Night - A background of sky & sea. On the right, a series indicated on the house. A door with 3 steps leading up. A lighted ship's bayou over door. A large window with a semi-transparent white shade. Music from within - Tele. "Della' «Memorial March»» to which guests are dancing. Their shadows come & go on the window like shadowgraph.

The Mariner stands at foot of steps. His own hair and beard are white, his hands hold down eyes down with favor. His hands are stretched up to the sky, his face is rapt, his lips move in prayer. He is like a prophet out of the Bible with the besty and dress of a sailor.

The 3 Ws. entitle us under our name, they are all driven identically in their festine, proper best. All are comparatively young, two of them leave marks like faces of men, condiment shakers, they walk like marionettes. The third, with the same type of face, is nevertheless morally alive - a human being.

They stop before the Mariner who is blocking their way. They make remarks for him to step and, they pluck at his sleeve. His arms fall, his eyes come back to earth. He stares into the first a face, wants their sake. They enter the house. All at once, the Mariner fixes his eyes on one of the 3 Ws. - then relaxes out his hands and grabs them by the shoulders.

# THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER.

By SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

## IN SEVEN PARTS.

### 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 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 gray beard and
glittering eye,

Now wherefore stopp'st thou
me?

An ancient Mariner meeteth three gallants bidden to a wedding-feast, and detaineth one.

W.G.

4 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

"The Bridegroom's doors are
open'd 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, gray-
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 wedding
guest is spell-
bound by the
eye of the old
sea-faring man,
and constrained
to hear his tale.

## 6 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner.

The ship drawn by a storm toward the south pole.

"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 roar'd the blast,
And southward aye we fled.

And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold :

## The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 7

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
The ice was all between. [ken—

The land of ice, and of fearful sounds, where no living thing was to be seen.

The ice was here, the ice was
The ice was all around : [there,
It crack'd and growl'd, and
roar'd and howl'd,
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 hail'd it in God's name.

Till a great sea-bird, called the Albatross, came through the snow-fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality.

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 steer'd us through

10 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

But when the
fog cleared off,
they justify the
same, and thus
make themselves
accomplices in
the crime.

T

The fair breeze
continues, the
ship enters the
Pacific Ocean
and sails north-
ward, even till it
reaches the Line.

C

TtT

The ship hath
been suddenly
becalmed.

TtT

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

The glorious Sun uprist:

Then all averrd, I had kill'd
the bird

That brought the fog and mist.

'T was right, said they, such
birds to slay,

That bring the fog and mist

The fair breeze blew, the white
foam flew,

The furrow stream'd off free;

We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails
dropt down,

'T was 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.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner II

C

Day after day, day after day,

We stuck, nor breath nor mo-
tion;

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.

And the Al-
batross begins
to be avenged.

TtT

The very deep did rot : O Christ !

That ever this should be !

Yea, slimy things did crawl with
legs

Upon the slimy sea.

C

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.

TtT

And some in dreams assured
were

Of the spirit that plagued us so :

A spirit had
followed them;
one of the
invisible
inhabitants of
this planet,

14 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

At its nearer
approach, it
seemeth him to
be a ship; and at
a dear ransom he
freeth his speech
from the bonds
of thirst.

A flash of joy;

And horror
follows. For
can it be a ship
that comes
onward without
wind or tide?

With throats unslaked, with
black lips baked,
We could not laugh nor wail ;
Through utter drought all dumb
we stood !

I bit my arm, I suck'd the blood,
And cried, A sail ! a sail !

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 al
a-flame,

The day was well-nigh done !

Almost upon the western wave

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 15

Rested the broad bright Sun ;

When that strange shape drove
suddenly

Betwixt us and the Sun.

And straight the Sun was fleck'd
with bars,

(Heaven's Mother send us
grace !)

As if through a dungeon-grate
he peer'd,

It seemeth him
but the skeleton
of a ship.

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?

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 skel-
eton-ship.

Is Death that woman's mate?

16 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

[This Ship it was a plankless
A bare Anatomy! [thing,
A plankless Spectre—and it
moved

Like a Being of the Sea !

The woman and a fleshless man
Therein sate merrily.

His bones were black with many
a crack,

All black and bare, I ween

Jet-black and bare, save where
with rust [crust

Of mouldy damps and charnel

They were patch'd with purple
and green.*]

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!

* The above stanzas were omitted by the author in
his own collected editions.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 17

The naked hulk alongside came,

Death and
Life-in-death

And the twain were casting dice;

have diced for
the ship's crew,

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

and she (the
latter) winneth
the ancient
Mariner.

Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

The Sun's rim dips; the stars

No twilight
within the
courts of the
sun.

rush out:

At one stride comes the dark;

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

Off shot the spectre-bark.

We listen'd and look'd side-
ways up!

At the rising
of the Moon,

Fear at my heart, as at a cup,

My life-blood seem'd to sip!

The stars were dim, and thick
the night,

The steersman's face by his
lamp gleam'd white;

From the sails the dew did drip—

Till clomb above the eastern bar

The horned Moon, with one
bright star

Within the nether tip.

18 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

One after
another,

One after one, by the star-dogg'd
Moon,
Too quick for groan or sigh,
Each turn'd his face with a
ghastly pang,
And cursed me with his eye.

His shipmates
drop down
dead;

Four times fifty living men,
(And I heard nor sigh nor
groan)
With heavy thump, a lifeless
lump,
They dropp'd down one by one.

But Life-in-
Death begins
her work on the
ancient Mariner.

Their souls did from their bodies
fly,—
They fled to bliss or woe
And every soul, it pass'd me by,
Like the whizz of my cross-
bow!"

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 19

PART IV.

“ I FEAR thee, ancient Mariner!
I fear thy skinny hand!
And thou art long, and lank,
and brown,
As is the ribb'd sea-sand.*

The wedding
guest feareth
that a spirit is
talking to him.

I fear thee and thy glittering
eye,
And thy skinny hand, so
brown.”—

Fear not, fear not, thou wed-
ding-guest !

This body dropt not down.

But the ancient
Mariner assureth
him of his
bodily life, and
proceedeth to
relate his hor-
rible penance.

* For the last two lines of this stanza I am in-
debted to Mr. Wordsworth. It was on a delightful
walk from Nether Stowey to Dulverton, with him
and his sister, in the autumn of 1797, that this poem
was planned and in part composed.

24 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

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.

By grace of the
holy Mother,
the ancient
Mariner is
refreshed with
rain.

The silly buckets on the deck,
That had so long remain'd,
I dreamt that they were fill'd
with dew;
And when I awoke, it rain'd.

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.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 25

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:
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 com-
motions in the
sky and the
element.

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 pour'd down from
one black cloud;
The Moon was at its edge.

26 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

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 reach'd
the ship,
Yet now the ship moved on!
Beneath the lightning and the
moon
The dead men gave a groan.

They groan'd, they stirr'd, 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 bodies of
the ship's crew
are inspirited, and
the ship moves
on;

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 27

The helmsman steer'd, 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 pull'd at one
rope,
But he said nought to me.

"I fear thee, ancient Mariner!" But not by the
souls of the men,
nor by demons of
earth or middle
air, but by a
blessed troop of
angelic spirits,
sent down by the
invocation of the
guardian saint.

Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!
'T was not those souls that fled
in pain,
Which to their corses came
again,
But a troop of spirits blest :

For when it dawn'd—they
dropp'd their arms,
And cluster'd round the mast;

28 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Sweet sounds rose slowly
through their mouths,
And from their bodies pass'd.

Around, around, flew each sweet
sound,
Then darted to the Sun;
Slowly the sounds came back
again,
Now mix'd, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the
sky
I heard the sky-lark sing;
Sometimes all little birds that
are,
How they seem'd to fill the sea
and air
With their sweet jargoning!

And now 't was like all instru-
ments,
Now like a lonely flute;
And now it is an angel's song,
That makes the heavens be
mute.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 29

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.

[Listen, O listen, thou Wed-
ding-Guest!
"Mariner! 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 Wed-
ding-Guest!
Thou 'lt rise to-morrow morn.

Never sadder tale was heard
By a man of woman born :
The Mariners all return'd to
work
As silent as beforne.

30 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

The Mariners all 'gan pull the ropes,
But look at me they n'old :
Thought I, I am as thin as air—
They cannot me behold.”] *

Till noon we quietly 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 fix'd her to the ocean :

* The above four stanzas only appear in the edition of 1798.

The lonesome spirit from the south pole carries on the ship as far as the line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 31

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 return'd,
I heard, and in my soul discern'd
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 Polar Spirit's fellow-demons, the invisible inhabitants of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to the other, that penance long and heavy for the ancient Mariner hath been accorded to the Polar Spirit, who returneth southward.

32 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

"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."

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 33

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! how graciously
She looketh down on him.

34 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

FIRST VOICE.

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.

But why drives on that ship so
fast.

Without or 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 :
'T was night, calm night, the
Moon was high;

The dead men stood together.

All stood together on the deck,
For a charnel-dungeon fitter :

The super-
natural motion
is retarded; the
Mariner awakes,
and his penance
begins anew.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 35

All fix'd on me their stony eyes,
That in the Moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, with which
they died,

Had never pass'd away :

I could not draw my eyes from
theirs,

Nor turn them up to pray.

And now this spell was snapt :
once more
I view'd the ocean green,
And look'd far forth, yet little
saw
Of what had else been seen—

The curse is
finally expiated,

Like one that on a lonesome
road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turn'd round,
walks on,

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows, a frightful
fiend

Doth close behind him tread.

36 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

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 fann'd 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 sail'd 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?

And the ancient Mariner be-
holdeth his native country.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 37

We drifted o'er the harbor-bar,
And I with sobs did pray—
"O let me be awake, my God!
Or let me sleep alway."

The harbor-bay was clear as
glass,
So smoothy it was strewn !
And on the bay the moonlight
lay,
And the shadow of the moon.

[The moonlight bay was white
all o'er
Till rising from the same
Full many shapes, that shadows
were,
Like as of torches came.

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.

38 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

I turn'd my head in fear and
dread,
And by the holy rood
The bodies had advanced, and
now
Before the mast they stood.

They lifted up their stiff right
arms,
They held them straight and
tight;
And each right-arm burnt like
a torch,
A torch that 's borne upright.
Their stony eyeballs 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.] *

* The above five stanzas are only in the edition of
1798.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 39

The rock shone bright, the kirk
no less,
That stands above the rock :
The moonlight steep'd in silent-
ness,
The steady weathercock.

And the bay was white with
silent light,
Till rising from the same,
Full many shapes, that shadows
were,
The angelic
spirits leave the
dead bodies,
In crimson colors came.

A little distance from the prow
Those crimson shadows were: And appear in
their own forms
I turn'd 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.

40 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

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 turn'd perforce
away,

And I saw a boat appear.

[Then vanish'd all the lovely
lights;

The bodies rose anew:

With silent pace, each to his
place,

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 41

Came back the ghastly crew.

The wind that shade nor motion
made

On me alone it blew.] *

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!

Hesingeth loud his godly hymns

That he makes in the wood.

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

The Albatross's blood.

* This stanza only appears in the edition of 1798.

42 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

PART VII.

The Hermit of
the wood.

T
HIS 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 near'd: I heard
them talk,
"Why, this is strange, I trow!
Where are those lights so many
and fair,
That signal made but now?"

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 43

"Strange, by my faith!" the
Hermit said—
"And they answered not our
cheer!

The planks look warp'd! and
see those sails
How thin they are and sere!

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-fear'd"—"Push on, push
on!"

Said the Hermit cheerily.

44 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

The boat came closer to the ship,
But I nor spake nor stirr'd;
The boat came close beneath the
ship,
And straight a sound was heard.

The ship
suddenly sinketh.

Under the water it rumbled on,
Still louder and more dread :
It reach'd the ship, it split the
bay;
The ship went down like lead.

The ancient
Mariner is saved
in the Pilot's
boat.

Stunn'd by that loud and dread-
ful sound,
Which sky and ocean smote,
Like one that hath been seven
days drown'd
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.

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 45

I moved my lips—the Pilot
shriek'd
And fell down in a fit;
The holy Hermit raised his eyes
And pray'd where he did sit.

I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,
Who now doth crazy go,
Laugh'd 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 stepp'd forth from
the boat,
And scarcely he could stand.

"O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy
man!"

The Hermit cross'd his brow.

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

What manner of man art thou?"

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

46 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner

Forthwith this frame of mine
was wrench'd
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;
The 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 :

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

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 47

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 't was, that God him-
self
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!

CHRISTABEL.

PREFACE.

THE first part of the following poem was written
in the year 1797, at Stowey, in the county of Somer-
set. 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 pre-
cluding charges of plagiarism or servile imitation
from myself. For there is amongst us a set of critics,

51

52

## Preface

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 for a perforation made in some other man's tank. I am confident, however, that, as far as the present poem is concerned, the 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 vindicate 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:

'T is mine and it is likewise yours;
But an if this will not do;
Let it be mine, good 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.

[1816.]

## CHRISTABEL

BY SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.

### PART I.

'T IS the middle of the night by the castle clock,
And the owls have awaken'd 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 bitch;
From her kennel beneath the rock
She maketh answer to the clock,
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.

54

Christabel

Is the night chilly and dark?
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;
And yet she looks both small and dull.
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,
What makes her in the wood so late,
A furlong from the castle gate?
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betrothed knight;
[Dreams that made her moan and leap
As on her bed she lay in sleep;]
And she in the midnight wood will pray
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 nought was green upon the oak
But moss and rarest mistletoe:

55

Christabel

She kneels beneath the huge oak tree,
And in silence prayeth she.

The lady sprang up suddenly,
The lovely lady, Christabel!
It moan'd as near as near can be,
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?
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
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
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 !
She folded her arms beneath her cloak,
And stole to the other side of the oak.
What sees she there ?

56

Christabel

There she sees a damsel bright,
Drest in a silken robe of white,
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 unsandal'd were;
And wildly glittered here and there
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!"
(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:
Stretch forth thy hand and have no fear,"
Said Christabel, "How camest thou here?
And the lady, whose voice was faint and
sweet,
Did thus pursue her answer meet:—
"My sire is of a noble line,
And my name is Geraldine."

57

Christabel

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.
The palfrey was as fleet as wind,
And they rode furiously behind,
They spurr'd amain, their steeds were white:
And once we cross'd the shade of night.
As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,
I have no thought what men they be;
Nor do I know how long it is
(For I have lain entranced I wis)
Since one, the tallest of the five,
Took me from the palfrey's back,
A weary woman, scarce alive.
Some mutter'd words his comrades spoke:
He placed me underneath this oak;
He swore they would return with haste;
Whither they went I cannot tell—
I 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 stretch'd forth her hand,
And comforted fair Geraldine:

58

Christabel

"O well, bright dame! may you command
The service of Sir Leoline;
And gladly our stout chivalry
Will he send forth and friends withal
To guide and guard you safe and free
Home to your noble father's hall."

She rose: and forth with steps they pass'd
That strove to be, and were not, fast.
Her gracious stars the lady blest,
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 awaken'd be,
But we will move as if in stealth,
And I beseech your courtesy,
This night, to share your couch with me."

They cross'd the moat, and Christabel
Took the key that fitted well;
A little door she open'd straight,
All in the middle of the gate;
The gate that was iron'd within and without,
Where an army in battle-array had march'd
out.

59

Christabel

The lady sank, belike through pain,
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.

So free from danger, free from fear,
They cross'd the court: right glad they
were.
And Christabel devoutly cried
To the lady by her side;
"Praise we the Virgin all divine
Who hath rescued thee from thy distress!"
"Alas, alas!" said Geraldine,
"I cannot speak for weariness."
So free from danger, free from fear,
They cross'd the court: right glad they were.

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?
Never till now she utter'd yell
Beneath the eye of Christabel.

60

Christabel

Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch :
For what can ail the mastiff bitch?

They pass'd the hall, that echoes still,
Pass as lightly as you will !
The brands were flat, the brands were dying,
Amid their own white ashes lying;
But when the lady pass'd, there came
A tongue of light. a fit of flame;
And Christabel saw the lady'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.

"O softly tread," said Christabel,
"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,
And now they pass the Baron's room,
As still as death, with stifled breath!
And now have reach'd her chamber door;
And now doth Geraldine press down
The rushes of the chamber floor.

61

Christabel

The moon shines dim in the open air,
And not a moonbeam enters here.
But they without its light can see
The chamber carved so curiously,
Carved with figures strange and sweet,
All made out of the carver's brain,
For a lady's chamber meet :
The lamp with twofold silver chain
Is fasten'd to an angel's feet.

The silver lamp burns dead and dim;
But Christabel the lamp will trim.
She trimm'd the lamp, and made it bright,
And left it swinging to and fro,
While Geraldine, in wretched plight,
Sank down upon the floor below.

"O weary lady, Geraldine,
I pray you, drink this cordial wine!
It is a wine of virtuous powers ;
My mother made it of wild flowers."

"And will your mother pity me,
Who am a maiden most forlorn?"
Christabel answer'd—"Woe is me!
She died the hour that I was born.

62

Christabel

I have heard the gray-hair'd friar tell,
How on her death-bed she did say
That she should hear the castle-bell
Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.
O mother dear! that thou wert here!"
"I would," said Geraldine, "she were!"

But soon with alter'd voice, said she—
"Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine !
I have power to bid thee flee."
Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?
Why stares she with unsettled eye?
Can she the bodiless dead espy?
And why with hollow voice cries she,
"Off, 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,
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue—
"Alas!" said she, "this ghastly ride—
Dear lady! it hath wilder'd you!"
The lady wiped her moist cold brow,
And faintly said, "'T is over now!"

Again the wild-flower wine she drank!
Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright,

63

Christabel

And from the floor whereon she sank,
The lofty lady stood upright :
She was most beautiful to see,
Like a lady of a far countrée.

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
And for the good which me befel,
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."

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.

But through her brain of weal and woe
So many thoughts moved to and fro,
That vain it were her lids to close;
So haif-way from the bed she rose,
And on her elbow did recline
To look at the lady Geraldine.

64

Christabel

Beneath the lamp the lady bow'd,
And slowly roll'd her eyes around;
Then drawing in her breath aloud
Like one that shudder'd, she unbound
The cincture from beneath her breast:
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!
O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!

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;
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, wel-a-day!

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, Christabel!

Christabel

65

Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-
morrow

This mark of my shame, this seal of my
sorrow:

But vainly thou warrest,
For this is alone in

Thy power to declare,
That in the dim forest

Thou heardst a low moaning,

And foundst 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
The lady Christabel, when she
Was praying at the old oak tree.

Amid the jagged shadows
Of mossy leafless boughs,
Kneeling in the moonlight
To make her gentle vows;

66

Christabel

Her slender palms together prest,
Heaving sometimes on her breast;
Her face resign'd to bliss or bale—
Her face, oh call it fair not pale,
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 I wis,
Dreaming that alone, which is—
O sorrow and shame ! 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,
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.
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,

Christabel

67

From cliff and tower, tu—whoo ! tu—whoo !
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
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,
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,
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,
That saints will aid if men will call :
For the blue sky bends over all !

68

Christabel

## PART II.

"EACH matin bell," the Baron saith,
"Knells us back to a world of death."
These words Sir Leoline first said
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,
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 Windermere.

Saith Bracy the bard, "So let it knell!
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.
In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair,
And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent,

Christabel

69

With ropes of rock and bells of air
Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent,
Who all give back, one after t' other,
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 Borrowdale."

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,
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."

And Christabel awoke and spied
The same who lay down by her side—
O rather say, the same whom she
Raised up beneath the old oak tree!
Nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair!
For she belike hath drunken deep

70

Christabel

Of all the blessedness of sleep !
And while she spake, her looks, her air
Such gentle thankfulness declare,
That (so it seem'd) her girded vests
Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts.
"Sure I have sinn'd!" said Christabel,
"Now heaven be praised if all be well!"
And in low faltering tones, yet sweet,
Did she the lofty lady greet
With such perplexity of mind
As dreams too lively leave behind.

So quickly she rose, and quickly array'd
Her maiden limbs, and having pray'd
That he who on the cross did groan
Might wash away her sins unknown,
She forthwith led fair Geraldine
To meet her sire, Sir Leoline.

The lovely maid and the lady tall
Are pacing both into the hall,
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,

71

Christavel

With cheerful wonder in his eyes
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,
Why wax'd Sir Leoline so pale,
Murmuring o'er the name again,
Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine?

Alas ! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
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,
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
To free the hollow heart from paining—
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;

72

Christabel

A dreary sea now flows between,
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
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
Came back upon his heart again.

O then the Baron forgot his age,
His noble heart swell'd high with rage;
He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side
He would proclaim it far and wide,
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,
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!
For the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he
kenned
In the beautiful lady the child of his friend!

79

Christabel

And now the tears were on his face,
And fondly in his arms he took
Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace,
Prolonging it with joyous look.

Which when she view'd, a vision fell
Upon the soul of Christabel,
The vision of fear, the touch and pain !
She shrunk and shudder'd, 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 :
Whereat the Knight turn'd wildly round,
And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid
With eyes upraised, as one that pray'd.

The touch, the sight, had passed away,
And in its stead that vision blest,
Which comforted her after-rest,
While in the lady's arms she lay,
Had put a rapture in her breast,

74

Christabel

And on her lips and o'er her eyes,
Spread smiles like light!

With new surprise,
"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.

Yet he, who saw this Geraldine,
Had deem'd her sure a thing divine,
Such sorrow with such grace she blended,
As if she fear'd she had offended
Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid!
And with such lowly tones she pray'd,
She might be sent without delay
Home to her father's mansion.

"Nay!"
Nay, by my soul!" said Leoline.
"Ho! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine!
Go thou, with music sweet and loud,
And take two steeds with trappings proud,
And take the youth whom thou lovest best,
To bear thy harp, and learn thy song,
And clothe you both in solemn vest,
And over the mountains haste along,

75

Christabel

Lest wandering folk, that are abroad,
Detain you on the valley road.

"And when he has cross'd the Irthing flood,
My merry bard! he hastes, he hastes
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,
More loud than your horses' echoing feet!
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.
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
White with their panting palfreys' foam:"

76

Christabel

And, by mine honour! I will say,
That I repent me of the day
When I spake words of fierce disdain
To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!—
—For since that evil hour hath flown,
Many a summer's sun hath shone;
Yet ne'er found I a friend again
Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine."

The lady fell, and clasp'd his knees,
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;
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 vow'd with music loud
To clear yon wood from thing unblest,
Warn'd 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
Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan,

Christabel

77

Among the green herbs in the forest alone.
Which when I saw and when I heard,
I wondered what might ail the bird;
For nothing near it could I see,
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.
I went and peer'd, and could descry
No cause for her distressful cry;
But yet for her dear lady's sake
I stoop'd, methought, the dove to take,
When lo! I saw a bright green snake
Coil'd around its wings and neck.
Green as the herbs on which it couch'd,
Close by the dove's its head it crouched;
And with the dove it heaves and stirs.
Swelling its neck as she swell'd hers!
I awoke; 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—

78

Christabel

It seems to live upon my eye!
And thence I vow'd 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,
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,
With arms more strong than harp or song,
Thy sire and I will crush the snake!"
He kiss'd her forehead as he spake,
And Geraldine in maiden wise
Casting down her large bright eyes,
With blushing cheek and courtesy fine
She turn'd her from Sir Leoline;
Softly gathering up her train,
That o'er her right arm fell again;
And folded her arms across her chest,
And couch'd her head upon her breast,
And looked askance at Christabel—
Jesu Maria, shield her well!

79

Christabel

A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy,
And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head,
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
Stumbling on the unsteady ground—
Shudder'd aloud with a hissing sound;
And Geraldine again turn'd round,
And like a thing, that sought relief,
Full of wonder and full of grief,
She roll'd 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,
I know not how, in fearful wise,
So deeply had she drunken in
That look, those shrunken serpent eyes,
That all her features were resign'd
To this sole image in her mind;
And passively did imitate
That look of dull and treacherous hate.

80

Christabel

And thus she stood, in dizzy trance,
Still picturing that look askance
With forced unconscious sympathy
Full before her father's view—
As far as such a look could be,
In eyes so innocent and blue!

And, when the trance was o'er, the maid
Paused awhile, and inly pray'd:
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,
O'ermaster'd 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;
The same, for whom thy lady died!
O, by the pangs of her dear mother
Think thou no evil of thy child!
For her, and thee, and for no other,
She pray'd the moment ere she died:
Pray'd that the babe for whom she died,

Christabel

81

Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride!
That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled,
Sir Leoline!
And wouldst thou wrong thy only child,
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.
His heart was cleft with pain and rage,
His cheeks they quiver'd, his eyes were wild,
Dishonour'd thus in his old age;
Dishonour'd by his only child,
And all his hospitality
To the wrong'd daughter of his friend
By more than woman's jealousy
Brought thus to a disgraceful end—
He roll'd his eye with stern regard
Upon the gentle minstrel bard,
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,
Led forth the lady Geraldine!

32

Christabel

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,
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
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.
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 !)
Such giddiness of heart and brain
Comes seldom save from rage and pain,
So talks as it 's most used to do.

THE END.