'Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man?
     By him who died on cross,
     With his cruel bow he laid full low
     The harmless Albatross.

     The spirit who bideth by himself
     In the land of mist and snow,
     He loved the bird that loved the man
     Who shot him with his bow.'

     The other was a softer voice,
     As soft as honey-dew:
     Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done,
     And penance more will do.'

          PART SIX

     First Voice

     'BUT tell me, tell me! speak again,
     They 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.'

     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.

     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--

     Like one, that on a lonesome road
     Doth walk in fear and dread,
     And having once turned round walks on,
     And turns no more his head;
     Because he knows, a frightful fiend
     Doth close behind him tread.

     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.

     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!