Chapter 9 THE RIME OF THE ANCYENT MARINERE-7

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 Marineres That come from a far Contree. He knees 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 nerd: 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 answered not our cheer. "The planks look warpd, 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-wolfs young. "Dear Lord! it has a ?endish look"-- (The Pilot made reply) "I am a-feard.--"Push on, push on!" Said the Hermit cheerily. The Boat came closer to the Ship, But I ne spake ne stirrd! 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 reached the Ship, it split the bay; The Ship went down like lead. Stunnd by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote: Like one that hath been seven days drowned My body lay a?oat: But, swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilots 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 movd my lips: the Pilot shriekd And fell down in a ?t. The Holy Hermit raised his eyes And prayed where he did sit.

I took the oars: the Pilots 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 mine own Country I stood on the ?rm land! The Hermit stepped forward from the boat, And scarcely he could stand. "O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy Man!" The Hermit crossd his brow-- "Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say "What manner man art thou?" Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenchd With a woeful agony,

Which forcd me to begin my tale And then it left me free. Since then at an uncertain hour, Now of times and now fewer, That anguish comes and makes me tell My ghastly adventure. 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 pray. O Wedding-guest! this soul hath been

Alone on a wide sea: So lonely twas, that God himself Scarce seemed there to be. O sweeter than the Marriage-feast, Tis sweeter far to me To walk together to the Kirk With a nice 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 Marinere, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone; and now the wedding-guest Turn from the bridegrooms 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.