'I pass, like night, from land to land;
I have strange power of speech;
The 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 lovest 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 stunned,
And is of sense forlorn :

A sadder and a wiser man

He rose the morrow morn.

COLERIDGE.

The Haunted Palace

I

IN the greenest of our valleys,
By good angels tenanted,
Once a fair and stately palace,
Radiant palace, reared its head.
In the monarch Thought's dominion,
It stood there;

Never seraph spread a pinion
Over fabric half so fair!

II

Banners-yellow, glorious, golden-
On its roof did float and flow
(This, all this, was in the olden
Time, long ago);

And every gentle air that dallied,

In that sweet day,

Along the ramparts plumed and pallid,
A winged odour went away.

III

Wanderers in that happy valley,
Through two luminous windows saw
Spirits moving musically,

To a lute's well-tuned law,
Round about a throne where, sitting
(Porphyrogene !)

In state his glory well befitting,

The ruler of the realm was seen.

IV

And all with pearl and ruby glowing
Was the fair palace-door,

Through which came flowing, flowing, flowing, And sparkling evermore,

M

A troop of Echoes, whose sweet duty
Was but to sing,

In voices of surpassing beauty,

The wit and wisdom of their king.

V

But evil things, in robes of sorrow,

Assailed the monarch's high estate.
(Ah, let us mourn !--for never morrow
Shall dawn upon him desolate ;)
And round about his home the glory
That blushed and bloomed,
Is but a dim-remembered story
Of the old time entombed.

VI

And travellers now within that valley,
Through the red-litten windows see
Vast forms, that move fantastically
To a discordant melody,
While, like a ghastly rapid river,
Through the pale door,

A hideous throng rush out or ever
And laugh—but smile no more.

The Bard

PINDARIC ODE

'RUIN seize thee, ruthless King!
Confusion on thy banners wait,
Tho' fann'd by Conquest's crimson wing
They mock the air with idle state.

Helm, nor Hauberk's twisted mail,

Nor e'en thy virtues, Tyrant, shall avail

To save thy secret soul from nightly fears,

POE.

From Cambria's curse, from Cambria's tears!'

-Such were the sounds, that o'er the crested pride
Of the first Edward scattered wild dismay,

As down the steep of Snowdon's shaggy side
He wound with toilsome march his long array.
Stout Glo'ster stood aghast in speechless trance:
'To arms' cried Mortimer, and couch'd his quivering
lance.

On a rock, whose haughty brow
Frowns o'er old Conway's foaming flood,
Robed in the sable garb of woe,
With haggard eyes the Poet stood ;
(Loose his beard and hoary hair
Stream'd like a meteor to the troubled air)

And with a Master's hand and Prophet's fire
Struck the deep sorrows of his lyre.

'Hark, how each giant-oak and desert cave
Sighs to the torrent's aweful voice beneath!
O'er thee, oh King! their hundred arms they wave,
Revenge on thee in hoarser murmurs breathe;
Vocal no more, since Cambria's fatal day,
To high-born Hoel's harp, or soft Llewellyn's lay.

'Cold is Cadwallo's tongue,
That hush'd the stormy main :
Brave Urien sleeps upon his craggy bed:
Mountains, ye mourn in vain

Modred, whose magic song

Made huge Plinlimmon bow his cloud-topp'd head.
On dreary Arvon's shore they lie,
Smear'd with gore, and ghastly pale :

Far, far aloof th' affrighted ravens sail ;

The famish'd Eagle screams, and passes by.

Dear lost companions of my tuneful art,

Dear, as the light that visits these sad eyes, Dear, as the ruddy drops that warm my heart, Ye died amidst your dying country's criesNo more I weep. They do not sleep.

On yonder cliffs, a griesly band,

I see them sit, they linger yet,

Avengers of their native land:

With me in dreadful harmony they join,

And weave with bloody hands the tissue of thy line.

'Weave the warp, and weave the woof
The winding-sheet of Edward's race.
Give ample room, and verge enough
The characters of hell to trace.
Mark the year, and mark the night,
When Severn shall re-echo with affright

The shrieks of death, thro' Berkley's roofs that ring,

Shrieks of an agonising king!

She-wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear'st the bowels of thy mangled Mate,

From thee be born, who o'er thy country hangs The scourge of Heaven! What terrors round him wait! Amazement in his van, with Flight combined, And Sorrow's faded form, and Solitude behind.

'Mighty victor, mighty Lord!

Low on his funeral couch he lies! No pitying heart, no eye, afford

A tear to grace his obsequies.

Is the sable warriour fled?

Thy son is gone. He rests among the Dead.
The Swarm that in thy noon-tide beam were born?
Gone to salute the rising Morn.

Fair laughs the Morn, and soft the Zephyr blows,
While proudly riding o'er the azure realm

In gallant trim the gilded Vessel goes;

Youth on the prow, and Pleasure at the helm ; Regardless of the sweeping Whirlwind's sway,

That hush'd in grim repose expects his evening-prey.

'Fill high the sparkling bowl,

The rich repast prepare,

Reft of a crown, he yet may share the feast:

Close by the regal chair

Fell Thirst and Famine scowl

A baleful smile upon their baffled Guest. Heard ye the din of battle bray,

Lance to lance, and horse to horse?

Long years of havock urge their destined course,
And thro' the kindred squadrons mow their way.
Ye towers of Julius, London's lasting shame,
With many a foul and midnight murther fed,
Revere his Consort's faith, his Father's fame,
And spare the meek Usurper's holy head.
Above, below, the rose of snow,

Twined with her blushing foe, we spread:
The bristled Boar in infant-gore

Wallows beneath the thorny shade.

Now, Brothers, bending o'er the accursed loom,
Stamp we our vengeance deep, and ratify his doom.