"Echo Then Shall Again Tell Her I Follow."

Glycine's Song

A sunny shaft did I behold,

From sky to earth it slanted:

And poised therein a bird so bold—

Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted!

He sank, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled

Within that shaft of sunny mist;

His eyes of fire, his beak of gold,

All else of amethyst!

And thus he sang: "Adieu! adieu!

Love's dreams prove seldom true.

The blossoms, they make no delay:

The sparkling dew-drops will not stay.

Sweet month of May,
We must away;
Far, far away!
To-day! to-day!"
Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The Crystal Cabinet

The Maiden caught me in the wild,

Where I was dancing merrily;

She put me into her Cabinet,

And locked me up with a golden key.

This Cabinet is formed of Gold

And Pearl and Crystal shining bright,

And within it opens into a World

And a little lovely Moony Night.

Another England there I saw

Another London with its Tower,

Another Thames and other Hills,

And another pleasant Surrey Bower.

Another Maiden like herself,

Translucent, lovely, shining clear,

Threefold each in the other closed—

O, what a pleasant trembling fear!

O, what a smile! a Threefold Smile

Filled me, that like a flame I burned;

I bent to kiss the lovely Maid,

And found a Threefold Kiss returned.

I strove to seize the inmost form

With ardour fierce and hands of flame,

But burst the Crystal Cabinet,

And like a Weeping Babe became—

A Weeping Babe upon the wild,

And Weeping Woman pale reclined,

And in the outward air again

I filled with woes the passing wind.

William Blake

The Chase

Art thou gone in haste?
I'll not forsake thee;
Runn'st thou ne'er so fast?
I'll overtake thee:

O'er the dales, o'er the downs,

Through the green meadows,

From the fields through the towns,

To the dim shadows.

All along the plain,
To the low fountains,
Up and down again
From the high mountains;

Echo then shall again

Tell her I follow,

And the floods to the woods

Carry my holla!
Holla!
Ce! la! ho! ho! hu!
William Rowley

Tony O!

Over the bleak and barren snow

A voice there came a-calling;

"Where are you going to, Tony O!

Where are you going this morning?"

"I am going where there are rivers of wine,

The mountains bread and honey;

There Kings and Queens do mind the swine,

And the poor have all the money."

Colin Francis

Romance

When I was but thirteen or so

I went into a golden land,

Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

Took me by the hand.

My father died, my brother too,

They passed like fleeting dreams.

I stood where Popocatapetl

In the sunlight gleams.

I dimly heard the master's voice

And boys far-off at play,

Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

Had stolen me away.

I walked in a great golden dream

To and fro from school—

Shining Popocatapetl

The dusty streets did rule.

I walked home with a gold dark boy,

And never a word I'd say,

Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

Had taken my speech away:

I gazed entranced upon his face

Fairer than any flower—

O shining Popocatapetl

It was thy magic hour:

The houses, people, traffic seemed

Thin fading dreams by day,

Chimborazo, Cotopaxi

They had stolen my soul away!
Walter J. Turner

Hallo My Fancy

In melancholic fancy,
Out of myself,
In the vulcan dancy,
All the world surveying,
Nowhere staying,
Just like a fairy elf;

Out o'er the tops of highest mountains skipping,

Out o'er the hill, the trees and valleys tripping,

Out o'er the ocean seas, without an oar or shipping,—

Hallo my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

Amidst the misty vapours
Fain would I know
What doth cause the tapers;
Why the clouds benight us
And affright us.
While we travel here below;

Fain would I know what makes the roaring thunder,

And what these lightnings be that rend the clouds asunder,

And what these comets are on which we gaze and wonder—

Hallo my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

Fain would I know the reason,
Why the little ant,
All the summer season,
Layeth up provision
On condition
To know no winter's want.

And how housewives, that are so good and painful,

Do unto their husbands prove so good and gainful;

And why the lazy drones to them do prove disdainful—

Hallo my fancy, whither wilt thou go?...

Amidst the foamy ocean,
Fain would I know
What doth cause the motion,
And returning
In its journeying,
And doth so seldom swerve?

And how the little fishes that swim beneath salt waters,

Do never blind their eye; methinks it is a matter

An inch above the reach of old Erra Pater!—

Hallo my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

Fain would I be resolvèd
How things are done;
And where the bull was calvèd
Of bloody Phalaris,
And where the tailor is
That works to the man i' the moon!

Fain would I know how Cupid aims so rightly;

And how the little fairies do dance and leap so lightly,

And where fair Cynthia makes her ambles nightly—

Hallo my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

In conceit like Phaeton
I'll mount Phoebus' chair
Having ne'er a hat on,
All my hair a-burning
In my journeying;
Hurrying through the air.

Fain would I hear his fiery horses neighing

And see how they on foamy bits are playing,

All the stars and planets I will be surveying!—

Hallo my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

O from what ground of nature
Doth the pelican,
That self devouring creature
Prove so forward
And untoward,
Her vitals for to strain!

And why the subtle fox, while in death's wounds a-lying,

Do not lament his pangs by howling and by crying,

And why the milk-swan doth sing when she's a-dying—

Hallo my fancy, whither wilt thou go?

Fain would I conclude this,
At least make essay;
What similitude is:
Why fowls of a feather
Flock and fly together,
And lambs know beasts of prey;

How Nature's alchemists, these small laborious creatures,

Acknowledge still a prince in ordering their matters,

And suffer none to live who slothing lose their features—

Hallo my fancy, whither wilt thou go?...

To know this world's centre
Height, depth, breadth and length,
Fain would I adventure
To search the hid attractions
Of magnetic actions
And adamantine strength.

Fain would I know, if in some lofty mountain,

Where the moon sojourns, if there be tree or fountain;

If there be beasts of prey, or yet be fields to hunt in—

Hallo my fancy, whither wilt thou go?...

Hallo my fancy, hallo,
Stay, stay at home with me,
I can no longer follow,
For thou hast betrayed me,
And bewrayed me;
It is too much for thee.

Stay, stay at home with me, leave off thy lofty soaring;

Stay then at home with me, and on thy books be poring;

For he that goes abroad, lays little up in storing—

Thou'rt welcome my fancy, welcome home to me.
William Cleland

Sonnet

There was an Indian, who had known no change,

Who strayed content along a sunlit beach

Gathering shells. He heard a sudden strange

Commingled noise: looked up; and gasped for speech.

For in the bay, where nothing was before,

Moved on the sea, by magic, huge canoes,

With bellying clothes on poles, and not one oar,

And fluttering coloured signs and clambering crews.

And he, in fear, this naked man alone,

His fallen hands forgetting all their shells,

His lips gone pale, knelt low behind a stone,

And stared, and saw, and did not understand,
Columbus's doom-burdened caravels
Slant to the shore, and all their seamen land.
J. C. Squire

On First Looking Into Chapman's Homer

Much have I travelled in the realms of gold,

And many goodly states and kingdoms seen:
Round many western islands have I been

Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told

That deep-browed Homer ruled as his demesne;
Yet did I never breathe its pure serene

Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold:

Then felt I like some watcher of the skies

When a new planet swims into his ken;

Or like stout Cortez, when with eagle eyes

He stared at the Pacific—and all his men

Looked at each other with a wild surmise—

Silent, upon a peak in Darien.

John Keats

"To Sea"

To sea, to sea! The calm is o'er;

The wanton water leaps in sport,

And rattles down the pebbly shore;

The dolphin wheels, the sea-cows snort,

And unseen Mermaids' pearly song

Comes bubbling up, the weeds among.

Fling broad the sail, dip deep the oar:

To sea, to sea! the calm is o'er.

To sea, to sea! our wide-winged bark

Shall billowy cleave its sunny way,

And with its shadow, fleet and dark,

Break the caved Tritons' azure day,

Like mighty eagle soaring light

O'er antelopes on Alpine height.

The anchor heaves, the ship swings free,

The sails swell full: To sea, to sea!

Thomas Lovell Beddoes

Bermudas

Where the remote Bermudas ride,

In the Ocean's bosom unespied,

From a small boat, that rowed along,

The listening winds received this song:

"What should we do but sing His praise,

That led us through the watery maze,

Unto an isle so long unknown,

And yet far kinder than our own?

Where He the huge sea-monsters wracks

That lift the deep upon their backs,

He lands us on a grassy stage,

Safe from the storms' and prelates' rage:

He gave us this eternal Spring

Which here enamels everything,

And sends the fowls to us in care

On daily visits through the air:

He hangs in shades the orange bright,

Like golden lamps in a green night,

And does in the pomegranates close

Jewels more rich than Ormus shows;

He makes the figs our mouths to meet,

And throws the melons at our feet;

But apples plants of such a price

No tree could ever bear them twice.

With cedars, chosen by His hand

From Lebanon, He stores the land,

And makes the hollow seas, that roar,

Proclaim the ambergris on shore.

He cast (of which we rather boast)

The Gospel's pearl upon our coast;

And in these rocks for us did frame

A temple where to sound His name.

Oh! let our voice His praise exalt,

Till it arrive at Heaven's vault,

Which, thence (perhaps) rebounding, may

Echo beyond the Mexique bay."

Thus sung they, in the English boat,

A holy and a cheerful note;

And all the way, to guide their chime,

With falling oars they kept the time.

Andrew Marvell

The Old Ships

I have seen old ships sail like swans asleep

Beyond the village which men still call Tyre,

With leaden age o'ercargoed, dipping deep

For Famagusta and the hidden sun

That rings black Cyprus with a lake of fire;

And all those ships were certainly so old—

Who knows how oft with squat and noisy gun

Questing brown slaves or Syrian oranges,

The pirate Genoese

Hell-raked them till they rolled

Blood, water, fruit and corpses up the hold.

But now through friendly seas they softly run,

Painted the mid-sea blue or shore-sea green,

Still patterned with the vine and grapes in gold.

But I have seen

Pointing her shapely shadows from the dawn

And image tumbled on a rose-swept bay

A drowsy ship of some yet older day;

And, wonder's breath indrawn,

Thought I—who knows—who knows—but in that same

(Fished up beyond Aeaea, patched up new

—Stern painted brighter blue—)

That talkative, bald-headed seaman came

(Twelve patient comrades sweating at the oar)

From Troy's doom-crimson shore,

And with great lies about his wooden horse

Set the crew laughing, and forgot his course.

It was so old a ship—who knows, who knows?

—And yet so beautiful, I watched in vain

To see the mast burst open with a rose,

And the whole deck put on its leaves again.

James Elroy Flecker

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

In Seven Parts

Argument: How a Ship having passed the Line is driven by storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole; and how from thence she made her course to the Tropical Latitude of the great Pacific Ocean; and of the strange things that befell; and in what manner the Ancient Mariner came back to his own Country.

Part I

It is an ancient Mariner,

And he stoppeth one of three.

"By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,

Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

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,

"There was a ship," quoth he.

"Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!"

Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his glittering eye—

The Wedding-Guest stood still,

And listens like a three years' child:

The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:

He cannot choose but hear;

And thus spake on that ancient man,

The bright-eyed Mariner.

"The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,

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 man,

The bright-eyed Mariner.

"And now the Storm-Blast came, and he

Was tyrannous and strong:

He struck with his o'ertaking wings,

And chased us south along.

With sloping masts and dipping prow,

As who pursued with yell and blow

Still treads the shadow of his foe,

And forward bends his head,

The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,

And southward 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.

And through the drifts the snowy clifts

Did send a dismal sheen:

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken—

The ice was all between.

The ice was here, the ice was there,

The ice was all around:

It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,

Like noises in a swound!

At length did cross an Albatross,

Thorough the fog it came;

As if it had been a Christian soul,

We hailed it in God's name.

It ate the food it ne'er had eat,

And round and round it flew.

The ice did split with a thunder-fit;

The helmsman steered us through!

And a good south wind sprung up behind;

The Albatross did follow,

And every day, for food or play,

Came to the mariner's hollo!

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!

From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—

Why look'st thou so?"

—"With my cross-bow

I shot the Albatross."

Part II

The Sun now rose upon the right:

Out of the sea came he,

Still hid in mist, and on the left

Went down into the sea.

And the good south wind still blew behind,

But no sweet bird did follow,

Nor any day for food or play

Came to the mariners' hollo!

And I had done a hellish thing,

And it would work 'em woe:

For all averred, I had killed the bird

That made the breeze to blow.

Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,

That made the breeze to blow!

Nor dim nor red, like God's own head,

The glorious Sun uprist:

Then all averred, I had killed the bird

That brought the fog and mist.

'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,

That bring the fog and mist.

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew.

The furrow followed free;

We were the first that ever burst

Into that silent sea.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,

'Twas sad as sad could be;

And we did speak only to break

The silence of the sea!

All in a hot and copper sky,

The bloody Sun, at noon,

Right up above the mast did stand,

No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day,

We stuck, nor breath nor motion;

As idle as a painted ship

Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, every where,

And all the boards did shrink;

Water, water, every where,

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 assurèd were

Of the Spirit that plagued us so;

Nine fathom deep he had followed us

From the land of mist and snow.

And every tongue, through utter drought,

Was withered at the root;

We could not speak, no more than if

We had been choked with soot.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks

Had I from old and young!

Instead of the cross, the Albatross

About my neck was hung.

Part III

"There passed a weary time. Each throat

Was parched, and glazed each eye.

A weary time! a weary time!

How glazed each weary eye,

When looking westward, I beheld

A something in the sky.

At first it seemed a little speck,

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!

And still it neared and neared:

As if it dodged a water-sprite,

It plunged and tacked and veered.

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,

We could nor laugh nor wail;

Through utter drought all dumb we stood!

I 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:

Gramercy! they for joy did grin,

And all at once their breath drew in,

As they were drinking all.

See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!

Hither to work us weal;

Without a breeze, without a tide,

She steadies with upright keel!

The western wave was all a-flame,

The day was well nigh done!

Almost upon the western wave

Rested the broad bright Sun;

When that strange shape drove suddenly

Betwixt us and the Sun.

And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,

(Heaven's Mother send us grace!)

As if through a dungeon-grate he peered

With broad and burning face.

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)

How fast she nears and nears!

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?

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.

The naked hulk alongside came,

And the twain were casting dice;

"The game is done! I've won! I've won!"

Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

The Sun's rim dips: the stars rush out:

At one stride comes the dark;

With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea,

Off shot the spectre-bark.

We listened and looked sideways up!

Fear at my heart, as at a cup,

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

The hornèd Moon, with one bright star

Within the nether tip.

One after one, by the star-dogged Moon,

Too quick for groan or sigh,

Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,

And cursed me with his eye.

Four times fifty living men,

(And I heard nor sigh nor groan)

With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,

They dropped down one by one.

The souls did from their bodies fly,—

They fled to bliss or woe!

And every soul, it passed me by,

Like the whizz of my cross-bow!"

Part IV

"I fear thee, ancient Mariner!

I fear thy skinny hand!

And thou art long, and lank, and brown,

As is the ribbed sea-sand.

I fear thee and thy glittering eye,

And thy skinny hand, so brown."—

"Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!

This body dropt not down.

Alone, alone, all, all alone,

Alone on a wide wide sea!

And never a saint took pity on

My soul in agony.

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.

I looked to heaven, and tried to pray;

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;

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 limbs,

Nor rot nor reek did they:

The 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

Is the 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,

And no where did abide:

Softly she was going up,

And a star or two beside—

Her beams bemocked the sultry main,

Like April hoar-frost spread;

But where the ship's huge shadow lay,

The charmèd water burnt alway

A still and awful red.

Beyond the shadow of the ship,

I watched the water-snakes:

They moved in tracks of shining white,

And when they reared, the elfish light

Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship

I watched their rich attire:

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,

They coiled and swam; and every track

Was a flash of golden fire.

O happy living things! no tongue

Their beauty might declare:

A spring of love gushed from my heart,

And I blessed them unaware:

Sure my kind saint took pity on me,

And I blessed them unaware.

The self-same moment I could pray;

And from my neck so free

The Albatross fell off, and sank

Like lead into the sea.

Part V

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 all were 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 blessèd ghost.

And soon I heard a roaring wind:

It did not come anear;

But with its sound it shook the sails,

That were so thin and sere.

The upper air burst into life!

And a hundred fire-flags sheen,

To and fro they were hurried about!

And to and fro, and in and out,

The wan stars danced between.

And the coming wind did roar more loud,

And the sails did sigh like sedge;

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,

The lightning fell with never a jag,

A river steep and wide.

The loud wind never reached the ship,

Yet now the ship moved on!

Beneath the lightning and the Moon

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.

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—

We were a ghastly crew.

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."—

"I fear thee, ancient Mariner!"—

"Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!

'Twas not those souls that fled in pain,

Which to their corses came again,

But a troop of spirits blest:

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,

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 sky-lark sing;

Sometimes all little birds that are,

How they seemed to fill the sea and air

With their sweet jargoning!

And now 'twas like all instruments,

Now like a lonely flute;

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

In the leafy month of June,

That to the sleeping woods all night

Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we silently sailed on,

Yet never a breeze did breathe:

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

That made the ship to go.

The sails at noon left off their tune,

And the ship stood still also.

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

Two 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 man

Who shot him with his bow."

The other was a softer voice,

As soft as honey-dew:

Quoth he, "The man hath penance done,

And penance more will do."

Part VI

First Voice."But tell me, tell me! speak again,

Thy soft response renewing—

What makes that ship drive on so fast?

What is the ocean doing?"

Second Voice."Still as a slave before his lord,

The ocean hath no blast;

His great bright eye most silently

Up to the Moon is cast—

If he may know which way to go;

For she guides him smooth or grim.

See, brother, see I how graciously

She looketh down on him."

First Voice."But why drives on that ship so fast,

Withouten wave or wind?"

Second Voice."The air is cut away before,

And closes from behind.

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!

Or we shall be belated:

For slow and slow that ship will go,

When the Mariner's trance is abated."—

I woke, and we were sailing on

As in a gentle weather:

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

The dead men stood together.

All stood together on the deck,

For a charnel-dungeon fitter:

All fixed on me their stony eyes,

That in the Moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, with which they died,

Had never passed away:

I could not draw my eyes from theirs,

Nor turn them up to pray.

And now this spell was snapt: once more

I viewed the ocean green,

And looked far forth, yet little saw

Of what had else been seen—

Like one, that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turned round walks on,

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows, a frightful fiend

Doth close behind him tread.

But soon there breathed a wind on me,

Nor sound nor motion made:

Its path was not upon the sea,

In ripple or in shade.

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek

Like a meadow-gale of spring—

It mingled strangely with my fears,

Yet it felt like a welcoming.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,

Yet she sailed softly too:

Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—

On me alone it blew.

Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed

The light-house top I see?

Is this the hill? is this the kirk?

Is this mine own countree?

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar,

And I with sobs did pray—

O let me be awake, my God!

Or let me sleep alway.

The harbour-bay was clear as glass,

So smoothly it was strewn!

And on the bay the moonlight lay,

And the shadow of the Moon.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,

That stands above the rock:

The moonlight steeped in silentness

The steady weathercock.

And the bay was white with silent light,

Till rising from the same,

Full many shapes, that shadows were,

In crimson colours came.

A little distance from the prow

Those crimson shadows were:

I turned my eyes upon the deck—

Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,

And, by the holy rood!

A man all light, a seraph-man,

On every corse there stood.

This seraph-band, each waved his hand:

It was a heavenly sight!

They stood as signals to the land,

Each one a lovely light;

This seraph-band, each waved his hand,

No voice did they impart—

No voice; but oh! the silence sank

Like music on my heart.

But soon I heard the dash of oars,

I heard the Pilot's cheer;

My head was turned perforce away,

And I saw a boat appear.

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy,

I heard them coming fast:

Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy

The dead men could not blast.

I saw a third—I heard his voice:

It is the Hermit good!

He singeth loud his godly hymns

That he makes in the wood.

He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away

The Albatross's blood.

Part VII

This Hermit good lives in that wood

Which slopes down to the sea.

How loudly his sweet voice he rears!

He loves to talk with marineres

That come from a far countree.

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve—

He hath a cushion plump:

It is the moss that wholly hides

The rotted old oak-stump.

The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,

"Why, this is strange, I trow!

Where are those lights so many and fair,

That signal made but now?"

"Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said—

"And they answered not our cheer!

The planks looked warped! and see those sails,

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;

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,

And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,

That eats the she-wolf's young."

"Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look—

(The Pilot made reply)

I 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,

And straight a sound was heard.

Under the water it rumbled on,

Still louder and more dread:

It reached the ship, it split the bay;

The ship went down like lead.

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,

Which sky and ocean smote,

Like one that hath been seven days drowned

My body lay afloat;

But swift as dreams, myself I found

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.

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.

I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,

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."

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 Hermit crossed his brow.

"Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say—

What manner of man art thou?"

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched

With a woful agony,

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.

What loud uproar bursts from that door!

The wedding-guests are there:

But in the garden-bower the bride

And bride-maids singing are:

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 'twas, that God himself

Scarce seemèd there to be.

O sweeter than the marriage-feast,

'Tis sweeter far to me,

To walk together to the kirk

With a goodly company!—

To walk together to the kirk,

And all together pray,

While each to his great Father 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.

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The Child and the Mariner

This sailor knows of wondrous lands afar,

More rich than Spain, when the Phoenicians shipped

Silver for common ballast, and they saw

Horses at silver mangers eating grain;

This man has seen the wind blow up a mermaid's hair

Which, like a golden serpent, reared and stretched

To feel the air away beyond her head....

He many a tale of wonder told: of where,

At Argostoli, Cephalonia's sea

Ran over the earth's lip in heavy floods;

And then again of how the strange Chinese

Conversed much as our homely Blackbirds sing.

He told us how he sailed in one old ship

Near that volcano Martinique, whose power

Shook like dry leaves the whole Caribbean seas;

And made the sun set in a sea of fire

Which only half was his; and dust was thick

On deck, and stones were pelted at the mast....

He told how isles sprang up and sank again,

Between short voyages, to his amaze;

How they did come and go, and cheated charts;

Told how a crew was cursed when one man killed

A bird that perched upon a moving barque;

And how the sea's sharp needles, firm and strong,

Ripped open the bellies of big, iron ships;

Of mighty icebergs in the Northern seas,

That haunt the far horizon like white ghosts.

He told of waves that lift a ship so high.

That birds could pass from starboard unto port

Under her dripping keel.

Oh, it was sweet

To hear that seaman tell such wondrous tales....

William H. Davies

The Parrots

Somewhere, somewhen I've seen,

But where or when I'll never know,

Parrots of shrilly green

With crests of shriller scarlet flying

Out of black cedars as the sun was dying

Against cold peaks of snow.

From what forgotten life

Of other worlds I cannot tell

Flashes that screeching strife:

Yet the shrill colour and shrill crying

Sing through my blood and set my heart replying

And jangling like a bell.

Wilfrid Gibson

Ozymandias of Egypt

I met a traveller from an antique land

Who said: Two vast and trunkless legs of stone

Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,

Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command

Tell that its sculptor well those passions read

Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,

The hand that mocked them, and the heart that fed:

And on the pedestal these words appear:

"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:

Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"

Nothing beside remains. Round the decay

Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare

The lone and level sands stretch far away.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

St. Anthony's Township

The trees of the elder lands,

Give ear to the march of Time,

To his steps that are heavy and slow

In the streets of ruined cities

That were great awhile ago—

Skeletons bare to the skies

Or mummies hid in the sands,

Wasting to rubble and lime.

Ancient are they and wise;

But the gum-trees down by the creek,

Gnarled, archaic and grey,

Are even as wise as they.

They have learned in a score of years

The lore that their brethren know;

For they saw a town arise,

Arise and pass.

There are pits by the dry, dead river,

Whence the diggers won their gold,

A circle traced in the grass,

A hearthstone long a-cold,

A path none come to seek—

The trail of the pioneers—

Where the sheep wind to and fro;

And the rest is a tale that is told

By voices quavering and weak

Of men grown old.

Gilbert Sheldon

Silence

There is a silence where hath been no sound,

There is a silence where no sound may be,
In the cold grave—under the deep—deep sea,

Or in wide desert where no life is found,

Which hath been mute, and still must sleep profound;

No voice is hushed—no life treads silently,
But clouds and cloudy shadows wander free,

That never spoke, over the idle ground:

But in green ruins, in the desolate walls

Of antique palaces, where Man hath been,

Though the dun fox, or wild hyaena, calls,

And owls, that flit continually between,

Shriek to the echo, and the low winds moan,

There the true Silence is, self-conscious and alone.

Thomas Hood

Kubla Khan

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round:

And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted

Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!

A savage place! as holy and enchanted

As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted

By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,

As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,

A mighty fountain momently was forced:

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.

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

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.
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,
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 drunk the milk of Paradise....

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Lost Love

His eyes are quickened so with grief,

He can watch a grass or leaf

Every instant grow; he can

Clearly through a flint wall see,

Or watch the startled spirit flee

From the throat of a dead man.

Across two counties he can hear,

And catch your words before you speak.

The woodlouse, or the maggot's weak

Clamour rings in his sad ear;

And noise so slight it would surpass

Credence:—drinking sound of grass,

Worm talk, clashing jaws of moth

Chumbling holes in cloth:

The groan of ants who undertake

Gigantic loads for honour's sake,

Their sinews creak, their breath comes thin:

Whir of spiders when they spin,

And minute whispering, mumbling, sighs

Of idle grubs and flies.

This man is quickened so with grief,

He wanders god-like or like thief

Inside and out, below, above,

Without relief seeking lost love.

Robert Graves

Ecstasy

I saw a frieze on whitest marble drawn

Of boys who sought for shells along the shore,

Their white feet shedding pallor in the sea,

The shallow sea, the spring-time sea of green

That faintly creamed against the cold, smooth pebbles....

One held a shell unto his shell-like ear

And there was music carven in his face,

His eyes half-closed, his lips just breaking open

To catch the lulling, mazy, coralline roar

Of numberless caverns filled with singing seas.

And all of them were hearkening as to singing

Of far-off voices thin and delicate,

Voices too fine for any mortal wind

To blow into the whorls of mortal ears—

And yet those sounds flowed from their grave, sweet faces.

And as I looked I heard that delicate music,

And I became as grave, as calm, as still

As those carved boys. I stood upon that shore,

I felt the cool sea dream around my feet,

My eyes were staring at the far horizon....

Walter J. Turner

The Sea of Death

... And there were spring-faced cherubs that did sleep

Like water-lilies on that motionless deep,

How beautiful! with bright unruffled hair

On sleek unfretted brows, and eyes that were

Buried in marble tombs, a pale eclipse!

And smile-bedimpled cheeks, and pleasant lips,

Meekly apart, as if the soul intense

Spake out in dreams of its own innocence....

So lay they garmented in torpid light,

Under the pall of a transparent night,

Like solemn apparitions lulled sublime

To everlasting rest,—and with them Time

Slept, as he sleeps upon the silent face

Of a dark dial in a sunless place.

The Frozen Ocean

The sea would flow no longer,

It wearied after change,

It called its tides and breakers in,

From where they might range.

It sent an icy message

To every wave and rill;

They lagged, they paused, they stiffened,

They froze, and were still.

It summoned in its currents,

They reached not where they led;

It bound its foaming whirlpools.

"Not the old life," it said,

"Not fishes for the fishermen,

Not bold ships as before,

Not beating loud for ever

Upon the seashore,

"But cold white foxes stepping

On to my hard proud breast,

And a bird coming sweetly

And building a nest.

"My icebergs shall be mountains,

My silent fields of snow

Unmarked shall join the lands' snowfields—

Where, no man shall know."
Viola Meynell

The End of the World

The snow had fallen many nights and days;

The sky was come upon the earth at last,

Sifting thinly down as endlessly

As though within the system of blind planets

Something had been forgot or overdriven.

The dawn now seemed neglected in the grey

Where mountains were unbuilt and shadowless trees

Rootlessly paused or hung upon the air.

There was no wind, but now and then a sigh

Crossed that dry falling dust and rifted it

Through crevices of slate and door and casement.

Perhaps the new moon's time was even past.

Outside, the first white twilights were too void

Until a sheep called once, as to a lamb,

And tenderness crept everywhere from it;

But now the flock must have strayed far away.

The lights across the valley must be veiled,

The smoke lost in the greyness or the dusk.

For more than three days now the snow had thatched

That cow-house roof where it had ever melted

With yellow stains from the beasts' breath inside;

But yet a dog howled there, though not quite lately.

Someone passed down the valley swift and singing,

Yes, with locks spreaded like a son of morning;

But if he seemed too tall to be a man

It was that men had been so long unseen,

Or shapes loom larger through a moving snow.

And he was gone and food had not been given him.

When snow slid from an overweighted leaf,

Shaking the tree, it might have been a bird

Slipping in sleep or shelter, whirring wings;

Yet never bird fell out, save once a dead one—

And in two days the snow had covered it.

The dog had howled again—or thus it seemed

Until a lean fox passed and cried no more.

All was so safe indoors where life went on

Glad of the close enfolding snow—O glad

To be so safe and secret at its heart,

Watching the strangeness of familiar things.

They knew not what dim hours went on, went by,

For while they slept the clock stopt newly wound

As the cold hardened. Once they watched the road,

Thinking to be remembered. Once they doubted

If they had kept the sequence of the days,

Because they heard not any sound of bells.

A butterfly, that hid until the Spring

Under a ceiling's shadow, dropt, was dead.

The coldness seemed more nigh, the coldness deepened

As a sound deepens into silences;

It was of earth and came not by the air;

The earth was cooling and drew down the sky.

The air was crumbling. There was no more sky.

Rails of a broken bed charred in the grate,

And when he touched the bars he thought the sting

Came from their heat—he could not feel such cold...

She said, "O do not sleep,

Heart, heart of mine, keep near me. No, no; sleep.

I will not lift his fallen, quiet eyelids,

Although I know he would awaken then—

He closed them thus but now of his own will.

He can stay with me while I do not lift them."

Gordon Bottomley