Delphi Complete Works of William Wordsworth

by William Wordsworth

  Had never pass’d away.

  An orphan’s curse would drag to Hell

  A spirit from on high:

  But O! 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 bemock’d the sultry main

  Like April hoar-frost spread;

  But where the ship’s huge shadow lay,

  The charmed water burnt alway

  A still and awful red.

  Beyond the shadow of the ship

  I watch’d the water-snakes:

  They mov’d in tracks of shining white;

  And when they rear’d, the elfish light

  Fell off in hoary flakes.

  Within the shadow of the ship

  I watch’d their rich attire:

  Blue, glossy green, and velvet black

  They coil’d 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 gusht from my heart,

  And I bless’d them unaware!

  Sure my kind saint took pity on me,

  And I bless’d 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.

  V.

  O sleep, it is a gentle thing

  Belov’d 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 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.

  I mov’d 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 danc’d 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.

  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 mov’d 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 mov’d their eyes:

  It had been strange, even in a dream

  To have seen those dead men rise,

  The helmsman steerd, the ship mov’d on;

  Yet never a breeze up-blew;

  The Mariners all gan work the ropes,

  Where they were wont to do:

  They rais’d 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!”

  ”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 dawn’d — they dropp’d their arms,

  And cluster’d round the mast:

  Sweet sounds rose slowly thro’ 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 ‘twas like all instruments,

  Now like a lonely flute;

  And now it is an angel’s song

  That makes the heavens be mute.

  It ceas’d: 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 silently sail’d on

  Yet never a breeze did breathe:

  Slowly and smoothly went the Ship

  Mov’d 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:

  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 into 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 lay’d full low

  The harmless Albatross.”

  ”The spirit who ‘bideth by himself

  In the land of mist and snow,

  He lov’d the bird that lov’d 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.

  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,
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  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 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.

  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.

  But soon there breath’d a wind on me,

  Nor sound nor motion made:

  Its path was not upon the sea

  In ripple or in shade.

  It rais’d 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.

  O dream of joy! is this indeed

  The light-house top I see?

  Is this the Hill? Is this the Kirk?

  Is this mine own countrée?

  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 steep’d 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 turn’d 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 wav’d his hand:

  It was a heavenly sight:

  They stood as signals to the land,

  Each one a lovely light:

  This seraph-band, each wav’d his hand,

  No voice did they impart —

  No voice; but O! 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.

  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 shrive my soul, he’ll wash away

  The Albatross’s blood.

  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 Mariners

  That come from a far countrée.

  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 ner’d: 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 answer’d not our cheer.

  The planks look warp’d, and see those sails

  How thin they are and sere!

  I never saw aught like to them

  Unless perchance it were”

  ”The 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 has a fiendish look — ”

  (The Pilot made reply)

  ”I am a-fear’d.” — ”Push on, push on!”

  ”Said the Hermit cheerily.”

  The Boat came closer to the Ship,

  But I nor spake nor stirr’d!

  The Boat came close beneath the Ship,

  And strait a sound was heard!

  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.

  Stunn’d by that loud and dreadful 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.

  I mov’d my lips: the Pilot shriek’d

  And fell down in a fit.

  The Holy Hermit rais’d 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 mine own Countrée

  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 man art thou?”

  Forthwith this frame of mind was wrench’d

  With a woeful agony,

  Which forc’d me to begin my tale

  And then it left me free.

  Since then at an uncertain hour,

  That agency 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;

  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 seemed there to be.<
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  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

  Turn’d from the bridegroom’s door.

  He went, like one that hath been stunn’d

  And is of sense forlorn:

  A sadder and a wiser man

  He rose the morrow morn,

  LINES WRITTEN A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR.

  July 13, 1798.

  Five years have passed; five summers, with the length

  Of five long winters! and again I hear

  These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs

  With a sweet inland murmur. — Once again

  Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,

  Which on a wild secluded scene impress

  Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect

  The landscape with the quiet of the sky.

  The day is come when I again repose

  Here, under this dark sycamore, and view

  These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,

  Which, at this season, with their unripe fruits,

  Among the woods and copses lose themselves,

  Nor, with their green and simple hue, disturb

  The wild green landscape. Once again I see

  These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines

  Of sportive wood run wild; these pastoral farms

  Green to the very door; and wreathes of smoke

  Sent up, in silence, from among the trees,

  With some uncertain notice, as might seem,

  Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,

  Or of some hermit’s cave, where by his fire

  The hermit sits alone.

  Though absent long.

  These forms of beauty have not been to me,

  As is a landscape to a blind man’s eye:

  But oft, in lonely rooms, and mid the din

  Of towns and cities, I have owed to them,

  In hours of wariness, sensations sweet,

  Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart,

  And passing even into my purer mind,

  With tranquil restoration: — feelings too

  Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,

  As may have had no trivial influence

  On that best portion of a good man’s life;

  His little, nameless, unremembered acts