Part 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 countree. 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 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.” “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.

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 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.

“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.

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. 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 seemèd 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 Mariner, 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.

IN Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills Where blossom’d many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. But O, that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted By woman wailing for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced; Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail: And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reach’d the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she play’d, Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me, Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight ’twould win me, That with music loud and long, I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice! And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.

ALL thoughts, all passions, all delights, Whatever stirs this mortal frame, All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I Live o’er again that happy hour, When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruin’d tower. The moonshine, stealing o’er the scene, Had blended with the lights of eve; And she was there, my hope, my joy, My own dear Genevieve! She lean’d against the armèd man, The statue of the armèd Knight; She stood and listen’d to my lay, Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own, My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! She loves me best whene’er I sing The songs that make her grieve. I play’d a soft and doleful air; I sang an old and moving story— An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. She listen’d with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes and modest grace; For well she knew I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; And that for ten long years he woo’d The Lady of the Land. I told her how he pined: and ah! The deep, the low, the pleading tone With which I sang another’s love, Interpreted my own. She listened with a flitting blush, With downcast eyes, and modest grace; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face! But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he cross’d the mountain-woods, Nor rested day nor night; That sometimes from the savage den, And sometimes from the darksome shade, And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade— There came and look’d him in the face An angel beautiful and bright; And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight! And that, unknowing what he did, He leap’d amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death The Lady of the Land;— And how she wept and clasp’d his knees; And how she tended him in vain— And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain;— And that she nursed him in a cave; And how his madness went away, When on the yellow forest leaves A dying man he lay;— His dying words—but when I reach’d That tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faltering voice and pausing harp Disturb’d her soul with pity! All impulses of soul and sense Had thrill’d my guileless Genevieve; The music and the doleful tale, The rich and balmy eve; And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, An undistinguishable throng, And gentle wishes long subdued, Subdued and cherish’d long! She wept with pity and delight, She blush’d with love and virgin shame; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. Her bosom heaved—she stepp’d aside, As conscious of my look she stept— Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept. She half enclosed me with her arms, She press’d me with a meek embrace; And bending back her head, look’d up, And gazed upon my face. ’Twas partly love, and partly fear, And partly ’twas a bashful art, That I might rather feel, than see. The swelling of her heart. I calm’d her fears, and she was calm, And told her love with virgin pride; And so I won my Genevieve, My bright and beauteous Bride.

VERSE, a breeze ’mid blossoms straying, Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee— Both were mine! Life went a-maying With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, When I was young: When I was young?—Ah, woful When: Ah! for the change ’twixt Now and Then! This breathing house not built with hands, This body that does me grievous wrong, O’er aery cliffs and glittering sands, How lightly then it flash’d along— Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide, That ask no aid of sail or oar, That fear no spite of wind or tide! Naught cared this body for wind or weather When Youth and I lived in ’t together. Flowers are lovely! Love is flower-like; Friendship is a sheltering tree; O the joys, that came down shower-like, Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, Ere I was old! Ere I was old? Ah, woful Ere, Which tells me, Youth’s no longer here! O Youth! for years so many and sweet, ’Tis known that thou and I were one; I’ll think it but a fond conceit— It cannot be that thou art gone! Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll’d— And thou wert aye a masker bold! What strange disguise hast now put on, To make believe that thou art gone? I see these locks in silvery slips, This drooping gait, this alter’d size: But springtide blossoms on thy lips, And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! Life is but thought: so think I will That Youth and I are housemates still. Dewdrops are the gems of morning, But the tears of mournful eve! Where no hope is, life’s a warning That only serves to make us grieve, When we are old! That only serves to make us grieve With oft and tedious taking-leave, Like some poor nigh-related guest That may not rudely be dismist. Yet hath outstay’d his welcome while, And tells the jest without the smile.

ON the wide level of a mountain’s head (I knew not where, but ’twas some faery place), Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread, Two lovely children run an endless race, A sister and a brother! This far outstripp’d the other; Yet ever runs she with reverted face, And looks and listens for the boy behind: For he, alas! is blind! O’er rough and smooth with even step he pass’d, And knows not whether he be first or last.

ALL Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair— The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing— And Winter, slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing, Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may, For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away! With lips unbrighten’d, wreathless brow, I stroll: And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, And Hope without an object cannot live.

A SUNNY shaft did I behold, From sky to earth it slanted: And poised therein a bird so bold— Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted! He sank, he rose, he twinkled, he troll’d Within that shaft of sunny mist; His eyes of fire, his beak of gold, All else of amethyst! And thus he sang: ‘Adieu! adieu! Love’s dreams prove seldom true. The blossoms, they make no delay: The sparking dew-drops will not stay. Sweet month of May, We must away; Far, far away! To-day! to-day!’