The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, "O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!" The Hermit crossed his brow. 66 The ancient Mariner earnestly Say quick," quoth he, “I bid thee say entreateth What manner of man art thou?" the Hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of Forth with this frame of mine was wrenched life falls on With a woful agony, Which forced me to begin my tale; Since then, at an uncertain hour, And till my ghastly tale is told, 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 : What loud uproar bursts from that door! The wedding guests are there: But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are: O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been him. And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony constraineth him to travel from land to land; And to teach, by his own example, love and reverence So lonely 'twas, that God himself O sweeter than the marriage-feast, To walk together to the kirk To walk together to the kirk, While each to his great Father bends, Farewell, farewell! but this I tell that God made and loveth. He prayeth best, who loveth best The Mariner, whose eye is bright, age is hoar, Is gone and now the Wedding-Guest He went like one that hath been stunned, A sadder and a wiser man, Christabel. PREFACE.* THE first part of the following poem was written in the year 1797, at Stowey, in the county of Somerset. The second part, after my return from Germany, in the year 1800, at Keswick, Cumberland. It is probable, that if the poem had been finished at either of the former periods, or if even the first and second part had been published in the year 1800, the impression of its originality would have been much greater than I dare at present expect. But for this, I have only my own indolence to blame. The dates are mentioned for the exclusive purpose of precluding charges of plagiarism or servile imitation from myself. For there is amongst us a set of critics, who seem to hold, that every possible thought and image is traditional; who have no notion that there are such things as fountains in the world, small as well as great; and who would therefore charitably derive every rill they behold flowing, from a perforation made in some other man's tank. I am confident, however, that as far as the present poem is concerned, the celebrated poets whose writings I might be suspected of having imitated, either in particular passages, or in the tone and the spirit of the whole, would be the first to vindicate me from the charge, and who, on any striking coincidence, would permit me to address them in this doggrel version of two monkish Latin hexameters. 'Tis mine and it is likewise yours; But an if this will not do; Let it be mine, good friend! for I To the edition of 1816. I have only to add, that the metre of the Christabel is not, properly speaking, irregular, though it may seem so from its being founded on a new principle; namely, that of counting in each line the accents, not the syllables. Though the latter may vary from seven to twelve, yet in each line the accents will be found to be only four. Nevertheless this occasional variation in number of syllables is not introduced wantonly, or for the mere ends of convenience, but in correspondence with some transition, in the nature of the imagery or passion. 'TIS PART I. 'IS the middle of night by the castle clock, Tu-whit! -Tu-whoo! And hark, again! the crowing cock, Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, Hath a toothless mastiff bitch ; From her kennel beneath the rock She maketh answer to the clock, Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; Is the night chilly and dark? 'Tis a month before the month of May, And the Spring comes slowly up The lovely lady, Christabel, What makes her in the wood so late, And she in the midnight wood will pray She stole along, she nothing spoke, The lady sprang up suddenly, It moaned as near, as near can be, The night is chill; the forest bare; |