第7章 THE RIME OF THE ANCYENT MARINERE-5

V. O sleep, it is a gentle thing Belovd from pole to pole! To Mary-queen the praise be yeven She sent the gentle sleep from heaven That slid into my soul. The silly buckets on the deck That had so long remaind, I dreamt that they were ?lld with dew And when I awoke it raind. 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 movd and could not feel my limbs, I was so light, almost I thought that I had died in sleep, And was a blessed Ghost. The roaring wind! it roard far off, It did not come anear; But with its sound it shook the sails

That were so thin and sere. The upper air bursts into life, And a hundred ?re-?ags sheen To and fro they are hurried about; And to and fro, and in and out The stars dance on between. The coming wind doth roar more loud; The sails do sigh, like sedge: The rain pours down from one black cloud

And the Moon is at its edge. Hark! hark! the thick black cloud is cleft, And the Moon is at its side: Like waters shot from some high crag, The lightning falls with never a jag A river steep and wide. The strong wind reachd the ship: it roard And droppd down, like a stone! Beneath the lightning and the moon

The dead men gave a groan. They groand, they stirrd, they all uprose, Ne spake, ne movd their eyes: It had been strange, even in a dream To have seen those dead men rise. The helmsman steerd, the ship movd on; Yet never a breeze up-blew; The Marineres all gan work the ropes, Where they were wont to do:

They raisd their limbs like lifeless tools-- We were a ghastly crew. The body of my brothers son Stood by me knee to knee: The body and I pulld at one rope, But he said nought to me-- And I quakd to think of my own voice How frightful it would be! The day-light dawnd--they droppd their arms,

And clusterd round the mast: Sweet sounds rose slowly thro their mouths And from their bodies passd. Around, around, ?ew each sweet sound, Then darted to the sun: Slowly the sounds came back again Now mixd, now one by one. Sometimes a dropping from the sky I heard the Lavrock sing;

Sometimes all little birds that are How they seemd to ?ll the sea and air With their sweet jargoning, And now twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely ?ute; And now it is an angels song That makes the heavens be mute. It ceasd: yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon,

A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, That to the sleeping woods all night Singeth a quiet tune. Listen, O listen, thou Wedding-guest! "Marinere! thou hast thy will: "For that, which comes out of thine eye, doth make "My body and soul to be still."

Never sadder tale was told To a man of woman born: Sadder and wiser thou wedding-guest! Thoult rise to morrow morn. Never sadder tale was heard By a man of woman born: The Marineres all returnd to work As silent as beforne. The Marineres all gan pull the ropes, But look at me they nold:

Thought I, I am as thin as air-- They cannot me behold. Till moon we silently saild on Yet never a breeze did breathe: Slowly and smoothly went the ship Movd 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. The sails at noon left off their tune And the Ship stood still also. The sun right up above the mast Had ?xd her to the ocean: But in a minute she gan stir 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: It ?ung the blood into my head, And I fell into a swound. How long in that same ?t I lay, I have not to declare; But ere my living life returnd, I heard and in my soul discernd 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 layd full low "The harmless Albatross. "The spirit who bideth by himself "In the land of mist and snow, "He lovd the bird that lovd the man "Who shot him with his bow." The other was a softer voice, As soft as honey-dew: Quoth he the man hath penance done, And penance more will do.