THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER
Written in 1798, 'The Rime of the Ancient Mariner' relates the experiences of a sailor who has returned from a long sea voyage. The mariner stops a man who is on the way to a wedding ceremony and begins to narrate a story. The wedding-guest's reaction turns from bemusement to impatience to fear to fascination as the mariner's story progresses, creating a sense of danger, the supernatural, and even serenity.
DOWNLOAD
CLICK IMAGE BELOW TO PURCHASE BOOK on Amazon:
READ ALONG WITH PODCAST:
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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 :
|
Mayst 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 mariners’ 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.’ Top
|
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.’ Top
|
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 time 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 whiz of my
cross-bow!' Top
|
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.’ Top
|
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 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.
|
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 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 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 ! how graciously
|
She looketh down on him."
|
FIRST VOICE
|
"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 :
|
’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 a 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.’ Top
|
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
shipl,
|
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.
|
Comments
Post a Comment