Part 70 (1/2)

He hath his will, and tells how the s.h.i.+p sailed forth gayly, and how it met after a time with storms, and cold, and fog, until at last it was all beset with ice. Then when to the sailors all hope seemed lost, an albatross came sailing through the fog.

With joy they hailed it, the only living thing in that wilderness of ice. They fed it with delight--

”It ate the food it ne'er had eat, And round and round it flew: The ice did split with a thunder-fit; The helmsman steered us through!”

Then on they gladly sailed, the albatross following, until one day the Ancient Mariner, in a mad moment, shot the beautiful bird. In punishment for this deed terrible disasters fell upon that s.h.i.+p and its crew. Under a blazing sun, in a hot and slimy sea filled with creeping, crawling things, they were becalmed--

”Day after day, day after day, We stuck, nor breath nor motion; As idle as a painted s.h.i.+p Upon a painted ocean.”

Then plague and death came, and every man died except the guilty Mariner--

”Alone, alone, all, all alone, Alone on a wide, wide sea; And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony.

”I looked to heaven, and tried to pray; But or ever a prayer had gush'd, A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust.”

But one day as the Mariner watched the water snakes, the only living things in all that dreadful waste, he blessed them unaware, merely because they were alive. That self-same moment, he found that he could pray, and the albatross, which his fellows in their anger had hung about his neck, dropped from it, and fell like lead into the sea. Then, relieved from his terrible agony of soul, the Mariner slept, and when he woke he found that the dreadful drought was over, and that it was raining. Oh, blessed relief! But more terrors still he had to endure until at last the s.h.i.+p drifted homeward--

”Oh, dream of joy! is this indeed The lighthouse top I see?

Is this the hill? is this the kirk?

Is this mine own countree?

”We drifted o'er the Harbour-bar, And I with sobs did pray-- 'O let me be awake, my G.o.d!

Or let me sleep alway.'”

The shop had indeed reached home, but in the harbor it suddenly sank like lead. Only the Mariner was saved.

When once more he came to land, he told his tale to a holy hermit and was shriven, but ever and anon afterward an agony comes upon him and forces him to tell the tale again, even as he has just done to the wedding guest. And thus he ends his story--

”He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small; For the dear G.o.d, who loveth us, He made and loveth all.”

Then he goes, leaving the wondering wedding guest alone.

”The Mariner, whose eye is bright, Whose beard with age is h.o.a.r, 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 morrow morn.”

Among the poems which Wordsworth wrote for the book of Lyrical Ballads, was one which every one knows, We are Seven. In another, called Lines written in Early Spring, he gives as it were the text of all his nature poems, and his creed, for here he tells us that he believes that all things in Nature, bird and flower alike, feel.

”I heard a thousand blended notes, While in a grove I sate reclined, In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

”In her fair works did Nature link The human soul that through me ran; And much it griev'd my heart to think What man has made of man.

”Through primrose tufts, in that sweet bower, The periwinkle trailed its wreaths; And 'tis my faith that every flower Enjoys the air it breathes.

”The birds around me hopp'd and play'd, Their thoughts I cannot measure:-- But the least motion that they made, It seemed a thrill of pleasure.

”The budding twigs spread out their fan, To catch the breezy air; And I must think, do all I can, That there was pleasure there.

”If this belief from heaven be sent, If such be Nature's holy plan, Have I not reason to lament What man has made of man?”

The book was not a success. People did not understand The Ancient Mariner, and they laughed at Wordsworth's simple lyrics, although the last poem in the book, Tintern Abbey, has since become famous, and is acknowledged as one of the treasures of our literature.