Chapter VII: "This Hermit good lives in that wood,

Which slopes down to the sea.

Ho^ loudly his sweet voice he rears!

He loves to talk with marineres

That come from a far countree.

"He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve--

He hath a cushion plump;

It is the moss that wholly hides

The rotted old oak-stump.

"The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,

'Why, this is strange, I trow!

Where are those lights so many and fair,

That signal made but now?

"'Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said--

' And they answer'd not our cheer!

The planks look warp'd! and see those sails

How thin they are and sere!

I never saw aught 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 owlet 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 a-feared.'--' Push on, push on!'

Said the Hermit cheerily.

"The boat came closer to the ship,

But I nor spake nor stirr'd;

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 reach'd 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 drown'd,

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 shriek'd,

And fell down in a fit;

The holy Hermit raised his eyes,

And pray'd where he did sit.

"I took the oars: the pilot's boy,

Who now doth crazy go,

Laugh'd loud and long, and all the while

His eyes went to and fro.

'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I see,

The Devil knows how to row.'

"And now, all in my own countree,

I stood on the firm land!

The Hermit stepp'd forth from the boat,

And scarcely he could stand.

"'O, shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man! '

The Hermit cross'd his brow.

' Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say--

What manner of man art thou?'

"Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd

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;

And till 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.

"What loud uproar bursts from that door!

The wedding-guests are there;

But in the garden-bower the bride

And bride-maids singing are;

And hark, the little vesper bell,

Which biddeth 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 hoar,

Is gone; and now the Wedding-Guest

Turned from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunn'd,

And is of sense forlorn:

A sadder and a wiser man,

He rose the morrow morn.

---S. T. Coleridge.

THE WELL OF ST. KEYNE

|A well there is in the west country,

And a clearer one never was seen;

There is not a wife in the west country

But has heard of the Well of St Keyne.

An oak and an elm tree stand beside,

And behind doth an ash-tree grow,

And a willow from the bank above

Droops to the water below.

A traveller came to the Well of St Keyne,

Joyfully he drew nigh,

For from cock-crow he had been travelling,

And there was not a cloud in the sky.

He drank of the water so cool and clear,

For thirsty and hot was he,

And he sat down upon the bank

Under the willow tree.

There came a man from the house hard by

At the Well to fill his pail;

On the Well-side he rested it,

And he bade the Stranger hail.

"Now art thou a bachelor, Stranger?" quoth he,

"For an if thou hast a wife,

The happiest draught thou hast drank this day

That ever thou didst in thy life.

"Or has thy good woman, if one thou hast,

Ever here in Cornwall been?

For an if she have, I'll venture my life

She has drank of the Well of St Key ne."

"I have left a good woman who never was here,"

The Stranger he made reply,

"But that my draught should be better for that,

I pray you answer me why."

"St Keyne," quoth the Cornish-man, "many a time

Drank of this crystal Well,

And before the Angel summon'd her,

She laid on the water a spell.

"If the husband of this gifted Well

Shall drink before his wife,

A happy man thenceforth is he,

For he shall be master for life.

"But if the wife should drink of it first,

God help the husband then!"

The stranger stoopt to the Well of St Keyne,

And drank of the water again.

"You drank of the Well, I warrant, betimes?"

He to the Cornish-man said:

But the Cornish-man smiled as the Stranger spake,

And sheepishly shook his head.

"I hasten'd as soon as the wedding was done,

And left my wife in the porch;

But i' faith she had been wiser than me,

For she took a bottle to Church."

----R. Southey.

----Westbury, 1798.

ALONZO THE BRAVE AND FAIR IMOGINE

|A warrior so bold and a virgin so bright

Conversed, as they sat on the green;

They gazed on each other with tender delight:

Alonzo the Brave was the name of the knight,

The maid's was the Fair Imogine.

"And, oh!" said the youth, "since to-morrow I go

To fight in a far-distant land,

Your tears for my absence soon leaving to flow,

Some other will court you, and you will bestow

On a wealthier suitor your hand."

"Oh! hush these suspicions," Fair Imogine said,

"Offensive to love and to me!

For if you be living, or if you be dead,

I swear by the Virgin, that none in your stead

Shall husband of Imogine be.

"And if e'er for another my heart should decide,

Forgetting Alonzo the Brave,

God grant, that, to punish my falsehood and pride,

Your ghost at the marriage may sit by my side,

May tax me with perjury, claim me as bride,

And bear me away to the grave!"

To Palestine hasten'd the hero so bold;

His love she lamented him sore:

But scarce had a twelvemonth elapsed, when behold,

A baron all cover'd with jewels and gold

Arrived at fair Imogine's door.

His treasure, his presents, his spacious domain

Soon made her untrue to her vows:

He dazzled her eyes, he bewilder'd her brain,

He caught her affections so light and so vain,

And carried her home as his spouse.

And now had the marriage been bless'd by the priest;

The revelry now was begun;

The tables they groan'd with the weight of the feast,

Nor yet had the laughter and merriment ceased,

When the bell of the castle toll'd--"one!"

Then first with amazement fair Imogine found

That a stranger was placed by her side:

His air was terrific; he uttered no sound;

He spoke not, he moved not, he look'd not around,

But earnestly gazed on the bride.

His vizor was closed, and gigantic his height,

His armour was sable to view:

All pleasure and laughter were hush'd at his sight,

The dogs, as they eyed him, drew back in affright,

The lights in the chamber burnt blue!

His presence all bosoms appear'd to dismay;

The guests sat in silence and fear:

At length spoke the bride, while she trembled:--

"I pray, Sir knight, that your helmet aside you would lay,

And deign to partake of our cheer."

The lady is silent; the stranger complies;

His vizor he slowly unclosed:

Oh! then what a sight met Fair Imogine's eyes!

What words can express her dismay and surprise,

When a skeleton's head was exposed!

All present then utter'd a terrified shout;

All turn'd with disgust from the scene.

The worms they crept in, and the worms they crept out,

And sported his eyes and his temples about,

While the spectre address'd Imogine:

"Behold me, thou false one! behold me!" he cried;

"Remember Alonzo the Brave!

God grants that, to punish thy falsehood and pride,

My ghost at thy marriage should sit by thy side,

Should tax thee with perjury, claim thee as bride,

And bear thee away to the grave!"

Thus saying, his arms round the lady he wound,

While loudly she shriek'd in dismay,

Then sank with his prey through the wide-yawning ground:

Nor ever again was Fair Imogine found,

Or the spectre who bore her away.

Not long lived the Baron: and none since that time

To inhabit the castle presume;

For chronicles tell, that, by order sublime,

There Imogine suffers the pain of her crime,

And mourns her deplorable doom.

At midnight four times in each year does her sprite,

When mortals in slumber are bound,

Array'd in her bridal apparel of white,

Appear in the hall with the skeleton-knight,

And shriek as he whirls her around.

While they drink out of skulls newly torn from

the grave,

Dancing round them pale spectres are seen:

Their liquor is blood, and this horrible stave

They howl:--"To the health of Alonzo the

Brave,

And his consort, the False Imogine!"

----M. G. Lewis (The Monk).

LORD ULLIN'S DAUGHTER

|A chieftain, to the Highlands bound,

Cries, "Boatman, do not tarry!

And I'll give thee a silver pound

To row us o'er the ferry."--

"Now who be ye would cross Lochgyle,

This dark and stormy water?"

"O, I'm the chief of Ulva's isle,

And this Lord Ullin's daughter.--

"And fast before her father's men

Three days we've fled together,

For should he find us in the glen,

My blood would stain the heather.

"His horsemen hard behind us ride;

Should they our steps discover,

Then who will cheer my bonny bride

When they have slain her lover?"--

Out spoke the hardy Highland wight,

"I'll go, my chief--I'm ready:--

It is not for your silver bright;

But for your winsome lady:

"And by my word! the bonny bird

In danger shall not tarry;

So though the waves are raging white,

Til row you o er the ferry."--

By this the storm grew loud apace,

The water-wraith was shrieking;

And in the scowl of Heaven each face

Grew dark as they were speaking.

But still as wilder blew the wind,

And as the night grew drearer,

Adown the glen rode armed men,

Their trampling sounded nearer.--

"O haste thee, haste!" the lady cries,

"Though tempests round us gather;

I'll meet the raging of the skies,

But not an angry father."--

The boat has left a stormy land,

A stormy sea before her,--

When, oh! too strong for human hand,

The tempest gather'd o er her.

And still they row'd amidst the roar

Of waters fast prevailing;

Lord Ullin reach'd that fatal shore,

His wrath was changed to wailing.--

For sore dismay'd, through storm and shade,

His child he did discover;--

One lovely hand she stretch'd for aid,

And one was round her lover.

"Come back! come back!" he cried in grief,

"Across this stormy water;

And I'll forgive your Highland chief,

My daughter!--Oh my daughter!"--

'Twas vain:--the loud waves lash'd the shore,

Return or aid preventing:--

The waters wild went o'er his child,

And he was left lamenting.

----T. Campbell.

THE BATTLE OF THE BALTIC - 1809

I.

|Of Nelson and the North,

Sing the glorious day's renown,

When to battle fierce came forth

All the might of Denmark's crown,

And her arms along the deep proudly shone;

By each gun the lighted brand,

In a bold determined hand,

And the Prince of all the land

Led them on.--

II.

Like leviathans afloat,

Lay their bulwarks on the brine,

While the sign of battle flew

On the lofty British line:

It was ten of April morn by the chime:

As they drifted on their path,

There was silence deep as death;

And the boldest held his breath

For a time.--

III.

But the might of England flush'd

To anticipate the scene;

And her van the fleeter rush'd

O'er the deadly space between.

"Hearts of oak!" our captains cried; when each gun

From its adamantine lips

Spread a death-shade round the ships,

Like the hurricane eclipse

Of the sun.

IV.

Again! again! again!

And the havoc did not slack,

Till a Feeble cheer the Dane

To our cheering sent us back;--

Their shots along the deep slowly boom:--

Then ceased--and all is wail,

As they strike the shatter'd sail,

Or, in conflagration pale,

Light the gloom.--

V.

Out spoke the victor then,

As he hail'd them o'er the wave:

"Ye are brothers! ye are men!

And we conquer but to save;--

So peace instead of death let us bring;

But yield, proud foe, thy fleet,

With the crews, at England's feet,

And make submission meet

To our King."--

VI.

Then Denmark bless'd our chief,

That he gave her wounds repose;

And the sounds of joy and grief

From her people wildly rose,

As death withdrew his shades from the day.

While the sun look'd smiling bright

O'er a wide and woeful sight,

Where the fires of funeral light

Died away.

VII.

Now joy, old England, raise!

For the tidings of thy might,

By the festal cities' blaze,

While the wine-cup shines in light;

And yet amidst that joy and uproar,

Let us think of them that sleep,

Full many a fathom deep,

By thy wild and stormy steep,

Elsinore!