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And the an- O dream of joy! is this, indeed,

cient mari

ner behold

eth his na

tive coun



The lighthouse 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.


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

the dead

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

And appear A little distance from the prow

in their own

forms of Those crimson shadows were;


I turned my eyes upon the deck,·
O 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, Ö, the silence sank
Like music on my heart!

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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.


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,
He hath a cushion plump;

and eve,

The hermit

of the



Approacheth the ship with wonder.

The ship suddenly



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 row!
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 look 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?"

יי !

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
With a woful agony,


The ancient mariner is

saved in the pilot' boat.

The ancient

mariner earnestly entreateth

the hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls

on him:


And ever and anon,

thoughout life, an ago

h: future

ny constraineta him to trav

el from land to lan J,


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 bridemaids 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 't was, that God himself
Scarce seemed there to be.

O, sweeter than the marriage-feast,
'T is 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!

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