight lay,
And the shadow of the Moon.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,
That stands above the rock :

The moonlight steeped in silentness
The steady weathercock.

And the bay was white with silent light
Till rising from the same,

Full many shapes, that shadows were,
In crimson colours came.

A little distance from the prow
Those crimson shadows were:

I turned my eyes upon the deck-
Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,
And, by the holy rood!

A man all light, a seraph-man,

On every corse there stood.

This seraph-band, each waved his hand:

It was a heavenly sight!

They stood as signals to the land,
Each one a lovely light;

This seraph-band, each waved his hand,

No voice did they impart

No voice; but oh! the silence sank

Like music on my heart.

But soon I heard the dash of oars,
I heard the Pilot's cheer;

My head was turned perforce away,
And I saw a boat appear.

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy,
I heard them coming fast :

Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy
The dead men could not blast.

I saw a third-I heard his voice:
It is the Hermit good!

He singeth loud his godly hymns
That he makes in the wood.

He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash

away

The Albatross's blood.

PART 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

That come from a far countree.

He kneels at morn,

and noon,

and eve

He hath a cushion plump :

It is the moss that wholly hides

The rotted old oak-stump.

The Hermit of the wood,

I