 Oh, young Lockenvarr has come out of the West. Through all the wide border, his steed was the best. And save his good broadsword, he weapons had none. He rode all unarmed, and he rode all alone. So faithful in love, and so dauntless in war, there never was night like the young Lockenvarr. He stayed not for break, and he stopped not for stone. He swam the Esk River where forward there was none. But ere he alighted at Netherby Gate, the bride had consented, the gallant came late. For a laggard in love, and a dastard in war, was to wed the fair Ellen of brave Lockenvarr. So boldly he entered the Netherby Hall, among bridesmen and kinsmen, and brothers and all. Then spoke the bride's father, his hand on his sword, for the poor craven bridegroom said never a word. Oh, come ye in peace here, or come ye in war, or to dance at our bridal, young Lord Lockenvarr! I long wooed your daughter, my suit you denied. Love swells like the soul-way, but ebbs like its tide. And now I am come, with this lost love of mine, to lead but one measure, drink one cup of wine. There are maidens in Scotland more lovely by far, that would gladly be bride to the young Lockenvarr. The bride kissed the goblet, the knight took it up. He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup. She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh, with a smile on her lips and a tear in her eye. He took her soft hand, ere her mother could bar. Now tread we a measure, said young Lockenvarr. So stately his form, and so lovely her face, that never a hall such a gallard did grace. While her mother did fret, and her father did fume, and the bridegroom stood dangling his bonnet and plume, and the bride-maidens whispered to her better by far to have matched our fair cousin with young Lockenvarr. One touched to her hand, and one in her ear. When they reached the hall door, and the charger stood near, so light to the croop, the fair lady he swung. So light to the saddle before her he sprung. She is one, we are gone, over bank, bush, and scar. They'll have fleets-steeds that follow, quote young Lockenvarr. There was mounting, among grams, of the Netherby clan. Foresters, Fenwick's, and Musgraves, they rode, and they ran. There was racing, and chasing, on Canobie Lee. But the lost bride of Netherby, Nair, did they see. So daring in love, and so dauntless in war. Have you air heard of gallant, like young Lockenvarr? End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. Recording by Linda Cantoning. Speak, speak, though fearful guest, Who, with thy hollow breasts, still in rude arm Addressed, comest to daunt me, Wrapped not in eastern bombs, but with thy fleshless palms, Stretched, as if asking arms, Why dost thou haunt me? Then, from those cavernous eyes, Pale flashes seem to rise, As when the northern skies glean in December, And, like the water's flow, Under December's snow, came a dull voice of woe From the heart's chamber. I was a viking old, My deeds though manifold, No scowled in song has told, No saga taught thee, Take heed that in thy verse, Thou dost the tale rehearse, Else dread a dead man's curse, For this I sought thee. Far in a northern land, By the wild Baltic strand, I, with my childish hand, Tamed a girthulkin. And, with my skates fast bound, Skim the half-frozen sound, That a poor whimpering hound Trembled to walk on, Offed to his frozen lair, Tracked I the grizzly bear, While from my path the hair Fled like a shadow, Offed to the forest dark, Followed the were-wolf's bark, Until the soaring lark Sang from the meadow. But when I older grew, Joining a corsair's crew, O'er the dark sea I flew With them are orders. Wild was the life we led, Many the souls that sped, Many the hearts that bled By our stern orders. Many a wassail bout wore the long winter out, Often our midnight shout Set the cocks crowing. As weed the berserkers' tail, Measuring cups of ale, Drained the oak and pale, Filled to overflowing. Once, as I told in glee, Tales of the stormy sea, Soft eyes did gaze on me, Burning yet tender. And as the white stars shine On the dark Norway pine, On that dark heart of mine Fell their soft splendour. I wooed the blue I'd made, Yielding yet half-afraid, And in the forest shade Our vows were plighted. Under its loosened vest Flooded her little breast, Like birds within their nest By the hawk frightened. Bright in her father's hall, Shields gleamed upon the wall, Loud sang the minstrel's all, Chanting his glory. When of old hill the brand, I asked his daughter's hand, Mute did the minstrel stand To hear my story. While the brown ale he quaffed, Loud then the champion laughed. And as the wind gust waft The sea-phone brightly, So the loud laugh of scorn From those lips unshawn, From the deep drinking horn Blew the phone lightly. She was a prince's child, And I, but a viking wild, Through she blushed and smiled I was discarded. Should not the dove so white Follow the sea mules flight, Why did they leave that night Her nest unguarded? Scarce had I put to sea, Bearing the maid with me, Fairest of all was she Among the Norsemen. When, on the white sea-strand, Waving his armed hand, We saw hill the brand With twenty horsemen. They launched then to the blast, Bent like a reed each mast, Yet we were gaining fast When the wind failed us. And with a sudden flaw Came round the gusty score, So that our foe we saw Laughed as he hailed us. And, as to catch the gale, Round veered the flapping sail, Death was the helmsman hail, Death without quarter, Midships with the iron keel, Struck were her ribs of steel, Down her black hull Did reel through the black water. As with his wings a slant, Sails the fierce cormorant, Seeking some rocky haunt With his prey laden, Sewed towards open main, Beating to sea again, Through the wild hurricane, Bore I the maiden. Three weeks we westward bore, And when the storm was o'er, Cloud-like we saw the shore Stretching to leeward. There, for my lady's bower, Built I the lofty tower, To which this very hour Stands looking seaward. There lived we many years, Time dried the maiden's tears, She had forgotten her fears, She was a mother. Death closed her mild blue eyes, Under that tower she lies, Near shall the sun arise On such another. Still grew my bosom then, Still as a stagnant fen, Hateful to me were men, The sunlight hateful. In the vast forest here, Clad in my war-like gear, Fell I upon my spear. Oh, death was grateful! Thus seemed with many scars, Bursting these prison-bars, Up to its native stars my soul ascended. There, from the flowing ball, Deep drinks the warrior's soul, Skull to the Northland, Skull. Thus the tale ended. End of Poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Deserted Village by Oliver Goldsmith From the Junior Classics Volume 10, Part II Poems Old and New, Read for LibriVox. Recording by Larry Wilson. Sweet Auburn, loveliest village of the plain, Where health and plenty cheered the levering swaying, Where smiling spring gets earliest visit paid, And parting summer's lingering blooms delayed. Dear lovely bowers of innocence and ease, Seats of my youth, when every sport could please, How often I have loitered o'er thy green, Where humble happiness endeared each scene, How often have I paused on every charm, The sheltered cot, the cultivated farm, The never-failing brook, the busy mill, The decent church that topped the neighboring hill, The hawthorn bush that seats beneath the shade, For talking age and whispering lovers made, How often when I have blessed the coming day, When toil-remitting lit its turn to play, And all the village strained from labour free, Led up their sports beneath the spreading tree, While many a pastime circled in the shade, The young contending as the old surveyed, And many a gamble frolic'd o'er the ground, And slights of art and feats of strength went round, And still as each repeated pleasure tried, Succeeding sports the mirthful band inspired, The dancing pair that simply sought to renown, By holding out to tire each other down, The swaying mistrustless of his smutted face, While secret laughter titted round the place, The bashful virgin side-long looks of love, The matron's glance that would those looks reprove. These were thy charm's sweet village, Sports like these with sweet succession, Taught in toil to please. These round thy bowers their cheerful influence shed, These were thy charms, but all these charms are fled. Sweet smiling village loveliest of the lawn, Thy sports are fled, and all thy charms withdrawn, Amidst thy bowers the tyrant's hand is seen, And desolation saddens all thy green, One only master grasps the whole domain, And half a tillage stints thy smiling plain. No more thy glassy brook reflects the day, But choked with sedges works its weedy way, Along thy glades a solitary guest, The hollow-sounding bittern guards its nest. Amidst thy desert walks the lapwing flies, And tires their echoes with unvaried cries, Sunk are thy bowers in shapeless ruin all, And the long grass or tops the mouldering wall, And trembling, shrinking from the spoiler's hand, Far, far away thy children leave the land. Ill fares the land to hastening ills of prey, Where wealth accumulates in men decay, Princes and lords may flourish or may fade, A breath can make them as a breath has made, But a bold peasantry their country's pride, When once destroyed, can never be supplied. A time there was ere England's griefs began, When every root of ground maintained its man, For him light labour spread her wholesome store, Just gave what life required, but gave no more. His best companions innocence and help, And his best riches ignorance of wealth. But times are altered. Trades unfeeling train usurp the land, And dispossess the swain. Along the lawn where scattered hamlets rose, Unwieldy wealth and cumbers-pump repose, And every want to opulence allied, And every pang that folly pays to pride. These gentle hours that plenty bade to bloom, Those calm desires that ask but little room, Those healthful sports that grace the peaceful scene, Lived in each looth and brightened all the green, These far departing seek a kinder shore, And rural mirth and manners are no more. Sweet Auburn, parent of the blissful hour, Thy glades for lawn confess the tyrant's power. Here as I take my solitary rounds Amidst thy tangling walks And ruined grounds, And many a year elapsed return to view, Where once the cottage stood, The Hawthorne grew. Remember its wakes with all her busy train, Swells at my breast and turns the past to pain. In all my wanderings round this world of care, In all my griefs, and God has given my share, I still had hopes, my latest hours, To crown amidst these humble bowers to lay me down. To husband out life's taper at the close, And keep the flame from wasting by repose. I still had hopes, for pride attends a still, Amidst the swaying's to show my book-learn skill, Around my fire and evening group to draw, And tell of all I felt and all I saw. And as a hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, Panced to the place from whence at first she flew, I still had hopes, my long vexations past, Here to return, and die at home at last. O blessed retirement friend of life's decline, Retreats from care that never must be mine, How happy he who crowns in shades like these, A youth of labour with an age of ease, Who quits a world where strong temptations try, And sits to his heart to combat, learns to fly. For him no wretches, born to work and weep, Explore the mine, or tempt the dangerous deep. No surly porter stands in guilty state, To spurn employing famine from the gate. But on the moves to meet his latter end, Angels around befriending virtue's friend, Bins to the grave with unperceived decay, While resignation gently slopes the way, And all his prospects brightening to the last, His heaven commences ere the world be past. Sweet was the sound when off to the evening's close, Up yonder hill the village murmur rose. There as I passed with careless steps and slow, The mingling notes came softened from below. The swaying responsive as the milkmaid sung, The sober herd that load to meet their young. The noisy geese that gabbled o'er the pool, The playful children just let loose from school. The watched dog's voice that bade the whispering wind, And the loud laugh that spoke the vacant mind. These all in sweet confusion sought the shade, And filled each pause the nightingale had made. But now the sounds of population fail, No cheerful murmurs fluctuate in the gale, No busy steps the grass-grown footway tread, But all the bloomy flush of life is fled. All but you widowed solitary thing, That feebly bins beside the plashy spring, She wretched matron forced in age for bread To strip the brook with mantling creses spread, To pick her wintry faggot from the thorn, To seek her nightly shed and weep till morn. She only left of all the harmless train, The sad historian of the pensive plain. Near yonder copse where once the garden smiled, And still where many a garden flower grows wild, There where a few torn shrubs the place disclosed, The village preacher's modest mansion rose. A man he was to all the country dear, And passing rich with forty pounds a year. Remote from towns he ran his godly race, Nor ere had changed nor wished to change his place. Unpracticed he to fawn or seek for power, By doctrine's fashion to the very hour. Far other aims his heart had learned to prize, More skilled to raise the wretched than to rise. His house was known to all the vagrant train, His chid, their wanderings, but relieved their pain. The long-remembered beggar was his guest, Whose beard descending swept his aged breast. The ruined spin-threp now no longer proud, Claimed kindred there, and had his claims allowed. The broken soldier kindly bade to stay, Sat by his fire and talked the night away. Wept o'er his wounds or tales of sorrow done, Shouldered his crutch and showed how fields were won. Passed with his guests the good man learned to glow, And quite forgot their vices in their woe. Careless their merits or their faults to scan, His pity gave air charity began. Thus to relieve the wretched was his pride, And in his failings leaned to virtue's side. But in his duty prompted every call, He watched and wept, he prayed and felt for all. And as a bird each found in tearment tries to tempt, Its new-fledged offspring to the skies. He tried each art, reproved each dull delay, Allured to brighter worlds and led the way. Beside the bed where parting life was laid, And sorrow gilded in pain by turns dismayed, The reverend champion stood. At his control despair and anguish fled the struggling soul. Comfort came down the trembling wretch to raise, And his last faltering accents whispered praise. At church with meek and unaffected grace, His looks adorned the venerable place. Truth from his lips bevelled with double sway, And fools who came to scoff remained to pray. The service pass round the pious man, With steady zeal each honest rustic man. In children followed with endearing wile, And plucked his gown to share the good man's smile. His ready smile, appearance warmth expressed, Their welfare pleased him and their cares distressed. To them his heart, his love, his griefs were given, But all his serious thoughts had rest in heaven, As some tall cliff that lifts its awful form Swells from the veil the midway leaves the storm. The round its breast the rolling clouds are spread, Eternal sunshine settles on its head. Beside young straggling fence that skirts the way With blossomed furs unprofitably gay, There in his noisy mansion skilled to rule, The village master taught his little school. A man severe he was and stern to view. I knew him well, and every truant knew. Well had the boating tremblers learned to trace The day's disasters in his morning face. Full well they laughed with counterfeited glee At all his jokes, for many a joke had he. Full well the busy whisper circling round Conveyed the dismal tidings when he frowned. Yet he was kind, or of severe an ought, The love he bore to learning was in fault. The village all declared how much he knew. To a certain he could write in cipher too. Lands he could measure, terms and tides, Presage, and in the story ran that he could gauge. In arguing too the parson owned his skill, For even though the vanquished he could argue still, While words of learned and thundering sound Amazed the gazing rustics ranged around. And still they gazed and still the wonder grew That one small head could carry all he knew. But past is all his fame. The very spot where many a time he triumphed is forgot. Near yonder thorn that lifts its head on high, Where once the signpost caught the passing eye, Low lies that house where nut-brown drafts inspired, Where gray-beard mirth and smiling toil retired, Where village statesmen talked with looks profound, And news much older than their ale went round. Imagination fondly stooped to trace The parlor splendors of that festive place. The white-washed wall. The nicely-standard floor. The varnish clock that clicked behind the door. The chess contrived a double debt to pay, A bed by night, a chest of drawers by day. The pictures placed for ornament and use. The twelve good rules. The royal game of goose. The hearth, except when winter chilled the day, With aspen boughs and flowers and fennel gay. While broken teacups wisely kept for show, Ranged o'er the chimney, listened in a row. Vane transitory splendors Could not all reprieve the tottering mansion from its fall. Obscure it sinks, nor shall it more impart An hours' importance to the poor man's heart. Thither no more the peasants shall repair The sweet oblivion of his daily care. No more the farmer's news, the barber's tale. No more the woodman's ballad shall prevail. No more the smith his dusky brow shall clear. Relax his ponderous strength and lean to hear. The host himself no longer shall be found. Careful to see the mantling bliss go round. Nor the coy maid half willing to be pressed Shall kiss the cup to pass it to the rest. Yes, let the rich deride, The proud disdain, these simple blessings Of the lowly train. To me, more dear, congenial to my heart, One native charm than all the gloss of art. Spontaneous joys, where nature had its play, The soul adopts and owns their firstborn sway. Lightly they far like o'er the vacant mind, An envied, unbelested, unconfined. But the long pomp, the midnight masquerade, With all the freaks of wanton wealth arrayed, In these air triflers half their wish obtain, The tolling pleasure sicken's into pain, And in, while fashion's brightest arts decoy, A heart distrusting asks if this be joy. Ye friends to truth, ye statesmen Who survey the rich man's joys increase, The poor's decay. It is yours to judge how wide the limits stand Between a splendid and a happy land. Proud swells the tide with loads of freighted ore, And shouting folly hails them from her shore. Hordes in beyond the miser's wish abound, And rich men flock from all the world around, Yet count our gains. This wealth is but a name that leaves Our useful products still the same. Not so the loss. The man of wealth and pride takes up a space That many poor supplied. Space for his sake, his park's extended bounds, Space for his horses, equipage, and hounds. The robe that wraps his limbs in silken sloth Has robbed the neighboring fields of half their gold. His seat where solitary sports are seen Indignant spurns the cottage from the green. Around the world each needful product flies, For all the luxuries the world supplies, While thus the land adorned for pleasure All in barren splendor feebly waits the fall. As some fair female, unadorned and plain, Secure to please while youth confirms her reign, Slights every borrowed charm that dress supplies, More shares with art the triumph of her eyes. But when those charms are passed, for charms are frail, When time advances and when lovers fail, She then shines forth solicitous to bless In all the glaring impotence of dress. Thus fares the land by luxury betrayed, In nature's simplest charms at first arrayed. But verging to decline its splendor's rise, Its vista strike its palace's surprise. While scourged by famine from the smiling land, The mournful peasant leads his humble band, And while he sinks without one arm to save, The country blooms a garden and a grave. Where then, where shall poverty reside To escape the pressure of contiguous pride? If to some common's finseless limit strayed, He drives his flock to pick the scanty blade. Those finseless fields the sons of wealth divide, And even the bare worn common is denied. If to the city's bed what waits him there, To see profusion that he must not share, To see ten thousand baneful arts combined To pamper luxury and thin mankind? To see these joys the sons of pleasure know Extorted from his fellow creature's woe. Here, while the courier glitters in brocade, There the pale artist plays his sickly trade. Here, while the proud their long-drawn pomp display, There the black jibbit glooms beside the way, The dome where pleasure holds her midnight reign. Here richly decked amidst the gorgeous train, To multuous grandeur crowds the blazing square, The rattling chariots clasp the torches glare. Sure, scenes like these no troubles ere annoy, Sure, these denote one universal joy. Are these thy serious thoughts? Ah, turn thine eyes where the poor, House-less, shivering female lies. She once perhaps in village plenty blessed, As wept at tales of innocence distressed. Her modest looks the cottage might adorn, Sweet as the primrose peeps beneath the thorn. Now lost to all. Her friends, her virtue fled, Near her betrayer's door she lays her head, And pitched with cold and shrinking from the shower. With heavy heart deplores that luckless hour, When idly first, ambitious of the town, She left her wheel and robes of country brown. Do thine, sweet Auburn, thine the loveliest train, Do thy fair tribes participate her pain? He now, perhaps, by cold and hunger led, At proud men's doors they ask a little bread. Ah, no, to distant climbs a dreary scene, Where half the convex world intrudes between, Through torred tracks with fainting steps they go, Where, while ultima murmurs to their woe, Far different there from all that charmed before, The various terrors of that horrid shore, Those blazing suns that dart to a downward ray, And fiercely shed intolerable day, Those matted woods where birds forget to sing, But silent bats and drowsy clusters cling, Those poisonous fields with rank luxuriant's crown, Where the dark scorpion gathers death around, Where at each step the stranger fears to wake The rattling terrors of the vengeful snake. Where crotching tigers wait their hapless prey, And savage men a more murderous still than they, While often whirls the mad tornado flies, Mingling the ravaged landscape with the skies, Far different there from every former scene, The cooling brook, the grassy vested green, The breezy covert of the warbling grove, That only sheltered thefts of harmless love. Good heaven, what sorrows gloomed that parting day That called them from their native walks away, When the poor exiles every pleasure passed, Hung round their bowers and fondly looked their last, And took along farewell and wished in vain, For seats like these beyond the western main, And shuddering still to face the distant deep, Returned and wept and still returned to weep. The good old sire, the first prepared to go, To newfound whirls and wept for others' wool, But for himself in conscious virtue brave, He only wished for whirls beyond the grave, His lovely daughter, lovelier in her tears, The fond companion of his helpless years. Silent went next, neglectful of her charms, And left a lovers for her father's arms, With louder planks the mother spoke her woes, And blessed the cot where every pleasure rose, And kissed her thoughtless bays with many a tear, And clasped them close in sorrow doubly dear. Whilst her fond husband strode to lend relief In all the silent manliness of grief, O luxury, thou cursed by heaven's decree, How ill-exchanged are things like these for thee. How do thy potions within city's joy Diffuse their pleasures only to destroy? Kingdoms by thee to sickly greatness grown, Most of a floored vigor not their own, At every draught more large and large they grow, A bloated mass of rank unwieldy woe, Till sapped their strength in every part and sound, Down down they sink and spread a ruin round. In now the devastation is begun, And hath the business of destruction done. In now me thinks, as pondering here I stand, I see the rural virtues leave the land. Down where yon anchoring vessel spreads the sail, That idly waiting flaps with every gale, Downward they move a melancholy band, Pass from shore and darken all the strand, Contented toil the hospitable care, And kind cannubial tenderness are there, And piety with wishes placed above, And steady loyalty and faithful love. And thou, sweet poetry, thou loveliest made, Still first to fly where sensual joys invade, And fit in these degenerate times of shame To catch the heart or strike for honest fame. Dear charming nymph, neglected and decried, My shame and crowds, my solitary pride, Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe, That foundest me poor at first, and keeps to me so. Thou guide by which the noble arts excel, Thou nurse of every virtue fairly well. Farewell, and oh where thy voice be tried, On Tornot's cliffs or Pamba Marcus's side, Whether where equinoxial fervors glow, Or winter wraps the polar world in snow. Still, let thy voice, prevailing over time, Redress the rigors of the inclement climb. Aid slighted truth with thy persuasive train, Teach earring man to spurn the rage of gain, Teach him that states of native strength possessed, Though very poor, may still be very blessed, That trade's proud empire haste to swift decay, As ocean sweeps the labored mole away, While self-dependent power can time defy, As rocks resist the billows and the sky. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. to bear him company. Blue were her eyes as the fairy-flax, Her cheeks like the dawn of day, And her bosom white as a Hawthorne's buds, That opened the month of May. The skipper he stood beside the helm, His pipe was in his mouth, And he watched how the veering floor did blow, The smoke now west, now south. Then up spake, and all sailor, Had sailed the Spanish main, I pray thee put into yonder port, For I fear a hurricane, Last night the moon had a golden ring, And to-night no moon we see. The skipper he blew away from his pipe, And a scornful laugh laughed he. Calder and calder blew the wind, A gale from the north-east, The snow fell hissing in the brine, And the billows frothed like yeast. Down came the storm and smote in main, The vessel in its strength, She shuddered and paused like a frightened steed, Then leaped her cable's length. Come hither, come hither, my little daughter, And do not tremble so, For I can weather the roughest gale That ever wind did blow. He wrapped her warm in his seamen's coat, Against the stinging blast, He cut a rope from a broken spar, And bound her to the mast. O Father, I hear the church bell's ring, O say what may it be! Tis a fog-bell on a rock-bound coast, And he steered for open sea. O Father, I hear the sound of guns, O say what may it be! Some ship in distress that cannot live In such an angry sea. O Father, I see a gleaming light, O say what may it be! But the Father answered never a word, A frozen corpse was he. Lashed to the helm, all stiff and stark, With his face turned to the skies, The lantern gleamed through gleaming snow, On his fixed and glassy eyes. Then the maiden clapped her hands and prayed, That save that she might be, And she thought of Christ, Who stilled the waves on the lake of Galilee, And fast through the midnight darken drear, Through the whistling sleet and snow, Like a sheeted ghost the vessel swept, Towards the reef of Norman's woe. And ever the fitful gusts between, A sound came from the land, It was the sound of the trampling surf, On the rocks and the hard sea sand. The breakers were right beneath her bows, She drifted a dreary wreck, And a whooping billow swept the crew, Like icicles from her deck. She struck where the white and fleecy waves Look soft as carded wool, But the cruel rocks that gawd her side, Like the horns of an angry bull. Her rattling shrouds, all sheathed in ice, With the masts went by the board, Like a vessel of glass she stove and sank, Ho-ho! the breakers roared. At daybreak, on the bleak sea-beach, A fisherman stood aghast, To see the form of a maiden fair, Lashed close to a drifting mast. The sea-salt was frozen on her breast, The salt-tears in her eyes, And he saw her hair, Like the brown sea-weed, On the billows fall and rise. Such was the wreck of the Hesperus, In the midnight and the snow. Christ save us all from a death like this. On the reef of Norman's woe. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner by Samuel Taylor Coleridge From the Junior Classics, Volume 10, Part 2 Poems Old and New Read for LibriVox.org by Phil Shempf Part 1 It is an ancient mariner, And he stopeth one of three, By their long gray beard and glittering eye, Now wherefore stop us, thou me? The bridegroom's doors are open wide, And I am the next of kin. The guests are met, 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, gray beard loon! F. soon's his hand dropped 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 harbor cleared, Merrily did we drop, Below the Kirk, below the hill, Below the lighthouse top. The sun came up upon the left, Out of the sea came he, And he shone bright and on the right, Went down into the sea, Higher and higher every day, Till over the mast at noon, The wedding guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon. The bride hath paced into the hall, Red as a rose is she, Notting their heads before her goes The merry minstrel sea. The wedding guest, he beat his breast, Yet he cannot choose but hear, And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed mariner. And now the storm blast came, And he was tyrannous and strong. He struck with his o'er taking wings, And chased us south along, With sloping masts and dipping prow, As who pursued with yell and blow, Still treads the shadow of his foe, And forward bends his head. The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, And southward high we fled. And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wondrous cold. And ice, mast high, came floating by, As green as emerald. And through the drifts the snowy cliffs, Did send a dismal sheen, Nor shapes of men nor beasts we 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 swoon. At length did cross an albatross, Thoreau the fog it came. As if it had been a Christian soul, We hailed it in God's name. It ate the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it flew. The ice did split with a thunder fit, And the helmsmen steered us through, And a good south wind sprung up behind, And the albatross did follow, And every day, for food or play, Came to the mariners, allo. In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, It perched for vespers nine. While all the night through fog smoke white, Glimmered the white moonshine. Good save the ancient mariner, From the fiends that plague thee thus, Why looks thou so? With my crossbow I shot the albatross. Part 2 The sun now rose upon the right, Out of the sea came he, Still hid amist, 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, allo. And I had done a hellish thing, And it would work amwo. For all avaird I had killed the bird, That made the breeze to blow. Ah, wretched said they, The bird to slay, that made the breeze to blow. Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, The glorious sun-up-wrist. Then all avaird I had killed the bird, That brought the fog in mist. To us right said they, Such birds to slay, that bring the fog in mist. The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free. We were the first that ever burst into that silent sea. Down dropped the breeze, the sail dropped down, 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 mass did stand, No bigger than the moon. Day after day, Day after day we struck, Nor breath nor motion, As idle as a painted ship, Upon a painted ocean. Water, water, everywhere, And all the boards did shrink. Water, water, everywhere, Nor any drop to drink. The very deep did rot, oh Christ, That ever this should be. Yet slimy things did crawl With legs upon the slimy sea. About, about in reel and rout, The deathfires danced at night. The water like a witch's oils Burnt green and blue and white. And some in dreams a suread were Of the spirit that plagued us so. Nine fathom deep he had followed us From the land of mist and snow. And every tongue, though uttered route, 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 three. 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. And if it dodged a water sprite It plunged and tacked and veered. With throats unslaked, with black lips baked We could nor laugh nor wail. Through utter drought all dumb we stood. I bit my arm and sucked the blood. And cried, A sail, a sail! With throats unslaked, with black lips baked A gape they heard me call. Gramercy 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 breeze, without a tide She steadies with upright keel. The western wave was all aflame. The day was well night done. Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright sun. When that strange shape drove Suddenly betwixt us and the sun. And straight the sun was flecked with bars Heaven's mother send us grace. As if through a dungeon grate he peered With broad and burning face. Alas! thought I and my heart beat loud How fast she nears and nears. Are those her sails that glance in the sun Like restless gossipers? Are those her ribs through which the sun Did pier 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 white as leprosy. The nightmare life and 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 have won. I have 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 specter bark. We listened and looked sideways up. Fear at my heart as at a cup My life blood seemed to sip. The stars were dim and thick the night The steersman's face by his lamp Gleamed white from the sails The dew did drip till clam above the eastern bar The horned moon with one bright star Within the nether tip. One after one by the star-dogged moon Too quick for groan or sigh Each turned his face with a ghastly pang And cursed me with his eye. Four times fifty living men And I heard nor sigh nor groan. With heavy thump a lifeless lump They dropped down one by one. The souls did from their bodies fly. They fled to blister woe. In every soul it passed me by Like the whiz of my crossbow. Part four I fear the ancient mariner. I fear thy skinny hand. And thou art long and lank and brown As is the ribbed sea sand. I fear thee and thy glittering eye And thy skinny hand so brown. Fear not, fear not, thou wedding guest This body dropped not down. Alone, alone, all, all alone Alone on a wide wide sea And never a saint took pity on my soul in agony The many men so beautiful And they all dead did lie And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on and so did I. I looked upon the rotting sea And drew my eyes away. I looked upon the rotting deck And there the dead men lay. I looked to heaven and tried to pray But or ever a prayer had gushed. A wicked whisper came And made my heart as dry as dust. I closed my lids and kept them closed And the balls like pulses beat. For the sky and the sea And the sea and the sky lay like a load On my weary eye and the dead were at my feet. The cold sweat melted from their limbs Nor wrought nor reek did they. The look with which they looked on me Had never passed away. An orphan's curse would drag to hell A spirit from on high. But oh, more horrible than that Is the curse in a dead man's eye. Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse and yet I could not die. The moving moon went up the sky And nowhere did abide. Softly she was going up And a star or two beside. Her beams be mocked the sultry mane Like April whore frost spread. But where the ship's huge shadow lay The charm 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 golden fire. Oh, happy living things! No tongue their beauty might declare. A spring of love gushed from my heart And I blessed them unaware. Sure, my kind saint took pity on me And I blessed them unaware. The self-same moment I could pray And from my neck so free The albatross fell off And sank like lead into the sea. Part five Oh, sleep it is a gentle thing Beloved from pole to pole To merry 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 an ear, but with its sound It shook the sails that were so thin and sear. The upper air burst into life And a hundred fire-flags sheen To and fro they were hurried about And to and fro and in and out The wand-stars danced between And the coming wind did roar more loud And the sails did sigh like sedge And the rain poured down from one black cloud The moon was at its edge The thick black cloud was cleft And still the moon was at its side Like water 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 uproised, nor spake, nor moved their eyes It had been strange Even in a dream to have seen those dead men rise The helmsman steered, the ship moved on Yet never a breeze up blue The mariners all gan work the ropes Where they were want 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 around the mast Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths And from their bodies passed Around, around, flew each sweet sound Then darted to the sun Slowly the sounds came back again Now mixed, now one by one Sometimes a dropping from the sky I heard the skylark sing Sometimes all little birds that are How they seemed to fill the sea in air With their sweet jargoning And now, twas like all instruments Now like a lonely flute And now it is an angel's song That makes the heavens be mute It ceased, yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June That too 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 Moved onward from beneath Under the keel, nine fathomed deep From the land of mist and snow The spirit slid And it was he that made the ship to go The sails at noon left off their tune And the ship stood still also The sun right up above the mast Had fixed her to the ocean But in a minute she ganced her With a short uneasy motion Backwards and forwards half her length With a short uneasy motion Then like a pawing horse let go She made a sudden bound It flung the blood into my hand And I fell down in a swooned 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 bighteth by himself In the land of mist and snow He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow The other was a softer voice As soft as honey do Quothee, the man hath penance done And penance more will do Part six First voice But tell me, tell me, speak again That soft response renewing What makes that ship drive on so fast What is the ocean doing? Second voice Still as a slave before his lord The ocean hath no blast His great bright eye most silently Up to the moon is cast If he may know which way to go For she guides him smooth or grim See, brother, see how graciously She looketh down on him First voice 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 Fly, brother, fly More high, more high Or we shall be belated For slow and slow that ship will go When the mariners trance is abated I woke and we were sailing on As in a gentle weather Twas night, calm night The moon was high The dead men stood together All stood together on the deck For a charneled 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 Doth close behind him tread But soon their breathe the wind on me Nor sound nor motion made Its path was not upon the sea In ripple orange shade It raised my hair It fanned my cheek Like a meadowgale of spring It mingled strangely with my fears Yet it felt like a welcoming Swiftly, swiftly flew 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 o'er the harbour bar And I with sobs did pray Oh, let me awake, my God Or let me sleep all way The harbour bay was clear as glass So smoothly it was thrown 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 weathercock And the bay was white with silent light Till rising from the same Full many shapes that shadows were In crimson colours came The little distance from the prow Those crimson shadows were I turned my eyes upon the deck O 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 The silence sank like music on my heart But soon I heard the dash of oars I heard the pilot's cheer My head was turned per force 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 shrive my soul He'll wash away the albatross' blood Part seven This hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea How lovely 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 holy hides The rotted old oak stump The skiff boat neared 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 look warp And see those sails How thin they are and sear I never saw ought like to them Unless perchance it were Brown skeletons of leaves that lag My forest brook along When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow And the aldot whoops to the wolf below That eats the she-wolf's young Dear lord, it hath a fiendish look The pilot made reply I am afeard, 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 straight a 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 Stung 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, save that the hill Was telling of the sound I moved my lips, the pilot shrieked 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 in all the while His eyes went to and fro Quoth 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, shrive me, shrive me, holy man The hermit crossed his bow Say quick, quoth he, I bid thee say What manner of man art thou Forthwith 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 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 Would loud uproar burst from that door The wedding guests are there But in the garden bower the bride And bride's maids singing are And hark the little Vesper bell Which bideth me to prayer O wedding guest, this soul hath been Alone on a wide, wide sea So lonely twas that God himself Scarce seemed there to be O sweeter than the marriage feast Tis sweeter far to me To walk together to the Kirk With a goodly company To walk together to the Kirk And all together pray While each to his great father bends Old men and babes and loving friends And youths and maidens gay Farewell, farewell, but this I tell To thee, thou wedding guest He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small For the dear God who loveth us He made and loveth all The mariner whose eye is bright Whose beard with age is 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 forlorn A sadder and a wiser man He rose the moral morn End of poem This recording is in the public domain The Bells by Edgar Allan Poe From the Junior Classics Vol. 10, Part 2 Poems Old and New Red for LibriVox Recording by John Rushton Hear the sledges with The Bells Silver Bells What a world of merriment their melody foretells How they tinkle, tinkle, tinkle In the icy air of night While the stars that oversprinkle All the heavens seem to twinkle With a crystalline delight Keeping time, time, time In a sort of runic rhyme To the tinted ablation That so musically wells From the bells, bells, bells, bells Bells, bells, bells From the jingling and the tinkling of the bells Hear the mellow wedding bells Golden bells What a world of happiness their harmony foretells Through the barmy air of night How they ring out their delight From the molten golden notes And all in tune What a liquid-ditty float To the turtledove that listens While she gloats on the moon O, from out the sounding cells What a gush of euphonesy volumously swells How it swells, how it dwells On the future how it tells Of the ratchet that impells To the swinging and the ringing Of the bells, bells, bells Of the bells, bells, bells, bells Bells, bells, bells, bells To the rhyming and the chiming of the bells Hear the loud alarm bells Raisin' bells What a tale of terror now Their turbulence he tells In the startling ear of night How they scream out their affright Too much horrified to speak They can only shriek, shriek Out of tune In the clamorous appealing To the mercy of the fire In a mad expostulation To the deaf and frantic fire Leaping higher Higher, higher With a desperate desire And a resolute endeavor now Now to sit or never By the side of the pale-faced moon O, the bells, bells, bells What a tale of terror tells Of despair, how they clang And clash and roar What a horror they outpour On the bosom of the palpitating air Yet the ear it fully knows By the twanging and the clanging How the danger ebbs and flows Yet the ear distinctly tells In the jangling and the wrangling How the danger sinks and swells By the sinking or the swelling In the anger of the bells Of the bells Of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells In the clamour and the clangour Of the bells Hear the tolling of the bells Iron bells What a world of son and thought Their melody compels In the silence of the night How we shiver with affright At the melancholy menace of their tone For every sound that floats From the rust within their throats Is a groan And the people, ah, the people That they dwell up in the steeple all alone And who tolling, tolling, tolling In that muffled monotone Feel a glory in so rolling On the human heart of stone They are neither man nor woman They are neither brute nor human They are ghouls And their king it is that tolls And he rolls, rolls, rolls Rolls a peon from the bells And his merry bosom swells With the peon of the bells And he dances and he yells Keeping time, time, time In a sort of runic rhyme To the peon of the bells Of the bells Keeping time, time, time In a sort of runic rhyme To the throbbing of the bells Of the bells, bells, bells To the sobbing of the bells keeping time, time, time, as he knells, knells, knells, in a happy runic rhyme, to the rolling of the bells, of the bells, bells, bells, to the tolling of the bells, of the bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, bells, to the moaning and the groaning of the bells. End of Poem This recording is in the public domain. End of the Junior Classics Volume 10, Part 2, Poem's Old and New, Compiled by William Patton