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 country,
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 woeful 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 seemëd 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.
Robert Southey (1774 – 1843)
After Blenheim1
It was a summer evening,
old Kaspar’s work was done,
and he before his cottage door
was sitting in the sun;
and by him sported on the green
his little grandchild Wilhelmine.
She saw her brother Peterkin
roll something large and round
which he beside the rivulet
in playing there had found;
he came to ask what he had found
that was so large and smooth and round.
Old Kaspar took it from the boy,
who stood expectant by;
and then the old man shook his head,
and with a natural sigh,
“‘Tis some poor fellow’s skull,” said he,
“who fell in the great victory.”
“I find them in the garden,
for there’s many here about;
and often, when I go to plough,
the ploughshare turns them out;
for many thousand men,” said he,
“were slain in that great victory.”
“Now tell us what ’twas all about,”
young Peterkin he cries;
and little Wilhelmine looks up
with wonder-waiting eyes;
“Now tell us all about the war,
and what they fought each other for.”
“It was the English,” Kaspar cried,
“who put the French to rout;
but what they fought each other for
I could not well make out.
But everybody said,” quoth he,
“that ’twas a famous victory.
My father lived at Blenheim then,
yon little stream hard by;
they burnt his dwelling to the ground,
and he was forced to fly:
so with his wife and child he fled,
nor had he where to rest his head.
With fire and sword the country round
was wasted far and wide,
and many a childing mother then
and newborn baby died;
but things like that, you know, must be
at every famous victory.
They say it was a shocking sight
after the field was won;
for many thousand bodies here
lay rotting in the sun;
but things like that, you know, must be
after a famous victory.
Great praise the Duke of Marlbro’ won,
and our good Prince Eugene.
“Why, ’twas a very wicked thing!”
said little Wilhelmine.
“Nay…nay… my little girl,” Quoth he,
“it was a famous victory.
And everybody praised the Duke
who this great fight did win.”
“But what good came of it at last?”
Quoth little Peterkin.
“Why that I cannot tell,” said he,
“but ’twas a famous victory.”
The Scholar1
My days among the Dead are past;
around me I behold,
where’er these casual eyes are cast,
the mighty minds of old:
my never-failing friends are they,
with whom I converse day by day.
With them I take delight in weal
and seek relief in woe;
and while I understand and feel
how much to them I owe,
my cheeks have often been bedewed
with tears of thoughtful gratitude.
My thoughts are with the Dead; with them
I live in long-past years,
their virtues love, their faults condemn,
partake their hopes and fears,
and from their lessons seek and find
instruction with an humble mind.
My hopes are with the Dead; anon
my place with them will be,
and I with them shall travel on
through all Futurity;
yet leaving here a name, I trust,
that will not perish in the dust.
Walter Savage Landor (1775 – 1864)
On His Seventy-Fifth Birthday1
I strove with none; for none was worth my strife;
nature I loved, and next to Nature, Art;
I warmed both hands before the fire of life;
it sinks, and I am ready to depart.
Well I Remember2
Well I remember how you smiled
to see me write your name upon
&n
bsp; the soft sea-sand … “O! what a child!
You think you’re writing upon stone/!
I have since written what no tide
shall ever wash away, what men
unborn shall read o’er ocean wide
and find lanthe’s name again.
Thomas Moore (1779 – 1852)
An Argument1
I’ve oft been told by learned friars,
that wishing and the crime are one,
and Heaven punishes desires
as much as if the deed were done.
If wishing damns us, you and I
are damned to all our heart’s content;
come, then, at least we may enjoy
some pleasure for our punishment!
‘Tis the Last Rose of Summer2
‘Tis the last rose of Summer,
left blooming alone;
all her lovely companions
are faded and gone;
no flower of her kindred,
no rosebud is nigh,
to reflect back her blushes,
or give sigh for sigh!
I’ll not leave thee, thou lone one,
to pine on the stem;
since the lovely are sleeping,
go sleep thou with them.
Thus kindly I scatter
thy leaves o’er the bed
where thy mates of the garden
lie scentless and dead.
So soon may I follow,
when friendships decay,
and from Love’s shining circle
the gems drop away!
When true hearts lie withered,
and fond ones are flown,
Oh! who would inhabit
this bleak world alone?
George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788 – 1824)
She Walks in Beauty1
She walks in beauty, like the night
of cloudless climes and starry skies;
and all that’s best of dark and bright
meet in her aspect and her eyes:
thus mellowed to that tender light
which heaven to gaudy day denies.
One shade the more, one ray the less,
had half impaired the nameless grace
which waves in every raven tress,
or softly lightens o’er her face;
where thoughts serenely sweet express
how pure, how dear their dwelling-place.
And on that cheek, and o’er that brow,
so soft, so calm, yet eloquent,
the smiles that win, the tints that glow,
but tell of days in goodness spent,
a mind at peace with all below,
a heart whose love is innocent!
So, we’ll go no more a-roving1
So we’ll go no more a-roving
so late into the night,
though the heart still be as loving,
and the moon still be as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
and the soul outwears the breast,
and the heart must pause to breathe,
and love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving,
and the day returns too soon,
yet we’ll go no more a-roving
by the light of the moon.
Percy Bysshe Shelley (1792 – 1822)
Music2
Music, when soft voices die,
vibrates in the memory;
odors, when sweet violets sicken,
live within the sense they quicken.
Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
are heaped for the beloved’s bed;
and so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
love itself shall slumber on.
Mutability1
The flower that smiles today
tomorrow dies;
all that we wish to stay
tempts and then flies.
What is this world’s delight?
Lightning that mocks the night,
brief even as bright.
Virtue, how frail it is!
Friendship how rare!
Love, how it sells poor bliss
for proud despair!
But we, though soon they fall,
survive their joy, and all
which ours we call.
Whilst skies are blue and bright,
whilst flowers are gay,
whilst eyes that change ere night
make glad the day;
whilst yet the calm hours creep,
dream thou—and from thy sleep
then wake to weep.
Song from Charles the First1
A widow bird sate mourning for her love
upon a wintry bough;
the frozen wind crept on above,
the freezing stream below.
There was no leaf upon the forest bare,
no flower upon the ground,
and little motion in the air
except the mill-wheel’s sound.
Ozymandias1
I met a traveler from an antique land
who said: ‘Two vast and trunk-less legs of stone
stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
and wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
tell that its sculptor well those passions read
which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
the hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear—
“My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
the lone and level sands stretch far away.
John Clare (1793 – 1864)
Badger2
When midnight comes a host of dogs and men
go out and track the badger to his den,
and put a sack within the hole, and lie
till the old grunting badger passes by.
He comes an hears—they let the strongest loose.
The old fox hears the noise and drops the goose.
The poacher shoots and hurries from the cry,
and the old hare half wounded buzzes by.
They get a forkëd stick to bear him down
and clap the dogs and take him to the town,
and bait him all the day with many dogs,
and laugh and shout and fright the scampering hogs.
He runs along and bites at all he meets:
they shout and hollo down the noisy streets.
He turns about to face the loud uproar
and drives the rebels to their very door.
The frequent stone is hurled where’er they go;
when badgers fight, then everyone’s a foe.
The dogs are clapped and urged to join the fray’
the badger turns and drives them all away.
Though scarcely half as big, demure and small,
he fights with dogs for hours and beats them all.
The heavy mastiff, savage in the fray,
lies down and licks his feet and turns away.
The bulldog knows his match and waxes cold,
the badger grins and never leaves his hold.
He drives the crowd and follows at their heels
and bites them through—the drunkard swears and reels
the frighted women take the boys away,
the blackguard laughs and hurries on the fray.
He tries to reach the woods, and awkward race,
but sticks and cudgels quickly stop the chase.
He turns again and drives the noisy crowd
and beats the many dogs in noises loud.
He drives away and beats them every one,
and then they loose them all and set them on.
He falls as dead and kicked by boys and men,
then starts and grins and drives the crowd again;
till kicked and torn and beaten out he lies
and leaves his hold and crackles, groans, and dies.
William Cullen Bryant (1794 – 1878)
A Presentiment1
“Oh father, let us hence—for hark,
a fearful murmur shakes the air;
the clouds are coming swift and dark;—
what horrid shapes they wear!
A wingëd giant sails the sky;
oh father, father, let us fly!”—
“Hush, child; it is a grateful sound,
that beating of the summer shower;
here, where the boughs hang close around,
we’ll pass a pleasant hour,
till the fresh wind, that brings the rain,
has swept the broad heaven clear again.”—
“Nay, father, let us haste—for see,
that horrid thing with hornëd brow—
his wings o’erhang this very tree,
he scowls upon us now;
his huge black arm is lifted high;
oh father, father, let us fly!”—
“Hush, child”; but, as the father spoke,
downward the livid firebolt came,
close to his ear the thunder broke,
and, blasted by the flame,
the child lay dead; while dark and still
swept the grim cloud along the hill.
Mutation1
They talk of short-lived pleasure—be it so—
pain dies as quickly: stern, hard-featured pain
expires, and lets her weary prisoner go.
The fiercest agonies have shortest reign;
and after dreams of horror, comes again
the welcome morning with its rays of peace.
Oblivion, softly wiping out the stain,
makes the strong secret pangs of shame to cease.
Remorse is virtue’s root; its fair increase
are fruits of innocence and blessedness:
thus joy, o’erborne and bound, doth still release
his young limbs from the chains that round him press.
Weep not that the world changes—did it keep
a stable changeless state, ’twere cause indeed to weep.
Thanatopsis1
To him who in the love of nature holds
communion with her visible forms, she speaks
a various language; for his gayer hours
she has a voice of gladness, and a smile
and eloquence of beauty; and she glides
The Giant Book of Poetry (2006) Page 8