SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

��And now 'twas like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute; And now it is am angel's song, That makes the Heavens be mute.

It ceased; yet still the sails made on

A pleasant noise till noon,

A noise like of a hidden brook

In the leafy month of June,

That to the sleeping woods all night

Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sail'd on, Yet never a breeze did breathe: Slowly and smoothly went the ship, Moved onward from beneath.

Under the keel nine fathom deep, From the land of mist and snow, The Spirit slid: and it was he That made the ship to go. The sails at noon left off their tune, And the ship stood still also.

The Sun, right up above the mast, Had fix'd her to the ocean: But in a minute she 'gan stir, With a short uneasy motion Backwards and forwards half her length With a short uneasy motion.

��Then like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound: It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swound. 2246 Y

��The lonesome Spirit from the South Pole carries on the ship as far as the Line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance.

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