This page sets the 1798 and 1817 versions of Coleridge's poem in parallel, with the 1817 marginal gloss and notes on 1800 variants displayed in a third column. Changes between the versions are highlighted: altered words or lines appear in amber; new stanzas or passages in green; deleted passages in red. Some minor changes may be unmarked.
In the second (1800) edition of Lyrical Ballads, Coleridge revised the poem substantially, modernising the spelling, cutting several groups of stanzas, and making many of the line-by-line changes that were retained in 1817. The 1800 text is not displayed as a separate column, but where it represents a distinct intermediate stage this is noted in the third column.
The most striking differences are: (1) the complete replacement of the storm opening — a three-stage revision across all three versions; (2) the transformation of Death's companion into the named figure "Life-in-Death"; (3) the addition of several new stanzas in Part III; (4) the Wordsworth attribution footnote; and (5) throughout, the 1817 gloss's imposition of a moralising theological framework on material that resists it.
Note also the prefatory changes: the 1798 edition opened with a plain Argument summarising the plot; the 1800 edition replaced this with an expanded Argument imposing a moral reading, and added the subtitle A Poet's Reverie (later partially withdrawn by Coleridge following Lamb's criticism, and gone entirely by 1817); the 1817 edition dropped the Argument entirely and substituted the Latin epigraph from Burnet. Several substantial passages cut in 1800 — including the mid-Part V Wedding-Guest interruption and two groups of stanzas — were not restored in 1817.
References to Hutchinson are to the 1920 third edition of Thomas Hutchinson's annotated edition of the Lyrical Ballads
Key
Word or line altered between 1798 and 1817
Passage present in 1817 only (new addition)
Passage present in 1798 only (removed by 1800 or 1817)
Part I
It is an ancyent Marinere,
And he stoppeth one of three:
"By thy long grey beard and thy glittering eye
Now wherefore stoppest me?
It is an ancient Mariner,
And he stoppeth one of three.
"By thy long beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?
Gloss
An ancient Mariner meeteth three Gallants bidden to a wedding-feast, and detaineth one.
"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.
"The Bridegroom's doors are opened 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 skinny hand,
"There was a ship," quoth he.
"Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!"
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.
[Two 1798 stanzas condensed and rewritten]
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.
He holds him with his glittering eye—
The wedding-guest stood still,
And listens like a three years' child:
The Mariner hath his will.
Gloss
The Wedding-Guest is spell-bound by the eye of the old seafaring man, and constrained to hear his tale.
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 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 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.
Gloss
The Mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with a good wind and fair weather, till it reached the Line.
The Wedding-Guest heareth the bridal music; but the Mariner continueth his tale.
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 now the storm-blast came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong:
He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
And chased us south along.
With sloping masts and dipping prow,
As who pursued with yell and blow
Still treads the shadow of his foe,
And forward bends his head,
The ship drove fast, loud roar'd the blast,
The southward aye we fled.
And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold:
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.
Gloss
The ship driven by a storm toward the south pole.
Note: This is the most significant textual change between the versions. The flat, ballad-like repetition ("Listen, Stranger!") is replaced by a vivid extended simile — the storm as a pursuing predator. The new passage is among the most celebrated in the poem.
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.
And through the drifts the snowy clifts
Did send a dismal sheen:
Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken—
The ice was all between.
The ice was here, the ice was there,
The ice was all around:
It cracked and growled, and roar'd and howl'd,
Like noises in a swound!
Gloss
The land of ice, and of fearful sounds where no living thing was to be seen.
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'.
At length did cross an Albatross,
Thorough the fog it came;
As if it had been a Christian soul,
We hailed it in God's name.
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 steer'd us through!
Gloss
Till a great sea-bird, called the Albatross, came through the snow-fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality.
And lo! the Albatross proveth a bird of good omen, and followeth the ship as it returned northward through fog and floating ice.
"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.
"God save thee, ancient Mariner!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!—
Why look'st thou so?"—With my cross-bow
I shot the Albatross.
Gloss
The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of good omen.
Note: the words "inhospitably" and "pious" are the gloss's own moral judgements, nowhere present in the poem itself.
Part II
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.
The Sun now rose upon the right:
Out of the sea came he,
Still hid in mist, and on the left
Went down into the sea.
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.
And I had done an hellish thing,
And it would work 'em woe:
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow.
Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,
That made the breeze to blow!
Gloss
His shipmates cry out against the ancient Mariner, for killing the bird of good luck.
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.
Nor dim nor red, like God's own head,
The glorious Sun uprist:
Then all averred, I had killed the bird
That brought the fog and mist.
'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
That bring the fog and mist.
Gloss
But when the fog cleared off, they justify the same, and thus make themselves accomplices in the crime.
The breezes blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow follow'd free:
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent Sea.
The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow* stream'd off free:
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.
Gloss
The fair breeze continues; the ship enters the Pacific Ocean, and sails northward, even till it reaches the Line.
*Footnote (1817): "In the former edition the line was, The furrow follow'd free; but I had not been long on board a ship, before I perceived that this was the image as seen by a spectator from the shore, or from another vessel. From the ship itself the Wake appears like a brook flowing off from the stern."
Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, ne breath ne motion,
As idle as a painted Ship
Upon a painted Ocean,
Day after day, day after day,
We stuck, nor breath nor motion,
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.
Gloss
The ship hath been suddenly becalmed.
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 withered at the root;
We could not speak no more than if
We had been choked with soot.
And some in dreams assured were
Of the spirit that plagued us so:
Nine fathom deep he had followed us
From the land of mist and snow.
And every tongue, through utter drought,
Was wither'd at the root;
We could not speak, no more than if
We had been choak'd with soot.
Gloss
And the Albatross begins to be avenged.
A Spirit had followed them; one of the invisible inhabitants of this planet, neither departed souls nor angels; concerning whom the learned Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more.
Ah wel-a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young;
Instead of the Cross the Albatross
About my neck was hung.
Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young!
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.
Gloss
The shipmates, in their sore distress, would fain throw the whole guilt on the ancient Mariner: in sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck.
Part III
I saw a something in the Sky
No bigger than my fist;
At first it seem'd a little speck
And then it seem'd a mist:
It mov'd and mov'd, and took at last
A certain shape, I wist.
There passed a weary time. Each throat
Was parched, and glazed each eye.
A weary time! a weary time!
How glazed each weary eye,
When looking westward, I beheld
A something in the sky.
Gloss
The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar off.
A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
And still it ner'd and ner'd;
And, an it dodg'd a water-sprite,
It plung'd and tack'd and veer'd.
At first it seemed a little speck,
And then it seem'd a mist:
It moved and moved, and took at last
A certain shape, I wist.
A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
And still it near'd and near'd:
As if it dodged a water-sprite,
It plunged and tacked and veered.
With throat unslack'd, with black lips bak'd
Ne could we laugh, ne wail:
Then while thro' drouth all dumb they stood
I bit my arm and suck'd the blood
And cry'd, A sail! a sail!
With throats unslack'd, with black lips baked,
We could nor laugh nor wail;
Through utter drought all dumb we stood!
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,
And cried, A sail! a sail!
Gloss
At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship; and at a dear ransom he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst.
A flash of joy.
Are these her naked ribs, which fleck'd
The sun that did behind them peer?
And are those two all, all the crew,
That woman and her fleshless Pheere?
His bones were black with many a crack,
All black and bare, I ween;
Jet-black and bare, save where with rust
Of mouldy damps and charnel crust
They're patch'd with purple and green,
Her lips are red, her looks are free,
Her locks are yellow as gold:
Her skin is as white as leprosy,
And she is far liker Death than he;
Her flesh makes the still air cold.
And those her ribs through which the Sun
Did peer, as through a grate?
And is that Woman all her crew?
Is that a Death? and are there two?
Is Death that woman's mate?
Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were yellow as gold:
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Night-Mair Life-in-Death was she,
Who thicks man's blood with cold.
Gloss
It seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship.
And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting Sun.
The Spectre-Woman and her Death-mate, and no other on board the skeleton ship.
Note: the unnamed woman of 1798 becomes "Life-in-Death" — a named allegorical figure. Death acquires a companion. The poem's symbolic framework is sharpened considerably.
The naked Hulk alongside came
And the Twain were playing dice;
"The Game is done! I've won, I've won!"
Quoth she, and whistled thrice.
The naked hulk alongside came,
And the twain were casting dice;
"The game is done! I've won! I've won!"
Quoth she, and whistles thrice.
Gloss
Death and Life-in-Death have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) winneth the ancient Mariner.
The Sun's rim dips; the stars rush out:
At one stride comes the dark;
With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea,
Off shot the spectre-bark.
We listen'd and look'd sideways up!
Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
My life-blood seemed to sip!
The stars were dim, and thick the night,
The steerman's face by his lamp gleam'd white;
From the sails the dew did drip—
Gloss
No twilight within the courts of the Sun.
At the rising of the Moon,
With never a whisper in the Sea
Off darts the Spectre-ship;
While clombe above the Eastern bar
The horned Moon, with one bright Star
Almost atween the tips.
One after one by the horned Moon
(Listen, O Stranger! to me)
Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang
And curs'd me with his ee.
Four times fifty living men,
With never a sigh or groan.
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump
They dropp'd down one by one.
Their souls did from their bodies fly,—
They fled to bliss or woe;
And every soul it pass'd me by,
Like the whiz of my Cross-bow.
Till clombe above the eastern bar
The horned Moon, with one bright star
Within the nether tip.
One after one, by the star-dogg'd Moon
Too quick for groan or sigh,
Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang,
And cursed me with his eye.
Four times fifty living men,
(And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
They dropped down one by one.
The souls did from their bodies fly,—
They fled to bliss or woe!
And every soul, it passed me by,
Like the whizz of my cross-bow!
Gloss
One after another,
His shipmates drop down dead.
But Life-in-Death begins her work on the ancient Mariner.
Part IV
Alone, alone, all all alone
Alone on the wide wide Sea;
And Christ would take no pity on
My soul in agony.
Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.
Gloss
But the ancient Mariner assureth him of his bodily life, and proceedeth to relate his horrible penance.
Note: The substitution of "never a saint" for "Christ" is theologically significant — it softens the blasphemy while also broadening the framework from specifically Christian to a more generalised supernatural register.
"I fear thee and thy glittering eye
"And thy skinny hand so brown—
Fear not, fear not, thou wedding guest!
This body dropt not down.
I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
And thy skinny hand, so brown."—
Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!
This body dropt not down.
[Footnote: *"For the two last lines of this stanza, I am indebted to Mr. Wordsworth. It was on a delightful walk from Nether Stowey to Dulverton, with him and his sister, in the Autumn of 1797, that this Poem was planned, and in part composed."]
Gloss
Note: Coleridge's footnote attributing two lines to Wordsworth is the only place in either version where the poem's collaborative origins are acknowledged. It also quietly dates and places the poem's composition — contradicting the opium-dream account of the preface.
The many men so beautiful,
And they all dead did lie!
And a million million slimy things
Liv'd on—and so did I.
The many men, so beautiful!
And they all dead did lie:
And a thousand thousand slimy things
Liv'd on; and so did I.
1800 Variant
"A thousand thousand" was introduced in 1800 and retained in 1817. The change from "million million" reduces the hyperbole slightly — though "thousand thousand" (= a million) is itself emphatic. Hutchinson notes "And never a saint took pity on" (l. 226) as another 1817 change at this point.
He despiseth the creatures of the calm.
And envieth that they should live, and so many lie dead.
I look'd upon the rotting Sea,
And drew my eyes away;
I look'd upon the eldritch deck,
And there the dead men lay.
I look'd upon the rotting sea,
And drew my eyes away;
I looked upon the rotting deck,
And there the dead men lay.
1800 Variant
A three-stage change. 1798 has eldritch (Scots: uncanny, eerie). In 1800 this became ghastly. In 1817 Coleridge changed it again to rotting, creating a grim parallelism with "the rotting Sea" above — the deck mirrors the sea in its decay.
The moving Moon went up the sky
And no where did abide:
Softly she was going up
And a star or two beside—
Her beams bemock'd the sultry main
Like morning frosts yspread;
The moving Moon went up the sky,
And no where did abide:
Softly she was going up,
And a star or two beside–
Her beams bemock'd the sultry main,
Like April hoar-frost spread;
Gloss
In his loneliness and fixedness he yearneth towards the journeying Moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward; and every where the blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest, and their native country and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival.
Note: This is the most expansive and literary of the glosses — the gloss-writer here is more poet than annotator, creating his own lyrical meditation.
O happy living things! no tongue
Their beauty might declare:
A spring of love gusht from my heart,
And I bless'd them unaware!
Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I bless'd them unaware.
O happy living things! no tongue
Their beauty might declare:
A spring of love gushed from my heart,
And I blessed them unaware:
Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I blessed them unaware.
Gloss
By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God's creatures of the great calm.
Their beauty and their happiness.
He blesseth them in his heart.
The spell begins to break.
Part V
To Mary-queen the praise be yeven
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven
To Mary Queen the praise be given!
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,
Gloss
By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient Mariner is refreshed with rain.
The upper air bursts into life,
And a hundred fire-flags sheen
To and fro they are hurried about;
And to and fro, and in and out
The stars dance on between.
The upper air burst into life!
And a hundred fire-flags sheen,
To and fro they were hurried about;
And to and fro, and in and out,
The wan stars danced between.
Gloss
He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights and commotions in the sky and the element.
1800 Variant
Hutchinson notes that "The wan stars danc'd between" was the 1800 reading, replacing 1798's "The stars dance on between." The 1817 text retains the 1800 reading here.
The strong wind reach'd the ship: it roar'd
And dropp'd down, like a stone!
Beneath the lightning and the moon
The dead men gave a groan.
The loud wind never reached the ship,
Yet now the ship moved on!
Beneath the lightning and the Moon
The dead men gave a groan.
Gloss
The bodies of the ship's crew are inspired, and the ship moves on;
Sometimes a dropping from the sky
I heard the Lavrock sing;
Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
I heard the sky-lark sing;
Listen, O listen, thou Wedding-guest!
"Marinere! thou hast thy will:
"For that, which comes out of thine eye, doth make
"My body and soul to be still."
Never sadder tale was told
To a man of woman born:
Sadder and wiser thou wedding-guest!
Thou'lt rise to morrow morn.
Never sadder tale was heard
By a man of woman born:
The Marineres all return'd to work
As silent as beforne.
The Marineres all 'gan pull the ropes,
But look at me they n'old:
Thought I, I am as thin as air—
They cannot me behold.
Removed in 1800; not in 1817
1800 & 1817
These stanzas — the mid-Part V Wedding-Guest interruption with its premature "sadder and wiser" summary — were removed in 1800, not 1817. Hutchinson confirms that ll. 337-8 and 339-342 were omitted in 1800, with the angelic spirits stanza inserted before ll. 339-342. The 1798 text anticipated the poem's ending and then repeated it, creating an awkward double conclusion. Their removal in 1800 considerably tightened the structure.
Hutchinson also notes that four stanzas (ll. 362-377) were struck out in 1800, along with five further stanzas (ll. 481-502) — a substantial curtailment which, as he puts it, "greatly reduces the dreamlike inconsequence of the incidents."
"I fear thee, ancient Mariner!"
Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!
'Twas not those souls that fled in pain,
Which to their corses came again,
But a troop of spirits blest:
Gloss
But not by the souls of the men, nor by dæmons of earth or middle air, but by a blessed troop of angelic spirits, sent down by the invocation of the guardian saint.
Part VI
First Voice.
"But tell me, tell me! speak again,
"Thy soft response renewing—
"What makes that ship drive on so fast?
"What is the Ocean doing?
Second Voice.
"Still as a Slave before his Lord,
"The Ocean hath no blast:
"His great bright eye most silently
"Up to the moon is cast—
"If he may know which way to go,
"For she guides him smooth or grim.
"See, brother, see! how graciously
"She looketh down on him.
First Voice.
"But why drives on that ship so fast
"Withouten wave or wind?
Second Voice.
"The air is cut away before,
"And closes from behind.
"Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high,
"Or we shall be belated:
"For slow and slow that ship will go,
"When the Marinere's trance is abated."
First Voice.
But tell me, tell me! speak again,
Thy soft response renewing—
What makes that ship drive on so fast?
What is the ocean doing?
Second Voice.
Still as a slave before his lord,
The ocean hath no blast;
His great bright eye most silently
Up to the Moon is cast—
If he may know which way to go;
For she guides him smooth or grim.
See, brother, see! how graciously
She looketh down on him.
First Voice.
But why drives on that ship so fast,
Without or wave or wind?
Second Voice.
The air is cut away before,
And closes from behind.
Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!
Or we shall be belated:
For slow and slow that ship will go,
When the Mariner's trance is abated."
Gloss
The Mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward faster than human life could endure.
I woke, and we were sailing on
As in a gentle weather:
'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high;
The dead men stood together.
All stood together on the deck,
For a charnel-dungeon fitter:
All fix'd on me their stony eyes
That in the moon did glitter.
The pang, the curse, with which they died,
Had never pass'd away:
I could not draw my een from theirs
Ne turn them up to pray.
I woke, and we were sailing on
As in a gentle weather:
'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high;
The dead men stood together.
All stood together on the deck,
For a charnel-dungeon fitter:
All fixed on me their stony eyes,
That in the Moon did glitter.
The pang, the curse, with which they died,
Had never passed away:
I could not draw my eyes from theirs,
Nor turn them up to pray.
Gloss
The supernatural motion is retarded; the Mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew.
And in its time the spell was snapt,
And I could move my een:
I look'd far-forth, but little saw
Of what might else be seen.
And now this spell was snapt: once more
I viewed the ocean green,
And looked far forth, yet little saw
Of what had else been seen—
Gloss
The curse is finally expiated.
Like one, that on a lonely road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turn'd round, walks on
And turns no more his head:
Because he knows, a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turn'd round walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows, a frightful fiend
Doth close behind him tread.
But soon there breath'd a wind on me,
Ne sound ne motion made:
Its path was not upon the sea
In ripple or in shade.
It rais'd my hair, it fann'd my cheek.
Like a meadow-gale of spring—
It mingled strangely with my fears,
Yet it felt like a welcoming.
Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
Yet she sail'd softly too:
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—
On me alone it blew.
But soon there breathed a wind on me,
Nor sound nor motion made:
Its path was not upon the sea,
In ripple or in shade.
It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek
Like a meadow-gale of spring—
It mingled strangely with my fears,
Yet it felt like a welcoming.
Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,
Yet she sailed softly too:
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—
On me alone it blew.
O dream of joy! is this indeed
The light-house top I see?
Is this the Hill? Is this the Kirk?
Is this mine own countrée?
We drifted o'er the Harbour-bar,
And I with sobs did pray—
"O let me be awake, my God!
"Or let me sleep alway!"
The harbour-bay was clear as glass,
So smoothly it was strewn!
And on the bay the moon light lay,
And the shadow of the moon.
Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed
The light-house 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 God!
Or let me sleep alway.
The harbour-bay was clear as glass,
So smoothly it was strewn!
And on the bay the moonlight lay,
And the shadow of the Moon.
Gloss
And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native country.
Not in 1798 at this point
The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,
That stands above the rock:
The moonlight steeped in silentness
The steady weathercock.
The moonlight bay was white all o'er,
Till rising from the same,
Full many shapes, that shadows were,
Like as of torches came.
A little distance from the prow
Those dark-red shadows were;
But soon I saw that my own flesh
Was red as in a glare.
I turn'd my head in fear and dread,
And by the holy rood,
The bodies had advanc'd, and now
Before the mast they stood.
They lifted up their stiff right arms,
They held them strait and tight;
And each right-arm burnt like a torch,
A torch that's borne upright.
Their stony eye-balls glitter'd on
In the red and smoky light.
I pray'd and turn'd my head away
Forth looking as before.
There was no breeze upon the bay,
No wave against the shore.
The rock shone bright, the kirk no less
That stands above the rock:
The moonlight steep'd in silentness
The steady weathercock.
And the bay was white with silent light,
Till rising from the same
Full many shapes, that shadows were,
In crimson colours came.
And the bay was white with silent light,
Till rising from the same,
Full many shapes, that shadows were,
In crimson colours came.
[Note: 1817 removes the torch-arms passage entirely; the "crimson" stanza which in 1798 appears later is pulled forward to replace it. The effect is to cut the grotesque torch-arms image and replace it with the more ethereal crimson shadows.]
Gloss
The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies,
A little distance from the prow
Those crimson shadows were:
I turn'd my eyes upon the deck—
O Christ! what saw I there?
Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat;
And by the Holy rood
A man all light, a seraph-man,
On every corse there stood.
This seraph-band, each wav'd his hand:
It was a heavenly sight:
They stood as signals to the land,
Each one a lovely light:
This seraph-band, each wav'd his hand,
No voice did they impart—
No voice; but O! the silence sank,
Like music on my heart.
A little distance from the prow
Those crimson shadows were:
I turned my eyes upon the deck—
Oh, Christ! what saw I there!
Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,
And, by the holy rood!
A man all light, a seraph-man,
On every corse there stood.
This seraph-band, each waved his hand:
It was a heavenly sight!
They stood as signals to the land,
Each one a lovely light;
This seraph-band, each waved his hand,
No voice did they impart—
No voice; but oh! the silence sank
Like music on my heart.
Gloss
And appear in their own forms of light.
Eftsones I heard the dash of oars,
I heard the pilot's cheer:
My head was turn'd perforce away
And I saw a boat appear.
Then vanish'd all the lovely lights;
The bodies rose anew:
With silent pace, each to his place,
Came back the ghastly crew.
The wind, that shade nor motion made,
On me alone it blew.
The pilot, and the pilot's boy
I heard them coming fast:
Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy,
The dead men could not blast.
But soon I heard the dash of oars,
I heard the Pilot's cheer;
My head was turn'd perforce away
And I saw a boat appear.
The Pilot and the Pilot's boy,
I heard them coming fast:
Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy
The dead men could not blast.
Note
The 1798 "vanish'd all the lovely lights" stanza — with the bodies rising anew and the wind returning — is cut from 1817. The effect is to remove a second supernatural eruption just as the poem is resolving, streamlining the homecoming considerably.
I saw a third—I heard his voice:
It is the Hermit good!
He singeth loud his godly hymns
That he makes in the wood.
He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away
The Albatross's blood.
I saw a third—I heard his voice:
It is the Hermit good!
He singeth loud his godly hymns
That he makes in the wood.
He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away
The Albatross's blood.
Part VII
This Hermit good lives in that wood
Which slopes down to the Sea.
How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
He loves to talk with Marineres
That come from a far Contrée.
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.
This Hermit good lives in that wood
Which slopes down to the sea.
How 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.
Gloss
The Hermit of the Wood,
The Skiff-boat ne'rd: 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
"The 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 has a fiendish look—
(The Pilot made reply)
"I am a-fear'd.—"Push on, push on!
"Said the Hermit cheerily.
The skiff-boat near'd: 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 answered not our cheer!
The planks look warped! and see those sails,
How thin they are and sere!
I never saw aught like to them,
Unless perchance it were
The 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.
Gloss
Approacheth the ship with wonder.
The Boat came closer to the Ship,
But I ne spake ne stirr'd!
The Boat came close beneath the Ship,
And strait 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.
The boat came closer to the ship,
But I nor spake nor stirred;
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.
Gloss
The ship suddenly sinketh.
Stunn'd 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.
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.
Gloss
The ancient Mariner is saved in 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 mov'd my lips: the Pilot shriek'd
And fell down in a fit.
The Holy Hermit rais'd 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 mine own Countrée
I stood on the firm land!
The Hermit stepp'd forth from the boat,
And scarcely he could stand.
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 shrieked
And fell down in a fit;
The holy Hermit raised his eyes,
And prayed where he did sit.
I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,
Who now doth crazy go,
Laughed 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 stepped 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 man art thou?
Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd
With a woeful agony,
Which forc'd me to begin my tale
And then it left me free.
"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.
Gloss
The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him.
Since then at an uncertain hour,
Now oftimes and now fewer,
That anguish comes and makes me tell
My ghastly aventure.
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.
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.
Gloss
And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony constraineth him to travel from land to land;
Note: "This heart within me burns" replaces the bathetic "My ghastly aventure." The 1817 revision is considerably more intense — the burning heart against the earlier "anguish comes and makes me tell" is the difference between compulsion as inner torment and compulsion as mere habitual recurrence.
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.
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.
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.
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."
Gloss
And to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth.
Note: the gloss's final annotation reframes the entire poem as a moral lesson in "love and reverence." Whether the poem earns this conclusion — or whether the Mariner's compulsive, unredeemed retelling contradicts it — is the central question the two versions together raise.
The Marinere, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone; and now the wedding-guest
Turn'd 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.
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.
* Note on the Epigraph
This is an extract from Thomas Burnet, Archaeologiae Philosophicae: sive Doctrina Antiqua de Rerum Originibus (London, 1692), Book I, Chapter VII, pages 68–69. Here it is in English translation:
"I readily believe that there are more invisible natures than visible ones in the universe. But who will describe for us the whole family of these beings? What are their ranks, their relationships, their distinguishing marks, their several functions? What do they do? What places do they inhabit? The human mind has always circled around knowledge of these things, but never attained it. Meanwhile I do not deny that it is sometimes profitable to contemplate in the mind, as upon a tablet, the image of a greater and better world; lest the intellect, grown accustomed to the trivialities of daily life, contract itself too much, and sink entirely into petty thoughts. But truth must meanwhile be watched over, and proportion maintained, so that we may distinguish the certain from the uncertain, and day from night."
Burnet's original Latin reads as follows:
Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibiles in rerum universitate; pluresque Angelorum ordines in coelo, quam sunt pisces in mari; Sed Horum omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit? Et gradus & cognationes, & discrimina, & singulorum munera? Quid agunt? quae loca habitant? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingenium humanum, nunquam attigit … [Theologi Ethnici multa philosophantur circa mundum invisibilem, Animarum, Geniorum, Manium, Daemonum, Heroum, Mentium, Numinumque & Deorum. Ut videre est apud Jamblichum de mysteriis Aegyptiorum, apud Psellum & Plethonem in Chaldaicis, & passim apud Authores Platonicos. Hos etiam imitati, sunt ex Christianis Theologis nonnulli, circa Angelorum ordines; & Pseudo‑Christiani Gnostici, sub Aeonum & Deorum nominibus, multa confinxerunt in hâc materiâ. Denique Cabalistae, in suo mundo Jetzirathico, myriades angelorum lustrant, sub Ducibus Sandalphone & Metatrone; prout istarum rerum studiosis notum est. Sed ad quid valent haec omnia? Quid sinceri solidique habet haec philosophia Seraphica? Non sum nescius, mundi angelici meminisse Apostolum Paulum, & in eo distinxisse plures ordines & classes. Sed in genere tantum; de his non philosophatur; nihil spegiarum docet et disputat: Quinimô reprimendos esse censet eos, tanquam vanâ scientiâ inflatos, qui in haec incognita & inscrubilia temerè sese ingerunt.] Juvat utique, non diffiteor, quandoque in animo, tanquam in Tabulâ, majoris et melioris mundi imaginem contemplari: ne Mens assuefacta hodiernae vitae minutiis se contrahat nimis, & tota subsidat in pusillas cogitationes. Sed veritati interea invigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut certa ab incertis, diem à nocte, distinguamus.
In English:
"I readily believe that there are more invisible natures than visible ones in the universe; and that in it there are more orders of angels in the heavens than varieties of fishes in the sea. But who will describe for us the whole family of these beings? What are their ranks, their relationships, their distinguishing marks, their several functions? What do they do? What places do they inhabit? The human mind has always circled around knowledge of these things, but never attained it … [The pagan theologians philosophise a great deal about the invisible world of Souls, Genii, Ghosts, Demons, Heroes, Minds, and also Numinous Beings and Gods. As may be seen in Iamblichus, On the Mysteries of the Egyptians, in Psellus and Pletho on the Chaldeans, and everywhere in the Platonic authors. Some Christian theologians too have imitated these men in their speculations about the orders of Angels; and the pseudo-Christian Gnostics, under the names of Aeons and of Gods, have fabricated many things in this matter. Finally the Cabalists, in their world of Yetzirah, parade myriads of angels, under the leadership of Sandalphon and Metatron, as is known to students of these things. But to what use is all this? What has this Seraphic philosophy that is sound and solid? I am not unaware that the Apostle Paul makes mention of the angelic world, and in it distinguishes several ranks and classes. But only in general; he does not philosophise about these things, he teaches and argues nothing in particular. On the contrary, he judges that those men should be restrained, as puffed up with empty knowledge, who rashly thrust themselves into these unknown and inscrutable regions.] I do not deny that it is sometimes profitable to contemplate in the mind, as upon a tablet, the image of a greater and better world; lest the intellect, grown accustomed to the trivialities of daily life, contract itself too much, and sink entirely into petty thoughts. But truth must meanwhile be watched over, and proportion maintained, so that we may distinguish the certain from the uncertain, and day from night."
Coleridge made two omissions from Burnet's text, shown above in bold and in square brackets respectively:
1. The clause "pluresque Angelorum ordines in coelo, quam sunt pisces in mari" — "and that in it there are more orders of angels in the heavens than varieties of fishes in the sea."
2. Between "attigit" ("attained it") and "Juvat utique" ("I do not deny that it is sometimes profitable"), some twenty lines in which Burnet surveys pagan, Gnostic, and Cabalist speculation about the invisible world, and concludes with St Paul's judgement that those who rashly seek into "unknown and inscrutable regions" should be restrained as "puffed up with empty knowledge."
The effect of both omissions is to remove the explicitly Christian and doctrinal framework from Burnet's passage, leaving the "invisible natures" unspecified and the speculation open-ended — in keeping with the poem's own resistance to a single theological interpretation.