Writer
Right
Eagle
Plume
Bennu
Luke 1:3
"It seemed good to me also, having had perfect understanding
of all things from the very first, to write unto thee in order, most excellent
Theophilus,"
The Writers' Museum, Edinburgh
Chess: “Optime” “Samara” “Nestle” “Rhyme of the Ancient
Mariner” “Eagle” “Writer” “Right” “Plume” “El Nido” "Bennu"
The Bennu bird serves as the Egyptian correspondence
to the phoenix, and is said to be the soul of the Sun-God Ra. Some of the titles of the Bennu bird were “He Who Came
Into Being by Himself,” “Ascending One,” and “Lord of Jubilees.” The name is
related to the verb “weben,” meaning “to rise brilliantly,” or “to shine.” The
Bennu bird was the mythological phoenix of Egypt. It was associated with the rising of the Nile, resurrection, and the sun. Because the Bennu represented
creation and renewal, it was connected with the Egyptian calendar.
Indeed, the Temple of the Bennu was well known for its time-keeping devices.
Even though
Samuel Taylor Coleridge 's
Rime of the Ancient Mariner
is one of the most influential poems in the English language, it's
still a doozy of a confusing read. It's about an old sailor who stops a
wedding guest from entering a wedding celebration, and says,
essentially, "I know you want to get your drink and your dance on, but
now I'm going to tell you a really long story about how I got my entire
crew killed and almost died myself because I acted like a jerk while
sailing the far reaches of the globe."
Chances are that this poem
is unlike anything you've read before. It will probably leave you with a
bunch of questions: Why does Coleridge speak in such an old-fashioned
voice? Why does the poem sound so corny? Did Coleridge think this poem
was a big joke? Why is the Mariner saved after committing such an
atrocious act? And, our favorite:
Why on earth did the Mariner shoot the albatross!?
None of these questions are stupid or silly. Depending on your
tolerance for ghost stories that are filled with strange images and
questions that never get answered, you'll either be fascinated by the
Mariner and his crazy exploits, or you'll be completely frustrated by
him. Either way, have patience, and the poem will seem richer the more
time you spend with it.
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner was published in 1798 in
Lyrical Ballads, a collection of poems that essentially launched the movement known as British
Romanticism. The book contained works by Coleridge and his equally talented pal
William Wordsworth. In terms of the density of classic works contained in
Lyrical Ballads, you could compare it to
The Beatles's
The White Album. For people who love poetry, every page is like, "Oh, I can't believe
that one is in here, too!"
A
lyrical ballad is a poem that combines two different genres:
story-telling (a ballad) and intense expressions of subjective and
emotional experience (a lyric). The collection marked a pretty radical
departure from the standard poetry of the time, and
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
has several hallmarks that would later become associated with
Romanticism: elements of the supernatural, a deep sense of history, lots
of dramatic images of nature, formal experimentation, and an interest
in conversational language, among others. After this poem, Coleridge
went on to write more famous poems and publish some important works of
literary criticism.
Why Should I Care?
If there's one phrase to take away from this poem, it's "albatross around the neck." Let us explain:
Have you ever done something stupid and
known
it was stupid at the time? It's one thing to mess up because you
haven't thought through the consequences of your action. It's quite
another to think, "Yeah, if I do this, it's going to cause huge problems
for me, and I'm going to wish I hadn't done it, but
I'm going to do it anyway."
Maybe
your parents said that if you went out a certain night you'd be
grounded for a month, but you decide to do it anyway, knowing full well
that your parents will find out, and it totally won't be worth it.
That's a trivial example. How about if a close friend or family member
tries to help you, and for no apparent reason, you do something nasty
that drives them away? That's more like it.
The Mariner's act of
shooting the albatross (that had once brought good luck to his ship) is
the mother of irrational, self-defeating acts. He never offers a good
explanation for why he does it, and his crewmates get so upset that they
hang the dead albatross around his neck as a burden, so he won't forget
what he did. To have an albatross around your neck is to have a
constant reminder of a big mistake you made. Instead of the gift that
keeps on giving, it's the blunder that keeps on taking. As in, "I spent
all my money on that motorcycle because I thought it would be cool, but
now I can't sell it, and it's too expensive to maintain. That thing is
just an albatross around my neck."
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner: Text of the Poem
Part I
It is an ancient mariner
And he stoppeth one of three.
– "By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
Now wherefore stoppest thou me?
The bridegroom's doors are opened wide,
And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
Mayst hear the merry din."
He holds him with his skinny hand,
"There was a ship," quoth he.
"Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!"
Eftsoons his hand dropped he.
He holds him with his glittering eye –
The wedding-guest stood still,
And listens like a three-years' child:
The mariner hath his will.
The wedding-guest sat on a stone:
He cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed mariner.
"The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse 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 paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her goes
The merry minstrelsy.
The wedding-guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed mariner.
"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 roared the blast,
And southward aye we fled.
Listen, stranger! Mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold:
And ice mast-high came floating by,
As green as emerald.
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 roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound!
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 steered us through!
And a good south wind sprung up behind;
The albatross did follow,
And every day, for food or play,
Came to the mariners' hollo!
In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,
It perched for vespers nine;
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
Glimmered the white moon-shine."
"God save thee, ancient mariner!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus! –
Why lookst thou so?" – "With my crossbow
I shot the albatross.
Part II
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 the good south wind still blew behind,
But no sweet bird did follow,
Nor any day for food or play
Came to the mariners' hollo!
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!
Nor dim nor red, like an angel's 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.
The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free;
We were the first that ever burst
Into that silent sea.
Down dropped the breeze, the sails dropped 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, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.
Water, water, everywhere,
And all the boards did shrink;
Water, water, everywhere,
Nor 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 danced 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 followed us
From the land of mist and snow.
And every tongue, through utter drought,
Was withered 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.
Part III
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.
At first it seemed a little speck,
And then it seemed 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 neared and neared:
As if it dodged a water sprite,
It plunged and tacked and veered.
With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
We could nor laugh nor wail;
Through utter drouth all dumb we stood!
I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,
And cried, A sail! a sail!
With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
Agape they heard me call:
Gramercy! they for joy did grin,
And all at once their breath drew in,
As they were drinking all.
See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!
Hither to work us weal;
Without a breeze, without a tide,
She steadies with upright keel!
The western wave was all aflame.
The day was well nigh done!
Almost upon the western wave
Rested the broad bright sun;
When that strange shape drove suddenly
Betwixt us and the sun.
And straight the sun was flecked with bars,
(Heaven's mother send us grace!)
As if through a dungeon grate he peered
With broad and burning face.
Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
How fast she nears and nears!
Are those her sails that glance in the sun,
Like restless gossameres?
Are 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 nightmare Life-in-Death was she,
Who thicks man's blood with cold.
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.
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 listened and looked sideways up!
Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
My lifeblood seemed to sip!
The stars were dim, and thick the night,
The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white;
From the sails the dews did drip –
Till clomb above the eastern bar
The horned moon, with one bright star
Within the nether tip.
One after one, by the star-dogged moon,
Too quick for groan or sigh,
Each turned his face with 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.
Their souls did from their bodies fly –
They fled to bliss or woe!
And every soul, it passed me by,
Like the whizz of my crossbow!"
Part IV
"I fear thee, ancient mariner!
I fear thy skinny hand!
And thou art long, and lank, and brown,
As is the ribbed sea-sand.
I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
And thy skinny hand, so brown." –
"Fear not, fear not, thou wedding-guest!
This body dropped not down.
Alone, alone, all, all alone,
Alone on a wide wide sea!
And never a saint took pity on
My soul in agony.
The many men, so beautiful!
And they all dead did lie:
And a thousand thousand slimy things
Lived on; and so did I.
I looked upon the rotting sea,
And drew my eyes away;
I looked upon the rotting deck,
And there the dead men lay.
I looked to heaven, and tried to pray;
But or ever a prayer had gushed,
A wicked whisper came, and made
My heart as dry as dust.
I closed my lids, and kept them close,
Till the balls like pulses beat;
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky
Lay like a load on my weary eye,
And the dead were at my feet.
The cold sweat melted from their limbs,
Nor rot nor reek did they:
The look with which they looked on me
Had never passed away.
An orphan's curse would drag to hell
A spirit from on high;
But oh! more horrible than that
Is the curse in a dead man's eye!
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,
And yet I could not die.
The moving moon went up the sky,
And nowhere did abide:
Softly she was going up,
And a star or two beside –
Her beams bemocked the sultry main,
Like April hoar-frost spread;
But where the ship's huge shadow lay,
The charmed water burnt alway
A still and awful red.
Beyond the shadow of the ship,
I watched the water snakes:
They moved in tracks of shining white,
And when they reared, the elfish light
Fell off in hoary flakes.
Within the shadow of the ship
I watched their rich attire:
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
They coiled and swam; and every track
Was a flash of golden fire.
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.
The selfsame moment I could pray;
And from my neck so free
The albatross fell off, and sank
Like lead into the sea.
Part V
Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole!
To Mary-Queen the praise be given!
She sent the gentle sleep from heaven,
That slid into my soul.
The silly buckets on the deck,
That had so long remained,
I dreamt that they were filled with dew;
And when I awoke, it rained.
My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
My garments all were dank;
Sure I had drunken in my dreams,
And still my body drank.
I moved, and could not feel my limbs:
I was so light – almost
I thought that I had died in sleep,
And was a blessed ghost.
And soon I heard a roaring wind:
It did not come anear;
But with its sound it shook the sails,
That were so thin and sere.
The upper air bursts 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.
And the coming wind did roar more loud,
And the sails did sigh like sedge;
And the rain poured down from one black cloud;
The moon was at its edge.
The thick black cloud was cleft, and still
The moon was at its side:
Like waters shot from some high crag,
The lightning fell with never a jag,
A river steep and wide.
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.
They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;
It had been strange, even in a dream,
To have seen those dead men rise.
The helmsman steered, the ship moved on;
Yet never a breeze up-blew;
The mariners all 'gan work the ropes,
Where they were wont to do;
They raised their limbs like lifeless tools –
We were a ghastly crew.
The body of my brother's son
Stood by me, knee to knee:
The body and I pulled at one rope,
But he said nought to me."
"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 blessed.
For when it dawned – they dropped their arms,
And clustered round the mast;
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,
And from their bodies passed.
Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
Then darted to the sun;
Slowly the sounds came back again,
Now mixed, now one by one.
Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
I heard the skylark sing;
Sometimes all little birds that are,
How they seemed to fill the sea and air
With their sweet jargoning!
And now 'twas like all instruments,
Now like a lonely flute;
And now it is an 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 silently sailed 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 fixed 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.
How long in that same fit I lay,
I have not to declare;
But ere my living life returned,
I heard and in my soul discerned
Two voices in the air.
'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 honeydew:
Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done,
And penance more will do.'
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,
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 snapped: 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.
O dream of joy! is this indeed
The lighthouse top I see?
Is this the hill? is this the kirk?
Is this mine own country?
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.
The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,
That stands above the rock:
The moonlight steeped 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.
A little distance from the prow
Those crimson shadows were:
I turned 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 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.
But soon I heard the dash of oars,
I heard the pilot's cheer;
My head was turned 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.
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 mariners
That come from a far country.
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.
The skiff boat neared: 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
Brown 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.
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 reached the ship, it split the bay;
The ship went down like lead.
Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,
Which sky and ocean smote
Like one that hath been seven days drowned
My body lay afloat;
But swift as dreams, myself I found
Within 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 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 country,
I stood on the firm land!
The hermit stepped forth from the boat,
And scarcely he could stand.
'Oh shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!'
The hermit crossed his brow.
'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say –
What manner of man art thou?'
Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
With a woeful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale;
And then it left me free.
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;
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 bridemaids 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.
Oh 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."
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.
The Rime of the Ancient Mariner Summary
Three guys
are on the way to a wedding celebration when an old sailor (the Mariner)
stops one of them at the door (we'll call him the Wedding Guest). Using
his hypnotic eyes to hold the attention of the Wedding Guest, he starts
telling a story about a disastrous journey he took. The Wedding Guest really
wants to go party, but he can't pry himself away from this grizzled old
mariner. The Mariner begins his story. They left port, and the ship
sailed down near Antarctica to get away from a bad storm, but then they
get caught in a dangerous, foggy ice field. An albatross shows up to
steer them through the fog and provide good winds, but then the Mariner
decides to shoot it. Oops.
Pretty soon the sailors lose their
wind, and it gets really hot. They run out of water, and everyone blames
the Mariner. The ship seems to be haunted by a bad spirit, and weird
stuff starts appearing, like slimy creatures that walk on the ocean. The
Mariner's crewmates decide to hang the dead albatross around his neck
to remind him of his error.
Everyone is literally dying of
thirst. The Mariner sees another ship's sail at a distance. He wants to
yell out, but his mouth is too dry, so he sucks some of his own blood to
moisten his lips. He's like, "A ship! We're saved." Sadly, the ship is a
ghost ship piloted by two spirits, Death and Life-in-Death, who have to
be the last people you'd want to meet on a journey. Everyone on the Mariner's ship dies.
The
wedding guest realizes, "Ah! You're a ghost!" But the Mariner says,
"Well, actually, I was the only one who didn't die." He continues his
story: he's on a boat with a lot of dead bodies, surrounded by an ocean
full of slimy things. Worse, these slimy things are nasty water snakes.
But the Mariner escapes his curse by unconsciously blessing the hideous
snakes, and the albatross drops off his neck into the ocean.
The
Mariner falls into a sweet sleep, and it finally rains when he wakes up.
A storm strikes up in the distance, and all the dead sailors rise like
zombies to pilot the ship. The sailors don't actually come back to life.
Instead, angels fill their bodies, and another supernatural spirit
under the ocean seems to push the boat. The Mariner faints and hears two
voices talking about how he killed the albatross and still has more
penance to do. These two mysterious voices explain how the ship is
moving.
After a speedy journey, the ship ends up back in port
again. The Mariner sees angels standing next to the bodies of all his
crewmates. Then a rescue boat shows up to take him back to shore. The
Mariner is happy that a guy called "the hermit" is on the rescue boat.
The hermit is in a good mood. All of a sudden there's a loud noise, and
the Mariner's ship sinks. The hermit's boat picks up the Mariner.
When
they get on shore, the Mariner is desperate to tell his story to the
hermit. He feels a terrible pain until the story had been told.
In
fact, the Mariner says that he still has the same painful need to tell
his story, which is why he stopped the Wedding Guest on this occasion.
Wrapping up, the Mariner tells the Wedding Guest that he needs to learn
how to say his prayers and love other people and things. Then the
Mariner leaves, and the Wedding Guest no longer wants to enter the
wedding. He goes home and wakes up the next day, as the famous last
lines go, "a sadder and a wiser man."
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