? 4479 
 
 Number 80 
 
 uniiiit IT 
 
 jn i T infiiifainfmi/m 
 
 
 
 THE RIME OF THE 
 
 ANCIENT MARINER 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR 
 
 COLERIDGE 
 
 LOCHIEL'S WARNING 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL 
 
 WITH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES 
 INTRODUCTIONS AND NOTES 
 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 BOSTON, NEW YORK, AND CHICAGO 
 
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iA-. / ^ 
 
 ^7 C^^-^^^^- 
 
%\)t Hitjers^iDe ILiterature ^txiti 
 
 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE 
 
 LOCHIEL'S WARNING 
 
 AND OTHER POEMS 
 
 BY 
 
 THOMAS CAMPBELL 
 
 WITH BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCHES, INTBODUC- 
 TIONS AND NOTES 
 
 HOUGHTON MIFFLIN COMPANY 
 
 Boston : 4 Park Street ; New York : 85 Fifth Avenuo 
 Chicago : 378-388 Wabash Avenue 
 
 • C^/wV 
 

 \^ 
 
 0.0 
 
 Copyright, 1895, 
 By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 
 
 All rights reserved. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 COLERIDGE. 
 
 PAoa 
 
 Biographical Sketch 5 
 
 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. 
 
 Introductory Note 9 
 
 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 12 
 
 Christabel . . . . . . . . . .40 
 
 KuBLA Khan 63 
 
 Hymn before Sunrise, in the Vale of Chamouni . . 66 
 
 Youth and Age 69 
 
 The Knight's Tomb 71 
 
 Metrical Feet: Lesson for a Boy .... 71 
 
 Sonnet to the River Otter 72 
 
 Answer to a Child's Question 73 
 
 CAMPBELL. 
 
 Biographical Sketch 74 
 
 Lochiel's Warning 77 
 
 Ye Mariners of England 81 
 
 Battle of the Baltic 83 
 
 hohbnlinden 86 
 
 Glenara 87 
 
 Exile of Erin .... 89 
 
 Lord Ullin's Daughter 91 
 
 The Harper • 93 
 
 Ode to Winter e • • • 94 
 
 Suggestions for Special Study op The Rime of the 
 Ancient Mariner 97 
 
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 In his clumsily entitled Extempore Effusion upon the 
 Death of James Hogg^ Wordsworth has these lines, after 
 referring to Hogg and to Walter Scott : — 
 
 " Nor has the rolling year twice measured. 
 From sign to sign, its steadfast course, 
 Since every mortal power of Coleridge 
 Was frozen at its marvellous source ; . . . 
 The rapt One, of the god-like forehead, 
 The heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth." 
 
 And in his poem, Resolutio^i and Independence, though he 
 does not name Coleridge, it is almost certain that he had 
 him in mind when he wrote : — . 
 
 " My whole life I have lived in pleasant thought, 
 As if life's business were a summer mood; 
 As if all needful things would come unsought 
 To genial faith, still rich in genial good ; 
 But how can he expect that others should 
 Build for him, sow for hira, and at his call 
 Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all ? " 
 
 When he read the news of Coleridge's death, Words- 
 worth's voice faltered and broke, as he said he was the 
 most wonderful man that he had ever known. 
 
 It is always worth while to know what one poet thinks 
 of another, especially if the two have been contemporaries, 
 friends, intimate companions. Wordsworth and Coleridge 
 
6 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 were such. Wordsworth was severe, cold, much given to 
 cahn judgment; Coleridge was impulsive, erring, warm- 
 hearted : each knew the other as a great poet, but Words- 
 worth led a correct, diligent life ; he was prudent and 
 thrifty, a good housekeeper, a proper husband and father ; 
 Coleridge had magnificent plans and dreams ; he was indo- 
 lent, and, falling into the terrible habit of opium, he strug- 
 gled like a drowning man against the fate which seemed 
 to have overtaken him ; he left great works incomplete, 
 scarcely begun, indeed ; he married in haste and repented 
 at leisure ; he submitted to be helped by his friends, but 
 he gave lavishly of the best he had to his friends, and no 
 one can read his painful biography without seeing that he 
 so impressed himself successively on one after another, as 
 never to want the sympathy and loving help which should 
 carry him over difficulties. 
 
 He was born at the vicarage of Ottery St. Mary, in Dev- 
 onshire, England, October 21, 1772. His father was a 
 clergyman of the Church of England, and a schoolmaster, 
 good-hearted, absent-minded and impractical. The poet 
 was one of a large family, and his childhood was that of a 
 precocious and imaginative boy, who read fairy tales and 
 acted out the scenes in them, living much by himself and in 
 the world which he created out of his dreams. When he 
 was nine years old his father died, and the next year Cole- 
 ridge entered the great public school of Christ's Hospital, 
 where he was a schoolfellow of Charles Lamb. From school 
 he went up to Cambridge, and there he made Wordsworth's 
 acquaintance, but his college life was a broken and not very 
 satisfactory one. Indeed, at one time, for reasons not 
 wholly clear, lie broke away and enlisted under an assumed 
 name in a regiment of dragoons. It was an odd jump 
 from the frying-pan into the fire, for he had a violent an- 
 tipathy to soldiers and horses, as he himself confessed, 
 and he was glad when his concealment was discovered and 
 a way was found for the runaway to return to college. 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 7 
 
 While still a student he made an excursion with a friend 
 to Oxford, and there he fell in with Robert Southey. Ifc 
 was the restless time of the French Revolution, and these 
 young students and enthusiasts were eager to try some new 
 order of life in some new world. With a few others they 
 concocted a scheme to which they gave the name " Panti- 
 socracy," or the equal rule of all, and proposed to form a 
 community on the banks of the Susquehanna in Pennsyl- 
 vania, where two or three hours' labor a day on the part of 
 each would suffice for the community, and then the remain- 
 ing time could be given to philosophy, poetry and all the 
 arts. Southey was married presently, and Coleridge was 
 thrown much with Mrs. Southey's sister, Sara Fricker, as a 
 result of which, in connection with a disappointment in love 
 in another quarter, he hastily married. 
 
 Among his friends at this time in Bristol where the 
 Frickers lived, was Joseph Cottle, a bookseller, who had 
 great faith in Coleridge's literary powers. He undertook 
 the publication of a volume of poems, and by lending and 
 giving money, carried the new couple along for some time. 
 Coleridge at the time of his marriage was twenty-three 
 years old. Southey's marriage, as well, probably, as the 
 return of reason after a short flight, had cooled his ardor 
 for experiments in Utopia, and the pantisocratic scheme 
 faded out. For nearly a score of years, Coleridge and his 
 wife, and the children born to them, led a shifting life ; 
 sometimes they were together, sometimes they were sepa- 
 rated. Now, Coleridge would make a stay in Germany, 
 now they would be all together with the Wordsworths and 
 Southeys in the Lake Country, but by 1813 the somewhat 
 unhappy connection, unhappy as the union of an irrespon- 
 sible, dreamy husband with a wife of limited intellectual 
 sympathy, came practically to an end. For three years 
 Coleridge led a dreary life, lecturing, abiding with fiiends, 
 and struggling against the habit of opium which had fast- 
 ened itself on him. 
 
8 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 In 1816 he put himself under the care of Dr. Gillman, 
 living at Highgate, on the outskirts of London, and there 
 he spent the last sixteen years of his life, cared for by a 
 kind physician, making occasional journeys into other parts 
 of England, and to the Continent, receiving many visitors 
 and continuing to write both prose and verse. His most- 
 notable poems, indeed, the three which open this selection, 
 were written in the closing years of the eighteenth cen- 
 tury, and Coleridge did not die till July 25, 1834. In that 
 full generation, Coleridge's great contributions were in the 
 form of literary, philosophical, religious and theological 
 writings, but the one spirit which brooded over all was a 
 large imagination, which gave him the power to see more 
 widely and send his plummet deeper than any man of his 
 generation. This it is which makes readers to-day delve in 
 the great mass of his books, his essays and his letters, even 
 though they seem to be for the most part formless and un- 
 finished. They know that they are in the presence of a 
 large, fruitful mind, gifted with great spiritual insight, and 
 though they mourn over the irresolute will, rendered irreso- 
 lute largely through a physical subjection to an insidious 
 drug, they go to his work as the men of his day went to 
 Coleridge himself to hear him talk, knowing that from his 
 lips they will catch inspiration and new thoughts of God 
 aiid man. 
 
THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 INTRODUCTORY NOTE. 
 
 In the winter of 1797-1798 the Coleridges were living 
 at a little village called Nether Stowey, at the foot of the 
 Quantock Hills, about forty miles from Bristol, so as to be 
 near Thomas Poole, a rich young tanner who shared Cole- 
 ridge's democratic views, and was then, and long after, a 
 most liberal friend. In the same neighborhood at Alf oxden 
 were then living Wordsworth and his sister Dorothy. The 
 intercourse between the two families was constant. Words- 
 worth and Coleridge took long country walks, and they 
 were under the strong, sweet influence of Dorothy Words- 
 worth. In November, 1797, the three set off on a little 
 tour, intending to meet the expenses of their journey by a 
 poem to be composed jointly by the two poets. It is amus- 
 ing to note that they started on their journey apparently with 
 no engagement, but with full confidence in their ability 
 to write the poem, and then to sell it for £5 to the editor 
 of the Monthly Magazine. They set out hopefully, but 
 after eight miles the scheme broke down, and Wordsworth's 
 contribution first and last was confined to half a dozen lines, 
 and one or two suggestions. 
 
 When first printed, the poem was introduced by the fol- 
 lowing 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 "How a ship having passed the Line, was driven by 
 storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole ; and 
 how from thence she made her course to the tropical lati- 
 tude of the great Pacific Ocean ; and of the strange things 
 
10 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 that befell ; and in what manner the Ancyent Mariner came 
 back to his own Country." 
 
 The first suggestion to Coleridge appears to have come 
 from a strange dream related to him by a friend, in which 
 appeared a skeleton ship with figures in it. " Much the 
 greatest part of the story," says Wordsworth, " was Mr. 
 Coleridge's invention, but certain parts I suggested ; for 
 example, some crime was to be committed which should 
 bring upon the Old Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards de= 
 Hghted to call him, the spectral persecution, as a conse- 
 quence of that crime, and his own wanderings. I had 
 been reading in Shelvocke's Voyages a day or two be- 
 fore that, while doubling Cape Horn, they frequently saw 
 albatrosses in that latitude, the largest sort of sea-fowl, 
 some extending their wings twelve or thirteen feet. ' Sup- 
 pose,' said I, ' you represent him as having killed one of 
 these birds on entering the South Sea, and that the tutelary 
 spirits of these regions take upon them to avenge the 
 crime.' The incident was thought fit for the purpose and 
 adopted accordingly. I also suggested the navigation of 
 the ship by the dead men, but do not recollect that I had 
 anything more to do with the scheme of the poem. The 
 gloss with which it was subsequently accompanied, was not 
 thought of by either of us at the time, at least not a hint of 
 it was given to me, and I have no doubt it was a gratuitous 
 afterthought. We began the composition together on that, 
 to me, memorable evening. I furnished two or three lines 
 at the beginning of the poem, in particular, — 
 
 " * And listen'd like a three years' child : 
 The mariner had his will.' 
 
 Tliese trifling contributions, all but one, which Mr. C has 
 with unnecessary scrupulosity recorded, slipped out of his 
 mind, as they well might. As we endeavored to proceed 
 conjointly (I speak of the same evening), our respective 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 11 
 
 manners proved so widely different, that it would have been 
 quite presumptuous in me to do anything but separate from 
 an undertaking upon which I could only have been a clog." 
 
 In his Table Talk, Coleridge meets an objection which 
 was raised in his day more than it is now, when the poem 
 has become established as an English classic. " Mrs. Bar- 
 bauld once told me," he says, " that she admired The An^ 
 dent Mariner very much, but that there were two faults in 
 it, — it was improbable, and had no moral. As for the 
 probability, I owned that that might admit some question, 
 but as to the want of a moral, I told her that in my 
 own judgment the poem had too much ; and that the only 
 or chief fault, if I might say so, was the obtrusion of the 
 moral sentiment so openly on the reader as a principle or 
 cause of action in a work of such pure imagination. It 
 ought to have had no more moral than the Arabian Nights' 
 tale of the merchant's sitting down to eat dates by the side 
 of a well, and throwing the shells aside, and lo ! a genie 
 starts up, and says he must kill the aforesa,id merchant, be- 
 cause one of the date shells had, it seems, put out the eye 
 of the genie's son." 
 
 The text followed is the latest that came from Coleridge's 
 hand. The many variations in phraseology from the earlier 
 editions are not pointed out, but in the footnotes are given 
 the stanzas dropped in the latest revision. The omissions 
 were in the interest of a director narrative, and the sup- 
 pression of minor details. 
 
 At the end of the volume there will be found some valua- 
 ble " Suggestions for Special Study " of The Ancient Mari- 
 ner, prepared by Prof. W. E, Simonds, of Knox College. 
 
\ 
 
 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT 
 MARINER. 
 
 m SEVEN PARTS. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 It is an ancient Mariner, An ancient 
 
 . - , Mariner 
 
 And he stoppeth one ot three. meeteth three 
 
 -r*,, 1 1 ii> • gallants bid- 
 
 " i5y thy lonff gray beard and ffhtterinsf den to a wed- 
 
 ,/ ^ o o ^ o o ding-feast, 
 
 eye, and detaineth 
 
 Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ? 
 
 5 " The Bridegroom's doors are opened 
 wide, 
 And I am next of kin ; 
 The guests are met, the feast is set : 
 May'st hear the merry din." 
 
 He holds him with his skinny hand ; 
 w *' There was a ship," quoth he. 
 
 " Hold off ! unhand me, gray - beard 
 
 loon ! " 
 Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 
 
 He holds him with his glittering eye — 
 The Wedding-Guest stood still, 
 15 And listens like a three years' child : 
 The Mariner hath his wiU. 
 
 one. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 13 
 
 The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone : 
 He cannot choose but hear ; 
 And thus spake on that ancient man, 
 M The bright-eyed Mariner. 
 
 "The ship was cheered, the harbor 
 
 cleared. 
 Merrily did we drop 
 Below the kirk, below the hill, 
 Below the light-house top. 
 
 25 " The sun came up upon the left. 
 Out of the sea came he ! 
 And he shone bright, and on the right 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 " Higher and higher every day, 
 30 Till over the mast at noon — " 
 
 The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, 
 For he heard the loud bassoon. 
 
 The Wedding- 
 Guest is spell- 
 bound by the 
 eye of the old 
 seafaring man* 
 and con- 
 strained to 
 hear hia tale. 
 
 The Mariner 
 tells how the 
 ship sailed 
 southward 
 with a good 
 wind and fair 
 weather, till it 
 reached the 
 Line. 
 
 The bride hath paced into the hall, 
 Red as a rose is she ; 
 85 Nodding their heads before her goes 
 The merry minstrelsy. 
 
 The Wedding- 
 Guest heareth 
 the bridal 
 music; but 
 the Mariner 
 continueth 
 hia tale. 
 
 The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
 Yet he cannot choose but hear ; 
 And thus spake on that ancient man, 
 40 The bright-eyed Mariner. 
 
 32. Thomas Poole, the friend who induced Cole- 
 ridge to take up his residence at Nether Stowey, 
 had been improving the church choir, and added 
 a bassoon. Poole's biographer suggests that this 
 gave Coleridge a hint. 
 
14 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 " And now the storm-blast came, and he The ship 
 
 drawn by a 
 
 W as tyrannous and strons^ : storm toward 
 
 •^ , . , T . , , 1 . • the south polflk 
 
 He struck with his o ertakmg wings, 
 And chased us south along. 
 
 55 " 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, 
 60 And southward aye 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. 
 
 65 " And through the drifts the snowy clif ts The land of 
 Did send a dismal sheen : fearful sounds 
 
 XT 1 c 1.1 where no liv- 
 
 JNor shapes oi men nor beasts we ken — ing thing was 
 The ice was all between. 
 
 " The ice was here, the ice was there, 
 w The ice was all around : 
 
 It cracked and growled, and roared and 
 
 howled. 
 Like noises in a swound ! 
 
 " At leno^th did cross an Albatross, sea-bird, 
 
 called the 
 
 Thorough the f 02: it came ; Albatross, 
 
 A •(• • 1 11 r~^ • came through 
 
 65 As II it had been a Christian soul, the snow-fog, 
 
 -rwj 1 •! 1 • . r^ t'> and was re- 
 
 W e nailed it m God s name. ceived with 
 
 great joy and 
 hospitality. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 15 
 
 " It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 
 And round and round it flew. 
 The ice did sjilit with a thunder-fit ; 
 The helmsman steered us through ! 
 
 "And a s^ood south wind sjrrins: up be- And lo? the 
 
 ° r O r Albatross 
 
 hind ; proveth a Wrd 
 
 The Albatross did follow, and followeth 
 
 And every day, for food or play, returned 
 
 Came to the mariners' hollo ! through fog 
 
 'ind floating 
 
 T5 " In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 
 It perched for vespers nine ; 
 Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke 
 
 white. 
 Glimmered the white moon-shine." 
 
 " God save thee, ancient Mariner ! The ancien- 
 
 ._, loT-i T lit Mariner 
 
 80 h rora the fiends, that plao:ue thee thus I — inhospitably 
 
 -inrri , , , , ^ ?, -r-r-r. , killeth the 
 
 Why lookst thou so? — "With my pious bird of 
 
 "^ *' good omen. 
 
 cross-bow 
 
 I shot the Albatross 
 
 PART II. 
 
 " The Sun now rose upon the right : 
 Out of the sea came he, 
 85 Still hid in mist, and on the left 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 " And the good south wind still blew be- 
 hind. 
 But no sweet bird did follow. 
 Nor any day for food or play 
 90 Game to the mariners' hollo I 
 
16 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 " And I had done a hellish thinff, His shipma^a 
 
 111) cry out against 
 
 And it would work em woe : the ancient 
 
 I'l Mariner, for 
 
 For all averred, I had killed the bird killing the bir-: 
 
 of good luck. 
 
 That made the breeze to blow. 
 95 Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay, 
 That made the breeze to blow ! 
 
 " Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, But when the 
 
 , , fog cleared off. 
 
 The glorious Sun uprist : they justify 
 
 Then all averred, I had Idlled the bird thus maiie 
 
 TIP 1 • themselves ac- 
 
 100 jLhat brouo^ht the foo^ and mist. complices in 
 
 .1 '11 1 1 • 1 the crime. 
 
 1 was right, said they, such birds to 
 
 slay, 
 That bring the fog and mist. 
 
 "The fair breeze blew, the white foam The fair breeze 
 
 continues; the 
 
 ;Q^g^ ship enters th~ 
 
 ' Pacific Ocean, 
 
 The furrow followed free ; and sails north. 
 
 ward, even till 
 
 ao5 We were the first that ever burst it reaches the 
 
 Line. 
 
 Into that silent sea. 
 
 "Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt The ship hath 
 
 ^ ' ■■■ been suddenly 
 
 Jown, becalmed. 
 
 'T was sad as sad could be ; 
 And we did speak only to break 
 Jio The silence of the sea ! 
 
 " All in a hot and copper sky, 
 The bloody Sun, at noon, 
 
 104. In the former edition the line was, " The fur- 
 row streamed off free," but I had not been long on 
 board a ship before I perceived that this was the 
 image as seen by a spectator from the shore, or from 
 another vessel. From the ship itself the wake appears 
 like a brook flowing off from the stern. S. T. C. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 IT 
 
 Eiglit up above the mast did stand, 
 No bigger than the Moon. 
 
 U5 
 
 " 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, 
 120 And all the boards did shrink ; 
 Water, water, everywhere, 
 Nor any drop to drink. 
 
 " The very deep did rot : O Christ I 
 That ever this should be ! 
 125 Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
 Upon the slimy sea. 
 
 •* About, about, in reel and rout 
 The death-fires danced at nighfe ; 
 The water, like a witch's oils, 
 230 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. 
 
 ^85 " 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. 
 
 And the AlbJt- 
 tross begins tc 
 be avenged. 
 
 A Spirit had 
 followed them 5 
 one of the in- 
 visible inhab- 
 itants of this 
 planet, neither 
 departed souls 
 nor angels ; 
 concerning 
 whom the 
 learned Jew, 
 Josephus, and 
 the Platonic 
 Constantino- 
 politan, Mi- 
 chael Psellus, 
 may be con- 
 sulted. They 
 are very nu- 
 merous, and 
 there is no cli- 
 mate or ele^ 
 ment without 
 one or mdre* 
 
18 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 "Ah ! well-a.day ! what evil looks S'thSS?^ 
 
 140 Had I from old and young ! ftnlSorSe 
 
 Instead of the cross, the Albatross ttL^^ '" 
 
 About my neck was hung. l^^i^Z 
 
 they hang the 
 dead sea-bird 
 round his 
 PART III. neck, 
 
 " There passed a weary time. Each throat 
 Was parched, and glazed each eye. 
 145 A weary time ! a weary time ! 
 How glazed each weary eye, 
 When lookins: westward, I beheld The ancient 
 
 *^ Manner be- 
 
 A something: in the sky. howeth a sign 
 
 o J in the ele- 
 
 ment afar off. 
 
 " At first it seemed a little speck, 
 150 And then it seemed a mist ; 
 
 It moved and moved, and took at last 
 A certain shape, I wist. 
 
 " A speck, a mist, a shape I wist I 
 And still it neared and neared : 
 155 As if it dodged a water-sprite, 
 It plunged and tacked and veered. 
 
 " With throats unslaked, with black lips At its nearer 
 
 ^ ^ ^ approach, it 
 
 baked, seemeth him 
 
 We could nor laugh nor wail ; and at a dear 
 
 Through utter drought all dumb we freethhis 
 
 -, , speech from 
 
 stood ! the bonds ot 
 
 160 1 bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 
 And cried, A sail ! a sail ! 
 
 " With throats unslaked, with black lips 
 
 baked, 
 Agape they heard me call : 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER, 19 
 
 Gramercy ! they for joy did grin, 
 165 And all at once their breath drew in, a flash of 
 As they were drinking all. 
 
 joy; 
 
 " See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no And horror 
 
 , follows. For 
 
 more I can it be a ship 
 
 xT».i , -I 1 that comes 
 
 Hither to work us weal, — onward with- 
 
 Without a breeze, without a tide, tide? 
 
 170 She steadies with upright keel ! 
 
 " The western wave was all aflame. 
 The day was well nigh done I 
 Almost upon the western wave 
 Rested the broad bright Sun ; 
 175 When that strange shape drove sud- 
 denly 
 Betwixt us and the Sun. 
 
 " And straight the Sun was flecked with it seemeth 
 
 ° him but the 
 
 bars, skeleton of a 
 
 (Heaven's Mother send us grace !) 
 As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
 180 With broad and burning face. 
 
 "Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat 
 
 loud) 
 How fast she nears and nears ! 
 
 164. In his Tahle Talk Coleridge says : " I took 
 the thought of * grinning for joy * from my compan- 
 ion's [a college friend] remark to me, when we had 
 climbed to the top of Plinlimmon, and were nearly 
 dead with thirst. We could not speak from the 
 constriction, till we found a little puddle under a 
 stone. He said to me : ' You grinned like an idiot.' 
 He had done the same." 
 
20 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 Are those her sails that glance in the 
 
 Sun, 
 Like restless gossameres ? 
 
 " Are those her ribs through which the 
 
 Sun 
 Did peer, as through a grate ? 
 And is that Woman all her crew ? 
 Is that a Death ? and are there two ? 
 Is Death that woman's mate ? 
 
 And its ribs are 
 seen as bars on 
 the face of the 
 setting Sun. 
 The Spectre- 
 Woman and 
 her Death- 
 mate, and no 
 other on board 
 the skeleton- 
 ship. 
 
 190 "Her lips were red, her looks were 
 free, 
 Her locks were yellow as gold : 
 Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
 The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 
 Who thicks man's blood with cold. 
 
 Like vessel, 
 like crew] 
 
 195 " The nakea hulk alongside came. 
 And the twain were casting dice ; 
 ' The game is done ! I 've won 
 
 won I 
 
 Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 
 
 Death and 
 Life-in-Death 
 have diced for 
 the ship's 
 I ve cr^w, and she 
 (the latter) 
 winneth the 
 ancient 
 Mariner. 
 
 184. On the margin of the poem in a copy of an 
 early edition Coleridge added this stanza after this 
 Terse : — 
 
 " This ship, it was a plankless thing — 
 A bare Anatomy I 
 
 A plankless Spectre — and it mov'd 
 Like a bemg of the Sea ! 
 The woman and a fleshless man 
 Therein sate merrily." 
 
 198. The following verse is inserted here, in ear- 
 lier editions : — 
 
 " A gust of wind sterte up behind 
 And whistled through his bones ; 
 
 Through the holes of his eyes «nd the hole of his mottth» 
 Half whistles and half groaua-" 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 21 
 
 " The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rash out : Jfthi^he* 
 1500 At one stride comes the dark ; C^^°^*^® 
 
 With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 
 Oft shot the spectre-bark. 
 
 " We listened and looked sideways up ! At the rising 
 
 •/ ^ of the Moon, 
 
 rear at ray heart, as at a cup, 
 205 My life-blood seemed to sip ! 
 
 The stars were dim, and thick the night, 
 
 The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed 
 white ; 
 
 From the sails the dew did drip — 
 
 Till clomb above the eastern bar 
 ao The horned Moon, with one bright star 
 
 Within the nether tip. 
 
 "One after one, by the star-doffsred one after 
 
 ^, ' ^^ ^^ another. 
 
 IMoon, 
 Too quick for groan or sigh. 
 Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, 
 215 And cursed me with his eye. 
 
 "Four times fifty living men, His shipmatea 
 
 (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) dead. 
 
 With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
 They dropped down one by one. 
 
 m " The souls did from their bodies fly, — S"* ^'t®'^?" 
 
 '' ^ Death begins 
 
 They fled to bliss or woe ! her work on 
 
 •^ the ancient 
 
 Mariner. 
 
 210. It is a common superstition among sailors 
 that something evil is about to happen whenever a 
 Btar dogs the moon. S. T. C. 
 
 But no sailor ever saw a star within the nether 
 tip of a horned moon. J. Dykes Campbell. 
 
22 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, 
 
 And every soul, it passed me by, 
 Like the whizz of my cross-bow 1 " 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 " I FEAR thee, ancient Mariner ! The wedding. 
 
 _ „ , , . , , . Guest feareth 
 
 .^5 i tear thy skinny hand. I that a spirit ia 
 
 And thou art long, and lank, and brown, s o un. 
 As is the ribbed sea-sand. 
 
 " I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 
 And thy skinny hand, so brown." — 
 530 " Fear not, fear not, thou 
 Guest! 
 This body dropt not down. 
 
 " Alone, alone, all, all alone. 
 Alone on a wide, wide sea ! 
 And never a saint took pity on 
 235 My soul in agony. 
 
 Wedding- But the an- 
 
 cient Mariner 
 assureth him 
 of his bodily 
 life, and pro- 
 ceedeth to re- 
 late his horri- 
 ble] 
 
 " The many men, so beautiful ! 
 And they all dead did lie : 
 And a thousand thousand slimy things 
 Lived on ; and so did I. 
 
 He despiseth 
 Wie creatures 
 of the calm. 
 
 MO " I looked upon the rotting sea, 
 And drew my eyes away ; 
 I looked upon the rotting deck, 
 And there the dead men lay. 
 
 And envieth 
 that they 
 should hve, 
 and so many 
 lie dead. 
 
 227. For the last two lines of this stanza, I am 
 indebted to Mr. Wordsworth. S. T. C. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 23 
 
 <( 
 
 I looked to heaven, and tried to pray ; 
 M5 But or ever a prayer had gusht, 
 A wicked whisper came, and made 
 My heart as dry as dust. 
 
 " I closed my lids, and kept them close, 
 And the balls like pulses beat ; 
 250 For the sky and the sea, and the sea 
 and the sky 
 Lay like a load on my weary eye, 
 And the dead were at my feet. 
 
 " The cold sweat melted from their But the curse 
 
 _ . , liveth for him 
 
 limbs, in the eye of 
 
 Nor rot nor reek did they : 
 issThe look with which they looked on 
 me 
 Had never passed away. 
 
 " An orphan's curse would drag to hell 
 A spirit from on high ; 
 But oh ! more horrible than that 
 260 Is a curse in a dead man's eye ! 
 
 Seven days, seven nights, I saw that 
 
 curse, 
 And yet I could not die. 
 
 " The moving Moon went up the sky, ^ ^is lonen- 
 
 And nowhere did abide : ^^J ^^ye^rnt 
 
 265 Softly she was going up, «J^ ^,3 et- 
 
 And a star or two beside — S| "^l^Zt 
 
 still sojourn, 
 yet still move onward ; and everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, and is their 
 appointed rest, and their native country and their own natural homes, which they 
 enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet there is a silent 
 joy at their arrivaL 
 
24 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 " Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 
 Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
 But where the ship's huge shadow lay, 
 270 The charmed water burnt alway 
 A still and awful red. 
 
 " Beyond the shadow of the ship. By the light of 
 
 T , 1 1 J 1 J 1 the Moon he 
 
 1 watched the water-snakes : behoideth 
 
 They moved in tracks of shining white, tures of the 
 
 275 And when they reared, the elfish light g^«* <= ™- 
 Fell off in hoary flakes. 
 
 " Within the shadow of the ship 
 I watched their rich attire : 
 Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 
 280 They coiled and swam ; and every track 
 Was a flash of golden fire. 
 
 " O happy living things ! no tongue Their beauty 
 
 Their beauty might declare : piness^^ 
 A spring of love gushed from my heart, 
 
 285 And I blessed them unaware ; He biesseth 
 
 S, . , ... 1 ., themlnhia 
 
 ure my kind saint took pity on me, heart. 
 
 And I blessed them unaware. 
 
 " The selfsame moment I could pray ; The speii be- 
 
 » T /. IP guis to break. 
 
 And irom my neck so tree 
 390 The Albatross fell off, and sank 
 Like lead into the sea.'* 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 25 
 
 PART V. 
 
 " Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 
 Beloved from pole to pole ! 
 To Mary Queen the praise be given! 
 295 She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 
 That slid into my soul. 
 
 " The silly buckets on the deck, By grace of 
 
 mi 1 1 1 -1 the holy 
 
 That had so loner remained, Mother, the 
 
 -1-1 11 r>n 1 '11 ancient Mari- 
 
 1 dreamt that they were filled with dew ; ner is re- 
 
 , . . 1 freshed with 
 
 Joe And when I awoke, it rained. rain. 
 
 " My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
 My garments all were dank ; 
 Sure I had drunken in my dreams. 
 And still my body drank. 
 
 305 "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. 
 
 " And soon I heard a roaring wind : 
 ao It did not come anear ; 
 
 But with its sound it shook the sails. 
 That were so thin and sere. 
 
 He heareth 
 sounds and 
 seeth strange 
 sights and 
 commotions in 
 the sky and 
 the elements. 
 
 " The upper air burst into life ! 
 And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 
 n5 To and fro they were hurried about I 
 And to and fro, and ki and out, 
 The wan stars danced between. 
 
26 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 "And the coming wind did roar more 
 
 loud, 
 And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 
 320 And the rain poured down from one 
 
 black cloud ; 
 The moon was at its edge. 
 
 " The thick black cloud was cleft, and 
 
 still ^ • 
 
 The moon was at its side : 
 Like waters shot from some high crag, 
 825 The lightning fell with never a jag, 
 A river steep and wide. 
 
 " The loud wind never reached the ship, The bodies of 
 
 _^ 1 1 • II *^® ship's creW 
 
 1 et now the ship moved on ! are inspired, 
 
 Beneath the lightning and the Moon movei^on. 
 
 880 The dead men gave a groan. 
 
 "They groaned, they stirred, they all 
 
 uprose. 
 Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 
 It had been strange, even in a dream, 
 To have seen those dead men rise. 
 
 «35 " The helmsman steered, the ship moved 
 on ; 
 Yet never a breeze up blew ; 
 The mariners all 'gan work the ropes. 
 Where they were wont to do ; 
 They raised their limbs like lifeless 
 tools — 
 1*0 We were a ghastly crew. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 27 
 
 " The body of my brother's son 
 Stood by me, knee to knee : 
 The body and I pulled at one rope, 
 But he said nought to me." 
 
 545 " I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! " But not by the 
 
 -. ^^ , souls of the 
 
 "Becalm, thou Weddmg-Cjruest I. men, nor by 
 
 n 1 • demons of 
 
 T was not those souls that ned in earth or mid- 
 
 die air, but by 
 
 pain, a blessed troop 
 
 -rtri • 1 X xi • • of angelic spir. 
 
 Which to their corses came again, its, sent down 
 
 -y-, /•••IT '^y *^® invoca- 
 
 But a troop oi spirits blest : tion of the 
 
 •^ ■*• guardian saintc 
 
 350 "For when it dawned — they dropped 
 
 their arms. 
 And clustered round the mast ; 
 Sweet sounds rose slowly through their 
 
 mouths. 
 And from their bodies passed. 
 
 " Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 
 i-is Then darted to the Sun ; 
 
 Slowly the sounds came back again, 
 Now mixed, now one by one. 
 
 . " Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
 I heard the skylark sing ; 
 J60 Sometimes all little birds that are, 
 
 How they seemed to fill the sea and 
 
 air 
 With their sweet jargoning ! 
 
 344. In an earlier edition there followed these 
 two lines : — 
 
 '* And I quak'd to think of my own voice 
 How frightful it would be ! " 
 
^8 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 " And now 't was like all instruments^ 
 Now like a lonely flute ; 
 865 And now it is an angel's song, 
 That makes the heavens be mute. 
 
 " It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 
 A pleasant noise till noon, 
 A noise like of a hidden brook 
 m In the leafy month of June, 
 
 That to the sleeping woods all night 
 Singeth a quiet tune. 
 
 " TiU noon we quietly sailed on, 
 Yet never a breeze did breathe : 
 875 Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
 Moved onward from beneath. 
 
 " Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
 From the land of mist and snow, 
 The Spirit slid : and it was he 
 S80 That made the ship to go. 
 
 The sails at noon left off their tune, 
 And the ship stood stiU also. 
 
 " The Sun, right up above the mast, 
 Had fixed her to the ocean : 
 185 But in a minute she 'gan stir. 
 With a short uneasy motion — 
 Backwards and forwards half her 
 
 length 
 With a short uneasy motion. 
 
 " Then like a pawing horse let go, 
 »o She made a sudden bound : 
 
 The lonesome 
 Spirit from the 
 south-pole car- 
 ries on the 
 ship as far as 
 the Line, in 
 obedience to 
 the angelic 
 troop, but still 
 requireth ven- 
 geance. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 29 
 
 It flung the blood into my head. 
 And I fell down in a swound. 
 
 " How long in that same fit I lay, 
 I have not to declare ; 
 |i95 But ere my living life returned, 
 I heard, and in my soul discerned, 
 Two voices in the air. 
 
 Is 
 
 it he ? ' quoth one, ' Is this 
 man? 
 By him who died on cross, 
 400 With his cruel bow he laid full low 
 The harmless Albatross. 
 
 The Polar 
 Spirit's felloTf* 
 demons, the 
 invisible in- 
 habitants of 
 the element, 
 take part in 
 his wrong ; and 
 two of them 
 relate, one to 
 the other, that 
 . •• penance long 
 tne and heavy for 
 the ancient 
 Mariner hath 
 been accorded 
 to the Polar 
 Spirit, who 
 retumeth 
 southward. 
 
 " ' The Spirit who bideth by himself 
 In the land of mist and snow, 
 He loved the bird that loved the man 
 435 Who shot him with his bow.' 
 
 392. After this stanza were the following four in 
 the first edition, dropped afterward by the poet: — 
 
 " Listen, listen, thou Wedding-guest ! 
 ' Marinere ! thou hast thy will : 
 For that, which comes out of thine eye, doth make 
 My body and soul to be still.' 
 
 *' Never sadder tale was told 
 To a man of woman born : 
 Sadder and wiser, thou wedding-guest I 
 Thou 'It rise to-morrow morn. 
 
 ** Never sadder tale was heard 
 By a man of woman born : 
 The Marineres all return'd to work 
 As silent as befome. 
 
 " The Marineres all 'gan pull the ropes, 
 But look at me they n' old : 
 Thought I, I am as thin as air — 
 They cannot me behold. " 
 
30 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 " The other was a softer voice, 
 
 As soft as honey-dew : 
 
 Quoth he, ' The man hath penance 
 
 done. 
 And penance more will do.' " 
 
 PART VI. 
 
 FIKST VOICE. 
 
 no ** ' 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, 
 415 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. 
 420 See, brother, see ! how graciously 
 She looketh down on him.' 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 " ' But why drives on that ship so fast, 
 Without or wave or wind ? ' 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 " ' The air is cut away before, 
 «25 And closes from behind.' 
 
 The Mariner 
 hath been cast 
 into a trance ; 
 for the angelic 
 power causeth 
 the vessel to 
 drive north- 
 ward faster 
 than human 
 life could 
 endure. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER, 31 
 
 *' ' 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.' 
 
 430 " I woke, and we were sailing on The super- 
 
 . . ^ ^ natural motion 
 
 As in a gentle weather : is retarded ; 
 
 'T was night, calm night, the moon was awakes, and 
 
 ^ . - his penance 
 
 high ; begins anew. 
 
 The dead men stood together. 
 
 " All stood together on the deck, 
 <35 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 : 
 440 1 could not draw my eyes from theirs, 
 Nor turn them up to pray. 
 
 " And now this spell was snapt : once more The curse la 
 
 T- . ^ ^ finally ex- 
 
 i Viewed the ocean green, . plated. 
 
 And looked far forth, yet little saw 
 445 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 ; 
 450 Because he knows, a frightful fiend 
 Doth close behind him tread. 
 
32 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 " But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
 Nor sound nor motion made : 
 Its path was not upon the sea, 
 455 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. 
 
 460 " Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 
 Yet she sailed softly too : 
 Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
 On me alone it blew. 
 
 " Oh ! dream of ioy ! is this indeed And the au- 
 
 ** *' cient Mariner 
 
 465 The liffht-house top I see ? beholdeth hla 
 
 . , . 1 • 1 o native coun- 
 
 Is this the hill ? is this the kirk c try 
 
 Is this mine own countree ? 
 
 " We drifted o'er the harbor-bar, 
 And I with sobs did pray — 
 470 O let me be awake, my God ! 
 Or let me sleep alway. 
 
 " The harbour-bay was clear as glass, 
 So smoothly it was strewn ! 
 And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
 475 And the shadow of the Moon. 
 
 475. Here in the edition of 1798 followed these 
 five stanzas : — 
 
 " The moonlight bay was white all o'er, 
 Till rising from the same, 
 Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
 Like as of torches came. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 33 
 
 " 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, The angeiic 
 
 -w- . , spirits leave 
 
 in crimson colors came. the dead 
 
 ^ V bodies. 
 
 " 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. Ana appear in 
 
 On every corse there stood. forms of light. 
 
 " A little distance from the prow 
 Those dark-red shadows were ; 
 But soon I saw that my own flesh 
 Was red as in a glare. 
 
 *♦ I tum'd my head in fear and dread, 
 And by the holy rood, 
 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, 
 A torch that 's borne upright. 
 Their stony eye-balls glitter'd on 
 In the red and smoky light. 
 
 " I pray'd and turn'd my head away 
 Forth looking as before. 
 There was no breeze upon the bay, 
 No wave against the shore." 
 
34 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 " This seraph-band, each waved his hand : 
 It was a heavenly sight ! 
 They stood as signals to the land, 
 495 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. 
 
 600 " 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, 
 005 1 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 ! 
 sio He singeth loud his godly hymns 
 That he makes in the wood. 
 He 'U shrieve my soul, he '11 wash away 
 The Albatross's blood. 
 
 503. The following stanza was omitted by Cole- 
 ridge when revising the poem : — 
 
 " 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 
 On me alone it blew.*' 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 35 
 
 PART VII. 
 
 " This Hermit good lives in that wood The Hermit of 
 
 . , , T 1 the wood, 
 
 f)i5 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 — 
 520 He hath a cushion plump : 
 It is the moss that wholly hides 
 The rotted old oak-stump. 
 
 " The skiff-boat neared : I heard them 
 
 talk, 
 ' Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
 625 Where are those lights so many and fair, 
 That signal made but now ? ' 
 
 " ' Strange, by my faith ! ' the Hermit Approacheth 
 
 • I the ship witM 
 
 SaiCl wonder. 
 
 And they answered not our cheer ! 
 The planks looked warped ! and see those 
 sails, 
 630 How thin they are and sere ! 
 I never saw aught like to them, 
 Unless perchance it were 
 
 " ' Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
 My forest-brook along ; 
 535 When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 
 And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 
 That eats the she-wolf's young,' 
 
36 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 " ' Dear Lord ! it liatli a fiendish 
 
 look — 
 (The Pilot made reply) 
 540 1 am a-feared ' — ' Push on, push on ! ' 
 Said the Hermit cheerily. 
 
 " The boat came closer to the ship, 
 But I nor spake nor stirred ; 
 The boat came close beneath the ship, 
 645 And straight a sound was heard. 
 
 " Under the water it rumbled on, The ship sud- 
 
 ct.Mi 11 J J J denly sinketh. 
 
 Still louder and more dread : 
 
 It reached the ship, it split the bay ; 
 
 The ship went down like lead. 
 
 650 "Stunned by that loud and dreadful The ancient 
 
 •z Mariner is 
 
 sound, ^y«,^ in the 
 
 ' Pilot's boat. 
 
 Which sky and ocean smote, 
 
 Like one that hath been seven days 
 
 drowned 
 My body lay afloat ; 
 But swift as dreams, myself I found 
 655 "Within the Pilot's boat. 
 
 " Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
 The boat spun round and round ; 
 And all was still, save that the hill 
 Was telling of the sound. 
 
 860 " I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 
 And fell down in a fit ; 
 The holy Hermit raised his eyes, 
 And prayed where he did sit. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 3T 
 
 " I took the oars : the Pilot's boy, 
 565 Who now doth crazy go, 
 
 Laughed loud and long, and all the 
 while 
 . His eyes went to and fro. 
 ' Ha ! ha ! ' quoth he, ' full plain I see, 
 The Devil knows how to row.' 
 
 570 " And now, all in my own countree, 
 I stood on the firm land ! 
 The Hermit stepped forth from the boat. 
 And scarcely he could stand. 
 
 " ' O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man ! ' The ancient 
 
 S75 The Hermit crossed his brow. nestly entreat- 
 
 ' Say quick,' quoth he, ' I bid thee say — to shrieve 
 What manner of man art thou ? ' penance of life 
 
 falls on him. 
 
 "Forthwith this frame of mine was 
 
 wrenched 
 With a wof ul agony, 
 580 Which forced me to begin my tale ; 
 And then it left me free. 
 
 " Since then, at an uncertain hour. 
 That agony returns : 
 And till my ghastly tale is told, 
 This heart within me burns. 
 
 " I pass, like night, from land to land ; 
 I have strange power of speech ; 
 That moment that his face I see, 
 I know the man that must hear me •. 
 To him my tale I teach. 
 
 And ever and 
 anon through 
 out his future 
 life an agony 
 constraineth 
 him to travel 
 from land to 
 land. 
 
38 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 "What loud uproar bursts from that 
 
 door! 
 The wedding-guests are there : 
 But in the garden-bower the bride 
 And bride-maids singing are : 
 595 And hark the little vesper bell, 
 Which biddeth me to prayer ! 
 
 " O Wedding - Guest ! this soul hath 
 
 been 
 Alone on a wide, wide sea : 
 So lonely 't was, that God himself 
 600 Scarce seemed there to be. 
 
 " Oh sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
 'T is sweeter far to me, 
 To walk together to the kirk 
 With a goodly company ! — 
 
 «05 " To walk together to the kirk. 
 And all together pray, 
 While each to his great Father bends. 
 Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 
 And youths and maidens gay ! 
 
 610 " Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell And to teach 
 
 To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! eLSpfe^ve 
 
 / He prayeth well, who loveth well ??ln7hTngr 
 
 ^ Both man and bird and beast. Sd i^vtt^"^* 
 
 " He prayeth best, who loveth best 
 615 All things both great and small ; 
 For the dear God who loveth us, 
 He made and loveth all." 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 39 
 
 The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
 Whose beard with age is hoar, 
 620 Is gone : and now the Wedding-Guest 
 Turned from the bridegroom's door. 
 
 He went like one that hath been stunned, 
 And is of sense forlorn : 
 A sadder and a wiser man, 
 125 He rose the morrow morn. 
 
CHRISTABEL. 
 
 PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION. 1816. 
 
 The first part of the following poem was written in the year 
 1797, at Stowey, in the county of Somerset. The second part, 
 after my return from Germany, in the year 1800, at Keswick, 
 Cumberland. Since the latter date my poetic powers have been, 
 till very lately, in a state of suspended animation. But as, in 
 my very first conception of the tale, I had the whole present to 
 my mind, with the wholeness, no less than with the liveliness of 
 a vision ; I trust that I shall be able to embody in verse the 
 three parts yet to come, in the course of the present year.^ 
 
 It is probable, that if the poem had been finished at either of 
 the former periods, or if even the first and second part had been 
 published in the year 1800, the impression of its originality 
 would have been much greater than I dare at present expect. 
 But for this, I have only my own indolence to blame. The dates 
 are mentioned for the exclusive purpose of precluding charges 
 of plagiarism or servile imitation from myself. For there is 
 amongst us a set of critics, who seem to hold, that every possible 
 thought and image is traditional ; who have no notion that there 
 are such things as fountains in the world, small as well as great ; 
 and who would therefore charitably derive every rill they behold 
 flowing, from a perforation made in some other man's tank. I 
 am confident, however, that as far as the present poem is con- 
 cerned, che celebrated poets whose writings I might be suspected 
 of having imitated, either in particular passages, or in the tone 
 and the spirit of the whole, would be among the first to vindi- 
 cate me from the charge, and who, on any striking coincidence, 
 would permit me to address them in this doggerel version of 
 two monkish Latin hexameters : — 
 
 1 But this hope was illusory. 
 
CHRIST A BEL. 41 
 
 " 'T is mine and it is likewise yours ; 
 But an if this will not do, 
 Let it be mine, dear friend ! for I 
 Am the poorer of the two." 
 
 I have only to add, that the metre of the Christabel is not, 
 properly speaking, irregular, though it may seem so from its 
 being founded on a new principle ; namely, that of counting in 
 each line the accents, not the syllables. Though the latter may 
 vary from seven to twelve, yet in each line the accents will be 
 found to be only four. Nevertheless this occasional variation in 
 number of syllables is not introduced wantonly, or for the mere 
 ends of convenience, but in correspondence with some transition, 
 in the nature of the imagery or passion. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 'T IS the middle of night by the castle clock, 
 And the owls have awakened the crowing cock, 
 
 Tu— whit ! Tu— whoo ! 
 
 And hark, again ! the crowing cock, 
 ^ How drowsily it crew. 
 
 Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, 
 Hath a toothless mastiff, which 
 From her kennel beneath the rock 
 Maketh answer to the clock, 
 10 Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour ; 
 Ever and aye, by shine and shower. 
 Sixteen short howls, not over loud ; 
 Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 
 
 Is the night chilly and dark ? 
 15 The night is chilly, but not dark. 
 The thin gray cloud is spread on high, 
 It covers but not hides the sky. 
 The moon is behind, and at the full ; 
 
42 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 And yet she looks both small and dull. 
 20 The night is chill, the cloud is gray : 
 'T is a month before the month of May, 
 And the Spring comes slowly up this way. 
 
 The lovely lady, Christabel, 
 
 Whom her father loves so well, 
 25 What makes her in the wood so late, 
 
 A furlong from the castle gate ? 
 
 She had dreams all yesternight 
 
 Of her own betrothed knight ; 
 
 And she in the midnight wood will pray 
 30 For the weal of her lover that 's far away. 
 
 She stole along, she nothing spoke. 
 The sighs she heaved were soft and low, 
 And naught was green upon the oak 
 But moss and rarest mistletoe ; 
 35 She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, 
 And in silence prayeth she. 
 
 The lady sprang up suddenly, 
 The lovely lady, Christabel ! 
 It moaned as near, as near can be, 
 40 But what it is she cannot tell. — 
 On the other side it seems to be. 
 Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. 
 
 The night is chill ; the forest bare ; 
 Is it the wind that moaneth bleak ? 
 45 There is not wind enough in the air 
 To move away the ringlet curl 
 From the lovely lady's cheek — 
 There is not wind enough to twirl 
 
CHRISTABEL. 43 
 
 The one red leaf, the last of its clan, 
 50 That dances as often as dance it can, 
 Hanging so light, and hanging so high. 
 On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. 
 
 Hush, beating heart of Christabel ! 
 Jesu Maria, shield her well ! 
 55 She folded her arms beneath her cloak, 
 And stole to the other side of the oak. 
 What sees she there ? 
 
 There she sees a damsel bright, 
 
 Drest in a silken robe of white, 
 60 That shadowy in the moonlight shone : 
 
 The neck that made that white robe wan, 
 
 Her stately neck, and arms were bare ; 
 
 Her blue-veined feet unsandall'd were, 
 
 And wildly glittered here and there 
 65^ The gems entangled in her hair. 
 
 I guess, 't was frightful there to see 
 
 A lady so richly clad as she — 
 
 Beautiful exceedingly ! 
 
 " Mary mother, save me now ! " 
 70 (Said Christabel,) " And who art thou ? '' 
 
 The lady strange made answer meet, 
 And her voice was faint and sweet : — 
 " Have pity on my sore distress, 
 I scarce can speak for weariness : " 
 75 " Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear ! *' 
 Said Christabel, '' How earnest thou here ? " 
 And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet. 
 Did thus pursue her answer meet : — 
 
U SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 " My sire is of a noble line, 
 
 80 And my name is Geraldine : 
 Five warriors seized me yestermorn, 
 Me, even me, a maid forlorn : 
 They choked my cries with force and fright, 
 And tied me on a palfrey white. 
 
 85 The palfrey was as fleet as wind, 
 And they rode furiously behind. 
 They spurred amain, their steeds were white 
 And once we crossed the shade of night. 
 As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, 
 
 90 1 have no thought what men they be ; 
 Nor do I know how long it is 
 (For I have lain entranced iwis) 
 Since one, the tallest of the five. 
 Took me from the palfrey's back, 
 
 95 A weary woman, scarce alive. 
 Some muttered words his comrades spoke : 
 He placed me underneath this oak ; 
 He swore they would return with haste ; 
 Whither they went I cannot tell — 
 100 1 thought I heard, some minutes past. 
 Sounds as of a castle bell. 
 Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she,) 
 And help a wretched maid to flee." 
 
 Then Christabel stretched forth her hand, 
 105 And comforted fair Geraldine : 
 
 " Oh well, bright dame ! may you command 
 
 The service of Sir Leoline ; 
 
 And gladly our stout chivalry 
 
 Will he send forth, and friends withal, 
 110 To guide and guard you safe and free 
 
 Home to your noble father's hall." 
 
CHRISTABEL. 45 
 
 She rose : and forth with steps they passed 
 
 That strove to be, and were not, fast. 
 
 Her gracious stars the lady blest, 
 115 And thus spake on sweet Christabel : 
 
 " All our household are at rest, 
 
 The hall as silent as the cell ; 
 
 Sir Leoline is weak in health, 
 
 And may not well awakened be, 
 120 But we will move as if in stealth, 
 
 And I beseech your courtesy. 
 
 This night, to share your couch with me." 
 
 They crossed the moat, and Christabel 
 
 Took the key that fitted well ; 
 125 A little door she opened straight, 
 
 All in the middle of the gate ; 
 
 The gate that was ironed within and without, 
 
 Where an army in battle array had marched out. 
 
 The lady sank, belike through pain, 
 130 And Christabel with might and main 
 
 Lifted her up, a weary weight. 
 
 Over the threshold of the gate : 
 
 Then the lady rose again, 
 
 And moved, as she were not in pain. 
 
 135 So free from danger, free from fear. 
 
 They crossed the court : right glad they were. 
 
 And Christabel devoutly cried 
 
 To the lady by her side : 
 
 " Praise we the Virgin all divine 
 MO Who hath rescued thee from thy distress ! " 
 
 " Alas, alas ! " said Geraldine, 
 
 " I cannot speak for weariness." 
 
 So free from danger, free from fear. 
 
 They crossed the couit : right glad they were. 
 
46 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE, 
 
 145 Outside her kennel the mastiff old 
 
 Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 
 
 The mastiff old did not awake, 
 
 Yet she an angry moan did make ! 
 
 And what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 
 150 Never till now she uttered yell 
 
 Beneath the eye of Christabel. 
 
 Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch : 
 
 For what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 
 
 They passed the hall, that echoes still, 
 
 155 Pass as lightly as you will ! 
 
 The brands were flat, the brands were dying, 
 Amid their own white ashes lying ; 
 But when the lady passed, there came 
 A tongue of light, a fit of flame ; 
 
 160 And Christabel saw the la;dy's eye, 
 And nothing else saw she thereby. 
 Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall, 
 Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall. 
 " Oh softly tread," said Christabel, 
 
 165 " My father seldom sleepeth well." 
 
 Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare. 
 And jealous of the listening air. 
 They steal their way from stair to stair, 
 Now in glimmer, and now in gloom, 
 170 And now they pass the Baron's room, 
 As still as death, with stifled breath ! 
 And now have reached her chamber door ; 
 And now doth Geraldine press down 
 The rushes of the chamber floor. 
 
 175 The moon shines dim in the open air, 
 And not a moonbeam enters here. 
 
CHRISTABEL. 47 
 
 But they without its light can see 
 
 The chamber carved so curiously, 
 
 Carved with figures strange and sweet, 
 (80 All made out of the carver's brain, 
 
 For a lady's chamber meet : 
 
 The lamp with twofold silver chain 
 
 Is fastened to an angel's feet. 
 
 The silver lamp burns dead and dim ; 
 J85 But Christabel the lamp will trim. 
 
 She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright, 
 
 And left it swinging to and fro, 
 
 While Geraldine, in wretched plight, 
 
 Sank down upon the floor below. 
 
 190 " O weary lady, Geraldine, 
 
 I pray you, drink this cordial wine I 
 It is a wine of virtuous powers ; 
 My mother made it of wild flowers." 
 
 " And will your mother pity me, 
 195 Who am a maiden most forlorn ? " 
 Christabel answered — " Woe is me I 
 She died the hour that I was born. 
 I have heard the gray-haired friar tell, 
 How on her death-bed she did say, 
 «o That she should hear the castle-bell 
 Strike twelve upon my wedding-day, 
 
 mother dear ! that thou wert here ! " 
 
 " I would," said Geraldine, '^ she were ! " 
 
 But soon with altered voice, said she — 
 805 " Off, wandering mother ! Peak and pine I 
 
 1 have power to bid thee flee." 
 Alas ! what ails poor Geraldine ? 
 
48 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERLDGE, 
 
 Why stares she with unsettled eye ? 
 Can she the bodiless dead espy ? 
 210 And why with hollow voice cries she, 
 " OfP, woman, off ! this hour is mine — = 
 Though thou her guardian spirit be, 
 Off, woman, off ! 't is given to me." 
 
 Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side^ 
 215 And raised to heaven her eyes so blue — 
 " Alas ! " said she, this ghastly ride — 
 " Dear lady ! it hath wildered you ! " 
 The lady wiped her moist cold brow, 
 And faintly said, " 't is over now ! " 
 
 220 Again the wild-flower wine she drank : 
 Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright, 
 And from the floor whereon she sank. 
 The lofty lady stood upright ; 
 She was most beautiful to see, 
 
 225 Like a lady of a far countree. 
 
 And thus the lofty lady spake — 
 " All they, who live in the upper sky, 
 Do love you, holy Christabel ! 
 And you love them, and for their sake 
 230 And for the good which me befell, 
 Even I in my degree will try. 
 Fair maiden, to requite you well. 
 But now unrobe yourself ; for I 
 Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie." 
 
 235 Quoth Christabel, " So let it be 
 And as the lady bade, did she. 
 Her gentle limbs did she undress. 
 And lay down in her loveliness. 
 
CHRISTABEL. 49 
 
 But throiigli her brain o£ weal and woe 
 240 So many thoughts moved to and fro, 
 That vain it were her lids to close : 
 So half-way from the bed she rose, 
 And on her elbow did recline 
 To look at the lady Geraldine, 
 
 245 Beneath the lamp the lady bowed, 
 And slowly rolled her eyes around ; 
 Then drawing in her breath aloud, 
 Like one that shuddered, she unbound 
 The cincture from beneath her breast : 
 
 250 Her silken robe, and inner vest, 
 Dropt to her feet, and full in view. 
 Behold ! her bosom and half her side — - 
 A sight to dream of, not to tell ! 
 Oh shield her ! shield sweet Christabei i 
 
 255 Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs ; 
 
 Ah ! what a stricken look was hers ! 
 
 Deep from within she seems half-way 
 
 To lift some weight with sick assay. 
 
 And eyes the maid and seeks delay ; 
 260 Then suddenly, as one defied. 
 
 Collects herself in scorn and pride. 
 
 And lay down by the maiden's side ! — 
 
 And in her arms the maid she took. 
 Ah well-a-day ! 
 265 And with low voice and doleful look 
 These words did say : 
 
 " In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell, 
 
 Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabei ! 
 
 Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow, 
 270 This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow ; 
 
50 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 But vainly thou warrest, 
 
 For this is alone in 
 Thy power to declare, 
 That in the dim forest 
 275 Thou heard'st a low moaning, 
 
 And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair : 
 And didst bring her home with thee in love and in 
 
 charity, 
 To shield her and shelter her from the damp air." 
 
 THE CONCLUSION TO PART I. 
 
 It was a lovely sight to see 
 280 The lady Christabel, when she 
 Was praying at the old oak tree. 
 Amid the jagged shadows 
 Of mossy leafless boughs, 
 Kneeling in the moonlight, 
 285 To make her gentle vows ; 
 
 Her slender palms together prest. 
 Heaving sometimes on her breast ; 
 Her face resigned to bliss or bale — 
 Her face, oh call it fair not pale, 
 290 And both blue eyes more bright than clear, 
 Each about to have a tear. 
 
 With open eyes (ah woe is me !) 
 Asleep, and dreaming fearfully. 
 Fearfully dreaming, yet iwis, 
 295 Dreaming that alone, which is — 
 
 O sorrow and shame I Can this be she, 
 The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree ? 
 And lo ! the worker of these harms. 
 That holds the maiden in her arms. 
 
CHRISTABEL. 51 
 
 300 Seems to slumber still and mild, 
 As a mother with her child. 
 
 A star hath set, a star hath risen, 
 
 O Geraldine ! since arms of thine 
 
 Have been the lovely lady's prison. 
 305 O Geraldine ! one hour was thine — 
 
 Thou 'st had thy will ! By tairn and rill. 
 
 The night-birds all that hour were still. 
 
 But now they are jubilant anew, 
 
 From cliff and tower, tu — whoo ! tu — whoo ! 
 310 Tu — whoo ! tu — whoo ! from wood and fell ! 
 
 And see ! the lady Christabel 
 
 Gathers herself from out her trance ; 
 
 Her limbs relax, her countenance 
 
 Grows sad and soft ; the smooth thin lids 
 315 Close o'er her eyes ; and tears she sheds — 
 
 Large tears that leave the lashes bright ! 
 
 And oft the while she seems to smile 
 
 As infants at a sudden light ! 
 
 Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, 
 320 Like a youthful hermitess. 
 
 Beauteous in a wilderness, 
 
 Who, praying always, prays in sleep. 
 
 And, if she move unquietly. 
 
 Perchance, 't is but the blood so free, 
 325 Comes back and tingles in her feet. 
 
 No doubt she hath a vision sweet. 
 
 What if her guardian spirit 't were ? 
 
 What if she knew her mother near? 
 
 But this she knows, in joys and woes, 
 330 That saints will aid if men will call : 
 
 For the blue sky bends over all I 
 
52 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Each matin bell, the Baron saith, 
 Knells us back to a world of death. 
 These words Sir Leoline first said, 
 335 When he rose and found his lady dead ; 
 These words Sir Leoline will say, 
 Many a morn to his dying day ! 
 
 And hence the custom and law began. 
 That still at dawn the sacristan, 
 340 Who duly pulls the heavy bell, 
 Five and forty beads must tell 
 Between each stroke — a warning knell, 
 Which not a soul can choose but hear 
 From Bratha Head to Wyndermere. 
 
 345 Saith Bracy the bard, So let it knell I 
 And let the drowsy sacristan 
 Still count as slowly as he can ! 
 There is no lack of such, I ween. 
 As well fill up the space between. 
 
 350 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. 
 Who all give back, one after t' other, 
 
 355 The death-note to their living brother ; 
 And oft too, by the knell offended. 
 Just as their one ! two ! three ! is ended, 
 The devil mocks the doleful tale 
 With a merry peal from Borodale. 
 
CHRISTABEL. 53 
 
 360 The air is still ! through mist and cloud 
 
 That merry peal comes ringing loud ; 
 
 And Geraldine shakes off her dread, 
 
 And rises lightly from the bed ; 
 
 Puts on her silken vestments white, 
 865 And tricks her hair in lovely plight, 
 
 And nothing doubting of her spell 
 
 Awakens the lady Christabel. 
 
 " Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel? 
 
 I trust that you have rested well." 
 
 370 And Christabel awoke and spied 
 The same who lay down by her side — 
 Oh rather say, the same whom she 
 Raised up beneath the old oak tree I 
 Nay, fairer yet ; and yet more fair I 
 
 375 For she belike hath drunken deep 
 Of all the blessedness of sleep ! 
 And while she spake, her looks, her air 
 Such gentle thankfulness declare. 
 That (so it seemed) her girded vests 
 
 S80 Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 
 " Sure I have sinned ! " said Christabel, 
 " Now heaven be praised if all be well ! " 
 And in low faltering tones, yet sweet, 
 Did she the lofty lady greet, 
 
 885 With such perplexity of mind 
 As dreams too lively leave behind. 
 
 So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed 
 Her maiden limbs, and having prayed 
 That He, who on the cross did groan, 
 890 Might wash away her sins unknown, 
 She forthwith led fair Geraldine 
 To meet her sire, Sir Leoline. 
 
64 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 The lovely maid and lady tall 
 Are pacing both into the hall, 
 395 And pacing on through page and groom,. 
 Enter the Baron's presence-room. 
 
 The Baron rose, and while he prest 
 His gentle daughter to his breast, 
 With cheerful wonder in his eyes 
 400 The lady Geraldine espies, 
 
 And gave such welcome to the same, 
 As might beseem so bright a dame ! 
 
 But when he heard the lady's tale. 
 And when she told her father's name, 
 405 Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale. 
 Murmuring o'er the name again. 
 Lord Roland de Yaux of Tryermaine ? 
 
 Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; 
 But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
 
 410 And constancy lives in realms above ; 
 And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 
 And to be wroth with one we love 
 Doth work like madness in the brain. 
 And thus it chanced, as I divine, 
 
 415 With Roland and Sir Leoline. 
 Each spake words of high disdain 
 And insult to his heart's best brother : 
 They parted — ne'er to meet again ! 
 But never either found another 
 
 420 To free the hollow heart from paining — 
 They stood aloof, the scars remaining. 
 Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; 
 A dreary sea now flows between ; — 
 
CHRISTABEL. 55 
 
 But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
 425 Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
 
 The marks of that which once hath been. 
 
 Sir Leoline, a moment's space. 
 Stood gazing on the damsel's face : 
 And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine 
 130 Came back upon his heart again. 
 
 Oh then the Baron forgot his age, 
 
 His noble heart swelled high with rage ; 
 
 He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side, 
 
 He would proclaim it far and wide 
 435 With trump and solemn heraldry, 
 
 That they who thus had wronged the dame, 
 
 Were base as spotted infamy ! 
 
 " And if they dare deny the same, 
 
 My herald shall appoint a week, 
 440 And let the recreant traitors seek 
 
 My tourney court — that there and then 
 
 I may dislodge their reptile souls 
 
 From the bodies and forms of men ! " 
 
 He spake : his eye in lightning rolls ! 
 445 For the lady was ruthlessly seized ; and he kenned 
 
 In the beautiful lady the child of his friend ! 
 
 And now the tears were on his face, 
 And fondly in his arms he took 
 Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace, 
 450 Prolonging it with joyous look. 
 
 Which when she viewed, a vision fell 
 
 426. The lines 408-426 were once referred to by Coleridge as 
 "the best and sweetest lines I ever wrote." It has been conjec- 
 tured that the poet had his interrupted friendship with Southey 
 in mind when he wrote the lines. 
 
56 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 Upon the soul of Christabel, 
 
 The vision of fear, the touch and pain ! 
 
 She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again— ^ 
 ^ (Ah, woe is me ! Was it for thee, 
 
 Thou gentle maid ! such sights to see ?) 
 
 Again she saw that bosom old, 
 
 Again she felt that bosom cold, 
 
 And drew in her breath with a hissing sound : 
 460 Whereat the Knight turned wildly round, 
 
 And nothing saw but his own sweet maid 
 
 With eyes upraised, as one that prayed. 
 
 The touch, the sight, had passed away, 
 And in its stead that vision blest, 
 
 465 Which comforted her after-rest 
 While in the lady's arms she lay, 
 Had put a rapture in her breast. 
 And on her lips and o'er her eyes 
 Spread smiles like light ! 
 
 With new surprisGj 
 
 470 " What ails then my beloved child ? " 
 The Baron said — His daughter mild 
 Made answer, '^ All will yet be well ! " 
 I ween, she had no power to tell 
 Aught else : so mighty was the spell. 
 
 ♦75 Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, 
 Had deemed her sure a thing divine. 
 Such sorrow with such grace she blended, 
 As if she feared she had offended 
 Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid ! 
 
 <80 And with such lowly tones she prayed, 
 She might be sent without delay 
 Home to her father's mansion. 
 
CHRISTABEL. 67 
 
 " Nay ! 
 
 Nay, by my soul ! " said Leoline. 
 
 " Ho ! Bracy, the bard, the charge be thine I 
 485 Go thou, with music sweet aud loud. 
 
 And take two steeds with trappings proud, 
 
 And take the youth whom thou lov'st best 
 
 To bear thy harp, and learn thy song. 
 
 And clothe you both in solemn vest, 
 490 And over the mountains haste along. 
 
 Lest wandering folk, that are abroad, 
 
 Detain you on the valley road- 
 
 And when he has crossed the Irthing flood, 
 
 My merry bard ! he hastes, he hastes 
 495 Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood, 
 
 And reaches soon that castle good 
 
 Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes. 
 
 " Bard Bracy ! bard Bracy ! your horses are fleet, 
 
 Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet 
 500 More loud than your horses' echoing feet I 
 
 And loud and loud to Lord Roland call. 
 
 Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall ! 
 
 Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free — 
 
 Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me. 
 505 He bids thee come without delay 
 
 With all thy numerous array ; 
 
 And take thy lovely daughter home : 
 
 And he will meet thee on the way 
 
 With all his numerous array 
 ao White with their panting palfreys' foam ; 
 
 And by mine honor ! I will say. 
 
 That I repent me of the day 
 
 When I spake words of fierce disdain 
 
 To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine I — ■ 
 
58 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 515 — For since that evil hour hath flown, 
 Many a summer's sun hath shone ; 
 Yet ne'er found I a friend again 
 Like Koland de Vaux of Tryermaine." 
 
 The lady fell, and clasped his knees, 
 520 Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing ; 
 
 And Bracy replied, with faltering voice, 
 
 His gracious hail on all bestowing ! — 
 
 " Thy words, thou sire of Christabel, 
 
 Are sweeter than my harp can tell ; 
 525 Yet might I gain a boon of thee. 
 
 This day my journey should not be, 
 
 So strange a dream hath come to me ; 
 
 That I had vowed with music loud 
 
 To clear yon wood from thing unblest, 
 530 Warned by a vision in my rest ! 
 
 For in my sleep I saw that dove, 
 
 That gentle bird, whom thou dost love. 
 
 And call'st by thy own daughter's name — 
 
 Sir Leoline ! I saw the same 
 635 Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan. 
 
 Among the green herbs in the forest alone. 
 
 Which when I saw and when I heard, 
 
 I wonder'd what might ail the bird ; 
 
 For nothing near it could I see, 
 840 Save the grass and green herbs underneath the old 
 tree. 
 
 '^ And in my dream methought I went 
 To search out what might there be found ; 
 And what the sweet bird's trouble meant, 
 That thus lay fluttering on the ground. 
 545 1 went and peered, and could descry 
 No cause for her distressful cry; 
 
CHRISTABEL. 59 
 
 But yet for her dear lady's sake 
 
 I stooped, methought, tlie dove to take, 
 
 When lo ! I saw a bright green snake 
 
 550 Coiled around its wings and neck, 
 Green as the herbs on which it couched, 
 Close by the dove's its head it crouched ; 
 And with the dove it heaves and stirs, 
 Swelling its neck as she swelled hers ! 
 
 555 1 woke ; it was the midnight hour. 
 The clock was echoing in the tower ; 
 But though my slumber was gone by, 
 This dream it would not pass away — 
 It seems to live upon my eye ! 
 
 560 And thence I vowed this self -same day, 
 With music strong and saintly song 
 To wander through the forest bare, 
 Lest aught unholy loiter there." 
 
 Thus Bracy said : the Baron, the while, 
 565 Half -listening heard him with a smile ; 
 
 Then turned to Lady Geraldine, 
 
 His eyes made up of wonder and love •, 
 
 And said in courtly accents fine, 
 
 " Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove, 
 570 With arms more strong than harp or song. 
 
 Thy sire and I will crush the snake ! " 
 
 He kissed her forehead as he spake. 
 
 And Geraldine, in maiden wise. 
 
 Casting down her large bright eyes, 
 575 With blushing cheek and courtesy fine 
 
 She turned her from Sir Leoline ; 
 
 Softly gathering up her train. 
 
 That o'er her right arm fell again ; 
 
 And folded her arms across her chest, 
 
60 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 580 And couched her head upon her breast, 
 And looked askance at Christabel — 
 Jesu Maria, shield her well ! 
 
 A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy. 
 
 And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head, 
 585 Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye, 
 
 And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread. 
 
 At Christabel she looked askance ! — 
 
 One moment — and the sight was fled ! 
 
 But Christabel in dizzy trance 
 590 Stumbling on the unsteady ground 
 
 Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound ; 
 
 And Geraldine again turned round. 
 
 And like a thing that sought relief. 
 
 Full of wonder and full of grief, 
 595 She rolled her large bright eyes divine 
 
 Wildly on Sir Leoline. 
 
 The maid, alas ! her thoughts are gone, 
 
 She nothing sees — no sight but one ! 
 
 The maid, devoid of guile and sin, 
 600 1 know not how, in fearful wise 
 
 So deeply had she drunken in 
 
 That look, those shrunken serpent eyes. 
 
 That all her features were resigned 
 
 To this sole image in her mind ; 
 605 And passively did imitate 
 
 That look of dull and treacherous hate I 
 
 And thus she stood in dizzy trance. 
 
 Still picturing that look askance 
 
 With forced unconscious sympathy 
 no Full before her father's view — 
 
 As far as such a look could be, 
 
CHRISTABEL. 61 
 
 In eyes so innocent and blue ! 
 
 And when the trance was o'er, the maid 
 
 Paused awhile, and inly prayed : 
 615 Then falling at the Baron's feet, 
 
 " By my mother's soul do I entreat 
 
 That thou this woman send away ! " 
 
 She said : and more she could not say : 
 
 For what she knew she could not tell, 
 620 O'ermastered by the mighty spell. 
 
 Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, 
 
 Sir Leoline ? Thy only child 
 
 Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride, 
 
 So fair, so innocent, so mild ; 
 625 The same, for whom thy lady died ! 
 
 Oh by the pangs of her dear mother 
 
 Think thou no evil of thy child ! 
 
 For her, and thee, and for no other, 
 
 She prayed the moment ere she died : 
 630 Prayed that the babe for whom she died. 
 
 Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride I 
 
 That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled, 
 Sir Leoline ! 
 
 And wouldst thou wrong thy only child, 
 635 Her child and thine ? 
 
 Within the Baron's heart and brain 
 If thoughts, like these, had any share. 
 They only swelled his rage and pain. 
 And did but work confusion there. 
 «o His heart was cleft with pain and rage. 
 His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild 
 Dishonored thus in his old age ; 
 Dishonored by his only child, 
 
62 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 And all his hospitality 
 
 645 To the insulted daughter of his friend 
 By more than woman's jealousy 
 Brought thus to a disgraceful end — 
 He rolled his eye with stern regard 
 Upon the gentle minstrel bard, 
 
 S50 And said in tones abrupt, austere — ■ 
 " Why, Bracy ! dost thou loiter here ? 
 I bade thee hence ! " The bard obeyed % 
 And turning from his own sweet maid, 
 The aged knight. Sir Leoline, 
 
 655 Led forth the lady Geraldine ! 
 
 THE CONCLUSION TO PART II. 
 
 A little child, a limber elf, 
 Singing, dancing to itself, 
 A fairy thing with red round cheeks, 
 That always finds, and never seeks, 
 
 660 Makes such a vision to the sight 
 As fills a father's eyes with light ; 
 And pleasures flow in so thick and fast 
 Upon his heart, that he at last 
 Must needs express his love's excess 
 
 665 With words of unmeant bitterness. 
 Perhaps 't is pretty to force together 
 Thoughts so all unlike each other ; 
 To mutter and mock a broken charm. 
 To dally with wrong that does no harm. 
 
 656. The lines which form the conclusion appear to have 
 been a spontaneous description of Coleridge's child Hartley 
 Coleridge, and to have had but slight connection with the poem, 
 though there may have been in them some subtle link with the 
 never written conclusion. 
 
KUBLA KHAN. 63 
 
 670 Perhaps 't is tender too and pretty 
 
 At each wild word to feel within 
 
 A sweet recoil of love and pity. 
 
 And what, if in a world of sin 
 
 (O sorrow and shame should this be true !) 
 675 Such giddiness of heart and brain 
 
 Comes seldom save from rage and pain, 
 
 So talks as it 's most used to do. 
 
 KUBLA KHAN; OR, A VISION IN A DREAM. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 In the summer of the year 1797, the Author, then in ill 
 health, had retired to a lonely farm-house between Porlock and 
 Linton, on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire. 
 In consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne had been 
 prescribed, from the effect of which he fell asleep in his chair 
 at the moment he was reading the following sentence, or words 
 of the same substance, in Purchases Pilgrimage : — " Here the 
 Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a stately 
 garden thereunto : and thus ten miles of fertile ground were 
 inclosed with a wall." The author continued for about three 
 hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during 
 which time he has the most vivid confidence that he could not 
 have composed less than from two to three hundred lines ; if 
 that indeed can be called composition in which all the images 
 rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the 
 correspondent expressions, without any sensation or conscious- 
 ness of effort. On awaking he appeared to himself to have a 
 distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and 
 paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here 
 preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by 
 a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above 
 an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small 
 surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some 
 vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, 
 yet, with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and 
 images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the sur- 
 
64 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 face of a stream into which a stone had been cast, but, alas ! 
 without the after restoration of the latter. 
 
 Then all the charm 
 Is broken — all that phautom-world so fair 
 Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, 
 And each mis-shape the other. Stay awhile, 
 Poor youth ! who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes— 
 The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon 
 The visions will return ! And lo ! he stays, 
 And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms 
 Come trembling back, unite, and now once more 
 The pool becomes a mirror. ^ 
 
 Yet from the still surviving recollections in his mind, the Au- 
 thor has frequently purposed to finish for himself what had 
 been originally, as it were, given to him. AHpiov oZiov ^<too' but 
 +,he to-morrow is yet to come. 
 
 [Lamb' in a letter to Wordsworth, April 26, 1816, writes : 
 " Coleridge is printing Christabel by Lord Byron's recommenda- 
 tion to Murray, with what he calls a vision, Kuhla Khan, which 
 said vision he repeats so enchantingly that it irradiates and 
 brings heaven and elysian bowers into my parlor when he sings 
 or says it ; but there is an observation * Never tell thy dreams,' 
 and I am almost afraid that Kuhla Khan is an owl that will not 
 bear daylight. I fear lest it should be discovered by the lantern 
 of typography and clear reducting to letters no better than non- 
 sense or no sense."] 
 
 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
 A stately pleasure-dome decree : 
 Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
 Through caverns measureless to man 
 5 Down to a sunless sea. 
 
 So twice five miles of fertile ground 
 With walls and towers were girdled round : 
 And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, 
 Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ; 
 10 And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
 Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 
 
 ^ These lines are from Coleridge's poem The Picture ; or the 
 Lover's Resolution. 
 
KUBLA KHAN. 65 
 
 But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 
 Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover ! 
 A savage place ! as holy and enchanted 
 
 15 As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 
 By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! 
 And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seeth' 
 
 ing, 
 As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
 A mighty fountain momently was forced ; 
 
 20 Amid whose swift half -intermitted burst 
 Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
 Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail : 
 And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
 It flung up momently the sacred river. 
 
 25 Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 
 Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, 
 Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 
 And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 
 And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
 
 80 Ancestral voices prophesying war ! 
 
 The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
 
 Floated midway on the waves ; 
 
 Where was heard the mingled measure 
 
 From the fountain and the caves. 
 86 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, 
 40 And on her dulcimer she played. 
 
 Singing of Mount Abora. 
 
 Could I revive within me, 
 
 Her symphony and song, 
 
66 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 To such a deep delight 't would win me, 
 
 45 That with music loud and long, 
 I would build that dome in air, 
 That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! 
 And all who heard should see them there. 
 And all should cry. Beware ! Beware ! 
 
 60 His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! 
 Weave s^ circle round him thrice. 
 And close your eyes with holy dread, 
 For he on honey-dew hath fed. 
 And drunk the milk of Paradise. 
 
 HYMN 
 
 BEFORE SUNRISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. 
 
 In his Table Talk, Coleridge makes the assertion that a visit 
 to the battle-field of Marathon would kindle no emotion in him. 
 He meant, no doubt, that he did not need such actual experience 
 to arouse him, since the idea itself was sufficient. The following 
 Hymn is illustrative. Coleridge never was in Chamouni, and his 
 poem was called out by some stanzas by an obscure German 
 poetess, Frederike Buen, who wrote Chamouni at Sunrise, and 
 dedicated it to ELlopstoeb, a German religious poet with whom 
 Coleridge was acquainted. Coleridge helped himself' liberally 
 to verses in this poem, and followed its general structure, but 
 the poem added to his converse with nature seems to have set 
 his own imagination on fire and his version leaves the suggesting 
 original far behind. De Quincey detected the connection between 
 the poem which Coleridge appears not to have acknowledged, 
 but added that Coleridge " created the dry bones of the German 
 outline into the fullness of life." The following note was pre- 
 fixed to the poem when it was published. 
 
 Besides the Rivers, Arve and Arveiron, which have their 
 sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush 
 down its sides ; and within a few paces of the Glaciers, the 
 Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers with its "flowers of 
 loveliest blue." 
 
HYMN 67 
 
 Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 
 In his steep cg^rse ? So long he seems to pause 
 On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc ! 
 The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
 
 5 Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form 1 
 Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines. 
 How silently ! Around thee and above 
 Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, 
 An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it, 
 
 10 As with a wedge ! But when I look again, 
 It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine. 
 Thy habitation from eternity ! 
 
 dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
 Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 
 
 15 Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer 
 
 1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 
 
 Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
 So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, 
 Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my 
 thought, 
 20 Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy : 
 Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, 
 Into the mighty vision passing — there 
 As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven I 
 
 Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
 25 Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, 
 Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
 Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake 
 Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 
 
 Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale I 
 30 O struggling with the darkness all the night, 
 
68 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 And visited all night by troops of stars, 
 Or wlien they climb the sky or when they sink: 
 Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
 Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
 85 Co-herald : wake, O wake, and utter praise ! 
 Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth ? 
 Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
 Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 
 
 And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
 
 40 Who called you forth from night and utter death. 
 From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
 Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
 Forever shattered and the same forever ? 
 Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
 
 45 Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joj. 
 Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
 And who commanded, (and the silence came,) 
 Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 
 
 Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
 50 Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
 Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice. 
 And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge I 
 Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
 Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven 
 55 Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun 
 Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living 
 
 flowers 
 Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet ? — 
 God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations. 
 Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
 w God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice I 
 Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds] 
 
YOUTH AND AGE. 69 
 
 And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
 And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 
 
 Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
 65 Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! 
 Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain-storm ! 
 Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
 Ye signs and wonders of the element ! 
 Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 
 
 70 Thou too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky-pointing peaks, 
 Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard. 
 Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene 
 Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast — 
 Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
 
 75 That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
 In adoration, upward from thy base 
 Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
 Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud, 
 To rise before me — Rise, O ever rise, 
 
 80 Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth ! 
 Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, 
 Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, 
 Great Hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky. 
 And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, 
 
 "M Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying, 
 Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — 
 Both were mine ! Life went a-Maying 
 With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
 
70 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 5 When I was young ! 
 
 When I was young ? — Ah, wof ul when ! 
 Ah ! for the change 'twixt Now and Then ! 
 This breathing house not built with hands, 
 This body that does me grievous wrong, 
 
 .10 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, 
 
 15 That fear no spite of wind or tide ! 
 Nought cared this body for wind or weather- 
 When youth and I liv'd in 't together. 
 
 Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ; 
 
 Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 
 20 O ! the joys, that came down shower-like. 
 
 Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 
 Ere I was old ! 
 
 Ere I old? Ah wof ul Ere, 
 
 Which tells me. Youth's no longer here ! 
 25 O Youth ! for years so many and sweet, 
 
 'T is known, that Thou and I were one, 
 
 I '11 think it but a fond conceit — 
 
 It cannot be, that thou art gone ! 
 
 Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd : — - 
 80 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 : 
 85 But springtide blossoms on thy lips, 
 
 And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! 
 
 Life is h\x\ thought : so think I will 
 
 That youth and I are house-mates still. 
 
THE KNIGHT'S TOMB. 71 
 
 Dew-drops are the gems of morning, 
 
 ^0 But the tears of mournful eve ! 
 Where no hope is, hfe 's a warning 
 That only serves to make us grieve, 
 
 When we are old : 
 That only serves to make us grieve, 
 
 45 With oft and tedious taking-leave, 
 Like some poor nigh-related guest 
 That may not rudely be dismist 
 Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while, 
 And tells the jest without the smile. 
 
 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 Helvellyii, 
 Under the twigs of a young birch tree ! 
 
 5 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, 
 
 \o And his good sword rust ; — 
 His soul is with the saints, I trust. 
 
 METRICAL FEET. LESSON FOR A BOY. 
 
 Trochee trips from long to short ; 
 
 From long to long in solemn sort 
 
 Slow Spondee stalks ; strong foot ! yet ill able 
 
 Ever to come up with Dactyl trisyllable. 
 
T2 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 1 5 Iambics marclr from short to long ; — 
 
 With a leap and a b(TLind, the swift Anapsests 
 
 throng ; 
 One syllable long, with one short at each side, 
 Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride ; — 
 First and last being long, middle short, Amphima- 
 
 cer 
 10 Strikes his thiindering hoofs like a prCfud high-bred 
 
 Racer. 
 If Derwent be innocent, steady, and wise, 
 And delight in the things of earth, water, and skies ; 
 Tender warmth at his heart, with these metres to 
 
 show it. 
 With sound sense in his brains, may make Derwent 
 
 a poet, — 
 B6 May crown him with fame, and must win him the 
 
 love 
 Of his father on earth and his Father above. 
 
 My dear, dear child ! 
 Could you stand upon Skiddaw, you would not from 
 
 its whole ridge 
 See a man who so loves you as your fond S. T. 
 
 Coleridge. 
 
 SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER. 
 
 Dear native brook ! wild streamlet of the West ! 
 How many various-fated years have past. 
 What happy and what mournful hours, since last 
 
 I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast, 
 
 11. The poem in an earlier form was written for Hartley Col- 
 eridge and afterward revised for Derwent. 
 
 1. It will be remembered that Coleridge's birthplace was Ot- 
 tery St. Mary. 
 
ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. 73 
 
 5 Numbering its light leaps ! yet so deep imprest 
 Sink tlie sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes 
 
 I never shut amid the sunny ray, 
 But straight with all their tints thy waters rise. 
 
 Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows gray, 
 10 And bedded sand that, veined with various dyes, 
 Gleamed through thy bright transparence ! On my 
 
 • way. 
 
 Visions of childhood ! oft have ye beguiled 
 Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs : 
 
 Ah ! that once more I were a careless child ! 
 
 ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. 
 
 Do you ask what the birds say ? The sparrow, the 
 
 dove. 
 The linnet and thrush say, " I love and I love ! " 
 In the winter they 're silent — the wind is so 
 
 strong ; 
 What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. 
 5 But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm 
 
 weather. 
 And singing, and loving — all come back together. 
 But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love. 
 The green fields below him, the blue sky above, 
 That he sings, and he sings ; and forever sings he-— 
 ID " I love my Love, and my Love loves me ! " 
 
THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 
 
 Thomas Campbell was a Scotchman, and some of the 
 subjects of his verse were taken from Scottish history, but 
 unlike his great fellow-countryman, Burns, he rarely used 
 Scottish forms in his verse, but accepted the literary English 
 of his day. This was due in part no doubt to the fact that 
 from childhood he had an academic training and was a 
 scholar in his tastes. He was the youngest of a large fam- 
 ily of children, and was born at Glasgow, July 27, 1777 ; 
 his father had just lost his property and his business, a mis- 
 fortune which was not an unmixed evil, since it compelled 
 the poet's early training at home and gave him more exclu- 
 sively into his parents' hands than might otherwise have 
 been the case. His older brothers and sisters went out into 
 the world, and thus the little boy knew still more of his 
 father's and mother's society. 
 
 As a child he was devoted to baUads and to books ; he had 
 a genuine love of study, and was indeed so absorbed in his 
 work that he needed to be separated from his desk for a 
 while and turned out into nature in a spot not far from Glas- 
 gow. Here was his second teacher, and in his impression- 
 able years he came into close sympathy with the woods and 
 fields. When thirteen years old he was sent, after the man- 
 ner of Scottish youth, to the University, and completed his 
 course at an age when American boys now are entering. 
 The early maturing of his mind was along the lines of lit- 
 erature, not of science, for literature, mathematics, and 
 
BIOGRAPHICAL SKETCH. 75 
 
 logic were then the main academic studies. He astonished 
 his fellows and his masters by his skill in verse, both as a 
 translator and as a writer of original poems, and his chief 
 interest appears to have been in Greek and Latin literature, 
 especially the former. When he was twelve he was mak- 
 ing poetical translations from Anacreon. 
 
 He made ventures in the pursuit both of law and of med- 
 icine while still in college, and taught as private tutor for a 
 while, and when, in 1796, in his twentieth year, he took his 
 college degree, he became a tutor in the family of the dis- 
 tinguished General Napier. His own family was an honor- 
 able one, though now much reduced in means, and from this 
 time on Campbell easily made friends with persons of dis- 
 tinction in society and power. But he had entered now 
 upon a time of struggle for a livelihood, and in order to 
 make his way he went to Edinburgh, where he took pupils 
 and got work from booksellers. The poetic fever was on 
 him, and soon it was clear that this was his mastering pas- 
 sion. The poet Rogers had jDublished a poem entitled 
 Pleasures of Memory^ and Campbell chose for his theme 
 The Pleasures of Hope. The subject seized upon his 
 young, enthusiastic spirit, and he cared little for his teach- 
 ing so long as he could be composing. The poem was pub- 
 lished when he was twenty-one years old, and brought him 
 real distinction. What was more, it gave him confidence, 
 and inspired him with an eager desire to write. He was a 
 fervid patriot, and he began contemplating large poems in 
 which Scotland's history should be commemorated. He 
 shaped his course for this, resolving to travel and see more 
 of the world and men. Not only was it the restless time of 
 his own youth, but the French revolution had unhinged the 
 world, and doors were flying open in all directions. 
 
 So Campbell had his glimpse of something beyond Glas- 
 gow and Edinburgh. He was in many turbulent scenes on 
 the Continent, and finally came back to England just as his 
 father died. Of his plans for great works nothing came in 
 
76 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 the form first conceived, but his LochieVs Warning, Hohenr 
 linden. Ye Mariners of England, Glenara, and other stir- 
 ring poems were thrown off, and he himself, still young, was 
 recognized as a genuine poet. He took on himself the 
 care of his mother and sisters, he married, and a family- 
 grew up about him. The crown gave him a pension in 
 honor of his poetic work ; he inherited a small fortune ; he 
 devised and carried out a scheme for a collection of English 
 poetry. He interested himself in education, and was one of 
 the founders of London University. For ten years or so he 
 was the energetic editor of a literary magazine, and he de- 
 livered lectures on literature. Thus he led a busy life and 
 was a figure in literary society, but the body of poetry 
 which he contributed to English literature, though not 
 large, was notable, and instinct with a fine, generous spirit. 
 He died June 15, 1844, and lies buried in the Poets' Cor- 
 ner in Westminster Abbey. 
 
LOCHIEL'S WARNING, 
 
 Wizard — Lochiel. 
 
 WIZARD. 
 
 Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day 
 When the lowlands shall meet thee in battle array! 
 For a field of the dead rushes red on my sight, 
 And the clans of Ciilloden are scatter'd in fight. 
 
 6 They rally, they bleed, for their kingdom and 
 crown ; 
 Woe, woe to the riders that trample them down ! 
 Proud Cumberland prances, insulting the slain, 
 And their hoof-beaten bosoms are trod to the plain. 
 But hark ! through the fast-flashing lightning of war, 
 
 10 What steed to the desert flies frantic and far ? 
 'T is thine, O GlenuUin ! whose bride shall await. 
 Like a love-lighted watch-fire, all night at the gate. 
 A steed comes at morning ; no rider is there ; 
 But its bridle is red with the sign of despair. 
 
 15 Weep, Albin ! to death and captivity led ! 
 
 1. Lochiel was chief of the warlike clan of the Camerons, and 
 when the Stuarts in 1745 tried to recover the crown of England, 
 and sought an alliance with the Highlanders, Lochiel, though 
 aware of the hazard, had the loyalty which he expected from his 
 own clan, and cast in his lot with Prince Charlie. 
 
 4. The battle of Culloden, April 16, 1746, was fatal to Charles 
 and his Highland allies. The Duke of Cumberland led the Eng* 
 lish forces. 
 
 15. Albin is the Gaelic name for the Highlands of Scotland* 
 
78 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Oh weep, but thy tears cannot number the dead : 
 For a merciless sword on Culloden shall wave, 
 CuUoden ! that reeks with the blood of the bravOo 
 
 LOCHIEL. 
 
 Go, preach to the coward, thou death-telling seer I 
 20 Or, if gory Cuiloden so dreadful appear, 
 Draw, dotard, around thy old wavering sight 
 This mantle, to cover the phantoms of fright. 
 
 WIZARD. 
 
 Ha ! laugh'st thou, Lochiel, my vision to scorn ? 
 Proud bird of the mountain, thy plume shall be 
 
 torn ! 
 25 Say, rush'd the bold eagle exultingly forth, 
 From his home, in the dark rolling clouds of the 
 
 north ? 
 Lo ! the death-shot of foemen out speeding, he rode 
 Companionless, bearing destruction abroad ; 
 But down let him stoop from his havoc on high ! 
 «o Ah ! home let him speed, — for the spoiler is nigh. 
 Why flames the far summit ? Why shoot to the 
 
 blast 
 Those embers, like stars from the firmament cast ? 
 'T is the fire-shower of ruin, all dreadfully driven 
 From his eyrie, that beacons the darkness of 
 
 heaven. 
 S5 Oh, crested Lochiel ! the peerless in might, 
 Whose banners arise on the battlements' height. 
 Heaven's fire is around thee, to blast and to burn ; 
 Return to thy dwelling ! all lonely return ! 
 For the blackness of ashes shall mark where it 
 
 stood, 
 40 And a wild mother scream o'er her famishing 
 
 brood. 
 
LOCHIEVS WARNING. 79 
 
 LOCHIEL. 
 
 False Wizard, avaunt ! I have marshall'd my clan, 
 
 Their swords are a thousand, their bosoms are one ! 
 
 They are true to the last of their blood and their 
 breath. 
 
 And like reapers descend to the harvest of death. 
 45 Then welcome be Cumberland's steed to the shock I 
 
 Let hira dash his proud foam like a wave on tho 
 rock ! 
 
 But woe to his kindred, and woe to his cause, 
 
 When Albin her claymore indignantly draws ; 
 
 When her bonneted chieftains to victory crowd, 
 50 Clanronald the dauntless and Moray the proud, 
 
 All plaided and plumed in their tartan array — 
 
 WIZARD. 
 
 — Lochiel, Lochiel ! beware of the day ; 
 For, dark and despairing, my sight I may seal. 
 But man cannot cover what God would reveal ; 
 55 'T is the sunset of life gives me mystical lore, 
 And coming events cast their shadows before. 
 I tell thee, Culloden's dread echoes shall ring 
 With the bloodhounds that bark for thy fugitive 
 
 king. 
 Lo ! anointed by Heaven with the vials of wrath, 
 60 Behold, where he flies on his desolate path ! 
 Now in darkness and billows, he sweeps from my 
 
 signt : 
 Eise, rise, ye wild tempests, and cover his flight ! 
 'Tis finish'd. Their thunders are hush'd on the 
 
 moors, 
 Culloden is lost, and my country deplores, 
 50. Names of Hiffhlaud chieftaiuo. 
 
80 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 65 But where is the iron-bound prisoner ? Where ? 
 
 For the red eye of battle is shut in despair. 
 
 Say, mounts he the ocean-wave, banish'd, forlorn, 
 
 Like a limb from his country cast bleeding and 
 torn ? 
 
 Ah no ! for a darker departure is near ; 
 w The war-drum is muffled, and black is the bier ; 
 
 His death-bell is tolling : oh, mercy, dispel 
 
 Yon sight, that it freezes my spirit to tell ! 
 
 Life flutters convulsed in his quivering limbs, 
 
 And his blood-streaming nostril in agony swims. 
 ?5 Accursed be the fagots, that blaze at his feet, 
 
 Where his heart shall be thrown, ere it ceases to 
 beat. 
 
 With the smoke of its ashes to poison the gale — • 
 
 LOCHIEL. 
 
 — Down, soothless insulter ! I trust not the tale : 
 For never shall Albin a destiny meet, 
 
 80 So black with dishonor, so foul with retreat. 
 Tho' my perishing ranks should be strew'd in their 
 
 gore. 
 Like ocean-weeds heap'd on the surf-beaten shore, 
 Lochiel, untainted by flight or by chains, 
 While the kindling of life in his bosom remains, 
 
 85 Shall victor exult, or in death be laid low. 
 With his back to the field, and his feet to the foe! 
 And leaving in battle no blot on his name, 
 Look proudly to Heaven from the death-bed of 
 fame. 
 
YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND, 81 
 
 YE MARINERS OF ENGLAND: 
 A NAVAL ODE. 
 
 Ye Mariners of England ! 
 
 That guard our native seas ; 
 
 Whose flag has braved, a thousand years, 
 
 The battle and the breeze ! 
 6 Your glorious standard launch again 
 
 To match another foe ! 
 
 And sweep through the deep, 
 
 While the stormy winds do blow ; 
 
 While the battle rages loud and long, 
 10 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 II. 
 
 The spirits of your fathers 
 Shall start from every wave ! — 
 For the deck it was their field of fame^ 
 And Ocean was their grave : 
 15 Where Blake and mighty Nelson fell. 
 Your manly hearts shall glow, 
 As ye sweep through the deep, 
 While the stormy winds do blow, 
 
 1, There was a familiar song beginning : — 
 
 *' Ye gentlemen of England 
 That live at home at ease, 
 Ah ! little do you think upon 
 The dangers of the seas." 
 
 This suggested Campbell's ode, written when he was on the 
 Continent, and there seemed to be imminent danger of war be- 
 tween England and Russia. 
 
82 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 While the battle rages loud and long, 
 20 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 III. 
 
 Britannia needs no bulwarks, 
 
 No towers along the steep ; 
 
 Her march is o'er the mountain-waves, 
 
 Her home is on the deep. 
 25 With thunders from her native oak, 
 
 She quells the floods below, — 
 
 As they roar on the shore. 
 
 When the stormy winds do blow : 
 
 When the battle rages loud and long, 
 30 And the stormy winds do blow. 
 
 IV. 
 
 The meteor flag of England 
 
 Shall yet terrific burn ; 
 
 Till danger's troubled night depart, 
 
 And the star of peace return. 
 35 Then, then, ye ocean-warriors I 
 
 Our song and feast shall flow 
 
 To the fame of your name. 
 
 When the storm has ceased to blow ; 
 
 When the fiery fight is heard no more, 
 40 And the storm has ceased to blow. 
 
 22. At this time the southeastern and southern coasts of Eng- 
 land were being fortified with martello towers against possible 
 foreign invasion. 
 
BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 83 
 
 \ 
 
 BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 
 
 Of Nelson and the North, 
 Sing the glorious day's renown, 
 When to battle fierce came forth 
 All the might of Denmark's crown, 
 s And her arms along the deep proudly shone ; 
 By each gun the lighted brand. 
 In a bold determined hand. 
 And the Prince of aU the land 
 Led them on. 
 
 II. 
 
 10 Like leviathans afloat, 
 
 Lay their bulwarks on the brine ; 
 
 While the sign of battle flew 
 
 On the lofty British line : 
 
 It was ten of April morn by the chime : 
 15 As they drifted on their path. 
 
 There was silence deep as death ; 
 
 And the boldest held his breath, 
 
 For a time. 
 
 1. There had been great uneasiness in northern waters ow- 
 ing to what was known as the Armed Neutrality, in which Rus- 
 sia, Denmark, and Sweden attempted to maintain a position 
 which seriously crippled England in her contest with France. 
 It was assumed by England that the alliance was really in the 
 interest of France, and a fleet was sent to the Baltic, under Sir 
 Hyde Parker. Nelson, however, who was second in command, 
 was the real attacking officer, and indeed refused to obey Sir 
 Hyde Parker's orders at one point, and won a decisive victory, 
 
 14. The battle began at ten o'clock, April 2, 1801. 
 
84 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 III. 
 
 But the miglit of England flusli'd 
 20 To anticipate the scene ; 
 
 And her van the fleeter rush'd 
 
 O'er the deadly space between. 
 
 " Hearts of oak ! " our captain cried ; when each gun 
 
 From its adamantine lips 
 25 Spread a death-shade round the ships, 
 
 Like the hurricane eclipse 
 
 Of the sun. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Again ! again ! again ! 
 
 And the havoc did not slack, 
 » Till a feeble cheer the Dane 
 
 To our cheering sent us back ; — 
 
 Their shots along the deep slowly boom : — 
 
 Then ceased — and all is wail, 
 
 As they strike the shattered sail ; 
 35 Or, in conflagration pale. 
 
 Light the gloom. 
 
 Out spoke the victor then. 
 
 As he hail'd them o'er the wave ; 
 
 " Ye are brothers ! ye are men ! 
 40 And we conquer but to save ; — 
 
 So peace instead of death let us bring i 
 
 But yield, proud foe, thy fleet. 
 
 With the crews, at England's feet, 
 
 And make submission meet 
 45 To our King." 
 
 39. These are words from a letter of Nelson's at the time. 
 
BATTLE OF THE BALTIC. 85 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then Denmark bless'd our chief, 
 That he gave her wounds repose ; 
 And the sounds of joy and grief 
 From her people wildly rose, 
 m As death withdrew his shades from the day, 
 While the sun looked smiling bright 
 O'er a wide and woful sight. 
 Where the fires of funeral light 
 Died away. 
 
 VII. 
 
 55 Now joy, Old England, raise ! 
 
 For the tidings of thy might, 
 
 By the festal cities' blaze. 
 
 Whilst the wine-cup shines in light ; 
 
 And yet amidst that joy and uproar, 
 eo Let us think of them that sleep. 
 
 Full many a fathom deep. 
 
 By thy wild and stormy steep, 
 
 Elsinore I 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Brave hearts ! to Britain's pride 
 85 Once so faithful and so true ; 
 
 On the deck of fame that died ; — 
 
 With the gallant good Riou ; 
 
 Soft sigh the winds of Heaven o'er their grave! 
 
 While the billow mournful rolls, 
 70 And the mermaid's song condoles, 
 
 Singing glory to the souls 
 
 Of the brave '. 
 
 67. Riou was one of Nelson's captains. 
 
86 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 HOHENLINDEN. 
 
 On Linden, when the sun was low, 
 All bloodless lay the untrodden snow, 
 And dark as winter was the flow 
 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 5 But Linden saw another sight. 
 When the drum beat, at dead of night, 
 Commanding fires of death to light 
 The darkness of her scenery. 
 
 By torch and trumpet fast array'd, 
 10 Each horseman drew his battle-blade, 
 And furious every charger neigh'd, 
 To join the dreadful revelry. 
 
 Then shook the hills with thunder riven, 
 Then rush'd the steed to battle driven, 
 15 And louder than the bolts of heaven, 
 Far flash'd the red artillery. 
 
 But redder yet that light shall glow 
 On Linden's hills of stained snow, 
 And bloodier yet the torrent flow 
 20 Of Iser, rolling rapidly. 
 
 ^T is morn, but scarce yon level sun 
 Can pierce the war-clouds, rolling dun, 
 
 1. The battle of . Hohenlinden was fought December 2, 1800. 
 The Austrian troops were defeated by the French, and as a re* 
 suit the Rhine was made the border of France. 
 
I 
 
 GLENARA. 8T 
 
 Where furious Frank, and fiery Hun, 
 Shout in their sulphurous canopy. 
 
 25 The combat deepens. On, ye brave, 
 Who rush to glory, or the grave ! 
 Wave, Munich ! all thy banners wave. 
 And charge with all thy chivalry ! 
 
 Few, few, shall part where many meet ! 
 30 The snow shall be their winding-sheet. 
 And every turf beneath their feet 
 Shall be a soldier's sepulchre. 
 
 GLENARA. 
 
 O HEARD ye yon pibroch sound sad in the gale. 
 Where a band cometh slowly with weeping and 
 
 wail? 
 'T is the chief of Glenara laments for his dear ; 
 And her sire, and the people, are call'd to her bier. 
 
 1. This poem, written in the year 1797, at the age of nine- 
 teen, was suggested by the following tradition : " Maclean, of 
 Duart, having determined to get rid of his wife, ' Ellen of Lorn,' 
 had her treacherously conveyed to a rock in the sea, where she 
 was left to perish by the rising tide. He then announced to her 
 kinsmen ' his sudden bereavement,' and exhorted them to join in 
 his grief. In the mean time the lady was accidentally rescued 
 from the certain death that awaited her, and restored to her 
 father. Her husband, little suspecting what had happened, was 
 suffered to go through the solemn mockery of a funeral. At 
 last, when the bier rested at the ' gray stone of her cairn,' on 
 examination of the coffin by her kinsmen, it was found to contain 
 stones, rubbish, etc., whereupon Maclean was instantly sacrificed 
 by the Clan Dougal and thrown into the ready-made grave." 
 
88 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 5 Glenara came first with the mourners and shroud ; 
 Her kinsmen they follow'd, but mourn 'd not aloud : 
 Their plaids all their bosoms were folded around ; 
 They march'd all in silence, — they look'd on the 
 ground. 
 
 In silence they reach'd over mountain and moor, 
 iwTo a heath, where the oak-tree grew lonely and 
 hoar: 
 " Now here let us place the gray stone of her cairn : 
 Why speak ye no word ! "— said Glenara the stern. 
 
 " And tell me, I charge you ! ye clan of my spouse. 
 Why fold ye your mantles, why cloud ye your 
 brows?" 
 ic So spake the rude chieftain : — no answer is made. 
 But each mantle unfolding, a dagger display'd. 
 
 " I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her shroud," 
 Cried a voice from the kinsmen, all wrathful and 
 
 loud: 
 " And empty that shroud and that coffin did seem : 
 20 Glenara I Glenara ! now read me my dream ! " 
 
 Oh, pale grew the cheek of that chieftain, I ween, 
 When the shroud was unclosed, and no lady was 
 
 seen ; 
 When a voice from the kinsmen spoke louder in 
 
 scorn, 
 'T was the youth who had loved the fair Ellen of 
 
 Lorn: 
 
 85 " I dreamt of my lady, I dreamt of her grief, 
 I dreamt that her lord was a barbarous chief : 
 
EXILE OF ERIN. 89 
 
 On a rock of the ocean fair Ellen did seem : 
 Glenara ! Glenara ! now read me my dream ! " 
 
 In dust low tlie traitor has knelt to the ground, 
 30 And the desert reveal'd where his lady was found % 
 From a rock of the ocean that beauty is borne — 
 Now joy to the house of fair Ellen of Lorn 1 
 
 EXILE OF ERIN. 
 
 There came to the beach a poor Exile of Erin, 
 
 The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill ; 
 For his country he sigh'd, when at twilight repaiiv 
 ing 
 To wander alone by the wind-beaten hill : 
 5 But the day-star attracted his eye's sad devotion, 
 For it rose o'er his own native isle of the ocean 
 Where once, in the fire of his youthful emotion, 
 He sang the bold anthem of Erin go bragh. 
 
 Sad is my fate ! said the heart-broken stranger ; 
 10 The wild deer and wolf to a covert can flee. 
 But I have no refuge from famine and danger, 
 A home and a country remain not to me. 
 
 1. "While tarrying at Hamburg, I made acquaintance with 
 some of the refugee Irishmen who had been concerned in the re- 
 bellion of 1798. Among these was Anthony MacCann, an honest, 
 excellent man, who is still, I believe, alive, at least I left him 
 in prosperous circumstances at Altoona a few years ago. [Mac- 
 Cann is since dead ; Campbell and he met last in the autumn of 
 1825.] When I first knew him he was in a situation much the 
 reverse ; but Anthony commanded respect, whether he was rich 
 or poor. It was in consequence of meeting him one evening on 
 the banks of the Elbe, lonely and pensive at the thoughts of his 
 situation, that I wrote the ' fexile of Erin.' "... T. C. 
 
90 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Never again, in the green sunny bowers, 
 Where my forefathers lived, shall I spend the sweet 
 hours, 
 15 Or cover my harp with the wild woven flowers, 
 And strike to the numbers of Erin go bragh I 
 
 Erin, my country ! though sad and forsaken, 
 
 In dreams I revisit thy sea-beaten shore ; 
 But, alas ! in a far foreign land I awaken, 
 20 And sigh for the friends who can meet me no 
 more ! 
 Oh cruel fate ! wilt thou never replace me 
 In a mansion of peace — where no perils can chase 
 
 me ? 
 Never again shall my brothers embrace me ? 
 They died to defend me or live to deplore ! 
 
 25 Where is my cabin-door, fast by the wild-wood ? 
 Sisters and sire ! did ye weep for its fall ? 
 Where is the mother that look'd on my child- 
 hood ; 
 And where is the bosom friend dearer than all ? 
 Oh ! my sad heart ! long abandoned by pleasure, 
 80 Why did it dote on a fast-fading treasure ? 
 Tears, like the rain-drop, may fall without meas- 
 ure. 
 But rapture and beauty they cannot recall. 
 
 Yet all its sad recollections suppressing, 
 One dying wish my lone bosom can draw ; 
 35 Erin ! an exile bequeaths thee his blessing ! 
 Land of my forefathers ! Erin go bragh ! 
 Buried and cold, when my heart stills her motion, 
 Green be thy fields, — sweetest isle of the ocean ! 
 
LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 91 
 
 And thy harp-striking bards sing aloud with devo- 
 tion, — 
 Erin mavournin, — Erin go bragh I 
 
 LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER. 
 
 A CHIEFTAIN, to the Highlands bound, 
 Cries, " Boatman, do not tarry! 
 
 And I '11 give thee a silver pound, 
 To row us o'er the ferry." — 
 
 5 " Now who be ye, would cross Lochgyle, 
 This dark and stormy water ? " 
 " Oh, I 'm the chief of Ulva's isle, 
 And this Lord Ullin's daughter, — 
 
 " And fast before her fathier's men 
 10 Three days we 've fled together, 
 For should he find us in the glen, 
 My blood would stain the heather. 
 
 " His horsemen hard behind us ride ; 
 Should they our steps discover, 
 15 Then who will cheer my bonny bride 
 When they have slain her lover? " 
 
 Out spoke the hardy Highland wight, 
 " I 'U go, my chief — I 'm ready : — ^ 
 It is not for your silver bright ; 
 20 But for your winsome lady : 
 
 And by my word ! the bonny bird 
 In danger shall not tarry : 
 40. Ireland my darling, Ireland for ever. 
 
92 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 So though the waves are raging white, 
 I '11 row you o'er the ferry." 
 
 25 By this the storm grew loud apace, 
 The water- wraith was shrieking ; 
 And in the scowl of heaven each face 
 Grew dark as they were speaking. 
 
 But still as wilder blew the wind, 
 30 And as the night grew drearer, 
 Adown the glen rode armed men, 
 Their trampling sounded nearer. 
 
 " O haste thee, haste ! " the lady cries, 
 " Though tempests round us gather ; 
 85 1 '11 meet the raging of the skies, 
 But not an angry father." 
 
 The boat has left a stormy land, 
 
 A stormy sea before her, — 
 When, oh ! too strong for human hand, 
 40 The tempest gathered o'er her. 
 
 And still they row'd amidst the roar 
 
 Of waters fast prevailing : 
 Lord UUin reach'd that fatal shore. 
 
 His wrath was changed to wailing. 
 
 5 For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade, 
 His child he did discover : — 
 One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid. 
 And one was round her lover. 
 
 " Come back ! come back ! " he cried in grief, 
 50 " Across this stormy water ; 
 
THE HARPER 93 
 
 And I '11 forgive your Highland chief, 
 My daughter ! — oh, my daughter ! " ^ — 
 
 'T was vain : — the loud waves lash'd the shore 
 Return or aid preventing : — 
 65 The waters wild went o'er his child, 
 And he was left lamenting. 
 
 THE HARPER. 
 
 On the green banks of Shannon, when Sheelah was 
 
 nigh. 
 No blithe Irish lad was so happy as I ; 
 No harp like my own could so cheerily play. 
 And wherever I went was my poor dog Tray. 
 
 5 When at last I was forced from my Sheelah to 
 
 part, 
 
 She said, (while the sorrow was big at her heart,) 
 
 Oh ! remember your Sheelah when far, far away : 
 
 And be kind, my dear Pat, to our poor dog Tray. 
 
 Poor dog ! he was faithful and kind, to be sure, 
 10 And he constantly loved me, although I was poor ; 
 When the sour-looking folks sent me heartless 
 
 away, 
 I had always a friend in my poor dog Tray. 
 
 When the road was so dark, and the night was so 
 
 cold, 
 And Pat and his dog were grown weary and old, 
 15 How snugly we slept in my old coat of gray. 
 And he lick'd me for kindness — my poor dog Tray. 
 
94 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 Thougli my wallet was scant, I remember'd his 
 
 case, 
 Nor refused my last crust to his pitiful face ; 
 But he died at my feet on a cold winter day, 
 20 And I play'd a sad lament for my poor dog Tray. 
 
 Where now shall I go, poor, forsaken, and blind ? 
 Can I find one to guide me, so faithful and kind ? 
 To my sweet native village, so far, far away, 
 I can never more return with my poor dog Tray 
 
 ODE TO WINTER. 
 
 When first the fiery mantled sun 
 His heavenly race began to run ; 
 Round the earth and ocean blue. 
 His children four the Seasons flew. 
 5 First, in green apparel dancing, 
 
 The young Spring smiled with angel grace ; 
 Rosy Summer next advancing, 
 
 Rush'd into her sire's embrace : — 
 Her bright-hair'd sire, who bade her keep 
 10 Forever nearest to his smiles, 
 On Calpe's olive-shaded steep, 
 
 On India's citron-covered isles : 
 More remote and buxom-brown. 
 
 The Queen of vintage bow'd before his throne ; 
 15 A rich pomegranate gemm'd her crown, 
 
 A ripe sheaf bound her zone. 
 But howling Winter fled afar, 
 To hills that prop the polar star, 
 And loves on deer-borne car to ride 
 20 With barren Darkness by his side, 
 
ODE TO WINTER. 95 
 
 Kound the shore where loud Lofoden 
 Whirls to death the roaring whale, 
 Round the hall where Runic Odin 
 Howls his war-song to the gale ; 
 25 Save when adown the ravaged globe 
 He travels on his native storm, 
 Deflowering Nature's grassy robe. 
 
 And trampling on her faded form : — 
 Till liofht's returnins: lord assume 
 30 The shaft that drives him to his polai field. 
 Of power to pierce his raven plume 
 
 And crystal-cover'd shield. 
 Oh, sire of storms ! whose savage ear 
 The Lapland drum delights to hear, 
 35 When Frenzy with her bloodshot eye 
 Implores thy dreadful deity. 
 Archangel ! power of desolation ! 
 
 Fast descending as thou art. 
 Say, hath mortal invocation 
 40 Spells to touch thy stony heart ? 
 Then, sullen Winter, hear my prayer, 
 And gently rule the ruin'd year ; 
 Nor chill the wanderer's bosom bare. 
 Nor freeze the wretch's falling tear ; — 
 45 To shuddering Want's unmantled bed 
 Thy horror-breathing agues cease to lead, 
 And gently on the orphan head 
 Of innocence descend. — 
 But chiefly spare, O king of clouds ! 
 50 The sailor on his airy shrouds ; 
 When wrecks and beacons strew the steep, 
 And spectres walk along the deep. 
 Milder yet thy snowy breezes 
 Pour on yonder tented shores, 
 
96 THOMAS CAMPBELL. 
 
 55 Where the Rhine's broad billow freezes, 
 
 Or the dark-brown Danube roars. 
 Oh, winds of Winter ! list ye there 
 
 To many a deep and dying groan ; 
 Or start, ye demons of the midnight air, 
 60 At shrieks and thunders louder than your own. 
 Alas ! ev'n your unhallow'd breath 
 
 May spare the victim fallen low ; 
 But man will ask no truce to death, — 
 
 No bounds to human woe. 
 
SUGGESTIONS FOR SPECIAL STUDY OF 
 " THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER." 
 
 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is one of the most 
 notable productions in the romantio movement at the close 
 of the eighteenth century. One phase of this movement ex- 
 pressed itself in a revival of interest in the ancient ballads 
 and in an imitation of their metrical form. The imaginative 
 taste of the age was especially drawn toward picturesque 
 and romantic themes. In its extreme expression it reveled 
 in ghostly subjects and appealed to the universal interest in 
 the weird and supernatural. Coleridge's poem, however, 
 while finding its natural setting in such a literary atmosphere, 
 is so distinguished by its own peculiar qualities that it stands 
 unique even in the class of poems which it illustrates. The 
 student would do well to read other specimens of these com- 
 positions both ancient and modern. Refer to some standard 
 collection such as Scott's Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border 
 and Child's English and Scottish Popular Ballads, or 
 Gummere's briefer selection of Old English Ballads. The 
 ballads of Sir Andrew Barton, Brown Robin, and Sir 
 Patrick Speris are associated with the sea. Longfellow's 
 Wreck of the Hesperus, his Skeleton in Armor, and his Dis 
 coverer of the North Cape may be read in this connection. 
 
 Pages 9, 10, and 11 of the introduction should be immediate 
 studied with reference to the origin of Coleridge's Jjth.e^^^^°^ 
 poem, its use of the albatross as an important ele- Poem, 
 ment in the story, and the comment made to Mrs. Barbauld 
 with reference to the moral of the work. The following 
 additional statement, quoted from Coleridge's Biographia 
 Literaria^ is very suggestive : -~ 
 
98 SUGGESTIONS FOR SPECIAL STUDY OF 
 
 " During the first year that Mr. Wordsworth and I were neighbors, 
 our conversations turned frequently on the two cardinal points of 
 poetry, the power of exciting the sympathy of the reader by a faith- 
 ful adherence to the truth of nature, and the power of giving the in- 
 terest of novelty by the modifying colors of imagination. The sudden 
 charm, which accidents of light and shade, which moonlight or sunset 
 difPused over a known and familiar landscape, appeared to represent 
 the practicability of combining both. These are the poetry of nature. 
 The thought suggested itself (to which of us I do not recollect) that 
 a series of poems might be composed of two sorts. In the one, the 
 incidents and agents were to be, in part at least, supernatural ; and 
 the excellence aimed at was to consist in the interesting of the affec- 
 tions by the dramatic truth of such emotions, as would naturally ac- 
 company such situations, supposing them real. And real in this 
 sense they have been to every human being who, from whatever 
 source of delusion, has at any time believed himself under supernat- 
 ural agency. For the second class, subjects were to be chosen from 
 ordinary life. 
 
 *' In this idea originated the plan of the Lyrical Ballads,^ in which it 
 was agreed that my endeavors should be directed to persons and char- 
 acters supernatural, or at least romantic ; yet so as to transfer from 
 our inward nature a human interest and a semblance of truth suflS.- 
 cient to procure for these shadows of imagination that willing suspen- 
 sion of disbelief for the moment, which constitutes poetic faith." 
 
 Having read some of the older ballads as sug- 
 gested, it will not be difficult to recognize their 
 qualities in the Rime. Some of these resemblances in tone 
 and form should be indicated. What comparison may be 
 made in the matter of rhythm and accent — in the spelling 
 of words and the use of ancient, perhaps obsolete, words ? 
 The glosses in the margin, added some time after the com- 
 pletion of the poem, are also an imitation of the older style. 
 These should always be read; they form an integral part of 
 the work. 
 
 The seven parts of the poem are natural divisions 
 
 in the movement of the narrative. Determine the 
 
 specific subject of each as read. Note the simplicity and 
 
 1 This was the title of the volume issued in 1798 which contained Wordsworth's 
 first published poems of note, including Simon Lee, The Old Cumberland Beggar^ 
 Peter Bell, and The Idiot Boy^ together with The Rime of the Ancient Mariner in 
 its earliest form. 
 
THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 99 
 
 directness with which the poem begins. The manner of 
 this introduction has been likened to the beginning of a 
 dream ; what other suggestions of this dream idea are noted 
 in the later stages of the narrative ? Would the effect have 
 been more impressive if the description of the Mariner's 
 appearance had been direct instead of indirect, as in lines 
 3 and 11 ? What features of his appearance are brought 
 out by direct description ? How is the general weirdness 
 of his presence indicated ? Note the uncanny influence of 
 the Mariner over the Wedding-Guest ; look for an explana- 
 tion of this influence in the last part of the poem, also for a 
 possible suggestion as to the appropriateness of his selecting 
 this particular person to listen to his tale. Note the con- 
 trast suggested here and there between the joy and gayety 
 of the wedding and the sombreness of this recital : is this 
 effect accidental ? 
 
 Separate the narrative of the voyage from the incidental 
 narrative and the interruptions : study the description of 
 the storm (41-50), the progress through fog and ice (51- 
 70), the advent of the albatross (63-66), and above all the 
 abrupt and startling climax in the closing stanza. Indicate 
 points in the recital which give power to these details. The 
 quality of a poem is largely dependent upon its imagery — 
 the pictures suggested to the imagination through figures of 
 speech : consider one by one the images in the six stanzas 
 on page 14. Point out such words and phrases in Part L 
 as you find particularly suggestive and impressive. 
 
 In what direction is the ship now sailina: ? Com. 
 
 . Part II. 
 
 pare the first stanza with the seventh in Part II. ; 
 
 the second stanza with the one above (71-74). Such par- 
 allelism is frequent in the poem : what is the rhetorical 
 effect ? Note the same correspondence in arrangement and 
 phrase in the two stanzas which f6llow on page 16. Study 
 the wonderful description of this " silent sea " into which 
 the mariners so suddenly burst. Where upon the globe 
 does it lie, presumably ? How is the silence emphasized, 
 
100 SUGGESTIONS FOR SPECIAL STUDY OF 
 
 the heat, the dreariness and discomfort of it ? Lines 115- 
 122 are famih'ar through frequent quotation : what gives 
 them this distinction ? Note the suggestion of supernatural 
 influences mingling with the natural horrors of the situation, 
 and the growing importance of the crime and its results. 
 
 This section of the poem is mainly occupied with 
 the description of the spectral ship and her ghostly 
 crew. Note how effectively the approach of the ship is de- 
 scribed. What are the points of strength in lines 157—166 ? 
 Note the description of sunset (171-180), and compare with 
 that of the sunrise (97, 98). When does the supernatural 
 character of the ship become apparent ? In the description 
 of the Night-mare Life-in-Death, point out the appropriate 
 features. Study closely lines 199-202 ; note the suggestion 
 of rapid motion in each verse. The sudden fall of night 
 intensifies the horror of the climax. Of what importance to 
 the narrative are lines 214, 215? Note that the other 
 parts of the poem end with the mention of the albatross 
 or a direct allusion to the crime : would this indicate that 
 line 223 refers to that particular use of the bow ? Compare 
 lines 81, 82 
 
 What is the general theme of this section ? How 
 does the experience here recounted exemplify the 
 idea of life-in-death ? How is the moral condition of the 
 mariner suggested ? What moral development is noted ? 
 Of what force in the narrative is line 284 ? Study espe- 
 cially the descriptive passages and consider what elements 
 make them effective. 
 
 Notice the immediate change in the tone of the 
 
 Fart V= 
 
 poem. Why this blessing on sleep ? Why the 
 
 dream (compare 157-166, and 119-122)? What is the 
 
 force of 307, 308 (compare 262) ? Following the rain comes 
 
 the wind : compare 115-118. Compare line 314 with 128- 
 
 130 : what may we understand by these verses ? Note the 
 
 comparisons in 319, 324, 325, and their effect. What is 
 
 implied in the statement (327) ? In this weird picture of 
 
THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 101 
 
 the rising of the dead to work the ship, note the singular 
 effectiveness of 341-344. What is the effect upon the 
 reader of these repeated interruptions by the wedding- 
 guest ? Are they appropriate to the narrative? What is 
 the significance of those gentler, more melodious stanzas 
 occurring here (350-372) ? How does line 395 suggest the 
 return of life-in-life ? Note the recurrence to the crime and 
 the added significance of 404. What stage of experience 
 has been reached by the Mariner ? Why does the spirit 
 
 say 
 
 " And penance more will do " ? 
 
 The Mariner, in a trance (392-397), continues 
 to hear the voices ; while the ship is driven on with 
 supernatural force and speed. Compare the gloss. What 
 is meant by the eye (416) ? What natural force does the 
 moon exert upon the sea ? Describe the further penance of 
 the Mariner and its results. Compare the expression of 
 loneliness (446-451) with that in lines 232-235. What 
 peculiar effects follow the actual coming of the breeze (452- 
 463) ? Is there any special significance in the phrase 
 " dream of joy " (464) ? Compare the description of the 
 harbor landmarks with the earlier mention (21-24). Point 
 out the alliteration and note effect of vowels and consonants 
 (476-483). Find other striking examples of this vocal ef- 
 fect elsewhere in the poem. Compare 490, 491 with the 
 third stanza given in the footnote, and then witli line 494. 
 Why is it especially appropriate to introduce the hermit 
 (509) as the one to bring comfort to the Mariner ? Note 
 this final mention of the albatross (513). 
 
 What are the lights referred to in line 525 ? _„ 
 
 ° . Part vn. 
 
 Compare 528 with 501. Notice the description 
 
 (533-537). Why does the Mariner remain silent (543) ? 
 
 What appropriateness is there in this disposal of the ship 
 
 (545-549). Note the effect of the Mariner's appearance 
 
 upon the men (560-569). What is the significance of hia 
 
 first utterance (574) ? How does his penance still continue? 
 
102 SUGGESTIONS FOR SPECIAL STUDY. 
 
 Consider the appropriateness of the word wrenched (578). 
 What other words have you noted in this poem which are 
 introduced with the same felicity ? What bearing does the 
 statement (578-585) have upon the entire narrative of the 
 Mariner? Compare 586-590 with the ancient tradition 
 concerning the Wandering Jew. Again (598-600) is the 
 loneliness of the Mariner emphasized : is it possible that the 
 poet intends thus to portray the awful isolation of one who 
 does not or will not love his fellow creatures ? What is the 
 significance of the word together (603, 605, 606) ? In con- 
 nection with lines 610-617 compare the gloss, and read the 
 poet's comment to Mrs. Barbauld (page 11). Note the 
 sudden disappearance of the Mariner (618-620), and the 
 retreat of the Guest. Does the concluding statement (622- 
 625) throw any light upon the Mariner's choice of his au- 
 ditor ? Compare 588, 589. What are some of the qual- 
 ities that mark the narrative as a whole ? Can you point 
 out any superfluous details or any unessential word ? In 
 your own reading of the poem do you feel that Coleridge 
 has realized the purpose stated in the paragraph quoted 
 (p. 98). 
 
 Further reading upon the significance of the romantic 
 movement in English poetry and the relation of Coleridge 
 to that movement is strongly recommended. Any of the 
 recent standard histories of English literature will furnish 
 material. 
 
i 
 
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