Chapter 8 THE RIME OF THE ANCYENT MARINERE-6

VI. FIRST VOICE. "But tell me, tell me! speak again, "Thy soft response renewal-- "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 looked down on him." FIRST VOICE. "But why drives on that ship so fast "Withouten wave or wind?"

SECOND VOICE. "The air is cut away before, "And closes from behind. "Fly, brother, ?y! more high, more high, "Or we shall be belated: "For slow and slow that ship will go, "When the Marineres 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 ?tter: All ?xd on me their stony eyes That in the moon did glitter. The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never passd away: I could not draw my een from theirs

Ne turn them up to pray. And in its time the spell was snapt, And I could move my een: I looked far-forth, but little saw Of what might else be seen. Like one, that on a lonely road Doth walk in fear and dread, And having once turn round, walks on And turns no more his head: Because he knows, a frightful?end Doth close behind him tread. But soon there breathed a wind on me, Ne sound ne 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? ew the ship, Yet she sailed 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 countree? We drifted oer the Harbor-bar, And I with sobs did pray-- "O let me be awake, my God! "Or let me sleep always!" The harbour-bay was clear as glass, So smoothly it was strewn! And on the bay the moon light lay, And the shadow of the moon. The moonlight bay was white all oer, Till rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were,

Like as of torches came. A little distance from the prow Those dark-red shadows were; But soon I saw that my own?esh Was red as in a glare. I turn my head in fear and dread, And by the holy rood, The bodies had advanced, and now Before the mast they stood. They lifted up their stiff right arms, They held them strait and tight; And each right-arm burnt like a torch, A torch that's borne upright. Their stony eye-balls glittered on In the red and smoky light. I prayed and turned my head away Forth looking as before. There was no breeze upon the bay, No wave against the shore.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less That stands above the rock: The moonlight steeped in silence The steady weathercock. And the bay was white with silent light, Till rising from the same Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colors came. A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were: I turn my eyes upon the deck-- O Christ! what saw I there? Each corse lay ?at, lifeless and ?at; And by the Holy Rood A man all light, a seraph-man, On every corse there stood. This seraph-band, each wavd his hand: It was a heavenly sight: They stood as signals to the land,

Each one a lovely light: This seraph-band, each wavd his hand, No voice did they impart-- No voice; but O! the silence sank, Like music on my heart. Eftsones I heard the dash of oars, I heard the pilots cheer: My head was turn perforce away And I saw a boat appear. Then vanished all the lovely lights; The bodies rose anew: With silent pace, each to his place, Came back the ghastly crew. The wind, that shade nor motion made, On me alone it blew. The pilot, and the pilots 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. Hell shrieve my soul, hell wash away The Albatross blood.