The Norton Anthology of English literature. Volume 2

And here and there, a cavern wide is Its shad'wyjaws display'd; And near the sands, at ebb of tide, A shiver'd mast was seen to ride Where the green billows stray'd. And often, while the moaning wind 20 Stole o'er the Summer Ocean, The moonlight scene was all serene, The waters scarce in motion; Then, while the smoothly slanting sand The tall cliff wrapp'd in shade, 25 The Fisherman beheld a band Of Spectres gliding hand in hand� Where the green billows play'd. And pale their faces were as snow, And sullenly they wander'd; 30 And to the skies with hollow eyes They look'd as though they ponder'd. And sometimes, from their hammock shroud, They dismal howlings made, And while the blast blew strong and loud 35 The clear moon mark'd the ghastly crowd, Where the green billows play'd! And then above the haunted hut The Curlews screaming hover'd; And the low door, with furious roar, 40 The frothy breakers cover'd. For in the Fisherman's lone shed A murder'd man was laid, With ten wide gashes in his head, And deep was made his sandy bed 45 Where the green billows play'd. A shipwreck'd Mariner was he, Doom'd from his home to sever; Who swore to be through wind and sea Firm and undaunted ever! 50 And when the wave resistless roll'd, About his arm he made A packet rich of Spanish gold, And, like a British sailor bold, Plung'd where the billows play'd! 55 The Spectre band, his messmates brave, Sunk in the yawning ocean, While to the mast he lash'd him fast, And braVd the storm's commotion. The winter moon upon the sand 60 A silv'ry carpet made, And mark'd the Sailor reach the land,

B EACH / 73

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74 / MARY ROBINSON

And mark'd his murd'rer wash his hand Where the green billows play'd.

And since that hour the Fisherman 65

Has toil'd and toil'd in vain; For all the night the moony light Gleams on the specter'd main! And when the skies are veil'd in gloom, The Murd'rer's liquid way

70 Bounds o'er the deeply yawning tomb, And flashing fires the sands illume, Where the green billows play!

Full thirty years his task has been Day after day more weary; 75 For Heav'n design'd his guilty mind Should dwell on prospects dreary. Bound by a strong and mystic chain, He has not pow'r to stray; But destin'd mis'ry to sustain, so He wastes, in Solitude and Pain, A loathsome life away.

1800

To the Poet Coleridge1

Rapt in the visionary theme! Spirit divine! with thee I'll wander, Where the blue, wavy, lucid stream, 'Mid forest glooms, shall slow meander! 5 With thee I'll trace the circling bounds Of thy new Paradise extended; And listen to the varying sounds Of winds, and foamy torrents blended.

Now by the source which lab'ring heaves 10 The mystic fountain, bubbling, panting, While gossamer" its net-work weaves, filmy cobweb

Adown the blue lawn slanting! I'll mark thy sunny dome, and view Thy caves of ice, thy fields of dew!

15 Thy ever-blooming mead, whose flow'r Waves to the cold breath of the moonlight hour! Or when the day-star, peering bright On the grey wing of parting night; While more than vegetating pow'r

20 Throbs grateful to the burning hour,

1. This poem is a tribute to, and running commentary on, Coleridge's "Kubla Khan," which Robinson read in manuscript (Coleridge had drafted it in 1797 but did not publish it until 1816).

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