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It raised my hair, it fann'd my cheek He singeth loud his godly hymns
Like a meadow-gale of spring- That he makes in the wood.
It mingled strangely with my fears, He'll shrive my soul, he'll wash
Yet it felt like a welcoming.


The Albatross's blood.
Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
Yet she sail'd softly too:

Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze
On me alone it blew.

This Hermit good lives in that wood The Hermit of

Which slopes down to the sea. the Wood, And the ancient Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed

How loudly his sweet voice he rears! Mariner behold- The light-house top I see?

He loves to talk with marineres eth his native Is this the hill ? is this the kirk?

That come from a far countrée.
Is this mine own countrée ?

He kneels at morn, and noon, and
We drifted o'er the harbor bar,

And I with sobs did pray-

He hath a cushion plump:
O let me be awake, my God! It is the moss that wholly hides
Or let me sleep alway.

The rotted old oak-stump.
The harbor-bay was clear as glass, The skiff-boat near'd: I heard them
So smoothly it was strewn!

And on the bay the moonlight lay, " Why this is strange, I trow!
And the shadow of the moon. Where are those lights so many and

The rock shone bright, the kirk no That signal made but now?"

That stands above the rock:

'Strange, by my faith!” the Hermit Approacheth the The moonlight steep'd in silentness said

ship with wonder. The steady weathercock.

“ And they answer not our cheer!

The planks look warp'd! and see
And the bay was white with silent

those sails,

How thin they are and sere! The angelic spir. Till, rising from the same,

I never saw aught like to them,
its leave the Full many shapes that shadows were, Unless perchance it were
dead bodies,

In crimson colors came.
And appear in A little distance from the prow

“ Brown skeletons of leaves that lag their own forma Those crimson shadows were:

My forest-brook along; of light.

When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,
I turn'd my eyes upon the deck-
Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

And the owlet whoops to the wolf

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat;

That eats the she-wolf's young."
And, by the holy rood !

“Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look-
A man all light, a seraph-man,

(The Pilot made reply,)
On every corse there stood.

I am a-fear'd”—“Push on, push on!"
This seraph band, each waved his Said the Hermit cheerily.

hand :
It was a heavenly sight!

The boat came closer to the ship,
They stood as signals to the land But I nor spake nor stirrid;
Each one a lovely light;

The boat came close beneath the ship,

And straight a sound was heard.
This seraph band, each waved his
Under the water it rumbled on, The ship suddenly

No voice did they impart-

Still louder and more dread:
No voice; but oh! the silence sank It reach'd the ship, it split the bay;
Like music on my heart.

The ship went down like lead.
But soon I heard the dash of oars,

Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful The ancient Ma

riner is saved in
I heard the Pilot's cheer;
My head was turn'd perforce away, Like one that hath been seven days
Which sky and ocean smote,

the Pilot's boat. And I saw a boat appear.

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy,

My body lay afloat;
I heard them coming fast :

But swift as dreams, myself I found

Within the Pilot's boat.
Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy
The dead men could not blast. Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,

The boat spun round and round;
I saw a third- I heard his voice : And all was still, save that the hill
It is the Hermit good!
Was telling of the sound.

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I moved my lips—the Pilot shriek’d, But in the garden-bower the bride
And fell down in a fit;

And bride-maids singing are :
The holy Hermit raised his eyes, And hark! the little vesper-bell,
And pray'd where he did sit. Which biddeth me to prayer.
I took the oars: the Pilot's boy, O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
Who now doth crazy go,

Alone on a wide wide sea:
Laugh'd loud and long, and all the So lonely 't was, that God himself

Scarce seemed there to be.
His eyes went to and fro.
“Ha! ha!" quoth he,“ full plain I see, o sweeter than the marriage-feast,
The Devil knows how to row.”

'Tis sweeter far to me,

To walk together to the kirk,
And now, all in my own countrée,

With a goodly company -
I stood on the firm land !
The Hermit stepp'd forth from the

To walk together to the kirk,

And all together pray,
And scarcely he could stand.

While each to his great Father bends, The ancient Ma- "O shrive me, shrive me, holy man!" Old men, and babes, and loving riner earnestly en- The Hermit cross'd his brow.

friends, treateth the Hermit to shrive him ;

Say quick,” quoth he, “ I bid thee And youths and maidens gay! and the penance say

And to teach, by of life falls on -What manner of man art thou ?Farewell, farewell! but this I tell

his own example, him.

To thee, thou Wedding-Guest !

love and reverForthwith this frame of mine was He prayeth well, who loveth well ence to all things wrench'd

Both man and bird and beast. that God made With a woful agony,

and loveth. Which forced me to begin my tale ; He prayeth best, who loveth best And then it left me free.

All things both great and small; And over and Since then, at an uncertain hour,

For the dear God who loveth us, anon throughout That agony returns :

He made and loveth all. his future life an And till my ghastly tale is told, agony constraineth him to travel This heart within me burns.

The Mariner, whose eye is bright, from land to land,

Whose beard with age is hoar,
I pass, like night, from land to land ;

Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest
I have strange power of speech;

Turn'd from the bridegroom's door.
That moment that his face I see,
I know the man that must hear me:

He went like one that hath been
To him my tale I teach.

What loud uproar bursts from that|And is of sense forlom,

A sadder and a wiser man
The wedding-guests are there : He rose the morrow morn.



| 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 The first part of the following poem was written in for this, I have only my own indolence to blame. the year one thousand seven hundred and ninety. The dates are mentioned for the exclusive purpose seven, at Stowey in the county of Somerset. The of precluding charges of plagiarism or servile imi. second part, after my return from Germany, in the tation from myself. For there is amongst us a set of year one thousand eight hundred, at Keswick, Cum- critics, who seem to hold, that every possible thought berland. Since the latter date, my poetic powers and image is traditional; who have no notion that there have been, till very lately, in a state of suspended are such things as fountains in the world, small as animation. But as, in my very first conception of the well as great; and who would therefore charitably tale, I had the whole present to my mind, with the derive every rill they behold Nowing, from a perforawholeness, no less than with the loveliness of a tion made in some other man's tank. I am confident, vision, I trust that I shall yet be able to embody in however, that as far as the present poem is concerned, verse the three parts yet to come.

the celebrated poets whose writings I might be susIt is probable, that if the poem had been finished pected of having imitated, either in particular pas

sages, or in the tone and the spirit of the whole, * To the edition of 1816,

would be among the first to vindicate me from the

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.

charge, and who, on any striking coincidence, would permit me to address them in this doggrel version of two monkish Latin hexameters.

"Tis 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,

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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:
'Tis a month before the month of May,
And the Spring comes slowly up this way.

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 :-

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;
And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that's far away.

My sire is of a noble line,
And my name is Geraldine:
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,

She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak,
But moss and rarest misletoe :
She kneels beneath the huge oak-tree,
And in silence prayeth she.

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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!

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs ;
Ah! what a stricken look was hers!
Deep frora 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 well-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 !
'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 heardest a low moaning,

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 !

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