 The Rhyme of the Ancient Mariner, in seven parts, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, read and recorded for LibriVox.org by Sandra. Part I. It is an ancient mariner, and he stopeth one of three. By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, now wherefore stops thou me? The bridegroom's doors are opened wide, and I am next of kin. The guest-sommet, the feast is set, mayest hear the merry din. He holds him with his skinny hand, there was a ship, quote he. Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loom! Off zooms his hand, drops he. He holds him with his glittering eye. The wedding guest stood still, and listens like a three-year's 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 harbour 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. Notting their heads before her goes the merry minstrelsy. The wedding guest here 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'er-taking wings, and chased south along. With sloping masts and dipping prowl, as he 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 eye 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 or beasts we can, 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 swan. A 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 hath eaten, and round and round it flew. The ice did split with a thunder-fit, the helmsmen 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 mariners hollow. In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud it perched for Vespers nine. While all the night through fog smelt quite glimmered the white moonshine. God save the ancient mariner from the fiend that plague thee thus! If I looks thou so, with my crossbow 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 hollow. And I had done the hellish thing, and it would work and well. For all a bird I had killed the bird that made the breeze to blow. A wretch, said they, the bird to slay that made the breeze to blow. Nor dim or red, like God's own head, the glorious sun uprised. Then all a bird I had killed the bird that brought the fog and mist. T'was right, said they, such birds to slay that bring the fog and mist. The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, the forrow followed free. We were the first that ever burst into that silent sea. Down dropped the breeze, the sails dropped down. T'was 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 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, not any drop to drink. The very deep did rot. Oh, 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 assured were of the spirit that plagued us so. Nine fathoms deep he had followed us from the land of mist and snow. And every tongue through uttered rout 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 third. 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 whisked. A speck, a mist, a shape I whisked. 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 uttered rout all dumb we stood. And my arm and suck the blood and cried a sail, a sail! With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, a gape they heard me call. Grammarcy they forjoy 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 wheel. Without a breathe, without a tide, she steadies with upright keel. The western wave was all aflame, the day was well my 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 great she peered with broad and burning face. Alas! thought I in my heart beat loud, how fast she nears and nears! Are those her sails that glance in the sun like restless gossip ears? 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 nightmare 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, quote 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's 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 cloned 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 no sign or 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 crossbow. Part the fourth. I fear thee, ancient mariner, I fear thy skinny hand, and thou art long and lank and brown as is the rubed sea-sand. I fear thee, and thy glittering eye, and thy skinny hand so brown. Fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest, this body drop 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 wherever a prayer had gushed, it whisper came, and made my heart as dry as dust. I closed my lids, and kept them closed, and the bowls like pulses beat, for the sky and the sea and the sea and the sky lay like a load, and my weary eye and the dead were at my feet. The cold sweat melted from their limbs, nor rot nor rick did they. The look with which they looked on me had never passed away, and 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 moving moon went up the sky, and nowhere did it abide. Softly she was going up, and a star or two beside. Her beams be mocked the sultry mane, like April whore forced spread, but where the ship's huge shadow lay, the charmed water burnt all way, 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 gold and fire. All 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 for my neck so free the albatross fell off and sank like lead into the sea. Part the fifth. 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 blessed ghost. And soon I heard a roaring wind. It did not come in ear, but with its sound it shook the sails that were so thin and sear. The upper air burst into life at a hundred fire flags sheen. Two and fro they were hurried about, and two and fro and in and out the one stars danced between. And the coming wind did grow 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 up rose, nor spake nor moved their eyes. It had been strange, even in a dream, to have seen those dead men rise. The helmsmen steered, the ship moved on, yet never a breeze up blue. The mariners all gang worked the ropes as 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 pulled at one rope, but he said not to me. I fear the ancient mariner. Be calm, thou wedding-guest. It was not those souls that fled in pain which to their courses came again, but a troop of spirits blessed. For when it dawned, they dropped their arms and clustered round the mast. Sweet sounds rose slowly from their mouths and from their bodies' past. A round, a round flew each sweet sound, then darted to the sun. Slowly the sounds came back again, now mixed, now one by one. Sometimes, a dropping from the sky, I heard the skylark sing. Sometimes all little birds that are, how they seemed to fill the sea and air with their sweet jargoning. And now it was like all instruments, now like a lonely flute, and now it is an angel 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 sailed on, yet never a breeze did breathe. Slowly and smoothly went the ship, moothed 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 ships stood still also. The sun, right up above the mast, had fixed her to the ocean, but in a minute she ganned stir, with a short uneasy motion. Backwards and forwards half her length, with a short uneasy motion. Then like a pouring 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 returned, I heard and in my soul discerned two voices in the air. Is it he, quote 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 who loved the man who shot him with his bow. The other was a softer voice, a soft as honey-dew, Quoth he, the man hath penance done, and penance more will do. Part the sixth. But tell me, tell me, speak again, thy soft response renewing. What makes that ship drive on so fast? What is the ocean doing? 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. But why drives on that ship so fast, without a wave or wind? The air is cut away before, and closes from behind. 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. It was night, calm night, the moon was high, the dead men stood together. 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. And now this spell was snapped once more, I viewed the ocean green, and looked 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 turned round walks on, and turns no more his head, because he knows a frightful fiend does 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 found my cheek, like a meadowgale of spring. It mingled strangely with my fears, yet it felt like a welcoming. Swiftly, swiftly through the ship, yet she sailed softly too. Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze, on me alone it blew. Oh, dream of joy, is this indeed the lighthouse top I see? Is this the hill, is this the Kirk, is this my own country? We drifted over the harbour bar, and I with sobs did pray, Oh, let me be awake, my God, or let me sleep all way. 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 steeped in silentness, the steady weather-cock. And the bay was white, with silent light, till rising from the same, full many shapes that shadows were in crimson colours came. A little distance from the prowl, those crimson shadows were. I turned my eyes upon the deck. Oh, Christ, what saw I there? Each course lay flat, lifeless, and flat. And by the holy rude, a man all light, a seraph man, on every course 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, oh, this silence sang like music on my heart. But soon I heard the dash of oars. I heard the pilots cheer. My head was turned 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' blood. Part the seventh. This hermit good lives in the wood that slopes down to the sea. How loudly his sweet voice he rears! He loves to talk with mariners that come from a far country. He kneels at morn and noon and eve. He hath a cushion plump. It is the moss that wholly hides that rotted old oak stump. The skips boat near I heard them talk. Why, this is strange, I troll. Where are those lights so many and fair that signal made but now? Strange by my faith, the hermit said, and they answered not our cheer. The planks looked warped, and see those sails how thin they are and sear. I never saw aught like to them, unless perchance it were brown skeletons of leaves that lie, my forest brook along. When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, and the owl it whoops to the wolf below, it eats the she-wolf's young. Dear Lord, it hath a fiendish look, the pilot made reply. I am a fiend, push on, push on, said the hermit cheerily. The boat came closer to the ship, but I nor spake nor stirred. The boat came close beneath the ship, and straighter sound was heard. 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. 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 the pilot's boat. Upon the whirl where sank the ship, the boat spun round and round, and all was still saved that the hill was telling of the sound. I moved my lips, the pilot shranked, and fell down in a fit. The holy hermit raised his eyes and prayed where he did sit. 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! quote he, full plain I see, the devil knows how to row. And now, all in my own country, I stood on the firm land. The hermit stepped forth from the boat, and scarcely he could stand. Oh, shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man! The hermit crossed his brow. Say, quick, quote he, I bid thee say, what manner of man art thou? Fourthward, this frame of mine was wrenched with a woeful agony, which forced me to begin my tale, and then it left me free. Since then, at an uncertain hour, that agony returns, until my ghastly tale is told, this heart within me burns. I pass like night from land to land. I have the 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 wears from that door? The wedding-ests are there. But in the garden-ballot, the bride and bridesmaid singing are. And heart the little vespers bell, which bideth me to prayer. O wedding-guest, this soul hath been alone on a wide, wide sea. So lonely it was that God, himself, scarce seemed there to be. O sweeter than the marriage-feast, to 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 for 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 whore, is gone, and now the wedding-guest turned from the bridegroom's door. He went like one that hath been stunned, and is of sense for lawn. A sadder and a wiser man, he rose the morrow morn. End of Poem. This recording is in the Public Domain. The Sensitive Plant by Percy Bischelli Recorded for LibriVox.org by Amy Gremor Part 1 A sensitive plant in a garden grew, and the young winds fed it with silver dew, and it opened its fan-like leaves to the light, and closed them beneath the kisses of night. And the spring arose on the garden fair, like the spirit of love felt everywhere, and each flower in herb on earth's dark breast rose from the dreams of its wintry rest. But none ever trembled and panted with bliss in the garden, the field, or the wilderness, like a doe in the noontide with love-sweet want as the companionless sensitive plant. The snow-drop and then the violet arose from the ground with warm rain wet, and their breath was mixed with fresh odor sent from the turf like the voice and the instrument. Then the pied wind-flowers and the tulip-tall and Narcissae, the fairest among them all, who gaze on their eyes in the stream's recess till they die of their own dear loveliness. And the naïd like Lily of the Vale, whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale that the light of its tremulous bells is seen through their pavilions of tender green. And the hyacinths purple and white and blue, which flung from its bells a sweet peel anew, of music so delicate, soft, and intense, it was felt like an odor within the scents. And the rose-like nymphs to the bath-addressed, which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast, till fold after fold to the fainting air the soul of her beauty and love lay bare. And the wand-like Lily, which lifted up as a main ad its moonlight-colored cup, till the fiery star, which is its eye, gaze through clear dew on the tender sky. And the jessemen faint and the sweet tuberose, the sweetest flower for scent that blows, and all rare blossoms from every climb, grew in that garden in perfect prime. And on the stream, whose inconstant bosom was pranked under boughs of embowering blossom, with golden and green light slanting through their heaven of many a tangled hue. Broadwater lilies lay tremulously, and starry river-buds glimmered by, and around them the soft stream did glide and dance with a motion of sweet sound and radiance. In the sinuous paths of lawn and of moss, which led through the garden along and across, some open at once to the sun and the breeze, some lost among bowers of blossoming trees. We're all paved with daisies and delicate bells, as fair as the fabulous asphadels. And florets, which drooping as day drooped to, fell into pavilions, white purple and blue, to roof the glowworm from the evening dew. And from this undefiled paradise, the flowers, as an infant's awakening eyes smile on its mother, whose singing sweet can first lull and at last must awaken it. When heaven's blithe winds had unfolded them, as mine-lamps and kindle a hidden gem, shone smiling to heaven and every one shed joy in the light of the gentle sun. For each one was interpenetrated with the light and the odor its neighbor shed, like young lovers whom youth and love make dear, wrapped and filled by their mutual atmosphere. But the sensitive plant, which could give small fruit of the love which it felt from the leaf to the root, received more than all, it loved more than ever, where none wanted but it could belong to the giver. For the sensitive plant has no bright flower, radiance and odor are not its dour. It loves even like love its deep heart is full, it desires what it has not, the beautiful. The light winds which from unsustaining wings shed the music of many murmurings, the beams which dart from many a star of the flowers whose hues they bear afar. The plumed insects swift and free, like golden boats on a sunny sea, laden with light and odor which pass over the gleam of the living grass. The unseen clouds of the dew which lie like fire and flowers till the sun rides high, then wander like spirits among the spheres each cloud faint with the fragrance it bears. The quivering vapors of dim noon tide which like a sea or the warm earth glide in which every sound and odor and beam move as reeds in a single stream. Each and all like ministering angels were for the sensitive plant sweet joy to bear whilst the lagging hours of the day went by like windless clouds or a tender sky. And when evening descended from heaven above and the earth was all rest and the air was all love and delight though less bright was far more deep and the days veil fell from the world of sleep. And the beasts and the birds and the insects were drowned in an ocean of dreams without a sound whose waves never mark though they ever impress the light sand which paves it consciousness. Only overhead the sweet nightingale ever saying more sweet as the day might fail and snatches of its Elysian chant were mixed with the dreams of the sensitive plant. The sensitive plant was the earliest up gathered into the posam of rest a sweet child wary of its delight the feeblest and yet the favorite cradled within the embrace of night. Part 2 There was a power in this sweet place and even this Eden a ruling grace which to the flowers did they wake in or dream was as God is to the starry scheme. A lady the wonder of her kind whose form was upborn by a lovely mind which dilating had molded her mean in motion like a sea flower unfolded beneath the ocean tended the garden from born to even in the meteors of that sublunar heaven like the lamps of the air when night walks forth laughed round her footsteps up from the earth. She had no companion of mortal race but her tremulous breath in her flushing face told whilst the morn kissed the sleep from her eyes that her dreams were less slumber than paradise. As if some bright spirit for her sweet sake had deserted heaven while the stars were awake as if yet around her he lingering were though the veil of daylight concealed him from her. Her steps seemed to pity the grass it pressed you might hear by the heaving of her breast that the coming and going of the wind brought pleasure there and left passion behind and wherever her airy footsteps trod her trailing hair from the grassy sod erased its light vestige with shadowy sweep like a sunny storm or the dark green deep. I doubt not the flowers of that garden sweet rejoiced in the sound of her gentle feet. I doubt not they felt the spirit that came from her glowing fingers through all their frame. She sprinkled bright water from the stream on those that were faint with the sunny beam and out of the cups of the heavy flowers she emptied the rain of the thundershowers. She lifted their heads with her tender hands and sustained them with rods and osier bands. If the flowers had been her own infants she could never have nursed them more tenderly. And all killing insects and gnawing worms and things of obscene and unlovely forms she bore in a basket of Indian Wolf into the rough woods far aloof. In a basket of grasses and wildflowers full the freshest her gentle hands could pull for the poor banished insects whose intent although they did ill was innocent. But the bee in the beam like Ephemeris whose path is the lightnings and soft moths that kiss the sweet lips of the flowers in harm not did she make her attendant angels be. In many an anti-natal tomb where butterflies dream of the life to come she left clinging round the smooth and dark edge of the odorous cedar bark. This fairest creature from earliest spring thus moved through the garden ministering all the sweet season of summer tide and ere the first leaf looked brown she died. Part 3 Three days the flowers of the garden fair like stars when the moon is awakened were or the waves of bayeae ere luminous she floats up through the smoke of Vesuvius. And on the fourth the sensitive plant felt the sound of the funeral chant and the steps of the bearers heavy and slow and the sobs of the mourners deep and low. The wary sound and the heavy breath and the silent motions of passing death and the smell cold oppressive and dank sent through the pores of the coffin plank. The dark grass and the flowers among the grass were bright with tears as the crowd did pass from their sighs the wind caught a mournful tone and sat in the pines and gave groan for groan. The garden once fair became cold and foul like the corpse of her who had been at soul which at first was lovely as if in sleep then slowly changed till it grew a heap to make men tremble who never weep. Swift summer into the autumn flowed and frost in the mist of the morning road though the noonday sun looked clear and bright mocking the spoil of the secret night. The rose leaves like flakes of crimson snow paved the turf in the moss below. The lilies were drooping and white and wan like the head and the skin of a dying man. In Indian plants of sentin hue the sweetest that ever were fed on due leaf by leaf day after day were masked into the common clay and the leaves brown yellow and gray and red and white with the whiteness of what is dead like troops of ghosts on the dry wind past their whistling noise made the birds aghast and the gusty winds waked the winged seeds out of their birthplace of ugly weeds till they clung round many a sweet flower stem which rotted into the earth with them. The water blooms under the rivulet fell from the stalks on which they were set and the eddies drove them here and there as the winds did those of the upper air. Then the rain came down and the broken stalks were bent and tangled across the walks and the leafless network of parasite bowers masked into ruin and all sweet flowers. Between the time of the wind and the snow all loathliest weeds began to grow whose coarse leaves were splashed with many a speck like the water snake's belly and the toad's back and thistles and nettles and darnels rank and the dock and the henbane and hemlock dank stretched out its long and hollow shank and stifled the air till the dead wind stank and plants at whose names the verse feels loath filled the place with a monstrous undergrowth prickly and pulpous and blistering and blue livid and starred with a lurid dew and agorix and fungi with mildew and mold started like mist from the wet ground cold pale fleshy as if the decaying dead with a spirit of growth had been animated spawn weeds and filth a leperous scum made the running rivulet thick and dumb and at its outlet flags huge as stakes dammed it up with roots nodded like water snakes and hour by hour when the air was still the vapors arose which have strength to kill at morn they were seen at noon they were felt at night they were darkness no star could melt and unctuous meteors from spray to spray crept and flitted in broad noon day unseen every branch on which they lit by a venomous blight was burned in bit the sensitive plant like one forbid wept in the tears within each lid of its folded leaves which together grew were changed to a blight of frozen glue for the leaves soon fell and the branches soon by the heavy axe of the blast were hewn the sap shrink to the root through every poor as blood to a heart that will be no more for winter came the wind was his whip one choppy finger was on his lip he had torn the cataracts from the hills and they clanked at his girdle like manacles his breath was a chain which without a sound the earth in the air and the water bound he came fiercely driven in his chariot thrown by the tenfold blasts of the Arctic zone then the weeds which were forms of living death fled from the frost to the earth beneath their decay and sudden flight from frost was but like the vanishing of a ghost and under the roots of the sensitive plant the moles in the dormice died for want the birds dropped stiff from the frozen air and were caught in the branches naked and bare first there came down a thawing rain and its dull drops froze on the boughs again then they're steamed up a freezing dew which to the drops of the thaw rain grew and a northern whirlwind wandering about like a wolf that had smelt a dead child out shook the boughs thus laden and heavy and stiff and snapped them off with his rigid griff when winter had gone and spring came back the sensitive plant was a leafless wreck but the mandrakes and toadstools and docks and darnles rose like the dead from their ruined charnels conclusion whether the sensitive plant or that which within its bowels like a spirit sat ere its outward form had known decay now felt this change I cannot say whether that lady's gentle mind no longer with the form combined which scattered love as stars do light found sadness where it left delight I dare not guess but in this life of error ignorance and strife where nothing is but all things seem and we the shadows of the dream it is a modest creed and yet pleasant if one considers it to own that death itself must be like all the rest a mockery that garden sweet that lady fair and all sweet shapes and odours there and truth have never passed away tis we tis ours are changed not they for love and beauty and delight there is no death nor change their might exceeds our organs which endure no light being themselves obscure and of poem this recording is in the public domain the vanity of human wishes the 10th satire of juvenile imitated by Samuel Johnson this is a LibriVox recording all LibriVox recordings are in the public domain for more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org recording by Algy Pug the 10th satire of juvenile at observation with extensive view survey mankind from China to Peru remark each anxious toil each eager strife and watch the busy scenes of crowded life then say how hope and fear desire and hate or spread with snares the clouded maze of fate where wavering man betrayed by venturous pride to tread the dreary paths without a guide as treacherous phantoms in the mist delude shuns fancy's ills or chases eerie good how rarely reason guides the stubborn choice rules the bold hand or prompts the suppliant voice how nations sink by darling schemes oppressed when vengeance listens to the fool's request fate wings with every wish the afflictive dart each gift of nature and each grace of art with fatal heat impetuous courage glows with fatal sweetness elocution flows impeachment stops the speaker's powerful breath and restless fire precipitates on death but scarce observed the knowing and the bold fall in a general massacre of gold wide-wasting pest that rages unconfined and crowds with crimes the records of mankind for gold his sword the harling ruffian draws for gold the harling judge distorts the laws wealth heaped on wealth nor truth nor safety buys the dangers gather as the treasures rise let history tell where rival kings command and dubious title shakes the madded land when statutes glean refuse of the sword how much more safe the vassal than the lord lo skulks the hind beneath the rage of power and leaves the bonny traitor in the tower untouched his cottage and his slumbers found their confiscations vultures clang around the needy traveller serene and gay walks the wild heath and sings his toil away envy sees thee crush the upgrading joy increase his riches and his peace destroy new fears in divercissitude invade the rustling break alarms and quivering shade nor light nor darkness bring his pain relief one shows the plunder and one hides the thief it's still the general cry the skies assails and gain and grandeur load the tainted gales few know the toiling state's man's fear or care the insidious rival and the gaping air once more democratus arise on earth with cheerful wisdom and instructive mirth see motley life in modern trappings dressed and feed with varied fools the eternal jest thou who couldst laughed where want in chained caprice toil crushed conceit and man was of a peace where wealth unloved without a mourner died and scarce a sycophant was fed by pride when there was known the form of mock debate or seen a newly made mayor's unwieldy state where change of favourites made no change of laws and senates heard before they judged a cause how wouldst thou shake at Britain's Moody's tribe dart the quick taunt and edge the piercing jibe a tent of truth and nature to describe and pierce each scene with philosophic eye to thee were solemn toys or empty show the robes of pleasure and the veils of woe all aid the farce and all thy mirth maintain where joys are causeless or whose griefs are vain such was the scorn that filled the sage's mind renewed at every glance on humankind how just that scorn ere yet thy voice declare search every state and canvas every prayer a numbered suppliance crowd preferments gate a thirst for wealth and burning to be great the loose of fortune hears the incessant call they mount they shine evaporate and fall on every stage the furs of peace attend hate dogs their flight and insult mocks their end love ends with hope the sinking statements door pours in the morning worshipper no more for growing names the weakly scribbler lies to growing wealth the dedicator flies from every room descends the painted face that hung the bright palladium of the place and smoked in kitchens or in auctions sold to better features yields the frame of gold for now no more we trace in every line heroic worth benevolence divine the form distorted justifies the fall and detestation reads the indignant wall but will not Britain hear the last appeal sign her foes doom or guard her favourite zeal through freedom sons no more remonstrance rings degrading nobles and controlling kings how supple tribes repress their patriot throats and ask no questions but the price of votes with weekly libels and subtenial ale their wishes fall to riot and to rail in full blown dignity see Woolsey stand law in his voice and fortune in his hand to him the church the realm their powers can sign through him the rays of regal bounty shine turned by his nod the stream of honor flows his smile alone security bestows still to new heights his restless wishes towered claim leads to claim and power advances power till conquest unresisted cease to please and rights submitted left him none to seize at length his sovereign frowns the train of state mark the king glance and watch the sign to hate where he turns he meets a stranger's eye his supple and scorn him and his followers fly now drops at once the pride of awful state the golden canopy the glittering plate the regal palace the luxurious board the liveryed army and the menial lord with age with cares with melodies oppressed he seeks the refuge of monastic rest grief aids disease remembered folly stings and his last sighs reproach the faith of kings speak thou whose thoughts at humble peace repine show Woolsey's wealth with Woolsey's end be thine or lives thou now with safer pride content the richest landlord on the banks of Trent for why did Woolsey by the steps of fate on weak foundations raised the enormous weight why but to sink beneath misfortunes blow with louder ruin to the gulfs below what gave great viliers to the assassin's knife and fixed disease on Harley's closing life what murdered Wentworth and what exiled hide by kings protected and to kings allied what but their wish indulged in courts to shine and power to great to keep or to resign when first the college rolls receive his name the young enthusiast quits his ease for fame resistless burns the fever of renown caught from the strong contagion of the gown or Bodley's dome his future labours spread and Bacon's mansion trembles or his head are these thy views proceed illustrious youth and virtue guide thee to the throne of truth yet should they soul indulge the generous heat till captive sides yields her last retreat should reason guide thee with her brightest gray and poor on misty doubt resistless day should no false kindness lure to loose delight nor praise relax nor difficulty fried should tempting novelty thy cell refrain and sloth's bland opiates shed their fumes in vain should beauty blunt on Phops her fatal doubt nor claim the triumph of a lettered heart should no disease thy torpid veins invade nor melancholy's phantoms haunt thy shade yet hope not life from grief or danger free nor think of doom of man reversed for thee Dane on the passing world to turn thine eyes and pause a while from learning to be wise then mark what ills the scholar's life assail. Toil, envy, want, the garret and the jail see nations slowly rise and meanly just to buried merit raise the tardy bust if dreams yet flatter once again attend he lidgets life and Galileo's end nor deem where learning her lost prize bestows the glittering eminence exempt from foes see where the vulgar's scaped despised or awed rebellion's vengeful talons seize on lord from meaner minds though smaller fines content the plundered palace or sequestered rent marked out by dangerous parts he meets the shock and fatal learning leads him to the block around his tomb let art and genius weep but hear his death he blockheads hear and sleep the festival blazes the triumphal show the ravaged standard and the captive foe the senate's thanks the gazette's pompous tale with forced resistness or the brave prevail such bribes the rapid Greek or Asia world for such the steady Romans shook the world for such in distant lands the Britons shine and stained with blood the Danube or the Rhine this power has praise that virtue scarce can warm to fame supplies the universal charm yet reason frowns on wars unequal game where wasted nations raise a single name and mortgage states their grand size wreaths regret from age to age in everlasting debt wreaths which at last the dear bought right convey to rust on medals or on stones decay on what foundation stands the warriors pride how just his hopes let Swedish Charles decide a frame of adamant a soul of fire no dangers fright him and no labours tire or love or force extends his wide domain and conquered lord of pleasure and of pain no joys to him pacific scepters yield war sounds the trump he rushes to the field behold surrounding kings their power combine and one capitulate and one resign peace court his hand but spread her charms in vain think nothing gained he cries to not remain on Moscow's walls to Gothic standards fly and all is mine beneath the polar sky the March begins in military state and nations on his eyes suspended weight stern famine guards the solitary coast and winter barricades the realms of frost he comes nor want nor cold his coarse delay hide blushing glory hide Porto's day the vanished hero leaves his broken bands and shows his miseries in distant lands condemned a needy supplicant to wait while ladies interpose and slaves debate but did not chance at length her era mend did no subverted empire mark his end did rival monarchs give the fatal wound or hostile millions press him to the ground his fall was destined to a barren strand a petty fortress and a dubious hand he left the name at which the world grew pale to point a moral or adorn a tale times their scenes of pompous woes afford from Persia's tyrant to Bavaria's lord in gay hostility and barbarous pride with half mankind embattled at his side great Xerxes comes to seize the certain prey and starves exhausted regions in his way attendant flattery counts his myriads or to counted myriads soothe his pride no more fresh praises tried to madness fires his mind the waves he lashes and in chains the wind new powers acclaimed new powers are still bestowed to rude resistance lops the spreading God the daring Greeks to ride the Marshall show and hit their valleys with the gaudy foe the insulted sea with humbler thoughts he gains a single skiff to speed his flight remains the encumbered or scarce leaves the dreaded coast through purple billows and a floating host the bold Bavarian in a luckless hour tries the dreads summits of cesarean power with unexpected legions bursts away and sees defenseless realms receive his sway short sway fair Austria spreads her mournful charms the queen the beauty sets the world in arms from hill to hill the beacons rousing blaze spreads wide the hope of plunder and of praise the fierce Croatian and the wild Hussar and all the sons of ravaged crowd the war the baffled prince in honors flattering bloom of hasty greatness finds the fatal doom his foes derision and his subjects blame and steals to death from anguish and from shame enlarge my life with multitude of days in health in sickness thus the supple in praise hides from himself his state and shuns to know that life protracted is protracted woe time hovers or impatient to destroy and shuts up all the passages of joy in vain their gifts the bounteous seasons poor the fruit or tumble and the vernal flower with listless eyes the dotard views the store he views and wonders that they please no more now Paul the tasteless meats and joyless wines and luxury with sighs her slave resigns approach she minstrels try the soothing strain and yield the tuneful lennatives of pain no sounds alas would touch the impervious ear though dancing mountains witnessed Orpheus near nor loot nor liar his feeble powers attend nor sweeter music of a virtuous friend but everlasting dictates crowd his tongue perversely grave or positively wrong the still returning tale and lingering jest perplexed the forming niece and pampered guest while growing hope scarce or the gathering sneer and scarce a legacy can bribe to hear the watchful guest still hint the last offence the daughter's petulance the son's expense improve his heady rage with treacherous skill and mold his passions till they make his will unnumbered melodies each joint invade laid siege to life and press the dire blockade but unextinguished avarice still remains and dreaded losses aggravate his pains he turns with anxious heart and crippled hands his bonds of debt and mortgages of lands or views his coffers with suspicious eyes unlocks his gold and counts it till he dies but grant the virtues of a temperate prime blessed with an age exempt from scorn or crime an age that melts in unperceived decay and glides in modest innocence away his peaceful day benevolence endears whose night congratulating conscience cheers the general favorite as the general friend such age their ears and who could wish its end yet in on this her load misfortune flings to press the weary minutes flagging wings new sorrow rises as the day returns a sister sickens or a daughter mourns now kindred merit fills the fable beer now lacerated friendship claims a tear year chases year decay pursues decay still drops some joy from withering life away new forms arise and different views engage superfluous legs the veteran on the stage til pity in nature signs the last release and bids afflicted worth retire to peace but few there are whom ours like these await who set unclouded in the gulfs of fate from Lydia's monarch should the search descend by Solon cautioned to regard his end in lifeless seen what prodigy surprise fears of the brave and follies of the wise from Malbra's eyes the streams of dotage flow and swift expires a driveler and a show the teaming mother anxious for her race begs for each birth the fortune of her face it vain could tell what ills from beauty spring and sadly curse the form that pleased a king in imps of rosy lips and radiant eyes whom pleasure keeps too busy to be wise him joys with soft varieties invite by day the frolic and the dance by night who frown with vanity whose smile with art and ask the latest fashion of the heart what care what rules your heedless charms shall save each nymph your rival and each youth your slave an envious breast with certain mischief glows and slaves the maxim tells are always foes against your fame with fondness hate combines the rival batters and the lover minds with distant voice neglected virtue calls a less heard and less the faint remonstrance falls tied with contempt she quits the slippery rain and pride and prudence take her seat in vain in crowded once when none the past defend the harmless freedom and the private friend the guardians yield by force superior pride by interest prudence and by flattery pride here beauty falls betrayed despised distressed and hissing infamy proclaims the rest where then shall hope and fear their objects find must dull suspense corrupt the stagnant mind must helpless man in ignorance sedate swim darkling down the current of his fate must notice like alarm no wish arise no cries attempt the mercies of the skies inquire a cease petitions yet remain which heaven may hear nor deem religion vain still raise for good the supplicating voice believe to heaven the measure and the choice safe in his power whose eyes discern afar the secret ambush of a specious prayer implore his aid in his decisions rest secure what air he gives he gives the best yet with the sense of sacred presence pressed when strong devotion fills thy glowing breast poor forth thy fervours for a healthful mind obedient passions and a will resigned for love which scarce collective man can fill for patience sovereign or transmuted ill for faith the panting for a happier seat thinks death kind nature's signal of retreat these goods for man the laws of heaven ordain these goods he grants who grants the power to gain with these celestial wisdom calms the mind and makes the happiness she does not find end of the vanity of human wishes by Samuel Johnson recorded by algae pug Perth Western virtue is its own reward by Harry Graham read for LibriVox.org by Los Rolander virtue is its own reward virtue its own reward alas and what a poor one as a rule be virtuous and life will pass like one long term of Sunday school no prospect truly could one find more unalluring to the mind you may imagine that it pays to practice goodness not a bit you cease receiving any praise when people have got used to it just generally understood you find it easy to be good the model child has got to keep his fingers and his garments white in church he may not go to sleep nor ask to stop up late at night in fact he must not ever do a single thing he wishes to he may not paddle in his boots like naughty children at the sea the sweetness of forbidden fruits is not alas for such as he he watches with pathetic eyes his weaker brethren make mud pies he must not answer back oh no however rude grown ups may be but keep politely silent though he bring with scathing repartee for nothing is considered worse than scoring off mama or nurse he must not eat too much at meals nor scatter crumbs upon the floor however vacuous he feels he may not pass his plate for more not though his every organ ache for further slabs of Christmas cake he is enjoying to choose his food from what is easy to digest a choice which in itself is good but never what he likes the best at times how madly he must wish for just one real unwholesome dish and when the wretched and urchin plays with other little girls and boys he has to show unselfish ways by giving them his choices toys his ears he lets them freely box or pull his lubricated locks his face is always being washed his hair perpetually brushed and thus his brighter side is squashed his human instincts worked and crushed small wonder that his early years are filled with thoughts too deep for tears he's commanded not to waste the fleeting hours of childhood days by giving way to any taste for circuses or matinees for him the entertainment's planned are lectures on the holy land he never reads a story book by rider H or Winston C in vain upon his desk you'd look for tales by Richard Harding D nor could you find upon his shelf the works of Rudyard or myself he always fears that he may do some action that is in Frederick and so he lives his short life through in the most noxious role of Brig short life I say for its agreed the good I very junk indeed army how sad it is to think he could have lived like me or you with practice and a taste for drink our joys he might have known he too and share the pleasure we have had in being gloriously bad the naughty boy gets much delight from doing what he should not do but as such conduct isn't right he sometimes suffers for it too yet what's a spanking to the fun of leaving vital things undone if he's notoriously bad but for a day should change his ways his parents will be all so glad they'll show him with gifts and praise it pays a connoisseur in crimes to be a perfect saint at times of course there always lies the chance that he is charged with being ill and all his innocent romance is ruined by a rhubarb pill alas it is not alone the good that are so much misunderstood but as a rule when he behaves evincing no malarial signs his friends are all his faithful slaves until he once again declines with easy conscience more or less to undiluted wickedness the wicked flourish like the bay at cards or love they always win good fortune dogs six steps all day they fatten while the good grow thin the righteous man has much to bear the bad becomes a billionaire for though he be the greatest sham luck favors him his whole life through at bridge he always makes a slam after declaring song to with every deal his fate has planned a hundred aces in his hand and it is always just the same he somehow manages to win by mere good fortune any game that he may be competing in at golf no bunker breaks his club for him the green provides no rub at billions to he flukes away with quite unnecessary side no matter what he tries to play for him the pockets open wide he never finds both balls in book or makes miscuse for want of chalk his swears he very likely bets he even wears a flaming neck tie in hails Egyptian cigarettes and has a men's in concia recti yet spite of all one must confess that not succeeds like his excess there's no occasion to be just no need for motives that are fine to be director of a trust or manager of a combine your corner is a public curse perhaps but it will fill your purse then stride across the public's bones crush all opponents under you until you rise on stepping stones of their dead selves and when you do the widows and the orphans tears shall comfort your declining years but having had your boom in oil and made your millions out of it would you propose to cease from toil great Wanderfeller not a bit you've got to labor day and night until you die and serve your right then when you stop this frenzy grace and others in your office it you leave the world a better place the better for you leaving it for there's a chance perhaps your air may spend what you collected there myself how lucky I must be that need not fair so gross and end since fortune has not favored me with many million pounds to spend still did that fickle dame relent I'd show you how they should be spent I'm not ain't enough to feel my shoulder ripened to a wing nor have I wits enough to steal his title from the copper king and there's a vast a gulf between the man I am and might have been but though at dinner I might take too much of hide sick extra dry and underneath the table make my simple couch just where I lie my mode of roasting on the floor is just a trick and nothing more and we're not wisely but too well my thirst I have contrived to quench the stories I map to tell may be perhaps a trifle French fortice in anecdote no doubt that was spread in the born comes out it does not render me unfit to give advice both wise and right because I do not follow it myself as closely as I might there's nothing that I wouldn't do to point the proper road to you and this I'm sure of more or less and trust that you will all agree the elements of happiness consist in being just like me no sinner nor a saint perhaps but well the very best of chaps share the experience I have had consider all I've known and seen and don't be good and don't be bad but cultivate a golden mean what makes existence really nice is virtue with a dash of vice end of poem this recording is in the public domain