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They made a bier of the broken bough,

The sauch, and the aspin gray,
And they bore him to the Lady Chapel,

And waked him there all day.

A lady came to that lonely bower,

And threw her robes aside;
She tore her ling long yellow hair,

And knelt at Barthram's side.

She bathed him in the Lady-Well,

His wounds so deep and sair,
And she plaited a garland for his breast,

And a garland for his hair.

They rowd him in a lily-sheet,

And bare him to his earth,
And the gray friars sung the dead man's mass,

As they pass'd the Chapel Garth.

They buried him at the mirk midnight,

When the dew fell cold and still, When the aspin gray forgot to play,

And the mist clung to the hill.

They dug his grave but a bare foot deep,

By the edge of the Nine-Stane Burn, And they cover'd him o'er with the heather-flower,

The moss, and the lady fern.

A gray friar stay'd upon the grave,

And sang till the morning tide,
And a friar shall sing for Barthram's soul,

While the Headless Cross shall bide.

THE PHANTOM SHIP.

THERE pass'd a weary time. Each throat

Was parch’d, 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 seem'd 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 neard and near'd : As if it dodged a water-sprite,

It plunged and tack'd and veer’d.

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,

We could nor laugh nor wail ;
Through utter drought all dumb we stood !
I bit my arm, I suck'd 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 a-flame.

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 fleck'd with bars,

(Heaven's Mother send us grace !) As if through a dungeon-grate he peer'd

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 wiite as leprosy,
The Night-mare 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, I've won!”
Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

The sun's run 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 seem'd to sip!
The stars were dim, and thick the night,
The steersman's face by his lamp gleam'd white;

From the sails the dew did drip-
Till clomb above the eastern bar
The hornèd Moon, with one bright star,
Within the nether tip.

Coleridge

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A GENTLE knight was pricking on the plain,

Yclad in mighty arms and silver shield, Wherein old dints of deep wounds did remain, The cruel marks of many a bloody field; Yet arms till that time did he never wield : His angry steed did chide his foaming bit, As much disdaining to the curb to yield : Full jolly knight he seem'd, and fair did sit, As one for knightly jousts and fierce encounters fit.

And on his breast a bloody cross he bore,
The dear remembrance of his dying Lord,
For whose sweet sake that glorious badge he wore,
And dead, as living, ever him adored :
Upon his shield the like was also scored,
For sovereign hope, which in his help he had.
Right faithful, true he was in deed and word :
But of his cheer did seem too solemn sad :
Yet nothing did he dread, but ever was ydrad.

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