Chapter 7 THE RIME OF THE ANCYENT MARINERE-5
V.
O sleep, it is a gentle thing
Belovd from pole to pole!
To Mary-queen the praise be yeven
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 ?lld with dew
And when I awoke it rained.
My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
My garments all were dangerous;
Sure I had drunk in my dreams
And still my body drank.
I movd and could not feel my limbs,
I was so light, almost
I thought that I had died in sleep,
And was a blessed Ghost.
The roaring wind! it roar far off,
It did not come anear;
But with its sound it shook the sails
That were so thin and sere.
The upper air bursts into life,
And a hundred ?re-?ags sheen
To and fro they are hurried about;
And to and fro, and in and out
The stars dance on between.
The coming wind doth roar more loud;
The sails do sigh, like sedge:
The rain pours down from one black cloud
And the Moon is at its edge.
Hark! hark! the thick black cloud is cleft,
And the Moon is at its side:
Like waters shot from some high crag,
The lightning falls with never a jag
A river steep and wide.
The strong wind reached the ship: it rode
And droppd down, like a stone!
Beneath the lightning and the moon
The dead men gave a groan.
They groand, they stirrd, they all uprose,
Ne spake, ne movd their eyes:
It had been strange, even in a dream
To have seen those dead men rise.
The helmsman steerd, the ship movd on;
Yet never a breeze up-blew;
The Marineres 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 brothers son
Stood by me knee to knee:
The body and I pulled at one rope,
But he said nought to me--
And I quakd to think of my own voice
How frightful it would be!
The day-light dawnd--they dropped their arms,
And clustered round the mast:
Sweet sounds rose slowly thro their mouths
And from their bodies pass.
Around, around, ?ew each sweet sound,
Then darted to the sun:
Slowly the sounds came back again
Now mixd, now one by one.
Sometimes a dropping from the sky
I heard the Lavrock sing;
Sometimes all little birds that are
How they seemd to?ll the sea and air
With their sweet jargoning,
And now twas like all instruments,
Now like a lonely ?ute;
And now it is an angels song
That makes the heavens be mute.
It ceasd: 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 Wedding-guest!
"Marinere! 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 wedding-guest!
Thoult rise to morrow morn.
Never sadder tale was heard
By a man of woman born:
The Marineres all return to work
As silent as before.
The Marineres all gan pull the ropes,
But look at me they nold:
Thought I, I am as thin as air--
They cannot me behold.
Till moon we silently 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 ?xd 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 ?ung the blood into my head,
And I fell into a swound.
How long in that same?t I lay,
I have not to declare;
But ere my living life return,
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 layd full low
"The harmless Albatross.
"The spirit who bideth by himself
"In the land of mist and snow,
"He lovd the bird that lovd 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.