The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Samuel Taylor Coleridge (). PART I. An ancient Mariner meeteth three gallants bidden to a wedding feast, and detaineth . It is an ancient Mariner,. And he stoppeth one of three. 'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,. Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? The Bridegroom's doors are . The Rime of the Ancient Mariner in seven parts. He holds him with his glittering eye Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibiles in rerum.
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The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Samuel Taylor Coleridge is famous for composing “Kubla Khan” and “The Rime. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE Gustave Doré's magnificent engravings for The Rime of the Ancie. An ancient Mariner meeteth three Gallants bidden to a wedding-feast, and detaineth one. It is an ancient Mariner,. And he stoppeth one of three.
Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. Water, water, every where, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, every where, 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. And some in dreams assured 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 withered at the root; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot. Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung. There passed a weary time.
Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time! How glazed each weary eye, When looking westward, I beheld A something in the sky. At first it seemed a little speck, And then it seemed 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 neared and neared: As if it dodged a water-sprite, It plunged and tacked and veered.
With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, We could not laugh nor wail; Through utter drought all dumb we stood! I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, And cried, A sail! With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, Agape they heard me call: 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 a-flame The day was well nigh done! Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright Sun; When that strange shape drove suddenly Betwixt us and the Sun. As if through a dungeon-grate he peered, With broad and burning face. Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, Like restless gossameres? Are those her ribs through which the Sun Did peer, as through a grate? And is that Woman all her crew?
Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold: Off shot the spectre-bark. We listened and looked sideways up! Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seemed to sip!
One after one, by the star-dogged Moon Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turned 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 dropped down one by one. Part the Fourth. I fear thy skinny hand! And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand.
This body dropt not down. Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide wide sea! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. The many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie: And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on; and so did I. I looked upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away; I looked upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay.
I looked 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 looked on me Had never passed away. Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, And yet I could not die.
The moving Moon went up the sky, And no where did abide: Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside. Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watched the water-snakes: They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish light Fell off in hoary flakes. Within the shadow of the ship I watched their rich attire: Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, They coiled and swam; and every track Was a flash of golden fire. O happy living things!
A spring of love gushed from my heart, And I blessed them unaware: Sure my kind saint took pity on me, And I blessed them unaware. The self same moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea. Oh sleep! To Mary Queen the praise be given! She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my soul.
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. 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 blessed 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 poured 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 reached the ship, Yet now the ship moved on! Beneath the lightning and the Moon The dead men gave a groan. 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 body and I pulled at one rope, But he said nought to me. For when it dawned — they dropped their arms, And clustered round the mast; Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, And from their bodies passed.
Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the Sun; Slowly the sounds came back again, Now mixed, now one by one. And the rain poured down from one black cloud;.
They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,. They raised their limbs like lifeless tools—. Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,. The planks looked warped! The Rime of the Ancient Mariner excerpt. From Audio Poem of the Day May Read More.
More Poems by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Constancy to an Ideal Object. An Ode. On Donne's Poetry. Fragment 1: His brother Ernest was nineteen and still an unqualified student of engineering; the younger brother, Emile, a schoolboy of fifteen. The rapid way of working, natural to him, with an everpresent anxiety about money, made him phenomenally productive. For Philipon, to whom he was still under contract, he produced several comic books as well as his journalism, and secretly he also worked for other publishers.
He could not bear to turn down a commission. The demand for his work became enormous, and while he began, in his early twenties, the illustrations to the classics for which he will always be remembered, he did not disdain ephemeral journalism or the illustration of novels by Paul de Kock. From his earliest days in Paris his gaiety and sociability made him a welcome guest at literary and artistic parties, and he soon became a favourite in Second Empire society.
His friends included the ageing Rossini, with whom he made music; Dumas father and son; the photographer Nadar, and many other artists and writers. He was noted for his recreation, in living tableaux presented by the guests, of paintings, Salon successes, Louvre masterpieces or, as an impromptu compliment, the latest work of some artist who happened to be there.
Possessive and philistine, dazzled by fame and greedy for money, she dominated his private life. Though his biographer and friend of later years, Blanche Roosevelt Mrs. Blanche Roosevelt Tucker Macchetta , hints at an affair with an actress it was the muchcourted Alice Ozy and says that he made one or two attempts to take a wife, he remained a bachelor to the end of his life. At the beginning of his career he had worked largely in lithograph, drawing upon the stone himself, but in the years of greatest fame nearly all his work was engraved on wood.
He used to draw the designs directly upon the blocks, working on several at once and going from one to another with small rapid touches until all were finished. The boxwood was then cut by other hands. As a youth he was always very disappointed by what Philipon's engravers made of his drawings, and in due course he began to work closely with a team of young craftsmen who learned to interpret him more faithfully.
They became his friends and served him throughout his career; their signatures—Pisan, Pannemaker, Jonnard and others— may be recognized in his Milton and Dante and are still present years later in The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.
He tried in so far as possible to spend only the mornings on the wood blocks which were his living, and to work in the afternoons at another studio where he painted in oils or water-colour. It was his lifelong ambition to become one of the great French painters. Ary Scheffer's brother Henry gave him a start, while Gustave was still in his teens, with the technique of painting in oils, but he was largely self-taught.
He painted without discipline and at tremendous speed, often on a very large scale; the results were feebly constructed, muddy in colour and sentimental. The Salon accepted his work but skied it; the critics ignored or slated it and the public preferred the brilliance of Meissonier. During the last ten years of his life he made many designs for an edition of Shakespeare which was never completed.
He began to visit London yearly, and in collaboration with his friend Blanchard Jerrold made a marvelous record of his impressions, London: A Pilgrimage Society received him with enthusiasm; royalty patronized him; he visited Scotland and fell in love with her mountain scenery. But the triumphs as a painter in England were for him always only second-best. Beginning as a mixed exhibition, its character became increasingly religious.
Towards the end of his life it was dominated by two huge canvases, Christ Leaving the Praetorium and the Entry into Jerusalem. These and other pictures continued to attract visitors until the gallery came to an end in The Franco-Prussian War was peculiarly sad for him, as the scenes of his Alsatian childhood were now lost to France.
He stayed in Paris during the siege, making patriotic cartoons and busying himself on behalf of less influential and wealthy friends. A minor distress of the war was that five of his pet pugs were stolen and eaten. Four others survived. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner is of these last years, and was published in Coleridge did not place The Ancient Mariner in any one period; the ballad form suggests olden days and the poem derives partly from the tales of the early explorers.
As a historian I am irritated by the inconsistencies of costume and puzzled by the musical instruments. For the Mariner he invents visions even more compelling, of the terrifying space, the storms and whirlpools of an unknown ocean, the vast ice caverns of Antarctica. Nightmare follows the Mariner's crime and the hot sea swarms with monsters.
The engraver's textures are imaginatively adapted to evoking the movements of the sea, and there is one wonderful picture on page 39 of moonrise, in which we are shown not the moon itself but its reflection across a boundless sea, with a tiny ship far away among the waves. The scenes with figures are perhaps less successful, and not everyone will care for the Spirits in their dainty draperies pp.
The sailors, however, whether as men or as ghosts, are drawn with all the artist's skill with crowds and his power of individualizing the people in them. There is one touching, humorous scene page 15 in which the sailors, uncouth and clumsy with cold, offer titbits to the benevolent albatross. The vision is un-English but coherent and compelling, and it urges one to a rereading of the poem.
Though Dore himself considered The Ancient Mariner one of his "best and most original" works, its sales recouped him only slowly for the great initial outlay. Published first in England, in due course it began to be known, and editions appeared in France, Germany and the United States.
It was, Blanche Roosevelt tells us, an outstanding success in America, and the huge brown-and-gold volume with the albatross on the cover was to be found among the family treasures in homes all over the States. One more illustration of a masterpiece followed the Ancient Mariner; this was the Orlando Furioso of Ariosto. A sudden stroke ended this life of tremendous activity, just as he was preparing for the unveiling of the Dumas monument. He was fifty-one. A Pilgrimage. Valmy-Baysse, published in by Editions Marcel Seheur.
It concerns itself with all aspects of his art and is extremely well illustrated. My own monograph was published by the Cresset Press, London, I readily believe that there are more invisible Natures in the universe than visible ones. Yet who shall explain to us this numerous company, their grades, their relationships, their distinguishing features and the functions of each of them?
What do they do? What places do they inhabit? The human intellect has always sought for knowledge of these matters, but has never attained it. Nevertheless, I do not deny that it is pleasing now and then to contemplate in the mind, as if in a picture, the image of a greater and better world, in order that our intelligence, grown accustomed to the trifles of modern life, may not shrink too drastically and become totally submerged in petty reflections.
Nevertheless, we must pay heed to truth and keep a just measure, so that we can distinguish sure things from uncertain, day from night. Libri Duo: I T is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. May'st hear the merry din. The WeddingGuest is spellbound by the eye of the old sea-faring man, and constrained to hear his tale.
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 Mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with a good wind and fair weather, till it reached the line. The ship was cheered, the harbor cleared, Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the light-house top.
The Sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he! And he shone bright, and on the right Went down into the sea.
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. 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 roared the blast, And southward aye we fled.
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 cracked and growled, and roared and howled, Like noises in a swound! Till a great seabird, called the Albatross, came through the snow-fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality.
At length did cross an Albatross, Thorough the fog it came; As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed 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 steered us through! And lo!
And a good south wind sprang 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 perched for vespers nine; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white, Glimmered the white Moon-shine. The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of good omen. From the fiends, that plague thee thus! T HE Sun now rose upon the right: Out of the sea came he, Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea.
And the good south wind still blew behind, But no sweet bird did follow, NOT any day for food or play Came to the mariners' hollo! And I had done a hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe: For all averred, I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch! The fair breeze continues; the ship enters the Pacific Ocean, and sails northward, even till it reaches the line. The skip hath been suddenly becalmed. Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, The glorious Sun uprist: Then all averred, I had killed the bird That brought the fog and mist.
The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed 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; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea! 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.
And the Albatross begins to be avenged. 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.
They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more. The shipmates, in their sore distress, would fain throw the whole guilt on the ancient Mariner: And every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root; We could not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot.
Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck was hung. T HERE passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time! How glazed each weary eye, When looking westward I beheld A something in the sky.