Approacheth the ship with wonder.

The ship suddenly sinketh.

The ancient
Mariner is

saved in the
Pilot s boat.

'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 sayWhat 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:

The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him.

And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony constraineth him to travel from land to land;

And to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth.

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 seemed 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 [1772-1834]

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM

'Twas in the prime of summer time,

An evening calm and cool,

And four-and-twenty happy boys

Came bounding out of school:

There were some that ran and some that leaped, Like troutlets in a pool.

Away they sped with gamesome minds,

And souls untouched by sin;

To a level mead they came, and there
They drave the wickets in:
Pleasantly shone the setting sun
Over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they coursed about,
And shouted as they ran,

Turning to mirth all things of earth,

As only boyhood can;

But the Usher sat remote from all,

A melancholy man!

His hat was off, his vest apart,

To catch heaven's blessed breeze;

For a burning thought was in his brow,

And his bosom ill at ease:

So he leaned his head on his hands, and read

The book between his knees.

Leaf after leaf, he turned it o'er,

Nor ever glanced aside,

For the peace of his soul he read that book

In the golden eventide:

Much study had made him very lean,

And pale, and leaden-eyed.

At last he shut the ponderous tome,
With a fast and fervent grasp

He strained the dusky covers close,
And fixed the brazen hasp:

"Oh, God! could I so close my mind,
And clasp it with a clasp!"

Then leaping on his feet upright,
Some moody turns he took,-
Now up the mead, then down the mead,

And past a shady nook,

And, lo! he saw a little boy

That pored upon a book.

"My gentle lad, what is't you read—

Romance or fairy fable?

Or is it some historic page,

Of kings and crowns unstable?"

The young boy gave an upward glance,— "It is "The Death of Abel.""

The Usher took six hasty strides,
As smit with sudden pain,
Six hasty strides beyond the place,
Then slowly back again;

And down he sat beside the lad,
And talked with him of Cain;

And, long since then, of bloody men,
Whose deeds tradition saves;

Of lonely folk cut off unseen,
And hid in sudden graves;
Of horrid stabs, in groves forlorn,
And murders done in caves;

And how the sprites of injured men
Shriek upward from the sod;
Aye, how the ghostly hand will point
To show the burial clod;

And unknown facts of guilty acts

Are seen in dreams from God!