PR Immmu!? fMrnirfimnmiH!!^^ ^M iiii lip: I! y > j)1 »< ^ i» m OF ill! iPii UM f l» ! !!li J:)!;i yi| ! ii! l !] !ii i | | l i|l i i i i !ii i^lji| i ii i ii i i|ji i i i l ii ciass_:ESi±yi Book ■f\ i CopigtitNl nr} CfiEmiGisr 0£Posm ffiak^ Engltsli Qllaastrs General Editor LINDSAY TODD DAMON, A.B. Professor of English in Brown University ADDISON— r/ie Sir Roger di Corerley Papers— Abbott 36c ADDISON AND STEELE— 5eJec/io/w from The Taller and The Spec- ^^^ tator — ABBOTT yEneid of Virgil— ALLINSON. ***= BROWNING — Selected Poems- Reynolds ■**<= BUNY AN— T/^e PUgrim's Progress— ^Latham 36c BURKE— Speech on Conciliation with Awerfc«— DExNNEY 36c CARLYLE — Essay on Burns — AiTON 28c CHAUCER— SeZeciions— Greenlaw 40c COLERIDGE— r/ie Ancient Mariner | ^ ^^^ _moodt 28c LOWELL— Fistow of Sir Launfal ) COOPER— T/je Last of the Mo^nca/w— Lewis 44c COOPER— r;?e Spy— Damon 44c DANA— ruo Years Before the Ma-si- Westcott 52c DEFOE — Robinson Crusoe— Hastings 40c 48c Democracy Today — Gauss DE OUINCEY— Joan of Arc and Selections— Moody : 32c DE QUINCEY— T/ie Flight of a Tartar Tafte— French 28c DICKENS — A Christmas Carol, etc. — BROAorrs 40c DICKENS — A Tale of Tuo CiKes— Baldwin 52c DICKENS— Dapid Copper/ieZd— Baldwin 52c DRYDEN— Paiamow and Arcite — Cook 28c EMERSON— Assays and Addresses— Ueybrick 40c English Poems— From Pope, Gray. Goldsmith. Coleridge. Byron. MACAULAY. ARNOLD, and Others— SCVDDER 52c English Popular Ballads — Hart 44c Essays — ENGLISH and American — Alden 48c Familiar Letters— Greenlaw 40c FRANKLIN — A wio&iO£?rapftj/— GRIFFIN 36c French Short Stories=-SCHWEiKERT 40c GASKELL (Mrs.)— Cran/07-d— Hancock 40c GEORGE ELIOT— S«as Marwer— Hancock 40c GEORGE ELIOT— r/ie Mill on the Floss— Ward 52c GOLDSMITH— TTie Vicar of Wakefield— Morton 36c HAWTHORNE— Tfte House of the Seven Ga&Zes- Herrick 44c HAWTHORNE— rwxce-roZd TaZes— Herrick and Brxjere 52c HUGHES — Tom Brown's School Days— be Mille 44c IKVING— Life of Goldsmith — KRAPP 44c IRVING— Tfte Sketch Book — Krapp 44c IRVING Tales of a Traveller— and parts of The Sketch Book— Krapp 52c ( [ LAMB — Essays of Elia — Benedict 40c LONGFELLOW — NarrcUive Poems — Pov/ell 44c LOWELL — Vision of Sir LaunfalSee Ck>leridge. MACAULAY — Essays on Addison and Johnson — Newcomer 40c MACAULAY — Essays on Clive and Hastings — Newcomer 40c MACAULAY — Goldsmith, Frederic the Great, Madame D'Arblay — New- comer 40c MACAULAY — Essaijs on Milton and Addison — Newcomer 40c MILTON — L' Allegro, II Penseroso, Comus. and Lj/cWas— Neilson . . . . 32c MILTON — Paradise Lost, Books I and II — Farley 32c Old Testament Narratives — Rhodes 44c One Hundred Narrative Poems — Teter 48c PALGRAVE — Golden Treasury — Newcomer 48c PARKMAN — The Oregon Trail — Macdonald 44c POE — Poems and Tales, Selected — Newcomer 40c POPE,— Homer's Iliad, Books I, VI, XXII, XXIV— CBEasT and Moody 32c READE— r?ie Cloister and The Hearth— de Mille 52c RUSKIN — Sesame and Lilies — Linn 28c Russian Short Stories — SCHWEIKERT 44c SCOTT — Ivanhoe — Simonds 52c SCOTT — Quentin Durward — Simonds 52c SCOTT — Lady of the Lake — Moody 40c SCOTT — Lay of the Last Minstrel — Moody and Willard 30c SCOTT — Marmion — Moody and Willard 40c SHAKSPERE — The Neilson Edition — Edited by W. A. Neilson, each 32c As You Like It Macbeth Hamlet Midsummer-Night' s Dream Henry V Romeo and Juliet Julius Caesar The Tempest Twelfth Night SHAKSPERE^ — Merchant of Venice — Lovett 32c SOUTHEY — Life of Nelson — Westcott 40c STEVENSON — Inland Voyage and Travels vith a Donkey — Leonard. 36c STEVENSON — Kidnapped — Leonard 36c STEVENSON— Treasure Island — Broadtjs 36c TENNYSON — Selected Poems — Reynolds 44c TENNYSON — The Princess — Copeland 28c THOREAU — Waiden — Bowman ^ 44c THACKERAY — Henry BsmoTid— Phelps 60c THACKERAY — English Humorists — Ctjnliffe and Watt 36c Three American Poems — The Raven. Snou-Bound, Miles Standish — Greever 32c Types of the Short Story — Heydrick 40c Washington, Webster, Lincoln — Denney 36c SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY CHICAGO: 623 S.Wabash Ave. NEW YORK: 8 East 34th Street ^Dtc %akt Cngltsif) Clasisiits; REVISED EDITION WITH HELPS TO STUDY THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE AND THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL EDITED FOR SCHOOL USE BY WILLIAM VAUGHN MOODY SOMETIME PROFESSOR OF ENGLISH, THE TXIVERSITY OF CHICAGO SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY CHICAGO NEW YORK COPYRIGHT, 1898, 1919, BY SCOTT, FORESMAN AND COMPANY ROBERT O. LAW COMPANY EDITION BOOK MANUFACTURERS CHiCAGO. U.S.A. APR 16 1919 ©CI.A5250S4 ^5- A CONTENTS THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER Introduction Pagi- Life of Coleridge 5 Critical Comment 19 Text 27 Notes 61 Appendix Helps to Study 104 Chronological Table 109 THE VISION OF SIR LAUNFAL Introduction 67 Text 83 Notes 99 Appendix Helps to Study 107 Chronological Table 109 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER INTRODUCTION LIFE OF COLERIDGE 1 Toward the end of the eighteenth century, a remark- able change began to take place in English poetry. For more than a century, first under the leadership of Dry- den, and then under that of Pope, poets had striven to give their verse formal correctness and elegance at the expense of naturabess and spontaneity. They had given up the free forms of verse used by the Eliza- bethan poets, and confined themselves almost entirely to a single form, the rhymed couplet. Subjects of romance and passion, such as the EUzabethans had loved, were discarded for more mundane themes, which could be handled with wit and precision, or with stately dignity of manner. But in the verse of Collins, Gray, Crabbe, and Burns, there appeared a strong protest against all this. Poets began to reassert their right 6 INTRODUCTION to represent the world of nature and men as they saw them, full of color, mystery, and emotion. This literary revolution, which marks the transition from the eighteenth to the ninete^ith centuries, we call — not very exactly — the Romantic movement; and of this movement Samuel Taylor Coleridge is one of the most interesting figures. His significance is of two sorts, as philosopher and as poet. As philosopher, he brought into England the new system of thought developed in Germany by Kant and his followers, — a life-long work, which took his best in energy and in time. As poet, his work is small in bulk, and was ac- complished almost entirely in a single wonderful year. But, small as it is in bulk, it occupies a place of the first importance in the history of English literature, and, what is more to our purpose, has at its best a peculiar enthralling beauty which we shall look in vain to find elsewhere c II Coleridge was bom October 21, 1772, at the vicarage of Gttery St^ Mary, in the county of Devonshire, Eng- land. His father was as eccentric and unworldly as a country parson and the father of Coleridge should have been. Of Coleridge's early life we get vivid glimpses LIFE OF COLERIDGE 7 from his later letters; or.c; remembers especially his slash- ing with a stick at rows of nettles representing the Seven Champions of Christendom. Such games were apt to be solitary, for, as he says himself, he ''never thought or spoke as a child," and his precocity had the inevitable effect of isolating him from his boisterous brothers. When nine years old, he was sent to Christ's Hos- pital, an ancient charity school in the heart of London. Here he met Charles Lamb, to whose essays the stu- dent should, turn for a picture of the school as it ap- peared then to boyish eyes. The orphan from the country, lonesome and friendless, who figures in the essay, Christ's Hospital Five and Thirty Years Ago, is Coleridge, a little manipulated for pathos perhaps. A pleasant anecdote of this school period narrates that one day Coleridge was walking in the streets of London and moving his arms about in a strange man- ner, when he accidently touched the pocket of an old gentleman passing. The irate citizen was about to hand him over to the police as a pickpocket. "I am not a pickpocket, sir," the boy protested, ''I only thought I was Leander swimming the Hellespont!" The old gentleman forthwith subscribed to a circulating library in order to give Leander his fill of books. The story continues that he read the whole list through without skipping a volume. 8 INTRODUCTION Whether this last assertion is true or not, Coleridge achieved, while at school, a great reputation for learn- ing. Lamb speaks of the "deep, sweet intonations** with which his friend used to recite Greek .hexameters and expound the mysteries of abstruse philosophers like JambUchus and Plotinus to casual passers in the halls of Christ's Hospital, while they stood astounded before him, as before a "young Mirandola,"* and "the walls of the old Grey Friars re-echoed the accents of the inspired charity boy." It was here, too, that Cole- ridge underwent the first profound poetic influence of his life. This he found in the sonnets of Bowles, a poet now entirely forgotten. The influence was for good, since Bowles, though not a strong writer, was a natural one, from whose verse Coleridge could learn, in a mild form, the new ideals of poetry which he him- self was to embody in more vivid work. At nineteen, Coleridge entered Jesus College, Cam- bridge. Here he met Southey, and plimged with him at once into the enthusiasm for social progress and political regeneration which the French revolution had aroused in all ardent young breasts. His ardor was temporarily dampened by anxiety over some col- lege debts which drove him to London and landed him at last in the recruiting office of the 15th Light Dra- *Pico della Mirandola, an Italian scholar of the early Renais- sance, famous for his precocious learning. LIFE OF COLERIDGE 9 goons. He passed two wretched months of service. Fortunately, he was a favorite with his messmates, and spent his time writing their letters home to mothers and sweethearts, while they groomed and saddled his horse. A Latin lament which he scribbled on the wall under his saddle-peg, caught the attention of a lettered captain, and "Private Cumberback," as he had signed himself in humorous allusion to his lack of horseman- ship, was sent back to Cambridge to finish his studies. The incident illustrates his impulsiveness and human charm, as well as the vacillation of will which was to prove so fatal to him. Ill After leaving college, Coleridge went with Southey. to Bristol, Southey's home. Here the two friends evolved a radiant scheme for the future. They de- termined to make actual some of the Utopian theories in the air at the time, by establishing an ideal com- munity across the ocean, on the banks of the Susque- hanna. The site was chosen chiefly, one iliust imagine, because of the musical name. _^ In this virgin Paradise, 10 INTRODUCTION they and their . fellow-colonists, with their wives, were to share in common the two hours a day of toil neces- sary to make the wilderness bloom as a rose, and to devote the remainder of their time to elevating pur- suits. Southey's more practical nature made him abandon this grand scheme of Pantisocracy, as it was called, long before Coleridge lost faith in it; and his desertion led to a rupture between the friends which was not healed for a long time. A part of their pro- gram, however, they proceeded to carry out: Coleridge married, in October, 1795, Miss Sarah Fricker, of Bristol; and six weeks later Southey married her sister Edith. The only assurance of income which Coleridge had to marry upon was an order from a Bristol publisher, Cottle, for a volume of poems. This volume, entitled Juvenile Poems , was soon forthcoming. In comparison with his later work, it contains nothing of note. The thirty guineas which it brought in, he attempted to eke out by preaching, lecturing, and publishing. To get subscribers for a projected periodical called The Watchfnan, Coleridge made a memorable tour of the midland counties, preaching on Sundays "as a tireless volunteer in a blue coat and white waistcoat," and charming everybody by his eloquence and earnestness. Of Coleridge as a preacher, we get from young Hazlitt, who had on this occasion walked ten miles through the mad to hear him, a vivid account. He says: LIFE OF COLERIDGE 11 Mr. Coleridge arose, and gave out his text, 'He departed again into a mountain, himself, alone.' As he gave out tliis text, 'lis voice rose like a steam of distilled perfumes; and when he came to the two last words, which he pronounced loud, deep, and distinct, it seemed to me . . .as if the sound . might have floated in solemn silence through the universe. The preacher then launched into his subject, like an eagle dallying with the wind. And, again, speaking of Coleridge's talk at this time: His genius had angelic wings, and fed on manna. He talked on forever, and you wished him to talk on forever. His thoughts did not seem to come with labor and effort, but as if the wings of imagination lifted him off his feet. His voice rolled on the ear like a pealing organ, and its sound alone was the music of thought. In spite of poverty and domestic cares, this Bristol period was a happy one for Coleridge, especially the time which he spent in the neighboring village of Cleve- don, in a little rose-covered cottage, close by the sea. It is sad to read, however, in one of his letters of this period, a sentence or two which prophesy the abyss of wretchedness ahead. He complains of violent neu- ralgia of the face, and says that he has ''sopped the Cerberus" with a heavy dose of laudanum. 12 , J.NTR0DUC1I0JN IV Early in 1797, Coleridge removed, with his wife and young baby, to a tiny cottage in the village of Nether Stowey, in the green Quantock hills, and a month later they were joined by Wordsworth and h^s sister Dorothy, who took the neighboring mansion of Alfoxden. Coleridge was then twenty-five, and his brother poet only a little older. They had knowm each other but a few months when a mutual attraction brought them thus closely together. For Wordsworth, their companionship w^as to mean much; for Coleridge, it was to mean everything. Under the bracing influence of Wordsworth's large, original mind, supplemented by the quick sympathy and suggestiveness of Dorothy, and the quiet beauty of the Quantocks, Coleridge shot up suddenly into full poetic stature. In little more than a year, he wrote all the poems which place him among the immortals. This was the year of Genevieve^ The Dark Ladie, Kuhla Khan, The Ancient Mariner j and the first part of Christahel, — truly, as it has been called, an annus mirahilis, a year of wonders. Of these The Ancient Mariner stands first as the one work of his life which he really completed; Kuhla Khan has a more spacious music; Christahel has a more elusive and eerie mystery; but both of these are fragments. Lli^E OJ^ COLKKlDGi^J 13 The Ancient Mariner is as rounded as a gem, and the light that plays through it is unstained by a single flaw. The Ancient Mariner was undertaken, singular to say, as a mere "pot-boiler/' Coleridge and the Words- worths had in mind a little autumn walking tour from Alfoxden over the Quantock hills to Watchet. To defray the expenses of the trip, some five pounds, they determined to compose together a poem to be sent to the New Monthly Magazine. Coleridge suggested, as a starting point, a dream which had been related to him by his friend Mr. Cruikshank, a dream '* of a skeleton ship, with figures in it." To this Wordsw^orth added something he had just read in Shelvocke's Voyages, an accoimt of the great albatrosses, with wings stretch- ing twelve or thirteen feet from tip to tip, which Shel- vocke had seen while doubling Cape Horn. Taking a hint from the same account, he suggested that a sailor should kill one of these birds, and that the tutelary spirits of the region should take vengeance on the mur- derer. Wordsworth also suggested the navigation of the ship by the dead men. Coleridge's imagination seized eagerly upon all these hints, and began to weave them into unity. The composition of the poem began at once, the two poets co-operating line by line. A few lines which stand in the completed poem were fur- nished by Wordsworth, especially the characteristic ones, S4 IMTRODUCTION And listens like a three years' chUd, The mariner hath his wiU, But they had not progressed far before their styles and manners of thought were seen to be so divergent that the idea of joint composition had to be abandoned. The task then naturally fell to Coleridge, because of the congeniality of the subject to his peculiar imagina- tion. As The Ancient Mariner bade fair to take on dimension too large to allow it to be put to the modest use originally intended, it was proposed to make a little volume by adding to it other poems which the friends had in manuscript, or were contemplating. In thr course of the following year, the volume appeared, under the title Lyrical Ballads. It is the most famous land- mark iij the history of the Romantic movement; in it the poetic ideals which had inspired the work of Cowper and Blake received for the first time full and clear ex- pression. What these ideals were may be summed up in the phrase "a return to nature. Fidelity to nature, and the use of the least artificial means possible in repro- ducing nature, constituted the most sincere among the many half-formed literary creeds of the day. But nature, rightly conceived, is two-sided. There is first the world of external fact, the visible world of men and things: and there is further the inner world of thought and imagination. It was a part of the philosophy LIFE OF COLERIDGE 15 which lay back of the Romantic movement, that this inner world was just as ''real/' just as truly existent, and therefore just as worthy of being talked about, as the outer one, — perhaps more so. This double aspect of the Romantic school is illustrated by the contents of the Lyrical Ballads. Wordsworth writes in simple language of simple incidents and simple people, though he does not fail to find a suggestion of strangeness and mystery in them as they are seen by the spiritual eye of the poet; in other words, he makes the usual appear strange simply by fastening our gaze intently upon it. Coleridge writes of fantastic, supernatural things, but also so simply, with so many concrete and exact details, that the world of imagination into which he leads us seems for the time the only real one. The Lyrical Bal- lads contained four poems by Coleridge, only a small portion of the whole; The Rime of the Ancient Mariner j however, has the place of honor at the beginning. For one happy year, the poets were free to roam over the Quantock downs. We are told that Cole- ridge loved to compose while walking over uneven ground, or ''breaking through straggling branches of copsewood," but that Wordsworth preferred a "straight gravel walk" for the purpose. Before we follow Cole- ridge hastily through the gloomy years ahead, let us see him as he appeared to his friends in his prime. Dor- othy Wordsworth says in her journal: 16 INTRODL'(JiiOi\ At first, I thought him very plain, that is for about three minutes. He is pale, has a wide mouth, thick lips, and not very good teeth; longish, loose-growing, half-curling, rough black hair. But if you hear liim speak for five minutes, you think no more of these. And Hazlitt writes: His forehead is broad and high, light, as if built of ivory, with large, projecting eyebrows; and his eyes rolled beneath them like a sea with darkened lustre. In the same year in which the Lyrical Ballads ap- peared, Coleridge received the gift of a small permanent annuity, and was enabled to carry out a cherished plan for visiting Germany. Here he plunged at once into the transcendental philosoph}^ of Kant and Schelling; and the rest of his life, so far as it had a unified purpose, was one long effort to interpret this philosoph}^ to Eng- land. On his return, however, his first labor was a literary one, a translation of Schiller's drama, Wallen- stein. He soon settled in the Lake country, where he shared a house w^th his brother-in-law, Southey. The dampness of the lake climate brought on his old neu- ralgic troubles, and as an escape from the intolerable pain, he resorted to opium. The history of the next ten 3^ears, when his marvelous powders should have been putting forth their finest product, is a heart-breaking succession of half-attempts and whole-failures, in newfj- LIFE OF COLEKlDGi^ IV paper work, magazine editing, and lecturing; the fatal habit fastened itself more and more tightly upon him, sapping his will and manhood. At last, in 1814, he voluntarily put himself under the surveillance of a London physician. Dr. Gillman. He lived in the doc- tor's house from this time forth, and gradually struggled free from his bondage to the drug. From the beginning of his residence with Dr. Gillman until his death, in 1834, Coleridge stood as a kind of prophet and seer to young men eager to penetrate into the arcana of transcendental philosophy. One more picture of him, as he -appeared in old age to young Thomas Carlyle, will do to bear away: Coleridge sat on the brow of Highgate Hill, in those years looking down on London and its smoke-tumult, like a sage escaped from the inanity of life's battles; attracting toward him the thoughts of innumerable brave souls still engaged there. . . . He was thought to hold, he alone in England, the key of German and other transcendentalisms; knew the sublime secret of believ- ing by the 'reason' what the 'understanding' had been obliged to fling out as incredible. ... A sublime man; who, alone in those dark days, had saved his crown of spiritual manhood; escaping from the black materialisms, and revolutionary deluges, with 'God, Freedom, Immortality' still his; a king of men. The practical intellects of the world did not much heed him, or care- lessly reckoned him a metaphysical dreamer. But to the rising spirits of the young generation, he had this dusky, sublime char- acter; and sat there as a kind of Magus, girt in mysteiy and enigma. 18 INTRODUCTION We may do well to bear in mind, in reading The Ancient Mariner, that it was from a brain of this order that the poem came. Though its beauty is sufficient for us, though as poetry, and poetry only, it must be taken, yet no harm can come from remembering that the man who has made us feel the wildness and the wonder of this dream-sea, was a metaphysician, at home «>mong the immensities of abstract thought. CRITICAL COMMENT I The "moral meaning" of The Ancient Mariner is plain, — too plain, perhaps, as Coleridge is himself reported to have said. The lesson it teaches is the duty« of human kindness to "man and bird and beast." The mariner's wanton cruelty in shooting the albatross draws down upon him and his companions the wrath of the polar spirit. Those who have merely selfishly acquiesced in the crime, from a belief that the bird was of evil omen, are punished with death, but the Ancienf Mariner, as the prime offender, is reserved for a more dreadful punishment His setting apart for particular vengeance is typified by the dice-throwing on the deck of the skeleton ship, by which Life-in-Death wins him away from Death, and Death wins the rest of the crew. Thus far he has suffered only physical torture, but now spiritual torture succeeds. He can- not pray, for always a "wicked whisper" comes to 19 20 INTRODUCTION make his heart as dry as dust. Why? Because his heart is still full of hate. His shipmates, whom he after- wards speaks of lovingly as "the many men so beautiful,'* are now for him only rotting corpses on the rotting deck, with eyes that curse even in death. Suddenly, how- ever, his soul is mystically touched. He sees the moon going softly up the sky, with a star or two in company, not spectral, or strange, but as if "the blue sky belonged to them" and there was a "silent joy at their arrival." With eyes thus opened by sympathy, he looks upon the water-snakes, which before have seemed to him slimy and loathsome, but which now as they play are clothed in beautiful light, as befits "God's creatures of the great calm." A spring of love gushes from his heart, and he blesses them for their beauty and their happiness. Instantly the horrid spell is broken, and to his soul comes the relief of prayer, to his body sleep and the gift of rain. Angelic spirits, sent into the bodies of the dead crew, take back the ship, with songs, to the fatherland, where the Mariner may expiate his sin in prayer and ever-repeated confession. Such is the spiritual meaning of the poem. It exists as a kind of undertone, giving to the poetry a certain religious depth and solemnity which it would not other- wise possess. It is not, however, to be made too much of. The delicate dream-world in which the poem moves, with its great pictures of night and morning, of arctic CRITICAL COMMENT 21 and tropic seas; with its melodies of whispering keel, of sere sails rustling leafily, of dead throats singing spectral carols, — all this should not be passed by through zeal to get at the "meaning." The beauty is meaning enough. First of all, a reader must abandon himself to the illusion, put himself into the story, and try to realize its movement, to see its sights, to hear its sounds. He must give to it at least what Coleridge calls "that wifling suspension of disbelief which constitutes poetic faith." Having read the poem in this way, not once but many times, the student can begin to examine it more closely. Here, the notes, and the gloss* printed in smal' type at the side of the verse, will be of aid. Until he has read and "felt" the poem for himself he should not pay any attention to them; afterward he should study them carefully in connection with the^ text. The notes are to be taken not as an exhaustive comment, but only as hints in an independent search for whatever of beauty or interest the poem can yield. The student will do well to jot down in the margin obser- vations of his own to supplement them. Then, after a little interval, he should read the poem again, as a whole, and try to see it once more in its entirety, but with the added understanding which study has brought. *This gloss, imitated from old writers, did not originally ac- company the poem; it was added in a later edition. 22 INTRODUCTION XI The simple ballad measure in which The Ancient Mariner is written presents no difficulties in reading. Attention to some of the metrical effects, however, and the means by which they are produced, will ma- terially increase one's pleasure in the verse. The following line may be taken as the normal one, from which all other types are variations: The ship ] was cheered | the har- \ bor cleared. There is here a regular succession of unstressed and stressed syllables, each pair constituting a foot. This foot, in which the stress falls on the second syllable, is called iambic. Most of the feet which occur in the poem are of this sort. In some cases, however, the stress, instead of falling on the second syllable of the foot, is shifted to the first syllable, as in the first foot of each of the following lines: We were | the first ] that ev- \ er burst In-to 1 that si- [ lent sea. The introduction of this foot, called trochaic, gives a distinctly different movement to the line; the music. CRITICAL COMMENT 23 as well as the sense, would be destroyed by emphasizing the second syllable. Again, the number of syllables in a given foot is sometimes not two, but three, as in the first foot of the line, And the good 1 south wind ] still blew | be-hind. This foot, of two unstressed syllables, followed by one stressed syllable, is called anapestic„ An anapest oc- cupies no more time in reading than an iamb, for the weak syllables are pronounced very lightly. Hence, the movement of a line in which anapests occur is rapid. Sometimes all three varieties of feet described above occur in a single line; as. To and | fro we | were hur- | ried a-boiit. which is made up of two trochees, one iamb, and one anapest. The disturbed movement of the line cor- responds with the idea which it expresses. Variations also occur in the stanza form. The normal ballad stanza is of four lines, the first and third of four feet, unrh3^med, the second and fourth of three feet, rhymed. In one or two cases, an extra syllable is added to the three-foot line; as, With a short ( un-eas- [ y mo- | tion. 24 liNTRODUCnON Medial rhymes sometimes occur in the four-foot lines; as, ''The game is done! I've won! I've wo7if Coleridge varies this stanza form to include five, six, and, in one case, nine lines, variously rhymed. In some cases, the variation is merely for variety; in others, it is intended to re-inforce the thought. Stanza 48, for example, strengthens the impression of suspense; stanza 12, the impression of hurry. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER PART THE FIRST It is an ancient Mariner, And he stoppeth one of three. By thy long gray beard and gUttering eye, Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? • II 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." Ill He holds him with his skinny hand, "There was a ship/' quoth he Hold off! unhand me, gray-beard loon!" Eftsoons his hand dropt he. An ancient Mariner meeteth tiiree Gal- lants bid- den to a wedding- feast, and detaineth one. IV He holds him with his glittering eye- The Wedding-Guest stood still, And listens hke a three years' child: The Mariner hath his will. 27 The Wed- ding-Guest is spell- bound by the eye of the old sea- faring man, and con- strained to hear his tale. 28 THE ANCIENT MARINER The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone; He cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. VI "The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill, Below the lighthouse top. The Mar- iner telis how the ship sailed southward with a good wind and fair weather till it reached the Line. VII 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. VIII 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 Wed- ding-Guest heareth tho bridal music; but the Mariner continueth his tale. IX The bride hath paced into the hall, Red as a rose is she; Nodding their heads before her goes The merry minstrelsy. THE ANCIENT MARINER 29 X The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot choose but hear; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. XI "And now the Storm-Blast came, and he Was tyrannous and strong: He struck with his o'ertaking wings, And chased us south along. The ship drawn by storm to- ward the south pole. XII 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. XIII And now there came both mist and snow. And it grew wondrous cold: And ice, mast-high, came floating by As green as emerald. XIV 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 land ot ice, and of fearful sounds, where no living thing was to be seen. 30 THE ANCIENT MARINEK XV 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 sea-bird, called the Albatross, came through the snow-fog, and was re- ceived with great joy and hospi- tality. XVI 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. XVII It ate the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it fiew. The ice did split with a thunder-fit; The helmsman steered us through! And lo! the Albatross Eroveth a ird of good omen, and followeth the ship as it returned northward, through fog ind floating V;e. XVIII And a good south wind sprung up behind; The Albatross did follow. And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariners' hollo! XIX 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 ^L4R1NER v5l XX "God save thee, ancient Manner! The anciem From the fiends, that plague thee thus! — inhospita- Why look'st thou so?" — ''With my cross-bow the pious 1 shot the Albatross. omen. PART THE SECOND XXI The Sun now rose upon the right r Out of the sea came he, Still hid in mist, and on the left Went down into the sea. XXII 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! His ship- mates cry out against the ancient Mariner, for killing the bird of good luck. XXIII 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!' said they, 'the bird to slay,, That made the breeze to blow!' But when the fog cleared off, they justify the same, and thus make them- selves ac- complices in the crime. XXIV 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.' 32 THE ANCIENT MARINER 33 XXV The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, brlei?^con- The furrow followed free; sSplAterl We were the first that ever burst oSfn and Into that silent sea. ward^even till it* reaches the Line. XXVI Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, Jath^be^n Twas sad as sad could be; beSiS. And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea! XXVII All in a hot and copper sky, The bloody Sun, at noon. Right up above the mast did stand, No bigger than the Moon. XXVIII Day after day, day after day. We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. XXIX Water, water, everywhere, - Aibatnfss And all the boards did shrink; a^fn^'ged" ^^ Water, water, everywhere. Nor anv drop to d?^ink. 34 THE ANCIENT MARINER XXX The very deep did rot: O Christ! > That ever this should be! Yea, shmy things did crawl with legs Upon the slimy sea XXXI About, about, m reel and rout The death-fires danced at^ night; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue, and white. XXXII A spirit had And some in dreams assured were them^;^one Of the Spirit that plagued us so: visible in- Nine fathom deep he had followed us habitants of f^ j.i i i r • j. i tiiis planet, From the land of mist and snow. neither de- parted souls nor angels; concerning \\'hom the learned Jew Josephus, and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more. The ship- mates in their sore distress would fain throw the whole guilt on the an- dent Mar- iner; in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his fleck. XXXIII And every tongue, through utter drought, Was withered at the root; We oould not speak, no more than if We had been choked with soot- XXXIY Ah! well-a-day! what evil looks Had I from old and young! Instead of the cross, the Albatross About my neck w^as hung. PART THE THIRD XXXV 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. XXXVI 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. XXXVII 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. The ancient Mariner be- hold eth a sign in the element afar off. XXXVIII At its nearer ap- proach, it seemeth With, throats unslaked, with black lips baked, mm to be 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! 35 ship; and at a dear ransom he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst- 36 THE ANCIENT AL4RINER A flash of joy; XXXIX With throats unslaked, with black lips baked. Agape they heard rne call: Gramercy! they for joy did grin, And all at once their breath drew in, As they were drinking all. And horror follows. For can it be a ship that comes on- ward with- out wind or :ide? XL See! see! (I cried) she tacks no morel Hither to work us weal; Without a breeze, without a tide, She steadies with upright keel! XLI 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. It seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship. XLII 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. XLIII Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fast she nears and nears! Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, l^ike restless 2;ossameres? iHE AiNClENT MARINER XLIV 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? XLV Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold: Her skin was as w^hite as leprosy, The Night-mare Life-in-Death w^as she, Who thicks man's blood with cold. 37 And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting Sun. The Spec- tre-Woman and her Death- mate, and no other on board the skeleton- ship. Like vessel, like crew: XLVI The naked hulk alongside came, And the twain were casting dice; The game is done! I've won! IVe won!' Quoth she, and whistles thrice. Death and Life-in- Death have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) win- neth the ancient Mariner. XLVII 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. No twilight within the courts of the Sun. 38 THE ANCIENT MARINER At the rising of the Moon, XLVIII We listened and looked sideways upf Fear at my heart, as at a cup, My life-blood seemed to sip! The stars were dim, and thick the night, The steersman'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 another XLIX 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. His ship- mates arop down dead, L Four times fifty living men, (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) With heavy thump, a lifeless lump, They dropped down one by one. But Life- in-Death begins her work on the ancient Mariner. LI The souls did from their bodies fly— They fled to bliss or woe! And every soul, it passed me by, Like the whizz of mv cross-bowl" PART THE FOURTH LII "I fear thee ancient Mariner! I fear thy skinny hand! And thou art long, and lank, and brown, As is the ribbed sea-sand. The Wed- ding-Guest feareth that a Spirit is talking to him ; 'LIII 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. LIV Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide wide sea! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. Bui the an- cient Mar- iner assureth him of his bodily life, and pro- ceedeth to relate his horrible , penance. LV Thje many men, so beautiful! And they all dead did lie: And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on; and so did I. 39 He despis- eth the creatures of the calm. 40 THE ANCIENT MARINEH And envi- eth that they should live, and so many lie dead. LVI I looked upon the rotting sea, And drew my eyes away; I looked upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay. LVII 1 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. But the curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men. LVIII 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. LIX 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. LX An orphan's curse would drag to Hell A spirit from on high; But oh! more horrible than that Is a curse in a dead man's eye! Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse^ And yet I could not die. THE ANCIENT MARINER 41 LXI The moving Moon went up the sky, iVnd nowhere did abide: Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside — In his lone- liness and fixedness he yearneth towards the journeying Moon, and the stars that slill sojourn, ye«i still move onward ; and every- where the blue sky be- longs to them, and is their ap- pointed rest and their native country and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival. LXII Her beams bemocked the sultry main, Like April hoar-frost spread; But where the ship's huge shadow lay, The charmed water burnt alway A still and awful red. LXIII 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. By the light of the Moon he behold- eth God'? creatures of the great calm. LXIV 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. THE ANCIENT l^URINER LXV happy living things! no tongue Their beauty might declare: A spring of love gushed from my heartj And I blessed them unaware! Sure my kind saint took pity on me^ And I blessed them unaware. LXVI The selfsame moment I could pray; And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank like lead into the sea. ^ PART THE FIFTH LXVII Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing, Beloved from pole to pole! To Mary Queen the praise be given f She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, That slid into my souL LXVIII The silly buckets oi; the deck, That had so long remained, I dreamt that they were filled with dew; And when I awoke, it rained. By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient Mariner is refreshed with rain. LXIX 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. LXX 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. 43 44 THU. ANCIENT MARINER He heareth sounds, and seeth strange sights and commo- tions in the sky and the element. LXXI A.nd 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. LXXII The upper air burst into hfe! 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. LXXIII 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. LXXIV The thick black cloud was cleft, and still The Moon was at its side: Like waters shot fiom some high crag, The lightning fell with never a jag, A river steep and wide. The bodies of the ship's crew are inspired, and the ship moves on. LXXV 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. THE ANCIENl MARINER 45 LXXVI 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. LXXVII The helmsman steered, 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. LXXVIII The body of my brother's son Stood by me, knee to knee: The body and I pulled at one rope, But he said naught to me." LXXIX "I fear thee, ancient Mariner!" ''Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest! 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, Which to their corses came again, But a troop of spirits blest: LXXX 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. But not by the souls of the men, nor by demons of earth or middle air, but by a blessed troop of an- gelic spirits, sent down by the invo. cation of the guard- ian saint. 4s THE ANCIENT MARINER LXXXI Around, around, flew each sweet sound, Then darted to the Sun; Slowly the sounds came back again, Now mixed, now one by one. LXXXII Sometimes a-dropping from the sky I heard the sky-lark sing; Sometimes all little birds that are, How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning! LXXXIII And now 'twas Hke all instruments. Now hke a lonely flute; And now it is an angel's song, That makes the heavens be mute. LXXXIV 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 time. LXXXV Till noon we quietly sailed on, Yet never a breeze did breathe: Slowly and smoothly went the ship. Moved onward from beneath. THE ANCIENT ^L\RINER 47 LXXXVI 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 lone- some Spirit from the south-pole carries on the ship as far as the Line, in obedience to the an- gelic troop, but still re- quireth ven- geance. LXXXVII The Sun, right up above the mast. Had fixed 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. LXXXVIII 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. LXXXIX How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare; But ere my living life returned, I heard and in mv soul discerned Two voices m tlie an. 48 THE ANCIENT MARINER The Polar Spirit's fel- low de- mons, the invisible in- habitants of the ele- ment, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to the other, that pen- ance long and heavy for the an- cient Mari- ner hath been ac- corded to the Polar Spirit, who returneth southward. xc '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. XCI 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.' XCII The other was a softer voice. As soft as honey-dew: Quoth he, *The man hath penance dc ; And penance more will do ' PART THE SIXTH XCIII FIRST VOICE 'But tell me, tell me! speak again, Thy soft response renewing — What makes that ship drive on so fast^ What is the Ocean doing?' XCIV 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 — xcv If he may know which w^ay to go: For she guides him smooth or griro See, brother, see! how gracioush^ She looketh down on him.' XCVI FIRST VOICE 'But why drives on that ship so fast, Without or wave or wind?' SECOND VOICE *The air is cut away before, And closes from behind, 49 The Mar-' iner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power caus- eth the veS' sel to drive northward faster than human life could en- dure. 59 THE ANCIENT MARINER XCVII 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.' The super- natural motion is retarded ; the Mariner awakes, and his penance begins XCVIII 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. XCIX All stood together on the deck. For a charnel-dungeon fitter: All fixed on me their stony eyes That in the Moon did glitter. The pang, the curse, with which they died, Had never passed away: I could not draw my eyes from theirs. Nor turn them up to pray. The curse is finally expiated. CI And now this spell was snapt: once more I viewed the Ocean green, And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen — THE ANCIENT ^L\RINER 51 CII Like one that on a lonesome road Doth walk in fear and dread; And having once turned round, walks on, And turns no more his head; Because he knows a frightful fiend Doth close behind him tread cm 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. CIV It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek Like a meadows-gale of spring — It mingled strangely with my fears, Yet it felt like a welcoming. CV Swiftly, swifth^ flew the ship. Yet she sailed softly too: , Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — On me alone it blew. CVI Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed The light-house top I see? Is this the hill? is this the kii'k? Is this mine own countree? And the ancient Mariner b*> holdeth hia r2tixe country. 52 THE ANCIENT MARINER CVII We drifted o'er the harbour-bar, And I with sobs did pray^ — *0 let me be awake, my God! Or let me sleep alway.' CVIII 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. CIX The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, That stands above the rock: The moonlight steeped in silentness The steady weathercock. The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies, cx And the bay was white with silent light, Till rising from the same, Full many shapes, that shadows were, In crimson colours came. And appear in their own forms of lipbt CXI A little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were: I turned my eyes upon the deck- Oh, Christ! what saw I there! THE ANCIENT MARINER 53 CXII Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, And, by the holy rood! A man all light, a seraph-man, On every corse there stood. CXIII This seraph-band, each v/aved his hand: It was a heavenly sight! They stood as signals to the land, Each one a lovely Hght; CXIV This seraph-band, each waved his hand; No voice did they impart — No voice; but oh! the silence sank Like music on my heart. cxv But soon I heard the dash of oars, I heard the Pilot's cheer; My head was turned perforce away, And I saw a boat appear. CXVI 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. 55 THE ANCIENT MARINER CXVII 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. PART THE SEVENTH CXVIII This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea: How loudly his sweet voice he rears! He loves to talk with marineres That come from a far countree. I'lie Hermit of the wood CXIX 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. cxx The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk, 'Why this is strange, 1 trow! IVhere are those lights so many and fair. That signal made but now?' CXXI Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said — 'And they answered not our cheer! The planks look warped! and see those sails How thin they are and sere! I never saw aught like to them, Unless perchance it were 55 Approach- etn the ship with won- der. 66 THE ANXIENT MARINER CXXIl 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.' CXXIII *Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look' — (The Pilot made reply) *I am a-feared' — 'Push on, push on!' Said the Hermit cheerily. CXXIV The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred; The boat came close beneath the ship, And straight a sound was heard. The ship snddenly sinketh. The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat. cxxv Under the water it rumbled on, Still louder and more dread* It reached the ship, it split the bay; The ship went down like lead. CXXVI stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote, Like one that hath been seven days drowned My body lay afloat; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within thp Pilot's boat. THE ANCIENT MARINER 61 CXXVII 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. CXXVIII I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked And fell down in a fit; The Holy Hermit raised his e3^es And prayed where he did sit, CXXIX I took the oars: the Pilot's boy, Who now doth crazy go. Laughed 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.' cxxx And now, all in my own countree, I stood on the firm land! The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcelv he could stand. CXXXI *0 shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!' The Hermit crossed his brow. 'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say — What manner of man art thou?' The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him; and the penauc