A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw :
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played,
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
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!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drank the milk of Paradise.
221. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER
The ship was cheered, the harbour
Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse top.
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,
Till over the mast at noon-
The Wedding-Guest here beat his
breast,
For he heard the loud bassoon.
The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her
goes
The merry minstrelsy.
The Wedding-Guest he beat his
breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient
Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
'Twas sad as sad could be ;
And we did speak only to break
The silence of the sea!
All in hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun, at noon,
Right up above the mast did
stand,
No bigger than the Moon.
Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.
Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, everywhere,
Nor any drop to drink.
The very deep did rot: O Christ!
That ever this should be!
Yea, slimy things did crawl with
legs
Upon the slimy sea.
About, about, in reel and rout
The death-fires danced at night;
The water, like a witch's oils,
Burnt green and blue and white.
And some in dreams assured were
Of the spirit that plagued us so;
Nine fathom deep he had followed
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The many men, so beautiful!
And they all dead did lie :
And a thousand thousand slimy
things
Lived on; and so did I.
I looked upon the rotting sea,
And drew my eyes away;
I looked upon the rotting deck
And there the dead men lay.
Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole!
To Mary Queen the praise be
given !
She sent the gentle sleep from
Heaven,
That slid into my soul.
The silly buckets on the deck,
That had so long remained,
I dreamt that they were filled
with dew;
And when I awoke, it rained.
My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
My garments were all dank; Sure I had drunken in my dreams, And still my body drank.
I moved, and could not feel my limbs :
I was so light-almost
I thought that I had died in sleep, And was a blessed ghost.
The Sun, right up above the mast,
Had fixed her to the ocean :
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,
She made a sudden bound:
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 ;
But ere my living life returned,
I heard and in my soul discerned
T'wo voices in the air.
Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this
the man?
By Him who died on cross,
With his cruel bow he laid full
low
The harmless Albatross.
The spirit who bideth by himself
In the land of mist and snow,
He loved the bird that loved the
Who shot him with his bow.'
The other was a softer voice,
As soft as honeydew :
Quoth he,The man hath pen-
ance done,
And penance more will do.'
O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath
been
Alone on a wide wide sea :
So lonely 'twas, that God Him-
self
Scarce seemèd there to be.
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!
Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest !
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.
He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.
The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone: and now the Wedding-
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,
He rose the morrow morn.
S. T. COLERIDGE.
222. AN EPITAPH FOR HIMSELF
STOP, Christian passer-by!-Stop, child of God,
And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod
A poet lies, or that which once seemed he.-
Oh, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C. !
That he who many a year with toil of breath
Found death in life, may here find life in death!
Mercy for praise-to be forgiven for fame
He asked, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the same !
223. THE KNIGHT'S TOMB
WHERE is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
Where may the grave of that good man be?—
By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
Under the twigs of a young birch tree!
The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,
And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
Is gone, and the birch in its stead is grown.-
The Knight's bones are dust,
And his good sword rust ;
His soul is with the saints, I trust. S. T. COLERIDGE.
CURST BE THE GOLD AND SILVER
CURST be the gold and silver which persuade
Weak men to follow far-fatiguing trade.
The lily-peace outshines the silver store,
And life is dearer than the golden ore.
Yet money tempts us o'er the desert brown,
To every distant mart, and wealthy town:
Full oft we tempt the land, and oft the sea,
And are we only yet repaid by thee?
Ah! why was ruin so attractive made,
Or why fond man so easily betrayed?
Why heed we not, whilst mad we haste along,
The gentle voice of peace, or pleasure's song?
Or wherefore think the flowery mountain's side,
The fountain's murmurs, and the valley's pride,
Why think we these less pleasing to behold,
Than dreary deserts, if they lead to gold?
Sad was the hour, and luckless was the day,
When first from Schiraz' walls I bent my way.
W. COLLINS (Persian Eclogues).
225. ODE WRITTEN IN 1746
How sleep the Brave who sink to rest,
By all their Country's wishes blest!
When Spring, with dewy fingers cold,
Returns to deck their hallowed mould,
She there shall dress a sweeter sod,
Than Fancy's feet have ever trod.
By fairy hands their knell is rung,
By forms unseen their dirge is sung;
There Honour comes, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the turf that wraps their clay,
And Freedom shall awhile repair,
To dwell a weeping hermit there!
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