Lyrical Ballads, With a Few Other Poems (1798)

And by the holy rood, The bodies had advanc’d, 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 glitter’d on In the red and smoky light. I pray’d and turn’d 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 steep’d in silentness The steady weathercock. And the bay was white with silent light, 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: I turn’d my eyes upon the deck-- O Christ! what saw I there? Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat; And by the Holy rood A man all light, a seraph-man, On every corse there stood. This seraph-band, each wav’d his hand: It was a heavenly sight: They stood as signals to the land, Each one a lovely light: This seraph-band, each wav’d 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 pilot’s cheer: My head was turn’d perforce away And I saw a boat appear. Then vanish’d 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 pilot’s 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. He’ll shrieve my soul, he’ll wash away The Albatross’s blood. 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 Contrée. He kneels 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 ne’rd: 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 answer’d not our cheer. “The planks look warp’d, 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-wolf’s young. “Dear Lord! it has a fiendish look”-- (The Pilot made reply) “I am a-fear’d.--“Push on, push on!” Said the Hermit cheerily. The Boat came closer to the Ship, But I ne spake ne stirr’d! 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 reach’d the Ship, it split the bay; The Ship went down like lead. Stunn’d by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote: Like one that hath been seven days drown’d 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 mov’d my lips: the Pilot shriek’d And fell down in a fit. The Holy Hermit rais’d his eyes And pray’d where he did sit. I took the oars: the Pilot’s boy, Who now doth crazy go, Laugh’d 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 Countrée I stood on the firm land! The Hermit stepp’d forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand. “O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy Man!” The Hermit cross’d his brow-- “Say quick,” quoth he, “I bid thee say “What manner man art thou?” Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench’d With a woeful agony, Which forc’d me to begin my tale And then it left me free. Since then at an uncertain hour, Now oftimes and now fewer, That anguish comes and makes me tell My ghastly aventure. 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 prayer. O Wedding-guest! this soul hath been Alone on a wide 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 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 Marinere, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is hoar, Is gone; and now the wedding-guest Turn’d from the bridegroom’s door. He went, like one that hath been stunn’d And is of sense forlorn: A sadder and a wiser man He rose the morrow morn. THE FOSTER-MOTHER’S TALE, A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT. FOSTER-MOTHER. I never saw the man whom you describe. MARIA. ’Tis strange! he spake of you familiarly As mine and Albert’s common Foster-mother. FOSTER-MOTHER. Now blessings on the man, whoe’er he be, That joined your names with mine! O my sweet lady, As often as I think of those dear times When you two little ones would stand at eve On each side of my chair, and make me learn All you had learnt in the day; and how to talk In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you-- ’Tis more like heaven to come than what _has_ been. MARIA. O my dear Mother! this strange man has left me Troubled with wilder fancies, than the moon Breeds in the love-sick maid who gazes at it, Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye She gazes idly!--But that entrance, Mother! FOSTER-MOTHER. Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale! MARIA. No one. FOSTER-MOTHER My husband’s father told it me, Poor old Leoni!--Angels rest his soul! He was a woodman, and could fell and saw With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel? Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home, And reared him at the then Lord Velez’ cost. And so the babe grew up a pretty boy, A pretty boy, but most unteachable-- And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead, But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes, And whistled, as he were a bird himself: And all the autumn ’twas his only play To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them With earth and water, on the stumps of trees. A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood, A grey-haired man--he loved this little boy, The boy loved him--and, when the Friar taught him, He soon could write with the pen: and from that time, Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Castle. So he became a very learned youth. But Oh! poor wretch!--he read, and read, and read, ’Till his brain turned--and ere his twentieth year, He had unlawful thoughts of many things: And though he prayed, he never loved to pray With holy men, nor in a holy place-- But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet, The late Lord Velez ne’er was wearied with him. And once, as by the north side of the Chapel They stood together, chained in deep discourse, The earth heaved under them with such a groan, That the wall tottered, and had well-nigh fallen Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened; A fever seized him, and he made confession Of all the heretical and lawless talk Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seized And cast into that hole. My husband’s father Sobbed like a child--it almost broke his heart: And once as he was working in the cellar, He heard a voice distinctly; ’twas the youth’s, Who sung a doleful song about green fields, How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah, To hunt for food, and be a naked man, And wander up and down at liberty. He always doted on the youth, and now His love grew desperate; and defying death, He made that cunning entrance I described: And the young man escaped. MARIA. ’Tis a sweet tale: Such as would lull a listening child to sleep, His rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears.-- And what became of him? FOSTER-MOTHER. He went on ship-board With those bold voyagers, who made discovery Of golden lands. Leoni’s younger brother Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain, He told Leoni, that the poor mad youth, Soon after they arrived in that new world, In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat, And all alone, set sail by silent moonlight Up a great river, great as any sea, And ne’er was heard of more: but ’tis supposed, He lived and died among the savage men. LINES LEFT UPON A SEAT IN A YEW-TREE WHICH STANDS NEAR THE LAKE OF ESTHWAITE, ON A DESOLATE PART OF THE SHORE, YET COMMANDING A BEAUTIFUL PROSPECT. --Nay, Traveller! rest. This lonely yew-tree stands Far from all human dwelling: what if here No sparkling rivulet spread the verdant herb; What if these barren boughs the bee not loves; Yet, if the wind breathe soft, the curling waves, That break against the shore, shall lull thy mind By one soft impulse saved from vacancy. --Who he was That piled these stones, and with the mossy sod First covered o’er, and taught this aged tree, Now wild, to bend its arms in circling shade, I well remember.--He was one who own’d No common soul. In youth, by genius nurs’d, And big with lofty views, he to the world Went forth, pure in his heart, against the taint Of dissolute tongues, ’gainst jealousy, and hate, And scorn, against all enemies prepared, All but neglect: and so, his spirit damped At once, with rash disdain he turned away, And with the food of pride sustained his soul In solitude.--Stranger! these gloomy boughs Had charms for him; and here he loved to sit,