Collected English Verse — Samuel Taylor Coleridge. b. 1772, d. 1834 (Part 10 of 14)

The skiff-boat near’d: 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
Brown 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.’’

Approacheth the ship with wonder.

‘‘Dear Lord! it hath 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 nor spake nor stirr’d;
The boat came close beneath the ship,
And straight 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.

The ship suddenly sinketh.

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.

The ancient Mariner is saved in 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 moved my lips—the Pilot shriek’d
And fell down in a fit;
The holy Hermit raised 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 my own countree,
I stood on the firm land!
The Hermit stepp’d forth from the boat,
And scarcely he could stand.

The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him.

‘‘O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!’’
The Hermit cross’d his brow.
‘‘Say quick,’’ quoth he, ‘‘I bid thee say—
What manner of man art thou?’’

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench’d
With a woful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale;
And then it left me free.

And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony constraineth him to travel from land to land;

Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns:
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns.

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.