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, As if it had been a Christian soul, It ate the food it ne'er had eat, 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 look'st thou so?"-"With my cross-bow I shot the Albatross." The Sun now rose upon the right: Out of the sea came hė, 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 a hellish thing, For all averred, I had killed the bird Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, Then all averred, I had killed the bird 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, The furrow followed free; We were the first that ever burst Into that silent sea. Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt 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, Upon a painted ocean. Water, water, every where, And all the boards did shrink; Water, water, every where Nor any drop to drink. The very deep did rot: O Christ! That ever this should be! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs About, about, in reel and rout And some in dreams assured were 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! well-a-day! what evil looks Instead of the cross, the Albatross LABOR THOMAS CARLYLE There is a perennial nobleness, and even sacredness, in Work. Were he never so benighted, forgetful of his high calling, there is always hope in a man that actually and earnestly works: in Idleness alone is there perpetual despair. Work, never so Mammonish, mean, is in communication with Nature; the real desire to get Work done will itself lead one more and more to truth, to Nature's appointments and regulations, which are truth. The latest gospel in this world is, Know thy work and do it. "Know thyself": long enough has that poor "self" of thine tormented thee; thou wilt never get to "know" it, I believe! Think it not thy business, this of knowing thyself; thou art an unknowable individual: know what thou canst work at; and work at it, like a Hercules! That will be thy better plan. It has been written, "an endless significance lies in Work;" a man perfects himself by working. Blessed is he who has found his work; let him ask no other blessedness. He has a work, a life-purpose; he has found it, and will follow it! How, as a free-flowing channel, dug and torn by noble force through the sour |