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  I met a little cottage girl:

  she was eight years old she said;

  her hair was thick with many a curl

  that clustered round her head.

  She had a rustic, woodland air,

  and she was wildly clad:

  her eyes were fair, and very fair;

  —her beauty made me glad.

  “Sisters and brothers, little Maid,

  how many may you be?”

  “How many? Seven in all,” she said

  and wondering looked at me.

  “And where are they? I pray you tell.”

  she answered, “Seven are we;

  and two of us at Conway dwell,

  and two are gone to sea.

  “Two of us in the church-yard lie,

  my sister and my brother;

  and, in the church-yard cottage, I

  dwell near them with my mother.”

  “You say that two at Conway dwell,

  and two are gone to sea,

  yet ye are seven! I pray you tell,

  sweet Maid, how this may be.”

  Then did the little Maid reply,

  “Seven boys and girls are we;

  two of us in the church-yard lie,

  beneath the church-yard tree.”

  “You run about, my little Maid,

  your limbs they are alive;

  if two are in the church-yard laid,

  then ye are only five.”

  “Their graves are green,

  they may be seen,”

  the little Maid replied,

  “twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,

  and they are side by side.

  My stockings there I often knit,

  my kerchief there I hem;

  and there upon the ground I sit,

  and sing a song to them.

  And often after sunset, Sir,

  when it is light and fair,

  I take my little porringer,

  and eat my supper there.

  The first that died was sister Jane;

  in bed she moaning lay,

  till God released her of her pain;

  and then she went away.

  So in the church-yard she was laid;

  and, when the grass was dry,

  together round her grave we played,

  my brother John and I.

  And when the ground was white with snow,

  and I could run and slide,

  my brother John was forced to go,

  and he lies by her side.”

  “How many are you, then,” said I,

  “if they two are in heaven?”

  Quick was the little Maid’s reply,

  “O Master, we are seven.”

  “But they are dead; those two are dead!

  Their spirits are in heaven!”

  ‘T was throwing words away; for still

  the little Maid would have her will,

  and said, “Nay, we are seven!”

  Samuel Taylor Coleridge (1772 – 1834)

  The Rime of the Ancient Mariner1

  PART I

  It is an ancient Mariner,

  and he stoppeth one of three.

  “By thy long beard and glittering eye,

  now wherefore stopp’st thou me?

  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 cheered, the harbor cleared,

  merrily did we drop

  below the kirk, below the hill,

  below the lighthouse 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.

  ‘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 roared 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 cliffs

  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!

  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 a good south wind sprung up behind;

  the Albatross did follow,

  and every day, for food or play,

  came to the mariner’s 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.’

  “God save thee, ancient Mariner!

  from the fiends, that plague thee thus!—

  why look’st thou so?’—With my cross-bow

  I shot the ALBATROSS.

  PART II

  The 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,

  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 averred, I had killed 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 averred, I had killed 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 followed free;

  we were the first that ever burst

  into tha
t 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.

  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.

  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 assurëd 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.

  Ah! well a-day! what evil looks

  had I from old and young!

  Instead of the cross, the Albatross

  about my neck was hung.

  PART III

  There passed a weary time. Each throat

  was parched, and glazed each eye.

  A weary time! 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 nor laugh nor wail;

  through utter drought all dumb we stood!

  I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,

  and cried, A sail! a sail!

  A flash of joy;

  with throats unslaked, with black lips baked,

  agape they heard me call:

  gramercy! they for joy did grin,

  and all at once their breath drew in,

  as they were drinking all.

  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 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.

  And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,

  (heaven’s Mother send us grace!)

  as if through a dungeon-grate he peered

  with broad and burning face.

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

  how fast she nears and nears!

  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?

  Is that a DEATH? and are there two?

  Is DEATH that woman’s mate?

  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 listened and looked sideways up!

  Fear at my heart, as at a cup,

  my life-blood seemed to sip!

  The stars were dim, and thick the night,

  the steerman’s face by his lamp gleamed white;

  from the sails the dew did drip—

  till clomb above the eastern bar

  the horned Moon, with one bright star

  within the nether tip.

  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.

  The souls did from their bodies fly,—

  they fled to bliss or woe!

  And every soul, it passed me by,

  like the whizz of my cross-bow!

  PART IV

  ’I fear thee, ancient Mariner!

  I fear thy skinny hand!

  And thou art long, and lank, and brown,

  as is the ribbed sea-sand.

  I fear thee and thy glittering eye,

  and thy skinny hand, so brown.’—

  Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!

  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 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.

  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 no where did abide:

  softly she was going up,

  and a star or two beside—

  her beams bemocked the sultry main,

  like April hoar-frost spread;

  but where the ship’s huge shadow lay,

  the charméd water burnt alway

  a still and awful red.

  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! no tongue

  their beauty might declare:

  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.

  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,

  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 blesséd 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;