We are the Pilgrims, master; we shall go Always a little further: it may be Beyond that last blue mountain barred with snow Across that angry or that glimmering sea, White on a throne or guarded in a cave There lives a prophet who can understand Why men are born: but surely we are brave, Who take the Golden Road to Samarkand. . . . . . . . . We take the Golden Road to Samarkand. Coleridge, the Samuel Taylor Coleridge who was Charles Lamb's friend, wrote a story, a ballad, following the fashion of the old ballads, which he called "The Ancient Mariner". You probably know this poem already. But if you do not, find time to read it; or, possibly, someone may read parts of it to you. "The Ancient Mariner" is a story of the sea, of wanderings, of shipwreck, of strange sights, of learning that we must love every thing, not only men and women, but birds and beasts, and then of the glad returning to the place which was the sailor's home: And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wondrous cold: And ice, mast-high, came floating by, As green as emerald. . . . . . . . . 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. {229} The moving Moon went up the sky, And nowhere did abide; Softly she was going up, And a star or two beside-- . . . . . . . . O dream of joy! is this indeed The lighthouse top I see? Is this the hill? is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree? No matter how familiar such lines may become, we should never forget to realize their beauty. Ben Jonson, who lived in the seventeenth century, wrote, with other poems, a lyric, wise as well as beautiful, in which we may find life-long companionship. It is not growing like a tree In bulk, doth make man better be; Or standing long an oak, three hundred year, To fall a log at last, dry, bald, and sere: A lily of a day Is fairer far in May, Although it fall and die that night; It was the plant and flower of light. In small proportions we just beauties see; And in short measures, life may perfect be. No one can change these lines and express the same idea as perfectly as Jonson has given it to us. For great poetry has some magic power by which it conveys to us truth and beauty which we are not able to discover for ourselves. {230} CHAPTER XXXIII POETRY AND TIME It is good to know the names of the great English poets and the order of time in which they come; we may write out such a list for ourselves if we hope to enjoy poetry. Many of you will find no difficulty in learning by heart the names of the poets, or in remembering the centuries to which they belong. The question mark after the first date in the case of Chaucer and Spenser means that there is no exact record of the year in which either of these poets was born.