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     [This text is in the public domain, released April 2000]

[For the same text of the poem with Coleridge's additional marginal notes, and epigraph click here]

Samuel Taylor Coleridge

The Rime of the Ancient Mariner (1798)

Part I

It is an ancient Mariner,                                             
And he stoppeth one of three.                                         
--‘By thy long gray beard and glittering eye, 
Now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

The Bridegroom’s doors are opened wide,                     5
And I am next of kin; 
The guests are met, the feast is set:
May’st hear the merry din.’

He holds him with his skinny hand, 
‘There was a ship,’ quoth he.                                          10
‘Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard loon!’ 
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.                                              Eftsoons: immediately.

He holds him with his glittering eye—                             
The Wedding-Guest stood still,                                       
And listens like a three years’ child:                                15                  
The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
He cannot choose but hear; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner.                                                 20

‘The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, 
Merrily did we drop 
Below the kirk, below the hill, 
Below the lighthouse top.                                                                    

The Sun came up upon the left,                                        25
Out of the sea came he!                                                   
And he shone bright, and on the right 
Went down into the sea.

Higher and higher every day, 
Till over the mast at noon—"                                          30
The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, 
For he heard the loud bassoon.

The bride hath paced into the hall,                                    
Red as a rose is she;                                                     
Nodding their heads before her goes                                35
The merry minstrelsy.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
Yet he cannot choose but hear; 
And thus spake on that ancient man, 
The bright-eyed Mariner.                                                  40

"And now the Storm-blast came, and he                           
Was tyrannous and strong:
He struck with his o’ertaking wings, 
And chased us south along.

With sloping masts and dipping prow,                              45
As who pursued with yell and blow 
Still treads the shadow of his foe, 
And forward bends his head, 
The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, 
And southward aye we fled.                                              50

And now there came both mist and snow, 
And it grew wondrous cold:
And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 
As green as emerald.

And through the drifts the snowy clifts                             55         
Did send a dismal sheen:                                                 
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken— 
The ice was all between.

The ice was here, the ice was there, 
The ice was all around:                                                      60
It cracked and growled, and roared and howled, 
Like noises in a swound!                                                   Swound: fainting fit

At length did cross an Albatross,                                      
Through the fog it came;                                                    
As if it had been a Christian soul,                                       65                                  
We hailed it in God’s name.

It ate the food it ne’er had eat, 
And round and round it flew.
The ice did split with a thunder-fit; 
The helmsman steered us through!                                     70

And a good south wind sprung up behind;                          
The Albatross did follow,                                                  
And every day, for food or play,                                         
Came to the mariners’ hollo!

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,                                   75
It perched for vespers nine; 
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, 
Glimmered the white Moon-shine."

"God save thee, ancient Mariner!                                        
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—                            80
Why look’st thou so?"—"With my cross-bow 
I shot the Albatross."

PART II

The Sun now rose upon the right:
Out of the sea came he,                                                                 
Still hid in mist, and on the left                                            85
Went down into the sea.

And the good south wind still blew behind, 
But no sweet bird did follow, 
Nor any day for food or play 
Came to the mariners’ hollo!                                                90

And I had done a hellish thing,                                              
And it would work ‘em woe:                                               
For all averred, I had killed the bird 
That made the breeze to blow.
Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,                                   95
That made the breeze to blow!

Nor dim nor red like God’s own head,                                  
The glorious Sun uprist:                                                           
Then all averred, I had killed the bird                                      
That brought the fog and mist.                                               100
‘Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, 
That bring the fog and mist.

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,                             
The furrow followed free;                                                      
We were the first that ever burst                                             105                                   
Into that silent sea.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,                         
‘Twas sad as sad could be; 
And we did speak only to break 
The silence of the sea!                                                             110

All in a hot and copper sky, 
The bloody Sun, at noon, 
Right up above the mast did stand, 
No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day,                                                   115
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship 
Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, every where,                                                 
And all the boards did shrink;                                                 120
Water, water, every where, 
Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot: O Christ!
That ever this should be!
Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs                                      125
Upon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout 
The death-fires danced at night; 
The water, like a witch’s oils, 
Burnt green, and blue and white.                                            130

And some in dreams assur’ed were                                       
Of the Spirit that plagued us so;                                            
Nine fathom deep he had followed us                                      
From the land of mist and snow.                                            

And every tongue, through utter drought,                               135
Was withered at the root;                                                                
We could not speak, no more than if                                                 
We had been choked with soot.   

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks                                             
Had I from old and young!                                                      140
Instead of the cross, the Albatross                                                     
About my neck was hung.                                                      

PART THREE

There passed a weary time. Each throat 
Was parched, and glazed each eye.
A weary time! a weary time!                                                    145
How glazed each weary eye, 
When looking westward, I beheld 
A something in the sky.

At first it seemed a little speck, 
And then it seemed a mist;                                                      150
It moved and moved, and took at last 
A certain shape, I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
And still it neared and neared:
As if it dodged a water-sprite,                                                  155
It plunged and tacked and veered.

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 
We could nor laugh nor wail;
Through utter drought all dumb we stood!
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,                                              160
And cried, A sail! a sail!

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, 
Agape they heard me call:
Gramercy! they for joy did grin 
And all at once their breath drew in,                                         165
As they were drinking all.

See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!
Hither to work us weal; 
Without a breeze, without a tide, 
She steadies with upright keel!                                                  170

The western wave was all a-flame.
The day was well nigh done!
Almost upon the western wave 
Rested the broad bright Sun; 
When that strange shape drove suddenly                                  175
Betwixt us and the Sun.

And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, 
(Heaven’s Mother send us grace!) 
As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
With broad and burning face.                                                    180

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
How fast she nears and nears!
Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 
Like restless gossameres?                                                            Gossameres: cobwebs

Are those her ribs through which the Sun                                  185
Did peer, as through a grate? 
And is that Woman all her crew? 
Is that a DEATH? and are there two? 
Is DEATH that woman’s mate?

Her lips were red, her looks were free,                                        190
Her locks were yellow as gold:                                                       
Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 
Who thicks man’s blood with cold.

The naked hulk alongside came,                                                 195
And the twain were casting dice;                                                     
"The game is done! I’ve won! I’ve won!" 
Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out:
At one stride comes the dark;                                                      200
With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea, 
Off shot the spectre-bark.

We listened and looked sideways up!
Fear at my heart, as at a cup, 
My life-blood seemed to sip!                                                        205
The stars were dim, and thick the night, 
The steersman’s face by his lamp gleamed white; 
From the sails the dew did drip— 
Till clomb above the eastern bar 
The horn’ed Moon, with one bright star                                       210
Within the nether tip.

One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, 
Too quick for groan or sigh,
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, 
And cursed me with his eye.                                                         215

Four times fifty living men, 
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, 
They dropped down one by one.

The souls did from their bodies fly,—                                          220
They fled to bliss or woe!
And every soul, it passed me by, 
Like the whizz of my cross-bow!

PART FOUR

"I fear thee, ancient Mariner!
I fear thy skinny hand!                                                                  225
And thou art long, and lank, and brown, 
As is the ribbed sea-sand.

I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 
And thy skinny hand, so brown."— 
Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!                                      230
This body dropt not down.

Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
Alone on a wide wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on 
My soul in agony.                                                                          235

The many men, so beautiful!
And they all dead did lie:
And a thousand thousand slimy things 
Lived on; and so did I.

I looked upon the rotting sea,                                                       240
And drew my eyes away 
I looked upon the rotting deck, 
And there the dead men lay

I looked to Heaven, and tried to pray; 
But or ever a prayer had gusht,                                                     245
A wicked whisper came, and made 
My heart as dry as dust.

I closed my lids, and kept them close, 
And the balls like pulses beat; 
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky                          250
Lay like a load on my weary eye, 
And the dead were at my feet.

The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
Nor rot nor reek did they:
The look with which they looked on me                                       255
Had never passed away.

An orphan’s curse would drag to hell 
A spirit from on high; 
But oh! more horrible than that 
Is the curse in a dead man’s eye!                                                   260
Seven days, seven nights 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,                                                                265
And a star or two beside—

Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 
Like April hoar-frost spread; 
But where the ship’s huge shadow lay, 
The charm’ed water burnt alway                                                   270
A still and awful red.

Beyond the shadow of the ship, 
I watched the water-snakes:
They moved in tracks of shining white 
And when they reared, the elfish light                                           275
Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship 
I watched their rich attire:
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 
Then coiled and swam; and every track                                         280
Was a flash of golden fire.

O happy living things! no tongue 
Their beauty might declare:
A spring of love gushed from my heart, 
And I blessed them unaware:                                                         285
Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
And I blessed them unaware.

The self-same moment I could pray; 
And from my neck so free 
The Albatross fell off, and sank                                                     290
Like lead into the sea.

PART FIVE

Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, 
Beloved from pole to pole!
To Mary Queen the praise be given!
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,                                          295
That slid into my soul.

The silly buckets on the deck,                       silly: (ancient sense) fortunate, happy
That had so long remained, 
I dreamt that they were filled with dew; 
And when I awoke, it rained.                                                           300

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 moved, and could not feel my limbs:                                             305
I was so light—almost
I thought that I had died in sleep, 
And was a bless’ed ghost.

And soon I heard a roaring wind:
It did not come anear;                                                                      310
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!                                                 315
And to and fro, and in and out, 
The wan stars danced between.

And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
And the sails did sigh like sedge; 
And the rain poured down from one black cloud;                             320
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,                                                    325
A river steep and wide.

The loud wind never reached the ship, 
Yet now the ship moved on!
Beneath the lightning and the Moon 
The dead men gave a groan.                                                              330

They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose, 
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes; 
It had been strange, even in a dream, 
To have seen those dead men rise.

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on;                                       335
Yet never a breeze up-blew; 
The mariners all ‘gan work the ropes, 
Where they were wont to do; 
They raised their limbs like lifeless tools— 
We were a ghastly crew.                                                                     340

The body of my brother’s son 
Stood by me, knee to knee:
The body and I pulled at one rope, 
But he said nought to me.

"I fear thee, ancient Mariner!"                                                             345
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 dawned—they dropped their arms,                                  350
And clustered round the mast; 
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, 
And from their bodies passed.

Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 
Then darted to the Sun;                                                                       355
Slowly the sounds came back again, 
Now mixed, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
I heard the sky-lark sing; 
Sometimes all little birds that are,                                                        360
How they seemed 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,                                                              365
That makes the heavens be mute.

It ceased; yet still the sails made on 
A pleasant noise till noon, 
A noise like of a hidden brook 
In the leafy month of June,                                                                  370
That to the sleeping woods all night 
Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sailed on, 
Yet never a breeze did breathe:
Slowly and smoothly went the ship,                                                     375
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.                                                                    380
The sails at noon left off their tune, 
And the ship stood still also.

The Sun, right up above the mast, 
Had fixed her to the ocean:
But in a minute she ‘gan stir,                                                               385
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:                                                                  390
It flung the blood into my head, 
And I fell down in a swound.

How long in that same fit I lay, 
I have not to declare; 
But ere my living life returned,                                                            395
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 laid full low                                                      400
The harmless Albatross.

The spirit who bideth by himself 
In the land of mist and snow, 
He loved the bird that loved the man 
Who shot him with his bow."                                                               405

The other was a softer voice, 
As soft as honey-dew:
Quoth he, ‘The man hath penance done, 
And penance more will do."

PART SIX

FIRST VOICE
"But tell me, tell me! speak again,                                                         410
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;                                                                        415
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                                                            420
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.                                                                        425

Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!
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                                                               430
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:                                                                   435
All fixed on me their stony eyes, 
That in the Moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, with which they died, 
Had never passed away:
I could not draw my eyes from theirs,                                                      440
Nor turn them up to pray.

And now this spell was snapt: once more 
I viewed the ocean green, 
And looked far forth, yet little saw 
Of what had else been seen—                                                                 445

Like one, that on a lonesome road 
Doth walk in fear and dread, 
And having once turned round walks on, 
And turns no more his head; 
Because he knows, a frightful fiend                                                          450
Doth close behind him tread.

But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
Nor sound nor motion made:
Its path was not upon the sea, 
In ripple or in shade.                                                                                 455

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 flew the ship,                                                                   460
Yet she sailed softly too:
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze— 
On me alone it blew.

Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed 
The light-house top I see?                                                                        465
Is this the hill? is this the kirk? 
Is this mine own countree?

We drifted o’er the harbour-bar, 
And I with sobs did pray— 
O let me be awake, my God!                                                                   470
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.                                                                  475

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
That stands above the rock:
The moonlight steeped in silentness 
The steady, weathercock.

And the bay was white with silent light,                                                   480
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:                                                                  485
I turned my eyes upon the deck— 
Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
And, by the holy rood!
A man all light, a seraph-man,                                                                  490
On every corse there stood.

This seraph-band, each waved his hand:
It was a heavenly, sight!
They stood as signals to the land, 
Each one a lovely light;                                                                            495

This seraph-band, each waved his hand, 
No voice did they impart— 
No voice; but oh! the silence sank 
Like music on my heart.

But soon I heard the dash of oars,                                                            500
I heard the Pilot’s cheer; 
My head was turned perforce away 
And I saw a boat appear.

The Pilot and the Pilot’s boy, 
I heard them coming fast:                                                                         505
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                                                              510
That he makes in the wood.
He’ll shrieve my soul he’ll wash away 
The Albatross’s blood.

PART SEVEN

This Hermit good lives in that wood 
Which slopes down to the sea.                                                                 515
How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
He loves to talk with marineres 
That come from a far countree.

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve— 
He hath a cushion plump:                                                                        520
It is the moss that wholly hides 
The rotted old oak-stump.

The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, 
"Why, this is strange, I trow!
Where are those lights so many and fair,                                                  525
That signal made but now?"

"Strange, by my faith!" the Hermit said— 
"And they answered not our cheer!
The planks looked warped! and see those sails,
How thin they are and sere!                                                                      530
I never saw aught like to them, 
Unless perchance it were

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
My forest-brook along; 
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,                                                      535
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 
That eats the she-wolf’s young."

"Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look— 
(The Pilot made reply) 
I am a-feared"—"Push on, push on!"                                                       540
Said the Hermit cheerily.

The boat came closer to the ship, 
But I nor spake nor stirred; 
The boat came close beneath the ship, 
And straight a sound was heard.                                                               545

Under the water it rumbled on, 
Still louder and more dead:
It reached the ship, it split the bay; 
The ship went down like lead.

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,                                                550
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.                                                                             555

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                                                        560
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,                                                                           565
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 countree,                                                            570
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.                                                                   575
"Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say— 
What manner of man art thou?"

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 
With a woful agony, 
Which forced me to begin my tale;                                                           580
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.                                                                      585

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.                                                                             590

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,                                                                  595
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 seem’ed there to be.                                                                       600

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,                                                                    605
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                                                               610
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;                                                                615
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                                                      620
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.                                                                       625

 


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