Kitabı oku: «Coleridge's Ancient Mariner and Select Poems», sayfa 5

PART V

 
  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.
 

[Sidenote: By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient Mariner is refreshed with rain.]

 
  The silly buckets on the deck,
  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 blessed ghost.
 

[Sidenote: He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights and commotions in the sky and the element.]

 
  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.
 

[Sidenote: The bodies of the ship's crew are inspired, and the ship moves on;]

 
  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."
 

[Sidenote: But not by the souls of the men, nor by daemons of earth or middle air, but by a blessed troop of angelic spirits, sent down by the invocation of the guardian saint.]

 
  "I fear thee, ancient Mariner!" 345
  "Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!
  'T was 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,
  And clustered round the mast; 350
  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, 350
  How they seemed to fill the sea and air
  With their sweet jargoning!
 
 
  And now 't was 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.
 

[Sidenote: The lonesome Spirit from the south-pole carries on the ship as far as the Line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance.]

 
  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.
 

[Sidenote: The Polar Spirit's fellow-daemons, the invisible inhabitants of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to the other, that penance long and heavy for the ancient Mariner hath been accorded to the Polar Spirit, who returneth southward.]

 
  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 VI

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

[Sidenote: The Mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward faster than human life could endure.]

 
  '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.
 

[Sidenote: The supernatural motion is retarded; the Mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew.]

 
  I woke, and we were sailing on 430
  As in a gentle weather:
  'T was 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.
 

[Sidenote: The curse is finally expiated.]

 
  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.
 

[Sidenote: And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native country.]

 
  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 harbor-bar,
  And I with sobs did pray—
  O let me be awake, my God! 470
  Or let me sleep alway.
 
 
  The harbor-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,
 

[Sidenote: The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies,]

 
  Full many shapes, that shadows were,
  In crimson colors came.
 

[Sidenote: And appear in their own forms of light.]

 
  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 VII

[Sidenote: The Hermit of the Wood,]

 
  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?'
 

[Sidenote: Approacheth the ship with wonder.]

 
  '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
 

[Sidenote: The ship suddenly sinketh.]

 
  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.
 

[Sidenote: The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat.]

 
  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.
 

[Sidenote: 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 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.
 

[Sidenote: 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. 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 't was, that God himself
  Scarce seemed there to be. 600
 
 
  O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
  'T is 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!
 

[Sidenote: And to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth.]

 
  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
 

CHRISTABEL

PART THE FIRST

 
  'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
  And the owls have awakened the crowing cock.
  Tu—whit!–Tu—whoo!
  And hark, again! the crowing cock,
  How drowsily it crew. 5
 
 
  Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
  Hath a toothless mastiff, which
  From her kennel beneath the rock
  Maketh answer to the clock,
  Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; 10
  Ever and aye, by shine and shower,
  Sixteen short howls, not over loud;
  Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.
 
 
  Is the night chilly and dark?
  The night is chilly, but not dark. 15
  The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
  It covers but not hides the sky.
  The moon is behind, and at the full;
  And yet she looks both small and dull.
  The night is chill, the cloud is gray: 20
  'T is a month before the month of May,
  And the Spring comes slowly up this way.
 
 
  The lovely lady, Christabel,
  Whom her father loves so well,
  What makes her in the wood so late, 25
  A furlong from the castle gate?
  She had dreams all yesternight
  Of her own betrothed knight;
  And she in the midnight wood will pray
  For the weal of her lover that's far away. 30
 
 
  She stole along, she nothing spoke,
  The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
  And naught was green upon the oak
  But moss and rarest mistletoe:
  She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, 35
  And in silence prayeth she.
 
 
  The lady sprang up suddenly,
  The lovely lady, Christabel!
  It moaned as near, as near can be,
  But what it is she cannot tell.– 40
  On the other side it seems to be,
  Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.
 
 
  The night is chill; the forest bare;
  Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
  There is not wind enough in the air 45
  To move away the ringlet curl
  From the lovely lady's cheek—
  There is not wind enough to twirl
  The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
  That dances as often as dance it can, 50
  Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
  On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
 
 
  Hush, beating heart of Christabel!
  Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
  She folded her arms beneath her cloak, 55
  And stole to the other side of the oak.
    What sees she there?
 
 
  There she sees a damsel bright,
  Drest in a silken robe of white,
  That shadowy in the moonlight shone: 60
  The neck that made that white robe wan,
  Her stately neck, and arms were bare;
  Her blue-veined feet unsandal'd were,
  And wildly glittered here and there
  The gems entangled in her hair. 65
  I guess, 'twas frightful there to see
  A lady so richly clad as she—
  Beautiful exceedingly!
 
 
  "Mary mother, save me now!"
  Said Christabel, "And who art thou?" 70
  The lady strange made answer meet,
  And her voice was faint and sweet:—
  "Have pity on my sore distress,
  I scarce can speak for weariness:
  Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear!" 75
  Said Christabel, "How camest thou here?"
  And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,
  Did thus pursue her answer meet:—
 
 
  "My sire is of a noble line,
  And my name is Geraldine: 80
  Five warriors seized me yestermorn,
  Me, even me, a maid forlorn:
  They choked my cries with force and fright,
  And tied me on a palfrey white.
  The palfrey was as fleet as wind, 85
  And they rode furiously behind.
  They spurred amain, their steeds were white:
  And once we crossed the shade of night.
  As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,
  I have no thought what men they be; 90
  Nor do I know how long it is
  (For I have lain entranced I wis)
 
 
  Since one, the tallest of the five,
  Took me from the palfrey's back,
  A weary woman, scarce alive. 95
  Some muttered words his comrades spoke:
  He placed me underneath this oak;
  He swore they would return with haste;
  Whither they went I cannot tell—
  I thought I heard, some minutes past, 100
  Sounds as of a castle bell.
  Stretch forth thy hand," thus ended she,
  "And help a wretched maid to flee."
 
 
  Then Christabel stretched forth her hand,
  And comforted fair Geraldine: 105
  "O well, bright dame! may you command
  The service of Sir Leoline;
  And gladly our stout chivalry
  Will he send forth and friends withal
  To guide and guard you safe and free 110
  Home to your noble father's hall."
 
 
  She rose: and forth with steps they passed
  That strove to be, and were not, fast.
  Her gracious stars the lady blest,
  And thus spake on sweet Christabel: 115
  "All our household are at rest,
  The hall as silent as the cell;
  Sir Leoline is weak in health,
  And may not well awakened be,
  But we will move as if in stealth, 120
  And I beseech your courtesy,
  This night, to share your couch with me."
 
 
  They crossed the moat, and Christabel
  Took the key that fitted well;
  A little door she opened straight, 125
  All in the middle of the gate;
  The gate that was ironed within and without,
  Where an army in battle array had marched out.
  The lady sank, belike through pain,
  And Christabel with might and main 130
  Lifted her up, a weary weight,
  Over the threshold of the gate:
  Then the lady rose again,
  And moved, as she were not in pain.
 
 
  So free from danger, free from fear, 135
  They crossed the court: right glad they were.
  And Christabel devoutly cried
  To the lady by her side,
  "Praise we the Virgin all divine
  Who hath rescued thee from thy distress!" 140
  "Alas, alas!" said Geraldine,
  "I cannot speak for weariness."
  So free from danger, free from fear,
  They crossed the court: right glad they were.
 
 
  Outside her kennel, the mastiff old 145
  Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.
  The mastiff old did not awake,
  Yet she an angry moan did make!
  And what can ail the mastiff bitch?
  Never till now she uttered yell 150
  Beneath the eye of Christabel.
  Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch:
  For what can ail the mastiff bitch?
 
 
  They passed the hall, that echoes still,
  Pass as lightly as you will! 155
  The brands were flat, the brands were dying,
  Amid their own white ashes lying;
  But when the lady passed, there came
  A tongue of light, a fit of flame;
  And Christabel saw the lady's eye, 160
  And nothing else saw she thereby,
  Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,
  Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall.
  "O softly tread," said Christabel,
  "My father seldom sleepeth well." 165
 
 
  Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare,
  And jealous of the listening air
  They steal their way from stair to stair,
  Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,
  And now they pass the Baron's room, 170
  As still as death, with stifled breath
  And now have reached her chamber door;
  And now doth Geraldine press down
  The rushes of the chamber floor.
 
 
  The moon shines dim in the open air, 175
  And not a moonbeam enters here.
  But they without its light can see
  The chamber carved so curiously,
  Carved with figures strange and sweet,
  All made out of the carver's brain, 180
  For a lady's chamber meet:
  The lamp with twofold silver chain
  Is fastened to an angel's feet.
 
 
  The silver lamp burns dead and dim;
  But Christabel the lamp will trim. 185
  She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright,
  And left it swinging to and fro,
  While Geraldine, in wretched plight,
  Sank down upon the floor below.
 
 
  "O weary lady, Geraldine, 190
  I pray you, drink this cordial wine!
  It is a wine of virtuous powers;
  My mother made it of wild flowers."
 
 
  "And will your mother pity me,
  Who am a maiden most forlorn? 195
  Christabel answered—"Woe is me!
  She died the hour that I was born.
  I have heard the gray-haired friar tell
  How on her death-bed she did say,
  That she should hear the castle-bell 200
  Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.
  O mother dear! that thou wert here!"
  "I would," said Geraldine, "she were!"
 
 
  But soon with altered voice, said she—
  "Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine! 205
  I have power to bid thee flee."
  Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?
  Why stares she with unsettled eye?
  Can she the bodiless dead espy?
  And why with hollow voice cries she, 210
  "Off, woman, off! this hour is mine—
  Though thou her guardian spirit be,
  Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me."
 
 
  Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side,
  And raised to heaven her eyes so blue— 215
  "Alas!" said she, "this ghastly ride—
  Dear lady! it hath wildered you!"
  The lady wiped her moist cold brow,
  And faintly said, "'Tis over now!"
 
 
  Again the wild-flower wine she drank: 220
  Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright,
  And from the floor whereon she sank,
  The lofty lady stood upright:
  She was most beautiful to see,
  Like a lady of a far countree. 225
  And thus the lofty lady spake—
  "All they who live in the upper sky,
  Do love you, holy Christabel!
  And you love them, and for their sake
  And for the good which me befell, 230
  Even I in my degree will try,
  Fair maiden, to requite you well.
  But now unrobe yourself; for I
  Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie."
 
 
  Quoth Christabel, "So let it be!" 235
  And as the lady bade, did she.
  Her gentle limbs did she undress,
  And lay down in her loveliness.
 
 
  But through her brain of weal and woe
  So many thoughts moved to and fro, 240
  That vain it were her lids to close;
  So half-way from the bed she rose,
  And on her elbow did recline
  To look at the Lady Geraldine.
 
 
  Beneath the lamp the lady bowed, 245
  And slowly rolled her eyes around;
  Then drawing in her breath aloud,
  Like one that shuddered, she unbound
  The cincture from beneath her breast:
  Her silken robe, and inner vest, 250
  Dropt to her feet, and full in view,
  Behold! her bosom and half her side—
  A sight to dream of, not to tell!
  O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!
 
 
  Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs; 255
  Ah! what a stricken look was hers!
  Deep from within she seems half-way
  To lift some weight with sick assay,
  And eyes the maid and seeks delay;
  Then suddenly, as one defied, 260
  Collects herself in scorn and pride,
  And lay down by the Maiden's side!—
  And in her arms the maid she took,
          Ah wel-a-day!
  And with low voice and doleful look 265
  These words did say:
  "In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,
  Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!
  Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow,
  This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow; 270
    But vainly thou warrest,
      For this is alone in
    Thy power to declare,
      That in the dim forest
    Thou heard'st a low moaning, 275
  And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair;
  And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity,
  To shield her and shelter her from the damp air."