The Bridegroom’s doors are opened wide,

And I am next of kin;

The guests are met, the feast is set:

May’st hear the merry din.’

He holds him with his skinny hand,

‘There was a ship,’ quoth he.

‘Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!’

Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

He holds him with his glittering eye—

The Wedding-Guest stood still,

And listens like a three years’ child:

The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:

He cannot choose but hear;

And thus spake on that ancient man,

The bright-eyed Mariner.

‘The ship was cheer’d, the harbour clear’d,

Merrily did we drop

Higher and higher every day,

Till over the mast at noon——’

The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,

For he heard the loud bassoon.

The bride hath paced into the hall,

Red as a rose is she;

Nodding their heads before her goes

The merry minstrelsy.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,

Yet he cannot choose but hear;

And thus spake on that ancient man,

The bright-eyed Mariner.

‘And now the Storm-blast came, and he

Was tyrannous and strong:

He struck with his o’ertaking wings,

And chased us south along.

With sloping masts and dipping prow,

As who pursued with yell and blow

Still treads the shadow of his foe,

And forward bends his head,

The ship drove fast, loud roar’d the blast,

The southward aye we fled.

And now there came both mist and snow,

And it grew wondrous cold:

And ice, mast-high, came floating by,

As green as emerald.

And through the drifts the snowy clifts

Did send a dismal sheen:

Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken—

The ice was all between.

The ice was here, the ice was there,

The ice was all around:

It crack’d and growl’d, and roar’d and howl’d,

Like noises in a swound!

At length did cross an Albatross,

Thorough the fog it came;

As if it had been a Christian soul,

We hail’d it in God’s name.

It ate the food it ne’er had eat,

And round and round it flew.

The ice did split with a thunder-fit;

The helmsman steer’d us through!

And a good south wind sprung up behind;

The Albatross did follow,

And every day, for food or play,

Came to the mariners’ hollo!

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,

It perch’d for vespers nine;

Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,

Glimmer’d the white moonshine.’

‘God save thee, ancient Mariner!

From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—

Why look’st thou so?’—‘With my crossbow

I shot the Albatross.

And the good south wind still blew behind,

But no sweet bird did follow,

Nor any day for food or play

Came to the mariners’ hollo!

And I had done an hellish thing,

And it would work ’em woe:

For all averr’d, I had kill’d the bird

That made the breeze to blow.

Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,

That made the breeze to blow!

Nor dim nor red, like God’s own head,

The glorious Sun uprist:

Then all averr’d, I had kill’d the bird

That brought the fog and mist.

’Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,

That bring the fog and mist.

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,

The furrow follow’d free;

We were the first that ever burst

Into that silent sea.

Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,

’Twas sad as sad could be;

All in a hot and copper sky,

The bloody Sun, at noon,

Right up above the mast did stand,

No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day,

We stuck, nor breath nor motion;

As idle as a painted ship

Upon a painted ocean.

Water, water, everywhere,

And all the boards did shrink;

Water, water, everywhere,

Nor any drop to drink.

The very deep did rot: O Christ!

That ever this should be!

Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs

Upon the slimy sea.

About, about, in reel and rout

The death-fires danced at night;

The water, like a witch’s oils,

Burnt green, and blue, and white.

And some in dreams assurèd were

Of the Spirit that plagued us so;

Nine fathom deep he had followed us

From the land of mist and snow.

And every tongue, through utter drought,

Was wither’d at the root;

We could not speak, no more than if

We had been choked with soot.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks

Had I from old and young!

Instead of the cross, the Albatross

About my neck was hung.

At first it seem’d a little speck,

And then it seem’d a mist;

It moved and moved, and took at last

A certain shape, I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!

And still it near’d and near’d:

As if it dodged a water-sprite,

It plunged, and tack’d, and veer’d.

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,

We could nor laugh nor wail;

Through utter drought all dumb we stood!

I bit my arm, I suck’d the blood,

And cried, A sail! a sail!

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,

Agape they heard me call:

See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!

Hither to work us weal—

Without a breeze, without a tide,

She steadies with upright keel!

The western wave was all aflame,

The day was wellnigh done!

Almost upon the western wave

Rested the broad, bright Sun;

When that strange shape drove suddenly

Betwixt us and the Sun.

And straight the Sun was fleck’d with bars

(Heaven’s Mother send us grace!),

As if through a dungeon-grate he peer’d

With broad and burning face.

Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)

Her lips were red, her looks were free,

Her locks were yellow as gold:

Her skin was as white as leprosy,

The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she,

Who thicks man’s blood with cold.

The naked hulk alongside came,

And the twain were casting dice;

“The game is done! I’ve won! I’ve won!”

Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

The Sun’s rim dips; the stars rush out:

At one stride comes the dark;

With far-heard whisper, o’er the sea,

Off shot the spectre-bark.

We listen’d and look’d sideways up!

Fear at my heart, as at a cup,

My life-blood seem’d to sip!

The stars were dim, and thick the night,

The steersman’s face by his lamp gleam’d white;

From the sails the dew did drip—

Till clomb above the eastern bar

The hornèd Moon, with one bright star

Within the nether tip.

One after one, by the star-dogg’d Moon,

Too quick for groan or sigh,

Each turn’d his face with a ghastly pang,

And cursed me with his eye.

Four times fifty living men

(And I heard nor sigh nor groan),

With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,

They dropp’d down one by one.

The souls did from their bodies fly—

They fled to bliss or woe!

And every soul, it pass’d me by

Like the whizz of my crossbow!’

I fear thee and thy glittering eye,

And thy skinny hand so brown.’—

The many men, so beautiful!

And they all dead did lie:

And a thousand thousand slimy things

Lived on; and so did I.

I look’d upon the rotting sea,

And drew my eyes away;

I look’d upon the rotting deck,

And there the dead men lay.

I look’d to heaven, and tried to pray;

But or ever a prayer had gusht,

A wicked whisper came, and made

My heart as dry as dust.

I closed my lids, and kept them close,

And the balls like pulses beat;

For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky,

Lay like a load on my weary eye,

And the dead were at my feet.

The cold sweat melted from their limbs,

Nor rot nor reek did they:

The look with which they look’d on me

Had never pass’d away.

An orphan’s curse would drag to hell

A spirit from on high;

But oh! more horrible than that

Is the curse in a dead man’s eye!

Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,

And yet I could not die.

The moving Moon went up the sky,

And nowhere did abide;

Softly she was going up,

And a star or two beside—

Her beams bemock’d the sultry main,

Like April hoar-frost spread;

But where the ship’s huge shadow lay,

The charmèd water burnt alway

A still and awful red.

Beyond the shadow of the ship,

I watch’d the water-snakes:

They moved in tracks of shining white,

And when they rear’d, the elfish light

Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship

I watch’d their rich attire:

Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,

They coil’d and swam; and every track

Was a flash of golden fire.

O happy living things! no tongue

Their beauty might declare:

A spring of love gush’d from my heart,

The selfsame moment I could pray;

The silly buckets on the deck,

That had so long remain’d,

I dreamt that they were fill’d with dew;

And when I awoke, it rain’d.

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:

I was so light—almost

I thought that I had died in sleep,

And was a blessèd ghost.

And soon I heard a roaring wind:

It did not come anear;

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!

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 pour’d down from one black cloud;

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,

A river steep and wide.

The loud wind never reach’d the ship,

Yet now the ship moved on!

Beneath the lightning and the Moon

The dead men gave a groan.

They groan’d, they stirr’d, 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 steer’d, the ship moved on;

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.

The body of my brother’s son

Stood by me, knee to knee:

The body and I pull’d at one rope,

But he said naught to me.’

‘I fear thee, ancient Mariner!’

Around, around, flew each sweet sound,

Then darted to the Sun;

Slowly the sounds came back again,

Now mix’d, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky

I heard the skylark sing;

Sometimes all little birds that are,

How they seem’d to fill the sea and air

With their sweet jargoning!

And now ’twas like all instruments,

Now like a lonely flute;

And now it is an angel’s song,

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,

That to the sleeping woods all night

Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sail’d on,

Yet never a breeze did breathe:

Slowly and smoothly went the ship,

Moved 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 fix’d 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 flung the blood into my head,

And I fell down in a swound.

How long in that same fit I lay,

I have not to declare;

But ere my living life return’d,

I heard, and in my soul discern’d

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

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.”

The other was a softer voice,

As soft as honey-dew:

Quoth he, “The man hath penance done,

And penance more will do.”

Second Voice

“Still as a slave before his lord,

The Ocean hath no blast;

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

She looketh down on him.”

First Voice

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.”

I woke, and we were sailing on

As in a gentle weather:

’Twas night, calm night, the Moon was high;

The dead men stood together.

All stood together on the deck,

For a charnel-dungeon fitter:

All fix’d on me their stony eyes,

That in the Moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, with which they died,

Had never pass’d away:

I could not draw my eyes from theirs,

Nor turn them up to pray.

And now this spell was snapt: once more

I viewed the ocean green,

And look’d far forth, yet little saw

Of what had else been seen—

Like one that on a lonesome road

Doth walk in fear and dread,

And having once turn’d round, walks on,

And turns no more his head;

Because he knows a frightful fiend

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.

It raised my hair, it fann’d 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,

Yet she sail’d softly too:

Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—

On me alone it blew.

O dream of joy! is this indeed

The lighthouse top I see?

Is this the hill? is this the kirk?

Is this mine own countree?

We drifted o’er the harbour-bar,

And I with sobs did pray—

O let me be awake, my God!

Or let me sleep alway.

The harbour-bay was clear as glass,

So smoothly it was strewn!

And on the bay the moonlight lay,

And the shadow of the Moon.

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less

That stands above the rock:

The moonlight steep’d in silentness

The steady weathercock.

And the bay was white with silent light

Till rising from the same,

A little distance from the prow

Those crimson shadows were:

I turn’d my eyes upon the deck—

O Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,

And, by the holy rood!

A man all light, a seraph-man,

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;

This seraph-band, each waved his hand,

No voice did they impart—

No voice; but O, the silence sank

Like music on my heart.

But soon I heard the dash of oars,

I heard the Pilot’s cheer;

My head was turn’d perforce away,

And I saw a boat appear.

The Pilot and the Pilot’s boy,

I heard them coming fast:

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

That he makes in the wood.

He’ll shrieve my soul, he’ll wash away

The Albatross’s blood.

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 looked 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.