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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/8208-8.txt b/8208-8.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..19dcd2d --- /dev/null +++ b/8208-8.txt @@ -0,0 +1,8212 @@ +Project Gutenberg's Poems of Coleridge, by Coleridge, ed Arthur Symons +#4 in our series by Coleridge, ed Arthur Symons + +Copyright laws are changing all over the world. Be sure to check the +copyright laws for your country before downloading or redistributing +this or any other Project Gutenberg eBook. + +This header should be the first thing seen when viewing this Project +Gutenberg file. Please do not remove it. Do not change or edit the +header without written permission. + +Please read the "legal small print," and other information about the +eBook and Project Gutenberg at the bottom of this file. Included is +important information about your specific rights and restrictions in +how the file may be used. You can also find out about how to make a +donation to Project Gutenberg, and how to get involved. + + +**Welcome To The World of Free Plain Vanilla Electronic Texts** + +**eBooks Readable By Both Humans and By Computers, Since 1971** + +*****These eBooks Were Prepared By Thousands of Volunteers!***** + + +Title: Poems of Coleridge + +Author: Coleridge, ed Arthur Symons + +Release Date: June, 2005 [EBook #8208] +[Yes, we are more than one year ahead of schedule] +[This file was first posted on July 2, 2003] + +Edition: 10 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-Latin-1 + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF COLERIDGE *** + + + + +Jonathan Ingram, Jerry Fairbanks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + + + + +POEMS OF COLERIDGE + +SELECTED AND ARRANGED +WITH AN INTRODUCTION AND NOTES + +BY +ARTHUR SYMONS + + + + +CONTENTS + + +INTRODUCTION + +THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER + +CHRISTABEL + +KUBLA KHAN + +LEWTI + +THE BALLAD OF THE DARK LADIE + +LOVE + +THE THREE GRAVES + +DEJECTION: AN ODE + +ODE TO TRANQUILLITY + +FRANCE: AN ODE + +FEARS IN SOLITUDE + +THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON + +TO A GENTLEMAN (W. WORDSWORTH) + +HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE + +FROST AT MIDNIGHT + +THE NIGHTINGALE + +THE EOLIAN HARP + +THE PICTURE + +THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO + +THE TWO FOUNTS + +A DAY-DREAM + +SONNET + +LINES TO W. LINLEY, ESQ. + +DOMESTIC PEACE + +SONG FROM _ZAPOLYA_ + +HUNTING SONG FROM _ZAPOLYA_ + +WESTPHALIAN SONG + +YOUTH AND AGE + +WORK WITHOUT HOPE + +TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY + +LOVE'S APPARITION + +LOVE, HOPE, AND PATIENCE + +DUTY SURVIVING SELF-LOVE + +LOVE'S FIRST HOPE + +PHANTOM + +TO NATURE + +FANCY IN NUBIBUS + +CONSTANCY TO AN IDEAL OBJECT + +PHANTOM OR FACT? + +LINES SUGGESTED BY THE LAST WORDS OF BERENGARIUS + +FORBEARANCE + +_SANCTI DOMINICI PALLIUM_ + +ON DONNE'S POETRY + +ON A BAD SINGER + +_NE PLUS ULTRA_ + +HUMAN LIFE + +THE BUTTERFLY + +THE PANG MORE SHARP THAN ALL + +THE VISIONARY HOPE + +THE PAINS OF SLEEP + +LOVE'S BURIAL-PLACE + +LOVE, A SWORD + +THE KISS + +NOT AT HOME + +NAMES (FROM LESSING) + +To LESBIA (FROM CATULLUS) + +THE DEATH OF THE STARLING (FROM CATULLUS) + +ON A CATARACT (FROM STOLBERG) + +HYMN TO THE EARTH (FROM STOLBERG) + +THE VISIT OF THE GODS (FROM SCHILLER) + +TRANSLATION (FROM OTTFRIED) + +THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE-HYMN + +EPITAPHS ON AN INFANT + +AN ODE TO THE RAIN + +ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION + +SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL + +LINES ON A CHILD + +THE KNIGHT'S TOMB + +FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER + +THE TWO ROUND SPACES ON THE TOMBSTONE + +THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS + +COLOGNE + +SONNETS ATTEMPTED IN THE MANNER OF CONTEMPORARY WRITERS + +LIMBO + +METRICAL FEET + +THE HOMERIC HEXAMETER (FROM SCHILLER) + +THE OVIDIAN ELEGIAC METRE (FROM SCHILLER) + +CATULLIAN HENDECASYLLABLES (FROM MATTHISON) + +To ---- + +EPITAPH ON A BAD MAN + +THE SUICIDE'S ARGUMENT + +THE GOOD, GREAT MAN + +INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH + +INSCRIPTION FOR A TIME-PIECE + +A TOMBLESS EPITAPH + +EPITAPH + +NOTES + + + + +INTRODUCTION + +In one of Rossetti's invaluable notes on poetry, he tells us that to him +"the leading point about Coleridge's work is its human love." We may +remember Coleridge's own words: + + + "To be beloved is all I need, + And whom I love, I love indeed." + + +Yet love, though it is the word which he uses of himself, is not really +what he himself meant when using it, but rather an affectionate sympathy, +in which there seems to have been little element of passion. Writing to his +wife, during that first absence in Germany, whose solitude tried him so +much, he laments that there is "no one to love." "Love is the vital air of +my genius," he tells her, and adds: "I am deeply convinced that if I were +to remain a few years among objects for whom I had no affection, I should +wholly lose the powers of intellect." + +With this incessant, passionless sensibility, it was not unnatural that his +thirst for friendship was stronger than his need of love; that to him +friendship was hardly distinguishable from love. Throughout all his letters +there is a series of causeless explosions of emotion, which it is hardly +possible to take seriously, but which, far from being insincere, is really, +no doubt, the dribbling overflow of choked-up feelings, a sort of moral +leakage. It might be said of Coleridge, in the phrase which he used of +Nelson, that he was "heart-starved." Tied for life to a woman with whom he +had not one essential sympathy, the whole of his nature was put out of +focus; and perhaps nothing but "the joy of grief," and the terrible and +fettering power of luxuriating over his own sorrows, and tracing them to +first principles, outside himself or in the depths of his sub- +consciousness, gave him the courage to support that long, everpresent +divorce. + +Both for his good and evil, he had never been able to endure emotion +without either diluting or intensifying it with thought, and with always +self-conscious thought. He uses identically the same words in writing his +last, deeply moved letter to Mary Evans, and in relating the matter to +Southey. He cannot get away from words; coming as near to sincerity as he +can, words are always between him and his emotion. Hence his over-emphasis, +his rhetoric of humility. In 1794 he writes to his brother George: "Mine +eyes gush out with tears, my heart is sick and languid with the weight of +unmerited kindness." Nine days later he writes to his brother James: "My +conduct towards you, and towards my other brothers, has displayed a strange +combination of madness, ingratitude, and dishonesty. But you forgive me. +May my Maker forgive me! May the time arrive when I shall have forgiven +myself!" Here we see both what he calls his "gangrened sensibility" and a +complete abandonment to the feelings of the moment. It is always a self- +conscious abandonment, during which he watches himself with approval, and +seems to be saying: "Now that is truly 'feeling'!" He can never concentrate +himself on any emotion; he swims about in floods of his own tears. With so +little sense of reality in anything, he has no sense of the reality of +direct emotion, but is preoccupied, from the moment of the first shock, in +exploring it for its universal principle, and then nourishes it almost in +triumph at what he has discovered. This is not insincerity; it is the +metaphysical, analytical, and parenthetic mind in action. "I have +endeavoured to feel what I ought to feel," he once significantly writes. + +Coleridge had many friends, to some of whom, as to Lamb, his friendship was +the most priceless thing in life; but the friendship which meant most to +him, not only as a man, but as a poet, was the friendship with Wordsworth +and with Dorothy Wordsworth. "There is a sense of the word Love," he wrote +to Wordsworth in 1812, "in which I never felt it but to you and one of your +household." After his quarrel in that year he has "an agony of weeping." +"After fifteen years of such religious, almost superstitious idolatry and +self-sacrifice!" he laments. Now it was during his first, daily +companionship with the Wordsworths that he wrote almost all his greatest +work. "The Ancient Mariner" and "Christabel" were both written in a kind of +rivalry with Wordsworth; and the "Ode on Dejection" was written after four +months' absence from him, in the first glow and encouragement of a return +to that one inspiring comradeship. Wordsworth was the only poet among his +friends whom he wholly admired, and Wordsworth was more exclusively a poet, +more wholly absorbed in thinking poetry and thinking about poetry, and in a +thoroughly practical way, than almost any poet who has ever lived. It was +not only for his solace in life that Coleridge required sympathy; he needed +the galvanizing of continual intercourse with a poet, and with one to whom +poetry was the only thing of importance. Coleridge, when he was by himself, +was never sure of this; there was his _magnum opus_, the revelation of +all philosophy; and he sometimes has doubts of the worth of his own poetry. +Had Coleridge been able to live uninterruptedly in the company of the +Wordsworths, even with the unsympathetic wife at home, the opium in the +cupboard, and the _magnum opus_ on the desk, I am convinced that we +should have had for our reading to-day all those poems which went down with +him into silence. + +What Coleridge lacked was what theologians call a "saving belief" in +Christianity, or else a strenuous intellectual immorality. He imagined +himself to believe in Christianity, but his belief never realized itself in +effective action, either in the mind or in conduct, while it frequently +clogged his energies by weak scruples and restrictions which were but so +many internal irritations. He calls upon the religion which he has never +firmly apprehended to support him under some misfortune of his own making; +it does not support him, but he finds excuses for his weakness in what seem +to him its promises of help. Coleridge was not strong enough to be a +Christian, and he was not strong enough to rely on the impulses of his own +nature, and to turn his failings into a very actual kind of success. When +Blake said, "If the fool would persist in his folly he would become wise," +he expressed a profound truth which Nietzsche and others have done little +more than amplify. There is nothing so hopeless as inert or inactive +virtue: it is a form of life grown putrid, and it turns into poisonous, +decaying matter in the soul. If Coleridge had been more callous towards +what he felt to be his duties, if he had not merely neglected them, as he +did, but justified himself for neglecting them, on any ground of +intellectual or physical necessity, or if he had merely let them slide +without thought or regret, he would have been more complete, more +effectual, as a man, and he might have achieved more finished work as an +artist. + +To Coleridge there was as much difficulty in belief as in action, for +belief is itself an action of the mind. He was always anxious to believe +anything that would carry him beyond the limits of time and space, but it +was not often that he could give more than a speculative assent to even the +most improbable of creeds. Always seeking fixity, his mind was too fluid +for any anchor to hold in it. He drifted from speculation to speculation, +often seeming to forget his aim by the way, in almost the collector's +delight over the curiosities he had found in passing. On one page of his +letters he writes earnestly to the atheist Thelwall in defence of +Christianity; on another page we find him saying, "My Spinosism (if +Spinosism it be, and i' faith 'tis very like it)"; and then comes the +solemn assurance: "I am a Berkleyan." Southey, in his rough, +uncomprehending way, writes: "Hartley was ousted by Berkeley, Berkeley by +Spinoza, and Spinoza by Plato; when last I saw him Jacob Behmen had some +chance of coming in. The truth is that he plays with systems"; so it seemed +to Southey, who could see no better. To Coleridge all systems were of +importance, because in every system there was its own measure of truth. He +was always setting his mind to think about itself, and felt that he worked +both hard and well if he had gained a clearer glimpse into that dark +cavern. "Yet I have not been altogether idle," he writes in December, 180O, +"having in my own conceit gained great light into several parts of the +human mind which have hitherto remained either wholly unexplained or most +falsely explained." In March, 1801, he declares that he has "completely +extricated the notions of time and space." "This," he says, "I have +_done_; but I trust that I am about to do more--namely, that I shall +be able to evolve all the five senses, and to state their growth and the +causes of their difference, and in this evolvement to solve the process of +life and consciousness." He hopes that before his thirtieth year he will +"thoroughly understand the whole of Nature's works." "My opinion is this," +he says, defining one part at least of his way of approach to truth, "that +deep thinking is attainable only by a man of deep feeling, and that all +truth is a species of revelation." On the other hand, he assures us, +speaking of that _magnum opus_ which weighed upon him and supported +him to the end of his life, "the very object throughout from the first page +to the last [is] to reconcile the dictates of common sense with the +conclusions of scientific reasoning." + +This _magnum opus_, "a work which should contain all knowledge and +proclaim all philosophy, had," says Mr. Ernest Coleridge, "been Coleridge's +dream from the beginning." Only a few months before his death, we find him +writing to John Sterling: "Many a fond dream have I amused myself with, of +your residing near me, or in the same house, and of preparing, with your +and Mr. Green's assistance, my whole system for the press, as far as it +exists in any _systematic_ form; that is, beginning with the +Propyleum, On the Power and Use of Words, comprising Logic, as the Canons +of _Conclusion_, as the criterion of _Premises_, and lastly as +the discipline and evolution of Ideas (and then the Methodus et Epochee, or +the Disquisition on God, Nature, and Man), the two first grand divisions of +which, from the Ens super Ens to the _Fall_, or from God +to Hades, and then from Chaos to the commencement of living organization, +containing the whole of the Dynamic Philosophy, and the deduction of the +Powers and Forces, are complete." Twenty years earlier, he had written to +Daniel Stuart that he was keeping his morning hours sacred to his "most +important Work, which is printing at Bristol," as he imagined. It was then +to be called "Christianity, the one true Philosophy, or Five Treatises on +the Logos, or Communicative Intelligence, natural, human, and divine." Of +this vast work only fragments remain, mostly unpublished: two large quarto +volumes on logic, a volume intended as an introduction, a commentary on the +Gospels and some of the Epistles, together with "innumerable fragments of +metaphysical and theological speculation." But out of those fragments no +system was ever to be constructed, though a fervent disciple, J. H. Green, +devoted twenty-eight years to the attempt. "Christabel" unfinished, the +_magnum opus_ unachieved: both were but parallel symptoms of a mind +"thought-bewildered" to the end, and bewildered by excess of light and by +crowding energies always in conflict, always in escape. + +Coleridge's search, throughout his life, was after the absolute, an +absolute not only in thought but in all human relations, in love, +friendship, faith in man, faith in God, faith in beauty; and while it was +this profound dissatisfaction with less than the perfect form of every art, +passion, thought, or circumstance, that set him adrift in life, making him +seem untrue to duty, conviction, and himself, it was this also that formed +in him the double existence of the poet and the philosopher, each +supplementing and interpenetrating the other. The poet and the philosopher +are but two aspects of one reality; or rather, the poetic and the +philosophic attitudes are but two ways of seeing. The poet who is not also +a philosopher is like a flower without a root. Both seek the same +infinitude; one apprehending the idea, the other the image. One seeks truth +for its beauty; the other finds beauty, an abstract, intellectual beauty, +in the innermost home of truth. Poetry and metaphysics are alike a +disengaging, for different ends, of the absolute element in things. + +In Coleridge, metaphysics joined with an unbounded imagination, in equal +flight from reality, from the notions of time and space. Each was an equal +denial of the reality of what we call real things; the one experimental, +searching, reasoning; the other a "shaping spirit of imagination," an +embodying force. His sight was always straining into the darkness; and he +has himself noted that from earliest childhood his "mind was habituated to +the Vast." "I never regarded my senses," he says, "as the criteria of my +belief"; and "those who have been led to the same truths step by step, +through the constant testimony of their senses, seem to want a sense which +I possess." To Coleridge only mind existed, an eternal and an eternally +active thought; and it was as a corollary to his philosophical conception +of the universe that he set his mind to a conscious rebuilding of the world +in space. His magic, that which makes his poetry, was but the final release +in art of a winged thought fluttering helplessly among speculations and +theories; it was the song of release. + +De Quincey has said of Coleridge: "I believe it to be notorious that he +first began the use of opium, not as a relief from any bodily pains or +nervous irritations--for his constitution was strong and excellent--but as +a source of luxurious sensations." Hartley Coleridge, in the biographical +supplement to the "Biographia Literaria," replies with what we now know to +be truth: "If my Father sought more from opium than the mere absence of +pain, I feel assured that it was not luxurious sensations or the glowing +phantasmagoria of passive dreams; but that the power of the medicine might +keep down the agitations of his nervous system, like a strong hand grasping +the strings of some shattered lyre." In 1795. that is, at the age of +twenty-three, we find him taking laudanum; in 1796, he is taking it in +large doses; by the late spring of 1801 he is under the "fearful slavery," +as he was to call it, of opium. "My sole sensuality," he says of this time, +"was not to be in pain." In a terrible letter addressed to Joseph Cottle in +1814 he declares that he was "seduced to the _accursed_ habit +ignorantly"; and he describes "the direful moment, when my pulse began to +fluctuate, my heart to palpitate, and such a dreadful falling abroad, as it +were, of my whole frame, such intolerable restlessness, and incipient +bewilderment ... for my case is a species of madness, only that it is a +derangement, an utter impotence of the volition, and not of the +intellectual faculties." And, throughout, it is always the pains, never the +pleasures, of opium that he registers. + +Opium took hold of him by what was inert in his animal nature, and not by +any active sensuality. His imagination required no wings, but rather +fetters; and it is evident that opium was more often a sedative than a spur +to his senses. + +The effect of opium on the normal man is to bring him into something like +the state in which Coleridge habitually lived. The world was always a +sufficiently unreal thing to him, facts more than remote enough, +consequences unrelated to their causes; he lived in a mist, and opium +thickened the mist to a dense yellow fog. Opium might have helped to make +Southey a poet; it left Coleridge the prisoner of a cobweb-net of dreams. +What he wanted was some astringent force in things, to tighten, not to +loosen, the always expanding and uncontrollable limits of his mind. Opium +did but confirm what the natural habits of his constitution had bred in +him: an overwhelming indolence, out of which the energies that still arose +intermittently were no longer flames, but the escaping ghosts of flame, +mere black smoke. + +At twenty-four, in a disinterested description of himself for the benefit +of a friend whom he had not yet met, he declares, "the walk of the whole +man indicates _indolence capable of energies_." It was that walk which +Carlyle afterwards described, unable to keep to either side of the garden- +path. "The moral obligation is to me so very strong a stimulant," Coleridge +writes to Crabb Robinson, "that in nine cases out of ten it acts as a +narcotic. The blow that should rouse, _stuns_ me." He plays another +variation on the ingenious theme in a letter to his brother: "Anxieties +that stimulate others infuse an additional narcotic into my mind.... Like +some poor labourer, whose night's sleep has but imperfectly refreshed his +overwearied frame, I have sate in drowsy uneasiness, and doing nothing have +thought what a deal I have to do." His ideal, which he expressed in 1797 in +a letter to Thelwall, and, in 1813, almost word for word, in a poem called" +The Night-Scene," was, "like the Indian Vishnu, to float about along an +infinite ocean cradled in the flower of the Lotus, and wake once in a +million years for a few minutes just to know that I was going to sleep a +million years more." Observe the effect of the desire for the absolute, +reinforced by constitutional indolence, and only waiting for the +illuminating excuse of opium. + +From these languors, and from their consequences, Coleridge found relief in +conversation, for which he was always ready, while he was far from always +ready for the more precise mental exertion of writing. "Oh, how I wish to +be talking, not writing," he cries in a letter to Southey in 1803, "for my +mind is so full, that my thoughts stifle and jam each other." And, in 1816, +in his first letter to Gillman, he writes, more significantly, "The +stimulus of conversation suspends the terror that haunts my mind; but when +I am alone, the horrors that I have suffered from laudanum, the +degradation, the blighted utility, almost overwhelm me." It was along one +avenue of this continual escape from himself that Coleridge found himself +driven (anywhere, away from action) towards what grew to be the main waste +of his life. Hartley Coleridge, in the preface to "Table-Talk," has told us +eloquently how, "throughout a long-drawn summer's day, would this man talk +to you in low, equable, but clear and musical tones, concerning things +human and divine"; we know that Carlyle found him "unprofitable, even +tedious," and wished "to worship him, and toss him in a blanket"; and we +have the vivid reporting of Keats, who tells us that, on his one meeting +with Coleridge, "I walked with him, at his alderman-after-dinner pace, for +near two miles, I suppose. In those two miles he broached a thousand +things. Let me see if I can give you a list--nightingales--poetry--on +poetical sensation--metaphysics--different genera and species of dreams-- +nightmare--a dream accompanied with a sense of touch--single and double +touch--a dream related--first and second consciousness--the difference +explained between will and volition--so say metaphysicians from a want of +smoking the second consciousness--monsters--the Kraken--mermaids--Southey +believes in them--Southey's belief too much diluted--a ghost story--Good- +morning--I heard his voice as he came towards me--I heard it as he moved +away--I had heard it all the interval--if it may be called so." It may be +that we have had no more wonderful talker, and, no doubt, the talk had its +reverential listeners, its disciples; but to cultivate or permit disciples +is itself a kind of waste, a kind of weakness; it requires a very fixed and +energetic indolence to become, as Coleridge became, a vocal utterance, +talking for talking's sake. + +But beside talking, there was lecturing, with Coleridge a scarcely +different form of talk; and it is to this consequence of a readiness to +speak and a reluctance to write that we owe much of his finest criticism, +in the imperfectly recorded "Lectures on Shakespeare." Coleridge as a +critic is not easily to be summed up. What may first surprise us, when we +begin to look into his critical opinions, is the uncertainty of his +judgments in regard to his own work, and to the work of his friends; the +curious bias which a feeling or an idea, affection or a philosophical +theory, could give to his mind. His admiration for Southey, his +consideration for Sotheby, perhaps in a less degree his unconquerable +esteem for Bowles, together with something very like adulation of +Wordsworth, are all instances of a certain loss of the sense of proportion. +He has left us no penetrating criticisms of Byron, of Shelley, or of Keats; +and in a very interesting letter about Blake, written in 1818, he is unable +to take the poems merely as poems, and chooses among them with a scrupulous +care "not for the want of innocence in the poem, but from the too probable +want of it in many readers." + +Lamb, concerned only with individual things, looks straight at them, not +through them, seeing them implacably. His notes to the selections from the +Elizabethan dramatists are the surest criticisms that we have in English; +they go to the roots. Coleridge's critical power was wholly exercised upon +elements and first principles; Lamb showed an infinitely keener sense of +detail, of the parts of the whole. Lamb was unerring on definite points, +and could lay his finger on flaws in Coleridge's work that were invisible +to Coleridge; who, however, was unerring in his broad distinctions, in the +philosophy of his art. + +"The ultimate end of criticism," said Coleridge, "is much more to establish +the principles of writing than to furnish rules how to pass judgment on +what has been written by others." And for this task he had an incomparable +foundation: imagination, insight, logic, learning, almost every critical +quality united in one; and he was a poet who allowed himself to be a +critic. Those pages of the "Biographia Literaria," in which he defines and +distinguishes between imagination and fancy, the researches into the +abstract entities of poetry in the course of an examination of Wordsworth's +theories and of the popular objections to them, all that we have of the +lectures on Shakespeare, into which he put an illuminating idolatry, +together with notes and jottings preserved in the "Table-Talk," "Anima +Poetæ," the "Literary Remains," and on the margins of countless books, +contain the most fundamental criticism of literature that has ever been +attempted, fragmentary as the attempt remains. "There is not a man in +England," said Coleridge, with truth, "whose thoughts, images, words, and +erudition have been published in larger quantities than _mine_; though +I must admit, not _by_, nor _for_, myself." He claimed, and +rightly, as his invention, a "science of reasoning and judging concerning +the productions of literature, the characters and measures of public men, +and the events of nations, by a systematic subsumption of them, under +principles deduced from the nature of man," which, as he says, was unknown +before the year 1795. He is the one philosophical critic who is also a +poet, and thus he is the one critic who instinctively knows his way through +all the intricacies of the creative mind. + +Most of his best criticism circles around Shakespeare; and he took +Shakespeare almost frankly in the place of Nature, or of poetry. He +affirms, "Shakespeare knew the human mind, and its most minute and intimate +workings, and he never introduces a word, or a thought, in vain or out of +place." This granted (and to Coleridge it is essential that it should be +granted, for in less than the infinite he cannot find space in which to use +his wings freely) he has only to choose and define, to discover and to +illuminate. In the "myriad-minded man," in his "oceanic mind," he finds all +the material that he needs for the making of a complete aesthetics. Nothing +with Coleridge ever came to completion; but we have only to turn over the +pages about Shakespeare, to come upon fragments worth more than anyone +else's finished work. I find the whole secret of Shakespeare's way of +writing in these sentences: "Shakespeare's intellectual action is wholly +unlike that of Ben Jonson or Beaumont and Fletcher. The latter see the +totality of a sentence or passage, and then project it entire. Shakespeare +goes on creating, and evolving B out of A, and C out of B, and so on, just +as a serpent moves, which makes a fulcrum of its own body, and seems +forever twisting and untwisting its own strength. "And here are a few +axioms: 'The grandest efforts of poetry are where the imagination is called +forth, not to produce a distinct form, but a strong working of the mind'; +or, in other words, "The power of poetry is, by a single word perhaps, to +instill that energy into the mind which compels the imagination to produce +the picture." "Poetry is the identity of all other knowledges," "the +blossom and fragrance of all human knowledge, human thoughts, human +passions, emotions, language." "Verse is in itself a music, and the natural +symbol of that union of passion with thought and pleasure, which +constitutes the essence of all poetry "; "a more than usual state of +emotion, with more than usual order," as he has elsewhere defined it. And, +in one of his spoken counsels, he says: "I wish our clever young poets +would remember my homely definitions of prose and poetry; that is, prose-- +words in their best order; poetry--the best words in the best order." + +Unlike most creative critics, or most critics who were creative artists in +another medium, Coleridge, when he was writing criticism, wrote it wholly +for its own sake, almost as if it were a science. His prose is rarely of +the finest quality as prose writing. Here and there he can strike out a +phrase at red-heat, as when he christens Shakespeare "the one Proteus of +the fire and flood"; or he can elaborate subtly, as when he notes the +judgment of Shakespeare, observable in every scene of the "Tempest," "still +preparing, still inviting, and still gratifying, like a finished piece of +music"; or he can strike us with the wit of the pure intellect, as when he +condemns certain work for being "as trivial in thought and yet enigmatic in +expression, as if Echo and the Sphinx had laid their heads together to +construct it." But for the most part it is a kind of thinking aloud, and +the form is wholly lost in the pursuit of ideas. With his love for the +absolute, why is it that he does not seek after an absolute in words +considered as style, as well as in words considered as the expression of +thought? In his finest verse Coleridge has the finest style perhaps in +English; but his prose is never quite reduced to order from its tumultuous +amplitude or its snake-like involution. Is it that he values it only as a +medium, not as an art? His art is verse, and this he dreads, because of its +too mortal closeness to his heart; the prose is a means to an end, not an +end in itself. + +The poetry of Coleridge, though it is closely interwoven with the +circumstances of his life, is rarely made directly out of those +circumstances. To some extent this is no doubt explained by a fact to which +he often refers in his letters, and which, in his own opinion, hindered him +not only from writing about himself in verse, but from writing verse at +all. "As to myself," he writes in 1802, "all my poetic genius ... is gone," +and he attributes it "to my long and exceedingly severe metaphysical +investigations, and these partly to ill-health, and partly to private +afflictions which rendered any subjects, immediately connected with +feeling, a source of pain and disquiet to me." In 1818 he writes: "Poetry +is out of the question. The attempt would only hurry me into that sphere of +acute feelings from which abstruse research, the mother of self-oblivion, +presents an asylum." But theory worked with a natural tendency in keeping +him for the most part away from any attempt to put his personal emotions +into verse. "A sound promise of genius," he considered, "is the choice of +subjects very remote from the private interests and circumstances of the +writer himself." With only a few exceptions, the wholly personal poems, +those actually written under a shock of emotion, are vague, generalized, +turned into a kind of literature. The success of such a poem as the almost +distressingly personal "Ode on Dejection" comes from the fact that +Coleridge has been able to project his personal feeling into an outward +image, which becomes to him the type of dejection; he can look at it as at +one of his dreams which become things; he can sympathize with it as he +could never sympathize with his own undeserving self. And thus one stanza, +perhaps the finest as poetry, becomes the biography of his soul: + + + "There was a time when, though my path was rough, + This joy within me dallied with distress, + And all misfortunes were but as the stuff + Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness: + For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, + And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine + But now afflictions bow me down to earth: + Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth; + But oh! each visitation + Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, + My shaping spirit of Imagination. + For not to think of what I needs must feel, + But to be still and patient all I can, + And haply by abstruse research to steal + From my own nature all the natural man-- + This was my sole resource, my only plan: + Till that which suits a part infects the whole, + And now is almost grown the habit of my soul." + + +Elsewhere, in personal poems like "Frost at Midnight," and "Fears in +Solitude," all the value of the poem comes from the delicate sensations of +natural things which mean so much more to us, whether or not they did to +him, than the strictly personal part of the matter. You feel that there he +is only using the quite awake part of himself, which is not the essential +one. He requires, first of all, to be disinterested, or at least not +overcome by emotion; to be without passion but that of abstract beauty, in +Nature, or in idea; and then to sink into a quiet lucid sleep, in which his +genius came to him like some attendant spirit. + +In the life and art of Coleridge, the hours of sleep seem to have been +almost more important than the waking hours. "My dreams became the +substance of my life," he writes, just after the composition of that +terrible poem on "The Pains of Sleep," which is at once an outcry of agony, +and a yet more disturbing vision of the sufferer with his fingers on his +own pulse, his eyes fixed on his own hardly awakened eyes in the mirror. In +an earlier letter, written at a time when he is trying to solve the problem +of the five senses, he notes: "The sleep which I have is made up of ideas +so connected, and so little different from the operations of reason, that +it does not afford me the due refreshment." To Coleridge, with the help of +opium, hardly required, indeed, there was no conscious division between day +and night, between not only dreams and intuitions, but dreams and pure +reason. And we find him, in almost all his great poems, frankly taking not +only his substance but his manner from dreams, as he dramatizes them after +a logic and a passion of their own. His technique is the transposition into +his waking hours of the unconscious technique of dreams. It is a kind of +verified inspiration, something which came and went, and was as little to +be relied upon as the inspiration itself. On one side it was an exact +science, but on the other a heavenly visitation. Count and balance +syllables, work out an addition of the feet in the verse by the foot-rule, +and you will seem to have traced every miracle back to its root in a +natural product. Only, something, that is, everything, will have escaped +you. As well dissect a corpse to find out the principle of life. That +elusive something, that spirit, will be what distinguishes Coleridge's +finest verse from the verse of, well, perhaps of every conscious artist in +our language. For it is not, as in Blake, literally unconscious, and +wavering on every breath of that unseen wind on which it floats to us; it +is faultless; it is itself the wind which directs it, it steers its way on +the wind, like a seagull poised between sky and sea, and turning on its +wings as upon shifted sails. + +This inspiration comes upon Coleridge suddenly, without warning, in the +first uncertain sketch of "Lewti," written at twenty-two; and then it +leaves him, without warning, until the great year 1797, three years later, +when "Christabel" and "The Ancient Mariner" are begun. Before and after, +Coleridge is seen trying to write like Bowles, like Wordsworth, like +Southey, perhaps, to attain "that impetuosity of transition and that +precipitancy of fancy and feeling, which are the _essential_ qualities +of the sublimer Ode," and which he fondly fancies that he has attained in +the "Ode on the Departing Year," with its one good line, taken out of his +note-book. But here, in "Lewti," he has his style, his lucid and liquid +melody, his imagery of moving light and the faintly veiled transparency of +air, his vague, wildly romantic subject matter, coming from no one knows +where, meaning one hardly knows what; but already a magic, an incantation. +"Lewti" is a sort of preliminary study for "Kubla Khan"; it, too, has all +the imagery of a dream, with a breathlessness and awed hush, as of one not +yet accustomed to be at home in dreams. + +"Kubla Khan," which was literally composed in sleep, comes nearer than any +other existing poem to that ideal of lyric poetry which has only lately +been systematized by theorists like Mallarmé. It has just enough meaning to +give it bodily existence; otherwise it would be disembodied music. It seems +to hover in the air, like one of the island enchantments of Prospero. It is +music not made with hands, and the words seem, as they literally were, +remembered. "All the images," said Coleridge, "rose up before me as +_things_, with a parallel production of the correspondent +expressions." Lamb, who tells us how Coleridge repeated it "so enchantingly +that it irradiates and brings heaven and elysian bowers into my parlour +when he says or sings it to me," doubted whether it would "bear daylight." +It seemed to him that such witchcraft could hardly outlast the night. It +has outlasted the century, and may still be used as a touchstone; it will +determine the poetic value of any lyric poem which you place beside it. +Take as many poems as you please, and let them have all the merits you +please, their ultimate merit as poetry will lie in the degree of their +approach to the exact, unconscious, inevitable balance of qualities in the +poetic art of "Kubla Khan." + +In "The Ancient Mariner," which it seems probable was composed before, and +not after "Kubla Khan," as Coleridge's date would have us suppose, a new +supernaturalism comes into poetry, which, for the first time, accepted the +whole responsibility of dreams. The impossible, frankly accepted, with its +own strict, inverted logic; the creation of a new atmosphere, outside the +known world, which becomes as real as the air about us, and yet never loses +its strangeness; the shiver that comes to us, as it came to the wedding- +guest, from the simple good faith of the teller; here is a whole new +creation, in subject, mood, and technique. Here, as in "Kubla Khan," +Coleridge saw the images "as _things_"; only a mind so overshadowed by +dreams, and so easily able to carry on his sleep awake, could have done so; +and, with such a mind, "that willing suspension of disbelief for a moment, +which constitutes poetic faith," was literally forced upon him. "The +excellence aimed at," says Coleridge, "was to consist in the interesting of +the affections by the dramatic truth of such emotions, as would naturally +accompany such situations," those produced by supernatural agency, +"supposing them real. And real in this sense they have been to every human +being who, from whatever sense of delusion, has at any time believed +himself under supernatural agency." To Coleridge, whatever appealed vitally +to his imagination was real; and he defended his belief philosophically, +disbelieving from conviction in that sharp marking off of real from +imaginary which is part of the ordinary attitude of man in the presence of +mystery. + +It must not be forgotten that Coleridge is never fantastic. The fantastic +is a playing with the imagination, and Coleridge respects it. His intellect +goes always easily as far as his imagination will carry it, and does not +stop by the way to play tricks upon its bearer. Hence the conviction which +he brings with him when he tells us the impossible. And then his style, in +its ardent and luminous simplicity, flexible to every bend of the spirit +which it clothes with flesh, helps him in the idiomatic translation of +dreams. The visions of Swedenborg are literal translations of the +imagination, and need to be retranslated. Coleridge is equally faithful to +the thing seen and to the laws of that new world into which he has +transposed it. + +"The Ancient Mariner" is the most sustained piece of imagination in the +whole of English poetry; and it has almost every definable merit of +imaginative narrative. It is the only poem I know which is all point and +yet all poetry; because, I suppose, the point is really a point of mystery. +It is full of simple, daily emotion, transported, by an awful power of +sight, to which the limits of reality are no barrier, into an unknown sea +and air; it is realized throughout the whole of its ghastly and marvellous +happenings; and there is in the narrative an ease, a buoyancy almost, which +I can only compare with the music of Mozart, extracting its sweetness from +the stuff of tragedy; it presents to us the utmost physical and spiritual +horror, not only without disgust, but with an alluring beauty. But in +"Christabel," in the first part especially, we find a quality which goes +almost beyond these definable merits. There is in it a literal spell, not +acting along any logical lines, not attacking the nerves, not terrifying, +not intoxicating, but like a slow, enveloping mist, which blots out the +real world, and leaves us unchilled by any "airs from heaven or blasts from +hell," but in the native air of some middle region. In these two or three +brief hours of his power out of a lifetime, Coleridge is literally a +wizard. People have wanted to know what "Christabel" means, and how it was +to have ended, and whether Geraldine was a vampire (as I am inclined to +think) or had eyes in her breasts (as Shelley thought). They have wondered +that a poem so transparent in every line should be, as a whole, the most +enigmatical in English. But does it matter very much whether "Christabel" +means this or that, and whether Coleridge himself knew, as he said, how it +was to end, or whether, as Wordsworth declared, he had never decided? It +seems to me that Coleridge was fundamentally right when he said of the +"Ancient Mariner," "It ought to have had no more moral than the Arabian +Nights' tale of the merchant's sitting down to eat dates by the side of a +well, and throwing the shells aside, and lo! a genie starts up, and says he +_must_ kill the aforesaid merchant, because one of the date-shells +had, it seems, put out the eye of the genie's son." The "Ancient Mariner," +if we take its moral meaning too seriously, comes near to being an +allegory. "Christabel," as it stands, is a piece of pure witchcraft, +needing no further explanation than the fact of its existence. + +Rossetti called Coleridge the Turner of poets, and indeed there is in +Coleridge an aërial glitter which we find in no other poet, and in Turner +only among painters. With him colour is always melted in atmosphere, which +it shines through like fire within a crystal. It is liquid colour, the dew +on flowers, or a mist of rain in bright sunshine. His images are for the +most part derived from water, sky, the changes of weather, shadows of +things rather than things themselves, and usually mental reflections of +them. "A poet ought not to pick Nature's pocket," he said, and it is for +colour and sound, in their most delicate forms, that he goes to natural +things. He hears + + + "the merry nightingale + That crowds and hurries and precipitates + With fast thick warble his delicious notes;" + + +and an ecstasy comes to him out of that natural music which is almost like +that of his own imagination. Only music or strange effects of light can +carry him swiftly enough out of himself, in the presence of visible or +audible things, for that really poetic ecstasy. Then all his languor drops +off from him, like a clogging garment. + +The first personal merit which appears in his almost wholly valueless early +work is a sense of colour. In a poem written at twenty-one he sees Fancy + + + "Bathed in rich amber-glowing floods of light," + + +and next year the same colour reappears, more expressively, in a cloud, + + + "wholly bright, + With a rich and amber light." + + +The two women in "The Two Graves," during a momentous pause, are found +discussing whether the rays of the sun are green or amber; a valley is + + + "Tinged yellow with the rich departing light;" + + +seen through corn at evening, + + + "The level sunshine glimmers with green light;" + + +and there is the carefully observed + + + "western sky + And its peculiar tint of yellow green." + + +"The Ancient Mariner" is full of images of light and luminous colour in sky +and sea; Glycine's song in "Zapolya" is the most glittering poem in our +language, with a soft glitter like that of light seen through water. And he +is continually endeavouring, as later poets have done on a more deliberate +theory, to suffuse sound with colour or make colours literally a form of +music; as in an early poem + + + "Where melodies round honey-dropping flowers, + Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise, + Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing." + + +With him, as with some of them, there is something pathological in this +sensitiveness, and in a letter written in 180O he says: "For the last month +I have been trembling on through sands and swamps of evil and bodily +grievance. My eyes have been inflamed to a degree that rendered reading +scarcely possible; and, strange as it seems, the act of mere composition, +as I lay in bed, perceptibly affected them, and my voluntary ideas were +every minute passing, more or less transformed into vivid spectra." + +Side by side with this sensitiveness to colour, or interfused with it, we +find a similar, or perhaps a greater, sensitiveness to sound, Coleridge +shows a greater sensitiveness to music than any English poet except Milton. +The sonnet to Linley records his ecstatic responsiveness to music; +Purcell's music, too, which he names with Palestrina's ("some madrigals +which he heard at Rome") in the "Table-Talk." "I have the intensest delight +in music," he says there, "and can detect good from bad"; a rare thing +among poets. In one of his letters he notes: "I hear in my brain ... +sensations ... of various degrees of pain, even to a strange sort of uneasy +pleasure.... I hear in my brain, and still more in my stomach." There we +get the morbid physical basis of a sensitiveness to music which came to +mean much to him. In a note referring to "Christabel," and to the reasons +why it had never been finished, he says: "I could write as good verse now +as ever I did, if I were perfectly free from vexations, and were in the +_ad libitum_ hearing of fine music, which has a sensible effect in +harmonizing my thoughts, and in animating and, as it were, lubricating my +inventive faculty." "Christabel," more than anything of Coleridge, is +composed like music; you might set at the side of each section, especially +of the opening, _largo, vivacissimo_, and, as the general expression +signature, _tempo rubato_. I know no other verse in which the effects +of music are so precisely copied in metre. Shelley, you feel, sings like a +bird; Blake, like a child or an angel; but Coleridge certainly writes +music. + +The metre of the "Ancient Mariner" is a re-reading of the familiar ballad- +metre, in which nothing of the original force, swiftness or directness is +lost, while a new subtlety, a wholly new music, has come into it. The metre +of "Christabel" is even more of an invention, and it had more immediate +consequences. The poem was begun in 1797, and not published till 1816; but +in 1801 Scott heard it recited, and in 1805 reproduced what he could of it +in "The Lay of the Last Minstrel" and the other metrical romances which, in +their turn, led the way to Byron, who himself heard "Christabel" recited in +1811. But the secret of Coleridge's instinct of melody and science of +harmony was not discovered. Such ecstasy and such collectedness, a way of +writing which seems to aim at nothing but the most precisely expressive +simplicity, and yet sets the whole brain dancing to its tune, can hardly be +indicated more exactly than in Coleridge's own words in reference to the +Italian lyrists of the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. They, attained +their aim, he says, "by the avoidance of every word which a gentleman would +not use in dignified conversation, and of every word and phrase which none +but a learned man would use; by the studied position of words and phrases, +so that not only each part should be melodious in itself, but contribute to +the harmony of the whole, each note referring and conducing to the melody +of all the foregoing and following words of the same period or stanza; and, +lastly, with equal labour, the greater because unbetrayed, by the variation +and various harmonies of their metrical movement." These qualities we may +indeed find in many of Coleridge's songs, part Elizabethan, part eighteenth +century, in some of his infantile jingles, his exuberant comic verse (in +which, however, there are many words "which a gentleman would not use"), +and in a poem like "Love," which has suffered as much indiscriminate praise +as Raphael's Madonnas, which it resembles in technique and sentiment, and +in its exquisite perfection of commonplace, its _tour de force _of an +almost flawless girlishness. But in "Christabel" the technique has an +incomparable substance to work upon; substance at once simple and abnormal, +which Coleridge required, in order to be at his best. + +It has been pointed out by the profoundest poetical critic of our time that +the perfection of Coleridge's style in poetry comes from an equal balance +of the clear, somewhat matter-of-fact qualities of the eighteenth century +with the remote, imaginative qualities of the nineteenth century. "To +please me," said Coleridge in "Table-Talk," "a poem must be either music or +sense." The eighteenth-century manner, with its sense only just coupled +with a kind of tame and wingless music, may be seen quite by itself in the +early song from "Robespierre": + + + "Tell me, on what holy ground + May domestic peace be found?" + + +Here there is both matter and manner, of a kind; in "The Kiss" of the same +year, with its one exquisite line, + + + "The gentle violence of joy," + + +there is only the liquid glitter of manner. We get the ultimate union of +eighteenth and nineteenth century qualities in "Work without Hope," and in +"Youth and Age," which took nine years to bring into its faultless ultimate +form. There is always a tendency in Coleridge to fall back on the +eighteenth-century manner, with its scrupulous exterior neatness, and its +comfortable sense of something definite said definitely, whenever the +double inspiration flags, and matter and manner do not come together. "I +cannot write without a _body of thought_," he said at a time before he +had found himself or his style; and he added: "Hence my poetry is crowded +and sweats beneath a heavy burden of ideas and imagery! It has seldom +ease." It was an unparalleled ease in the conveying of a "body of thought" +that he was finally to attain. In "Youth and Age," think how much is +actually said, and with a brevity impossible in prose; things, too, far +from easy for poetry to say gracefully, such as the image of the steamer, +or the frank reference to "this altered size"; and then see with what an +art, as of the very breathing of syllables, it passes into the most flowing +of lyric forms. Besides these few miracles of his later years, there are +many poems, such as the Flaxman group of "Love, Hope, and Patience +supporting Education," in which we get all that can be poetic in the +epigram softened by imagination, all that can be given by an ecstatic plain +thinking. The rarest magic has gone, and he knows it; philosophy remains, +and out of that resisting material he is able, now and again, to weave, in +his deftest manner, a few garlands. + +ARTHUR SYMONS. + + + + + +SELECTIONS FROM THE +POEMS OF COLERIDGE + + + + +THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER + +IN SEVEN PARTS + +Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibiles in rerum +universitate. Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit? et gradus et +cognationes et discrimina et singulorum munera? Quid agunt? quæ loca +habitant? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingenium humanum, nunquam +attigit. Juvat, interea, non diffiteor, quandoque in animo, tanquam in +tabulâ, majoris et melioris mundi imaginem contemplari: ne mens assuefacta +hodiernæ vitæ minutiis se contrahat nimis, et tota subsidat in pusillas +cogitationes. Sed veritati interea invigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut +certa ab incertis, diem a nocte, distinguamus.--T. BURNET, _Archæol. +Phil_. p. 68. + + +ARGUMENT + + +How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold Country +towards the South Pole; and how from thence she made her course to the +tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean; and of the strange things +that befell; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to his own +Country. + + +PART I + + + It is an ancient Mariner, + And he stoppeth one of three. + "By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, + Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? + + "The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, + And I am next of kin; + The guests are met, the feast is set: + May'st 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 dropt 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. + + And now there came both 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 look'st thou so?"--With my cross-bow + 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 a 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 God's own 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 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, + We stuck, nor breath nor motion; + As idle as a painted ship + 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 + 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! well 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 drought 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 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 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 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 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 life-blood seemed to sip! + The stars were dim, and thick the night, + The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white; + From the sails the dew 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 a 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. + + The souls did from their bodies fly,-- + They fled to bliss or woe! + And every soul, it passed me by, + Like the whizz of my cross-bow! + + +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.[1] + + I fear thee and thy glittering eye, + And thy skinny hand, so brown."-- + Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! + This body dropt 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 gusht, + A wicked whisper came, and made + My heart as dry as dust. + + I closed my lids, and kept them close, + And 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 a 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 no where 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 burst 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 blest: + + 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 sky-lark 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 quietly 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 honey-dew: + 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 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! + 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-- + Oh, 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 marineres + That come from a far countree. + + 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 looked 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 countree, + I stood on the firm land! + The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, + And scarcely he could stand. + + "O 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 woful 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; + That 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 bride-maids 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. + + O 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. + +1797-1798. + +[Footnote 1: For the last two lines of this stanza, +I am indebted to Mr. Wordsworth. It was on a delightful +walk from Nether Stowey +to Dulverton, with him and his sister, in the autumn of 1797, +that this poem was planned, and in part composed. [Note of +S. T. C., first printed in _Sibylline Leaves_.]] + + + + +CHRISTABEL + + +PART THE FIRST + + 'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, + And the owls have awakened the crowing cock," + Tu--whit!--Tu--whoo! + And hark, again! the crowing cock, + How drowsily it crew. + + Sir Leoline; the Baron rich, + Hath a toothless mastiff, which + From her kennel beneath the rock + Maketh answer to the clock, + Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; + Ever and aye, by shine and shower, + Sixteen short howls, not over loud; + Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. + + Is the night chilly and dark? + The night is chilly, but not dark. + The thin gray cloud is spread on high, + It covers but not hides the sky. + The moon is behind, and at the full; + And yet she looks both small and dull. + The night is chill, the cloud is gray: + 'Tis a month before the month of May, + And the Spring comes slowly up this way. + + The lovely lady, Christabel, + Whom her father loves so well, + What makes her in the wood so late, + A furlong from the castle gate? + She had dreams all yesternight + Of her own betrothed knight; + And she in the midnight wood will pray + For the weal of her lover that's far away. + + She stole along, she nothing spoke, + The sighs she heaved were soft and low, + And naught was green upon the oak + But moss and rarest misletoe: + She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, + And in silence prayeth she. + + The lady sprang up suddenly, + The lovely lady, Christabel! + It moaned as near, as near can be, + But what it is she cannot tell.-- + On the other side it seems to be, + Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. + + The night is chill; the forest bare; + Is it the wind that moaneth bleak? + There is not wind enough in the air + To move away the ringlet curl + From the lovely lady's cheek-- + There is not wind enough to twirl + The one red leaf, the last of its clan, + That dances as often as dance it can, + Hanging so light, and hanging so high, + On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. + + Hush, beating heart of Christabel! + Jesu, Maria, shield her well! + She folded her arms beneath her cloak, + And stole to the other side of the oak. + What sees she there? + + There she sees a damsel bright, + Drest in a silken robe of white, + That shadowy in the moonlight shone: + The neck that made that white robe wan, + Her stately neck, and arms were bare; + Her blue-veined feet unsandal'd were, + And wildly glittered here and there + The gems entangled in her hair. + I guess, 'twas frightful there to see + A lady so richly clad as she-- + Beautiful exceedingly! + + Mary mother, save me now! + (Said Christabel,) And who art thou? + + The lady strange made answer meet, + And her voice was faint and sweet:-- + Have pity on my sore distress, + I scarce can speak for weariness: + Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear! + Said Christabel, How camest thou here? + And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet, + Did thus pursue her answer meet:-- + + My sire is of a noble line, + And my name is Geraldine: + Five warriors seized me yestermorn, + Me, even me, a maid forlorn: + They choked my cries with force and fright, + And tied me on a palfrey white. + + The palfrey was as fleet as wind, + And they rode furiously behind. + They spurred amain, their steeds were white: + And once we crossed the shade of night. + As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, + I have no thought what men they be; + Nor do I know how long it is + (For I have lain entranced I wis) + Since one, the tallest of the five, + Took me from the palfrey's back, + A weary woman, scarce alive. + Some muttered words his comrades spoke: + He placed me underneath this oak; + He swore they would return with haste; + Whither they went I cannot tell + I thought I heard, some minutes past, + Sounds as of a castle bell. + Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she), + And help a wretched maid to flee. + + Then Christabel stretched forth her hand, + And comforted fair Geraldine: + O well, bright dame! may you command + The service of Sir Leoline; + And gladly our stout chivalry + Will he send forth and friends withal + To guide and guard you safe and free + Home to your noble father's hall. + + She rose: and forth with steps they passed + That strove to be, and were not, fast. + Her gracious stars the lady blest, + And thus spake on sweet Christabel: + All our household are at rest, + The hall as silent as the cell; + Sir Leoline is weak in health, + And may not well awakened be, + But we will move as if in stealth, + And I beseech your courtesy, + This night, to share your couch with me. + + They crossed the moat, and Christabel + Took the key that fitted well; + A little door she opened straight, + All in the middle of the gate; + The gate that was ironed within and without + Where an army in battle array had marched out. + The lady sank, belike through pain, + And Christabel with might and main + Lifted her up, a weary weight, + Over the threshold of the gate: + Then the lady rose again, + And moved, as she were not in pain. + + So free from danger, free from fear, + They crossed the court: right glad they were. + And Christabel devoutly cried + To the lady by her side, + Praise we the Virgin all divine + Who hath rescued thee from thy distress! + Alas! alas! said Geraldine, + I cannot speak for weariness. + So free from danger, free from fear, + They crossed the court: right glad they were. + + Outside her kennel, the mastiff old + Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. + The mastiff old did not awake, + Yet she an angry moan did make! + And what can ail the mastiff bitch? + Never till now she uttered yell + Beneath the eye of Christabel. + Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch: + For what can ail the mastiff bitch? + + They passed the hall, that echoes still, + Pass as lightly as you will! + The brands were flat, the brands were dying, + Amid their own white ashes lying; + But when the lady passed, there came + A tongue of light, a fit of flame + And Christabel saw the lady's eye, + And nothing else saw she thereby, + Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall, + Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall. + O softly tread, said Christabel, + My father seldom sleepeth well. + + Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare, + And jealous of the listening air + They steal their way from stair to stair, + Now in glimmer, and now in gloom, + And now they pass the Baron's room, + As still as death with stifled breath! + And now have reached her chamber door; + And now doth Geraldine press down + The rushes of the chamber floor. + + The moon shines dim in the open air, + And not a moonbeam enters here. + But they without its light can see + The chamber carved so curiously, + Carved with figures strange and sweet, + All made out of the carver's brain, + For a lady's chamber meet: + The lamp with twofold silver chain + Is fastened to an angel's feet. + + The silver lamp burns dead and dim; + But Christabel the lamp will trim. + She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright, + And left it swinging to and fro, + While Geraldine, in wretched plight, + Sank down upon the floor below. + + O weary lady, Geraldine, + I pray you, drink this cordial wine! + It is a wine of virtuous powers; + My mother made it of wild flowers. + And will your mother pity me, + Who am a maiden most forlorn? + Christabel answered--Woe is me! + She died the hour that I was born. + I have heard the grey-haired friar tell + How on her death-bed she did say, + That she should hear the castle-bell + Strike twelve upon my wedding-day. + O mother dear! that thou wert here! + I would, said Geraldine, she were! + + But soon with altered voice, said she-- + "Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine! + I have power to bid thee flee." + Alas! what ails poor Geraldine? + Why stares she with unsettled eye? + Can she the bodiless dead espy? + And why with hollow voice cries she, + "Off, woman, off! this hour is mine-- + Though thou her guardian spirit be, + Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me." + + Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side, + And raised to heaven her eyes so blue--, + Alas! said she, this ghastly ride-- + Dear lady! it hath wildered you! + The lady wiped her moist cold brow, + And faintly said, "'tis over now!" + Again the wild-flower wine she drank: + Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright, + And from the floor whereon she sank, + The lofty lady stood upright: + She was most beautiful to see, + Like a lady of a far countrée. + And thus the lofty lady spake-- + "All they who live in the upper sky, + Do love you, holy Christabel! + And you love them, and for their sake + And for the good which me befel, + Even I in my degree will try, + Fair maiden, to requite you well. + But now unrobe yourself; for I + Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie." + + Quoth Christabel, So let it be! + And as the lady bade, did she. + Her gentle limbs did she undress, + And lay down in her loveliness. + + But through her brain of weal and woe + So many thoughts moved to and fro, + That vain it were her lids to close; + So half-way from the bed she rose, + And on her elbow did recline + To look at the lady Geraldine. + + Beneath the lamp the lady bowed, + And slowly rolled her eyes around + Then drawing in her breath aloud, + Like one that shuddered, she unbound + The cincture from beneath her breast: + Her silken robe, and inner vest, + Dropt to her feet, and full in view, + Behold! her bosom and half her side------ + A sight to dream of, not to tell! + O shield her! shield sweet Christabel! + + Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs; + Ah! what a stricken look was hers! + Deep from within she seems half-way + To lift some weight with sick assay, + And eyes the maid and seeks delay; + Then suddenly, as one defied, + Collects herself in scorn and pride, + And lay down by the Maiden's side!-- + And in her arms the maid she took, + Ah wel-a-day! + And with low voice and doleful look + These words did say: + In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell, + Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel! + Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow, + This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow; + But vainly thou warrest, + For his is alone in + Thy power to declare, + That in the dim forest + Thou heard'st a low moaning, + And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair; + And didst bring her home with thee in love and + in charity, + To shield her and shelter her from the damp + air." + + +THE CONCLUSION +TO PART THE FIRST + + + It was a lovely sight to see + The lady Christabel, when she + Was praying at the old oak tree. + Amid the jagged shadows + Of mossy leafless boughs, + Kneeling in the moonlight, + To make her gentle vows; + Her slender palms together prest, + Heaving sometimes on her breast; + Her face resigned to bliss or bale-- + Her face, oh call it fair not pale, + And both blue eyes more, bright than clear, + Each about to have a tear. + + With open eyes (ah woe is me!) + Asleep, and dreaming fearfully, + Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis,. + Dreaming that alone, which is-- + O sorrow and shame! Can this be she, + The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree? + And lo! the worker of these harms, + That holds the maiden in her arms, + Seems to slumber still and mild, + As a mother with her child. + + A star hath set, a star hath risen, + O Geraldine! since arms of thine + Have been the lovely lady's prison. + O Geraldine! one hour was thine + Thou'st had thy will! By tairn and rill, + The night-birds all that hour were still. + But now they are jubilant anew, + From cliff and tower, tu-whoo! tu-whoo! + Tu-whoo! tu-whoo! from wood and fell! + + And see! the lady Christabel + Gathers herself from out her trance; + Her limbs relax, her countenance + Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids + Close o'er her eyes; and tears she sheds + Large tears that leave the lashes bright! + And oft the while she seems to smile + As infants at a sudden light! + + Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, + Like a youthful hermitess, + Beauteous in a wilderness, + Who, praying always, prays in sleep. + And, if she move unquietly, + Perchance,'tis but the blood so free + Comes back and tingles in her feet. + No doubt, she hath a vision sweet. + What if her guardian spirit 'twere, + What if she knew her mother near? + But this she knows, in joys and woes, + That saints will aid if men will call: + For the blue sky bends over all! + +1797. + + +PART THE SECOND + + + Each matin bell, the Baron saith, + Knells us back to a world of death. + These words Sir Leoline first said, + When he rose and found his lady dead: + These words Sir Leoline will say + Many a morn to his dying day! + + And hence the custom and law began + That still at dawn the sacristan, + Who duly pulls the heavy bell, + Five and forty beads must tell + Between each stroke--a warning knell, + Which not a soul can choose but hear + From Bratha Head to Wyndermere. + Saith Bracy the bard, So let it knell! + And let the drowsy sacristan + Still count as slowly as he can! + There is no lack of such, I ween, + As well fill up the space between. + In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, + And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent, + With ropes of rock and bells of air + Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent, + Who all give back, one after t'other, + The death-note to their living brother; + And oft too, by the knell offended, + Just as their one! two! three! is ended, + The devil mocks the doleful tale + With a merry peal from Borrowdale. + + The air is still! through mist and cloud + That merry peal comes ringing loud; + And Geraldine shakes off her dread, + And rises lightly from the bed; + Puts on her silken vestments white, + And tricks her hair in lovely plight, + And nothing doubting of her spell + Awakens the lady Christabel + "Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel? + I trust that you have rested well." + + And Christabel awoke and spied + The same who lay down by her side-- + O rather say, the same whom she + Raised up beneath the old oak tree! + Nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair! + For she belike hath drunken deep + Of all the blessedness of sleep! + And while she spake, her looks, her air, + Such gentle thankfulness declare, + That (so it seemed) her girded vests + Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. + "Sure I have sinn'd!" said Christabel, + "Now heaven be praised if all be well!" + And in low faltering tones, yet sweet, + Did she the lofty lady greet + With such perplexity of mind + As dreams too lively leave behind. + + So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed + Her maiden limbs, and having prayed + That He, who on the cross did groan, + Might wash away her sins unknown, + She forthwith led fair Geraldine + To meet her sire, Sir Leoline. + + The lovely maid and the lady tall + Are pacing both into the hall, + And pacing on through page and groom, + Enter the Baron's presence-room. + + The Baron rose, and while he prest + His gentle daughter to his breast, + With cheerful wonder in his eyes + The lady Geraldine espies, + And gave such welcome to the same, + As might beseem so bright a dame! + + But when he heard the lady's tale, + And when she told her father's name, + Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale, + Murmuring o'er the name again, + Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine? + + Alas! they had been friends in youth; + But whispering tongues can poison truth; + And constancy lives in realms above; + And life is thorny; and youth is vain; + And to be wroth with one we love + Doth work like madness in the brain. + And thus it chanced, as I divine, + With Roland and Sir Leoline. + Each spake words of high disdain + And insult to his heart's best brother: + They parted--ne'er to meet again! + But never either found another + To free the hollow heart from paining-- + They stood aloof, the scars remaining, + Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; + A dreary sea now flows between. + But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, + Shall wholly do away, I ween, + The marks of that which once hath been. + Sir Leoline, a moment's space, + Stood gazing on the damsel's face: + And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine + Came back upon his heart again. + + O then the Baron forgot his age, + His noble heart swelled high with rage; + He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side + He would proclaim it far and wide, + With trump and solemn heraldry, + That they, who thus had wronged the dame + Were base as spotted infamy! + "And if they dare deny the same, + My herald shall appoint a week, + And let the recreant traitors seek + My tourney court--that there and then + I may dislodge their reptile souls + From the bodies and forms of men!" + He spake: his eye in lightning rolls! + For the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he kenned + In the beautiful lady the child of his friend! + + And now the tears were on his face, + And fondly in his arms he took + Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace, + Prolonging it with joyous look. + Which when she viewed, a vision fell + Upon the soul of Christabel, + + The vision of fear, the touch and pain! + She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again-- + (Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee, + Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?) + + Again she saw that bosom old, + Again she felt that bosom cold, + And drew in her breath with a hissing sound: + Whereat the Knight turned wildly round, + And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid + With eyes upraised, as one that prayed. + + The touch, the sight, had passed away, + And in its stead that vision blest, + Which comforted her after-rest, + While in the lady's arms she lay, + Had put a rapture in her breast, + And on her lips and o'er her eyes + Spread smiles like light! + + With new surprise, + "What ails then my beloved child?" + The Baron said--His daughter mild + Made answer, "All will yet be well!" + I ween, she had no power to tell + Aught else: so mighty was the spell. + Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, + Had deemed her sure a thing divine. + Such sorrow with such grace she blended, + As if she feared she had offended + + Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid! + And with such lowly tones she prayed + She might be sent without delay + Home to her father's mansion. + + "Nay! + Nay, by my soul!" said Leoline. + "Ho! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine! + Go thou, with music sweet and loud, + And take two steeds with trappings proud, + And take the youth whom thou lov'st best + To bear thy harp, and learn thy song, + And clothe you both in solemn vest, + And over the mountains haste along, + Lest wandering folk, that are abroad, + Detain you on the valley road. + + "And when he has crossed the Irthing flood, + My merry bard! he hastes, he hastes + Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood, + And reaches soon that castle good + Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes. + + "Bard Bracy! bard Bracy! your horses are fleet, + Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet, + More loud than your horses' echoing feet! + And loud and loud to Lord Roland call, + Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall! + Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free-- + Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me. + + He bids thee come without delay + With all thy numerous array; + And take thy lovely daughter home: + And he will meet thee on the way + With all his numerous array + White with their panting palfreys' foam: + And, by mine honour! I will say, + That I repent me of the day + When I spake words of fierce disdain + To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!-- + --For since that evil hour hath flown, + Many a summer's sun hath shone; + Yet ne'er found I a friend again + Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine." + + The lady fell, and clasped his knees, + Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing; + And Bracy replied, with faltering voice, + His gracious hail on all bestowing; + "Thy words, thou sire of Christabel, + Are sweeter than my harp can tell; + Yet might I gain a boon of thee, + This day my journey should not be, + So strange a dream hath come to me; + That I had vowed with music loud + To clear yon wood from thing unblest, + Warn'd by a vision in my rest! + For in my sleep I saw that dove, + That gentle bird, whom thou dost love, + And call'st by thy own daughter's name-- + Sir Leoline! I saw the same, + Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan, + Among the green herbs in the forest alone. + Which when I saw and when I heard, + I wonder'd what might ail the bird; + For nothing near it could I see, + Save the grass and green herbs underneath the old tree. + + "And in my dream, methought, I went + To search out what might there be found; + And what the sweet bird's trouble meant, + That thus lay fluttering on the ground. + I went and peered, and could descry + No cause for her distressful cry; + But yet for her dear lady's sake + I stooped, methought, the dove to take, + When lo! I saw a bright green snake + Coiled around its wings and neck. + Green as the herbs on which it couched, + Close by the dove's its head it crouched; + And with the dove it heaves and stirs, + Swelling its neck as she swelled hers! + I woke; it was the midnight hour, + The clock was echoing in the tower; + But though my slumber was gone by, + This dream it would not pass away-- + It seems to live upon my eye! + And thence I vowed this self-same day + With music strong and saintly song + To wander through the forest bare, + Lest aught unholy loiter there." + + Thus Bracy said: the Baron, the while, + Half-listening heard him with a smile; + Then turned to Lady Geraldine, + His eyes made up of wonder and love; + And said in courtly accents fine, + "Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove, + With arms more strong than harp or song, + Thy sire and I will crush the snake!" + He kissed her forehead as he spake, + And Geraldine in maiden wise + Casting down her large bright eyes, + With blushing cheek and courtesy fine + She turned her from Sir Leoline; + Softly gathering up her train, + That o'er her right arm fell again; + And folded her arms across her chest, + And couched her head upon her breast, + And looked askance at Christabel-- + Jesu, Maria, shield her well! + + A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy, + And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head, + Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye, + And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread, + At Christabel she look'd askance!-- + One moment--and the sight was fled! + But Christabel in dizzy trance + Stumbling on the unsteady ground + Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound; + And Geraldine again turned round, + And like a thing, that sought relief, + Full of wonder and full of grief, + She rolled her large bright eyes divine + Wildly on Sir Leoline. + + The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone, + She nothing sees--no sight but one! + The maid, devoid of guile and sin, + I know not how, in fearful wise, + So deeply had she drunken in + That look, those shrunken serpent eyes, + That all her features were resigned + To this sole image in her mind: + And passively did imitate + That look of dull and treacherous hate! + And thus she stood, in dizzy trance, + Still picturing that look askance + With forced unconscious sympathy + Full before her father's view-- + As far as such a look could be + In eyes so innocent and blue! + + And when the trance was o'er, the maid + Paused awhile, and inly prayed: + Then falling at the Baron's feet, + "By my mother's soul do I entreat + That thou this woman send away!" + She said: and more she could not say: + For what she knew she could not tell, + O'er-mastered by the mighty spell. + + Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, + Sir Leoline? Thy only child + Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride, + So fair, so innocent, so mild; + The same, for whom thy lady died! + O, by the pangs of her dear mother + Think thou no evil of thy child! + For her, and thee, and for no other, + She prayed the moment ere she died: + Prayed that the babe for whom she died, + Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride! + That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled, + Sir Leoline! + And wouldst thou wrong thy only child, + Her child and thine? + + Within the Baron's heart and brain + If thoughts, like these, had any share, + They only swelled his rage and pain, + And did but work confusion there. + His heart was cleft with pain and rage, + His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild, + Dishonour'd thus in his old age; + Dishonour'd by his only child, + And all his hospitality + To the insulted daughter of his friend + By more than woman's jealousy + Brought thus to a disgraceful end-- + He rolled his eye with stern regard + Upon the gentle minstrel bard, + And said in tones abrupt, austere-- + "Why, Bracy! dost thou loiter here? + I bade thee hence!" The bard obeyed; + And turning from his own sweet maid, + The aged knight, Sir Leoline, + Led forth the lady Geraldine! + + 1801. + + +THE CONCLUSION +TO PART THE SECOND + + + A little child, a limber elf, + Singing, dancing to itself, + A fairy thing with red round cheeks, + That always finds, and never seeks, + Makes such a vision to the sight + As fills a father's eyes with light; + And pleasures flow in so thick and fast + Upon his heart, that he at last + Must needs express his love's excess + With words of unmeant bitterness. + Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together + Thoughts so all unlike each other; + To mutter and mock a broken charm, + To dally with wrong that does no harm. + Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty + At each wild word to feel within + A sweet recoil of love and pity. + And what, if in a world of sin + (O sorrow and shame should this be true!) + Such giddiness of heart and brain + Comes seldom save from rage and pain, + So talks as it's most used to do. + +?1801. + + + + +KUBLA KHAN + + In Xanadu did Kubla Khan + A stately pleasure-dome decree: + Where Alph, the sacred river, ran + Through caverns measureless to man + Down to a sunless sea. + So twice five miles of fertile ground + With walls and towers were girdled round: + And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills, + Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; + And here were forests ancient as the hills, + Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. + + But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted + Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! + A savage place! as holy and enchanted + As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted + By woman wailing for her demon-lover! + And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, + As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, + A mighty fountain momently was forced: + Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst + Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, + Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: + And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever + It flung up momently the sacred river. + Five miles meandering with a mazy motion + Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, + Then reached the caverns measureless to man, + And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: + And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far + Ancestral voices prophesying war! + + The shadow of the dome of pleasure + Floated midway on the waves; + Where was heard the mingled measure + From the fountain and the caves. + It was a miracle of rare device, + A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice! + + A damsel with a dulcimer + In a vision once I saw: + It was an Abyssinian maid; + And on her dulcimer she played, + Singing of Mount Abora. + Could I revive within me + Her symphony and song, + To such a deep delight 'twould win me, + That with music loud and long, + I would build that dome in air, + That sunny dome! those caves of ice! + And all who heard should see them there, + And all should cry, Beware! Beware! + His flashing eyes, his floating hair! + Weave a circle round him thrice, + And close your eyes with holy dread, + For he on honey-dew hath fed, + And drunk the milk of Paradise. + +1798. + + + + +LEWTI +OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHAUNT + + + At midnight by the stream I roved, + To forget the form I loved. + Image of Lewti! from my mind + Depart; for Lewti is not kind. + + The Moon was high, the moonlight gleam + And the shadow of a star + Heaved upon Tamaha's stream; + But the rock shone brighter far, + The rock half sheltered from my view + By pendent boughs of tressy yew.-- + So shines my Lewti's forehead fair, + Gleaming through her sable hair, + Image of Lewti! from my mind + Depart; for Lewti is not kind. + + I saw a cloud of palest hue, + Onward to the moon it passed; + Still brighter and more bright it grew, + With floating colours not a few, + Till it reach'd the moon at last: + Then the cloud was wholly bright, + With a rich and amber light! + And so with many a hope I seek + And with such joy I find my Lewti; + And even so my pale wan cheek + Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty! + Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind, + If Lewti never will be kind. + + The little cloud-it floats away, + Away it goes; away so soon? + Alas! it has no power to stay: + Its hues are dim, its hues are grey-- + Away it passes from the moon! + How mournfully it seems to fly, + Ever fading more and more, + To joyless regions of the sky-- + And now 'tis whiter than before! + As white as my poor cheek will be, + When, Lewti! on my couch I lie, + A dying man for love of thee. + Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind-- + And yet, thou didst not look unkind. + + I saw a vapour in the sky, + Thin, and white, and very high; + I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud: + Perhaps the breezes that can fly + Now below and now above, + Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud + Of Lady fair--that died for love. + For maids, as well as youths, have perished + From fruitless love too fondly cherished. + Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind-- + For Lewti never will be kind. + + Hush! my heedless feet from under + Slip the crumbling banks for ever: + Like echoes to a distant thunder, + They plunge into the gentle river. + The river-swans have heard my tread, + And startle from their reedy bed. + O beauteous birds! methinks ye measure + Your movements to some heavenly tune! + O beauteous birds! 'tis such a pleasure + To see you move beneath the moon, + I would it were your true delight + To sleep by day and wake all night. + + I know the place where Lewti lies + When silent night has closed her eyes: + It is a breezy jasmine-bower, + The nightingale sings o'er her head: + Voice of the Night! had I the power + That leafy labyrinth to thread, + And creep, like thee, with soundless tread, + I then might view her bosom white + Heaving lovely to my sight, + As these two swans together heave + On the gently-swelling wave. + + Oh! that she saw me in a dream, + And dreamt that I had died for care; + All pale and wasted I would seem + Yet fair withal, as spirits are! + I'd die indeed, if I might see + Her bosom heave, and heave for me! + Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind! + To-morrow Lewti may be kind. + +1794. + + + + +THE BALLAD OF THE DARK LADIE +A FRAGMENT + + + Beneath yon birch with silver bark, + And boughs so pendulous and fair, + The brook falls scatter'd down the rock: + And all is mossy there! + + And there upon the moss she sits, + The Dark Ladié in silent pain; + The heavy tear is in her eye, + And drops and swells again. + + Three times she sends her little page + Up the castled mountain's breast, + If he might find the Knight that wears + The Griffin for his crest. + + The sun was sloping down the sky, + And she had linger'd there all day, + Counting moments, dreaming fears-- + Oh wherefore can he stay? + + She hears a rustling o'er the brook, + She sees far off a swinging bough! + "'Tis He! 'Tis my betrothed Knight! + Lord Falkland, it is Thou!" + + She springs, she clasps him round the neck, + She sobs a thousand hopes and fears, + Her kisses glowing on his cheeks + She quenches with her tears. + + * * * * * + + "My friends with rude ungentle words + They scoff and bid me fly to thee! + O give me shelter in thy breast! + O shield and shelter me! + + "My Henry, I have given thee much, + I gave what I can ne'er recall, + I gave my heart, I gave my peace, + O Heaven! I gave thee all." + + The Knight made answer to the Maid, + While to his heart he held her hand, + "Nine castles hath my noble sire, + None statelier in the land. + + "The fairest one shall be my love's, + The fairest castle of the nine! + Wait only till the stars peep out, + The fairest shall be thine: + + "Wait only till the hand of eve + Hath wholly closed yon western bars, + And through the dark we two will steal + Beneath the twinkling stars!"-- + + "The dark? the dark? No! not the dark? + The twinkling stars? How, Henry? How? + O God! 'twas in the eye of noon + He pledged his sacred vow! + + "And in the eye of noon my love + Shall lead me from my mother's door, + Sweet boys and girls all clothed in white + Strewing flowers before: + + "But first the nodding minstrels go + With music meet for lordly bowers, + The children next in snow-white vests, + Strewing buds and flowers! + + "And then my love and I shall pace, + My jet black hair in pearly braids, + Between our comely bachelors + And blushing bridal maids." + + * * * * * +1798. + + + + +LOVE + + All thoughts, all passions, all delights, + Whatever stirs this mortal frame, + All are but ministers of Love, + And feed his sacred flame. + + Oft in my waking dreams do I + Live o'er again that happy hour, + When midway on the mount I lay, + Beside the ruined tower. + + The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene + Had blended with the lights of eve; + And she was there, my hope, my joy, + My own dear Genevieve! + + She leant against the armed man, + The statue of the armed knight; + She stood and listened to my lay, + Amid the lingering light. + + Few sorrows hath she of her own. + My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! + She loves me best, whene'er I sing + The songs that make her grieve. + + I played a soft and doleful air, + I sang an old and moving story-- + An old rude song, that suited well + That ruin wild and hoary. + + She listened with a flitting blush, + With downcast eyes and modest grace; + For well she knew, I could not choose + But gaze upon her face. + + I told her of the Knight that wore + Upon his shield a burning brand; + And that for ten long years he wooed + The Lady of the Land. + + I told her how he pined: and ah! + The deep, the low, the pleading tone + With which I sang another's love, + Interpreted my own. + + She listened with a flitting blush, + With downcast eyes, and modest grace; + And she forgave me, that I gazed + Too fondly on her face! + + But when I told the cruel scorn + That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, + And that he crossed the mountain-woods, + Nor rested day nor night; + + That sometimes from the savage den, + And sometimes from the darksome shade, + And sometimes starting up at once + In green and sunny glade,-- + + There came and looked him in the face + An angel beautiful and bright; + And that he knew it was a Fiend, + This miserable Knight! + + And that unknowing what he did, + He leaped amid a murderous band, + And saved from outrage worse than death + The Lady of the Land! + + And how she wept, and clasped his knees; + And how she tended him in vain-- + And ever strove to expiate + The scorn that crazed his brain;-- + + And that she nursed him in a cave; + And how his madness went away, + When on the yellow forest-leaves + A dying man he lay;-- + + His dying words-but when I reached + That tenderest strain of all the ditty, + My faltering voice and pausing harp + Disturbed her soul with pity! + + All impulses of soul and sense + Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve; + The music and the doleful tale, + The rich and balmy eve; + + And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, + An undistinguishable throng, + And gentle wishes long subdued, + Subdued and cherished long! + + She wept with pity and delight, + She blushed with love, and virgin-shame; + And like the murmur of a dream, + I heard her breathe my name. + + Her bosom heaved--she stepped aside, + As conscious of my look she stepped-- + Then suddenly, with timorous eye + She fled to me and wept. + + She half enclosed me with her arms, + She pressed me with a meek embrace; + And bending back her head, looked up, + And gazed upon my face. + + 'Twas partly love, and partly fear, + And partly 'twas a bashful art, + That I might rather feel, than see, + The swelling of her heart. + + I calmed her fears, and she was calm, + And told her love with virgin pride; + And so I won my Genevieve, + My bright and beauteous Bride. + +1798-1799. + + + + +THE THREE GRAVES + +A FRAGMENT OF A SEXTON'S TALE +PART I + + + The grapes upon the Vicar's wall + Were ripe as ripe could be; + And yellow leaves in sun and wind + Were falling from the tree. + + On the hedge-elms in the narrow lane + Still swung the spikes of corn: + Dear Lord! it seems but yesterday-- + Young Edward's marriage-morn. + + Up through that wood behind the church, + There leads from Edward's door + A mossy track, all over boughed, + For half a mile or more. + + And from their house-door by that track + The bride and bridegroom went; + Sweet Mary, though she was not gay, + Seemed cheerful and content. + + But when they to the church-yard came, + I've heard poor Mary say, + As soon as she stepped into the sun, + Her heart it died away. + + And when the Vicar join'd their hands, + Her limbs did creep and freeze; + But when they prayed, she thought she saw + Her mother on her knees. + + And o'er the church-path they returned-- + I saw poor Mary's back, + Just as she stepped beneath the boughs + Into the mossy track. + + Her feet upon the mossy track + The married maiden set: + That moment--I have heard her say-- + She wished she could forget. + + The shade o'er-flushed her limbs with heat-- + Then came a chill like death: + And when the merry bells rang out, + They seemed to stop her breath. + + Beneath the foulest mother's curse + No child could ever thrive: + A mother is a mother still, + The holiest thing alive. + + So five months passed: the mother still + Would never heal the strife; + But Edward was a loving man, + And Mary a fond wife. + + "My sister may not visit us, + My mother says her nay: + O Edward! you are all to me, + I wish for your sake I could be + More lifesome and more gay. + + "I'm dull and sad! indeed, indeed + I know I have no reason! + Perhaps I am not well in health, + And 'tis a gloomy season." + + 'Twas a drizzly time--no ice, no snow! + And on the few fine days + She stirred not out, lest she might meet + Her mother in the ways. + + But Ellen, spite of miry ways + And weather dark and dreary, + Trudged every day to Edward's house, + And made them all more cheery. + + Oh! Ellen was a faithful friend, + More dear than any sister! + As cheerful too as singing lark; + And she ne'er left them till 'twas dark, + And then they always missed her. + + And now Ash-Wednesday came-that day + But few to church repair: + For on that day you know we read + The Commination prayer. + + Our late old Vicar, a kind man, + Once, Sir, he said to me, + He wished that service was clean out + Of our good Liturgy. + + The mother walked into the church- + To Ellen's seat she went: + Though Ellen always kept her church + All church-days during Lent. + + And gentle Ellen welcomed her + With courteous looks and mild: + Thought she, "What if her heart should melt, + And all be reconciled!" + + The day was scarcely like a day-- + The clouds were black outright: + And many a night, with half a moon, + I've seen the church more light. + + The wind was wild; against the glass + The rain did beat and bicker; + The church-tower swinging over head, + You scarce could hear the Vicar! + + And then and there the mother knelt, + And audibly she cried- + "Oh! may a clinging curse consume + This woman by my side! + + "O hear me, hear me, Lord in Heaven, + Although you take my life-- + O curse this woman, at whose house + Young Edward woo'd his wife. + + "By night and day, in bed and bower, + O let her cursed be!!! " + So having prayed, steady and slow, + She rose up from her knee! + And left the church, nor e'er again + The church-door entered she. + + I saw poor Ellen kneeling still, + So pale! I guessed not why: + When she stood up, there plainly was + A trouble in her eye. + + And when the prayers were done, we all + Came round and asked her why: + Giddy she seemed, and sure, there was + A trouble in her eye. + + But ere she from the church-door stepped + She smiled and told us why: + "It was a wicked woman's curse," + Quoth she, "and what care I?" + + She smiled, and smiled, and passed it off + Ere from the door she stept-- + But all agree it would have been + Much better had she wept. + + And if her heart was not at ease, + This was her constant cry-- + "It was a wicked woman's curse-- + God's good, and what care I?" + + There was a hurry in her looks, + Her struggles she redoubled: + "It was a wicked woman's curse, + And why should I be troubled?" + + These tears will come--I dandled her + When 'twas the merest fairy-- + Good creature! and she hid it all: + She told it not to Mary. + + But Mary heard the tale: her arms + Round Ellen's neck she threw; + "O Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me, + And now she hath cursed you!" + + I saw young Edward by himself + Stalk fast adown the lee, + He snatched a stick from every fence, + A twig from every tree. + + He snapped them still with hand or knee, + And then away they flew! + As if with his uneasy limbs + He knew not what to do! + + You see, good Sir! that single hill? + His farm lies underneath: + He heard it there, he heard it all, + And only gnashed his teeth. + + Now Ellen was a darling love + In all his joys and cares: + And Ellen's name and Mary's name + Fast-linked they both together came, + Whene'er he said his prayers. + + And in the moment of his prayers + He loved them both alike: + Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy + Upon his heart did strike! + + He reach'd his home, and by his looks + They saw his inward strife: + And they clung round him with their arms, + Both Ellen and his wife. + + And Mary could not check her tears, + So on his breast she bowed; + Then frenzy melted into grief, + And Edward wept aloud. + + Dear Ellen did not weep at all, + But closelier did she cling, + And turned her face and looked as if + She saw some frightful thing. + + +PART II + + + To see a man tread over graves + I hold it no good mark; + 'Tis wicked in the sun and moon, + And bad luck in the dark! + + You see that grave? The Lord he gives, + The Lord, he takes away: + O Sir! the child of my old age + Lies there as cold as clay. + + Except that grave, you scarce see one + That was not dug by me; + I'd rather dance upon 'em all + Than tread upon these three! + + "Aye, Sexton!'tis a touching tale." + You, Sir! are but a lad; + This month I'm in my seventieth year, + And still it makes me sad. + + And Mary's sister told it me, + For three good hours and more; + Though I had heard it, in the main, + From Edward's self, before. + + Well! it passed off! the gentle Ellen + Did well nigh dote on Mary; + And she went oftener than before, + And Mary loved her more and more: + She managed all the dairy. + + To market she on market-days, + To church on Sundays came; + All seemed the same: all seemed so, Sir! + But all was not the same! + + Had Ellen lost her mirth? Oh! no! + But she was seldom cheerful; + And Edward look'd as if he thought + That Ellen's mirth was fearful. + + When by herself, she to herself + Must sing some merry rhyme; + She could not now be glad for hours, + Yet silent all the time. + + And when she soothed her friend, through all + Her soothing words 'twas plain + She had a sore grief of her own, + A haunting in her brain. + + And oft she said, I'm not grown thin! + And then her wrist she spanned; + And once when Mary was down-cast, + She took her by the hand, + And gazed upon her, and at first + She gently pressed her hand; + + Then harder, till her grasp at length + Did gripe like a convulsion! + "Alas!" said she, "we ne'er can be + Made happy by compulsion!" + + And once her both arms suddenly + Round Mary's neck she flung, + And her heart panted, and she felt + The words upon her tongue. + + She felt them coming, but no power + Had she the words to smother; + And with a kind of shriek she cried, + "Oh Christ! you're like your mother!" + + So gentle Ellen now no more + Could make this sad house cheery; + And Mary's melancholy ways + Drove Edward wild and weary. + + Lingering he raised his latch at eve, + Though tired in heart and limb: + He loved no other place, and yet + Home was no home to him. + + One evening he took up a book, + And nothing in it read; + Then flung it down, and groaning cried, + "O! Heaven! that I were dead." + + Mary looked up into his face, + And nothing to him said; + She tried to smile, and on his arm + Mournfully leaned her head. + + And he burst into tears, and fell + Upon his knees in prayer: + "Her heart is broke! O God! my grief, + It is too great to bear!" + + 'Twas such a foggy time as makes + Old sextons, Sir! like me, + Rest on their spades to cough; the spring + Was late uncommonly. + + And then the hot days, all at once, + They came, we knew not how: + You looked about for shade, when scarce + A leaf was on a bough. + + It happened then ('twas in the bower, + A furlong up the wood: + Perhaps you know the place, and yet + I scarce know how you should,) + + No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh + To any pasture-plot; + But clustered near the chattering brook, + Lone hollies marked the spot. + + Those hollies of themselves a shape + As of an arbour took, + A close, round arbour; and it stands + Not three strides from a brook. + + Within this arbour, which was still + With scarlet berries hung, + Were these three friends, one Sunday morn, + Just as the first bell rung. + + 'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet + To hear the Sabbath-bell, + 'Tis sweet to hear them both at once, + Deep in a woody dell. + + His limbs along the moss, his head + Upon a mossy heap, + With shut-up senses, Edward lay: + That brook e'en on a working day + Might chatter one to sleep. + + And he had passed a restless night, + And was not well in health; + The women sat down by his side, + And talked as 'twere by stealth. + + "The Sun peeps through the close thick leaves, + See, dearest Ellen! see! + 'Tis in the leaves, a little sun, + No bigger than your ee; + + "A tiny sun, and it has got + A perfect glory too; + Ten thousand threads and hairs of light, + Make up a glory gay and bright + Round that small orb, so blue." + + And then they argued of those rays, + What colour they might be; + Says this, "They're mostly green"; says that, + "They're amber-like to me." + + So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts + Were troubling Edward's rest; + But soon they heard his hard quick pants, + And the thumping in his breast. + + "A mother too!" these self-same words + Did Edward mutter plain; + His face was drawn back on itself, + With horror and huge pain. + + Both groan'd at once, for both knew well + What thoughts were in his mind; + When he waked up, and stared like one + That hath been just struck blind. + + He sat upright; and ere the dream + Had had time to depart, + "O God, forgive me!" (he exclaimed) + "I have torn out her heart." + + Then Ellen shrieked, and forthwith burst + Into ungentle laughter; + And Mary shivered, where she sat, + And never she smiled after. + +1797-1809. + +_Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum._ To-morrow! +and To-morrow! and To-morrow!----[Note of S.T.C.--l8l5.] + + + + +DEJECTION: AN ODE + + + Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, + With the old Moon in her arms; + And I fear, I fear, my Master dear! + We shall have a deadly storm. +_Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence._ + + +I + + Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made + The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, + This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence + Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade + Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, + Or the dull sobbing drafty that moans and rakes + Upon the strings of this Æolian lute, + Which better far were mute. + For lo! the New-moon winter-bright! + And overspread with phantom light, + (With swimming phantom light o'erspread + But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) + I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling + The, coming-on of rain and squally blast. + And oh that even now the gust were swelling, + And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast! + Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, + And sent my soul abroad, + Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, + Might startle this dull pain, and make it move + and live! + + + +II + + A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, + A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, + Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, + In word, or sigh, or tear-- + + O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood, + To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd, + + + All this long eve, so balmy and serene, + Have I been gazing on the western sky, + And its peculiar tint of yellow green: + And still I gaze--and with how blank an eye + And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, + That give away their motion to the stars; + Those stars, that glide behind them or between, + Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen + Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew + In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue; + I see them all so excellently fair, + I see, not feel, how beautiful they are! + + + +III + + + My genial spirits fail; + And what can these avail + To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? + It were a vain endeavour, + Though I should gaze for ever + On that green light that lingers in the west: + I may not hope from outward forms to win + The passion and the life, whose fountains are within. + + + +IV + + + O Lady! we receive but what we give, + And in our life alone does Nature live: + Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud! + And would we aught behold, of higher worth, + Than that inanimate cold world allowed + To the poor loveless, ever-anxious crowd, + Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth + A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud-- + Enveloping the Earth-- + And from the soul itself must there be sent + A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, + Of all sweet sounds the life and element! + + +V + + + O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me + What this strong music in the soul may be! + What, and wherein it doth exist, + This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, + This beautiful and beauty-making power. + Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given, + Save to the pure, and in their purest hour, + Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, + Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power, + Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower, + A new Earth and new Heaven, + Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud-- + Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud-- + We in ourselves rejoice! + And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, + All melodies the echoes of that voice, + All colours a suffusion from that light. + + +VI + + + There was a time when, though my path was rough, + This joy within me dallied with distress, + And all misfortunes were but as the stuff + Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness: + For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, + And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. + But now afflictions bow me down to earth: + Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth + But oh! each visitation + Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, + My shaping spirit of Imagination. + For not to think of what I needs must feel, + But to be still and patient, all I can; + And haply by abstruse research to steal + From my own nature all the natural man-- + This was my sole resource, my only plan: + Till that which suits a part infects the whole, + And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. + + +VII + + + Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, + Reality's dark dream! + I turn from you, and listen to the wind, + Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream + Of agony by torture lengthened out + That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without, + Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree, + Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, + Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, + Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, + Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers, + Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, + Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song, + The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. + Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds! + Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold! + What tell'st thou now about? + 'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout, + With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds-- + At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold! + But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence! + And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, + With groans, and tremulous shudderings-all is over-- + It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud! + A tale of less affright, + And tempered with delight, + As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, + 'Tis of a little child + Upon a lonesome wild, + Not far from home, but she hath lost her way: + And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, + And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear. + + +VIII + + + Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep: + Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep! + Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing, + And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, + May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, + Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth! + With light heart may she rise, + Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, + Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice; + To her may all things live, from pole to pole, + Their life the eddying of her living soul! + O simple spirit, guided from above, + Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice, + Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice. + + +1802. + + + + +ODE TO TRANQUILLITY + + + Tranquility! thou better name + Than all the family of Fame! + Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age + To low intrigue, or factious rage; + For oh! dear child of thoughtful Truth, + To thee I gave my early youth, + And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore, + Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with its roar. + + Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, + On him but seldom, Power divine, + Thy spirit rests! Satiety + And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, + Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope + And dire Remembrance interlope, + To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind: + The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. + + But me thy gentle hand will lead + At morning through the accustomed mead; + And in the sultry summer's heat + Will build me up a mossy seat; + And when the gust of Autumn crowds, + And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, + Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, + Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon. + + The feeling heart, the searching soul, + To thee I dedicate the whole! + And while within myself I trace + The greatness of some future race, + Aloof with hermit-eye I scan + The present works of present man-- + A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, + Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile! + +1801. + + + + +FRANCE: AN ODE + + +I + + Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause, + Whose pathless march no mortal may controul! + Ye Ocean-Waves! that, wheresoe'er ye roll, + Yield homage only to eternal laws! + Ye Woods! that listen to the night-birds' singing, + Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined, + Save when your own imperious branches swinging, + Have made a solemn music of the wind! + Where, like a man beloved of God, + Through glooms, which never woodman trod, + How oft, pursuing fancies holy, + My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound, + Inspired, beyond the guess of folly, + By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound! + O ye loud Waves! and O ye Forests high! + And O ye Clouds that far above me soared! + Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky! + Yea, every thing that is and will be free! + Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be, + With what deep worship I have still adored + The spirit of divinest Liberty. + +II + + When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared, + And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea, + Stamped her strong foot and said she would be free, + Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared! + With what a joy my lofty gratulation + Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band: + And when to whelm the disenchanted nation, + Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand, + The Monarchs marched in evil day, + And Britain join'd the dire array; + Though dear her shores and circling ocean, + Though many friendships, many youthful loves + Had swoln the patriot emotion + And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves; + Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat + To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance, + And shame too long delay'd and vain retreat! + For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim + I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame; + But blessed the paeans of delivered France, + And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. + +III + + "And what," I said, "though Blasphemy's loud scream + With that sweet music of deliverance strove! + Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove + A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream! + Ye storms, that round the dawning east assembled, + The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light!" + And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled, + The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright; + When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory + Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory; + When, insupportably advancing, + Her arm made mockery of the warrior's ramp; + While timid looks of fury glancing, + Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp, + Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore; + Then I reproached my fears that would not flee; + "And soon," I said, "shall Wisdom teach her lore + In the low huts of them that toil and groan! + And, conquering by her happiness alone, + Shall France compel the nations to be free, + Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Earth their own." + +IV + + Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams! + I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, + From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent-- + I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams! + Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished, + And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows + With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I cherished + One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes! + To scatter rage and traitorous guilt + Where Peace her jealous home had built; + A patriot-race to disinherit + Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear; + And with inexpiable spirit + To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer-- + O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind, + And patriot only in pernicious toils! + Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind? + To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway, + Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey; + To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils + From freemen torn; to tempt and to betray? + +V + + The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, + Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game + They burst their manacles and wear the name + Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain! + O Liberty! with profitless endeavour + Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; + But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever + Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. + Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee, + (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee) + Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, + And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves, + Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, + The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of + the waves! + And there I felt thee!--on that sea-cliff's verge, + Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above, + Had made one murmur with the distant surge! + Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare, + And shot my being through earth, sea and air, + Possessing all things with intensest love, + O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there. + + _February_ 1798. + + + + +FEARS IN SOLITUDE + +WRITTEN IN APRIL 1798, DURING THE +ALARM OF AN INVASION + + + A Green and silent spot, amid the hills, + A small and silent dell! O'er stiller place + No singing sky-lark ever poised himself. + The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope, + Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on, + All golden with the never-bloomless furze, + Which now blooms most profusely: but the dell, + Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate + As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax, + When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve, + The level sunshine glimmers with green light. + Oh! 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook! + Which all, methinks, would love; but chiefly he, + The humble man, who, in his youthful years, + Knew just so much of folly, as had made + His early manhood more securely wise! + Here he might lie on fern or withered heath, + While from the singing lark (that sings unseen + The minstrelsy that solitude loves best), + And from the sun, and from the breezy air, + Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame; + And he, with many feelings, many thoughts, + Made up a meditative joy, and found + Religious meanings in the forms of Nature! + And so, his senses gradually wrapt + In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds, + And dreaming hears thee still, O singing lark; + That singest like an angel in the clouds! + + My God! it is a melancholy thing + For such a man, who would full fain preserve + His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel + For all his human brethren--O my God! + It weighs upon the heart, that he must think + What uproar and what strife may now be stirring + This way or that way o'er these silent hills-- + Invasion, and the thunder and the shout, + And all the crash of onset; fear and rage, + And undetermined conflict--even now, + Even now, perchance, and in his native isle: + Carnage and groans beneath this blessed sun! + We have offended, Oh! my countrymen! + We have offended very grievously, + And been most tyrannous. From east to west + A groan of accusation pierces Heaven! + The wretched plead against us; multitudes + Countless and vehement, the sons of God, + Our brethren! Like a cloud that travels on, + Steam'd up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence, + Even so, my countrymen! have we gone forth + And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs, + And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint + With slow perdition murders the whole man, + His body and his soul! Meanwhile, at home, + All individual dignity and power + Engulf'd in Courts, Committees, Institutions, + Associations and Societies, + A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting Guild, + One Benefit-Club for mutual flattery, + We have drunk up, demure as at a grace, + Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth; + Contemptuous of all honourable rule, + Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life + For gold, as at a market! The sweet words + Of Christian promise, words that even yet + Might stem destruction, were they wisely preached, + Are muttered o'er by men, whose tones proclaim + How flat and wearisome they feel their trade: + Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent + To deem them falsehoods or to know their truth. + Oh! blasphemous! the book of life is made + A superstitious instrument, on which + We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break; + For all must swear--all and in every place, + College and wharf, council and justice-court; + All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed, + Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest, + The rich, the poor, the old man and the young; + All, all make up one scheme of perjury, + That faith doth reel; the very name of God + Sounds like a juggler's charm; and, bold with joy, + Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place, + (Portentous sight!) the owlet Atheism, + Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon, + Drops his blue-fringed lids, and holds them close, + And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven, + Cries out, "Where is it?" + + Thankless too for peace, + (Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seas) + Secure from actual warfare, we have loved + To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war! + Alas! for ages ignorant of all + Its ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague, + Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows,) + We, this whole people, have been clamorous + For war and bloodshed; animating sports, + The which we pay for as a thing to talk of, + Spectators and not combatants! No guess + Anticipative of a wrong unfelt, + No speculation on contingency, + However dim and vague, too vague and dim + To yield a justifying cause; and forth, + (Stuffed out with big preamble, holy names, + And adjurations of the God in Heaven,) + We send our mandates for the certain death + Of thousands and ten thousands! Boys and girls, + And women, that would groan to see a child + Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war, + The best amusement for our morning meal! + The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers + From curses, who knows scarcely words enough + To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father, + Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute + And technical in victories and defeats, + And all our dainty terms for fratricide; + Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues + Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which + We join no feeling and attach no form! + As if the soldier died without a wound; + As if the fibres of this godlike frame + Were gored without a pang; as if the wretch, + Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds, + Passed off to Heaven, translated and not killed; + As though he had no wife to pine for him, + No God to judge him! Therefore, evil days + Are coming on us, O my countrymen! + And what if all-avenging Providence, + Strong and retributive, should make us know + The meaning of our words, force us to feel + The desolation and the agony + Of our fierce doings? + + Spare us yet awhile, + Father and God! O! spare us yet awhile! + Oh! let not English women drag their flight + Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes, + Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday + Laughed at the breast! Sons, brothers, husbands, all + Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms + Which grew up with you round the same fire-side, + And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells + Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves pure! + Stand forth! be men! repel an impious foe, + Impious and false, a light yet cruel race, + Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth + With deeds of murder; and still promising + Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free, + Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart + Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes + And all that lifts the spirit! Stand we forth; + Render them back upon the insulted ocean, + And let them toss as idly on its waves + As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blast + Swept from our shores! And oh! may we return + Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear, + Repenting of the wrongs with which we stung + So fierce a foe to frenzy! + + I have told, + O Britons! O my brethren! I have told + Most bitter truth, but without bitterness. + Nor deem my zeal or factious or mistimed; + For never can true courage dwell with them, + Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look + At their own vices. We have been too long + Dupes of a deep delusion! Some, belike, + Groaning with restless enmity, expect + All change from change of constituted power; + As if a Government had been a robe, + On which our vice and wretchedness were tagged + Like fancy-points and fringes, with the robe + Pulled off at pleasure. Fondly these attach + A radical causation to a few + Poor drudges of chastising Providence, + Who borrow all their hues and qualities + From our own folly and rank wickedness, + Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others, meanwhile, + Dote with a mad idolatry; and all + Who will not fall before their images. + And yield them worship, they are enemies + Even of their country! + + Such have I been deemed.-- + But, O dear Britain! O my Mother Isle! + Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy + To me, a son, a brother, and a friend, + A husband, and a father! who revere + All bonds of natural love, and find them all + Within the limits of thy rocky shores. + O native Britain! O my Mother Isle! + How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holy + To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills, + Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas, + Have drunk in all my intellectual life, + All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts, + All adoration of the God in nature, + All lovely and all honourable things, + Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel + The joy and greatness of its future being? + There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul + Unborrowed from my country! O divine + And beauteous island! thou hast been my sole + And most magnificent temple, in the which + I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs, + Loving the God that made me!-- + + May my fears, + My filial fears, be vain! and may the vaunts + And menace of the vengeful enemy + Pass like the gust, that roared and died away + In the distant tree: which heard, and only heard + In this low dell, bow'd not the delicate grass. + But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad + The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze: + The light has left the summit of the hill, + Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful, + Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell, + Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot! + On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill, + Homeward I wind my way; and lo! recalled + From bodings that have well-nigh wearied me, + I find myself upon the brow, and pause + Startled! And after lonely sojourning + In such a quiet and surrounded nook, + This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main, + Dim-tinted, there the mighty majesty + Of that huge amphitheatre of rich + And elmy fields, seems like society-- + Conversing with the mind, and giving it + A livelier impulse and a dance of thought! + And now, beloved Stowey! I behold + Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms + Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend; + And close behind them, hidden from my view, + Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe + And my babe's mother dwell in peace! With light + And quickened footsteps thitherward I tend, + Remembering thee, O green and silent dell! + And grateful, that by nature's quietness + And solitary musings, all my heart + Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge + Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind. + +NETHER STOWEY, _April 2Oth_, 1798. + + + + +THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON + +ADDRESSED TO CHARLES LAMB, OF THE +INDIA HOUSE, LONDON + + +In the June of 1797 some long-expected friends paid a visit to the author's +cottage; and on the morning of their arrival, he met with an accident, +which disabled him from walking during the whole time of their stay. One +evening, when they had left him for a few hours, he composed the following +lines in the garden-bower. + + Well, they are gone, and here must I remain, + This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost + Beauties and feelings, such as would have been + Most sweet to my remembrance even when age + Had dimmed mine eyes to blindness! They, meanwhile, + Friends, whom I never more may meet again, + On springy heath, along the hill-top edge, + Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance, + To that still roaring dell, of which I told; + The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep, + And only speckled by the mid-day sun; + Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock + Flings arching like a bridge--that branchless ash, + Unsunned and damp, whose few poor yellow-leaves + Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still, + Fanned by the water-fall! and there my friends + Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds, + That all at once (a most fantastic sight!) + Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge + Of the blue clay-stone. + + Now, my friends emerge + Beneath the wide wide Heaven--and view again + The many-steepled tract magnificent + Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea, + With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up + The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles + Of purple shadow! Yes! they wander on + In gladness all; but thou, me thinks, most glad, + My gentle-hearted Charles! for thou hast pined + And hungered after Nature, many a year, + In the great City pent, winning thy way + With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain + And strange calamity! Ah! slowly sink + Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun! + Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb, + Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds + Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves! + And kindle, thou blue Ocean! So my friend + Struck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood, + Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing round + On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem + Less gross than bodily; and of such hues + As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makes + Spirits perceive his presence. + + A delight + Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad + As I myself were there! Nor in this bower, + This little lime-tree bower, have I not marked + Much that has soothed me. Pale beneath the blaze + Hung the transparent foliage; and I watched + Some broad and sunny leaf, and loved to see + The shadow of the leaf and stem above, + Dappling its sunshine! And that walnut-tree + Was richly tinged, and a deep radiance lay + Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps + Those fronting elms, and now, with blackest mass-- + Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue + Through the late twilight: and though now the bat + Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters, + Yet still the solitary humble-bee + Sings in the bean-flower! Henceforth I shall know + That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure; + No plot so narrow, be but Nature there, + No waste so vacant, but. may well employ + Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart. + Awake to Love and Beauty! and sometimes + 'Tis well to be bereft of promised good, + That we may lift the soul, and contemplate + With lively joy the joys we cannot share. + My gentle-hearted Charles! when the last rook + Beat its straight path along the dusky air + Homewards, I blest it! deeming, its black wing + (Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light) + Had cross'd the mighty orb's dilated glory, + While thou stood'st gazing; or when all was still, + Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a charm + For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom + No sound is dissonant which tells of Life. + +1797. + + + + +TO A GENTLEMAN + +[WILLIAM WORDSWORTH] + +COMPOSED ON THE NIGHT AFTER HIS RECITATION +OF A POEM ON THE GROWTH OF AN INDIVIDUAL +MIND. + + + Friend of the wise! and Teacher of the Good! + Into my heart have I received that Lay + More than historic, that prophetic Lay + Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright) + Of the foundations and the building up + Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell + What may be told, to the understanding mind + Revealable; and what within the mind + By vital breathings secret as the soul + Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart + Thoughts all too deep for words!-- + + Theme hard as high! + Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears + (The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth), + Of tides obedient to external force, + And currents self-determined, as might seem, + Or by some inner Power; of moments awful, + Now in thy inner life, and now abroad, + When power streamed from thee, and thy soul received + The light reflected, as a light bestowed-- + Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth, + Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought + Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens + Native or outland, lakes and famous hills! + Or on the lonely high-road, when the stars + Were rising; or by secret mountain-streams, + The guides and the companions of thy way! + + Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense + Distending wide, and man beloved as man, + Where France in all her towns lay vibrating + Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst + Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud + Is visible, or shadow on the main. + For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded, + Amid the tremor of a realm aglow, + Amid a mighty nation jubilant, + When from the general heart of human kind + Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity! + --Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down, + So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and sure + From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute self, + With light unwaning on her eyes, to look + Far on-herself a glory to behold, + The Angel of the vision! Then (last strain) + Of Duty, chosen Laws controlling choice, + Action and joy!--An orphic song indeed, + A song divine of high and passionate thoughts + To their own music chaunted! + + O great Bard! + Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air, + With steadfast eye I viewed thee in the choir + Of ever-enduring men. The truly great + Have all one age, and from one visible space + Shed influence! They, both in power and act, + Are permanent, and Time is not with _them_, + Save as it worketh _for_ them, they _in_ it. + Nor less a sacred Roll, than those of old, + And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame + Among the archives of mankind, thy work + Makes audible a linked lay of Truth, + Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay, + Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes + Ah! as I listen'd with a heart forlorn, + The pulses of my being beat anew: + And even as life retains upon the drowned, + Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains-- + Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a babe + Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart; + And fears self-willed, that shunned the eye of hope; + And hope that scarce would know itself from fear; + Sense of past youth, and manhood come in vain, + And genius given, and knowledge won in vain; + And all which I had culled in wood-walks wild, + And all which patient toil had reared, and all, + Commune with _thee_ had opened out--but flowers + Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier, + In the same coffin, for the self-same grave! + + That way no more! and ill beseems it me, + Who came a welcomer in herald's guise, + Singing of glory, and futurity, + To wander back on such unhealthful road, + Plucking the poisons of self-harm! And ill + Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths + Strew'd before _thy_ advancing! + + Nor do thou, + Sage Bard! impair the memory of that hour + Of thy communion with my nobler mind + By pity or grief, already felt too long! + Nor let my words import more blame than needs. + The tumult rose and ceased: for Peace is nigh + Where wisdom's voice has found a listening heart. + Amid the howl of more than wintry storms, + The halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours + Already on the wing. + + Eve following eve, + Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home + Is sweetest! moments for their own sake hailed + And more desired, more precious, for thy song, + In silence listening like a devout child, + My soul lay passive, by thy various strain + Driven as in surges now beneath the stars, + With momentary stars of my own birth, + Fair constellated foam, still darting off + Into the darkness; now a tranquil sea, + Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the moon. + + And when--O Friend! my comforter and guide! + Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength!-- + Thy long sustained Song finally closed, + And thy deep voice had ceased--yet thou thyself + Wert still before my eyes, and round us both + That happy vision of beloved faces-- + Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close + I sate, my being blended in one thought + (Thought was it? or aspiration? or resolve?) + Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound-- + And when I rose, I found myself in prayer. + +_January_ 1807. + + + + +HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE, IN THE +VALE OF CHAMOUNI + + +Besides the Rivers, Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot +of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and within a +few paces of the Glaciers, the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, +with its "flowers of loveliest blue." + + Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star + In his steep course? So long he seems to pause + On thy bald awful head, O sovran BLANC! + The Arve and Arveiron at thy base + Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form! + Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines, + How silently! Around thee and above + Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, + An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it, + As with a wedge! But when I look again, + It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, + Thy habitation from eternity! + O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee, + Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, + Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer + I worshipped the Invisible alone. + + Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, + So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, + Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought, + Yea, with my Life and Life's own secret joy: + Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, + Into the mighty vision passing--there + As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven! + + Awake, my soul! not only passive praise + Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears, + Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake, + Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! + Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn. + + Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale! + O struggling with the darkness all the night, + And visited all night by troops of stars, + Or when they climb the sky or when they sink: + Companion of the morning-star at dawn, + Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn + Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise! + Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth? + Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light? + Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? + + And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! + Who called you forth from night and utter death, + From dark and icy caverns called you forth, + Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, + For ever shattered and the same for ever? + Who gave you your invulnerable life, + Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy. + Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? + And who commanded (and the silence came), + Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? + + Ye Ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow + Adown enormous ravines slope amain-- + Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, + And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge! + Motionless torrents! silent cataracts! + Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven + Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun + Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers + Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?-- + GOD! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, + Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, GOD! + GOD! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! + Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds! + And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, + And in their perilous fall shall thunder, GOD! + + Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! + Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest! + Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm! + Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds! + Ye signs and wonders of the element! + Utter forth GOD, and fill the hills with praise! + + Thou too; hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, + Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, + Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene + Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast-- + Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou + That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low + In adoration, upward from thy base + Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, + Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, + To rise before me--Rise, O ever rise, + Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth! + Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, + Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, + Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky, + And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun, + Earth, with her thousand voices, praises GOD. + +1802 + + + + +FROST AT MIDNIGHT + + + The Frost performs its secret ministry, + Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry + Came loud--and hark, again! loud as before. + The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, + Have left me to that solitude, which suits + Abstruser musings: save that at my side + My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. + 'Tis calm indeed! so calm, that it disturbs + And vexes meditation with its strange + And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, + This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood, + With all the numberless goings-on of life, + Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame + Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not; + Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, + Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. + Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature + Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, + Making it a companionable form, + Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit + By its own moods interprets, every where + Echo or mirror seeking of itself, + And makes a toy of Thought. + + But O! how oft, + How oft, at school, with most believing mind, + Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, + To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft + With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt + Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower, + Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang + From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, + So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me + With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear + Most like articulate sounds of things to come! + So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt, + Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams! + And so I brooded all the following morn, + Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye + Fixed with mock study on my swimming book: + Save if the door half opened, and I snatched + A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, + For still I hoped to see the _stranger's_ face, + Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, + My play-mate when we both were clothed alike! + + Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, + Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, + Fill up the interspersed vacancies + And momentary pauses of the thought! + My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart + With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, + And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, + And in far other scenes! For I was reared + In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, + And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. + But _thou_, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze + By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags + Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds, + Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores + And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear + The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible + Of that eternal language, which thy God + Utters, who from eternity doth teach + Himself in all, and all things in himself. + Great universal Teacher! he shall mould + Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. + + Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, + Whether the summer clothe the general earth + With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing + Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch + Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch + Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall + Heard only in the trances of the blast, + Or if the secret ministry of frost + Shall hang them up in silent icicles, + Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. + + _February_ 1798. + + + + +THE NIGHTINGALE + +A CONVERSATION POEM, WRITTEN IN APRIL 1798 + + + No cloud, no relique of the sunken day + Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip + Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. + Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge! + You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, + Bur* hear no murmuring: it flows silently, + O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, + A balmy night! and though the stars be dim, + Yet let us think upon the vernal showers + That gladden the green earth, and we shall find + A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. + And hark! the Nightingale begins its song, + "Most musical, most melancholy" bird! + A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought! + In Nature there is nothing melancholy. + But some night-wandering man whose heart was pierced + With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, + Or slow distemper, or neglected love, + (And so, poor wretch! fill'd all things with himself, + And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale + Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he, + First named these notes a melancholy strain. + And many a poet echoes the conceit; + Poet who hath been building up the rhyme + When he had better far have stretched his limbs + Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, + By sun or moon-light, to the influxes + Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements + Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song + And of his fame forgetful! so his fame + Should share in Nature's immortality, + A venerable thing! and so his song + Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself + Be loved like Nature! But 'twill not be so; + And youths and maidens most poetical, + Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring + In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still + Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs + O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. + + My Friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt + A different lore: we may not thus profane + Nature's sweet voices, always full of love + And joyance! 'Tis the merry Nightingale + That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates + With fast thick warble his delicious notes, + As he were fearful that an April night + Would be too short for him to utter forth + His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul + Of all its music! + + And I know a grove + Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, + Which the great lord inhabits not; and so + This grove is wild with tangling underwood, + And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, + Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. + But never elsewhere in one place I knew + So many nightingales; and far and near, + In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, + They answer and provoke each other's songs, + With skirmish and capricious passagings, + And murmurs musical and swift jug jug, + And one low piping sound more sweet than all-- + Stirring the air with such an harmony, + That should you close your eyes, you might almost + Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes, + Whose dewy leaflets are but half-disclosed, + You may perchance behold them on the twigs, + Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full, + Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade + Lights up her love-torch. + + A most gentle Maid, + Who dwelleth in her hospitable home + Hard by the castle, and at latest eve + (Even like a Lady vowed and dedicate + To something more than Nature in the grove) + Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes, + That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment's space, + What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, + Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moon + Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky + With one sensation, and those wakeful birds + Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, + As if some sudden gale had swept at once + A hundred airy harps! And she hath watched + Many a nightingale perch giddily + On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze, + And to that motion tune his wanton song + Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. + + Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve, + And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell! + We have been loitering long and pleasantly, + And now for our dear homes.--That strain again! + Full fain it would delay me! My dear babe, + Who, capable of no articulate sound, + Mars all things with his imitative lisp, + How he would place his hand beside his ear, + His little hand, the small forefinger up, + And bid us listen! And I deem it wise + To make him Nature's play-mate. He knows well + The evening-star; and once, when he awoke + In most distressful mood (some inward pain + Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream), + I hurried with him to our orchard-plot, + And he beheld the moon, and, hushed at once, + Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, + While his fair eyes, that swam with undropped + tears, + Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well!-- + It is a father's tale: But if that Heaven + Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up + Familiar with these songs, that with the night + He may associate joy.--Once more, farewell, + Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! + farewell. + + + + +THE EOLIAN HARP + +COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE + + + My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined + Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is + To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown + With white-flowered Jasmin, and the broad-leaved + Myrtle, + (Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!), + And watch the clouds, that late were rich with + light, + Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve + Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be) + Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents + Snatched from yon bean-field! and the world + so hushed! + + The stilly murmur of the distant sea + Tells us of silence. + + And that simplest lute, + Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, + hark! + How by the desultory breeze caressed, + Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover, + It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs + Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now, its + strings + Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes + Over delicious surges sink and rise, + Such a soft floating witchery of sound + As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve + Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land, + Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers, + Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise, + Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed + wing! + O! the one life within us and abroad, + Which meets all motion and becomes its soul, + A light in sound, a sound-like power in light + Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every + where-- + Methinks, it should have been impossible + Not to love all things in a world so filled; + Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still + air + In Music slumbering on her instrument. + + And thus, my love! as on the midway slope + Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon, + Whilst through my half-closed eye-lids I behold + The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main, + And tranquil muse upon tranquillity; + Full many a thought uncalled and undetained, + And many idle flitting phantasies, + Traverse my indolent and passive brain, + As wild and various as the random gales + That swell and flutter on this subject lute! + + And what if all of animated nature + Be but organic harps diversely framed, + That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps + Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze, + At once the Soul of each, and God of all? + + But thy more serious eye a mild reproof + Darts, O beloved woman! nor such thoughts + Dim and unhallowed dost thou not reject, + And biddest me walk humbly with my God. + Meek daughter in the family of Christ! + Well hast thou said and holily dispraised + These shapings of the unregenerate mind; + Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break + On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring. + For never guiltless may I speak of him, + The Incomprehensible! save when with awe + I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels; + Who with his saving mercies healed me, + A sinful and most miserable man, + Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess + Peace, and this cot, and thee, dear honoured + Maid! + +1795. + + + + +THE PICTURE + +OR THE LOVER'S RESOLUTION + + + Through weeds and thorns, and matted underwood + I force my way; now climb, and now descend + O'er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot + Crushing the purple whorts;[1] while oft unseen, + Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves, + The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil, + I know not, ask not whither! A new joy, + Lovely as light, sudden as summer gust, + And gladsome as the first-born of the spring, + Beckons me on, or follows from behind, + Playmate, or guide! The master-passion quelled, + I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark + The fir-trees, and the unfrequent slender oak, + Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake + Soar up, and form a melancholy vault + High o'er me, murmuring like a distant sea. + Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remorse; + Here too the love-lorn man, who, sick in soul, + And of this busy human heart aweary, + Worships the spirit of unconscious life + In tree or wild-flower.--Gentle lunatic! + If so he might not wholly cease to be, + He would far rather not be that he is; + But would be something that he knows not of, + In winds or waters, or among the rocks! + + But hence, fond wretch! breathe not contagion + here! + No myrtle-walks are these: these are no groves + Where Love dare loiter! If in sullen mood + He should stray hither, the low stumps shall + gore + His dainty feet, the briar and the thorn + Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded + bird + Easily caught, ensnare him, O ye Nymphs, + Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades! + And you, ye Earth-winds! you that make at + morn + The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs! + You, O ye wingless Airs! that creep between + The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze, + Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon, + The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bed-- + Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless damp, + Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb. + Chase, chase him, all ye Fays, and elfin Gnomes! + With prickles sharper than his darts bemock + His little Godship, making him perforce + Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's + back. + + This is my hour of triumph! I can now + With my own fancies play the merry fool, + And laugh away worse folly, being free. + Here will I seat myself, beside this old, + Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy-twine + Clothes as with net-work: here will couch my limbs, + Close by this river, in this silent shade, + As safe and sacred from the step of man + As an invisible world--unheard, unseen, + And listening only to the pebbly brook + That murmurs with a dead, yet tinkling sound; + Or to the bees, that in the neighbouring trunk + Make honey-hoards. The breeze, that visits me, + Was never Love's accomplice, never raised + The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow, + And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek; + Ne'er played the wanton--never half disclosed + The maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thence + Eye-poisons for some love-distempered youth, + Who ne'er henceforth may see an aspen-grove + Shiver in sunshine, but his feeble heart + Shall flow away like a dissolving thing. + + Sweet breeze! thou only, if I guess aright, + Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast, + That swells its little breast, so full of song, + Singing above me, on the mountain-ash. + And thou too, desert stream! no pool of thine, + Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve, + Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe, + The face, the form divine, the downcast look + Contemplative! Behold! her open palm + Presses her cheek and brow! her elbow rests + On the bare branch of half-uprooted tree, + That leans towards its mirror! Who erewhile + Had from her countenance turned, or looked by stealth + (For fear is true-love's cruel nurse), he now + With steadfast gaze and unoffending eye, + Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes + Delicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain, + E'en as that phantom-world on which he gazed, + But not unheeded gazed: for see, ah! see, + The sportive tyrant with her left hand plucks + The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow, + Lychnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells: + And suddenly, as one that toys with time, + Scatters them on the pool! Then all the charm + Is broken--all that phantom world so fair + Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, + And each mis-shapes the other. Stay awhile, + Poor youth, who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes! + + The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon + The visions will return! And lo! he stays: + And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms + Come trembling back, unite, and now once more + The pool becomes a mirror; and behold + Each wildflower on the marge inverted there, + And there the half-uprooted tree--but where, + O where the virgin's snowy arm, that leaned + On its bare branch? He turns, and she is gone! + Homeward she steals through many a woodland maze + Which he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth! + Go, day by day, and waste thy manly prime + In mad love-yearning by the vacant brook, + Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou + Behold'st her shadow still abiding there, + The Naiad of the mirror! + + Not to thee, + O wild and desert stream! belongs this tale: + Gloomy and dark art thou-the crowded firs + Spire from thy shores, and stretch across thy bed, + Making thee doleful as a cavern-well: + Save when the shy king-fishers build their nest + On thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild stream! + + This be my chosen haunt--emancipate + From passion's dreams, a freeman, and alone, + I rise and trace its devious course. O lead, + Lead me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms. + Lo! stealing through the canopy of firs, + How fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock, + Isle of the river, whose disparted waves + Dart off asunder with an angry sound, + How soon to re-unite! And see! they meet, + Each in the other lost and found: and see + Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun + Throbbing within them, heart at once and eye! + With its soft neighbourhood of filmy clouds, + The stains and shadings of forgotten tears, + Dimness o'erswum with lustre! Such the hour + Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds; + And hark, the noise of a near waterfall! + I pass forth into light--I find myself + Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful + Of forest trees, the Lady of the Woods), + Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock + That overbrows the cataract. How burst? + The landscape on my sight! Two crescent hills + Fold in behind each other, and so make + A circular vale, and land-locked, as might seem, + With brook and bridge, and grey stone cottages, + Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet, + The whortle-berries are bedewed with spray, + Dashed upwards by the furious waterfall. + How solemnly the pendent ivy-mass + Swings in its winnow: All the air is calm. + The smoke from cottage-chimneys, tinged with light, + Rises in columns; from this house alone, + Close by the waterfall, the column slants, + And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this? + That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke, + And close beside its porch a sleeping child, + His dear head pillow'd on a sleeping dog-- + One arm between its fore-legs, and the hand + Holds loosely its small handful of wildflowers, + Unfilletted, and of unequal lengths. + A curious picture, with a master's haste + Sketched on a strip of pinky-silver skin, + Peeled from the birchen bark! Divinest maid! + Yon bark her canvas, and those purple berries + Her pencil! See, the juice is scarcely dried + On the fine skin! She has been newly here; + And lo! yon patch of heath has been her couch-- + The pressure still remains! O blessed couch! + For this may'st thou flower early, and the sun, + Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long + Upon thy purple bells! O Isabel! + Daughter of genius! stateliest of our maids! + More beautiful than whom Alcæus wooed, + The Lesbian woman of immortal song! + O child of genius! stately, beautiful, + And full of love to all, save only me, + And not ungentle e'en to me! My heart, + Why beats it thus? Through yonder coppicewood + Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straightway + On to her father's house. She is alone! + The night draws on-such ways are hard to hit-- + And fit it is I should restore this sketch, + Dropt unawares no doubt. Why should I yearn + To keep the relique? 'twill but idly feed + The passion that consumes me. Let me haste! + The picture in my hand which she has left; + She cannot blame me that I follow'd her: + And I may be her guide the long wood through. + +1802. + +[Footnote 1: _Vaccinium Myrtillus_ known by the different names of +Whorts, Whortle-berries, Bilberries; and in the North of England, +Blea-berries and Bloom-berries. [Note by S. T. C. 1802.]] + + + + +THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO + + + Of late, in one of those most weary hours, + When life seems emptied of all genial powers, + A dreary mood, which he who ne'er has known + May bless his happy lot, I sate alone; + And, from the numbing spell to win relief, + Call'd on the Past for thought of glee or grief. + In vain! bereft alike of grief and glee, + I sate and cow'r'd o'er my own vacancy! + And as I watch'd the dull continuous ache, + Which, all else slum'bring, seem'd alone to wake; + O Friend! long wont to notice yet conceal, + And soothe by silence what words cannot heal, + I but half saw that quiet hand of thine + Place on my desk this exquisite design. + Boccaccio's Garden and its faery, + The love, the joyaunce, and the gallantry! + An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm, + Framed in the silent poesy of form. + Like flocks adown a newly-bathed steep + Emerging from a mist: or like a stream + Of music soft that not dispels the sleep, + But casts in happier moulds the slumberer's dream, + Gazed by an idle eye with silent might + The picture stole upon my inward sight. + A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest, + As though an infant's finger touch'd my breast. + And one by one (I know not whence) were brought + All spirits of power that most had stirr'd my thought + In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost + Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost; + Or charm'd my youth, that, kindled from above, + Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love; + Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan + Of manhood, musing what and whence is man! + Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea-worn caves + Rehearsed their war-spell to the winds and waves; + Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids, + That call'd on Hertha in deep forest glades; + Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's feast; + Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest, + Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array, + To high-church pacing on the great saint's day. + And many a verse which to myself I sang, + That woke the tear yet stole away the pang, + Of hopes which in lamenting I renew'd. + And last, a matron now, of sober mien, + Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen, + Whom as a faery child my childhood woo'd + Even in my dawn of thought--Philosophy; + Though then unconscious of herself, pardie, + She bore no other name than Poesy; + And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee, + That had but newly left a mother's knee, + Prattled and play'd with bird and flower, and stone, + As if with elfin playfellows well known, + And life reveal'd to innocence alone. + + Thanks, gentle artist! now I can descry + Thy fair creation with a mastering eye, + And _all_ awake! And now in fix'd gaze stand, + Now wander through the Eden of thy hand; + Praise the green arches, on the fountain clear + See fragment shadows of the crossing deer; + And with that serviceable nymph I stoop + The crystal from its restless pool to scoop. + I see no longer! I myself am there, + Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share. + 'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings, + And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings; + Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells + From the high tower, and think that there she dwells. + With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest, + And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest. + The brightness of the world, O thou once free, + And always fair, rare land of courtesy! + O Florence! with the Tuscan fields and hills + And famous Arno, fed with all their rills; + Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy! + Rich, ornate, populous, all treasures thine, + The golden corn, the olive, and the vine. + Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old, + And forests, where beside his leafy hold + The sullen boar hath heard the distant horn, + And whets his tusks against the gnarled thorn; + Palladian palace with its storied halls; + Fountains, where Love lies listening to their falls; + Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy span, + And Nature makes her happy home with man; + Where many a gorgeous flower is duly fed + With its own rill, on its own spangled bed, + And wreathes the marble urn, or leans its head, + A mimic mourner, that with veil withdrawn + Weeps liquid gems, the presents of the dawn;-- + Thine all delights, and every muse is thine; + And more than all, the embrace and intertwine + Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance! + Mid gods of Greece and warriors of romance, + See! Boccace sits, unfolding on his knees + The new-found roll of old Maeonides; + But from his mantle's fold, and near the heart, + Peers Ovid's Holy Book of Love's sweet smart! + + O all-enjoying and all-blending sage, + Long be it mine to con thy mazy page, + Where, half conceal'd, the eye of fancy views + Fauns, nymphs, and winged saints, all gracious to thy muse! + + Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks, + And see in Dian's vest between the ranks + Of the trim vines, some maid that half believes + The _vestal_ fires, of which her lover grieves, + With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves! + +1828. + + + + +THE TWO FOUNTS + +STANZAS ADDRESSED TO A LADY [MRS. ADERS] ON +HER RECOVERY WITH UNBLEMISHED LOOKS, +FROM A SEVERE ATTACK OF PAIN + + + 'T was my last waking thought, how it could be + That thou, sweet friend, such anguish should'st endure; + When straight from Dreamland came a Dwarf, and he + Could tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure. + Methought he fronted me with peering look + Fix'd on my heart; and read aloud in game + The loves and griefs therein, as from a book: + And uttered praise like one who wished to blame. + + In every heart (quoth he) since Adam's sin + Two Founts there are, of Suffering and of Cheer! + _That_ to let forth, and _this_ to keep within! + But she, whose aspect I find imaged here, + + Of Pleasure only will to all dispense, + _That_ Fount alone unlock, by no distress + Choked or turned inward, but still issue thence + Unconquered cheer, persistent loveliness. + + As on the driving cloud the shiny bow, + That gracious thing made up of tears and light, + Mid the wild rack and rain that slants below + Stands smiling forth, unmoved and freshly bright: + + As though the spirits of all lovely flowers, + Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown, + Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers, + Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down. + + Even so, Eliza! on that face of thine, + On that benignant face, whose look alone + (The soul's translucence thro' her crystal shrine!) + Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own, + + A beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing, + But with a silent charm compels the stern + And tort'ring Genius of the bitter spring, + To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn. + + Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet found + In passion, spleen, or strife) the Fount of Pain + O'erflowing beats against its lovely mound, + And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain? + + Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam + On his raised lip, that aped a critic smile, + Had passed: yet I, my sad thoughts to beguile, + Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream; + + Till audibly at length I cried, as though + Thou hadst indeed been present to my eyes, + O sweet, sweet sufferer; if the case be so, + I pray thee, be _less_ good, _less_ sweet, _less_ wise! + + In every look a barbed arrow send, + On those soft lips let scorn and anger live! + Do _any_ thing, rather than thus, sweet friend! + Hoard for thyself the pain, thou wilt not give! + +1826. + + + + +A DAY-DREAM + + + My eyes make pictures, when they are shut: + I see a fountain, large and fair, + A willow and a ruined hut, + And thee, and me and Mary there. + O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow! + Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow! + + A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed, + And that and summer well agree: + And lo! where Mary leans her head, + Two dear names carved upon the tree! + And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow: + Our sister and our friend will both be here tomorrow. + + 'Twas day! but now few, large, and bright, + The stars are round the crescent moon! + And now it is a dark warm night, + The balmiest of the month of June! + A glow-worm fall'n, and on the marge remounting + Shines, and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet fountain. + + O ever--ever be thou blest! + For dearly, Asra! love I thee! + This brooding warmth across my breast, + This depth of tranquil bliss--ah, me! + Fount, tree and shed are gone, I know not whither, + But in one quiet room we three are still together. + + The shadows dance upon the wall, + By the still dancing fire-flames made; + And now they slumber moveless all! + And now they melt to one deep shade! + But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee; + I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee! + + Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play-- + 'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow! + But let me check this tender lay + Which none may hear but she and thou! + Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming, + Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women! + +?1807. + + + + +SONNET + +TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN +THE NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO +ME + + + Charles! my slow heart was only sad, when first + I scanned that face of feeble infancy: + For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst + All I had been, and all my child might be! + But when I saw it on its mother's arm, + And hanging at her bosom (she the while + Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile) + Then I was thrilled and melted, and most warm + Impressed a father's kiss: and all beguiled + Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, + I seemed to see an angel-form appear-- + 'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild! + So for the mother's sake the child was dear, + And dearer was the mother for the child. + +1796. + + + + +LINES TO W. LINLEY, ESQ. + +WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC + + + While my young cheek retains its healthful hues, + And I have many friends who hold me dear, + Linley! methinks, I would not often hear + Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose + All memory of the wrongs and sore distress + For which my miserable brethren weep! + But should uncomforted misfortunes steep + My daily bread in tears and bitterness; + And if at death's dread moment I should lie + With no beloved face at my bed-side, + To fix the last glance of my closing eye, + Methinks such strains, breathed by my angel-guide, + Would make me pass the cup of anguish by, + Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died! + +1797. + + + + +DOMESTIC PEACE + +[FROM THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE, ACT I.] + + + Tell me, on what holy ground + May Domestic Peace be found? + Halcyon daughter of the skies, + Far on fearful wings she flies, + From the pomp of Sceptered State, + From the Rebel's noisy hate. + In a cottaged vale She dwells, + Listening to the Sabbath bells! + Still around her steps are seen + Spotless Honour's meeker mien, + Love, the sire of pleasing fears, + Sorrow smiling through her tears, + And conscious of the past employ + Memory, bosom-spring of joy. + +1794. + + + + +SONG + +SUNG BY GLYCINE IN _ZAPOLYA_, ACT II. SCENE 2. + + + A Sunny shaft did I behold, + From sky to earth it slanted: + And poised therein a bird so bold-- + Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted! + + He sunk, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled + Within that shaft of sunny mist; + His eyes of fire, his beak of gold, + All else of amethyst! + + And thus he sang: "Adieu! adieu! + Love's dreams prove seldom true. + The blossoms they make no delay: + The sparkling dew-drops will not stay. + Sweet month of May, + We must away; + Far, far away! + To-day! to-day!" + +1815. + + + + +HUNTING SONG + +[_ZAPOLYA_, ACT IV. SCENE 2] + + + Up, up! ye dames, and lasses gay! + To the meadows trip away. + 'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn, + And scare the small birds from the corn. + Not a soul at home may stay: + For the shepherds must go + With lance and bow + To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. + + Leave the hearth and leave the house + To the cricket and the mouse: + Find grannam out a sunny seat, + With babe and lambkin at her feet. + Not a soul at home may stay: + For the shepherds must go + With lance and bow + To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. + +1815. + + + + +WESTPHALIAN SONG + +[The following is an almost literal translation of a very old and very +favourite song among the Westphalian Boors. The turn at the end is the same +with one of Mr. Dibdin's excellent songs, and the air to which it is sung +by the Boors is remarkably sweet and lively.] + + + When thou to my true-love com'st + Greet her from me kindly; + When she asks thee how I fare? + Say, folks in Heaven fare finely. + + When she asks, "What! Is he sick?" + Say, dead!--and when for sorrow + She begins to sob and cry, + Say, I come to-morrow. + +?1799. + + + + +YOUTH AND AGE + + + Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying, + Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee-- + Both were mine! Life went a-maying + With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, + When I was young! + + _When_ I was young?--Ah, woeful When! + Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then! + This breathing house not built with hands, + This body that does me grievous wrong, + O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, + How lightly _then_ it flashed along:-- + Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, + On winding lakes and rivers wide, + That ask no aid of sail or oar, + That fear no spite of wind or tide! + Nought cared this body for wind or weather + When Youth and I lived in't together. + + Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; + Friendship is a sheltering tree; + O! the joys, that came down shower-like, + Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, + Ere I was old! + + _Ere_ I was old? Ah woeful Ere, + Which tells me, Youth's no longer here! + O Youth! for years so many and sweet, + 'Tis known, that Thou and I were one, + I'll think it but a fond conceit-- + It cannot be that Thou art gone! + Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:- + And thou wert aye a masker bold! + What strange disguise hast now put on, + To _make believe_, that thou art gone? + + I see these locks in silvery slips, + This drooping gait, this altered size: + But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips, + And tears take sunshine from thine eyes! + Life is but thought: so think I will + That Youth and I are house-mates still. + + Dew-drops are the gems of morning, + But the tears of mournful eve! + Where no hope is, life's a warning + That only serves to make us grieve, + When we are old: + That only serves to make us grieve + With oft and tedious taking-leave, + Like some poor nigh-related guest, + That may not rudely be dismist; + Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while, + And tells the jest without the smile. + +1823-1832. + + + + +WORK WITHOUT HOPE + +LINES COMPOSED 2IST FEBRUARY 1827 + + + All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair-- + The bees are stirring--birds are on the wing-- + And Winter, slumbering in the open air, + Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring! + And I the while, the sole unbusy thing, + Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. + Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, + Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow. + Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may, + For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away! + With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll: + And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? + Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, + And Hope without an object cannot live. + +1827. + + + + +TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY + +AN ALLEGORY + + + On the wide level of a mountain's head, + (I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place) + Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread, + Two lovely children run an endless race, + A sister and a brother! + This far outstript the other; + Yet ever runs she with reverted face, + And looks and listens for the boy behind: + For he, alas! is blind! + O'er rough and smooth with even step he passed, + And knows not whether he be first or last. + +1815. + + + + +LOVE'S APPARITION AND EVANISHMENT + +AN ALLEGORIC ROMANCE + + + Like a lone Arab, old and blind, + Some caravan had left behind, + Who sits beside a ruin'd well, + Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell; + And now he hangs his aged head aslant, + And listens for a human sound--in vain! + And now the aid, which Heaven alone can grant, + Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to gain;-- + Even thus, in vacant mood, one sultry hour, + Resting my eye upon a drooping plant, + With brow low-bent, within my garden-bower, + I sate upon the couch of camomile; + And--whether 'twas a transient sleep, perchance, + Flitted across the idle brain, the while + I watch'd the sickly calm with aimless scope, + In my own heart; or that, indeed a trance, + Turn'd my eye inward--thee, O genial Hope, + Love's elder sister! thee did I behold, + Drest as a bridesmaid, but all pale and cold, + With roseless cheek, all pale and cold and dim, + Lie lifeless at my feet! + And then came Love, a sylph in bridal trim, + And stood beside my seat; + She bent, and kiss'd her sister's lips, + As she was wont to do;-- + Alas! 'twas but a chilling breath + Woke just enough of life in death + To make Hope die anew. + + + + +L'ENVOY + + + In vain we supplicate the Powers above; + There is no resurrection for the Love + That, nursed in tenderest care, yet fades away + In the chill'd heart by gradual self-decay. + +1833. + + + + +LOVE, HOPE, AND PATIENCE IN EDUCATION + + + O'er wayward childhood would'st thou hold firm rule, + And sun thee in the light of happy faces; + Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces, + And in thine own heart let them first keep school. + For as old Atlas on his broad neck places + Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it;--so + Do these upbear the little world below + Of Education,--Patience, Love, and Hope. + Methinks, I see them group'd in seemly show, + The straiten'd arms upraised, the palms aslope, + And robes that touching as adown they flow, + Distinctly blend, like snow emboss'd in snow. + O part them never! If Hope prostrate lie, + Love too will sink and die. + But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive + From her own life that Hope is yet alive; + And bending o'er, with soul-transfusing eyes, + And the soft murmurs of the mother dove, + Wooes back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies;-- + Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to Love. + Yet haply there will come a weary day, + When overtask'd at length + Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way. + Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength, + Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loth, + And both supporting does the work of both. + +1829. + + + + +DUTY SURVIVING SELF-LOVE + +THE ONLY SURE FRIEND OF DECLINING LIFE +A SOLILOQUY + + + Unchanged within, to see all changed without, + Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt. + Yet why at others' wanings should'st thou fret? + Then only might'st thou feel a just regret, + Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy light + In selfish forethought of neglect and slight. + O wiselier then, from feeble yearnings freed, + _While_, and _on whom_, thou may'st--shine on! nor heed + Whether the object by reflected light + Return thy radiance or absorb it quite: + And though thou notest from thy safe recess + Old friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome air, + Love them for what they _are_; nor love them less, + Because to _thee_ they are not what they _were_. + +1826. + + + + +LOVE'S FIRST HOPE + + + O Fair is Love's first hope to gentle mind! + As Eve's first star thro' fleecy cloudlet peeping; + And sweeter than the gentle south-west wind, + O'er willowy meads, and shadow'd waters creeping, + And Ceres' golden fields;--the sultry hind + Meets it with brow uplift, and stays his reaping. + +?1824. + + + + +PHANTOM + + + All look and likeness caught from earth, + All accident of kin and birth, + Had pass'd away. There was no trace + Of aught on that illumined face, + Upraised beneath the rifted stone, + But of one spirit all her own;-- + She, she herself, and only she, + Shone through her body visibly. + +1804. + + +TO NATURE + + It may indeed be phantasy: when I + Essay to draw from all created things + Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings; + And trace in leaves and flowers that round me lie + Lessons of love and earnest piety. + So let it be; and if the wide world rings + In mock of this belief, it brings + Nor fear, nor grief, nor vain, perplexity. + So will I build my altar in the fields, + And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be, + And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields + Shall be the incense I will yield to Thee, + Thee only God! and thou shalt not despise + Even me, the priest of this poor sacrifice. + +?182O. + + +FANCY IN NUBIBUS + +OR THE POET IN THE CLOUDS + + + O! It is pleasant, with a heart at ease, + Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies, + To make the shifting clouds be what you please, + Or let the easily persuaded eyes + Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould + Of a friend's fancy; or with head bent low + And cheek aslant see rivers flow of gold + 'Twixt crimson banks; and then, a traveller, go + From mount to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous land! + Or list'ning to the tide, with closed sight, + Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand + By those deep sounds possessed with inward light, + Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee + Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea. + +1819. + + +CONSTANCY TO AN IDEAL OBJECT + + + Since all that beat about in Nature's range, + Or veer or vanish; why should'st thou remain + The only constant in a world of change, + O yearning Thought! that liv'st but in the brain? + Call to the Hours, that in the distance play, + The faery people of the future day-- + Fond Thought! not one of all that shining swarm + Will breathe on _thee_ with life-enkindling breath, + Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm, + Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death! + Yet still thou haunt'st me; and though well I see, + She is not thou, and only thou art she, + Still, still as though some dear _embodied_ Good, + Some _living_ Love before my eyes there stood + With answering look a ready ear to lend, + I mourn to thee and say--"Ah! loveliest friend! + That this the meed of all my toils might be, + To have a home, an English home, and thee!" + Vain repetition! Home and Thou are one. + The peacefull'st cot, the moon shall shine upon, + Lulled by the thrush and wakened by the lark, + Without thee were but a becalmed bark, + Whose helmsman on an ocean waste and wide + Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside. + + And art thou nothing? Such thou art, as when + The woodman winding westward up the glen + At wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's maze + The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist'ning haze, + Sees full before him, gliding without tread, + An image with a glory round its head; + The enamoured rustic worships its fair hues, + Nor knows he _makes_ the shadow, he pursues! + +?1805. + + + + +PHANTOM OR FACT + +A DIALOGUE IN VERSE + + + +AUTHOR + + A Lovely form there sate beside my bed, + And such a feeding calm its presence shed, + A tender love so pure from earthly leaven, + That I unnethe the fancy might control, + 'Twas my own spirit newly come from heaven, + Wooing its gentle way into my soul! + But ah! the change--It had not stirr'd, and yet-- + Alas! that change how fain would I forget! + That shrinking back, like one that had mistook! + That weary, wandering, disavowing look! + 'Twas all another, feature, look, and frame, + And still, methought, I knew, it was the same! + +FRIEND + + This riddling tale, to what does it belong? + Is't history? vision? or an idle song? + Or rather say at once, within what space + Of time this wild disastrous change took place? + +AUTHOR + + Call it a _moment's_ work (and such it seems) + This tale's a fragment from the life of dreams; + But say, that years matur'd the silent strife, + And 'tis a record from the dream of life. + +?183O. + + + + +LINES + +SUGGESTED BY THE LAST WORDS OF BERENGARIUS +OB. ANNO DOM. 1O88 + + + No more 'twixt conscience staggering and the Pope + Soon shall I now before my God appear, + By him to be acquitted, as I hope; + By him to be condemned, as I fear.-- + +REFLECTION ON THE ABOVE + + Lynx amid moles! had I stood by thy bed, + Be of good cheer, meek soul! I would have said: + I see a hope spring from that humble fear. + All are not strong alike through storms to steer + Right onward. What though dread of threatened death + And dungeon torture made thy hand and breath + Inconstant to the truth within thy heart? + That truth, from which, through fear, thou twice didst start, + Fear haply told thee, was a learned strife, + Or not so vital as to claim thy life: + And myriads had reached Heaven, who never knew + Where lay the difference 'twixt the false and true! + + Ye, who secure 'mid trophies not your own, + Judge him who won them when he stood alone, + And proudly talk of _recreant_ Berengare-- + O first the age, and then the man compare! + That age how dark! congenial minds how rare! + No host of friends with kindred zeal did burn! + No throbbing hearts awaited his return! + Prostrate alike when prince and peasant fell, + He only disenchanted from the spell, + Like the weak worm that gems the starless night, + Moved in the scanty circlet of his light: + And was it strange if he withdrew the ray + That did but guide the night-birds to their prey? + + The ascending day-star with a bolder eye + Hath lit each dew-drop on our trimmer lawn! + Yet not for this, if wise, will we decry + The spots and struggles of the timid Dawn; + Lest so we tempt the approaching Noon to scorn + The mists and painted vapours of our Morn. + +?1826. + + + + +FORBEARANCE + +Beareth all things.--2 COR. xiii.7. + + + Gently I took that which ungently came, + And without scorn forgave:--Do thou the same. + A wrong done to thee think a cat's-eye spark + Thou wouldst not see, were not thine own heart dark + Thine own keen sense of wrong that thirsts for sin, + Fear that--the spark self-kindled from within, + Which blown upon will blind thee with its glare, + Or smother'd stifle thee with noisome air. + Clap on the extinguisher, pull up the blinds, + And soon the ventilated spirit finds + Its natural daylight. If a foe have kenn'd, + Or worse than foe, an alienated friend, + A rib of dry rot in thy ship's stout side, + Think it God's message, and in humble pride + With heart of oak replace it;--thine the gains-- + Give him the rotten timber for his pains! + +1832. + + + + +_SANCTI DOMINICI PALLIUM_ + +A DIALOGUE BETWEEN POET AND FRIEND + +FOUND WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF AT THE BEGINNING OF +BUTLER'S "BOOK OF THE CHURCH" (1825) + +POET + + I note the moods and feelings men betray, + And heed them more than aught they do or say; + The lingering ghosts of many a secret deed + Still-born or haply strangled in its birth; + These best reveal the smooth man's inward creed! + These mark the spot where lies the treasure Worth! + + Butler made up of impudence and trick, + With cloven tongue prepared to hiss and lick, + Rome's brazen serpent--boldly dares discuss + The roasting of thy heart, O brave John Huss! + And with grim triumph and a truculent glee + Absolves anew the Pope-wrought perfidy, + That made an empire's plighted faith a lie, + And fix'd a broad stare on the Devil's eye-- + (Pleased with the guilt, yet envy-stung at heart + To stand outmaster'd in his own black art!) + Yet Butler- + +FRIEND + + Enough of Butler! we're agreed, + Who now defends would then have done the deed. + But who not feels persuasion's gentle sway, + Who but must meet the proffer'd hand half way + When courteous Butler-- + +POET (_aside_) + + (Rome's smooth go-between!) + +FRIEND + + Laments the advice that sour'd a milky queen-- + (For "bloody" all enlighten'd men confess + An antiquated error of the press:) + Who, rapt by zeal beyond her sex's bounds, + With actual cautery staunch'd the Church's wounds! + And tho' he deems, that with too broad a blur + We damn the French and Irish massacre, + Yet blames them both--and thinks the Pope might err! + What think you now? Boots it with spear and shield + Against such gentle foes to take the field + Whose beckoning hands the mild Caduceus wield? + +POET + + What think I now? Even what I thought before;-- + What Butler boasts though Butler may deplore, + Still I repeat, words lead me not astray + When the shown feeling points a different way. + Smooth Butler can say grace at slander's feast, + And bless each haut-gout cook'd by monk or priest; + Leaves the full lie on Butler's gong to swell, + Content with half-truths that do just as well; + But duly decks his mitred comrade's flanks, + And with him shares the Irish nation's thanks! + + So much for you, my friend! who own a Church, + And would not leave your mother in the lurch! + But when a Liberal asks me what I think-- + Scared by the blood and soot of Cobbett's ink, + And Jeffrey's glairy phlegm and Connor's foam, + In search of some safe parable I roam-- + An emblem sometimes may comprise a tome! + + Disclaimant of his uncaught grandsire's mood, + I see a tiger lapping kitten's food: + And who shall blame him that he purs applause, + When brother Brindle pleads the good old cause; + And frisks his pretty tail, and half unsheathes his claws! + Yet not the less, for modern lights unapt, + I trust the bolts and cross-bars of the laws + More than the Protestant milk all newly lapt, + Impearling a tame wild-cat's whisker'd jaws! + +1825, or 1826. + + + + +ON DONNE'S POETRY + + + With Donne, whose muse on dromedary trots, + Wreathe iron pokers into true-love knots; + Rhyme's sturdy cripple, fancy's maze and clue, + Wit's forge and fire-blast, meaning's press and screw. + +?1818. + + + + +ON A BAD SINGER + + + Swans sing before they die--'twere no bad thing + Should certain persons die before they sing. + + + + +NE PLUS ULTRA + + + Sole Positive of Night! + Antipathist of Light! + Fate's only essence! primal scorpion rod-- + The one permitted opposite of God!-- + Condensed blackness and abysmal storm + Compacted to one sceptre + Arms the Grasp enorm-- + The Interceptor-- + The Substance that still casts the shadow + Death!-- + The Dragon foul and fell-- + The unrevealable, + And hidden one, whose breath + Gives wind and fuel to the fires of Hell!-- + Ah! sole despair + Of both the eternities in Heaven! + Sole interdict of all-bedewing prayer, + The all-compassionate! + Save to the Lampads Seven + Reveal'd to none of all the Angelic State, + Save to the Lampads Seven, + That watch the throne of Heaven! + +?1826. + + + + + HUMAN LIFE + + ON THE DENIAL OF IMMORTALITY + + + If dead, we cease to be; if total gloom + Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare + As summer-gusts, of sudden birth and doom, + Whose sound and motion not alone declare, + But _are_ their _whole_ of being! If the breath + Be Life itself, and not its task and tent, + If even a soul like Milton's can know death; + O Man! thou vessel purposeless, unmeant, + Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes! + Surplus of Nature's dread activity, + Which, as she gazed on some nigh-finished vase, + Retreating slow, with meditative pause, + She formed with restless hands unconsciously. + Blank accident! nothing's anomaly! + If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state, + Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy hopes, thy fears, + The counter-weights!--Thy laughter and thy tears + Mean but themselves, each fittest to create + And to repay each other! Why rejoices + Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good? + Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's hood, + Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices, + Image of Image, Ghost of Ghostly Elf, + That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold? + Yet what and whence thy gain, if thou withhold + These costless shadows of thy shadowy self? + Be sad! be glad! be neither! seek, or shun! + Thou hast no reason why! Thou canst have none; + Thy being's being is contradiction. + +?1815. + + + + +THE BUTTERFLY + + The Butterfly the ancient Grecians made + The soul's fair emblem, and its only name-- + But of the soul, escaped the slavish trade + Of earthly life!--For in this mortal frame + Our's is the reptile's lot, much toil, much blame, + Manifold motions making little speed, + And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed. + +?1815. + + + + +THE PANG MORE SHARP THAN ALL + +AN ALLEGORY + + +I + + He too has flitted from his secret nest, + Hope's last and dearest child without a name!-- + Has flitted from me, like the warmthless flame, + That makes false promise of a place of rest + To the tired Pilgrim's still believing mind;-- + Or like some Elfin Knight in kingly court, + Who having won all guerdons in his sport, + Glides out of view, and whither none can find! + +II + + Yes! he hath flitted from me--with what aim, + Or why, I know not! 'Twas a home of bliss, + And he was innocent, as the pretty shame + Of babe, that tempts and shuns the menaced kiss, + From its twy-cluster'd hiding place of snow! + Pure as the babe, I ween, and all aglow + As the dear hopes, that swell the mother's breast-- + Her eyes down gazing o'er her clasped charge;-- + Yet gay as that twice happy father's kiss, + That well might glance aside, yet never miss, + Where the sweet mark emboss'd so sweet a targe-- + Twice wretched he who hath been doubly blest! + +III + + Like a loose blossom on a gusty night + He flitted from me--and has left behind + (As if to them his faith he ne'er did plight) + Of either sex and answerable mind + Two playmates, twin-births of his foster-dame:-- + The one a steady lad (Esteem he hight) + And Kindness is the gentler sister's name. + Dim likeness now, though fair she be and good, + Of that bright boy who hath us all forsook;-- + But in his full-eyed aspect when she stood, + And while her face reflected every look, + And in reflection kindled--she became + So like him, that almost she seem'd the same! + +IV + + Ah! he is gone, and yet will not depart!-- + Is with me still, yet I from him exiled! + For still there lives within my secret heart + The magic image of the magic Child, + Which there he made up-grow by his strong art, + As in that crystal orb--wise Merlin's feat,-- + The wondrous "World of Glass," wherein inisled + All long'd for things their beings did repeat;-- + And there he left it, like a Sylph beguiled, + To live and yearn and languish incomplete! + +V + + Can wit of man a heavier grief reveal? + Can sharper pang from hate or scorn arise?-- + Yes! one more sharp there is that deeper lies, + Which fond Esteem but mocks when he would heal. + Yet neither scorn nor hate did it devise, + But sad compassion and atoning zeal! + One pang more blighting-keen than hope betray'd! + And this it is my woeful hap to feel, + When, at her Brother's hest, the twin-born Maid + With face averted and unsteady eyes, + Her truant playmate's faded robe puts on; + And inly shrinking from her own disguise + Enacts the faery Boy that's lost and gone. + O worse than all! O pang all pangs above + Is Kindness counterfeiting absent Love! + +?1811 + + + + +THE VISIONARY HOPE + + + Sad lot, to have no Hope! Though lowly kneeling + He fain would frame a prayer within his breast, + Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing, + That his sick body might have ease and rest; + He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest + Against his will the stifling load revealing, + Though Nature forced; though like some captive guest, + Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, + An alien's restless mood but half concealing, + The sternness on his gentle brow confessed, + Sickness within and miserable feeling: + Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, + And dreaded sleep, each night repelled in vain, + Each night was scattered by its own loud screams: + Yet never could his heart command, though fain, + One deep full wish to be no more in pain. + + That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast, + Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, + Though changed in nature, wander where he would-- + For Love's Despair is but Hope's pining Ghost! + For this one hope he makes his hourly moan, + He wishes and _can_ wish for this alone! + Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams + (So the love-stricken visionary deems) + Disease would vanish, like a summer shower, + Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower! + Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give + Such strength that he would bless his pains and live. + +?1807 ?181O. + + + + +THE PAINS OF SLEEP + + Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, + It hath not been my use to pray + With moving lips or bended knees; + But silently, by slow degrees, + My spirit I to Love compose, + In humble trust mine eye-lids close, + With reverential resignation, + No wish conceived, no thought exprest, + Only a _sense_ of supplication; + A sense o'er all my soul imprest + That I am weak, yet not unblest, + Since in me, round me, everywhere + Eternal Strength and Wisdom are. + + But yester-night I pray'd aloud + In anguish and in agony, + Up-starting from the fiendish crowd + Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me: + A lurid light, a trampling throng, + Sense of intolerable wrong, + And whom I scorned, those only strong! + Thirst of revenge, the powerless will + Still baffled, and yet burning still! + Desire with loathing strangely mixed + On wild or hateful objects fixed. + Fantastic passions! maddening brawl! + And shame and terror over all! + Deeds to be hid which were not hid, + Which all confused I could not know + Whether I suffered, or I did: + For all seem'd guilt, remorse or woe, + My own or others still the same + Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame! + + So two nights passed: the night's dismay + Saddened and stunned the coming day. + Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me + Distemper's worst calamity. + The third night, when my own loud scream + Had waked me from the fiendish dream, + O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild, + I wept as I had been a child; + And having thus by tears subdued + My anguish to a milder mood, + Such punishments, I said, were due + To natures deepliest stained with sin: + For aye entempesting anew + The unfathomable hell within + The horror of their deeds to view, + To know and loathe, yet wish and do! + Such griefs with such men well agree, + But wherefore, wherefore fall on me? + To be beloved is all I need, + And whom I love, I love indeed. + +1803. + + + + +LOVE'S BURIAL-PLACE + + _Lady_. If Love be dead-- + _Poet_. And I aver it! + _Lady_. Tell me, Bard! where Love lies buried + _Poet_. Love lies buried where 'twas born: + Oh, gentle dame! think it no scorn + If, in my fancy, I presume + To call thy bosom poor Love's Tomb. + And on that tomb to read the line:-- + "Here lies a Love that once seem'd mine. + But took a chill, as I divine, + And died at length of a decline." + +1833. + + + + +LOVE, A SWORD + + Though veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath, + Love is a sword which cuts its sheath, + And through the clefts itself has made, + We spy the flashes of the blade! + + But through the clefts itself has made, + We likewise see Love's flashing blade + By rust consumed, or snapt in twain: + And only hilt and stump remain. + +?1825. + + + + +THE KISS + + One kiss, dear Maid! I said and sighed-- + Your scorn the little boon denied. + Ah why refuse the blameless bliss? + Can danger lurk within a kiss? + + Yon viewless wanderer of the vale, + The Spirit of the Western Gale, + At Morning's break, at Evening's close + Inhales the sweetness of the Rose, + And hovers o'er the uninjured bloom + Sighing back the soft perfume. + Vigour to the Zephyr's wing + Her nectar-breathing kisses fling; + And He the glitter of the Dew + Scatters on the Rose's hue. + Bashful lo! she bends her head, + And darts a blush of deeper Red! + + Too well those lovely lips disclose + The triumphs of the opening Rose; + O fair! O graceful! bid them prove + As passive to the breath of Love. + In tender accents, faint and low, + Well-pleased I hear the whispered "No!" + The whispered "No"--how little meant! + Sweet Falsehood that endears Consent! + For on those lovely lips the while + Dawns the soft relenting smile, + And tempts with feigned dissuasion coy + The gentle violence of Joy. + +?1794. + + + + +NOT AT HOME + + + That Jealousy may rule a mind + Where Love could never be + I know; but ne'er expect to find + Love without Jealousy. + + She has a strange cast in her ee, + A swart sour-visaged maid-- + But yet Love's own twin-sister she, + His house-mate and his shade. + + Ask for her and she'll be denied:-- + What then? they only mean + Their mistress has lain down to sleep, + And can't just then be seen. + +?183O. + + + + +NAMES + +[FROM LESSING] + + + I ask'd my fair one happy day, + What I should call her in my lay; + By what sweet name from Rome or Greece; + Lalage, Nesera, Chloris, + Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, + Arethusa or Lucrece. + + "Ah!" replied my gentle fair, + "Beloved, what are names but air? + Choose thou whatever suits the line; + Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, + Call me Lalage or Doris, + Only, only call me Thine." + +_Morning Post_, August 27,1799. + + + + +TO LESBIA + +Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus.--CATULLUS. + + + My Lesbia, let us love and live, + And to the winds, my Lesbia, give + Each cold restraint, each boding fear + Of age and all her saws severe. + Yon sun now posting to the main + Will set,--but 'tis to rise again;-- + But we, when once our mortal light + Is set, must sleep in endless night. + Then come, with whom alone I'll live, + A thousand kisses take and give! + Another thousand!--to the store + Add hundreds--then a thousand more! + And when they to a million mount, + Let confusion take the account,-- + That you, the number never knowing, + May continue still bestowing-- + That I for joys may never pine, + Which never can again be mine! + +_Morning Post_, April 11, 1798. + + + + +THE DEATH OF THE STARLING + +Lugete, O Veneres, Cupidinesque.--CATULLUS. + + + Pity! mourn in plaintive tone + The lovely starling dead and gone! + Pity mourns in plaintive tone + The lovely starling dead and gone. + Weep, ye Loves! and Venus! weep + The lovely starling fall'n asleep! + Venus sees with tearful eyes-- + In her lap the starling lies! + While the Loves all in a ring + Softly stroke the stiffen'd wing. + +?1794. + + + + +ON A CATARACT + +FROM A CAVERN NEAR THE SUMMIT OF A MOUNTAIN PRECIPICE +[AFTER STOLBERG'S _UNSTERBLICHER JÜNGLING_] + + +STROPHE + + Unperishing youth! + Thou leapest from forth + The cell of thy hidden nativity; + Never mortal saw + The cradle of the strong one; + Never mortal heard + The gathering of his voices; + The deep-murmur'd charm of the son of the rock, + That is lisp'd evermore at his slumberless fountain. + There's a cloud at the portal, a spray-woven veil + At the shrine of his ceaseless renewing; + It embosoms the roses of dawn, + It entangles the shafts of the noon, + And into the bed of its stillness + The moonshine sinks down as in slumber, + That the son of the rock, that the nursling of heaven + May be born in a holy twilight! + +ANTISTROPHE + + The wild goat in awe + Looks up and beholds + Above thee the cliff inaccessible;-- + Thou at once full-born + Madd'nest in thy joyance, + Whirlest, shatter'st, splitt'st, + Life invulnerable. + +?1799. + + + + +HYMN TO THE EARTH + +[IMITATED FROM STOLBERG'S _HYMNE AN DIE EKDE_] + + +HEXAMETERS + + Earth! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and the mother, + Hail! O Goddess, thrice hail! Blest be thou! and, blessing, I hymn thee! + Forth, ye sweet sounds! from my harp, and my voice shall float on your surges-- + Soar thou aloft, O my soul! and bear up my song on thy pinions. + + Travelling the vale with mine eyes--green meadows and lake with green island, + Dark in its basin of rock, and the bare stream flowing in brightness, + + Thrill'd with thy beauty and love in the wooded slope of the mountain, + Here, great mother, I lie, thy child, with his head on thy bosom! + Playful the spirits of noon, that rushing soft through thy tresses, + Green-hair'd goddess! refresh me; and hark! as they hurry or linger, + Fill the pause of my harp, or sustain it with musical murmurs. + Into my being thou murmurest joy, and tenderest sadness + Shedd'st thou, like dew, on my heart, till the joy and the heavenly sadness + Pour themselves forth from my heart in tears, and the hymn of thanksgiving. + + Earth! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and the mother, + Sister thou of the stars, and beloved by the Sun, the rejoicer! + Guardian and friend of the moon, O Earth, whom the comets forget not, + Yea, in the measureless distance wheel round and again they behold thee! + Fadeless and young (and what if the latest birth of creation?) + Bride and consort of Heaven, that looks down upon thee enamour'd! + + Say, mysterious Earth! O say, great mother and goddess, + Was it not well with thee then, when first thy lap was ungirdled, + Thy lap to the genial Heaven, the day that he woo'd thee and won thee! + Fair was thy blush, the fairest and first of the blushes of morning! + Deep was the shudder, O Earth! the throe of thy self-retention: + Inly thou strovest to flee, and didst seek thyself at thy centre! + Mightier far was the joy of thy sudden resilience; and forthwith + Myriad myriads of lives teem'd forth from the mighty embracement. + Thousand-fold tribes of dwellers, impell'd by thousand-fold instincts, + Fill'd, as a dream, the wide waters; the rivers sang on their channels; + Laugh'd on their shores the hoarse seas; the yearning ocean swell'd upward; + Young life low'd through the meadows, the woods, and the echoing mountains, + Wander'd bleating in valleys, and warbled on blossoming branches. + +?1799. + + + + +THE VISIT OF THE GODS + +IMITATED FROM SCHILLER + + + Never, believe me, + Appear the Immortals, + Never alone: + Scarce had I welcomed the Sorrow-beguiler, + Iacchus! but in came Boy Cupid the Smiler; + Lo! Phoebus the Glorious descends from his throne! + They advance, they float in, the Olympians all! + With Divinities fills my + Terrestrial hall! + + How shall I yield you + Due entertainment, + Celestial quire? + Me rather, bright guests! with your wings of upbuoyance + Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of joyance, + That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre! + Hah! we mount! on their pinions they waft up my soul! + O give me the nectar! + O fill me the bowl! + + Give him the nectar! + Pour out for the poet, + Hebe! pour free! + Quicken his eyes with celestial dew, + That Styx the detested no more he may view, + And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be! + Thanks, Hebe! I quaff it! Io Pæan, I cry! + The wine of the Immortals + Forbids me to die! + +? 1799. + + + + +TRANSLATION OF A PASSAGE IN OTTFRIED'S +METRICAL PARAPHRASE +OF THE GOSPEL + + She gave with joy her virgin breast; + She hid it not, she bared the breast + Which suckled that divinest babe! + Blessed, blessed were the breasts + Which the Saviour infant kiss'd; + And blessed, blessed was the mother + Who wrapp'd his limbs in swaddling clothes, + Singing placed him on her lap, + Hung o'er him with her looks of love, + And soothed him with a lulling motion. + Blessed! for she shelter'd him + From the damp and chilling air; + Blessed, blessed! for she lay + With such a bade in one blest bed, + Close as babes and mothers lie! + Blessed, blessed evermore, + With her virgin lips she kiss'd, + With her arms, and to her breast, + She embraced the babe divine, + Her babe divine the virgin mother! + There lives not on this ring of earth + A mortal that can sing her praise. + Mighty mother, virgin pure, + In the darkness and the night + For us she _bore_ the heavenly Lord! + +? 1799. + + + + +THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE-HYMN + +COPIED FROM A PRINT OF THE VIRGIN IN A +CATHOLIC VILLAGE IN GERMANY + + + Dormi, Jesu! Mater ridet + Quæ tarn dulcem somnum videt, + Dormi, Jesu! blandule! + Si non dormis, Mater plorat, + Inter fila cantans orat, + Blande, veni, somnule. + +ENGLISH + + Sleep, sweet babe! my cares beguiling: + Mother sits beside thee smiling; + Sleep, my darling, tenderly! + If thou sleep not, mother mourneth, + Singing as her wheel she turneth: + Come, soft slumber, balmily! + +1811. + + + + +EPITAPH ON AN INFANT + + + Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade, + Death came with friendly care; + The opening bud to Heaven conveyed, + And bade it blossom there. + +1794. + + + + +ON AN INFANT +WHICH DIED BEFORE BAPTISM + + + "Be, rather than be call'd, a child of God," + Death whisper'd!--with assenting nod, + Its head upon its mother's breast, + The Baby bow'd, without demur-- + Of the kingdom of the Blest + Possessor, not inheritor. + +_April 8th_, 1799. + + + + +EPITAPH ON AN INFANT + + + Its balmy lips the infant blest + Relaxing from its mother's breast, + How sweet it heaves the happy sigh + Of innocent satiety! + + And such my infant's latest sigh! + Oh tell, rude stone! the passer by, + That here the pretty babe doth lie, + Death sang to sleep with Lullaby. + +1799. + + + + +AN ODE TO THE RAIN + +COMPOSED BEFORE DAYLIGHT, ON THE MORNING +APPOINTED FOR THE DEPARTURE OF A VERY +WORTHY, BUT NOT VERY PLEASANT VISITOR, +WHOM IT WAS FEARED THE RAIN MIGHT +DETAIN. + + +I + + I know it is dark; and though I have lain, + Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain, + I have not once open'd the lids of my eyes, + But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies. + O Rain! that I lie listening to, + You're but a doleful sound at best: + I owe you little thanks,'tis true, + For breaking thus my needful rest! + Yet if, as soon as it is light, + O Rain! you will but take your flight, + I'll neither rail, nor malice keep, + Though sick and sore for want of sleep. + But only now, for this one day, + Do go, dear Rain! do go away! + +II + + O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound, + The clash hard by, and the murmur all round! + You know, if you know aught, that we, + Both night and day, but ill agree: + For days and months, and almost years, + Have limp'd on through this vale of tears, + Since body of mine, and rainy weather, + Have lived on easy terms together. + Yet if, as soon as it is light, + O Rain! you will but take your flight, + Though you should come again to-morrow, + And bring with you both pain and sorrow; + Though stomach should sicken and knees should swell-- + I'll nothing speak of you but well. + But only now for this one day, + Do go, dear Rain! do go away! + +III + + Dear Rain! I ne'er refused to say + You're a good creature in your way; + Nay, I could write a book myself, + Would fit a parson's lower shelf, + Showing how very good you are. -- + What then? sometimes it must be fair! + And if sometimes, why not to-day? + Do go, dear Rain! do go away! + +IV + + Dear Rain! if I've been cold and shy, + Take no offence! I'll tell you why. + A dear old Friend e'en now is here, + And with him came my sister dear; + After long absence now first met, + Long months by pain and grief beset-- + We three dear friends! in truth, we groan + Impatiently to be alone. + We three, you mark! and not one more! + The strong wish makes my spirit sore. + We have so much to talk about, + So many sad things to let out; + So many tears in our eye-corners, + Sitting like little Jacky Homers-- + In short, as soon as it is day, + Do go, dear Rain! do go away! + +V + + And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain! + Whenever you shall come again, + Be you as dull as e'er you could + (And by the bye 'tis understood, + You're not so pleasant as you're good), + Yet, knowing well your worth and place, + I'll welcome you with cheerful face; + And though you stay'd a week or more, + Were ten times duller than before; + Yet with kind heart, and right good will, + I'll sit and listen to you still; + Nor should you go away, dear Rain! + Uninvited to remain. + But only now, for this one day, + Do go, dear Rain! do go away! + +1802. + + + + +ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION + + + Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove, + The Linnet and Thrush say, "I love and I love!" + In the winter they're silent--the wind is so strong; + What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. + But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather, + And singing, and loving-all come back together. + But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love, + The green fields below him, the blue sky above, + That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he-- + "I love my Love, and my Love loves me!" + +1802. + +SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY +NATURAL + +WRITTEN IN GERMANY + + + If I had but two little wings + And were a little feathery bird, + To you I'd fly, my dear! + But thoughts like these are idle things, + And I stay here. + + But in my sleep to you I fly: + I'm always with you in my sleep! + The world is all one's own. + But then one wakes, and where am I? + All, all alone. + + Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids: + So I love to wake ere break of day: + For though my sleep be gone, + Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids, + And still dreams on. + +_April 23, 1799_. + + + + +LINES ON A CHILD + + Encinctured with a twine of leaves, + That leafy twine his only dress! + A lovely Boy was plucking fruits, + By moonlight, in a wilderness. + The moon was bright, the air was free, + And fruits and flowers together grew, + On many a shrub and many a tree: + And all put on a gentle hue, + Hanging in the shadowy air + Like a picture rich and rare. + It was a climate where, they say, + The night is more belov'd than day. + But who that beauteous Boy beguil'd, + That beauteous Boy to linger here? + Alone, by night, a little child, + In place so silent and so wild- + Has he no friend, no loving mother near? + +1798. + + + + +THE KNIGHT'S TOMB + + Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? + Where may the grave of that good man be?-- + By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, + Under the twigs of a young birch tree! + The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, + And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, + And whistled and roar'd in the winter alone, + Is gone,--and the birch in its stead is grown.-- + The Knight's bones are dust, + And his good sword rust;-- + His soul is with the saints, I trust. + +? 1817. + + + + +FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER + +A WAR ECLOGUE + +_The Scene a desolated Tract in La Vendée. _FAMINE_ + _is discovered lying on the ground; to her enter_ + FIRE _and_ SLAUGHTER. + +_Fam._ Sisters! sisters! who sent you here? + +_Slau._ [to Fire]. I will whisper it in her ear. + +_Fire._ No! no! no! + Spirits hear what spirits tell: + 'Twill make an holiday in Hell. + No! no! no! + Myself, I named him once below, + And all the souls, that damned be, + Leaped up at once in anarchy, + Clapped their hands and danced for glee. + They no longer heeded me; + But laughed to hear Hell's burning rafters + Unwillingly re-echo laughters! + No! no! no! + Spirits hear what spirits tell: + 'Twill make an holiday in Hell! + + _Fam._ Whisper it, sister! so and so! + In the dark hint, soft and slow. + + _Slau._ Letters four do form his name- + And who sent you? + + _Both._ The same! the same! + + _Slau._ He came by stealth, and unlocked my + den, + And I have drunk the blood since then + Of thrice three hundred thousand men. + + _Both._ Who bade you do't? + + _Slau._ The same! the same! + Letters four do form his name. + He let me loose, and cried Halloo! + To him alone the praise is due. + + _Fam._ Thanks, sister, thanks! the men have bled, + Their wives and their children faint for bread. + I stood in a swampy field of battle; + With bones and skulls I made a rattle, + To frighten the wolf and carrion-crow + And the homeless dog--but they would not go. + So off I flew: for how could I bear + To see them gorge their dainty fare? + I heard a groan and a peevish squall, + And through the chink of a cottage-wall-- + Can you guess what I saw there? + + _Both_. Whisper it, sister! in our ear. + + _Fam_. A baby beat its dying mother: + I had starved the one and was starving the other! + + _Both_. Who bade you do't? + + _Fam_. The same! the same! + Letters four do form his name. + He let me loose, and cried Halloo! + To him alone the praise is due. + + _Fire_. Sisters! I from Ireland came! + Hedge and corn-fields all on flame, + I triumph'd o'er the setting sun! + And all the while the work was done, + On as I strode with my huge strides, + I flung back my head and I held my sides, + It was so rare a piece of fun + To see the sweltered cattle run + With uncouth gallop through the night, + Scared by the red and noisy light! + By the light of his own blazing cot + Was many a naked Rebel shot: + The house-stream met the flame and hissed, + While crash! fell in the roof, I wist, + On some of those old bed-rid nurses, + That deal in discontent and curses. + + _Both._ Who bade you do't? + + _Fire._ The same! the same! + Letters four do form his name. + He let me loose, and cried Halloo! + To him alone the praise is due. + + _All._ He let us loose, and cried Halloo! + How shall we yield him honour due? + + _Fam._ Wisdom comes with lack of food. + I'll gnaw, I'll gnaw the multitude, + Till the cup of rage o'erbrim: + They shall seize him and his brood-- + + _Slau._ They shall tear him limb from limb! + + _Fire._ O thankless beldames and untrue! + And is this all that you can do + For him, who did so much for you? + Ninety months he, by my troth! + Hath richly catered for you both; + And in an hour would you repay + An eight years' work?--Away! away! + I alone am faithful! I + Cling to him everlastingly. + +1797. + + + + +THE TWO ROUND SPACES ON THE TOMBSTONE + + + The Devil believes that the Lord will come, + Stealing a march without beat of drum, + About the same time that he came last + On an old Christmas-day in a snowy blast: + Till he bids the trump sound neither body nor soul stirs + For the dead men's heads have slipt under their bolsters. + + Ho! ho! brother Bard, in our churchyard + Both beds and bolsters are soft and green; + Save one alone, and that's of stone, + And under it lies a Counsellor keen. + This tomb would be square, if it were not too long; + And 'tis rail'd round with iron, tall, spear-like, and strong. + + This fellow from Aberdeen hither did skip + With a waxy face and a blubber lip, + And a black tooth in front to show in part + What was the colour of his whole heart. + This Counsellor sweet, + This Scotchman complete + (The Devil scotch him for a snake!), + I trust he lies in his grave awake. + On the sixth of January, + When all around is white with snow + As a Cheshire yeoman's dairy, + Brother Bard, ho! ho! believe it, or no, + On that stone tomb to you I'll show + After sunset, and before cock-crow, + Two round spaces clear of snow. + I swear by our Knight and his forefathers' souls, + That in size and shape they are just like the holes + In the large house of privity + Of that ancient family. + On those two places clear of snow + There have sat in the night for an hour or so, + Before sunrise, and after cock-crow + (He hicking his heels, she cursing her corns, + All to the tune of the wind in their horns), + The Devil and his Grannam, + With the snow-drift to fan 'em; + Expecting and hoping the trumpet to blow; + For they are cock-sure of the fellow below! + +180O. + + + + +THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS + + + From his brimstone bed at break of day + A walking the DEVIL is gone, + To visit his little snug farm of the earth + And see how his stock went on. + + Over the hill and over the dale, + And he went over the plain, + And backward and forward he swished his long tail + As a gentleman swishes his cane. + + And how then was the Devil drest? + Oh! he was in his Sunday's best: + His jacket was red and his breeches were blue, + And there was a hole where the tail came through. + + He saw a LAWYER killing a Viper + On a dung heap beside his stable, + And the Devil smiled, for it put him in mind + Of Cain and _his_ brother, Abel. + + A POTHECARY on a white horse + Rode by on his vocations, + And the Devil thought of his old Friend + DEATH in the Revelations. + + He saw a cottage with a double coach-house, + A cottage of gentility! + And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin + Is pride that apes humility. + + He went into a rich bookseller's shop, + Quoth he! we are both of one college, + For I myself sate like a cormorant once + Fast by the tree of knowledge. + + Down the river there plied, with wind and tide, + A pig with vast celerity; + And the Devil look'd wise as he saw how the while, + It cut its own throat. "There!" quoth he with a smile, + "Goes 'England's commercial prosperity.'" + + As he went through Cold-Bath Fields he saw + A solitary cell; + And the Devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint + For improving his prisons in Hell. + + * * * * * * + + General ----------- burning face + He saw with consternation, + And back to hell his way did he take, + For the Devil thought by a slight mistake + It was general conflagration. + +1799. + + + + +COLOGNE + + + In Kohln, a town of monks and bones, + And pavements fang'd with murderous stones, + And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches; + I counted two and seventy stenches, + All well denned, and several stinks! + Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, + The river Rhine, it is well known, + Doth wash your city of Cologne; + But tell me, Nymphs! what power divine + Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine? + + + + +SONNETS ATTEMPTED IN THE MANNER +OF CONTEMPORARY WRITERS + +[SIGNED "NEHEMIAH HIGGINGBOTTOM"] + +I + + Pensive at eve on the hard world I mus'd, + And my poor heart was sad: so at the moon + I gaz'd-and sigh'd, and sigh'd!--for, ah! how soon + Eve darkens into night. Mine eye perus'd + With tearful vacancy the _dampy_ grass + Which wept and glitter'd in the paly ray; + And I did pause me on my lonely way, + And mused me on those wretched ones who pass + O'er the black heath of Sorrow. But, alas! + Most of Myself I thought: when it befell + That the sooth Spirit of the breezy wood + Breath'd in mine ear--"All this is very well; + But much of _one_ thing is for _no_ thing good." + Ah! my poor heart's inexplicable swell! + +II + +TO SIMPLICITY + + O! I do love thee, meek _Simplicity_! + For of thy lays the lulling simpleness + Goes to my heart and soothes each small distress, + Distress though small, yet haply great to me! + 'Tis true on Lady Fortune's gentlest pad + I amble on; yet, though I know not why, + So sad I am!--but should a friend and I + Grow cool and _miff_, O! I am _very_ sad! + And then with sonnets and with sympathy + My dreamy bosom's mystic woes I pall; + Now of my false friend plaining plaintively, + Now raving at mankind in general; + But, whether sad or fierce, 'tis simple all, + All very simple, meek Simplicity! + +III + +ON A RUINED HOUSE IN A ROMANTIC COUNTRY + + And this reft house is that the which he built, + Lamented Jack! And here his malt he pil'd, + Cautious in vain! These rats that squeak so wild, + Squeak, not unconscious of their father's guilt. + Did ye not see her gleaming thro' the glade? + Belike, 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn. + What though she milk no cow with crumpled horn, + Yet _aye_ she haunts the dale where erst she stray'd; + And _aye_ beside her stalks her amorous knight! + Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn, + And thro' those brogues, still tatter'd and betorn, + His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white; + As when thro' broken clouds at night's high noon + Peeps in fair fragments forth the full--orb'd harvest-moon! + +1797. + + + + +LIMBO + + + Tis a strange place, this Limbo!--not a Place, + Yet name it so;--where Time and weary Space + Fettered from flight, with night-mare sense of fleeing, + Strive for their last crepuscular half-being;-- + Lank Space, and scytheless Time with branny hands + Barren and soundless as the measuring sands, + Not mark'd by flit of Shades,--unmeaning they + As moonlight on the dial of the day! + But that is lovely--looks like human Time,-- + An old man with a steady look sublime, + That stops his earthly task to watch the skies; + But he is blind--a statue hath such eyes;-- + Yet having moonward turn'd his face by chance, + Gazes the orb with moon-like countenance, + With scant white hairs, with fore top bald and high, + He gazes still,--his eyeless face all eye;-- + As 'twere an organ full of silent sight, + His whole face seemeth to rejoice in light! + Lip touching lip, all moveless, bust and limb-- + He seems to gaze at that which seems to gaze on him! + No such sweet sights doth Limbo den immure, + Wall'd round, and made a spirit-jail secure, + By the mere horror of blank Naught-at-all, + Whose circumambience doth these ghosts enthral. + A lurid thought is growthless, dull Privation, + Yet that is but a Purgatory curse; + Hell knows a fear far worse, + A fear--a future state;--'tis positive Negation! + +1817. + + + + +METRICAL FEET + +LESSON FOR A BOY + +[** Macron and breve accent marks have been left off, see the note +in the Forum.] + + Trochee trips from long to short; + From long to long in solemn sort + Slow Spondee stalks; strong foot! yea ill able + Ever to come up with Dactyl trisyllable. + Iambics march from short to long;-- + With a leap and a bound the swift Anapaests throng; + One syllable long, with one short at each side, + Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride;-- + First and last being long, middle short, Amphimacer + Strikes his thundering hoofs like a proud highbred Racer. + If Derwent be innocent, steady, and wise, + And delight in the things of earth, water, and skies; + Tender warmth at his heart, with these metres to show it, + With sound sense in his brains, may make Derwent a poet,-- + May crown him with fame, and must win him the love + Of his father on earth and his Father above. + My dear, dear child! + Could you stand upon Skiddaw, you would not from its whole ridge + See a man who so loves you as your fond S. T. COLERIDGE. + +1803. + + + + +THE HOMERIC HEXAMETER +DESCRIBED AND EXEMPLIFIED + +[FROM SCHILLER] + + + Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows, + Nothing before and nothing behind but the sky and the ocean. + +? 1799. + + + + +THE OVIDIAN ELEGIAC METRE +DESCRIBED AND EXEMPLIFIED + +[FROM SCHILLER] + + + In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column; + In the pentameter aye falling in melody back. + +?1799. + + + + +CATULLIAN HENDECASYLLABLES + +[FROM MATTHISON] + + + Hear, my beloved, an old Milesian story!-- + High, and embosom'd in congregated laurels, + Glimmer'd a temple upon a breezy headland; + In the dim distance amid the skiey billows + Rose a fair island; the god of flocks had blest it. + From the far shores of the bleat-resounding island + Oft by the moonlight a little boat came floating, + Came to the sea-cave beneath the breezy headland, + Where amid myrtles a pathway stole in mazes + Up to the groves of the high embosom'd temple. + There in a thicket of dedicated roses, + Oft did a priestess, as lovely as a vision, + Pouring her soul to the son of Cytherea, + Pray him to hover around the slight canoe-boat, + And with invisible pilotage to guide it + Over the dusk wave, until the nightly sailor + Shivering with ecstasy sank upon her bosom. + +? 1799. + + + + +TO ---- + + + I mix in life, and labour to seem free, + With common persons pleased and common things, + While every thought and action tends to thee, + And every impulse from thy influence springs. + +? 1796. + + + + +EPITAPH +ON A BAD MAN + + + Under this stone does Walter Harcourt lie, + Who valued nought that God or man could give; + He lived as if he never thought to die; + He died as if he dared not hope to live! + +1801. + + + + +THE SUICIDE'S ARGUMENT + + Ere the birth of my life, if I wish'd it or no, + No question was asked me--it could not be so! + If the life was the question, a thing sent to try, + And to live on be Yes; what can No be? to die. + +NATURE'S ANSWER + + Is't returned, as 'twas sent? Is't no worse for the wear? + Think first, what you are! Call to mind what you were! + I gave you innocence, I gave you hope, + Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope. + Return you me guilt, lethargy, despair? + Make out the invent'ry; inspect, compare! + Then die--if die you dare! + +1811. + + + + +THE GOOD, GREAT MAN + + + "How seldom, friend! a good great man inherits + Honour or wealth with all his worth and pains! + It sounds like stories from the land of spirits + If any man obtain that which he merits + Or any merit that which he obtains." + +REPLY TO THE ABOVE + + For shame, dear friend, renounce this canting strain! + What would'st thou have a good great man obtain? + Place? titles? salary? a gilded chain? + Or throne of corses which his sword had slain? + Greatness and goodness are not _means_, but _ends_! + Hath he not always treasures, always friends, + The good great man? _three_ treasures, LOVE, and LIGHT, + And CALM THOUGHTS, regular as infant's breath: + And three firm friends, more sure than day and night, + HIMSELF, his MAKER, and the ANGEL DEATH! + +Morning Post, Sept. 23,1802. + + + + +INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH + + + This Sycamore, oft musical with bees,-- + Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long unharmed + May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy + The small round basin, which this jutting stone + Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring, + Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath, + Send up cold waters to the traveller + With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease + Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance, + Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's Page, + As merry and no taller, dances still, + Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount. + Here twilight is and coolness: here is moss, + A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade. + Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree. + Drink, Pilgrim, here! Here rest! and if thy heart + Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh + Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound, + Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees! + +1802. + + + + +INSCRIPTION FOR A TIME-PIECE + + + Now! it is gone.--Our brief hours travel post, + Each with its thought or deed, its Why or How:-- + But know, each parting hour gives up a ghost + To dwell within thee-an eternal NOW! + +? 183O. + + +A TOMBLESS EPITAPH + + + 'Tis true, Idoloclastes Satyrane! + (So call him, for so mingling blame with praise + And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends, + Masking his birth-name, wont to character + His wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal) + 'Tis true that, passionate for ancient truths, + And honouring with religious love the Great + Of older times, he hated to excess, + With an unquiet and intolerant scorn, + The hollow puppets of an hollow age, + Ever idolatrous, and changing ever + Its worthless idols! Learning, power, and time, + (Too much of all) thus wasting in vain war + Of fervid colloquy. Sickness, 'tis true, + Whole years of weary days, besieged him close, + Even to the gates and inlets of his life! + But it is true, no less, that strenuous, firm, + And with a natural gladness, he maintained + The citadel unconquered, and in joy + Was strong to follow the delightful Muse. + For not a hidden path, that to the shades + Of the beloved Parnassian forest leads, + Lurked undiscovered by him; not a rill + There issues from the fount of Hippocrene, + But he had traced it upward to its source, + Through open glade, dark glen, and secret dell, + Knew the gay wild flowers on its banks, and culled + Its med'cinable herbs. Yea, oft alone, + Piercing the long-neglected holy cave, + The haunt obscure of old Philosophy, + He bade with lifted torch its starry walls + Sparkle, as erst they sparkled to the flame + Of odorous lamps tended by Saint and Sage. + O framed for calmer times and nobler hearts! + O studious Poet, eloquent for truth! + Philosopher! contemning wealth and death, + Yet docile, childlike, full of Life and Love! + Here, rather than on monumental stone, + This record of thy worth thy Friend inscribes, + Thoughtful, with quiet tears upon his cheek. + +? 1809. + + + + +EPITAPH + + + Stop, Christian passer-by!--Stop, child of God, + And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod + A poet lies, or that which once seem'd he.-- + O, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.; + That he who many a year with toil of breath + Found death in life, may here find life in death! + Mercy for praise--to be forgiven for fame + He ask'd, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the same! + +_9th November 1833_. + + + + +NOTES + + +I am indebted to Mr. Heinemann, the owner of the copyright of Dykes +Campbell's edition of Coleridge's Poetical Works (Macmillan & Co., 1893) +for permission to use that text (one of the most carefully edited texts of +any English poet) in this volume of selections. My aim, in making these +selections, has been to give every poem of Coleridge's that seems to me +really good, and nothing else. Not every poem, none perhaps of those in +blank verse, is equal throughout; but I think readers of Coleridge will be +surprised to find how few of the poems contained in this volume are not of +almost flawless workmanship, as well of incomparable poetic genius. +Scarcely any English poet gains so much as Coleridge by not being read in a +complete edition. The gulf between his best and his worst work is as wide +as the gulf between good and evil. Even Wordsworth, even Byron, is not so +intolerable to read in a complete edition. But Coleridge, much more easily +than Byron or Wordsworth, can be extricated from his own lumber-heaps; it +is rare in his work to find a poem which is really good in parts and not +really good as a whole. I have taken every poem on its own merits as +poetry, its own technical merits as verse; and thus have included equally +the frigid eighteenth-century conceits of "The Kiss" and the modern +burlesque license of the comic fragments. But I have excluded everything +which has an interest merely personal, or indeed any other interest than +that of poetry; and I have thus omitted the famous "Ode on the Departing +Year," in spite of the esteem in which Coleridge held it, and in spite of +its one exquisite line-- + + + "God's image, sister of the Seraphim"-- + + +and I have omitted it because as a whole it is untempered rhetoric, +shapeless in form; and I have also omitted confession pieces such as that +early one which contains, among its otherwise too emphatic utterances, the +most delicate and precise picture which Coleridge ever drew of himself: + + + "To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assigned + Energic Reason and a shaping mind, + The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part, + And Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart-- + Sloth-jaundiced all! and from my graspless hand + Drop Friendship's precious pearls, like hour-glass sand. + I weep, yet stoop not! the faint anguish flows, + A dreamy pang in Morning's feverish doze." + + +Every poem that I have given I have given in full, and, without exception, +in the form in which Coleridge left it. The dates given after the poems are +Dykes Campbell's; occasionally I have corrected the date given in the text +of his edition by his own correction in the notes. + +p. I. _The Ancient Mariner_. The marginal analysis which Coleridge +added in reprinting the poem (from the _Lyrical Ballads_) in +_Sibylline Leaves_, has been transferred to this place, where it can +be read without interrupting the narrative in verse. + + +PART I + + +An ancient Mariner meeteth three Gallants bidden to a wedding-feast, and +detaineth one. + +The Wedding-Guest is spell-bound by the eye of the old sea-faring man, and +constrained to hear his tale. + +The Mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with a good wind and fair +weather, till it reached the Line. + +The Wedding-Guest heareth the bridal music; but the Mariner continueth his +tale. + +The ship driven by a storm toward the south pole. + +The land of ice, and of fearful sounds where no living thing was to be +seen. + +Till a great sea-bird, called the Albatross, came through the snow-fog, and +was received with great joy and hospitality. + +And lo! the Albatross proveth a bird of good omen, and followeth the ship +as it returned northward through fog and floating ice. + +The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of good omen. + + +PART II + + +His shipmates cry out against the ancient Mariner, for killing the bird of +good luck. + +But when the fog cleared off, they justify the same, and thus make +themselves accomplices in the crime. + +The fair breeze continues; the ship enters the Pacific Ocean, and sails +northward, even till it reaches the Line. + +The ship hath been suddenly becalmed. + +And the Albatross begins to be avenged. + +A Spirit had followed them; one of the invisible inhabitants of this +planet, neither departed souls nor angels; concerning whom the learned Jew, +Josephus, and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be +consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element +without one or more. + +The shipmates, in their sore distress, would fain throw the whole guilt on +the ancient Mariner: + +In sign whereof they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck. + + +PART III + + +The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar off. + +At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship; and at a dear ransom +he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst. + +A flash of joy; + +And horror follows. For can it be a ship that comes onward without wind or +tide? + +It seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship. + +And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting Sun. + +The Spectre-Woman and her Death-mate, and no other on board the skeleton- +ship. + +Like vessel, like crew! + +Death and Life-in-Death have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the +latter) winneth the ancient Mariner. + +No twilight within the courts of the Sun. + +At the rising of the Moon, + +One after another, + +His shipmates drop down dead. + +But Life-in-Death begins her work on the ancient Mariner. + + + +PART IV + + +The Wedding-Guest feareth that a Spirit is talking to him; + +But the ancient Mariner assureth him of his bodily life, and proceedeth to +relate his horrible penance. + +He despiseth the creatures of the calm. + +And envieth that they should live, and so many lie dead. + +But the curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men. + +In his loneliness and fixedness he yearneth towards the journeying Moon, +and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward; and everywhere the +blue sky belongs to them, and is their appointed rest, and their native +country and their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords +that are certainly expected and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival. + +By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God's creatures of the great calm. + +Their beauty and their happiness. + +He blesseth them in his heart. + +The spell begins to break. + + +PART V + + +By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient Mariner is refreshed with rain. + +He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights and commotions in the sky and +the element. + +The bodies of the ship's crew are inspired, and the ship moves on; + +But not by the souls of the men, nor by dæmons of earth or middle air, but +by a blessed troop of angelic spirits, sent down by the invocation of the +guardian saint. + +The lonesome Spirit from the south-pole carries on the ship as far as the +Line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance. + +The Polar Spirit's fellow-dæmons, the invisible inhabitants of the element, +take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to the other, that +penance long and heavy for the ancient Mariner hath been accorded to the +Polar Spirit, who returneth southward. + + +PART VI + + +The Mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power causeth the +vessel to drive northward faster than human life could endure. + +The supernatural motion is retarded; the Mariner awakes, and his penance +begins anew. + +The curse is finally expiated. + +And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native country. + +The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies, + +And appear in their own forms of light. + + + +PART VII + + +The Hermit of the Wood, + +Approacheth the ship with wonder. + +The ship suddenly sinketh. + +The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat. + +The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him; and the +penance of life falls on him. + +And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony constraineth him to +travel from land to land, + +And to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God +made and loveth. + + +p. 27. _Christabel_. Coleridge at his best represents the imaginative +temper in its essence, pure gold, with only just enough alloy to give it +firm bodily substance. "Christabel" is not, like "Kubla Khan," a +disembodied ecstasy, but a coherent effort of the imagination. Yet, when we +come to the second part, the magic is already half gone out of it. Rossetti +says, in a printed letter, with admirable truth: "The conception, and +partly the execution, of the passage in which Christabel repeats by +fascination the serpent-glance of Geraldine, is magnificent; but that is +the only good narrative passage in part two. The rest seems to have reached +a fatal facility of jingling, at the heels whereof followed Scott." A few +of the lines seem to sink almost lower than Scott, and suggest a Gilbert +parody: + + + "He bids thee come without delay + With all thy numerous array. + + * * * * * + + And he will meet thee on the way + With all his numerous array." + + +But in the conclusion, which has nothing whatever to do with the poem, +Coleridge is his finest self again: a magical psychologist. It is +interesting to know that Crashaw was the main influence upon Coleridge +while writing "Christabel," and that the "Hymn to the Name and Honour of +the admirable S. Teresa" was "ever present to his mind while writing the +second part." + +p. 61. _Love_. This poem was originally published, in the _Morning +Post_ of December 21, 1799, as part of an "Introduction to the Tale of +the Dark Ladié." This introduction begins: + + + "O leave the lily on its stem; + O leave the rose upon the spray; + O leave the elder-bloom, fair maids! + And listen to my lay. + + A cypress and a myrtle bough + This morn around my harp you twined, + Because it fashion'd mournfully + Its murmurs in the wind. + + And now a tale of love and woe, + A woeful tale of love I sing; + Hark, gentle maidens! hark, it sighs + And trembles on the string." + + +p. 65. _The Three Graves_. Coleridge only published what he calls "the +following humble fragment" of what was to have been a poem in six parts; +but he wrote an imperfect sketch of the first two parts, which was +published from the original MS. by Dykes Campbell in his edition. The poem +as Coleridge left it is sufficiently complete, and I have ventured to +divide it into Part I. and Part II., instead of the usual Part III. and +Part IV. It is Coleridge's one attempt to compete with Wordsworth on what +Wordsworth considered his own ground, and it was first published by +Coleridge in _The Friend_ of September 21, 1809, on the advice of +Wordsworth and Southey. "The language," we are told in an introductory +note, "was intended to be dramatic; that is, suited to the narrator; and +the metre corresponds to the homeliness of the diction. It is therefore +presented as the fragment, not of a poem, but of a common Ballad-tale. +Whether this is sufficient to justify the adoption of such a style, in any +metrical composition not professedly ludicrous, the Author is himself in +some doubt. At all events, it is not presented as poetry, and it is in no +way connected with the Author's judgment concerning poetic diction. Its +merits, if any, are exclusively psychological." Exclusively, it would be +unjust to say; but to a degree beyond those of any similar poem of +Wordsworth, certainly. + +p. 78. _Dejection_. This ode was originally addressed to Wordsworth, +but before it was published in its first form, the "William" of the still +existing MS. was changed to "Edmund"; in later editions "Edmund" was +changed to "Lady," except in the seventh stanza, where "Otway" is +substituted. The reference in this stanza is to Wordsworth's "Lucy Gray," +and the germ of the passage occurs in a letter of Coleridge to Poole, +printed by Dykes Campbell in the notes to his edition: "Greta Hall, Feb. 1, +1801.--O my dear, dear Friend! that you were with me by the fireside of my +study here, that I might talk it over with you to the tune of this night- +wind that pipes its thin, doleful, climbing, sinking notes, like a child +that has lost its way, and is crying aloud, half in grief, and half in the +hope to be heard by its mother." + +p. 9O. _Fears in Solitude_. Coleridge, who was so often his own best +critic, especially when the criticism was to remain inactive, wrote on an +autograph copy of this poem now belonging to Professor Dowden: "N.B.--The +above is perhaps not Poetry,--but rather a sort of middle thing between +Poetry and Oratory--_sermoni propriora_.--Some parts are, I am +conscious, too tame even for animated prose." It is difficult to say +whether, in such poems as this, Coleridge is overtaken by his besetting +indolence, or whether he is deliberately writing down to the theories of +Wordsworth. Another criticism of his own on his early blank verse, where he +speaks of "the utter want of all rhythm in the verse, the monotony and dead +_plumb down_ of the pauses, and the absence of all bone, muscle and +sinew in the single lines," applies only too well to the larger part of +his work in this difficult metre, so apt to go to sleep by the way. + +p. 1O7. _Hymn before Sun-rise_. Coleridge was never at Chamouni, and +the suggestion of his poem is to be found in a poem of twenty lines by a +German poetess, Frederike Brun. Some of the rhetoric of his poem Coleridge +got from the German poetess; the imagination is all his own. It is perhaps +a consequence of its origin that the imagination and the rhetoric never get +quite clear of one another, and that, in spite of some magical lines +(wholly Coleridge's) like: + + + "O struggling with the darkness all the night, + And visited all night by troops of stars:" + + +the poem remains somewhat external, a somewhat deliberate heaping up of +hosannas. + +p. 114. _The Nightingale_. The persons supposed to take part in this +"conversation poem" are of course William and Dorothy Wordsworth. + +p. 134. _A Day-Dream_. "There cannot be any doubt, I think, that the +'Asra' of this poem is Miss Sarah Hutchinson; 'Mary,' her sister (Mrs. +Wordsworth); 'our sister and our friend,' Dorothy and William Wordsworth." +(DYKES CAMPBELL.) + +p. 142. _Work without Hope_. "What could be left to hope for when the +man could already do such work?" asks Mr. Swinburne. With this exquisite +poem, in which Coleridge's style is seen in its most faultless union of his +finest qualities, compare this passage from a letter to Lady Beaumont, +about a year earlier: "Though I am at present sadly below even _my_ +par of health, or rather unhealth, and am the more depressed thereby from +the consciousness that in this yearly resurrection of Nature from her +winter sleep, amid young leaves and blooms and twittering nest-building +birds, the sun so gladsome, the breezes with such healing on their wings, +all good and lovely things are beneath me, above me, and everywhere around +me, and all from God, while my incapability of enjoying, or, at best, +languor in receiving them, is directly or indirectly from myself, from past +procrastination, and cowardly impatience of pain." It was always upon some +not less solid foundation that Coleridge built these delicate structures. + +p. 147. _Phantom_. This, almost Coleridge's loveliest fragment of +verse, was composed in sleep, like "Kubla Khan," "Constancy to an Ideal +Object," and "Phantom or Fact?" There is a quality, in this and some other +poems of Coleridge, which he himself has exquisitely rendered in the +passage on Ariel in the lectures on Shakespeare: "In air he lives, from air +he derives his being, in air he acts; and all his colours and properties +seem to have been obtained from the rainbow and the skies. There is nothing +about Ariel that cannot be conceived to exist either at sunrise or sunset: +hence all that belongs to Ariel belongs to the delight the mind is capable +of receiving from the most lovely external appearances. "Coleridge is the +Ariel of English Poetry: glittering in the song from "Zapolya," translucent +in the "Phantom," infantine, with a note of happy infancy almost like that +of Blake, in "Something Childish, but very Natural." In these poems, and in +the "Ode to the Rain," and the "Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath," +there is a unique way of feeling, which he can render to us on those rare +occasions when his sensations are uninterrupted; by thought, which clouds +them, or by emotion, which disturbs them. He reveals mysterious intimacies +with natural things, the "flapping" flame or a child's scarcely more +articulate moods. And in some of them, which are experiments in form, he +seems to compete gaily with the Elizabethan lyrists, doing wonderful things +in jest, like one who is for once happy and disengaged, and able to play +with his tormentor, verse. + +p. 153. _Forbearance_. "Gently I took that which urgently came" is +from Spenser's "Shepherds' Calendar": "But gently tooke that ungently +came." + +p. 154. _Sancti Dominici Pallium_. The "friend," as Dykes Campbell +points out, was Southey, whose "Book of the Church" had been attacked by +Charles Butler. This is one of Coleridge's most masterly experiments in +dealing with material hardly possible to turn into poetry. What exquisite +verse, and what variety of handling! The eighteenth-century smooth force +and pungency of the main part of it ends in an anticipation of the +burlesque energy of some of Mr. George Meredith's most characteristic +verse. Anyone coming upon the lines: + + + "More than the Protestant milk all newly lapt, + Impearling a tame wild-cat's whiskered jaws," + + +would have assigned them without hesitation to the writer of "A Certain +People" and other sonnets in the "Poems and Lyrics of the Joy of Earth." + +p. 158. _Ne plus ultra_. This mysterious fragment is one of the most +original experiments which Coleridge ever made, both in metre and in +language (abstract terms becoming concrete through intellectual passion) +and may seem to anticipate "The Unknown Eros." + +p. 164. _The Pains of Sleep_. In a letter to Sir George and Lady +Beaumont, dated September 22, 1803, Coleridge wrote, describing his journey +to Scotland: "With the night my horrors commence. During the whole of my +journey three nights out of four I have fallen asleep struggling and +resolving to lie awake, and, awaking, have blest the scream which delivered +me from the reluctant sleep.... These dreams, with all their mockery of +guilt, rage, unworthy desires, remorse, shame, and terror, formed at the +time the subject of some Verses, which I had forgotten till the return of +my complaint, and which I will send you in my next as a curiosity." + +p. 169. _Names_. Coleridge was as careless as the Elizabethans in +acknowledging the originals of the poems which he translated, whether, as +in this case, he was almost literal, or, as in the case of the Chamouni +poem, he used his material freely. The lines "On a Cataract" are said to be +"improved from Stolberg" in the edition of 1848, edited by Mrs. H. N. +Coleridge; and the title may suit the whole of them. + +p. 182. Answer to a Child's Question. I have omitted the four lines, +printed in brackets in Campbell's edition, which were omitted, I think +rightly, by Coleridge in reprinting the poem from the _Morning Post_ +of October 16, 1802. + +p. 183. _Lines on a Child_. This exquisite fragment is printed in +Coleridge's works in a prefatory note to the prose "Wanderings of Cain." It +was written, he tells us, "for the purpose of procuring a friend's judgment +on the metre, as a specimen" of what was to have been a long poem, in +imitation of "The Death of Abel," written in collaboration with Wordsworth. +"The Ancient Mariner was written instead." + +p. 188. _The two Round Spaces on the Tombstone_. This poem was printed +in the _Morning Post_ of December 4, 180O, under the title: "The two +Round Spaces: a Skeltoniad;" and it is this text which is here given, from +Campbell's edition. The "fellow from Aberdeen" was Sir James Mackintosh. +Coleridge apologised for reprinting the verses, "with the hope that they +will be taken, as assuredly they were composed, in mere sport." No apology +was needed; they are the most rich, ripe, and Rabelaisian comic verses he +ever wrote, full-bodied and exultant in their exuberance of wayward and +good-humoured satire. + +p. 192. _Sonnets Attempted in the Manner of Contemporary Writers_. +Dykes Campbell quotes a letter of Coleridge to Cottle, which he attributes +to the year 1797, in which Coleridge says: "I sent to the _Monthly +Magazine_ three mock sonnets in ridicule of my own Poems, and Charles +Lloyd's, and Charles Lamb's, etc. etc., exposing that affectation of +unaffectedness, of jumping and misplaced accent, in commonplace epithets, +flat lines forced into poetry by italics (signifying how well and +mouthishly the author would read them), puny pathos, etc. etc. The +instances were all taken from myself and Lloyd and Lamb. I signed them +'Nehemiah Higginbottom.' I think they may do good to our young Bards." + +Coleridge's humour, which begins as early as 1794, with the lines on +"Parliamentary Oscillators," is one of the outlets of an oppressively +ingenious mind, over-packed with ideas, which he cannot be content to +express in prose. He delights, as in an intellectual exercise, in the +grapple with difficult technique, the victorious wrestle with grotesque +rhymes. All the comic poems are unusually rich and fine in rhythm, which +seems to exult in its mastery over material so foreign to it. + +Yet he has not always or wholly command of this humour. The famous "Lines +to a Young Ass" were first written as a joke, and there is some burlesque +strength in such lines as: + + + "Where Toil shall wed young Health, that charming Lass! + And use his sleek cows for a looking-glass." + + +But the mood went, the jest was so far forgotten as to be taken seriously +by himself, and turned into the sober earnest which it remains; a kind of +timidity of the original impression crept in, and we are left to laugh +rather at than with the poet. + + + + + +End of Project Gutenberg's Poems of Coleridge, by Coleridge, ed Arthur Symons + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK POEMS OF COLERIDGE *** + +This file should be named 8208-8.txt or 8208-8.zip + +Jonathan Ingram, Jerry Fairbanks +and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team + +Project Gutenberg eBooks are often created from several printed +editions, all of which are confirmed as Public Domain in the US +unless a copyright notice is included. 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