Lyrical Ballads

LYRICAL BALLADS,

WITH A FEW OTHER POEMS.

LONDON

PRINTED FOR J. & A. ARCH, GRACECHURCH-STREET.

1798

ADVERTISEMENT.

It is the honourable characteristic of Poetry that its materials are to

be found in every subject which can interest the human mind. The

evidence of this fact is to be sought, not in the writings of Critics,

but in those of Poets themselves.

The majority of the following poems are to be considered as experiments.

They were written chiefly with a view to ascertain how far the language

of conversation in the middle and lower classes of society is adapted to

the purposes of poetic pleasure. Readers accustomed to the gaudiness and

inane phraseology of many modern writers, if they persist in reading

this book to its conclusion, will perhaps frequently have to struggle

with feelings of strangeness and aukwardness: they will look round for

poetry, and will be induced to enquire by what species of courtesy these

attempts can be permitted to assume that title. It is desirable that

such readers, for their own sakes, should not suffer the solitary word

Poetry, a word of very disputed meaning, to stand in the way of their

gratification; but that, while they are perusing this book, they should

ask themselves if it contains a natural delineation of human passions,

human characters, and human incidents; and if the answer be favourable

to the author’s wishes, that they should consent to be pleased in spite

of that most dreadful enemy to our pleasures, our own pre-established

codes of decision.

Readers of superior judgment may disapprove of the style in which many

of these pieces are executed it must be expected that many lines and

phrases will not exactly suit their taste. It will perhaps appear to

them, that wishing to avoid the prevalent fault of the day, the author

has sometimes descended too low, and that many of his expressions are

too familiar, and not of sufficient dignity. It is apprehended, that the

more conversant the reader is with our elder writers, and with those in

modern times who have been the most successful in painting manners and

passions, the fewer complaints of this kind will he have to make.

An accurate taste in poetry, and in all the other arts, Sir Joshua

Reynolds has observed, is an acquired talent, which can only be produced

by severe thought, and a long continued intercourse with the best models

of composition. This is mentioned not with so ridiculous a purpose as to

prevent the most inexperienced reader from judging for himself; but

merely to temper the rashness of decision, and to suggest that if poetry

be a subject on which much time has not been bestowed, the judgment may

be erroneous, and that in many cases it necessarily will be so.

The tale of Goody Blake and Harry Gill is founded on a

well-authenticated fact which happened in Warwickshire. Of the other

poems in the collection, it may be proper to say that they are either

absolute inventions of the author, or facts which took place within his

personal observation or that of his friends. The poem of the Thorn, as

the reader will soon discover, is not supposed to be spoken in the

author’s own person: the character of the loquacious narrator will

sufficiently shew itself in the course of the story. The Rime of the

Ancyent Marinere was professedly written in imitation of the _style_, as

well as of the spirit of the elder poets; but with a few exceptions, the

Author believes that the language adopted in it has been equally

intelligible for these three last centuries. The lines entitled

Expostulation and Reply, and those which follow, arose out of

conversation with a friend who was somewhat unreasonably attached to

modern books of moral philosophy.

CONTENTS.

The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere

The Foster-Mother’s Tale

Lines left upon a Seat in a Yew-tree which stands near the Lake

It is an ancyent Marinere,

And he stoppeth one of three:

“By thy long grey beard and thy glittering eye

“Now wherefore stoppest me?

“The Bridegroom’s doors are open’d wide

“And I am next of kin;

“The Guests are met, the Feast is set,--

“May’st hear the merry din.--

But still he holds the wedding-guest--

There was a Ship, quoth he--

“Nay, if thou’st got a laughsome tale,

“Marinere! come with me.”

He holds him with his skinny hand,

Quoth he, there was a Ship--

“Now get thee hence, thou grey-beard Loon!

“Or my Staff shall make thee skip.”

He holds him with his glittering eye--

The wedding guest stood still

And listens like a three year’s child;

The Marinere hath his will.

The wedding-guest sate on a stone,

He cannot chuse but hear:

And thus spake on that ancyent man,

The bright-eyed Marinere.

The Ship was cheer’d, the Harbour clear’d--

Merrily did we drop

Below the Kirk, below the Hill,

Below the Light-house 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 pac’d into the Hall,

Red as a rose is she;

Nodding their heads before her goes

The merry Minstralsy.

The wedding-guest he beat his breast,

Yet he cannot chuse but hear:

And thus spake on that ancyent Man,

The bright-eyed Marinere.

Listen, Stranger! Storm and Wind,

A Wind and Tempest strong!

For days and weeks it play’d us freaks--

Like Chaff we drove along.

Listen, Stranger! Mist and Snow,

And it grew wond’rous cauld:

And Ice mast-high came floating by

As green as Emerauld.

And thro’ the drifts the snowy clifts

Did send a dismal sheen;

Ne shapes of men ne beasts we ken--

The Ice was all between.

The Ice was here, the Ice was there,

The Ice was all around:

It crack’d and growl’d, and roar’d and howl’d--

Like noises of a swound.

At length did cross an Albatross,

Thorough the Fog it came;

And an it were a Christian Soul,

We hail’d it in God’s name.

The Marineres gave it biscuit-worms,

And round and round it flew:

The Ice did split with a Thunder-fit;

The Helmsman steer’d us thro’.

And a good south wind sprung up behind,

The Albatross did follow;

And every day for food or play

Came to the Marinere’s hollo!

In mist or cloud on mast or shroud

It perch’d for vespers nine,

Whiles all the night thro’ fog-smoke white

Glimmer’d the white moon-shine.

“God save thee, ancyent Marinere!

“From the fiends that plague thee thus--

“Why look’st thou so?”--with my cross bow

I shot the Albatross.

The Sun came up upon the right,

Out of the Sea came he;

And broad as a weft upon the left

Went down into the Sea.

And the good south wind still blew behind,

But no sweet Bird did follow

Ne any day for food or play

Came to the Marinere’s hollo!

And I had done an hellish thing

And it would work ’em woe:

For all averr’d, I had kill’d the Bird

That made the Breeze to blow.

Ne dim ne red, like God’s own head,

The glorious Sun uprist:

Then all averr’d, I had kill’d the Bird

That brought the fog and mist.

’Twas right, said they, such birds to slay

That bring the fog and mist.

The breezes blew, the white foam flew,

The furrow follow’d free:

We were the first that ever burst

Into that silent Sea.

Down dropt the breeze, the Sails dropt down,

’Twas 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, day after day,

We stuck, ne breath ne motion,

As idle as a painted Ship

Upon a painted Ocean.

Water, water, every where

And all the boards did shrink;

Water, water, every where,

Ne any drop to drink.

The very deeps did rot: O 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 danc’d 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 fathom deep he had follow’d us

From the Land of Mist and Snow.

And every tongue thro’ utter drouth

Was wither’d at the root;

We could not speak no more than if

We had been choked with soot.

Ah wel-a-day! what evil looks

Had I from old and young;

Instead of the Cross the Albatross

About my neck was hung.