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THE    POEMS 


SAMUEL   TAYLOE   COLERIDGE. 


Ill 


THE  POEMS 


SAMUEL  TAYLOR   COLEKIDGE. 


EDITED   BY 


DEEWENT  AND   SAEA  COLEEIDGE. 


WITH  AN  APPENDIX. 


a-' 

A  NEW  EDITION, 


LONDON : 
EDWAED  MOXON  &  CO.,  DOYEE  STEEET. 

1865. 


roNDOK : 

BR.\DB1;KY  AXD  EVANS,   printers,  -WHlTr.rRIARS. 


MMiB 
1^5 


ADYEETISEMENT, 


The  last  authorised  edition  of  S.  T.  Coleridge's 
Poems,  published  by  Mr.  Moxon  in  1852,  bears 
the  names  of  Derwent  and  Sara  Coleridge,  as  joint 
editors.  In  uniting  my  name  with  my  sister'.s,  I 
yielded  to  her  particular  desire  and  request,  but 
the  work  was  performed  almost  entirely  by  her- 
self. My  opinion  was  consulted  as  to  the  general 
arrangement,  and  more  especially  as  to  the  choice 
or  rejection  of  particular  pieces.  Even  here  I 
had  no  occasion  to  do  more  than  confirm  the  con- 
clusions to  which  she  had  herself  arrived,  and 
sanction  the  course  which  she  had  herself  adopted. 
I  shared  in  the  responsibility,  but  cannot  claim 
any  share  in  the  credit  of  the  undertaking.  This 
edition  I  propose  to  leave  intact  as  it  came  from 
her  own  hands.  I  wish  it  to  remain  as  one 
among  other  monuments  of  her  fine  taste,  her 
solid  judgment,  and  her  scrupulous  conscientious- 
ness. 

A  few  pieces  of  some  interest  appear,  however. 


vi  ADVERTISEMENT. 

to  have  been  overlooked.  Two  characteristic 
sonnets,  not  included  in  any  former  edition  of 
the  Poems,  have  been  preserved  in  an  anonymous 
work,  entitled  "  Letters,  Recollections,  and  Con- 
versations of  S.  T.  Coleridge."  These,  with  a 
further  selection  from  the  omitted  pieces,  princi- 
pally from  the  Juvenile  Poems,  have  been  added 
in  an  Appendix.  So  placed,  they  will  not  at  any 
rate  interfere  with  the  general  effect  of  the  collec- 
tion, while  they  add  to  its  completeness.  All 
these  "  buds  of  promise  "  were  once  withdrawn* 
and  afterwards  reproduced  by  the  author.  It  is 
not  easy  now  to  draw  a  line  of  separation  which 
shall  not  be  deemed  either  too  indulgent  or  too 
severe. 

That  the  literary  productions  of  S.  T.  Coleridge 
should  after  a  given  period  pass  from  under  the 
control  of  his  executors  is  right  and  fitting.  That 
they  should  be  brought  out  at  the  earliest  period 
permitted  by  law,  in  various  forms,  by  watchful 
and  expectant  publishers,  is  not  a  matter  of  sur- 
prise, and  will  not  be  alleged  by  me  as  a  matter 
of  blame.  It  is  more  pleasant  for  me  to  consider 
this  hasty  competition  as  a  tribute  to  the  genius 
of  the  author,  and  a  proof  of  the  estimation  in 
which  his  works  are  held.  In  justice,  however, 
to  the  author's  immediate  representatives,  it  may 
without  impropriety  be  stated  that  the  present,  as 
it  is  the  only  authorised,  so  it  is,  and  must  for  many 
years  continue  to  be  the  only  complete,  or  nearly 
complete,  collection  of  his  poems. 


ADVERTISEMENT.  vii 

All  the  "  poems  written  in  later  life,"  many  of 
them  among  the  author's  most  finished  and  ex- 
quisite productions,  together  with  the  interesting 
notes  and  observations  supplied  by  his  daughter, 
are  still  copyright,  while  of  the  pieces  now  re- 
printed in  the  Appendix,  several,  whatever  may 
be  the  date  of  composition,  were  not  published 
till  1834. 

The  respectful  acknowledgments  of  the  editor 
are  ofi'ered  to  those  Publishers,  whose  courtesy 
and  forbearance,  had  they  been  generally  imitated, 
would  have  rendered  this  notice  unnecessary. 

DERWENT  COLERIDGE, 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


This  volume  was  prepared  for  the  press  by 
my  lamented  sister,  Mrs.  H.  N.  Coleridge,  and  will 
have  an  additional  interest  to  many  readers  as 
the  last  monument  of  her  highly-gifted  mind. 
At  her  earnest  request,  my  name  appears  with- 
hers  on  the  .title-page,  but  the  assistance  rendered 
by  me  has  been,  in  fact,  little  more  than  me- 
chanical. The  preface,  and  tlie  greater  part  of 
the  notes,  are  her  composition : — the  selection  and 
arrangement  have  been  determined  almost  exclu- 
sively by  her  critical  judgment,  or  from  records 
in  her  possession.  A  few  slight  corrections  and 
unimportant  additions  are  all  that  have  been 
found  necessary,  the  first  and  last  sheets  not 
having  had  the  benefit  of  her  own  revision. 

DERWENT   COLERIDGE. 
St.  Makk's  College,  Chelsea, 
May,  1852. 


PEEFAOE  TO  THE  EDITION  OF  1852. 

As  a  chronological  arrangement  of  Poetry  in 
completed  collections  is  now  beginning  to  find 
general  favour,  pains  have  been  taken  to  follow 
this  method  in  the  present  Edition  of  S.  T.  Cole- 
ridge's Poetical  and  Dramatic  "Works,  as  far  as 
circumstances  permitted — that  is  to  say,  as  far  as 
the  date  of  composition  of  each  poem  was  ascer- 
tainable, and  as  far  as  the  plan  could  be  carried 
out  without  effacing  the  classes  into  which  the 
Author  had  himself  distributed  his  most  important 
poetical  publication,  the  ''  Sibylline  Leaves," 
namely.  Poems  occasioned  by  Political 
Events,  or  Feelings  connected  with  them; 
Love  Poems;  Meditative  Poems  in  blank 
veese;  Odes  and  Miscellaneous  Poems.  On 
account  of  these  impediments,  together  with  the 
fact,  that  many  a  poem,  such  as  it  appears  in  its 
ultimate  form,  is  the  growth  of  different  periods, 
the  agreement  with  chronology  in  this  Edition  is 
approximative   rather  than  perfect:    yet  in  tlie 


xii  PREFACE. 

majority  of  instances  th.e  date  of  each,  piece  has 
been  made  oat,  and  its  place  fixed  accordingly. 

In.  another  point  of  view  also,  the  Poems  have 
been,  distributed  with  relation  to  time :  they  are 
thrown  into  three  broad  groups,  representing, 
first  the  Youth, — secondly,  the  Early  Manhood 
and  Middle  Life, — thirdly,  the  Declining  Age  of 
the  Poet ;  *  and  it  will  be  readily  perceived  that 
each  division,  has  its  own  distinct  tone  and  colour, 
corresponding  to  the  period  of  life  in  which  it  was 
composed.  It  has  been  suggested,  indeed, f  that 
Coleridge  had  four  poetical  epochs,  more  or  less 
diversely  characterised,  —  that  there  is  a  dis- 
cernible difference  betwixt  the  productions  of  his 
Early  Manhood  and  of  his  Middle  Age,  the  latter 
being  distinguished  from  those  of  his  Stowey  life, 
which  may  be  considered  as  his  poetic  prime,  by  a 
less  buoyant  spirit.  Fire  they  have ;  but  it  is  not 
the  clear,  bright,  mounting  fire  of  his  earlier 
poetry,  conceived  and  executed  when  "he  and 
youth  were  housemates  still."  In  the  course  of  a 
very  few  years  after  three-and-twenty  aU  his 
very  finest  poems  were  produced ;  his  twenty-fifth 
year  has  been  called  his  annus  mirahilis.  To 
be  a  "Prodigal's  favourite — then,  worse  truth! 
a  Miser's    pensioner,"!  is  the  lot  of  Man.      In 

*  S.T.Coleridge  was  bom  Oct.  21, 1V72  and  diedJuly  25, 1834. 

t  See  Supplement  to  the  Second  Edition  of  the  Biographia 
Literaria,  vol.  ii.,  p.  417. 

{  Wordsworth's  Poetical  Works,  vol.  v.,  p.  294.  The  Small 
Celandine.     See  motto  to  the  last  section. 


PREFACE.  xiii 

respect  of  poetry,  Coleridge  was  a  "  Prodigal's 
favourite,"  more,  perhaps,  than,  ever  Poet  was 
before. 

1.  The  Juvenile  Poems  (now  called  Poems 
written  in  Youth),  so  named  by  the  Author  him- 
self when  he  had  long  ceased  to  be  juvenile,  were 
first  published  in  1796.  The  second  edition, 
which  appeared  in  May,  1797,  omitted  nineteen 
pieces  of  the  previous  publication,  and  added 
eleven  new.  The  volume,  says  Mr.  H.  X.  Cole- 
ridge, in  a  note  to  the  Biographia  Literaria,  com- 
prised poems  by  Lamb  and  Lloyd,  and  on  the  title- 
page  was  printed  the  prophetic  aspiration :  — 
^'Duplex  nobis  vinculum,  et  amiciticBJunctar unique 
Camcenarum, — quod  utinam  neque  mors  solvat ; 
neque  temjjoris  longinquitas"* 

In  the  London  edition  of  1803,  fifty-two  of  the 
pieces,  contained  in  the  first  and  second,  were 
again  presented  to  the  public,  but,  what  is  now 
difficult  to  account  for,  unaccompanied  by  many 
fine  poems  which  were  undoubtedly  written  by 
that  time,  but  saw  not  the  light  till,  in  1817,  they 
formed  a  part  of  the  *'  Sibylline  Leaves,"  beside 
the  "Ancient  Mariner,"  ''The  Foster-Mother's 
Tale"  (an  ofi'-shoot  from  "Remorse,"  then  en- 
titled "  Osorio"),  and  "The  Nightingale:  a  Con- 
versation Poem,"  which  entered  the  world  along 

*  Biographia  Literaria,  2nd  edit.,  vol.  i.,  p.  4. 


xiv  PREFACE. 

with  the  afterwards  celebrated  and  ever  immortal 
'*  Lyrical  Ballads"  of  "William  "Wordsworth. 
Onl)^  thirty-six  of  the  Juvenile  Poems  were  in- 
cluded in  the  collection  of  Coleridge's  "  Poetical 
and  Dramatic  AYorks,"  published  by  Mr.  Picker- 
ing in  1828.  These,  all  produced  before  the  Au- 
thor's twenty-fourth  year,  devoted  as  he  was  to 
the  ''  soft  strains  "  of  Bowles,  have  more  in  com- 
mon with  the  passionate  lyrics  of  Collins  and  the 
picturesque  wildness  of  the  pretended  Ossian, 
than  with  the  well-tuned  sentimentality  of  that 
Muse  which  the  over-grateful  poet  has  repre- 
sented as  his  earliest  inspirer.  For  the  young 
they  will  ever  retain  a  peculiar  charm,  because  so 
fraught  with  the  joyous  spirit  of  youth;  and  in 
the  minds  of  all  readers  that  feeling  which  dis- 
poses men  '  *  to  set  the  bud  above  the  rose  full- 
blown "  would  secure  them  an  interest,  even  if 
their  intrinsic  beauty  and  sweetness  were  less 
adequate  to  obtain  it. 

2.  Poems  of  Early  Manhood  are  "  The  Ancient 
Mariner,"  <' The  Wandeungs  of  Cain,"  "  Kubla 
Khan,"  "  Christabel,"  Part  I.  The  ''Sibylline 
Leaves"  of  1817  comprises  many  minor  poems  of 
the  same  date  as  those  just  mentioned,  and  like- 
wise another  set,  which  must  be  referred  to 
Middle  Life,  that  collection  extending  from  1796 
to  the  time  of  publication.  The  second  part  of 
"  Christabel"  we  kiww,  on  the  Poet's  own  autho- 
rity, to  have  been  composed  in  1800  ;  it  therefore 


PREFACE.  XV 

occupies  an  intermediate  station  between  tlie  two 
eras. 

"Eemorse"  was  first  cast  at  Stowey,  in  179T 
or  8.  Alvar's  Soliloquy  (Act  v.,  Scene  1,)  was 
published  with  the  '' Lyrical  Ballads,"  in  1798, 
under  the  title  of  *'  The  Dungeon."  The  trans- 
lation of  "  Wallenstein"  was  made  in  the  winter 
of  1800.  "Zapolya,"  published  in  1817,  must 
have  been  composed  somewhere  between  1814  and 
1816.* 

3.  Poems  \\Titten  in  Later  Life.  The  second 
edition  of  the  "Sibylline  Leaves"  contained  a 
certain  number  of  short  poems,  quaintly  desig- 
nated "Prose  in  Phyme,  Moralities,  Epigrams, 
and  Poems  without  a  Name."  The  whole  of 
these,  as  late  productions,  are  placed  in  the  last 
section,  and  to  them  are  added  many  other  pieces, 
serious  and  sportive,  which  are  known  to  have 
been  the  harvest  of  the  latest  season  accorded  to 
the  Poet  in  this  state  of  existence. 

The  present  Editors  have  been  guided  in  the 
general  arrangement  of  this  edition  by  those  of 
1817  and  1828,  which  maybe  held  to  represent 
the  author's  matured  judgment  upon  the  larger 
and  more  important  part  of  his  poetical  produc- 
tions.    They  have  reason,  indeed,  to  believe,  that 

*  See  Dramatic  Works. 


xvi  PREFACE. 

the  edition  of  1828  was  the  last  upon  which  he 
was  able  to  bestow  personal  care  and  attention. 
That  of  1834,  the  last  year  of  his  earthly  so- 
journing, a  period  when  his  thoughts  were  wholly 
engrossed,  so  far  as  the  decays  of  his  frail  out- 
ward part  left  them  free  for  intellectual  pursuits 
and  speculations,  by  a  grand  scheme  of  Christian 
Philosophy,  to  the  enunciation  of  which  in  a  long 
projected  work  his  chief  thoughts  and  aspirations 
had  for  many  years  been  directed,  was  arranged 
mainly,  if  not  entirely,  at  the  discretion  of  his 
earliest  Editor,  H.  N.  Coleridge  who,  not  to 
mention  the  boon  he  has  conferred  on  the  public 
in  preserving  so  valuable  a  record  of  his  Uncle's 
conversation  as  is  contained  in  the  Table  Talk  of 
S.  T.  Coleridge,  performed  his  task  in  editing  The 
Friejid,  The  Literary  Remains,  The  Church  and 
State  and  Lay  Sermons,  and  The  Confessions  of  an 
Inquiring  Spirit,  in  a  manner  which  must  ever 
procure  him  sentiments  of  gratitude  from  all  who 
prize  the  writings  of  Coleridge.  Such  alterations 
only  have  been  made  in  this  final  arrangement  of 
the  Poetical  and  Dramatic  AVorks  of  S.  T.  Cole- 
ridge, by  those  into  whose  charge  they  have 
devolved,  as  they  feel  assured,  both  the  Author 
himself  and  his  earliest  Editor  would  at  this  time 
find  to  be  either  necessary  or  desirable.  The 
observations  and  experience  of  eighteen  years,  a 
period  long  enough  to  bring  about  many  changes 
in  literary  opinion,  have  satisfied  them  that  the 
immature  essays  of  boyhood  and  adolescence,  not 


PREFACE.  XTii 

marked  ■udtli  any  sucli  prophetic  note  of  genius  as 
certainly  does  belong  to  the  four  school-boy  poems 
they  have  retained,  tend  to  injure  the  general 
effect  of  a  body  of  poetry.  That  a  writer,  espe- 
cially a  writer  of  verse,  should  keep  out  of  sight 
his  third-rate  performances,'  is  now  become  a 
maxim  with  critics ;  for  they  are  not,  at  the 
worst,  effectless  :  they  have  an  effect,  that  of 
diluting  and  weakening,  to  the  reader's  feelings, 
the  general  power  of  the  collection.  Mr.  Cole- 
ridge himself  constantly,  after  1796,  rejected  a 
certain  portion  of  his  earliest  published  Juvenilia  : 
never  printed  any  attempts  of  his  boyhood,  except 
those  four  with  which  the  present  publication  com- 
mences ;  and  there  can  be  no  doubt  that  his  Editor 
of  1834  would  ere  now  have  come  to  the  conclusion, 
that  only  such  of  the  Author's  early  performances 
as  were  sealed  by  his  own  approval  ought  to  form 
a  permanent  part  of  the  body  of  his  poetical 
works. 

The  ''Allegoric  Vision,"  as  it  cannot  be  con- 
sidered poetry  in  the  full  sense  of  the  word,  and 
may  be  read  with  much  more  advantage  in  its 
proper  place  —  the  Introduction  to  the  Author's 
second  Lay  Sermon,  —  the  Editors  have  thought 
fit  to  withdraw  from  this  collection.  And  a  piece 
of  extravagant  humour,  printed  for  the  first  time 
among  the  Author's  works  in  1834,  rather  it 
would  appear  with  his  acquiescence,  than  by  his 
desire,  has  been  excluded  for  the  reasons  assigned 


xviii  PREFACE. 

by  the  Author  himself  in  the  Apologetic  Preface. 
The  "Devil's  Walk,"  having  been  reproduced 
with  his  full  authority  in  the  Edition  of  1828,  has 
been  retained,  —  restored,  however,  as  in  the 
Edition  of  1834,  to  its  original  form  and  com- 
pleteness. To  this  extent  a  discretionary  pri- 
vilege has  been  exercised,  for  which,  it  is 
believed,  that  little  apology  will  be  required  by 
the  public* 

It  must  be  added,  that  time  has  robbed  of  their 
charm  certain  sportive  effusions  of  Mr.  C.'s  later 
j^ears,  which  were  given  to  the  public,  in  the  fii'st 
gloss  and  glow  of  novelty  in  1834,  and  has  proved 
that,  though  not  devoid  of  the  quality  of  genius, 
they  possess,  upon  the  whole,  not  more  than  an 
ephemeral  interest.  These  the  Editors  have  not 
scrupled  to  omit  on  the  same  grounds  and  in  the 
same  confidence  that  has  been  already  explained. 

Four  short  pieces  only  have  been  added,  the 
third  and  ninth  Sonnets  (pages  34  and  37),  from 
the  edition  of  1796,  the  "Day-Dream"  (page 
193),  from  the  Appendix  to  Coleridge's  "Essays 
on  his  own  Times,"  and  the  "  Hj-mn "  (page 
278),  which  is  now  printed  for  the  hrst  time. 


*  This  humorous  piece  first  appeared  in  the  Morning  Post, 
when,  according  to  the  Editor  of  that  Journal,  it  made  so 
great  a  sensation  that  several  hvmdred  sheets  extra  were  sold 
by  them,  as  the  paper  was  in  request  for  days  and  weeks 
afterwards. 


PREFACE.  xix 

The  Portrait  has  been  engraved  from  a  picture 
of  S.  T.  Coleridge,  at  twenty-six  years  of  age, 
which  originally  belonged  to  the  poet's  admirable 
friend,  Thomas  Poole,  of  Nether  Stowey,  by  the 
kind  permission  of  R.  P.  King,  Esq.,  of  Brisling- 
ton,  near  Bath,  its  present  owner.  It  is  presented 
not  as  altogether  satisfactory,  but  as  the  best  and 
most  interesting  record  of  the  Poet's  youthful  face 
that  was  to  be  obtained. 

S,  C. 

Chestee  Place,  Regext's  Park, 
March,  1S52. 


PREFACE. 

— f — 

Compositions  resembling  those  of  the  present 
volume  are  not  nnfrequently  condemned  for  their 
querulous  egotism.  But  egotism  is  to  be  con- 
demned then  only  when  it  offends  against  time 
and  place,  as  in  a  history  or  an  epic  poem.  To 
censure  it  in  a  monody  or  sonnet  is  almost  as 
absurd  as  to  dislike  a  circle  for  being  round. 
Why  then  write  Sonnets  or  Monodies  ?  Because 
they  give  me  pleasure  when  perhaps  nothing  else 
could.    After  the  more  violent  emotions  of  sorrow,  / 

the  mind  demands  amusement,  and  can  find  it  in 
employment  alone :  but  full  of  its  late  sufferings, 
it  can  endure  no  employment  not  in  some  measure 
connected  with  them.  Forcibly  to  turn  away  our 
attention  to  general  subjects  is  a  painful  and  most 
often  an  unavailing  effort. 

"  But  O  !  how  grateful  to  a  wounded  heart 
.  The  tale  of  misery  to  impart — 

From  others'  eyes  bid  artless  sorrows  flow, 
And  raise  esteem  upon  the  base  of  woe  !  " 

Shaw. 


J 


xxii  PREFACE. 

The  communicativeness  of  our  nature  leads  us  to 
describe  our  own  sorrows ;  in  the  endeavour  to 
describe  them,  intellectual  activity  is  exerted;  and 
from  intellectual  activity  there  results  a  pleasure, 
which  is  gradually  associated,  and  mingles  as  a 
corrective,  with  the  painful  subject  of  the  descrip- 
tion. "  True  !  "  (it  may  be  answered)  "  but  how 
is  the  Public  interested  in  your  sorrows  or  your 
description  ?  "  We  are  for  ever  attributing  per- 
sonal unities  to  imaginary  aggregates.  "What  is 
the  Public,  but  a  term  for  a  number  of  scattered 
individuals  ?  Of  whom  as  many  will  be  interested 
in  these  sorrows,  as  have  experienced  the  same  or 
similar. 

"  Holy  be  the  lay 
Which  mourning  soothes  the  mourner  on  his  way." 

If  I  could  judge  of  others  by  myself,  I  should 
not  hesitate  to  affirm,  that  the  most  interesting 
passages  in  all  writings  are  those  in  which  the 
author  developes  his  own  feelings  ?  The  sweet 
voice  of  Cona  *  never  sounds  so  sweetly,  as  when 
it  speaks  of  itself;  and  I  should  almost  suspect 
that  man  of  an  unkindly  heart,  who  could  read 
the  opening  of  the  third  book  of  the  Paradise 
Lost  without  peculiar  emotion.  By  a  law  of  our 
nature,  he,  who  labours  under  a  strong  feeling, 
is  impelled  to  seek  for  sympathy ;  but  a  poet's 

*  Ossian. 


PREFACE.  xxiii 

feelings  are  all  strong.  Quicquid  amet  valde 
amat.  Akenside  therefore  speaks  with,  philoso- 
phical accuracy  when  he  classes  Love  and  Poetry, 
as  producing  the  same  effects : 

"Love  and  the  wish  of  Poets  when  their  tongue 
Would  teach  to  others'  bosoms,  what  so  charms 
Their  own."  pleasures  of  imagination. 

There  is  one  species  of  egotism  which  is  truly 
disgusting ;  not  that  which  leads  us  to  communi- 
cate our  feelings  to  others,  but  that  which  would 
reduce  the  feelings  of  others  to  an  identity  with 
our  own.  The  atheist,  who  exclaims,  ''  pshaw  !  " 
when  he  glances  his  eye  on  the  praises  of  Deity, 
is  an  egotist :  an  old  man,  when  he  speaks  con- 
temptuously of  Love-verses,  is  an  egotist :  and 
the  sleek  favourites  of  fortune  are  egotists,  when 
they  condemn  all  ''melancholy,  discontented " 
verses.  Surely,  it  would  be  candid  not  merely 
to  ask  whether  the  poem  pleases  ourselves,  but  to 
consider  whether  or  no  there  may  not  be  others, 
to  whom  it  is  well  calculated  to  give  an  innocent 
pleasure. 

I  shall  only  add,  that  each  of  my  readers  will, 
I  hope,  remember,  that  these  poems  on  various 
subjects,  which  he  reads  at  one  time  and  under 
the  influence  of  one  set  of  feelings,  were  written 
at  different  times  and  prompted  by  very  differ- 
ent feelings;    and  therefore    that  the  supposed 


PREFACE. 


inferiority  of  one  poem  to  another  may  some- 
times be  owing  to  the  temper  of  mind,  in  which 
he  happens  to  peruse  it. 


My  poems  have  been  rightly  charged  with  a 
profusion  of  double-epithets,  and  a  general  tur- 
gidness.  I  have  pruned  the  double-epithets  with 
no  sparing  hand  ;  and  used  my  best  eiforts  to 
tame  the  swell  and  glitter  both  of  thought  and 
diction.*  This  latter  fault  however  had  insinu- 
ated itself  into  my  *' Eeligious  Musings"  with 
such  intricacy  of  union,  that  sometimes  I  have 
omitted  to  disentangle  the  weed  from  the  fear  of 
snapping  the  flower.  A  third  and  heavier  accu- 
sation has  been,  brought  against  me,  that  of 
obscurity;  but  not,  I  think,  with  equal  justice. 
An  author  is  obscure,  when  his  conceptions  are 
dim  and  imperfect,  and  his  language  incorrect,  or 
inappropriate,  or  involved.     A  poem  that  abounds 

*  Without  any  feeling  of  anger,  I  may  yet  be  allowed  to 
express  some  degree  of  sui-prise,  that  after  having  run  the 
critical  gauntlet  for  a  certain  class  of  faults,  which  I  had,  viz. , 
a  too  ornate,  and  elaborately  poetic  diction,  and  nothing 
having  come  before  the  judgment-seat  of  the  Reviewers  during 
the  long  interval,  I  should  for  at  least  seventeen  years,  quarter 
after  quarter,  have  been  placed  by  them  in  the  foremost  rank 
of  the  proscribed,  and  made  to  abide  the  brunt  of  abuse  and 
ridicule  for  faults  directly  opposite,  viz.,  bald  and  prosaic 
language,  and  an  affected  simplicity  both  of  matter  and  man- 
ner— faults  which  assuredly  did  not  enter  into  the  character  of 
my  compositions.  Literary  Life,  i.  51 ;  published  ISlT'. 


PREFACE.  XXV 

in  allusions,  like  tlie  Bard  of  Gray,  or  one  that 
impersonates  higli  and  abstract  truths,  like; 
CoUins's  Ode  on  the  poetical  character,  claims 
not  to  be  popular — but  should  be  acquitted  of 
obscurity.'  The  deficiency  is  in  the  reader.  But 
this  is  a  charge  which  every  poet,  whose  imagi- 
nation is  warm  and  rapid,  must  expect  from  his 
contemporaries.  Milton  did  not  escape  it ;  and 
it  was  adduced  with  virulence  against  Gray  and 
Collins.  We  now  hear  no  more  of  it :  not  that 
their  poems  are  better  understood  at  present,  than 
they  were  at  their  first  publication ;  but  their 
fame  is  established  ;  and  a  critic  would  accuse 
himself  of  frigidity  or  inattention,  who  should 
profess  not  to  understand  them.  But  a  living 
writer  is  yet  suh  judice ;  and  if  we  cannot  follow 
his  conceptions  or  enter  into  his  feelings,  it  is 
more  consoling  to  our  pride  to  consider  him  as  lost 
beneath,  than  as  soaring  above  us.  If  any  man 
expect  from  my  poems  the  same  easiness  of  style 
which  he  admires  in  a  drinking-song,  for  him  I 
have  not  written.  Intelligibilia,  non  intellectum 
adfero. 

I  expect  neither  profit  nor  general  fame  by  my 
writings ;  and  I  consider  myself  as  having  been 
amply  repaid  without  either.  Poetry  has  been 
to  me  its  own  "  exceeding  great  reward :  "  it 
has  soothed  my  afilictions ;  it  has  multiplied  and 


sxvi  PREFACE. 

refined  my  enjoyments;  it  has  endeared  solitude  ; 
and  it  has  given  me  the  hahit  of  wishing  to 
discover  the  Good  and  the  Beautiful  in  all  that 
meets  and  surrounds  me.* 

S.  T.  C. 


*  The  above  Preface  was  prefixed  by  the  author  to  the  third 
edition  of  the  Juvenile  Poems,  in  1803,  and  transferred  by 
him  without  alteration  to  the  collected  edition  of  his  poetical 
works  in  1828.  It  is  made  up  from  the  Prefaces  to  the  first 
two  editions  of  his  Poems,  and  referred,  in  the  first  instance, 
to  the  earlier  productions  of  his  Muse.  In  the  Preface  to  the 
Sibylline  Leaves,  which  he  did  not  reprint,  he  states  that  that 
collection  was  "presented  to  the  reader  as  perfect  as  the 
author's  skill  and  powers  could  render  them  ; "  adding,  that 
"henceforward  he  must  be  occupied  by  studies  of  a  very 
diflferent  kind."  The  motto  which  appears  on  a  subsequent 
page  is  taken  from  the  same  place,  and  points  to  a  similar 
conclusion.  D.  C. 


CONTENTS. 

Page 
POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 

FIRST  ADVENT    OF   LOVE 3 

GENEVIEVE 3 

THE   RAVEN.      A   CHRISTMAS  TALE 4 

ABSENCE.      A  FAREWELL   ODE             .           .            ...  5 

TIME,    REAL   AND   IMAGINARY.      AN   ALLEGORY         .           .  6 

EPITAPS   ON  AN   INFANT 6 

SONGS  OF   THE   PIXIES 7 

THE  ROSE 10 

KISSES 11 

TO   SARA 12 

THE  SIGH 13 

LINES  TO  A  BEAUTIFUL  SPRING  IN  A  VILLAGE  .  .  14 
LINES  ON  AN  AUTUMNAL  EVENING  .  .  .  .15 
TO   A  YOUNG    LADY,    WITH    A    POEM    ON    THE     FRENCH 

REVOLUTION IS 

IMITATED   FROM   OSSIAN 19 

THE  COMPLAINT   OF   NINATHOMA 20 

TO     A     YOUNG     ASS  ;      ITS     MOTHER     BEING     TETHERED 

NEAR  IT 21 

TO   AN  INFANT 22 

IMITATED  FROM   THE   WELSH   .  .  .  .  .  .23 

DOMESTIC  PEACE 23 


xxviii  CONTENTS. 

Page 
POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTH— (Continued.) 

LINES  WRITTEN   AT   THE   KING'S  ARSIS,   ROSS  .  .      24 

TO   THE   NIGHTINGALE 24 

TO  A  FRIEND,  TOGETHER  WITH  AN  UNFINISHED  POE  .  25 
LIKES  ON  A  FRIEND  WHO  DIED  OF  A  FRENZY  FEVER  26 
MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH   OF   CHATTERTON       .  .  .28 

SONNET   I.      MY   HEART  HAS  THANKED   THEE,    BOWLES  ! 

FOR   THOSE  SOFT   STRAINS 33 

SONNET   II.      AS   LATE  I  LAY     IN    SLUMBER'S    SHADOWY 

VALE 33 

SONNET      III.  NOT      ALWAYS      SHOULD      THE      TEAR'S 

AMBROSIAL    DEW 34 

SONNET   IV.      THOUGH    ROUSED    BY    THAT    DARK   VIZIR 

RIOT  RUDE 34 

SONNET   V.      WHEN    BRITISH  FREEDOM   FOR    A    HAPPIER 

LAND 35 

SONNET   VI.      IT   WAS    SOME    SPIRIT,    SHERIDAN  !    THAT 

BREATHED 35 

SONNET   VII.      O   WHAT   A   LOUD   AND   FEARFUL   SHRIEK 

WAS  THERE 36 

SONNET     VIII.        AS     WHEN     FAR     OFF     THE     WARBLED 

STRAINS  ARE  HEARD 36 

SONNET     IX.        NOT    STANHOPE  !     AVITH     THE    PATRIOT'S 

DOUBTFUL  NAME 37 

SONNET  X.      THOU   GENTLE   LOOK,  THAT   DIDST   MT  SOUL 

BEGUILE 38 

SONNET    XI.      PALE     ROAMER      THROUGH      THE    NIGHT  ! 

THOU   POOR    FORLORN 38 

SONNET  XII.      SWEET    MERCY !      HOW    MY   VERY   HEART 

HAS  BLED 30 

SONNET  XIII.      TO   THE  AUTUMNAL  MOON  .  .  .       .      39 

SONNE  r  XIV.       THOU  BLEED  EST,  MY  POOR  HEART  !    AND 

THY  DISTRESS 40 


CONTENTS.  xxix 

Page 
POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  YOUTR— (Continued.) 

SO>rN'ET  XV.  TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  THE  ROBBERS."  .  ,  40 
LINES    COMPOSED    WHILE    CLIMBING    THE  LEFT   ASCENT 

OF  BROCKLEY   COOMB,    SOMERSETSHIRE  ,  .41 

LINES  IN  THE  MANNER   OF   SPENSER 41 

TO  THE   AUTHOR  OF   POEMS    PUBLISHED   ANONYMOUSLY 

AT   BRISTOL 43 

LINES  WRITTEN  AT  SHURTON  BARS,  NEAR  BRIDGEWATER  45 
LINES  TO   A    FRIEND     IN    ANSWER    TO    A    MELANCHOLY 

LETTER 48 

RELIGIOUS  musings;    a   DESULTORY  POEM           .           ,      .  49 

THE   DESTINY  OF   NATIONS.      A   VISION    ....  61 

POEMS    WRITTEN    IN    EARLY    MANHOOD,    AND 

MIDDLE  LIFE. 
f  / 

^    THE   RIME   OF   THT:    ANCTKNT   MARINER.^        ...  79 

i/'cHRISTABEL 101 

I  ,^UBLA      KHAN  ;      OR,     A     VISION     IN     A     DREAM.         A 

FRAGMENT 121 

THE   WANDERINGS  OF  CAIN 124 


SIBYLLINE  LEAVES. 

I. — POEMS      OCCASIONED      BY     POLITICAL     EVENTS  CR 
FEELINGS    CONNECTED    WITH    THE3I. 

jODE  to   the   DEPARTING  YEAR 135 

,/  FRANCE.      AN   ODE 140 

FEARS  IN   SOLITUDE 143 

FIRE,    FAMINE,   AND   SLAUGHTER.      A   WAR  ECLOGUE   .  150 

THE  devil's  thoughts 168 


II. — LOVE    POEMS. 

LEWTi;   OR,    THE  CIRCASSIAN   LOVE-CHAUNT            .           .      171 
LOVE 174 


CONTENTS. 


SIBYLLINE  LEAYES— {Continued.) 

LINES   SUGGESTED   AT  THEATRE 


Page 


.        .        .  177 

TO  178 

THE  PICTURE,  OR  THE   LOVER'S  RESOLUTION           .           .  179 

THE   NIGHT   SCENE.      A   DRAMATIC  FRAGMENT             .      .  184 

LINES  COMPOSED   IN   A   CONCERT-ROOM              .            .            .  186 

ANSWER   TO  A   CHILD'S  QUESTION ISS 

TO   A    LADY,    WITH   FALCONER'S    "SHIPWRECK"     .           .  188 
TO     A     YOUNG     LADY,     ON     HER     RECOVERY     FROM     A 

FEVER 189 

INTRODUCTION   TO   THE  TALE   OF   THE  DARK    LADIE      .  190 

THE   BALLAD   OF   THE   DARK   LADIE.     A  FRAGMENT .      .  191 

THE  DAY-DREAM      ........  193 

■^^/^ETHING  CHILDISH,    BUT   VERY  NATURAL      ,           .       .  194 

ON  REVISITING  THE   SEA-SHORE 195 

THE  KEEPSAKE 196 

THE  VISIONARY   HOPE 197 

HOME-SICK 198 

THE  HAPPY   HUSBAND 199 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF   LOVE 200 

THE   PANG  MORE   SHARP   THAN   ALL.      AN   ALLEGORY   .  201 


f 


III. — MEDITATIVE    POEMS. 
REFLECTIONS       ON        HAVING       LEFT       A       PLACE       OF 

RETIREMENT 203 

ON       OBSERVING      A      BLOSSOM       ON       THE      FIRST      OF 

FEBRUARY,    1796 205 

THE   EOLIAN   HARP 206 

TO   THE  REV.    GEORGE  COLERIDGE 208 

TO   A   FRIEND    WHO     HAD     DECLARED     HIS    INTENTION 

OF   WRITING   NO   MORE   POETRY    .           .            .  .211 

THIS  LIME-TREE  BOWER  MY   PIUSON             .            '           .       .       212 
FROST   AT   MIDNIGHT 215 


CONTENTS.  xxxi 

Page 
SIBYLLINE  L'EAYES— (Continued.) 

4       THE  NIGHTINGALE.      A   CONVERSATION   POEM  .           .      .  217 
LINES  WRITTEN    IN   THE   ALBUM   AT   ELBINGERODE,   IN 

/          THE   HARTZ    FOREST 220 

^/   HYMN   BEFORE   SUN-RISE,  IN   THE   VALE   OF   CHAMOUNI  222 

TO   WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH 224 

INSCRIPTION   FOtt  A   FOUNTAIN   ON   A   HEATH          .            .  228 

A  TOMBLESS  EPITAPH 229 

IV. — P0E3IS    OF    VARIED    CHARACTER. 
TO  A  YOUNG   FRIEND,    ON   HIS  PROPOSING   TO  DOMESTI- 
CATE WITH   THE  AUTHOR 230 

4.DDRESSED   TO   A   YOUNG  MAN   OF   FORTUNE     .            .       .  232 

SONNET   TO   THE  RIVER   OTTER 233 

THE  FOSTER  MOTHER'S  TALE.      A  DRAMATIC  FRAGMENT  234 

SONNET 236 

SONNET   TO   A   FRIEND .237 

TELL'S   BIRTH-PLACE.      IMITATED   FROM   STOLBERG   .       .  237 

ODE  TO   GEORGIANA,   DUCHESS  OF   DEVONSHIRE     .           .  239 

ON  AN  INFANT    WHICH   DIED   BEFORE  BAPTISM           .      .  241 

EPITAPH   ON  AN  INFANT 242 

HYMN   TO   THE   EARTH.      HEXAMETERS        .           .           .      .  242 

MAHOMET 244 

THE  virgin's  CRADLE-HYMN 245 

WPJTTEN   DURING  A   TEMPORARY   BLINDNESS          .            .  245 

ODE  TO  TRANQUILLITY 246 

ATULLIAN  HENDECASYLLABLES 247 


*^'  ■*  ^  DEJECTION.      AN   ODE 248    U 


THE  THREE   GRAVES 252 

MELANCHOLY.      A   FRAGMENT 265 

COMPOSED  DURING  ILLNESS  AND   IN    ABSENCE        .  .  2C6 

THE   VISIT  OF   THE  GODS.       IMITATED   FROM   SCHILLER.  266 

A   CHRISTMAS  CAROL 267 


xxxii  CONTENTS. 

Page 
SIBYLLINE  L-EA.YBS— (Continued.) 

LINES  TO   W.  L 269 

THE  knight's  tomb 270 

METRICAL   FEET.      LESSON   FOR  A   BOY   ....  270 

I                       A   child's   evening   PRAYER 271 

I                       COMPLAINT 272 

j                       REPROOF      . 272 

j                       PSYCHE 272 

j                       AN   ODE   TO  THE  RAIN 273 

I                       A   DAY  DREAM •           .  275 


THE  PAINS  OF   SLEEP            .           .           .           ,           .           ...  276 

A   HYMN 278 

HUMAN   LIFE,  ON  THE  DENIAL  OF   IMMORTALITY      .      .  278 

SEPARATION 279 

ON   TAKING   LEAVE   OF   ,  1817             .           .           •      .  280 

POEMS  WRITTEN  IN  LATER  LIFE. 

.    TOrTH  AND  AGE 283 

THE   EXCHANGE 284 

THE   ALIENATED   MISTRESS.      A   MADRIGAL     .            .           .  285 

THE  suicide's  ARGUMENT 285 

TO   A   LADY 286 

SANCTI   DOMINICI   PALLIUM.      A  DIALOGUE          .           .      .  286 
LINES    SUGGESTED    BY    THE    LAST   WORDS    OF    BEREN- 

GARIUS 288 

REFLECTION  ON  THE  ABOVE 288 

MOLES 289 

KOT  AT  HOME 290 

LOVE  AND   FRIENDSHIP  OPPOSITE.  .  .  .  •^^  290 

/•WORK  WITHOUT   HOPE 291 

DUTY   SURVIVING  SELF-LOVE 291 

SONG •           ....  292 

PHANTOM  OR   FACT?      A    DIALOGUE   IN   VERSE         .           .  292 


CONTENTS.  xxxiii 

Page 
POEMS  WEITTEN  IN  LATER  LIFE— (Continuec?.) 

TO   A   LADY  OFFENDED    BY   A   SPORTIVE    OBSERVATION  293 

"  THE   LOVE  THAT  MAKETH   NOT   ASHAMED  "    .           .      .  294 

CONSTANCY  TO  AN   IDEAL  OBJECT 294 

FANCY   IN   NUBIBUS,  OR  THE  POET   IN   THE   CLOUDS       .  295 
THE    BLOSSOMING     OF    THE    SOLITARY    DATE-TREE.      A 

LAMENT    ....",...  296 

THE   TWO   FOUNTS 299 

LIMBO SOO 

COLOGNE 201 

ON   MY  JOYFUL   DEPARTURE   FROM   THE   SAME  CIVY       .  302 

NE  PLUS  ULTRA 302 

NAMES 303 

LINES   TO   A   COMIC  AUTHOR 303 

THE  IMPROVISATORE ;   OR,    "JOHN   ANDERSON,    MY   JO, 

JOHN  " 304 

^  ALICE  DU   CLOS  :   OR  THE  FORKED  TONGUE.      A  BALLAD  311 

FROM   THE   GERMAN 317 

MORNING  INVITATION  TO   A   CHILD           ....  317 

CONSOLATION   OF  A  MANIAC 318 

^A  CHARACTER 320 

TRANSLATED   FROM   SCHILLER 322 

HUMILITY  THE  MOTHER   OF   CHARITY     ....  323 

PROFUSE  KINDNESS 323 

THE   GARDEN   OF  BOCCACCIO 323 

CHARITY   IN   THOUGHT 327 

ON  BERKELEY  AND  FLORENCE   COLERIDGE     .           .           .  327 

IMPROVED   FROM   STOLBERG 328 

love's    APPARITION     AND     EVANISHMENT.      AN    ALLE- 
GORIC ROMANCE 329 

l'envoy 330 

WHAT   IS   LIFE?        .            .            " 330 

INSCRIPTION    FOR  A   TIME  PIECE 330 


xxxiv                                 COiNTENTS. 

Page 

POEMS  WEITTEN  IN  LATER  LIFE-(Coniinued). 

LOVE,    HOPE,    AND  PATIENCE   IN  EDUCATION 

.     331 

"BEABETH  ALL    THINGS."— 2  COR.  Xiii.  7 

.     332 

— "E  COELO  DESCENDIT  yvZOl  <r605UTef."— JUVENAL. 

.     332 

EIIITA^ION  ATTOrPAnTON  .... 

.     333 

TO   THE   YOUNG  ARTIST,    KAYSER   OF   KAYSERWERTH 

.     333 

MY  BAPTISMAL  BIRTH-DAY 

.     334 

EPITAPH 

.     334 

NOTES 

.     335 

APPEl^DIX. 

TO   NATURE 

.     347 

FAREWELL   TO   LOVE 

.     347 

"l   YET   REMAIN" 

.     348 

COUNT   RUMFORD'S   ESSAYS 

.     349 

"THE   EARLY   YEAR'S   FAST-FLYING   VAPOURS  STRAY"    . 

.     349 

TO   THE   REV.    W.    J.    H 

.     350 

TO   A   PRIMROSE           

.     351 

ON   THE  CHRISTENING   OF   A   FRIEND'S   CHILD  .      . 

.     351 

MUTUAL   PASSION 

.     353 

FROM  A  YOUNG   LADY 

.     354 

TRANSLATION   OF  A   PARAPHRASE  OF  THE  GOSPELS 

.     356 

ISRAEL'S   LAMENT 

.     357 

# 

//x./ 


Ite  hinc,  Camoenje  !  vos  quoque  ite,  suaves 
Diilces  Camcense  !    Nam  (fatebimur  enim) 
Dulces  fuistis.     Et  tameu  meas  chartas 
Revisitote,  sed  pudenter  et  raro. — Virg.  Catol.  vii. 
{From  iloe  Preface,  to  Uie  SibyUine 


POEMS   WKITTEN  IN  YOUTH. 


Felix  ciirarum,  cui  non  Heliconia  cordi 
herta,  nee  im  belles  Pamassi  e  vertice  laurus  ! 
£ed  viget  ingenium,  et  magnos  accinctus  iu  usus 
Fert  animus  quascunque  vices. — Nos  tristia  vitae 
Solamur  cantu. 

Stat.  Silv.,  lib.  iv.  4. 


POEMS  WRITTEN   IN  YOUTH. 


FIRST  ADVENT   OF  LOVE.* 

0  FAIR  is  Love's  first  hope  to  gentle  rDind  ! 
As  Eve's  first  star  thro'  fleecy  cloudlet  peeping ; 
And  sweeter  than  the  gentle  south-west  wind, 
O'er  willowy  meads  and  shadowed  waters  creeping 
And  Cex-es'  golden  fields  ; — the  sultry  hind 
Meets  it  with  brow  uplift,  and  stays  his  reaping. 

1788. 


GENEVIEVE. 


Maid  of  my  Love,  sweet  Genevieve  ! 
In  Beauty's  light  you  glide  along  : 
Your  eye  is  like  the  star  of  eve, 
And  sweet  yovir  Voice,  as  Seraph's  song. 
Yet  not  your  heavenly  Beauty  gives 
This  heart  with  passion  soft  to  glow  : 
Within  your  soul  a  Voice  there  lives  ! 
It  bids  you  hear  the  tale  of  Woe. 
When  sinking  low  the  Sufferer  wan 
Beholds  no  hand  outstretched  to  save, 

*  See  Note  at  the  end  of  the  volume. 


b2 


THE  RAVEN. 

Fair,  as  tbe  bosom  of  the  Swan 
That  I'ises  graceful  o'er  the  wave, 
I've  seen  your  breast  with  pity  heave, 
And  therefore  love  1  you,  aweet  Genevieve  ! 


THE  RAVEN". 

A   CHRISTMAS  TALE,  TOLD   BY   A   SCHOOL-BOT  TO    HIS  LITTLE 
BROTHERS  AND   SISTERS. 

Underkeath  an  old  oak  tree 

There  was  of  swine  a  huge  company, 

That  gninted  as  they  crunched  the  mast : 

For  that  was  ripe,  and  fell  full  fast. 

Then  they  trotted  away,  for  the  wind  grew  high  : 

One  acorn  they  left,  and  no  more  might  you  spy. 

Next  came  a  Raven,  that  liked  not  such  folly  : 

He  belonged,  they  did  say,  to  the  witch  Melancholy  ? 

Blacker  was  he  than  blackest  jet, 

Flew  low  in  the  rain,  and  his  feathers  not  wet. 

He  picked  up  the  acorn  and  buried  it  straight 

By  the  side  of  a  river  both  deep  and  great. 

Where  then  did  the  Raven  go  1 

He  went  high  and  low. 
Over  hill,  over  dale,  did  the  black  Raven  go. 

Many  Autumns,  many  Springs 

Travelled  he  with  wandering  wings  : 

Many  Summei-s,  many  Winters — 

I  can't  tell  half  his  adventures. 
At  length  he  came  back,  and  with  him  a  She, 
And  the  acorn  was  grown  to  a  tall  oak  tree. 
They  built  them  a  nest  in  the  topmost  bough, 
And  young  ones  they  had,  and  were  happy  enow. 
But  soon  came  a  woodman  in  leathern  guise. 
His  brow,  like  a  pent-house,  hung  over  his  eyes. 
He'd  an  axe  in  his  hand,  not  a  word  he  spoke, 
But  with  many  a  hem  !  and  a  sturdy  stroke. 


ABSENCE.  5 

At  length  he  brought  down  the  poor  Raven's  own  oak. 
His  young  ones  were  killed;  for  they  could  not  depart, 
And  their  mother  did  die  of  a  broken  heart. 
The  boughs  from  the  trunk  the  Woodman  did  sever; 
And  they  floated  it  down  on  the  course  of  the  river. 
They  sawed  it  in  planks,  and  its  bark  they  did  strip. 
And  with  this  tree  and  others  they  made  a  good  ship. 
The  ship,  it  was  launched ;  but  in  sight  of  the  land 
Such  a  storm  there  did  rise  as  no  ship  could  withstand. 
It  bulged  on  a  rock,  and  the  waves  rushed  in  fast : 
Round  and  round  flew  the  Raven,  and  cawed  to  the 

blast. 
He  heard  the  last  shriek  of  the  perishing  souls — 
See  !  See  !  o'er  the  topmast  the  mad  water  rolls  ! 

Right  glad  was  the  Raven,  and  off  he  went  fleet, 
And  Death  riding  home  on  a  cloud  he  did  meet. 
And  he  thank'd  him  again  and  again  for  this  treat : 

They  had  taken  his  all,  and  Revenge  it  was  sweet ! 


ABSENCE. 

A   FAREWELL  ODE   ON   QUITTING   SCHOOL  FOR  JESUS  COLLEGE, 
CAMBRIDGE. 

Where  graced  with  many  a  classic  spoil 

Cam  rolls  his  reverend  stream  along, 

I  haste  to  virge  the  learned  toil 

That  sternly  chides  my  love-lorn  song : 

Ah  me  !  too  mindful  of  the  days 

Illumed  by  Passion's  orient  rays, 

When  Peace,  and  Cheerfulness,  and  Health 

Enriched  me  with  the  best  of  wealth. 

Ah  fair  Delights  !  that  o'er  my  soul 

On  Memory's  wing,  like  shadows,  fly  ! 

Ah  Flowers  !  which  Joy  from  Eden  stole 

While  Innocence  stood  smiling  by  ! — 

But  cease,  fond  Heart !  this  bootless  moan  ; 

Those  Hours  on  rapid  Pinions  flown 


EPITAPH  ON  AN  INFANT. 

Shall  yet  return,  by  Absence  crowned, 
And  scatter  livelier  roses  round. 
The  Sun  who  ne'er  remits  his  fires 
On  heedless  eyes  may  pour  the  day  : 
The  Moon,  that  oft  from  Heaven  retires. 
Endears  her  renovated  ray. 
What  though  she  leave  the  sky  unblest 
To  mourn  awhile  in  murky  vestl 
When  she  relumes  her  lovely  Light, 
We  bless  the  Wanderer  of  the  Night. 


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  ! 

That  far  outstripp'd  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  pass'd, 
And  knows  not  whether  he  be  first  or  last. 


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. 


SONGS  OF  THE  PIXIES. 

The  Pixies,  in  the  superstition  of  Devonshire,  are  a  race 
of  beings  invisibly  small,  and  harmless  or  friendly  to  man. 
At  a  small  distance  from  a  village  iu  that  county,  half  way 
up  a  wood-covered  hill,  is  an  excavation  called  the  Pixies' 
Parlour.  The  roots  of  old  trees  form  its  ceiling  ;  and  ou  its 
sides  are  innumerable  cyphers,  among  which  the  Author 
discovered  his  own  and  those  of  his  brothers,  cut  by  the  hand 
of  their  childhood.  At  the  foot  of  the  hill  flows  the  river 
Otter. 

To  this  place  the  Author,  during  the  summer  months  of  the 
year  1793,  conducted  a  party  of  young  ladi-es  ;  one  of  whom, 
of  stature  elegantly  small,  and  of  complexion  colotu-less  yet 
clear,  was  proclaimed  the  Faery  Queen.  On  which  occasion 
the  following  Irregular  Ode  was  written. 


Whom  the  untaught  Shepherds  call 

Pixies  in  their  madrigal, 
Fancy's  children,  here  we  dwell : 

Welcome,  Ladies  !  to  our  cell. 
Here  the  wren  of  softest  note 

Builds  its  nest  and  warbles  well ; 
Here  the  blackbird  strains  his  throat ; 

Welcome,  Ladies  !  to  our  cell. 


When  fades  the  moon  to  shadowy-pale, 
And  scuds  the  cloud  before  the  gale, 
Ere  the  Morn,  all  gem-bedight, 
Hath  streak'd  the  East  with  rosy  light, 
We  sip  the  furze-flower's  fragrant  dews 
Clad  in  robes  of  rainbow  hues  : 
Or  sport  amid  the  shooting  gleams 
To  the  tune  of  distant-tinkling  teams, 
While  lusty  Labour  scouting  sorrow 
Bids  the  Dame  a  glad  good-morrow, 


SONGS   OF  THE  PIXIES. 

Who  jogs  the  accustomed  road  along, 
And  paces  cheery  to  her  cheering  song. 


But  not  our  filmy  pinion 

We  scorch  amid  the  blaze  of  day, 
When  Noontide's  fiery-tressed  minion 
Flashes  the  fervid  ray. 
Aye  from  the  sultry  heat 
We  to  the  cave  retreat 
O'ercanopied  by  huge  roots  intertwined 
With  wildest  texture,  blackened  o'er  with  age  : 
Round  them  their  mantle  green  the  ivies  bind, 
Beneath  whose  foliage  pale 
Fanned  by  the  uufrequent  gale 
We  shield  us  from  the  Tyrant's  mid-day  rage. 


Tbither,  while  the  murmuring  throng 
Of  wild-bees  hum  their  drowsy  song, 
By  Indolence  and  Fancy  brought, 
A  youthful  Bard,  "  unknown  to  Fame," 
Wooes  the  Queen  of  Solemn  Thought, 
And  heaves  the  gentle  misery  of  a  sigh 
Gazing  with  tearful  eye, 
As  round  our  sandy  grot  appeal 
Many  a  rudely  sculptured  name 
To  pensive  Memory  dear  ! 
Weaving  gay  dreams  of  sunny-tinctured  hue 

We  glance  before  his  view : 
O'er  his  hush'd  soul  our  soothing  witcheries  shed 
And  twine  the  future  garland  round  his  head. 


When  Evening's  dusky  car 
Crowned  with  her  dewy  star 
Steals  o'er  the  fading  sky  in  shadowy  flight 


SONGS  OP  THE  PIXIES.  9 

On  leaves  of  aspen  trees 
We  tremble  to  the  breeze 
Veiled  from  the  grosser  ken  of  mortal  sight. 

Or,  haply,  at  the  visionary  hour. 
Along  our  wildly-bowered  sequestered  walk, 
We  listen  to  the  enamoured  rustic's  talk; 
Heave  with  the  heavings  of  the  maiden's  breast, 
Where  young-eyed  Loves  have  hid  their  turtle  nest ; 

Or  guide  of  soul-subduing  power 
The  glance,  that  from  the  half-confessing  eye 
Darts  the  fond  question  or  the  soft  reply. 


Or  through  the  mystic  ringlets  of  the  vale 
We  flash  our  faery  feet  in  gamesome  prank : 
Or,  silent-sandaled,  pay  our  defter  court, 
Circling  the  Spirit  of  the  Western  Gale, 
Where  wearied  with  his  flower-caressing  sport, 
Supine  he  slumbers  on  a  violet  bank ; 
Then  with  quaint  music  hymn  the  parting  gleam 
By  lonely  Otter's  sleep-persuading  stream ; 
Or  where  his  wave  with  loud  unquiet  song 
Dashed  o'er  the  rocky  channel  froths  along ; 
Or  where,  his  silver  waters  smoothed  to  rest, 
The  tall  tree's  shadow  sleeps  upon  his  breast. 


Hence,  thou  lingerer,  Light .' 
Eve  saddens  into  Night. 
Mother  of  wildly-working  dreams  !  we  view 
The  sombre  hours,  that  round  thee  stand 
With  down-cast  eyes  (a  duteous  band) 
Their  dark  robes  dripping  with  the  heavy  dew 
Sorceress  of  the  ebon  throne  ! 
Thy  power  the  Pixies  own. 
When  round  thy  raven  brow 
Heaven's  lucent  roses  glow, 
And  clouds  in  watery  colours  drest 
Float  in  light  drapery  o'er  thy  sable  vest : 


THE  ROSE. 


"\Maat  time  the  pale  moon  sheds  a  softer  day 
Mellowing  the  woods  beneath  its  pensive  beam 
For  'mid  the  quivering  light  'tis  ours  to  play, 
Aye  dancing  to  the  cadence  of  the  stream. 


Welcome,  Ladies  !  to  the  cell 
"Where  the  blameless  Pixies  dwell  : 
But  thou,  sweet  Nymph  !  proclaimed  our  Faery  Queen, 
With  what  obeisance  meet 
Thy  presence  shall  we  greet  1 
For  lo  !  attendant  on  thy  steps  are  seen 
Graceful  Ease  in  artless  stole, 
And  white-robed  Purity  of  soul. 
With  Honour's  softer  mien  ; 
Mirth  of  the  loosely-flowing  hair, 
And  meek-eyed  Pity  eloquently  fair. 

Whose  tearful  cheeks  are  lovely  to  the  view, 
As  snow-drop  w^et  with  dew. 


Unboastful  Maid  !  though  now  the  Lily  pale 

Transparent  grace  thy  beauties  meek ; 
Yet  ere  again  along  the  impurpliug  vale. 
The  purpling  vale  and  elfin-haunted  grove, 
Young  Zephyr  his  fresh  flowers  profusely  throws, 

We'll  tinge  with  livelier  hues  thy  cheek; 

And,  haply,  from  the  nectar -bi-eat lung  Rose 

Extract  a  Blush  for  Love  ! 

1793. 


THE   ROSE. 


As  late  each  flower  that  sweetest  blows 
I  plucked,  the  Garden's  pride  ! 
Within  the  petals  of  a  Rose 
A  sleeping  Love  I  spied. 


KISSES. 

Around  his  brows  a  beamy  wreath 
Of  many  a  lucent  hue ; 
All  purple  glowed  his  cheek,  beneath, 
Inebriate  with  dew. 

I  softly  seized  the  unguarded  Power, 
K"or  scared  his  balmy  rest : 
And  placed  him,  caged  within  the  flower, 
On  spotless  Sara's  breast. 

But  when  unweeting  of  the  guile 
Awoke  the  prisoner  sweet, 
He  struggled  to  escape  awhile 
And  stamped  his  faery  feet. 

Ah  !  soon  the  soul-entrancing  sight 
Subdued  the  impatient  boy  ! 
He  gazed  !  he  thrilled  with  deep  delight  ! 
Then  clapped  his  wings  for  joy. 

"And  0  !  "  he  cried — "of  magic  kind 
What  charms  this  Throne  endear  ! 
Some  other  Love  let  Venus  find  — 
I'll  fix  my  empire  here." 


1793. 


KISSES.* 

Cupid,  if  storying  Legends  tell  aright, 

Once  framed  a  rich  Elixir  of  Delight. 

A  Chalice  o'er  love-kindled  flames  he  fixed, 

And  in  it  Nectar  and  Ambrosia  mixed  : 

With  these  the  magic  dews,  which  Evening  brings. 

Brushed  fi'om  the  Idalian  star  by  faery  wings  : 

*  See  Note. 


12  TO  SARA. 

Each  tender  pledge  of  sacred  Faith  he  joined, 
Each  gentler  Pleasure  of  the  unspotted  mind — 
Day-dreams,  whose  tints  with  sportive  brightness  glow, 
And  Hope,  the  blameless  Parasite  of  Woe. 
The  eyeless  Chemist  heard  the  process  x*ise, 
The  steamy  Chahce  bubbled  up  in  sighs; 
Sweet  sounds  transpired,  as  when  the  enamoured  Dove 
Pours  the  soft  murmuring  of  responsive  Love. 
The  finished  work  might  Envy  vainly  blame, 
And  "Kisses"  was  the  precious  Compound's  name. 
With  half  the  God  his  Cyprian  Mother  blest, 
And  breathed  on  Sara's  lovelier  lips  the  rest. 

July,  1793. 


TO  SAPtA. 

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  Kasses  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 ; 

0  fair  !  0  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  SIGH. 

The  whispered  "  No" — how  httle  meant ! 
Sweet  Falsehood  that  endears  Consent  ! 
For  on  those  lovely  lips  the  while 
Dawns  the  soft  i-elenting  smile, 
And  tempts  with  feigned  dissuasion  coy 
The  gentle  violence  of  Joy. 


THE  SIGH. 

When  Youth  his  faeiy  reign  began 
Ere  sorrow  had  proclaimed  me  man ; 
While  Peace  the  present  hour  beguiled, 
And  all  the  lovely  Prospect  smiled  ; 
Then  Mary  !  'mid  my  lightsome  glee 
I  heaVd  the  painless  Sigh  for  tbee. 

And  when,  along  the  waves  of  woe, 
My  harassed  Heart  was  doomed  to  know 
The  frantic  burst  of  Outrage  keen, 
And  the  slow  Pang  that  gnaws  unseen ; 
Then  shipwi'ecked  on  Life's  stormy  sea 
I  heaved  an  anguished  Sigh  for  thee ! 

But  soon  Reflection's  power  imprest 
A  stiller  sadness  on  my  breast ; 
And  sickly  Hope  with  waning  eye 
Was  well  content  to  droop  and  die  : 
I  yielded  to  the  stern  decree, 
Yet  heaved  a  languid  Sigh  for  thee  ! 

And  though  in  distant  climes  to  roam, 
A  wanderer  from  my  native  home, 
I  fain  would  soothe  the  sense  of  Care, 
And  lull  to  sleep  the  Joys  that  were, 
Thy  Image  may  not  banished  be — 
Still,  Mary  !  still  I  sigh  for  thee, 

June,  1794. 


14 


LINES 

TO   A   BEAUTIFUL   SPRIKG   IN   A   VILLAGE. 

Once  more,  sweet  Stream  !  with  slow  foot  wandering 

I  bless  thy  milky  waters  cold  and  clear.  [near, 

Escaped  the  flashing  of  the  noontide  hours, 

With  one  fresh  garland  of  Pierian  flowers, 

(Ere  from  thy  zephyr-haunted  brink  I  turn,) 

My  languid  hand  shall  wreathe  thy  mossy  urn. 

For  not  through  pathless  grove  with  murmur  rude 

Thou  soothest  the  sad  wood-nymph,  Solitude ; 

Nor  thine  unseen  in  cavern  depths  to  well, 

The  hermit-fountain  of  some  dripping  cell  ! 

Pride  of  the  Vale  !  thy  useful  streams  supply 

The  scattered  cots  and  peaceful  hamlet  nigh. 

The  elfin  tribe  around  thy  friendly  banks 

With  infant  uproar  and  soul-soothing  pranks. 

Released  from  school,  their  little  hearts  at  rest, 

Launch  paper  navies  on  thy  waveless  breast. 

The  rustic  here  at  eve  with  pensive  look 

Whistling  lorn  ditties  leans  upon  his  crook, 

Or  starting  pauses  with  hope-mingled  dread 

To  list  the  much-loved  maid's  accustomed  tread : 

She,  vainly  mindful  of  her  dame's  command, 

Loiters,  the  long-filled  pitcher  in  her  hand. 

Unboastful  Stream  !  thy  fount  with  pebbled  falls 
The  faded  form  of  past  delight  recalls, 
What  time  the  morning  sun  of  Hope  arose, 
And  all  was  joy  ;  save  when  another's  woes 
A  transient  gloom  upon  my  soul  imprest, 
Like  passing  clouds  impictured  on  thy  breast. 
Life's  current  then  ran  sparkling  to  the  noon. 
Or  silvery  stole  beneath  the  pensive  Moon  : 
Ah  !  now  it  works  rude  brakes  and  thorns  among, 
Or  o'er  the  rough  rock  bursts  and  foams  along  ! 


LINES  ON  AN  AUTUMNAL  EVENING.* 

0  THOU  wild  Fancy,  check  thy  wing  !     No  more 
Those  thin  white  flakes,  those  purple  clouds  explore  ! 
Nor  there  with  happy  spirits  speed  thy  flight 
Bathed  in  rich  amber-glowing  floods  of  light; 

Nor  in  yon  gleam,  where  slow  descends  the  day, 

With  western  peasants  hail  the  morning  ray  ! 

Ah  !  rather  bid  the  perished  pleasures  move, 

A  shadowy  train,  across  the  soul  of  Love  ! 

O'er  Disappointment's  wintry  desert  fling 

Each  flower  that  wreathed  the  dewy  locks  of  Spring, 

When  blushing,  like  a  bride,  from  Hope's  trim  bower 

She  leapt,  awakened  by  the  pattering  shower. 

Now  sheds  the  sinking  Sun  a  deeper  gleam, 

Aid,  lovely  Sorceress  !  aid  thy  Poet's  dream  ! 

With  faery  wand  0  bid  the  Maid  arise, 

Chaste  Joyance  dancing  in  her  bright-blue  eyes  ; 

As  erst  when  from  the  Muses'  calm  abode 

1  came,  with  Leai'ning's  meed  not  unbestowed  ; 
WTien  as  she  twined  a  laurel  round  my  brow, 
And  met  my  kiss,  and  half  returned  my  vow, 
O'er  all  my  frame  shot  rapid  my  thrilled  heart, 
And  eveiy  nerve  confessed  the  electric  dart. 

0  dear  Deceit !  I  see  the  maiden  rise. 
Chaste  Joyance  dancing  in  her  bright-blue  eyes, 
When  first  the  lark  high  soaring  swells  his  throat. 
Mocks  the  tired  eye,  and  scatters  the  loud  note, 
I  trace  her  footsteps  on  the  accustomed  lawn, 
I  mark  her  glancing  'mid  the  gleams  of  dawn. 
When  the  bent  flower  beneath  the  night  dew  weeps 
And  on  the  lake  the  silver  lustre  sleeps, 
Amid  the  paly  radiance  soft  and  sad, 
She  meets  my  lonely  path  in  moon-beams  clad. 

See  Note. 


16  LINES  OX  AN  AUTUMNAL  EVENING. 

Witli  her  along  the  streamlet's  brink  I  rove ; 
With  her  I  list  the  warblings  of  the  grove ; 
And  seems  in  each  low  wind  her  voice  to  float, 
Lone  whispering  Pity  in  each  soothing  note  ! 

Spirits  of  Love  !  ye  heard  her  name  !     Obey 
The  powerful  spell,  and  to  my  haunt  repair. 
Whether  on  clustering  pinions  ye  are  there, 
Where  rich  snows  blossom  on  the  Myrtle  trees, 
Or  with  fond  languishment  around  my  fair 
Sigh  in  the  loose  luxuriance  of  her  hair ; 
0  heed  the  spell,  and  hither  wing  your  way, 
Like  far-off  music,  voyaging  the  breeze  ! 

Spirits  !  to  you  the  infant  Maid  was  given 
Formed  by  the  wondrous  Alchemy  of  Heaven  ! 
No  fairer  Maid  does  Love's  wide  empii-e  know, 
No  fairer  Maid  e'er  heaved  the  bosom's  snow. 
A  thousand  Loves  around  her  forehead  fly  ; 
A  thousand  Loves  sit  melting  in  her  eye ; 
Love  lights  her  smile — in  Joy's  red  nectar  dips 
His  myrtle  flower,  and  plants  it  on  her  lips. 
She  speaks  !  and  hark  that  passion-warbled  song — 
Still,  Fancy  !  still  that  voice,  those  notes  prolong. 
As  sweet  as  when  that  voice  with  rapturous  falls 
Shall  wake  the  softened  echoes  of  Heaven's  Halls  ! 

0  (have  I  sighed)  were  mine  the'wizard's  rod, 
Or  mine  the  power  of  Proteus,  changeful  God  ! 
A  flower-entangled  Arbour  I  would  seem 
To  shield  my  Love  from  Noontide's  sultry  beam : 
Or  bloom  a  Myrtle,  from  whose  odorous  boughs 
My  Love  might  weave  gay  garlands  for  her  brows. 
When  Twilight  stole  across  the  fading  vale, 
To  fan  my  Love  I'd  be  the  Evening  Gale; 
Mourn  in  the  soft  folds  of  her  swelling  vest. 
And  flutter  my  faint  pinions  on  her  breast ! 
On  Seraph  wing  I'd  float  a  Dream  by  night, 
To  soothe  my  Love  with  shadows  of  delight : — 


LINES  ON  AN  AUTUMNAL  EVENING.  1 

Or  soar  aloft  to  be  the  Spangled  Skies, 
And  gaze  upon  her  with  a  thousand  eyes  ! 

As  when  the  savage,  who  his  drowsy  frame 
Had  basked  beneath  the  Sun's  unclouded  flame, 
Awakes  amid  the  troubles  of  the  air, 
The  skiey  deluge,  and  white  lightning's  glare — 
Aghast  he  scours  before  the  tempest's  sweep, 
And  sad  recalls  the  sunny  hour  of  sleep  : — 
So  tossed  by  storms  along  Life's  wildering  way. 
Mine  eye  reverted  views  that  cloudless  day, 
When  by  my  native  brook  I  wont  to  rove, 
While  Hope  with  kisses  nursed  the  Infant  Love, 
Dear  native  brook !  like  Peace,  so  placidly 
Smoothing  through  fertile  fields  thy  current  meek  ! 
Dear  native  brook  !  where  first  young  Poesy 
Stared  wildly-eager  in  her  noontide  dream  ! 
Where  blameless  pleasures  dimple  Quiet's  cheek, 
As  water-lilies  ripple  thy  slow  stream  ! 
Dear  native  haunts  !  wliere  Virtue  still  is  gay, 
Where  Friendship's  fixed  star  sheds  a  mellowed  ray, 
Where  Love  a  crown  of  thornless  Roses  wears, 
Where  softened  Sorrow  smiles  within  her  tears  ; 
And  Memory,  with  a  Vestal's  chaste  employ, 
Unceasing  feeds  the  lambent  flame  of  joy  ! 
No  more  your  sky-larks  melting  from  the  sight 
Shall  thrill  the  attuned  heart-stiiug  with  delight — 
No  more  shall  deck  your  pensive  Pleasures  sweet 
With  wreaths  of  sober  hue  my  evening  seat. 
Yet  dear  to  Fancy's  eje  your  varied  scene 
Of  wood,  hill,  dale,  and  spax'kling  brook  between  ! 
Yet  sweet  to  Fancy's  ear  the  warbled  song, 
That  soars  on  Morning's  wing  your  vales  among  ! 

Scenes  of  my  Hope  !  the  aching  eye  ye  leave 
Like  yon  bright  hues  that  paint  the  clouds  of  eve  ! 
Tearful  and  saddening  with  the  saddened  blaze 
Mine  eye  the  gleam  pursues  with  wistful  gaze  : 
Sees  shades  on  shades  with  deeper  tint  impend, 
Till  chill  and  damp  the  moonless  night  descend. 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY, 

WITH  A  POEM  ON  THE  FRENCH  REVOLUTION. 

Much  on  my  early  youth  I  love  to  dwell, 
Ere  yet  I  bade  that  friendly  dome  farewell, 
Where  first,  beneath  the  echoing  cloisters  pale^ 
I  heard  of  guilt  and  wondered  at  the  tale  ! 
Yet  though  the  hours  flew  by  on  careless  wing, 
Full  heavily  of  Sorrow  would  I  sing. 
Aye  as  the  star  of  evening  flung  its  beam 
In  broken  radiance  on  the  wavy  stream, 
My  soul  amid  the  pensive  twilight  gloom 
Mourned  with  the  breeze,  0  Lee  Boo  !  *  o'er  thy  tomb. 
Where'er  I  wandered,  Pity  still  was  near. 
Breathed  from  the  heart  aad  glistened  in  the  tear  : 
No  knell  that  tolled,  but  filled  my  anxious  eye, 
And  sufiering  Nature  wept  that  one  should  die  !  f 

Thus  to  sad  sympathies  I  soothed  my  breast, 
Calm,  as  the  rainbow  in  the  weeping  West : 
When  slumbering  Freedom  roused  by  high  Disdain 
With  giant  fury  burst  her  triple  chain  ! 
Fierce  on  her  front  the  blasting  Dog-star  glowed  ; 
Her  banners,  like  a  midnight  meteor,  flowed ; 
Amid  the  yelling  of  the  storm-rent  skies 
She  came,  and  scattered  battles  from  her  eyes  ! 
Then  Exultation  waked  the  patriot  fire 
And  swept  with  wild  hand  the  Tja-taean  lyre : 
Red  from  the  Tyrant's  wound  I  shook  the  lance. 
And  strode  in  joy  the  reeking  plains  of  France  ! 

*  Lee  Boo,  the  son  of  Abba  Thiile,  Prince  of  the  Pelew 
Islands,  came  over  to  England  with  Captain  Wilson,  died  of 
the  smallpox,  and  is  buried  in  Rotherhithe  church-yard. 
See  Keate's  Account. 

t  Southey's  Reti-ospect. 


IMITATED  FROM  OSSIAN.  19 

Fallen  is  the  oppressor,  friendless,  ghastly,  low, 
And  my  heart  aches,  though  Mercy  struck  the  blow. 
With  wearied  thought  once  more  I  seek  the  shade. 
Where  peaceful  Virtue  weaves  the  myrtle  braid. 
And  0  !  if  Eyes  whose  holy  glances  roll, 
Swift  messengers,  and  eloquent  of  soul ; 
If  Smiles  more  winning,  and  a  gentler  Mien 
Than  the  love-mldered  Maniac's  brain  hath  seen 
Shaping  celestial  forms  in  vacant  air, 
If  these  demand  the  impassioned  Poet's  care — 
If  Mirth  and  softened  Sense  and  Wit  refined, 
The  blameless  features  of  a  lovely  mind  ; 
Then  haply  shall  my  trembling  hand  assign 
No  fading  wreath  to  Beauty's  saintly  shrine. 
Noi",  Sara  !  thou  these  early  flowers  refuse — 
Ne'er  lurked  the  snake  beneath  their  simple  hues  ; 
No  purple  bloom  the  Child  of  Nature  brings 
From  Flattery's  night-shade  :  as  he  feels  he  sings. 

September,  ITQS. 


IMITATED  FROM   OSSIAN. 

The  stream  with  languid  mux-mur  creeps. 

In  Lumin's  flowery  vale  : 
Beneath  the  dew  the  Lily  weeps 

Slow-waving  to  the  gale. 

"  Cease,  restless  gale  !  "  it  seems  to  say, 
"  Nor  wake  me  with  thy  sighing  ! 

The  honoui's  of  my  vernal  day 
On  rapid  wing  are  flying. 

"To-morrow  shall  the  Traveller  come 
Who  late  beheld  me  blooming : 

His  searching  eye  shall  vainly  roam 
The  dreary  vale  of  Lumin." 


THE  COMPLAINT  OF  NINATHOMA. 

With  eager  gaze  and  wetted  cheek 

My  wonted  haunts  along, 
Thus,  faithful  Maiden  !  thou  shalt  seek 

The  Youth  of  simplest  song. 

But  I  along  the  breeze  shall  roll 

The  voice  of  feeble  power  ; 
And  dwell,  the  Moon-beam  of  thy  soul, 

In  Slumber's  nightly  hour. 


THE  COMPLAINT  OF  NINATHOMA. 

How  long  will  ye  round  me  be  swelling, 
0  ye  blue-tumbling  waves  of  the  sea'J 

Not  always  in  caves  was  my  dwelling, 
Nor  beneath  the  cold  blast  of  the  tree. 

Through  the  high-sounding  halls  of  Cathloma 
In  the  steps  of  my  beauty  I  strayed  ; 

The  warriors  beheld  Xinathoma, 

And  they  blessed  the  white-bosomed  Maid  ! 

A  Ghost !  by  my  cavern  it  darted  ! 

In  moon-beams  the  Spirit  was  drest — 
For  lovely  appear  the  departed 

When  they  visit  the  dreams  of  my  rest  ! 

But  disturbed  by  the  tempest's  commotion 
Fleet  the  shadowy  forms  of  delight — 

Ah  cease,  thou  shrill  blast  of  the  Ocean  ! 
To  howl  through  my  cavern  by  night 


TO   A  YOUNG  ASS. 

ITS   MOTHER   BEING   TETHERED   NEAR   IT. 

Poor  little  Foal  of  an  oppressed  Race  ! 

I  love  the  languid  Patience  of  thy  face : 

And  oft  with  gentle  hand  I  give  thee  bread, 

And  clap  thy  ragged  Coat,  and  pat  thy  head. 

But  what  thy  dulled  Spirits  hath  dismayed, 

That  never  thou  dost  sport  along  the  glade  1 

And  (most  unlike  the  nature  of  things  young) 

That  earthward  still  thy  moveless  head  is  hung  ? 

Do  thy  prophetic  Fears  anticipate. 

Meek  Child  of  Misery  !  thy  future  fate  ? 

The  starving  meal,  and  all  the  thousand  aches 

"Which  patient  Merit  of  the  Unworthy  takes'?" 

Or  is  thy  sad  heart  thiilled  with  filial  pain 

To  see  thy  wretched  Mother's  shortened  Chain  ? 

And,  truly  very  piteous  is  her  Lot — 

Chained  to  a  Log  within  a  narrow  spot. 

Where  the  close-eaten  Grass  is  scarcely  seen. 

While  sweet  around  her  waves  the  tempting  Green. 

Poor  Ass  !  thy  master  should  have  learnt  to  show 

Pity — best  taught  by  fellowship  of  Woe  ! 

For  much  I  fear  me  that  He  lives  like  thee, 

Half  famished  in  a  land  of  Luxury  ! 

How  askingly  its  footsteps  hither  bend, 

It  seems  to  say,  "And  have  I  then  one  Friend?" 

Innocent  Foal !  thou  poor  despised  Forlorn  ! 

I  hail  thee  Brother — spite  of  the  fool's  scorn  ! 

And  fain  would  take  thee  with  me,  in  the  Dell 

Of  Peace  and  mild  Equality  to  dwell. 

Where  Toil  shall  call  the  charmer  Health  his  bride. 

And  Laughter  tickle  Plenty's  ribless  side  ! 

How  thou  wouldst  t033  thy  heels  in  gamesome  play. 

And  frisk  about,  as  lamb  or  kitten  gay  ! 


22  TO  AN  INFANT. 

Yea  !  aud,  more  musically  sweet  to  me 
Thy  dissonant  harsh  bray  of  joy  would  be, 
Than  warbled  melodies  that  soothe  to  rest 
The  aching  of  pale  Fashion's  vacant  breast  ! 

December,  1794. 


TO  AN  INFANT. 


Ah  !  cease  thy  tears  and  sobs,  my  little  Life  ! 
I  did  but  snatch  away  the  unclasped  knife : 
Some  safer  toy  will  soon  arrest  thine  eye, 
And  to  quick  laughter  change  this  peevish  cry  ! 
Poor  stumbler  on  the  rocky  coast  of  woe, 
Tutored  by  pain  each  source  of  pain  to  know  ! 
Alike  the  foodful  fruit  aud  scorching  fire 
Awake  thy  eager  grasp  and  young  desire ; 
Alike  the  Good,  the  111  oflFend  thy  sight, 
And  rouse  the  stormy  sense  of  shrill  affright  ! 
Untaiight,  yeb  wise  !  'mid  all  thy  brief  alarms 
Thou  closely  clingest  to  thy  Mother's  arms, 
Nestling  thy  little  face  in  that  fond  breast 
Whose  anxious  heavings  lull  thee  to  thy  rest  ! 
Man's  breathing  Miniature  !  thou  mak'st  me  sigh — 
A  Babe  art  thou — and  such  a  Thing  am  I  ! 
To  anger  rapid  and  as  soon  appeased, 
For  trifles  mourning  and  by  trifles  pleased. 
Break  Friendship's  mirror  with  a  tetchy  blow, 
Yet  snatch  what  coals  of  fire  on  Pleasure's  altar  glow 

0  thou  that  rearest  with  celestial  aim 
The  future  Seraph  in  my  mortal  frame, 
Thrice  holy  Faith  !  whatever  thorns  I  meet, 
As  on  I  totter  with  unpractised  feet, 
Still  let  me  stretch  my  arms  and  cling  to  thee, 
Meek  nurse  of  souls  through  theii-  long  infancy  ! 


DOMESTIC  PEACE. 

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  Kebel's  noisy  hate, 
In  a  cottaged  vale  She  dwells 
Listening  to  the  Sabbath  bells  ! 
Still  around  her  steps  are  seen 
Spotless  Honoui"'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. 


IMITATED  FROM   THE  WELSH. 

If,  while  my  passion  I  impart, 
You  deem  my  words  untrue, 

0  place  your  hand  upon  my  heart — • 
Feel  how  it  throbs  for  you. 

Ah  no  !  reject  the  thoughtless  claim 

In  pity  to  your  Lover  ! 
That  thrilling  touch  would  aid  the  flame, 

It  wishes  to  discover. 


24 


LINES 

WRITTEN   AT   THE   KING's   ARMS,  ROSS,  FORMERLY    THE  HOUSE 
OF  THE    "man  of  ROSS." 

Richer  than  Miser  o'er  liis  countless  hoards, 
Nobler  than  Kings,  or  king-polluted  Lords, 
Here  dwelt  the  Man  of  Eoss  !  0  Traveller,  hear  ! 
Departed  Merit  claims  a  reverent  tear. 
Friend  to  the  friendless,  to  the  sick  man  health, 
With  generous  joy  he  viewed  his  modest  wealth  ; 
He  heard  the  widow's  heaven-breathed  prayer  of  praise, 
He  marked  the  sheltered  orphan's  tearful  gaze. 
Or  where  the  sorrow-shrivelled  captive  lay. 
Poured  the  bright  blaze  of  Freedom's  noon-tide  ray. 
Beneath  this  roof  if  thy  cheered  moments  pass. 
Fill  to  the  good  man's  name  one  grateful  glass  : 
To  higher  zest  shall  Memory  wake  thy  soul, 
And  Virtue  mingle  in  the  ennobled  bowl. 
But  if,  like  me,  through  life's  distressful  scene 
Lonely  and  sad  thy  pilgrimage  hath  been  ; 
And  if  thy  breast  with  heart-sick  anguish  fraught, 
Thou  journeyest  onward  tempest-tossed  in  thought: 
Here  cheat  thy  cares  !  in  generous  visions  melt, 
And  dream  of  Goodness,  thou  hast  never  feli  ! 


TO  THE  NIGHTINGALE. 

Sister  of  love-lorn  Poets,  Philomel  ! 

How  many  Bards  in  city  garret  pent, 

While  at  their  window  they  with  downward  eye 

Mark  the  faint  Lamp-beam  on  the  kennelled  mud, 

And  listen  to  the  drowsy  cry  of  Watchmen, 

(Those  hoarse  unfeathered  Nightingales  of  Time !) 


TO  A  FRIEND.  2 

How  many  wretched  Bards  address  tliy  name, 
And  Her's,  the  full-orbed  Queen,  that  shines  above. 
But  I  do  hear  thee,  and  the  high  bough  mark, 
Within  whose  mild  moon-mellowed  foliage  hid 
Thou  warblest  sad  thy  pity-pleading  strains. 

0  !  I  have  listened,  till  my  working  soul, 
Waked  by  those  strains  to  thousand  phantasies. 
Absorbed  hath  ceased  to  listen !     Therefore  oft 

1  hymn  thy  name ;  and  with  a  proud  delight 
Oft  will  I  tell  thee,  Minstrel  of  the  Moon  ! 

"  Most  musical,  most  melancholy  "  Bird  ! 
That  all  thy  soft  diversities  of  tone, 
Tho'  sweeter  far  than  the  delicious  airs 
That  vibrate  from  a  white-armed  Lady's  harp, 
What  time  the  languishment  of  lonely  love 
Melts  in  her  eye,  and  heaves  her  breast  of  snow, 
Are  not  so  sweet,  as  is  the  voice  of  her, 
My  Sara, — best  beloved  of  human  kind ! 
When  breathing  the  pure  soul  of  Tenderness 
She  thrills  me  with  the  Husband's  promised  name. 

1794. 


TO  A  FRIEND, 

TOGETHER  WITH   AN   UNFINISHED   POEM. 

Thus  far  my  scanty  brain  hath  built  the  rhyme 
Elaborate  and  swelling  ;  yet  the  heart 
Not  owns  it.     From  thy  spirit-breathing  powers 
I  ask  not  now,  my  Friend  !  the  aiding  verse, 
Tedious  to  thee,  and  from  thy  anxious  thought 
Of  dissonant  mood.     In  fancy  (well  I  know) 
From  business  wandering  far  and  local  cares, 
Thou  creepest  round  a  dear-loved  Sister's  bed 
With  noiseless  step,  and  watchest  the  faint  look, 
Soothing  each  pang  with  fond  solicitude, 
And  tenderest  tones  medicinal  of  love. 
I  too  a  Sister  had,  an  only  Sister — 


.LINES  ON  A  FRIEND. 

She  loved  me  dearly,  and  I  doted  on  her ! 
To  her  I  poured  forth  all  my  puny  sorrows 
(As  a  sick  Patient  in  his  Nurse's  arms) 
And  of  the  heart  those  hidden  maladies 
That  shrink  ashamed  from  even  Friendship's  eye, 
0  !  I  have  woke  at  midnight,  and  have  wept, 
Because  she  was  not ! — Cheerily,  dear  Charles  ! 
Thou  thy  best  friend  shalt  cherish  many  a  year ; 
Such  warm  presages  feel  I  of  high  Hope, 
For  not  unintei-ested  the  dear  maid 
I've  viewed — her  soul  affectionate  yet  wise, 
Her  polished  wit  as  mild  as  lambent  glories 
That  play  around  a  sainted  infant's  head. 
(He  knows,  the  Spirit  that  in  secret  sees, 
Of  whose  omniscient  and  all-spreading  Love 
Aught  to  implore  were  impotence  of  mind)* 
That  my  mute  thoughts  are  sad  before  His  throne, 
Prepared,  when  He  his  healing  ray  vouchsafes, 
To  pour  forth  thanksgiving  with  lifted  heart, 
And  praise  Him  Gracious  with  a  Brother's  joy  ! 

December,  1794. 


LINES   ON  A  FRIEND 

WHO  DIED   OF  A   FRENZY   FEVER  INDUCED   BY   CALUMNIOUS 
REPORTS. 

Edmund  !  thy  grave  with  aching  eye  I  scan. 
And  inly  groan  for  Heaven's  poor  outcast — Man  ! 
'Tis  tempest  all  or  gloom  :  in  eai'ly  youth 
If  gifted  with  the  Ithuriel  lance  of  Truth 

*  I  utterly  recant  the  sentiment  contained  in  the  lines — 

Of  whose  omniscient  and  all-spreading  Love 
Aught  to  implore  were  impotence  of  mind, 

it  being  written  in  Scripture,  *' Ask,  and  it  shall  be  given 
you ; "  and  my  human  reason  being,  moreover,  convinced 
of  the  propriety  of  offering  petitions  as  well  as  thanksgivings 
to  Deity.— S,  T.  C,  1797. 


LINES  ON  A  FRIEND.  27 

We  force  to  start  amid  her  feigned  caress 

Vice,  siren-hag !  in  native  ugliness ; 

A  Brother's  fate  will  haply  rouse  the  tear, 

And  on  we  go  in  heaviness  and  fear  ! 

But  if  our  fond  hearts  call  to  Pleasure's  bower 

Some  pigmy  Folly  in  a  careless  hour, 

The  faithless  guest  shall  stamp  the  enchanted  ground. 

And  mingled  forms  of  Misery  rise  around  : 

Heart-fretting  Fear,  with  pallid  look  aghast, 

That  courts  the  future  woe  to  hide  the  past ; 

Remorse,  the  poisoned  arrow  in  his  side, 

And  loud  lewd  Mirth,  to  Anguish  close  allied : 

Till  Frenzy,  fierce-eyed  child  of  moping  Pain, 

Darts  her  hot  lightning-flash  athwart  the  brain. 

Rest,  injured  Shade  !     Shall  Slander  squatting  near 

Spit  her  cold  venom  in  a  dead  Man's  ear'? 

'Twas  thine  to  feel  the  sympathetic  glow 

In  Merit's  joy,  and  Poverty's  meek  woe  ; 

Thine  all,  that  cheer  the  moment  as  it  flies, 

The  zoneless  Cares,  and  smiling  Courtesies. 

Nursed  in  thy  heart  the  firmer  Virtues  grew. 

And  in  thy  heart  they  withered  !  Such  chill  dew 

Wan  Indolence  on  each  young  blossom  shed ; 

And  Vanity  her  filmy  net-work  spread 

With  eye  that  rolled  around  in  asking  gaze. 

And  tongue  that  trafficked  in  the  trade  of  praise. 

Thy  follies  such !  the  hard  world  marked  them  well ! 

Were  they  more  wise,  the  proud  who  never  fell  ? 

Rest,  injured  Shade  !  the  poor  man's  grateful  prayer 

On  heaven-ward  wing  thy  wounded  soul  shall  bear. 

As  oft  at  twilight  gloom  thy  grave  I  pass, 

And  sit  me  down  upon  its  recent  grass, 

With  introverted  eye  I  contemplate 

Similitude  of  soul,  perhaps  of — fate. 

To  me  hath  Heaven  with  bounteous  hand  assigned 

Enei'gic  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  ray  graspless  hand 

Drop  Friendship's  precious  pearls,  like  hour-glass  sand. 


2S     MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  CHATTERTON. 

I  weep,  yet  stoop  not !  the  faint  anguish  flows, 
A  dreamy  pang  in  Morning's  feverish  doze. 

Is  this  piled  earth  our  Being's  passless  mound  ? 
Tell  me,  cold  grave !  is  death  with  poppies  crowned  ? 
Tired  Sentinel !     'Mid  fitful  starts  I  nod, 
And  fain  Avould  sleep,  though  pillowed  on  a  clod ! 

November,  1794:. 


MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  CHATTERTON.* 

0  WHAT  a  wonder  seems  the  fear  of  death, 

Seeing  how  gladly  we  all  sink  to  sleep. 

Babes,  Children,  Youths,  and  Men, 

Night  following  night  for  threescore  years  and  ten  ! 

But  doubly  sti^ange,  where  life  is  but  a  breath 

To  sigh  and  pant  with,  up  Want's  rugged  steep. 

Away,  Grim  Phantom !  Scorpion  King,  away ! 

Reserve  thy  terrors  and  thy  stings  display 

For  coward  Wealth  and  Guilt  in  robes  of  State ! 

Lo  !  by  the  grave  I  stand  of  one,  for  whom 

A  prodigal  Nature  and  a  niggard  Doom 

(That  all  bestowing,  this  withholding  all,) 

Made  each  chance  knell  from  distant  spire  or  dome 

Sound  like  a  seeking  Mother's  anxious  call. 

Return,  poor  Child  !  Home,  weary  Truant,  home  ! 

Thee,  Chatterton  !  these  unblest  stones  protect 
From  want,  and  the  bleak  freezings  of  neglect. 
Too  long  before  the  vexing  Storm-blast  driven 
Here  hast  thou  found  repose !  beneath  this  sod  ! 
Thou  !  0  vain  word  !  thou  dwell'st  not  with  the  clod ! 
Amid  the  shining  Host  of  the  Forgiven 
Thou  at  the  throne  of  Mercy  and  thy  God 

*  See  Note. 


MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  CHATTERTON.   29 

The  triumph  of  redeeming  Love  dost  hymn 
(Believe  it,  0  my  soul !)  to  harps  of  Seraphim. 
Yet  oft,  perforce,  ("tis  suffering  Nature's  call) 
I  weep,  that  heaven-born  Genius  so  should  fall ; 
And  oft,  in  Fancy's  saddest  hour,  my  soul 
Averted  shudders  at  the  poisoned  bowl. 
Now  groans  my  sickening  heart,  as  still  I  view 

Thy  corse  of  livid  hue  ; 
Now  indignation  checks  the  feeble  sigh, 
Or  flashes  through  the  tear  that  glistens  in  mine  eye  ! 

Is  this  the  land  of  song-ennobled  line  1 

Is  this  the  land,  where  Genius  ne'er  in  vain 

Poured  forth  his  lofty  strain  1 
Ah  me !  yet  Spenser,  gentlest  bard  divine, 
Beneath  chill  Disappointment's  shade, 
His  weary  limbs  in  lonely  anguish  laid  ; 

And  o'er  her  darling  dead 

Pity  hopeless  hung  her  head, 
While  "  mid  the  pelting  of  that  merciless  storm," 
Sunk  to  the  cold  earth  Otway's  famished  form  ! 

Sublime  of  thought,  and  confident  of  fame, 

From  vales  where  Avon  winds  the  Minstrel  *  came. 

Light-hearted  youth  !  aye,  as  he  hastes  along. 

He  meditates  the  future  song, 
How  dauntless  ^lla  fray'd  the  Dacyan  foe  ; 

And  while  the  numbers  flowing  strong 

In  eddies  whirl,  in  surges  throng, 
Exulting  in  the  spirits'  genial  throe 
In  tides  of  power  his  life-blood  seems  to  flow. 

And  now  his  cheeks  with  deeper  ardours  flame, 
His  eyes  have  glorious  meanings,  that  declare 
More  than  the  light  of  outward  day  shines  there, 
A  holier  triumph  and  a  sterner  aim ! 
Wings  grow  within  him,  and  he  soars  above 
Or  Bard's  or  Minstrel's  lay  of  war  or  love. 

*  Avon,  a  river  near  Bristol,  the  birth-place  of  Chatterton. 


so     MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  CHATTERTON. 

Friend  to  the  friendless,  to  the  Sufferer  health, 
He  hears  the  widow's  prayer,  the  good  man's  praise  : 
To  scenes  of  bliss  transmutes  his  fancied  wealth, 
And  young  and  old  shall  now  see  happy  days. 
On  many  a  waste  he  bids  trim  Gardens  rise, 
Gives  the  blue  sky  to  many  a  prisoner's  eyes ; 
And  now  in  wrath  he  grasps  the  patriot  steel, 
And  her  own  iron  rod  he  makes  Oppi*ession  feel. 

Sweet  Flower  of  Hope  !  free  Nature's  genial  child ! 
That  didst  so  fair  disclose  thy  early  bloom, 
Filling  the  wide  air  with  a  rich  perfume ! 
For  thee  in  vain  all  heavenly  aspects  smiled  ; 
From  the  hard  world  brief  respite  could  they  win — 
The  frost  nipped  sharp  without,  the  canker  preyed 

within  ! 
Ah  !  where  are  fled  the  charms  of  vernal  Grace, 
And  Joy's  wild  gleams  that  lightened  o'er  thy  face? 
Youth  of  tumultuous  soul,  and  haggard  eye  ! 
Thy  wasted  form,  thy  huri'ied  steps  I  view, 
On  thy  wan  forehead  starts  the  lethal  dew, 
And  oh  !  the  anguish  of  that  shuddering  sigh  I 

Such  were  the  struggles  of  the  gloomy  hour, 

When  Care,  of  withered  brow, 
Prepared  the  poison's  death-cold  power  : 
Already  to  thy  lips  was  raised  the  bowl, 
When  near  thee  stood  Affection  meek 
(Her  bosom  bare,  and  wildly  pale  her  cheek) 
Thy  sullen  gaze  she  bade  thee  roll 
On  scenes  that  well  might  melt  thy  soul  ; 
Thy  native  cot  she  flashed  upon  thy  view. 
Thy  native  cot,  where  still,  at  close  of  day, 
Peace  smiling  sate,  and  listened  to  thy  lay  ; 
Thy  Sister's  shrieks  she  bade  thee  hear, 
And  mark  thy  Mother's  thrilling  tear  ; 

See,  see  her  breast's  convulsive  throe, 
Her  silent  agony  of  woe  ! 
Ah  !  dash  the  poisoned  chalice  from  thy  hand  ! 


MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  CHATTERTON.      31 

And  thou  had'st  dashed  it,  at  her  soft  command, 

But  that  Despair  and  Indignation  rose, 

And  told  again  the  story  of  thy  woes  ; 

Told  the  keen  insult  of  the  unfeeling  heart ; 

The  dread  dependence  on  the  low-born  mind  ; 

Told  every  pang,  with  which  thy  soul  mtist  smart, 

Neglect,  and  grinning  Scorn,  and  Want  combined  ! 

Recoiling  quick,  thou  bad'st  the  fi'iend  of  pain 

Roll  the  black  tide  of  Death  through  every  freezing 
vein  ! 

0  Spirit  blest  ! 
Whether  the  Eternal's  throne  around, 
Amidst  the  blaze  of  Seraphim, 
Thou  pourest  forth  the  grateful  hymn ; 
Or  soaring  thro'  the  blest  domain 
Enrapturest  Angels  with  thy  strain, — 
Grant  me,  like  thee,  the  lyre  to  sound. 
Like  thee  with  fire  divine  to  glow ; — 
But  ah  !  when  rage  the  waves  of  woe. 

Grant  me  with  firmer  breast  to  meet  their  hate. 

And  soar  beyond  the  stoi-m  with  upright  eye  elate  ! 

Ye  woods  !  that  wave  o'er  Avon's  rocky  steep. 
To  Fancy's  ear  sweet  is  your  murmuring  deep  ; 
For  here  she  loves  the  cypress  wreath  to  weave 
Watching,  with  wistful  eye,  the  saddening  tints  of  eve. 
Here,  far  from  men,  amid  this  pathless  grove, 
In  solemn  thought  the  Minstrel  wont  to  rove. 
Like  star-beam  on  the  slow  sequestered  tide 
Lone-glittering,  thro'  the  high  tree  branching  wide. 

And  here,  in  Inspiration's  eager  hour. 
When  most  the  big  soul  feels  the  mastering  power, 
These  wilds,  these  caverns  roaming  o'er, 
Round  which  the  screaming  sea-gulls  soar, 
With  wild  unequal  steps  he  passed  along, 
Oft  pouring  on  the  winds  a  broken  song  : 
Anon,  upon  some  rough  rock's  fearful  brow 
Would  pause  abrupt — and  gaze  upon  the  waves  below. 


32  MONODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  CHATTERTON. 

Poor  Chatterton  !  he  sorrows  for  thy  fate 

Who  would  have  praised  and  loved  thee,  ere  too  late. 

Poor  Chattertou  !  farewell !  of  darkest  hues 

This  chaplet  cast  I  on  thy  unshaped  tomb ; 

But  dare  no  longer  on  the  sad  theme  muse, 

Lest  kindred  woes  persuade  a  kindred  doom  : 

For  oh  !  big  gall-drops,  shook  from  Folly's  wing, 

Have  blackened  the  fair  promise  of  my  spring ; 

And  the  stern  Fate  transpierced  with  viewless  dart 

The  last  pale  Hope  that  shivered  at  my  heart  ! 

Hence,  gloomy  thoughts !  no  more  my  soul  shall  dwell 
On  joys  that  were  !     No  more  endure  to  weigh 
The  shame  and  anguish  of  the  evil  day, 
Wisely  forgetful  !     O'er  the  ocean  swell 
Sublime  of  Hope  I  seek  the  cottaged  dell 
Where  Virtue  calm  with  careless  step  may  stray  ; 
And,  dancing  to  the  moon-light  roundelay, 
The  wizard  Passions  weave  a  holy  spell ! 

0  Chatterton  !  that  thou  wert  yet  alive  ! 

Sure  thou  would'st  spread  the  canvass  to  the  gale, 

And  love  with  us  the  tinkling  team  to  drive 

O'er  peaceful  Freedom's  undivided  dale ; 

And  we,  at  sober  eve,  would  round  thee  throng. 

Would  hang,  enraptured,  on  thy  stately  song, 

And  greet  with  smiles  the  young-eyed  Poesy 

All  deftly  masked,  as  hoar  Antiquity. 

Alas,  vain  Phantasies  !  the  fleeting  brood 
Of  Woe  self-solaced  in  her  dreamy  mood  ! 
Yet  will  I  love  to  follow  the  sweet  dream, 
Where  Susquehana  pours  his  untamed  stream  ; 
And  on  some  hill,  whose  forest-frowning  side 
Waves  o'er  the  murmurs  of  his  calmer  tide, 
Will  raise  a  solemn  Cenotaph  to  thee, 
Sweet  Harper  of  time-shrouded  Minstrelsy  ! 
And  there,  soothed  sadly  by  the  dirgeful  wind. 
Muse  on  the  sore  ills  I  had  left  behind. 


SONNET  I. 

"Content,  as  random  Fancies  might  inspire. 
If  his  weak  hai-p  at  times  or  lonely  lyre 
He  sti-uck  with  desultory  hand,  and  drew 
Some  softened  tones  to  Nature  not  untrue. " 

Bowles. 

Mt  heart  has  thanked  thee,  Bowles  !  for  those  soft 

strains 
Whose  sadness  soothes  me,  like  the  murmuring 
Of  wild-bees  in  the  sunny  showers  of  spring  ! 
For  hence  not  callous  to  the  mourner's  pains 
Through  Youth's  gay  prime  and  thornless  paths  I  went: 
And  when  the  mightier  throes  of  mind  began, 
And  drove  me  forth,  a  thonght-bewildered  man, 
Their  mild  and  manliest  melancholy  lent 
A  mingled  charm,  such  as  the  pang  consigned 
To  slumber,  though  the  big  tear  it  renewed ; 
Bidding  a  strange  mysterious  Pleasure  brood 
Over  the  wavy  and  tumultuous  mind. 
As  the  great  Spirit  erst  with  plastic  sweep 
Moved  on  the  darkness  of  the  unformed  deep. 


SONNET   II. 


As -late  I  lay  in  slumber's  shadowy  vale, 

With  wetted  cheek  and  in  a  mourner's  guise, 

I  saw  the  sainted  form  of  Freedom  rise  : 

She  spake  !  not  sadder  moans  the  autumnal  gale — 

"  Great  Son  of  Genius  !  sweet  to  me  thy  name. 

Ere  in  an  evil  hour  with  altered  voice 

Thou  bad'st  Oppression's  hireling  crew  rejoice 

Blasting  with  wizard  spell  my  laurelled  fame. 


34  SONNETS. 

Yet  never,  Burke  !  thou  drank'st  Corruption's  bowl ! 
Thee  stormy  Pity  and  tlie  clierished  lure 
Of  Pomp,  and  proud  Precipitance  of  soul 
Wildered  with  meteor  fires.     Ah  Spirit  pure  ! 
That  error's  mist  had  left  thy  purged  eye  : 
So  might  I  clasp  thee  with  a  Mother's  joy  !  " 


SONI^ET   III. 


Not  always  should  the  tears  ambrosial  dew 
Roll  its  soft  anguish  down  thy  furrowed  cheek  ! 
Not  always  heaven-breathed  tones  of  suppliauce  meek 
Beseem  thee,  Mercy  !     Yon  dark  Scowler  view, 
Who  with  proud  words  of  dear-loved  B>eedom  came  — 
IMore  blasting  than  the  mildew  from  the  South  ! 
And  kissed  his  country  with  Iscariot  mouth 
(Ah  !  foul  apostate  from  his  Father's  fame  !) 
Then  fixed  her  on  the  cross  of  deep  distress, 
And  at  safe  distance  marks  the  thirsty  lance 
Pierce  her  big  side  !     But  0  !  if  some  strange  trance 
The  eyelids  of  thy  steru-browed  Sister  press, 
Seize,  Mercy  !  thou  more  terrible  the  brand, 
And  hurl  her  thunderbolts  with  fiercer  hand  ! 


SONNET   IV. 


Though  roused  by  that  dark  Vizir  Riot  rude 
Have  driven  our  Pi'iestley  o'er  the  ocean  swell 
Though  Superstition  aud  her  wolfish  brood 
Bay  his  mild  radiance,  impotent  and  fell; 
Calm  in  his  hulls  of  brightness  he  shall  dwell  ! 
For  lo  !  Religion  at  his  strong  behest 

•  See  Note. 


SOXNETS.  35 

Starts  with  mild  anger  from  the  Papal  spell, 
And  flings  to  earth  her  tinsel-glittering  vest, 
Her  mitrud  state  and  cumbrous  pomp  unholy  ; 
And  Justice  wakes  to  bid  the  Oppressor  wail 
Insulting  aye  the  wrongs  of  patient  Folly  : 
And  from  her  dark  retreat  by  Wisdom  won 
Meek  Nature  slowly  lifts  her  matron  veil 
To  smile  with  fondness  on  her  gazing  son  ! 


SONNET   V. 


When  British  Freedom  for  a  happier  land 

Spread  her  broad  wings,  that  fluttered  w^th  affright, 

Erskine  !  thy  voice  she  heard,  and  paused  her  flight 

Sublime  of  hope  !     For  dreadless  thou  didst  stand 

(Thy  censer  glowing  with  the  hallowed  flame) 

A  hii-eless  Priest  before  the  insulted  shrine, 

And  at  her  altar  pour  the  stream  divine 

Of  unmatched  eloquence.     Therefore  thy  name 

Her  sons  shall  venerate,  and  cheer  thy  breast 

With  blessings  heaven- ward  breathed.    And  when  the 

doom 
Of  Nature  bids  thee  die,  beyond  the  tomb 
Thy  light  shall  shine  :  as  sunk  beneath  the  West 
Though  the  great  Summer  Sun  eludes  our  gaze, 
Still  bui'us  wide  Heaven  with  his  distended  blaze. 


SONNET   VI. 


It  was  some  Spirit,  Sheridan  !  that  breathed 
O'er  thy  young  mind  such  wildly  various  power  ! 
My  soul  hath  marked  thee  in  her  shaping  hour. 
Thy  temples  with  Hymettiau  flow'rets  wreathed  : 


36  SONNETS. 

And  sweet  thy  voice,  as  when  o'er  Laura's  bier 

Sad  music  trembled  through  Vauclusa's  glade ; 

Sweet,  as  at  dawn  the  love-lorn  Serenade 

That  wafts  soft  dreams  to  Slumber's  listening  ear. 

Now  patriot  Rage  and  Indignation  high 

Swell  the  full  tones  !    And  now  thine  eye-beams  dance 

Meanings  of  Scorn  and  Wit's  quaint  revelry  ! 

Writhes  inly  from  the  bosom-probing  glance 

The  Apostate  by  the  brainless  rout  adored, 

As  erst  that  elder  Fiend  beneath  great  Michael's  sword 


SONNET   VII. 

0  WHAT  a  loud  and  fearful  shriek  was  there. 

As  though  a  thousand  souls  one  death-groan  poured  ! 

Ah  me  !  they  saw  beneath  a  hireling's  sword 

Their  Kosciusko  fall  !     Through  the  swart  air 

(As  pauses  the  tired  Cossac's  barbarous  yell 

Of  triumph)  on  the  chill  and  midnight  gale 

Rises  with  frantic  burst  or  sadder  swell 

The  dirge  of  murdered  Hope  !  while  Freedom  pale 

Bends  in  such  anguish  o'er  her  destined  bier, 

As  if  from  eldest  time  some  Spirit  meek 

Had  gathered  in  a  mystic  urn  each  tear 

That  ever  on  a  Patriot's  furrowed  cheek 

Fit  channel  found,  and  she  had  drained  the  bowl 

In  the  mere  wilfulness,  and  sick  despair  of  soul ! 


SONNET  VIII. 

As  when  far  off  the  wai-bled  strains  are  heard 
That  soar  on  Morning's  wing  the  vales  among, 
Within  his  cage  the  imprisoned  matin  bird 
Swells  the  full  chorus  with  a  generous  song : 


SONNETS.  35 

He  bathes  no  pinion  in  the  dewy  light, 

No  Father's  joy,  no  Lover's  bliss  he  shares, 

Yet  still  the  rising  radiance  cheers  his  sight : 

His  fellows'  freedom  soothes  the  captive's  cares ! 

Thou,  Fayette  !  who  didst  wake  with  startling  voice 

Life's  better  sun  from  that  long  wintry  night, 

Thus  in  thy  Country's  triumphs  shalt  rejoice, 

And  mock  with  raptures  high  the  dungeon's  might : 

For  lo  !  the  morning  struggles  into  day, 

And  Slavery's  spectres  shriek  and  vanish  from  the  ray ! 


SONNET  IX. 


Not  Stanhope  !  with  the  Patriot's  doubtful  name 
I  mock  thy  worth — Friend  of  the  Human  Race  ! 
Since,  scorning  Faction's  low  and  partial  aim, 
Aloof  thou  wendest  in  thy  stately  pace, 
Thyself  redeeming  from  that  leprous  stain. 
Nobility  :  and  aye  unterrify'd 
Pourest  thine  Abdiel  warnings  on  the  train 
That  sit  complotting  with  rebellious  pride 
'Gainst  her,*  who  from  the  Almighty's  bosom  leapt 
With  whirlwind  arm,  fierce  Minister  of  Love  ! 
Wherefore,  ere  Virtue  o'er  thy  tomb  hath  wept, 
Angels  shall  lead  thee  to  the  Throne  above  : 
And  thou  from  forth  its  clouds  shalt  hear  the  voice. 
Champion  of  Freedom  and  her  God  !  rejoice  ! 

*  Gallic  Liberty. 


38 


SONNET  X. 


Thou  gentle  look,  that  didst  my  soul  beguile, 

Why  hast  thou  left  mo  1     Still  in  some  fond  dream 

Revisit  my  sad  heart,  auspicious  Smile  ! 

As  falls  on  closing  flowers  the  lunar  beam  : 

What  time,  in  sickly  mood,  at  parting  day 

I  lay  me  down  and. think  of  happier  years; 

Of  Joys,  that  glimmered  in  Hope's  twilight  ray, 

Then  left  me  darkling  in  a  vale  of  tears. 

0  pleasant  days  of  Hope — for  ever  gone  ! — 

Could  I  recall  you  ! — But  that  thought  is  vain. 

Availeth  not  Persuasion's  sweetest  tone 

To  lure  the  fleet-winged  Travellers  back  again  : 

Yet  fair,  thotigh  faint,  their  images  shall  gleam 

Like  the  bright  Kainbow  on  a  willowy  stream. 


SONNET  XL 


Pale  Eoamer  through  the  night  !  thou  poor  Forlorn ! 

Remorse  that  man  on  his  death-bed  possess, 

Who  in  the  credulous  hour  of  tenderness 

Betrayed,  then  cast  thee  forth  to  want  and  scorn  ! 

The  world  is  pitiless  :  the  chaste  one's  pride 

Mimic  of  Virtue  scowls  on  thy  distress  : 

Thy  Loves  and  they,  that  envied  thee,  deride  : 

And  Vice  alone  will  shelter  wretchedness  ! 

0  !  I  could  weep  to  think,  that  there  should  be 

Cold-bosomed  lewd  ones,  who  endure  to  place 

Foul  offerings  on  the  shrine  of  misery, 

And  force  from  famine  the  caress  of  Love  ; 

May  He  shed  healing  on  thy  sore  disgrace, 

He,  the  great  Comforter  that  rules  above  ! 


89 


SONNET   XIT. 


Sweet  Mercy  !  how  my  very  heart  has  bled 
To  see  thee,  poor  Old  Man !   and  thy  gray  hairs 
Hoar  with  the  snowy  blast :  while  no  one  cares 
To  clothe  thy  shrivelled  limbs  and  palsied  head. 
My  Father  !  throw  away  this  tattered  vest 
That  mocks  thy  shivering  !  take  my  garment — use 
A  young  man's  arm  !  I'll  melt  these  frozen  dews 
That   hang   from   thy  white   beard   and   numb  thy 

breast. 
My  Sara  too  shall  tend  thee,  like  a  Child : 
And  thou  shalt  talk,  in  our  fire-side's  recess, 
Of  purple  pride,  that  scowls  on  wretchedness. 
He  did  not  so,  the  Galilean  mild, 
Who  met  the  Lazars  turned  from  rich  men's  doors, 
And  called  them  Friends,  and  healed  their  noisome 

Sores  ! 


SONNET   XIII. 

TO   THE  AUTUMNAL  MOON, 


Mild  Splendour  of  the  various-vested  Night ! 
Mother  of  wildly-working  visions  !  hail ! 
I  watch  thy  gliding,  while  with  watery  light 
Tliy  weak  eye  glimmers  through  a  fleecy  veil ; 
And  when  thou  lovest  thy  pale  orb  to  shroud 
Behind  the  gathered  blackness  lost  on  high  ; 
And  when  thou  dartest  from  the  wind-rent  cloud 
Thy  placid  lightning  o'er  the  awakened  sky. 
Ah  such  is  Hope  !  as  changeful  and  as  fair  ! 
Now  dimly  peering  on  the  wistful  sight ; 


40  SONNETS. 

Now  hid  behind  the  dragon-wiuged  Despair 
But  soon' emerging  in  her  radiant  might 
She  o'er  the  sorrow-clouded  breast  of  Care 
Sails,  like  a  meteor  kmdling  iu  its  flight. 


SONNET   XIV. 


Thou  bleedest,  my  poor  Heart !  and  thy  distress 

Keasoning  I  ponder  with  a  scornful  smile, 

And  probe  thy  sore  wound  sternly,  though  the  while 

Swoln  be  mine  eye  and  dim  with  heaviness. 

Why  didst  thou  listen  to  Hope's  whisper  bland? 

Or,  listening,  Avhy  forget  the  healing  tale, 

When  Jealousy  with  feverous  fancies  pale 

Jarred  thy  fine  fibres  with  a  maniac's  hand  ? 

Faint  was  that  Hope,  and  rayless  ! — Yet  'twas  fair, 

And  soothed  with  many  a  dream  the  hour  of  rest : 

Thou  shouldst  have  loved  it  most,  when  most  opprest, 

And  nursed  it  with  an  agony  of  care, 

Even  as  a  Mother  her  sweet  infant  heir 

That  wan  and  sickly  droops  upon  her  breast  ! 


SONNET  XV. 

TO   THE  AUTHOR  OF    "THE   ROBBEES. 

Schiller  !  that  hour  I  would  have  wished  to  die, 
If  through  the  shuddering  midnight  I  had  sent 
From  the  dark  dungeon  of  the  tower  time-rent 
That  fearful  voice,  a  famished  Father's  cry — 
Lest  in  some  after  moment  aught  more  mean 
Miglit  stamp  me  mortal  !     A  triumphant  shout 
Black  Horror  screamed,  and  all  her  goblin  rout 
Diminished  shrunk  from  the  more  withering  scene  ! 


LINES. 

Ah  !  Bard  tremendous  in  sublimity  ! 
Could  I  behold  thee  in  thy  loftier  mood 
Wandering  at  eve  with  finely  frenzied  eye 
Beneath  some  vast  old  tempest-3wiup;ing  wood  ! 
Awhile  with  mute  awe  gazing  I  would  brood  : 
Then  weep  aloud  in  a  wild  ecstasy  ! 


LINES 

COMPOSED   WHILE   CLIMBING  THE   LEFT   ASCENT   OF   BKOCKLEY 
COOMB,  SOMERSETSHIRE.  MAY,  1795. 

With  many  a  pause  and  oft  reverted  eye 

I  climb  the  Coomb's  ascent :  sweet  songsters  near 

Warble  in  shade  their  wild-wood  melody  : 

Far  off  the  unvarying  Cuckoo  soothes  my  ear. 

Up  scour  the  startling  stragglers  of  the  Flock 

That  on  green  plots  o'er  precipices  browse  : 

From  the  deep  fissures  of  the  naked  rock 

The  Yewtree  bursts  !     Beneath  its  dark  green  boughs 

^'Mid  which  the  May-thorn  blends  its  blossoms  white) 

Where  broad  smooth  stones  jut  out  in  mossy  seats, 

I  rest : — and  now  have  gained  the  topmost  site. 

Ah  !  what  a  luxury  of  landscape  meets 

My  gaze  !     Proud  towers,  and  cots  more  dear  to  me, 

Elm-shadow'd  fields,  and  prospect-bounding  sea. 

Deep  sighs  my  lonely  heart :  I  drop  the  tear  : 

Enchanting  spot !     0  were  my  Sara  here  ! 


LINES 

IK   THE   MANNER   OF   SPENSER. 


0  Peace,  that  on  a  lilied  bank  dost  love 
To  rest  thine  head  beneath  an  olive  tree, 

1  would  that  from  the  pinions  of  thy  dove 
One  quill  withouten  pain  j'plucked  might  be  ! 


42  LINES. 

For  0  !  I  wish  my  Sara's  frowns  to  flee, 
And  fain  to  her  some  soothing  song  would  write, 
Lest  she  resent  my  rude  discourtesy, 
Who  vowed  to  meet  her  ere  the  morning  light, 
But  broke  my  plighted  word — ah !  false  and  recreant 
wight ! 

Last  night  as  I  my  weary  head  did  pillow 
With  thoughts  of  my  dissevered  Fair  engrost, 
Chill  Fancy  drooped  wreathing  herself  with  willow, 
As  though  my  breast  entombed  a  pining  ghost. 
''From   some   blest  couch,  young   Rapture's  bridal 

boast, 
.Rejected  Slumber  !  hither  wing  thy  way ; 
But  leave  me  with  the  matin  hour,  at  most ! 
As  night-closed  floweret  to  the  orient  ray, 
My  sad  heart  will  expand,  when  I  the  Maid  survey." 

But  Love,  who  heard  the  silence  of  my  thought, 
Contrived  a  too  successful  wile,  I  ween  : 
And  whispered  to  himself,  with  malice  fraught — 
"  Too  long  our  Slave  the  Damsel's  smiles  hath  seen  : 
To-morrow  shall  he  ken  her  altered  mien  !" 
He  spake,  and  ambushed  lay,  till  on  my  bed 
The  morning  shot  her  dewy  glances  keen. 
When  as. I  'gan  to  lift  my  drowsy  head — 
"Now,  Bard !  I'll  work  thee  woe ! "  the  laughing  Elfin 
said. 

Sleep,  softly-breathing  God  !  his  downy  wing 
Was  fluttering  now,  as  quickly  to  depiu-t  ; 
When  twanged  an  arrow  from  Love's  mystic  string, 
With  pathless  wound  it  pierced  him  to  the  heart. 
Was  there  some  magic  in  the  Elfin's  dart  ? 
Or  did  he  strike  my  couch  with  wizard  lance  1 
For  straight  so  fair  a  Form  did  upwards  start 
(No  fairer  decked  the  bowers  of  old  Romance) 
That  Sleep  enamoured  grew,  nor  moved  from  his 
sweet  trance  ! 


TO  THE  AUTHOK  OP  POEMS.         43 

My  Sara  came,  with  gentlest  look  divine ; 

Bright  shon-e  her  eye,  yet  tender  was  its  beam  : 

I  felt  the  pressure  of  her  lip  to  mine  ! 

Whispering  we  went,  and  Love  was  all  our  theme — 

Love  pure  and  spotless,  as  at  first,  I  deem, 

He  sprang  from  Heaven  !     Such  joys  with  Sleep  did 

'bide, 
That  I  the  living  image  of  my  dream 
Fondly  foi'got.     Too  late  I  woke,  and  sigh'd — 
"  0  !  how  shall  I  behold  my  Love  at  even-tide  !  " 

July,  1795. 


TO   THE  AUTHOR   OF  POEMS 

PUBLISHED   ANONyMOUSLY   AT   BRISTOL,  Ilf   SEPTEMBER,  1795. 

Unboastful  Bard  !  whose  verse  concise  yet  clear 

Tunes  to  smooth  melody  unconquered  sense. 

May  your  fame  fadeless  live,  as  "  never-sere  " 

The  Ivy  wreathes  yon  Oak,  whose  broad  defence 

Embowers  me  from  Noon's  sultry  influence  ! 

For  like  that  nameless  Rivulet  stealing  by, 

Your  modest  verse  to  musing  quiet  dear, 

Is  rich  with  tints  heaven-borrowed ;  the  charmed  eye 

Shall  gaze  undazzled  there,  and  love  the  softened  sky. 

Circling  the  base  of  the  Poetic  mount 
A  stream  there  is,  which  rolls  in  lazy  flow 
Its  coal-black  waters  from  Oblivion's  fount; 
The  vapour-poisoned  Birds,  that  fly  too  low, 
Fall  with  dead  swoop,  and  to  the  bottom  go. 
Escaped  that  heavy  stream  on  pinion  fleet 
Beneath  the  Mountain's  lofty  frowning  brow, 
Ere  aught  of  perilous  ascent  you  meet, 
A  mead  of  mildest  chann  delays  the  unlabouring 
feet. 


44         TO  THE  AUTHOR  OF  POEMS. 

Not  there  the  cloud-climbed  rock,  sublime  and  vast, 
That  like  some  giaut  king  o'erglooms  the  hill ; 
Nor  there  the  Pine-grove  to  the  midnight  blast 
Makes  solemn  music  !     But  the  unceasing  rill 
To  the  soft  Wren  or  Lark's  descending  trill 
Murmurs  sweet  under-song  'mid  jasmine  bowers. 
In  this  same  pleasant  meadow,  at  your  will 
I  ween,  you  wandered — there  collecting  flowers 
Of  sober  tint,  and  herbs  of  med'cinable  powers  ! 

There  for  the  monarch-murdered  Soldier's  tomb 
You  wove  the  unfinished  wreath  of  saddest  hues ;  * 
And  to  that  holier  chaplet  added  bloom 
Besprinkling  it  with  Jordan's  cleansing  dews.f 
But  lo  !  your  Henderson  awakes  the  Muse— + 
His  Spirit  beckoned  from  the  Mountain's  height ! 
You  left  the  plain  and  soared  'mid  richer  views  ! 
So  Nature  mourned,  when  sunk  the  First  Day's  light, 
With  stars,  unseen  before,  spangling  her  robe  of  night. 

Still  soar,  my  Friend,  those  richer  views  among, 
Strong,  rapid,  fervent,  flashing  Fancy's  beam  ! 
Virtue  and  Truth  shall  love  your  gentler  song, 
But  Poesy  demands  the  impassioned  theme  ; 
Waked  by  Heaven's  silent  dews  at  Eve's  mild  gleam 
What  balmy  sweets  Pomona  breathes  around  ! 
But  if  the  vext  air  rush  a  stormy  stream, 
Or  Autumn's  shrill  gust  moan  in  plaintive  sound. 
With  fruits  and  flowers  she  loads  the  tempest-honoured 
ground. 

*  War,  a  Fragment. 
t  John  the  Baptist,  a  Poem.    J  Monody  on  John  Henderson. 


15 


LINES. 

WRITTEN   AT   SHTjRTON   BARS,  NEAR  BRIDGEWATER,    SEPTEMBER 
1795,  IN   ANSWER  TO  A  LETTER  FROM  BRISTOL. 

"  Grood  verse  most  good,  and  bad  verse  then  seems  better. 
Received  from  absent  fnend,  by  way  of  Letter, 
For  what  so  sweet  can  laboured  lays  impart 
As  one  rude  rhyme  wai-m  from  a  friendly  heart." 

Axon. 

Nor  travels  my  meandering  eye 
The  starry  wilderness  on  high ; 

Nor  now  with  curious  sight 
I  mark  the  glow-worm,  as  I  pass, 
Move  with  "green  radiance"  through  the  grass. 

An  emerald  of  light. 

0  ever  present  to  my  view  ! 
My  wafted  spirit  is  with  you, 

And  soothes  your  boding  fears  : 

1  see  you  all  oppressed  with  gloom 
Sit  lonely  in  that  cheerless  room — 

Ah  me  !     You  are  in  tears  ! 

Beloved  Woman  !  did  you  fly 

Chilled  Friendship's  dark  disliking  eye, 

Or  Mirth's  untimely  din  ? 
With  cruel  weight  these  trifles  press 
A  temper  sore  with  tenderness. 

When  aches  the  Void  within. 

But  why  with  sable  wand  imblest 
Should  Fancy  muse  within  my  breast 

Dim-visaged  shapes  of  Dread  ? 
Untenanting  its  beauteous  clay 
My  Sara's  soul  has  winged  its  way, 

And  hovers  round  my  head  ! 


LINES. 

I  felt  it  prompt  the  tender  dream, 
When  slowly  sank  the  day's  last  gleam  ; 

You  roused  ench  gentler  sense, 
As  sighing  o'er  the  blossom's  bloom 
Meek  Evening  wakes  its  soft  perfume 

With  viewless  influence. 

And  hark,  my  Love !     The  sea-breeze  moans 
Through  yon  reft  house  !     O'er  rolling  stones 

In  bold  ambitious  sweep, 
The  onward-surging  tides  supply 
The  silence  of  the  cloudless  sky 

With  mimic  thunders  deep. 

Dark  reddening  from  the  channelled  Isle  * 
(Where  stands  one  solitary  pile 

Unslated  by  the  blast) 
The  watchfire,  like  a  sullen  star 
Twinkles  to  many  a  dozing  tar 

Kude  cradled  on  the  mast. 

Even  there — beneath  that  light-house  tower- 
In  the  tumultuous  evil  hour 

Ere  Peace  with  Sara  came. 
Time  was,  I  should  have  thought  it  sweet 
To  count  the  echoings  of  my  feet, 

And  watch  the  storm- vexed  flame. 

And  there  in  black  soul-jaundiced  fit 
A  sad  gloom-pampered  Man  to  sit, 

And  listen  to  the  roar  : 
When  mountain  surges  bellowing  deep 
With  an  uncouth  monster  leap 

Plunged  foaming  on  the  shore. 

Then  by  the  lightning's  blaze  to  mark 
Some  toiling  tempest-shattered  bark  ; 

*  The  Ilolmes,  in  the  Bristol  ChanneL 


LINES. 

Her  vain  distress-guns  hear ; 
And  when  a  second  sheet  of  light 
Flashed  o'er  the  blackness  of  the  night — 

To  see  no  vessel  there  ! 

But  Fancy  now  more  gaily  sings  ; 
Or  if  awhile  she  di-oop  her  wiugs, 

As  sky-larks  'mid  the  corn, 
On  summer  fields  she  grounds  her  breast : 
The  oblivious  poppy  o'er  her  nest 

Nods,  till  returning  morn. 

0  mark  those  smiling  tears,  that  swell 
The  opened  rose  !     From  heaven  they  fell, 

And  with  the  sun-beam  blend. 
Blest  visitations  from  above. 
Such  are  the  tender  woes  of  Love 

Fostering  the  heart  they  bend  ! 

"When  stormy  Midnight  howling  round 
Beats  on  our  roof  with  clattering  sound. 

To  me  your  arms  you'll  stretch : 
Great  God  I  you'll  say — To  us  so  kind, 

0  shelter  from  this  loud  bleak  wind 
The  houseless,  friendless  wretch  ! 

The  tears  that  tremble  down  your  cheek. 
Shall  bathe  my  kisses  chaste  and  meek 

In  Pity's  dew  divine ; 
And  from  your  heart  the  sighs  that  steal 
Shall  make  your  rising  bosom  feel 

The  answering  swell  of  mine  ! 

How  oft,  my  Love  !  with  shapings  sweet 

1  paint  the  moment,  we  shall  meet ! 

With  eager  speed  I  daii; — 
I  seize  you  in  the  vacant  air, 
And  fancy,  with  a  husband's  care 

I  press  you  to  my  heait  ! 


48  LINES. 

'Tis  said,  in  Summer's  evening  hour 
Flashes  the  golden-coloured  flower 

A  fair  electric  flame  : 
And  so  shall  flash  my  love-charged  eye 
When  all  the  heart's  big  ecstasy 

Shoots  rapid  through  the  frame ! 


LINES 

TO   A  FRreND   IN  ANSWER  TO   A   MELANCHOLY   LETTER. 

Away,  those  cloudy  looks,  that  labouring  sigh, 
The  peevish  ofispring  of  a  sickly  hour  ! 
Nor  meanly  thus  complain  of  Fortune's  power, 
AVhen  the  blind  gamester  throws  a  luckless  die. 

Yon  setting  sun  flashes  a  mournful  gleam 
Behind  those  broken  clouds,  his  stormy  train  : 
To-morrow  shall  the  many-coloured  main 
In  brightness  roll  beneatli  his  orient  beam  ! 

Wild,  as  the  autumnal  gust,  the  hand  of  Time 
Flies  o'er  his  mystic  lyre  :  in  shadowy  dance 
The  alternate  groups  of  Joy  and  Grief  advance 
Responsive  to  his  varying  strains  sublime  I 

Bears  on  its  wing  each  hour  a  load  of  Fate  ; 

The  swain,  who,  lulled  by  Seine's  mild  murmurs,  led 

His  weary  oxen  to  their  nightly  shed, 

To-day  may  rule  a  tempest-troubled  State. 

Nor  shall  not  Fortune  with  a  vengeful  smile 
Survey  the  sanguinary  despot's  might. 
And  haply  hurl  the  pageant  from  his  height 
Unwept  to  wander  in  some  savage  isle. 


RELIGIOUS  MUSINGS.  49 

There  shiv'ring  sad  beneath  the  tempest's  frown 
Eound  his  tired  limbs  to  wrap  the  purple  vest ; 
And  mixed  with  nails  and  beads,  an  equal  jest ! 
Barter  for  food  the  jewels  of  his  crown. 


RELIGIOUS  MUSINGS; 

A   DESULTORY   POEM,  WRITTEN'   ON   THE   CHRISTMAS  EVE 
OF   1794. 

This  is  the  time,  when  most  divine  to  hear. 

The  voice  of  adoration  rouses  me. 

As  with  a  Cherub's  trump  :  and  high  upborne, 

Yea,  mingling  with  the  choir,  I  seem  to  view 

The  vision  of  the  heavenly  multitude, 

"Who  hymned  the  song   of  peace  o'er  Bethlehem's 

fields  ! 
Yet  thou  more  bright  than  all  the  angel  blaze, 
That  harbingered  thy  birth,  Thou,  Man  of  Woes  ! 
Despised  Galilean  !     For  the  great 
Invisible  (by  symbols  only  seen) 
With  a  peculiar  and  surpassing  light 
Shines  from  the  visage  of  the  oppressed  good  man, 
When  heedless  of  himself  the  scourged  Saint 
Mourns  for  the  oppressor.     Fair  the  vernal  mead, 
Fair  the  high  gi'ove,  the  sea,  the  sun,  the  stars 
True  impress  each  of  their  creating  Sire  ! 
Yet  nor  high  grove,  nor  many-coloured  mead, 
Nor  the  green  Ocean  with  his  thousand  isles. 
Nor  the  starred  aztire,  nor  the  sovran  Sun, 
E'er  with  such  majesty  of  portraiture 
Imaged  the  supreme  beauty  uncreate, 
As  thou,  meek  Saviour !  at  the  fearful  hour 
When  thy  insulted  anguish  winged  the  prayer 
Harped  by  Archangels,  when  they  sing  of  mercy  ! 
"SMiich  when  the  Almighty  heard  from  forth  his  throne 
Diviner  light  filled  Heaven  with  ecstasy  ! 


50  RELIGIOUS  MUSINGS. 

Heaven's  hymnings  paused :  and  Hell   her  yawning 

mouth 
Closed  a  brief  moment. 

Lovely  was  the  death 
Of  Him  whose  life  was  Love  !     Holy  with  power 
He  on  the  thought-benighted  Sceptic  beamed 
Manifest  Godhead,  melting  into  day 
What  floating  mists  of  dark  idolatry 
Broke  and  misshaped  the  omnipresent  Sire : 
And  first  by  Fear  uncharmed  tlie  drowsed  Soul. 
Till  of  its  nobler  nature  it  'gan  feel 
Dim  recollections ;  and  thence  soared  to  Hope, 
Strong  to  believe  whate'er  of  mystic  good 
The  Etei'nal  dooms  for  his  immortal  sons. 
From  Hope  and  firmer  Faith  to  perfect  Love 
Attracted  and  absorbed  :  and  centred  there 
God  only  to  behold,  and  know,  and  feel, 
Till  by  exclusive  consciousness  of  God 
All  self-annihilated  it  shall  make 
God  its  identity  :  God  all  in  all ! 
We  and  our  Father  one  !    - 1. 

And  blest  are  they, 
Who  in  this  fleshly  World,  the  elect  of  Heaven, 
Their  strong  eye  darting  through  the  deeds  of  men, 
Adore  with  steadfast  unpresuming  gaze 
Him  Nature's  essence,  mind,  and  energy  ! 
And  gazing,  trembling,  patiently  ascend 
Treading  beneath  their  feet  all  visible  things 
As  steps,  that  upward  to  their  Fathei-'s  throne 
Lead  gradual — else  nor  glorified  nor  loved. 
They  nor  contempt  embosom  nor  revenge  : 
For  they  dare  know  of  what  may  seem  deform 
The  Supreme  Fair  sole  operant :  in  whose  sight 
All  things  are  pure,  his  strong  controlling  Love 
Alike  from  all  educing  perfect  good. 
Theirs  too  celestial  courage,  inly  armed — 
Dwarfing  Earth's  giant  brood,  what  time  they  muse 
On  their  great  Father,  great  beyond  compare  ! 


RELIGIOUS  MUSINGS.  51 

And  marching  onwards  view  high  o'er  their  heads 
His  waving  banners  of  Omnipotence. 

Who  the  Creator  love,  created  might 
Dread  not :  within  their  tents  no  terrors  walk. 
For  they  are  holy  things  before  the  Lord 
Aye  unprofaned,  though  Earth  should  league  with  Hell 
God's  altar  grasping  with  an  eager  hand 
Fear,  the  wild-visaged,  pale,  eye-starting  wretch, 
Sure-refuged  hears  his  hot  pursuing  fiends 
Yell  at  vain  distance.     Soon  refreshed  from  Heaven 
He  calms  the  throb  and  tempest  of  his  heart. 
His  countenance  settles  ;  a  soft  solemn  bliss 
Swims  in  his  eye — his  swimming  eye  upraised : 
And  Faith's  whole  armour  glitters  on  his  limbs  ! 
And  thus  transfigured  with  a  dreadless  awe, 
A  solemn  hush  of  soul,  meek  he  beholds 
All  things  of  terrible  seeming :  yea,  unmoved 
Views  e'en  the  inmitigable  ministers 
That  shower  down  vengeance  on  these  latter  days. 
For  kindling  with  intenser  Deity 
From  the  celestial  Mercy-seat  they  come, 
And  at  the  renovating  wells  of  Love 
Have  filled  their  vials  with  salutary  wrath, 
To  sickly  Nature  more  medicinal 
Than  what  soft  balm  the  weeping  good  man  pours 
Into  the  lone  despoiled  traveller's  wounds  ! 

Thi;s  from  the  Elect,  regenerate  through  faith, 
Pass  the  dark  Passions  and  what  thirsty  Cares 
Drink  up  the  Spirit,  and  the  dim  regards 
Self-centre.     Lo  they  vanish  !  or  acquire 
New  names,  new  features — by  supernal  grace 
Enrobed  with  Light,  and  naturalised-in  Heaven. 
As  when  a  shepherd  on  a  vernal  morn 
Through  some  thick  fog  creeps  timorous  with  slow  foot 
Darkling  he  fixes  on  tlie  immediate  road 
His  downward  eye  :  all  else  of  fairest  kind 
Hid  or  deformed.     But  lo  !  the  bursting  Sun  ! 
Touched  by  the  enchantment  of  that  sudden  beam 


52  RELIGIOUS  MUSINGS. 

Straight  the  black  vapour  melteth,  and  in  globes 

Of  dewy  glitter  gems  each  plant  and  tree  ; 

On  every  leaf,  on  every  blade  it  hangs  ! 

Dance  glad  the  new-born  intermingling  rays, 

And  wide  around  the  landscape  streams  with  glory  ! 

There  is  one  Mind,  .me  omnipresent  Mind, 
Omnific.     His  most  holy  name  is  Love. 
Truth  of  subliming  import  !  with  the  which 
Who  feeds  and  saturates  his  constant  soul, 
He  from  his  small  particular  orbit  flics, 
^Yith  blest  outstarting  !     From  Himself  he  flies, 
Stands  in  the  sun,  and  with  no  partial  gaze 
Views  all  creation ;  and  he  loves  it  all, 
And  blesses  it,  and  calls  it  very  good  ! 
This  is  indeed  to  dwell  with  the  most  High  ! 
Cherubs  and  rapture-trembling  Seraphim 
Can  press  no  nearer  to  the  Almighty's  Throne. 
But  that  we  roam  unconscious,  or  with  hearts 
Unfeeling  of  our  universal  Sire, 
And  that  in  his  vast  family  no  Cain 
Injures  uninjured  (in  her  best-aimed  blow 
Victorious  murder  a  blind  suicide) 
Haply  for  this  some  younger  Angel  now 
Looks  down  on  human  natui-e  :  and,  behold  ! 
A  sea  of  blood  bestrewed  with  wrecks,  where  mad 
Embattling  interests  on  each  other  rush 
With  unhelmed  rage  ! 

'Tis  the  sublime  of  man. 
Our  noontide  majesty,  to  know  ourselves 
Parts  and  proportions  of  one  wondrous  whole  ! 
This  fraternises  man,  this  constitutes 
Our  charities  and  bearings.     But  'tis  God 
Diffused  through  all,  that  doth  make  all  one  whole  ; 
This  the  worst  superstition,  him  except 
Aught  to  desire,  Supreme  Reality  ! 
The  plenitude  and  permanence  of  bliss  ! 
0  Fiends  of  Superstition  !  not  that  oft 
The  erring  priest  hath  stained  with  brother's  blood 


RELIGIOUS  MUSINGS.  t 

Your  grisly  idols,  not  for  this  may  wrath 

Thunder  against  you  from  the  Holy  One  ! 

But  o'er  some  plain  that  steameth  to  tlie  sun, 

Peopled  with  death;  or  where  more  hideous  Trade 

Loud-laughing  packs  his  bales  of  human  anguish  ; 

I  will  raise  up  a  mourning,  0  ye  Fiends ! 

And  curse  your  spells,  that  film  the  eye  of  Faith, 

Hiding  the  present  God ;  whose  presence  lost, 

The  moral  world's  cohesion,  we  become 

An  anarchy  of  Spirits  !  Toy-bewitched, 

Made  blind  by  lusts,  disherited  of  soul, 

No  common  centre  Man,  no  common  sire 

Knoweth  !     A  sordid  solitary  thing, 

'Mid  countless  brethren  with  a  lonely  heart 

Through  courts  and  cities  the  smooth  savage  roams 

Feeling  himself,  his  own  low  self  the  whole ; 

"When  he  by  sacred  sympathy  might  make 

The  whole  one  self  !  self,  that  no  alien  knows  ! 

Self,  far  diffused  as  Fancy's  wing  can  travel  ! 

Self,  spreading  still  !     Oblivious  of  its  own, 

Yet  all  of  all  possessing  !     This  is  Faith  ! 

This  the  Messiah's  destined  victory  ! 

But  first  offences  needs  must  come  !     Even  now  * 

(Black  Hell  laughs  horrible — to  hear  the  scoff !) 

Thee  to  defend,  meek  Galilean  !  Thee 

And  thy  mild  laws  of  Love  unutterable. 


*  January  21st,  1794,  in  the  debate  on  the  address  to  his 
Majesty,  on  the  speech  from  the  Throne,  the  Earl  of  Guildford 
moved  an  amendment  to  the  following  effect : — "  That  the 
House  hoped  his  Majesty  would  seize  the  earliest  opportu- 
nity to  conclude  a  peace  with  France,"  (fee.  This  motion  was 
opposed  by  the  Duke  of  Portland,  who  "  considered  the  war 
to  be  merely  grounded  on  one  j)rinciple — the  preservation 
of  the  Christian  Religion."  May  30th,  1794,  the  Duke  of 
Bedford  moved  a  number  of  resolutions,  with  a  view  to  the 
estabhshment  of  a  peace  with  France.  He  was  opposed 
(among  others)  by  Lord  Abingdon,  in  these  remarkable 
words:  "The  best  road  to  Peace,  my  Lords,  is  War!  and 
War  carried  on  in  the  same  manner  in  which  we  are  taught 
to  worship  our  Creator,  namely,  with  all  our  souls,  and  with 
all  our  minds,  and  with  all  our  hearts,  and  with  all  our 
strength." 


54  RELIGIOUS  MUSINGS. 

Mistrust  and  enmity  have  burst  the  bands 

Of  social  peace  ;  and  listening  treachery  lurks 

With  pious  fraud  to  snare  a  brother's  life; 

And  childless  widows  o'er  the  groaning  land 

Wail  numberless;  and  orphans  weep  for  bread 

Thee  to  defend,  dear  Saviour  of  mankind  ! 

Thee,  Lamb  of  God  !  Thee,  blameless  Prince  of  peace  ! 

From  all  sides  rush  the  thirsty  brood  of  War, — 

Austria,  and  that  foul  AVoman  of  the  North, 

The  lustful  mui'deress  of  her  wedded  lord  ! 

And  he,  connatural  mind  !  (whom  in  their  songs 

So  bards  of  elder  time  had  haply  feigned) 

Some  Fury  fondled  in  her  hate  to  man. 

Bidding  her  serpent  hair  in  mazy  surge 

Lick  his  young  face,  and  at  his  mouth  imbreathe 

Horrible  sympathy  !     And  leagued  with  these 

Each  petty  German  princeling,  nursed  in  gore  ! 

Soul-hardened  barterers  of  human  blood  ! 

Death's  prime  slave-merchants  !     Scorpion-whips  of 

Fate  ! 
ISTor  least  in  savagery  of  holy  zeal, 
Apt  for  the  yoke,  the  race  degenerate, 
Whom  Britain  erst  bad  blushed  to  call  her  sons  f 
Thee  to  defend  the  Moloch  priest  prefers 
The  prayer  of  hate,  and  bellows  to  the  herd 
That  Deity,  accomplice  Deity 
In  the  fierce  jealousy  of  wakened  wrath 
Will  go  forth  with  our  armies  and  our  fleets 
To  scatter  the  red  ruin  on  their  foes  ! 
0  blasphemy  !  to  mingle  fiendish  deeds 
With  blessedness  ! 

Lord  of  unsleeping  Love,* 
From  everlasting  Thou  !     We  shall  not  die. 
These,  even  these,  in  mercy  didst  thou  form, 
Teachers  of  Good  through  Evil,  by  brief  wrong 


*  Art  thou  not  from  everlasting,  0  Lord,  my  God,  mine 
Holy  One  ?  We  shall  not  die.  O  Lord,  thou  hast  ordained 
them  for  judgment,  &c. — Habakkuk. 


RELIGIOUS  MUSINGS.  55 

Making  Truth  lovely,  and  her  future  might 

Magnetic  o'er  the  fixed  untrembling  heart. 

In  the  primeval  age  a  dateless  while 

The  vacant  Shepherd  wandered  with  his  flock, 

Pitching  his  tent  where'er  the  green  grass  waved,  v 

But  soon  Imagination  conjured  up 

A  host  of  new  desu'es  :  with  busy  aim, 

Each  for  himself,  Earth's  eager  children  toiled. 

So  Property  began,  twy-streaming  fount, 

Whence  Vice  and  Virtue  flow,  honey  and  gall. 

Hence  the  soft  couch,  and  many-coloured  robe, 

The  timbrel,  and  arch'd  dome  and  costly  feast, 

With  all  the  inventive  arts,  that  nursed  the  soul 

To  forms  of  beauty,  and  by  sensual  wants 

Unsensualised  the  mind,  which  in  the  means 

Learnt  to  forget  the  grossness  of  the  end, 

Best  pleasured  with  its  own  activity. 

And  hence  Disease  that  withers  manhood's  arm, 

The  daggered  Envy,  spirit-quenching  Want, 

Warriors,  and  Lords,  and  Pi'iests — all  the  sore  ills 

That  vex  and  desolate  our  mortal  life. 

Wide-wasting  ills  !  yet  each  the  immediate  source 

Of  mightier  good.     Their  keen  necessities 

To  ceaseless  action  goading  human  thought 

Have  made  Earth's  reasoning  animal  her  Lord  ; 

And  the  pale-featured  Sage's  trembling  hand 

Strong  as  a  host  of  armed  Deities, 

Such  as  the  blind  Ionian  fabled  erst. 

From  avarice  thus,  from  luxury  and  war 
Sprang  heavenly  science  ;  and  from  science  freedom. 
O'er  wakened  realms  Philosophers  and  Bards 
Spread  in  concentric  circles  :  they  whose  souls. 
Conscious  of  their  high  dignities  from  God, 
Brook  not  wealth's  rivalry  !  and  they  who  long 
Enamoured  with  the  charms  of  order  hate 
The  unseemly  disproportion  :  and  whoe'er 
Turn  witli  mild  sorrow  from  the  victor's  car 
And  the  low  puppetry  of  thrones,  to  muse 
On  that  blest  triumph,  when  the  patriot  Sage 


56  RELIGIOUS  MUSINGS. 

Called  the  red  lightnings  from  the  o'er-i-ushing  cloud 

And  dashed  the  beauteous  terrors  on  the  earth 

Smiling  majestic.     Such  a  phalanx  ne'er 

Measured  firm  paces  to  the  calming  sound 

Of  Spartan  flute  !     These  on  the  fated  day, 

When,  stung  to  rage  by  pity,  eloquent  men 

Have  roused  with  pealing  voice  the  unnumbered  tribes 

That  toil  and  groan  and  bleed,  hungry  and  blind, — 

These  hushed  awhile  with  patient  eye  serene 

Shall  watch  the  mad  careering  of  the  storm ; 

Then  o'er  the  wild  and  wavy  chaos  I'ush 

And  tame  the  outrageous  mass,  with  plastic  might 

Moulding  confusion  to  such  perfect  forms, 

As  erst  were  wont, — bright  visions  of  the  day  ! — 

To  float  before  them,  when,  the  summer  noon. 

Beneath  some  arch'd  romantic  rock  reclined 

They  felt  the  sea  breeze  lift  their  youthful  locks; 

Or  in  the  month  of  blossoms,  at  mild  eve, 

Wandering  with  desultory  feet  inhaled 

The  wafted  perfumes,  and  the  flocks  and  woods 

And  many-tinted  streams  and  setting  sun 

With  all  his  gorgeous  company  of  clouds 

Ecstatic  gazed  !  then  homeward  as  they  strayed 

Cast  the  sad  eye  to  earth,  and  inly  mused 

Why  there  was  misery  in  a  world  so  fair. 

Ah  !  far  removed  from  all  that  glads  the  sense. 

From  all  that  softens  or  ennobles  Man, 

The  wretched  Many  !     Bent  beneath  their  loads 

They  gape  at  pageant  Power,  nor  recognise 

Their  cot.s'  transmuted  plunder  !     From  the  tree 

Of  Knowledge,  ere  the  vernal  sap  had  risen 

Rudely  disbranched  !     Blest  Society  ! 

Fitliest  depictured  by  some  sun-scorched  waste. 

Where  oft  mnjestic  through  the  tainted  noon 

The  Simoom  sails,  before  whose  purple  pomp 

Who  falls  not  prostrate  dies  !     And  where  by  night 

Fast  by  each  precious  fountain  on  green  herbs 

The  lion  couches  ;  or  hysena  dips 

Deep  in  the  lucid  stream  his  bloody  jaws  ; 

Or  serpent  plants  his  vast  moon-glittering  bulk. 


RELIGIOUS  MUSINGS.  57 

Caugh-t  in  whose  monstrous  twine  Behemoth  *  yells, 
His  bones  loud-crashing  ! 

0  ye  numberless, 
Whom  foul  oppression's  ruffian  gluttony 
Drives  from   life's   plenteous  feast !    0   thou   poor 

wretch 
Who  nursed  in  darkness  and  made  wild  by  want, 
Eoamest  for  prey,  yea  thy  unnatural  hand 
Dost  lift  to  deeds  of  blood  !     0  pale-eyed  form. 
The  victim  of  seduction,  doomed  to  know 
Polluted  nights  and  days  of  blasphemy  ; 
Who  in  loathed  orgies  with  lewd  wassailers 
Must  gaily  laugh,  while  thy  remembered  home 
Gnaws  like  a  viper  at  thy  secret  heart  ! 
0  aged  women  !  ye  who  weekly  catch 
The  morsel  tossed  by  law-forced  charity. 
And  die  so  slowly,  that  none  call  it  murder  ! 
0  loathly  suppliants  !  ye,  that  unreceived 
Totter  heart-bx-oken  from  the  closing  gates 
Of  the  full  Lazar-house  :  or,  gazing,  stand 
Sick  with  despair  !     0  ye  to  glory's  field 
Forced  or  ensnared,  who,  as  ye  gasp  in  death, 
Bleed  with  new  wounds  beneath  the  vulture's  beak  ! 
0  thou  poor  widow,  who  in  dreams  dost  view 
Thy  husband's  mangled  corse,  and  from  short  doze 
Start'st  with  a  shriek ;  or  in  thy  half-thatched  cot 
Waked  by  the  wintry  night-storm,  wet  and  cold 
Cow'r'st  o'er  thy  screaming  baby  !     Rest  awhile,    ;  '' 
Children  of  wretchedness  !     More  groans  must  rise, 
More  blood  must  stream,  or  ere  your  wrongs  be  full. 
Yet  is  the  day  of  retribution  nigh  : 
The  Lamb  of  God  hath  opened  the  fifth  seal : 
And  upward  rush  on  swiftest  wing  of  fire 
The  innumerable  multitude  of  Wrongs 


*  Behemoth,  in  Hebrew,  signifies  wild  beasts  in  general. 
Some  believe  it  is  the  elephant,  some  the  hippopotamus  ; 
some  affirm  it  is  the  wild  bull.  Poetically,  it  designates  any 
large  quadniped. 


58  RELIGIOUS  MUSINGS. 

By  man  on  man  inflicted  !     Rest  awhile, 
Children  of  wretchedness  !     The  hour  is  nigh; 
And  lo  !  the  great,  the  rich,  the  mighty  Men, 
The  Kings  and  the  chief  Captains  of  the  World, 
With  all  that  fixed  on  high  like  stars  of  Heaven 
Shot  baleful  influence,  shall  be  cast  to  earth, 
Vile  and  down-trodden,  as  the  untimely  fruit 
Shook  from  the  fig-tree  by  a  sudden  storm. 
Even  now  the  storm  begins  :  *  each  gentle  name, 
Faith  and  meek.  Piety,  with  fearful  joy 
Tremble  far-off — for  lo  !  the  giant  Frenzy 
Uprooting  empires  with  his  whirlwind  arm 
Mocketh  high  Heaven  ;  burst  hideous  from  the  cell 
Where  the  old  Hag,  unconquerable,  huge, 
Creation's  eyeless  drudge,  black  ruin,  sits 
Nursing  the  impatient  earthquake. 

0  return  ! 
Pure  Faith  !  meek  Piety  !     The  abhorred  Form 
Whose  scarlet  robe  was  stiff  with  earthly  pomp, 
\'\Tio  drank  iniquity  in  cups  of  gold, 
Whose  names  were  many  and  all  blasphemous, 
Hath  met  the  horrible  judgment  !  Whence  that  cry? 
The  mighty  army  of  foul  Spirits  shrieked 
Disherited  of  earth  !     For  she  hath  fallen 
On  whose  black  front  was  written  Mystery  ; 
She  that  reeled  heavily,  whose  wine  was  blood  ; 
She  that  worked  whoredom  with  the  Demon  Power, 
And  from  the  dark  embrace  all  evil  things 
Brought  forth  and  nurtured  :  mitred  atheism  ! 
And  patient  Folly  who  on  bended  knee 
Gives  back  the  steel  that  stabbed  him  ;  and  pale  Feai 
Haunted  by  ghastlier  shapings  than  surround 
Moon-blasted  Madness  when  he  yells  at  midnight  ! 
Return  pure  Faith  !  return  meek  Piety  ! 
The  kingdoms  of  the  world  are  youi'S  :  each  heart 
Self-governed,  the  vast  family  of  Love 
Raised  from  the  common  earth  by  common  toil 

*  Alluding  to  the  French  Revolution. 


RELIGIOUS  MUSINGS.  59 

Enjoy  the  equal  produce.     Such  delights 

As  float  to  earth,  permitted  visitants  ! 

When  in  some  hour  of  solemn  jubilee 

The  massy  gates  of  Paradise  are  thrown 

Wide  open,  and  forth  come  in  fragments  wild 

Sweet  echoes  of  unearthly  melodies, 

And  odours  snatched  from  beds  of  amaranth, 

And  they,  that  from  the  crystal  river  of  life 

Spi'ing  up  on  freshened  wing,  ambrosial  gales  ! 

The  favoured  good  man  in  his  lonely  walk 

Perceives  them,  and  his  silent  spirit  drinks 

Strange  bliss  which  he  shall  recognise  in  heaven. 

And  such  delights,  such  strange  beatitudes 

Seize  on  my  young  anticipating  heart 

When  that  blest  future  rushes  on  my  view  ! 

For  in  his  own  and  in  his  Father's  might 

The  Saviour  comes  !     While  as  the  Thousand  Years 

Lead  up  their  mystic  dance,  the  Desert  shouts  ! 

Old  Ocean  claps  his  hands  !     The  mighty  Dead 

Rise  to  new  life,  whoe'er  from  earliest  time 

With  conscious  zeal  had  urged  Love's  wondrous  plan. 

Coadjutors  of  God.     To  Milton's  trump 

The  high  groves  of  the  renovated  Earth 

Unbosom  their  glad  echoes  :  inly  hushed. 

Adoring  Newton  his  serener  eye 

Raises  to  Heaven  :  and  he  of  mortal  kind 

Wisest,  he  *  first  who  marked  the  ideal  tribes 

Up  the  fine  fibres  through  the  sentient  brain. 

Lo  !  Priestley  there,  patriot,  and  saint,  and  sage, 

Him,  full  of  years,  from  his  loved  native  land 

Statesmen  blood-stained  and  priests  idolatrous 

By  dark  lies  maddening  the  blind  multitude 

Drove  with  vain  hate.     Calm,  pitying  he  retired, 

And  mused  expectant  on  these  promised  years. 

0  Years  !  the  blest  pre-eminence  of  Saints  ! 
Ye  sweep  athwart  my  gaze,  so  heavenly  bright. 
The  wings  that  veil  the  adoring  Seraphs'  eyes, 

*  David  Hai  tley. 


60  RELIGIOUS  MUSIXGS. 

What  time  they  bend  before  the  Jasper  Throne  * 

Reflect  no  lovelier  hues  !     Yet  ye  depart, 

And  all  beyond  is  darkness  !     Heights  most  strange 

Whence  Fancy  falls,  fluttering  her  idle  wing. 

For  who  of  woman  born  may  paint  the  hour, 

When  seized  in  his  mid  course,  the  Sun  shall  wane 

Making  noon  ghastly  !     Who  of  woman  born 

May  image  in  the  workings  of  his  thought, 

How  the  black-visaged,  red-eyed  Fiend  outstretched  t 

Beneath  the  unsteady  feet  of  Nature  groans. 

In  feverous  slumbers — destined  then  to  wake, 

When  fiery  whirlwinds  thuuder  his  dread  name 

And  Angels  shout,  Destruction  !     How  his  arm 

The  last  great  Spu-it  lifting  high  in  air 

Shall  swear  by  Him,  the  ever-living  One, 

Time  is  no  more  ! 

Believe  thou,   0  my  soul, 
Life  is  a  vision  shadowy  of  Truth  ; 
And  vice,  and  anguish,  and  the  wormy  grave, 
Shapes  of  a  dream  !     The  veiling  clouds  retire, 
And  lo  !  the  Throne  of  the  redeeming  God 
Forth  flashing  unimaginable  day 
Wraps  in  one  blaze  earth,  heaven,  and  deepest  hell. 

Contemplant  Spirits  !  ye  that  hover  o'er 
With  untu'ed  gaze  the  immeasurable  fount 
Ebullient  with  creative  Deity  ! 
And  ye  of  plastic  power,  that  interfused 
Roll  through  the  grosser  and  material  mass 
In  organising  surge  !     Holies  of  God  ! 
(And  what  if  Monads  of  the  infinite  mind) 
I  haply  journeying  my  immortal  course 
Shall  sometime  join  your  mystic  choir.     Till  then 
I  discipline  my  young  and  novice  thought 

*  Rev.  chap.  iv.  verses  2  and  3. — And  immediately  I  was  in 
the  Spirit :  and  behold,  a  Tliroue  was  set  in  Heaven  and  one 
sat  on  the  Throne.  And  he  that  sat  was  to  look  upon  like  a 
jasper  and  a  sardine  stone,  &c. 

t  The  final  destruction  impersonated. 


THE  DESTINY  OF  NATIONS. 

In  miBisteries  of  heart-stirring  song, 

And  aye  on  Meditation's  heaven-ward  wing 

Soaring  aloft  I  breathe  the  empyreal  air 

Of  Love,  omnific,  omnipresent  Love, 

Whose  day-spring  rises  glorious  in  my  sonl 

As  the  great  Sun,  when  he  his  influence 

Sheds  on  the  frost-bound  waters — The  glad  stream 

Flows  to  the  ray  and  warbles  as  it  flows. 


THE  DESTINY  OF  NATIONS. 


Auspicious  Reverence  !     Hush  all  meaner  song. 

Ere  we  the  deep  preluding  strain  have  poured 

To  the  Great  Father,  only  Rightful  King, 

Eternal  Father  !  King  Omnipotent ! 

To  the  Will  Absolute,  the  One,  the  Good  ! 

The  I  AM,  the  Word,  the  Life,  the  Living  God  ! 

Such  symphony  requires  best  instrument. 
Seize,  then,  my  soul !  from  Freedom's  trophied  dome 
The  harp  which  hangeth  high  between  the  shields 
Of  Brutus  and  Leonidas  !     With  that 
Strong  music,  that  soliciting  spell,  force  back 
Man's  free  and  stirring  spirit  that  lies  entranced. 

For  what  is  freedom,  but  the  unfettered  use 
Of  all  the  powei-s  which  God  for  use  had  given  ? 
But  chiefly  this,  him  first,  him  last  to  view 
Through  meaner  powers  and  secondary  things 
EflFnlgent,  as  through  clouds  that  veil  his  blaze. 
For  all  that  meets  the  bodily  sense  I  deem 
Symbolical,  one  mighty  alphabet 
For  infant  minds ;  and  we  in  this  low' world 
Placed  with  our  backs  to  bright  reality, 


62  THE  DESTINY  OF  NATIONS. 

That  we  may  learn  with  young  unwounded  ken 
The  substance  fi'om  its  shadow.     Infinite  Love, 
Whose  latence  is  the  plenitude  of  all, 
Thou  with  retracted  beams,  and  self-eclipse 
Veiling,  revealest  thine  eternal  Sun. 

But  some  there  are  who  deem  themselves  most  free 
When  they  within  this  gross  and  visible  sphere 
Chain  down  the  winged  thought,  scoflSng  ascent. 
Proud  in  their  n;eanness  :  and  themselves  they  cheat 
With  noisy  emptiness  of  learned  phrase, 
Their  subtle  fluids,  impacts,  essences, 
Self-working  tools,  uncaused  effects,  and  all 
Those  blind  omniscients,  those  almighty  slaves, 
Untenanting  creation  of  its  God. 

But  properties  are  God  :  the  naked  mass 
(If  mass  there  be,  fantastic  guess  or  ghost) 
Acts  only  by  its  inactivity. 
Here  we  pause  humbly.     Others  boldlier  think 
That  as  one  body  seems  the  aggregate 
Of  atoms  numberless,  each  orgauised ; 
So  by  a  strange  and  dim  similitude 
Infinite  myriads  of  self-conscious  minds 
Are  one  all-conscious  Spirit,  which  informs 
With  absolute  ubiquity  of  thought 
(His  one  eternal  self-affirming  act !) 
All  his  involved  Monads,  that  yet  seem 
With  various  province  and  apt  agency 
Each  to  pursue  its  own  self-centring  end. 
Some  nui'se  the  infant  diamond  in  the  mine; 
Some  roll  the  genial  juices  through  the  oak; 
Some  drive  the  mutinous  clouds  to  clash  iu  air. 
And  rushing  on  the  storm  with  whirlwind  speed, 
Yoke  the  red  lightnings  to  their  volleying  car. 
Thus  these  pursue  their  never-varying  course, 
No  eddy  in  their  stream.     Others,  more  wild, 
With  complex  interests  weaving  human  fates, 
Duteous  or  proud,  alike  obedient  all, 
Evolve  the  process  of  eternal  good. 


THE  DESTINY  OF  NATIONS. 

And  what  if  some  rebellious  o'er  dark  realms 
Arrogate  power  ?  yet  these  train  up  to  God, 
And  on  the  rude  eye,  unconfirmed  for  day, 
Flash  meteor-lights  better  than  total  gloom. 
As  ere  from  Lieule-Oaive's  vapoury  head 
The  Laplander  beholds  the  far-off  sun 
Dart  his  slant  beam  on  unobeying  snows, 
While  yet  the  stern  and  solitaiy  night 
Brooks  no  alternate  sway,  the  Boreal  Morn 
With  mimic  lustre  substitutes  its  gleam, 
Guiding  his  course  or  by  Niemi  lake 
Or  Balda  Zhiok,*  or  the  mossy  stone 
Of  Solfar-kapper,+  while  the  snowy  blast 
Drifts  arrowy  by,  or  eddies  round  his  sledge, 
Making  the  poor  babe  at  its  mother's  back  J 
Scream  in  its  scanty  cradle  :  he  the  while 
Wins  gentle  solace  as  with  upward  eye 
He  marks  the  streamy  banners' of  the  North, 
Thinking  himself  those  happy  spirits  shall  join 
Who  there  in  floating  robes  of  rosy  light 
Dance  sportively.     For  Fancy  is  the  power 
That  first  uusensualises  the  dark  mind, 


*  Balda  Zhiok  ;  i.  e.  mons  altitudinis,  the  highest  mountain 
in  Laplaud. 

t  Solfar-kapper ;  capitium  Solfar,  hie  locl^s  omninm  quot- 
quot  veteruni  Lapponum  superstitio  sacrificiis  religiosoque 
cultui  dedicavit,  eelebratissimus  erat,  in  parte  sinus  australis 
situs  semimilliaris  spatio  a  mari  distans.  Ipse  locus,  quern 
ciu-iositatis  gratia  aliquando  me  invisisse  memini,  duabus 
prealtis  lapidibus,  sibi  invicem  oppositis,  quorum  alter  musco 
circumdatus  erat,  constabat. — Leeniius  de  lapponibus. 

t  The  Lapland  women  carry  their  infants  at  their  back  in  a 
piece  of  excavated  wood,  w^bich  serves  them  for  a  cradle. 
Opposite  to  the  infant's  mouth  there  is  a  hole  for  it  to  breathe 
through. — Mirandum  pi'orsus  est  et  vix  credibile  nisi  cui 
vidisse  contigit.  Lappoues  hyeme  iter  facientes  per  vastos 
montes,  perque  horrida  et  invia  tesqua,  eo  presertim  tempore 
quo  omnia  perpetuis  nivibus  obtecta  sunt  et  nives  ventis 
agitantur  et  in  gyros  ag-untur,  viam  ad  destiuata  loca  absque 
errore  invenire  posse,  lactantem  autem  infantem  si  quera 
habeat,  ipsa  mater  in  dorso  bajulat.  in  excavatoligno(Gieed'k 
ipsi  vocant)  quod  pro  cunis  utuntur :  in  hoc  infans  pannis  et 
pellibus  convolutus  colligatus  jacet. — Leemius  de  LapiMnilus. 


64  THE  DESTINY  OF  NATIONS. 

Giving  itnew  delights;  and  bids  it  swell 

With  wild  activity  ;  and  peopling  air, 

By  obscure  fears  of  beings  invisible, 

Emancipates  it  from  the  grosser  thrall 

Of  the  present  impulse,  teaching  self-control, 

Till  Superstition  with  imconscious  hand 

Seat  Reason  on  her  throne.     Wherefore  not  vain, 

Nor  yet  without  permitted  power  impressed, 

I  deem  those  legends  terrible,  wita  which 

The  polar  ancient  thrills  his  uncouth  throng  : 

Whether  of  pitying  Spirits  that  make  their  moan 

O'er  slaughtered  infants,  or  that  giant  bird 

Vuokho,  of  whose  rushing  wings  the  noise 

Is  tempest,  when  the  unutterable  *  shape 

Speeds  from  the  mother  of  Death,  and  utters  once 

That  shriek,  which  never  murderer  heard,  and  lived. 

Or  if  the  Greenland  Wizard  in  strange  trance 
Pierces  the  untravelled  realms  of  Ocean's  bed 
Over  the  abj^sm,  even  to  that  uttermost  cave 
By  mis-shaped  prodigies  beleaguered,  such 
As- earth  ne'er  bred,  nor  air,  nor  the  upper  sea  : 
Where  dwells  the  Fury  Form,  whose  unheard  name 
With  eager  eye,  pale  cheek,  suspended  breath, 
And  lips  half-opening  with  the  dread  of  sound, 
Unsleeping  Silence  guards,  worn  out  with  fear 
Lest  haply  'scaping  on  some  treacherous  blast 
The  fateful  word  let  slip  the  elements 
And  frenzy  Nature.     Yet  the  wizard  her, 
Armed  with  Torngarsuck'st  powei-,  the  Spirit  of  Good, 


*  Jaibme  Aibmo. 
t  They  call  the  Good  Spirit  Tornparsuck.  The  other  great 
but  malignant  spirit  is  a  nameless  Female  ;  she  dwells  under 
the  sea  in  a  great  house,  where  she  can  detain  in  captivity  all 
the  animals  of  the  ocean  by  her  magic  power.  When  a  dearth 
befalls  the  Greenlanders,  an  Angekok  or  magician  must 
undertake  a  journey  tliitlier.  He  ])asses  through  the  king- 
dom of  souls,  over  a  horrible  abyss  into  the  Palace  of  this 
phantom,  and  by  his  encliantments  causes  the  captive  crea- 
tures to  ascend  directly  to  the  surface  of  the  ocean. — See 
Cmntz\s  History  of  Gremland,  vol.  i.  206. 


THE  DESTINY  OF  NATIONS.  65 

Forces  to  unchain  the  foodful  progeny 

Of  the  Ocean  stream ; thence  thro'  the  realm  of 

Souls, 
Where  live  the  Innocent,  as  far  from  cares 
As  from  the  storms  and  overwhelming  waves 
That  tumble  on  the  surface  of  the  Deep, 
Eeturns  with  far-heard  pant,  hotly  pursued 
By  the  fierce  Warders  of  the  Sea,  once  more, 
Ere  by  the  frost  foreclosed,  to  repossess 
His  fleshly  mansion,  that  had  staid  the  while 
In  the  dark  tent  within  a  cow' ring  group 
Untenanted. — Wild  phantasies  !  yet  wise, 
On  the  victorious  goodness  of  high  God 
Teaching  reliance,  and  medicinal  hope. 
Till  from  Bethabra  northward,  heavenly  Truth 
With  gradual  steps,  winning  her  difficult  way, 
Transfer  their  rude  Faith  perfected  and  pure. 

If  there  be  beings  of  higher  class  than  Man, 
I  deem  no  nobler  pi-ovince  they  possess. 
Than  by  disposal  of  apt  circumstance 
To  rear  up  kingdoms  :  and  the  deeds  they  prompt 
Distinguishing  from  mortal  agency, 
They  choose  their  human  ministers  from  such  states 
As  still  the  Epic  song  half  fears  to  name, 
Eepelled  from  all  the  minstrelsies  tliat  strike 
The  palace-roof  and  soothe  the  monarch's  pride. 

And  such,  perhaps,  the  Spirit,  who  (if  words 
Witnessed  by  answering  deeds  may  claim  our  faith) 
Held  commune  with  that  warrior-maid  of  France 
Who  scourged  the  Invader.     From  lier  infant  days. 
With  Wisdom,  mother  of  retired  thoughts. 
Her  soul  had  dwelt ;  and  slie  was  quick  to  mark 
The  good  and  evil  thing,  in  human  lore 
Undisciplined.     For  lowly  was  her  birth, 
And  Heaven  had  doomed  her  early  years  to  toil 
That  pure  from  tyranny's  least  deed,  herself 
Uufeared  by  fellow-natures,  she  might  wait 
On  the  poor  labouring  man  with  kindly  looks, 


(56  THE  DESTINY  OF  NATIONS. 

And  minister  refreshment  to  the  tired 
Way-wanderer,  when  along  the  rough  hewn  bench 
The  sweltry  man  had  stretched  him,  and  aloft 
Vacantly  watched  the  rudely  pictured  board 
Which  on  the  mulberry -bough  with  welcome  creak 
Swung  to  the  pleasant  bx'eeze.     Here,  too,  the  Maid 
Learnt  more  than  schools  could  teach  :  Man's  shifting 

miud, 
His  vices  and  his  sorrows  !     And  full  oft 
Atb  ales  of  cruel  wi'ong  and  strange  distress 
Had  v/ept  and  shivered.     To  the  tottering  eld 
Still  as  a  daughter  would  she  run  :  she  placed 
His  cold  limbs  at  the  sunny  door,  and  loved 
To  hear  him  story,  in  his  garrulous  sort, 
Of  his  eventful  years,  all  come  and  gone. 

So  twenty  seasons  past.     The  Virgin's  form, 
Active  and  tall,  nor  sloth  nor  luxury 
Had  shrunk  or  paled.     Her  front  sublime  and  broad, 
Her  flexile  eye-brows  wildly  haired  and  low, 
And  her  full  eye,  now  bright,  now  unillumed, 
Spake  more  than  Woman's  thought ;  and  all  her  face 
Was  moulded  to  such  features  as  declared 
That  pity  there  had  oft  and  strongly  worked, 
And  sometimes  indignation.     Bold  her  mien. 
And  like  a  haughty  huntress  of  the  woods 
She  moved  :  yet  sure  she  was  a  gentle  maid 
And  in  each  motion  her  most  innocent  soul 
Beamed  forth  so  brightly,  that  who  saw  would  say 
Guilt  was  a  thing  impossible  in  her  ! 
Nor  idly  would  have  said — for  she  had  lived 
In  this  bad  World  as  in  a  place  of  tombs. 
And  touched  not  the  pollutions  of  the  dead. 

'Twas  the  cold  season  when  the  rustic's  eye 
From  the  drear  desolate  whiteness  of  his  fields 
Rolls  for  relief  to  watch  the  skiey  tints 
And  clouds  slow  varying  their  huge  imagery ; 
When  now,  as  she  was  wont,  the  healthful  Maid 
Had  left  her  pallet  ere  one  beam  of  day 


THE  DESTINY  OF  NATIONS.  C7 

Slanted  the  fog-smoke.     She  went  forth  alone 

Urged  by  the  indwelling  angel-guide^  that  oft, 

With  dim  inexplicable  sympathies 

Disquieting  the  heai-t,  shapes  out  Man's  course 

To  the  predoomed  adventure.     Now  the  ascent 

She  climbs  of  that  steep  upland,  on  whose  top 

The  Pilgrim-man,  who  long  since  eve  had  watched 

The  alien  shine  of  unconceming  stars, 

Shouts  to  himself,  there  first  the  Abbey-lights 

Seen  in  Neufchatel's  vale;  now  slopes  adown 

The  winding  sheep-track  vale-ward :  when,  behold 

In  the  first  entrance  of  the  level  road 

An  unattended  team  !     The  foremost  horse 

Lay  with  stretched  limbs  ;  the  others,  yet  alive 

But  stiff  and  cold,  stood  motionless,  their  manes 

Hoar  with  the  frozen  night  dews.     Dismally 

The  dark-red  dawn  now  glimmered  ;  but  its  gleams 

Disclosed  no  face  of  man.     The  maiden  paused, 

Then  hailed  who  might  be  near.     No  voice  replied. 

From  the  thwart  wain  at  length  there  reached  her  ear 

A  sound  so  feeble  that  it  almost  seemed 

Distant :  and  feebly,  with  slow  effort  pushed, 

A  miserable  man  crept  forth  :  his  limbs 

The  silent  frost  had  eat,  scathing  like  fire. 

Faint  on  the  shafts  he  rested.     She,  mean  time, 

Saw  crowded  close  beneath  the  coverture 

A  mother  and  her  children — lifeless  all. 

Yet  lovely  !  not  a  lineament  was  marred — 

Death  had  put  on  so  slumber-like  a  form  ! 

It  was  a  piteous  sight;  and  one,  a  babe. 

The  crisp  milk  frozen  on  its  innocent  lips, 

Lay  on  the  woman's  arm,  its  little  hand 

Stretched  on  her  bosom. 

Mutely  questioning. 
The  Maid  gazed  wildly  at  the  living  wretch. 
He,  his  head  feebly  turning,  on  the  group 
Looked  with  a  vacant  stare,  and  his  eye  spoke 
The  drowsy  calm  that  steals  on  worn-out  anguish. 
She  shuddered ;  but,  each  vainer  pang  subdued. 


68  THE  DESTINY  OF  NATIONS. 

Quick  disentangling  from  the  foi'emost  horse 

The  rustic  bands,  with  difficulty  and  toil 

The  stiff  cramped  team  forced  homeward.     There 

arrived, 
Anxiously  tends  him  she  with  healing  herbs, 
And  weeps  and  prays — but  the  numb  power  of  Death 
Spreads  o'er  his  limbs ;  and  ere  the  noontide  hour, 
The  hovering  spirits  of  his  wife  and  babes 
Hail  him  immortal  !     Yet  amid  his  pangs, 
With  interruptions  long  from  ghastly  throes. 
His  voice  had  faltered  out  this  simple  tale. 

The  village,  where  he  dwelt  a  husbandman, 
By  sudden  inroad  had  been  seized  and  fired 
Late  on  the  yester-evening.     With  his  wife 
And  little  ones  he  hurried  his  escape. 
They  saw  the  neighbouring  hamlets  flame,  they  heard 
Uproar  and  shrieks  !  and  terror-struck  drove  on 
Through  unfrequented  roads,  a  weary  way  ! 
But  saw  nor  house  nor  cottage.     All  had  quenched 
Their  evening  hearth-fire  :  for  the  alarm  had  spread. 
The  air  clipped  keen,  the  night  was  fanged  with  frost, 
And  they  provisionless  !     The  weeping  wife 
111  hushed  her  children's  moans;    and  still  they 

moaned. 
Till  fright  and  cold  and  hunger  drank  their  life. 
They  closed  their  eyes  in  sleep,  nor  knew  'twas  death. 
He  only,  lashing  his  o'er-wearied  team, 
Gained  a  sad  respite,  till  beside  the  base 
Of  the  high  hill  his  foremost  horse  dropped  dead. 
Then  hopeless,  strengthless,  sick  for  lack  of  food, 
He  crept  beneath  the  coverture,  entranced, 
Till  wakened  by  tlie  Maiden. — Such  his  tale. 

Ah  !  suffering  to  the  height  of  what  was  suffered, 
Stung  with  too  keen  a  sympathy,  the  Maid 
Brooded  with  moving  lips,  mute,  startful,  dark  ! 
And  now  her  fluslied  tumultuous  features  shot 
Such  strange  vivacity,  as  fires  the  eye 
Of  misery  fancy-crazed  !  and  now  once  more 


THE  DESTINY  OF  NATIONS.  69 

Naked,  and  void,  and  fixed,  and  all  within 

The  unquiet  silence  of  confused  thought 

And  shapeless  feelings.     For  a  mighty  hand 

Was  strong  upon  her,  till  in  the  heat  of  soul 

To  the  high  hill-top  tracing  back  her  steps, 

Aside  the  beacon,  up  whose  smouldered  stones 

The  tender  ivy-trails  crept  thinly,  there, 

Unconscious  of  the  driving  element, 

Yea,  swallowed  up  in  the  ominous  dream,  she  sate 

Ghastly  as  broad-eyed  Slumber  !  a  dim  anguish 

Breathed  from  her  look  !  and  still  with  pant  and  sob, 

Inly  she  toil'd  to  flee,  and  still  subdued, 

Felt  an  inevitable  Presence  near. 

Thus  as  she  toiled  in  troublous  ecstasy, 
A  horror  of  great  darkness  wrapt  her  round, 
And  a  voice  uttered  forth  unearthly  tones. 
Calming  her  soul, — "  0  Thou  of  the  Most  High 
Chosen,  whom  all  the  perfected  in  Heaven 
Behold  expectant 

[The  following  fragments  were  intended  to  form  part  of  the 
poem  when  finished.] 

"  Maid  beloved  of  Heaven  ! 
(To  her  the  tutelary  Power  exclaimed) 
Of  Chaos  the  adventurous  progeny 
Thou  seest ;  foul  missionaries  of  foul  sire, 
Fierce  to  regain  the  losses  of  that  hour 
When  Love  rose  glittering,  and  his  gorgeous  wings 
Over  the  abyss  fluttered  with  such  glad  noise, 
As  what  time  after  long  and  pestful  calms, 
With  slimy  shapes  and  miscreated  life 
Poisoning  the  vast  Pacific,  the  fresh  breeze 
Wakens  the  merchant-sail  uprising.     Night 
A  heavy  unimaginable  moan 
Sent  forth,  when  she  the  Pi'otoplast  beheld 
Stand  beauteous  on  confusion's  charmed  wave. 
Moaning  she  fled,  and  entered  the  Profound 
That  leads  with  downward  windings  to  the  cave 


70  THE  DESTINY  OF  NATIONS. 

Of  darkness  palpable,  desert  of  Death 
Sunk  deep  beneath  Gehenna's  massy  roots. 
There  many  a  dateless  age  the  beldam  lurked 
And  trembled ;  till  engendered  by  fierce  Hate, 
Fierce  Hate  and  gloomy  Hope,  a  Dream  arose, 
Shaped  Hke  a  black  cloud  marked  with  streaks  of  fire. 
It  roused  the  Hell-Hag :  she  the  dew  damp  wiped 
From  off  her  brow,  and  through  the  uncouth  maze 
Eetraced  her  steps  ;  but  ere  she  reached  the  mouth 
Of  that  drear  labyrinth,  shuddering  she  paused, 
Nor  dared  re-enter  the  diminished  Gulf. 
As  through  the  dark  vaults  of  some  mouldered  tower 
(WTiich,  fearful  to  approach,  the  evening  hind 
Circles  at  distance  in  his  homeward  way) 
The  winds  breathe  hollow,  deemed  the  plaining  groan 
Of  prisoned  spu'its ;  with  such  fearful  voice 
Night  murmured,  and  the  sound  thro'  Chaos  went. 
Leaped  at  her  call  her  hideous-fronted  brood  ! 
A  dark  behest  they  heard,  and  rushed  on  earth  ; 
Since  that  sad  hour,  in  camps  and  coui'ts  adored, 
Rebels  from  God,  and  tyrants  o'er  Mankind  ! " 


From  his  obscure  haunt 
Shrieked  Fear,  of  Cruelty  the  ghastly  dam. 
Feverous  yet  freezing,  eager-paced  yet  slow, 
As  she  that  creeps  from  forth  her  swampy  reeds, 
Ague,  the  biform  hag  !  when  early  Spring 
Beams  on  the  marsh-bred  vapours. 


"  Even  so  (the  exulting  Maiden  said) 
The  sainted  heralds  of  good  tidings  fell. 
And  thus  they  witnessed  God  !     But  now  the  clouds 
Treading,  and  storms  beneath  their  feet,  they  soar 
Higher,  and  higher  soar,  and  soaring  sing 
Loud  songs  of  triumph  !     0  ye  spirits  of  God, 
Hover  around  my  mortal  agonies  !  " 
She  spake,  and  instantly  faint  melody 
Melts  on  her  ear,  soothing  and  sad,  and  slow. 
Such  measures,  as  at  calmest  midnight  heard 


THE  DESTINY  OF  NATIONS. 

By  aged  hermit  in  his  holy  dream, 
Foretell  and  solace  death ;  and  now  they  rise 
Louder,  as  when  with  harp  and  mingled  voice 
The  white-robed  *  multitude  of  slaughtered  saints 
At  Heaven's  wide-opened  portals  gratulant 
Eeceive  some  martyr'd  patriot.     The  harmony 
Entranced  the  Maid,  till  each  suspended  sense 
Brief  slumber  seized,  and  confused  ecstasy. 

At  length  awakening  slow,  she  gazed  around  : 
And  through  a  mist,  the  relique  of  that  trance 
Still  thinning  as  she  gazed,  an  Isle  appeared. 
Its  high,  o'er-hanging,  white,  broad-breasted  cliffs, 
Glassed  on  the  subject  ocean.     A  vast  plain 
Stretched  opposite,  where  ever  and  anon 
The  plough-man  following  sad  his  meagre  team 
Turned  up  fresh  sculls  unstartled,  and  the  bones 
Of  fierce  hate-breathing  combatants,  who  there 
All  mingled  lay  beneath  the  common  earth, 
Death's  gloomy  reconcilement  !  O'er  the  fields 
Stept  a  fair  Form,  repahing  all  she  might. 
Her  temples  olive-wreathed ;  and  where  she  trod. 
Fresh  flowerets  rose,  and  many  a  foodful  herb. 
But  v/an  her  cheek,  her  footsteps  insecure, 
And  anxious  pleasure  beamed  iu  her  faint  eye, 
As  she  had  newly  left  a  couch  of  pain. 
Pale  convalescent  !  (yet  some  time  to  rule 
With  power  exclusive  o'er  the  willing  world, 
That  blest  prophetic  mandate  then  fulfilled — 
Peace  be  on  Earth  !)  A  happy  while,  but  brief, 
She  seemed  to  wander  with  assiduous  feet, 
And  healed  the  recent  harm  of  chill  and  blight, 
And  nursed  each  plant  that  fair  and  virtuous  gi'ew. 


*  Revelations,  vi.  9,  11.  And  when  he  had  opened  the 
fifth  seal,  I  saw  under  the  altar  the  souls  of  them  that  were 
slain  for  the  word  of  God,  and  for  the  testimony  whicli  they 
held.  And  white  rohes  were  given  unto  every  one  of  them, 
and  it  was  saidimto  them,  that  they  should  rest  yet  for  a  little 
season,  until  their  fellow  servants  also  and  their  brethren, 
that  should  be  killed  as  they  were,  should  be  fulfilled. 


72  THE  DESTINY  OF  NATIONS. 

But  soon  a  deep  precursive  sound  moaned  hollow 
Black  rose  the  clouds,  and  now,  (as  in  a  dream) 
Their  reddening  shapes,  transformed  to  warrior-hosts, 
Coursed  o'er  the  sky,  and  battled  in  mid-air, 
Nor  did  not  the  large  blood-drops  fall  from  heaven 
Portentous  !  while  aloft  were  seen  to  float. 
Like  hideous  features  booming  on  the  mist, 
Wan  stains  of  ominous  light  !  Resigned,  yet  sad, 
The  fair  Form  bowed  her  olive-crowned  brow, 
Then  o'er  the  plain  with  oft  reverted  eye 
Fled  till  a  place  of  tombs  she  i-eached,  and  there 
Within  a  ruined  sepulchre  obscure 
Found  hiding-place. 

The  delegated  Maid 
Gazed   through    her    tears,  then    in  sad    tones  ex- 
claimed ; — 
"  Thou  mild-eved   Form  !  wherefore,  ah  !  wherefore 

fled? 
The  power  of  Justice  like  a  name  all  light. 
Shone  from  thy  brow ;  but  all  they,  who  unblamed 
Dwelt  in  tby  dwellings,  call  thee  Happiness. 
Ah  !  why,  uninjured  and  unprofited. 
Should  multitudes  against  their  brethren  rush  1 
Why  sow  thy  guilt,  still  reaping  miseiy  1 
Lenient  of  care,  thy  songs,  0  Peace  !  are  sweet, 
As  after  showers  the  perfumed  gale  of  eve. 
That  flings  the  cool  drops  on  a  feverous  cheek; 
And  gay  thy  grassy  altar  piled  with  fruits. 
But  boasts  the  shrine  of  demon  War  one  charm. 
Save  that  with  many  an  orgie  strange  and  foul, 
Dancing  around  with  interwoven  arms. 
The  maniac  Suicide  and  giant  Murder 
Exult  in  their  fierce  union  !  I  am  sad. 
And  know  not  why  the  simple  peasants  crowd 
Beneath  the  Chieftains'  standard  ! "     Thus  the  Maid. 

To  her  the  tutelary  Spirit  said  : 
"When  luxury  and  lust's  exhausted  stores 
No  more  can  rouse  the  appetites  of  kings ; 


THE  DESTINY  OF  NATIONS.  73 

When  the  low  flattery  of  their  reptile  lords 
Falls  flat  and  heavy  on  the  accustomed  ear; 
When  eunuchs  slug,  and  fools  buffoonery  mate, 
And  dancers  writhe  their  harlot-limbs  in  vain ; 
Then  War  and  all  its  dread  vicissitudes 
Pleasingly  agitate  their  stagnaat  hearts; 
Its  hopes,  its  fears,  its  victories,  its  defeats, 
Insipid  royalty's  keen  condiment  ! 
Therefore  uninjured  and  unprofited, 
(Victims  at  once  and  executioners) 
The  congi'egated  husbandmen  lay  waste 
The  vineyard  and  the  harvest.     As  along 
The  Bothnic  coast,  or  southward  of  the  Line, 
Though   hushed   the  winds  and   cloudless  the  high 

noon, 
Yet  if  Leviathan,  weary  of  ease. 
In  sports  vmwieldy  toss  his  island-bulk, 
Ocean  behind  him  billows,  and  before 
A  storm  of  waves  breaks  foamy  on  the  strand. 
And  hence,  for  times  and  seasons  bloody  and  dark, 
Short  Peace  shall  skin  the  woimds  of  causeless  War, 
And  War,  his  strained  sinews  knit  anew, 
Still  violate  the  unfinished  works  of  Peace. 
But  yonder  look  !  for  more  demands  thy  view  !  " 
He  said  :  and  straightway  from  the  opposite  Isle 
A  vapour  sailed,  as  when  a  cloud,  exhaled 
From  Egypt's  fields  that  steam  hot  pestilence, 
Travels  the  sky  for  many  a  trackless  league. 
Till  o'er  some  death-doomed  land,  distant  in  vain, 
It  broods  incumbent.     Forthwith  from  the  plain, 
Facing  the  Isle,  a  brighter  cloud  arose, 
And  steered  its  course  which  way  the  vapour  went. 

The  Maiden  paused,  musing  what  this  might  mean. 
But  long  time  passed  not,  ere  that  brighter  cloud 
Keturned  more  bright ;  along  the  plain  it  swept ; 
And  soon  from  forth  its  bursting  sides  emerged 
A  dazzling  form,  broad-bosomed,  bold  of  eye, 
And  wild  her  hair,  save  where  with  laurels  bound. 
Not  more  majestic  stood  the  healing  God, 


74  THE  DESTINY  OF  NATIONS. 

When  from  his  bow  the  arrow  sped  that  slew 
Huge  Python.     Shriek'd  Ambition's  giant  throng, 
And  with  them  hissed  the  locust-fiends  that  crawled 
And  glittered  in  Corruption's  slimy  track. 
Great  was   their  wrath,  for  short   they  knew  their 

reign ; 
And  such  commotion  made  they,  and  uproai', 
As  when  the  mad  tornado  bellows  through 
The  guilty  islands  of  the  western  main, 
"What  time  departing  from  their  native  shores, 
Eboe,  or  *  Koromantyn's  plain  of  palms, 

*  The  Slaves  in  the  "West-Indies  consider  death  as  a  pass- 
port to  their  native  country.  This  sentiment  is  thus  ex- 
pressed in  the  introduction  to  a  Greek  Prize-Ode  on  the  Slave- 
Trade,  of  which  the  thoughts  are  better  than  the  language  in 
which  they  are  conveyed. 

^Cl  trxorov  !rt/Xa?,  ©xvarl,  rr^oXu^cuv 
'E?  yivo;  a-^ivioii;  UToZ.ivx,fl\ii  " Ara: 
Qy  ^ivitrd'/ia-'f^  yirjcov  (rTcc^ay/noi,';, 
Oiih'  oXoXvyfjucii, 

XX\a,  xa)  xCxXoKTi  xo^oitvctokti, 

'AKX'  ofjLUi  'EXivOi^ia,  (ruvoixu<; 
Irvyvi  Tv^avvi ! 

^ottrxioi^  It)  TTi^OyiT/ri  iryiiri 
^A  !   docXa,o-(riov  xoSo^Sivris  o7Suoc 
Aldi^oTXdyxTOi;  vto  ■rog-cr'  kviiui 
Tlar^ih'  it'  aiocv, 

"Ev9a  /M.«v  'E^i/.a-rai  ^E^ufjt.i.)ir,(nv 
' AfJt,<p)  T'l^y/jiriv  xtr^iv&iv  i^t'  uX/rcov, 
"Oirtr'  VTO  ^qoTol;  iTaQov  (i^OToi,  rcc 
Aiivoe.  Xiyoyrt. 


Literal  Translation. 

Leaving  the  gates  of  darkness,  O  Death  !  hasten  thou  to  a 
race  yoked  with  misery !  Thou  wilt  not  be  received  with 
lacerations  of  cheeks,  nor  with  funeral  ululation— but  with 
circling  dances  and  the  joy  of  songs.  Thou  art  terrible  in- 
deed, yet  thou  dwellest  with  Liberty,  stern  Genius  !  Borne 
on  thy  dark  pinions  over  the  swelling  of  Ocean,  they  return 


THE  DESTINY  OF  NATIONS.  7; 

The  infuriate  spirits  of  the  murdered  make 
Fierce  merriment,  and  vengeance  ask  of  Heaven. 
Warmed  with  new  influence,  the  unwholesome  plain 
Sent  up  its  foulest  fogs  to  meet  the  morn  : 
The  Sun  that  rose  on  Freedom,  rose  in  blood  ! 

"  Maiden  beloved,  and  Delegate  of  Heaven  ! 
(To  her  the  tutelary  Spirit  said) 
Soon  shall  the  morning  struggle  into  day, 
The  stormy  morning  into  cloudless  noon. 
Much  hast  thou  seen,  nor  all  canst  understand — 
But  this  be  thy  best  omen — Save  thy  Country  ! " 
Thus  saying,  from  the  answering  Maid  he  passed, 
And  with  him  disappeared  the  heavenly  Vision. 

"  Glory  to  Thee,  Father  of  Earth  and  Heaven  ! 
All  conscious  presence  of  the  Universe  ! 
Nature's  vast  ever-acting  energy  ! 
In  will,  in  deed,  impulse  of  All  to  All  ! 
Whether  thy  Love  with  unrefracted  ray 
Beam  on  the  Prophet's  purged  eye,  or  if 
Diseasing  realms  the  enthusiast,  wild  of  thought, 
Scatter  new  frenzies  on  the  infected  throng. 
Thou  both  inspu'ing  and  predooming  both. 
Fit  instalments  and  best,  of  perfect  end : 
Glory  to  Thee,  Father  of  Earth  and  Heaven  !  " 


And  first  a  landscape  rose 
More  wild  and  waste  and  desolate  than  where 
The  white  bear,  drifting  on  a  field  of  ice, 
Howls  to  her  sundered  cubs  with  piteous  rage 
And  savage  agony. 

1794. 

to  their  native  country.  There,  by  the  side  of  fountains 
beneath  citron-grovea,  the  lovers  tell  to  their  beloved  what 
horrors,  being  men,  they  had  endured  from  men. 


POEMS 

WEITTEK  IN  EAELY  MANHOOD,  AND 
MIDDLE  LIFE. 


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?  quse 
loca  habitant  ?  Harum  rerum  notitiam  semper  ambivit 
ingenium  hiimanum,  nunquam  attigit.  Juvat,  interea, 
non  difiBteor,  quandoque  in  animo,  tanquam  in  tabula, 
majoris  et  melioris  mundi  imaginem  coutemplari :  ne 
mens  assuefacta  liodiemse  vit;e  minutiis  se  contrahat 
nimis,  et  tota  subsidat  in  pusillas  cogitationes.  Sed  veri- 
tati  interea  invigilandum  est,  modusque  servandus,  ut 
carta  ab  incertis,  diem  a  uocte,  distinguamus. — T.  burxet. 
ARCH^OL.  PHIL.  p.  68. 


THE  RIME   OF  THE  ANCIENT 

MARINER.* 

IN   SEVEN    PARTS. 

PART  I. 

It  is  an  ancient  Mariner, 

An  ancient 

And  he  stoppeth  one  of  three. 

Mariner 

"  By  thy  long  grey  beard  and  glittering  eye 

meeteth 
'  three  gal- 
lants bidden 

Now  wherefore  stopp'st  thou  me  ? 

to  a  wed- 

The Bridegroom's  doors  are  opened  wide, 

ding-feast, 

And  I  am  next  of  kin ; 

and  detain- 
etli  one. 

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  Wed- 

The Wedding-Guest  stood  still, 

ding-Guest 

And  listens  like  a  three  years'  child  : 

is  spell- 
bound by 
the  eye  of 

The  Mariner  hath  his  will. 

the  old  sea- 

The Weddings luest  sat  on  a  stone  : 

faring  man. 

He  cannot  choose  but  hear ; 

and  con- 
strained to 
hear  his  tale. 

And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man. 

The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

*  Sec  Note. 

80  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

"  The  ship  was  cheered,  the  harbour  cleared, 

Merrily  did  we  drop 

Below  the  kirli,  below  the  hill, 

Below  the  light-house  top. 

The  Mariner  The  sun  came  up  upon  the  left, 

tells  how  the  Out  of  the  sea  came  he  ! 

Sithwid    ^^^  ^^  shone  bright,  and  on  the  right 

with  a  good  Went  down  into  the  sea. 

wind  and 

SJuTrS:  Higher  and  higher  every  day, 
ed  the  line.    Till  over  the  mast  at  noon — " 

The  Wedding-Guest  here  beat  his  breast. 
For  he  heard  the  loud  bassoon. 


The  Wed-  The  bride  hath  paced  into  the  hall, 

ding-Guest  Red  as  a  rose  is  she ; 

bridafniu-^  Nodding  their  heads  before  her  goes 

sic ;  but  the  The  merry  minstrelsy. 

Mariner 

his  tale.         The  Wedding-Guest  he  beat  his  breast, 
Yet  he  cannot  choose  but  hear  ; 
And  thus  spake  on  that  ancient  man. 
The  bright-eyed  Mariner. 

The  ship  "  And  now  the  storm-blast  came,  and  he 

fi^awn  by  a  Was  tyrannous  and  strong  : 

ward^tlie  ^^  struck  with  his  o'ertaking  wings, 

south  i>ole.  And  chased  us  south  along. 

With  sloping  masts  and  dipping  prow, 

As  who  pursued  with  yell  aud  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  : 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINEE. 


And  ice,  mast-high,  came  floating  hy, 
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^as  here,  the  ice  was  there, 

The  ice  was  all  around  : 

It  cracked  and  growled,  and  roared  and 

howled," 
Like  noises  in  a  swound  ! 


The  land  of 
ice,  and  of 
fearful 
sounds 
where  no 
living  thing 
was  to  be 


At  length  did  cross  an  Albatross, 
Through  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." 


Till  a  great 
sea-bird, 
called  the 
Albatross, 
came 

through  the 
snow-fog. 
and  was  re- 
ceived with 
great  joy 
and  hospi- 
tality. 

And  lo !  the 
Albatross 
proveLh  TT 
hirdrutgbod 
omen,'a;nd^ 
followeth 
the  ship 
as  it  re- 
turned 
northward 
through  fog 
and  floating 


"  God  save  thee,  ancient  Manner,  The  ancient 

From  the  fiends,  that  plague  thee  thus!—  Mariner iu- 
Why  look'st  thou  so  ]  "— "  With  my  cross-  Sth  th^ 

bow  pious  bird  of 

[  shot  the  Albatross.  good  omen. 


82 

THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

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 ! 

His  ship- 

And I  had  done  a  hellish  thing. 

mates  ci-y 

And  it  would  work  'em  woe  : 

out  against 
the  aucient 
Mariner,  for 

For  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow. 

killing  the 

Ah  wretch  !  said  they,  the  bird  to  slay, 

bird  of  good 
luck. 

That  made  the  breeze  to  blow ! 

But  when 

Nor  dim  nor  red,  like  God's  own  head. 

the  fog 
cleared  off 

The  glorious  Sun  uprist : 

they  justify 

Then  all  averred,  I  had  killed  the  bird 

the  same, 

That  brought  the  fog  and  mist. 

and  thus 
make  them- 
selves ac- 

'Twas right,  said  they,  such  birds  to  slay, 

That  bring  the  fog  and  mist. 

complices  in 
the  crime. 

The  fair 
breeze  con- 

The fan-  breeze  blew,  the  white  foam  flew, 

The  furrow  followed  free ; 

tinues;  the 

We  were  the  first  that  ever  burst 

ship  enters 

Into  that  silent  sea. 

the  Pacific 

Ocean,  and 

sails  northward,  even  till  it  reaches  the  Line. 

THE  ANCIENT  MARINEE. 


83 


Down  dropt  the  breeze,  the  sails  dropt  Tte  ship 

A^r^-r^  hath  been 

,      '      -,         1  -,  t  suddenly 

Twas  sad  as  sad  could  be  ;  becalmed. 
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 :  0  Christ ! 
That  ever  this  should  be  ! 
Yea,  slimy  things  did  crawl  with  1 
Upon  the  slimy  sea. 


And  the  Al- 
batross be- 
gins to  be 
avenged. 


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. 


A  Spirit  had 
followed 
them ;  one 
of  the  invisi- 
ble inhabit- 
ants of  this 
planet,  nei- 
ther departed  souls  nor  angels  ;  concerning  whom  the  learned 
Jew,  Josephus,  and  the  Platonic  Constautinopolitan,  Michael 
Pbellus,  may  be  cousulted.     They  are  very  numerous,  and 
there  is  no  climate  or  element  without  one  or  more. 


Q  2 


84  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

And  eveiy  tongue,  through  utter  drought, 
Was  withered  at  the  root ; 
We  could  not  speak,  no  more  than  if 
We  had  been  choked  with  soot. 

The  ship-      Ah !  well  a-day  !  what  evil  looks 

mates,  in       Had  I  from  old  and  young ! 

dis^ress^^      Instead  of  the  cross,  the  Albatross 

would  fain    About  my  neck  was  huug. 

throw  the 

whole  guilt  on  the  ancient  Mariuer :   in  sign  whereef  they 

hang  the  dead  sea-bird  round  his  neck. 


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, 
The  ancient  When  looking  westward,  I  beheld 
Mariner  be-  A  something  in  the  sky. 
holdeth  a 

element  afar  At  first  it  seemed  a  little  speck, 
off.  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  n eared  and  neared  : 
As  if  it  dodged  a  water-sprite. 
It  plunged  and  tacked  and  veered. 

At  its  nearer  With   throats   unslaked,   with    black   lips 

approach,  it  baked 

S'a'shi  ™  We  could  nor  laugh  nor  wail ; 

and  at  a  dear  Through  utter  drought  all  dumb  we  stood  ! 

ransom  he     I  bit  my  arm,  I  sucked  the  blood, 

?iSc;.frlm^^^^ried,Asail!asailI 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


With  throats  unslaked,   with    black   lips  the  bonds  of 

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. 


thirst. 


A  flash  of 
joy; 


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  v/as  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  horror 
follows.  For 
can  it  be  a 
ship  that 
comes  on- 
ward with- 
out wind  or 
tide? 


a  ship. 


And  straight  the  Sun  was  flecked  with  bars,  it  seemeth 
(Heaven's  Mother  send  us  grace  !)  him  but  the 

As  if  through  a  dungeon-grate  he  peered      skeleton  of 
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. 


And  its  ribs 
are  seen  as 
bars  on  the 
face  of  the 
setting  Sua. 
The  Spectre- 
Woman  and 
her  Death- 
mate,  and  no 
other  on 
board  the 
skeleton- 
ship. 

Like  vessel, 
like  crew  ! 


86  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

Deatli  and     The  naked  hulk  alongside  came, 

D  ^^th^have  "^^^  *'^®  twain  were  casting  dice  ; 

diced  for  the  *  The  game  is  done  !  I've  won  !  I've  won  ! ' 

ship's  crew.    Quoth  she,  and  whistles  thrice. 

and  she  (the 

latter)  winneth  the  ancient  Mariner. 

No  twilight  The  Sun's  rim  dips ;  the  stars  rush  out : 

Sun.  ^°      ^  With  far-heard  whisper,  o'er  the  sea, 
Off  shot  the  spectre-bark. 

At  the  rising  We  listened  and  looked  sideways  up  ! 

of  the  Moon,  pear  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  homed  Moon,  with  one  bright  star 
Within  the  nether  tip. 

One  after      One  after  one,  by  the  star-dogged  Moon, 
another,        Too  quick  for  gi'oan  or  sigh. 

Each  turned  his  face  with  a  ghastly  pang, 

And  cursed  me  with  his  eye. 

His  ship-      Four  times  fifty  living  men, 
mates  drop   (And  I  heard  nor  sigh  nor  groan) 
down  dead.    With  heavy  thump,  a  lifeless  lump, 
They  dropped  down  one  by  one. 

But  Life-in-  The  souls  did  from  their  bodies  fly, — 
■^•S^he^^"      They  fled  to  bliss  or  woe  ! 
Sork  oS  the  -^^^  ^^^^J  s?^l»  i*  passed  me  by, 
ancient  Ma-  Like  the  whizz  of  my  cross-bow  !  " 
riner. 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


87 


PART  IV. 


"  I  FEAR  theo,  ancient  Mariner  ! 

I  fear  thy  skinny  hand  ! 

And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown, 

As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand.* 

I  fear  thee  and  thy  glittering  eye, 
And  thy  skinny  hand,  so  brown." — 
*'  Fear  not,  fear  not,  thou  Wedding-Guest ! 
This  body  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. 


The  Wed- 
ding-Guest 
feareth  that 
a  Spirit  is 
talking  to 
him. 


But  the  an- 
cient Ma- 
riner assur- 
reth  him  of 
his  bodily 
life,  and  pro- 
ceedeth  to 
relate  his 
horrible 
penance. 

He  despis- 
eth  the  crea- 
tures of  the 
calm. 


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. 

*  For  the  last  two  lines  of  this  stanza,  I  am 
indebted  to  Mr.  Wordsworth.  It  was  on  a 
delightful  walk  from  Nether  Stowey  to  Dulver- 
ton,  with  him  and  his  sister,  in  the  autumn  ot 
1797,  that  this  poem  was  planned,  and  in  part 
composed. 


And  envieth 
that  they 
should  hve, 
and  so  many 
lie  dead. 


88  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

I  closed  roy  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. 

But  the         The  cold  sweat  melted  from  their  limbs, 
curse  liveth  JSTor  rot  nor  reek  did  they  : 

the  e'^ji?     "^^^  ^°°^  ^^^^  ^^^^^  ^^^y  looked  on  me 

the  dead       Had  never  passed  away. 

men. 

An  orphan's  curse  would  drag  to  hell 

A  spirit  from  on  high  ; 

But  oh  !  more  horrible  than  that 

Is  the  curse  in  a  dead  man's  eye  ! 

Seven  days,  seven  nights,  I  saw  that  curse, 

And  yet  I  could  not  die. 

In  his  lone-  The  moving  Moon  went  up  the  sky, 
liness  and     j^j^^  ^q  where  did  abide  : 
5e?mefh%^o!  Softly  She  was  going  up, 
wards  the     And  a  star  or  two  beside — 

journeying 

Moon,  and  the  stars  that  still  sojourn,  yet  still  move  onward  ; 
and  every  where  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  cer- 
tainly expected  and  yet  there  is  a  silent  joy  at  their  arrival. 

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. 

By  the  light  Beyond  the  shadow  of  the  ship, 
heb'ehSth  ^  matched  the  water-snakes  : 
GodVcrea-    They  moved  in  ti'acks  of  shining  white, 
tures  of  the  And  when  they  reared,  the  elfish  light 
gi-eat  calm.   Fell  off  in  hoary  flakes. 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER- 

S9 

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. 

0  happy  living  things  !  no  tongue 

Thfir  beauty 

Their  beauty  might  declare  : 

and  their 

A  spring  of  love  gushed  from  my  heart, 

happiness. 

And  I  blessed  them  unaware  : 

He  blesseth 

Sure  my  kind  saint  took  pity  on  me, 

them  in  his 

And  I  blessed  them  unawai-e. 

heart. 

The  selfsame  moment  I  could  pray  ; 

The  spell 
begins  to 
break. 

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, 

By  grace  of 

That  had  so  long  remained, 

the  holy 
Mother,  the 
ancient  Ma- 

I dreamt  that  they  were  filled  with  dew ; 

And  when  I  awoke,  it  rained. 

riner  is  re- 

freshed with 

My  lips  were  wet,  my  throat  was  cold, 

rain. 

My  garments  all  were  dank  ; 

Sure  I  had  drunken  in  my  dreams. 

And  still  my  body  drank. 

90  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

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. 

He  heareth  And  soon  I  heard  a  roaring  wind  : 

sounds  and   It  did  not  come  anear  ; 

strange         ^^^  ^^^^  ^*^  sound  it  shook  the  sails, 

sights-and     That  were  so  thin  and  sere. 

commotions 

aud^h^^f     The  upper  air  burst  into  life  ! 

ment.  ^  "^  ^'   -^^  ^  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  pom'ed  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  bodies    The  loud  wind  never  reached  the  ship, 
crew'^a?^^'^  Yet  now  the  ship  moved  on  ! 
spired  ancT"  Beneath  the  lightning  and  the  Moon 
the  ship        The  dead  men  gave  a  groan. 

They  groaned,  they  stirred,  they  all  uprose, 
Nor  spake,  nor  moved  their  eyes ; 
It  had  been  sti-ange,  even  in  a  dream. 
To  have  seen  those  dead  men  rise. 

The  helmsman  steered,  the  ship  moved  on ; 
Yet  never  a  breeze  up  blew ; 


But  not  by 
the  souls  of 
the  men,  noi 
by  demons 
of  earth  or 
middle  air, 
but  by  a 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

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  t^'^'^P  of  ^^- 

avrrm  gelic  spirits, 

A     J    \     I       J  J  ^1,  ^  sent  down 

And  clustered  round  the  mast ;  by  the  invo- 

Sweet  sounds  rose  slowly  through  their  cation  of  the 

mouths,  guardian 
And  from  their  bodies  passed. 

Around,  around,  Hew  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  tlie  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. 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

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. 


The  lone- 
some Spu-it 
from  the 
south-pole 
carries  on 
the  ship  as 
far  as  the 
Line,  in  obe- 
dience to  the 
angelic 
troop,  but 
still  re- 
quire th 
vengeance. 


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. 

Spirit's  fel-    How  long  in  that  same  fit  I  lay, 
low  demons,  I  have  not  to  declare  ; 
inhibiUnts'^  But  ere  my  living  life  returned, 
of  thereto-  ^  ■'■  l^^ard,  and  in  my  soul  discerned 
ment,  take    Two  voices  in  the  air. 
part  in  his . 

twoof  them  '  Is  it  he  ? '  quoth  one,  'Is  this  the  man? 
relate,  one     By  him  who  died  on  cross, 


THE  AXCIENT  MARINER. 

93 

With  his  cruel  bow  he  laid  full  low 

to  the  other, 

The  harmless  Albatross. 

thatpenauce 
loug  and 
heavy  for  the 

The  spirit  who  bideth  by  himself 

ancient 

In  the  land  of  mist  and  snow, 

Mariner 
hath  been 
accorded  to 

He  loved  the  bird  that  loved  the  man 

Who  shot  him  with  his  bow.' 

the  Polar 

Spirit,  who 

The  other  was  a  softer  voice, 

returneth 
southward. 

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  1 

What  is  the  ocean  doing  1 ' 

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. 

The  Manner 

'  But  why  drives  on  that  ship  so  fast. 

hath  been 
cast  into  a 

Without  or  wave  or  wind  ? ' 

trance ;  for 

the  angelic 

94 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


power  caus- 
eth  the  ves- 
sel to  drive 
northward 
faster  than 
human  Ufe 
could  en- 
dure. 


SECOND   VOICE. 

*  The  air  is  cut  away  before, 
And  closes  from  behind. 

Fly,  brother,  fly  !  more  high,  more  high  I 
Or  -we  shall  be  belated  : 
For  slow  and  slow  that  ship  will  go, 
When  the  Mariner's  trance  is  abated.' 


The  super-    I  woke,  and  we  were  sailing  on 

natural  As  in  a  gentle  weather  : 

retarded^      ' Twas  night,  calm  night,  the  moon  was  high  ; 

the  Mariner  The  dead  men  stood  together. 

awakes,  and 

b?gfnTanew.  ^H  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. 

The  curse      And  now  this  spell  was  snapt :  once  more 
is  finally       J  viewed  the  ocean  green, 
expiated.       ^^^  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. 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

95 

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  ] 

And  the  an- 
cient Mari- 
ner beliold- 

Is  this  the  hill  ?  is  this  the  kirk ! 

Is  this  mine  own  countree  ? 

eth  hi3       ' 

native 

We  drifted  o'er  the  harbour-bar. 

country. 

And  I  with  sobs  did  pray — 

0  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, 

The  angelic 

In  crimson  colours  came. 

spirits  leave 
the  dead 

bodies. 

A  little  distance  from  the  prow 

And  appear 

Those  crimson  shadows  were  : 

in  their  own 

I  turned  my  eyes  upon  the  deck — 

forms  of 

Oh,  Christ  !  what  saw  I  there  ! 



light. 

THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

Each  corse  lay  flat,  lifeless  and  flat, 
And,  by  the  holy  rood  ! 
A  man  all  light,  a  seraph-man, 
On  eveiy  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  boj^, 
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. 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER.  97 


PART  VII. 

This  Hermit  good  lives  in  that  wood  The  Hermit 

Which  slopes  down  to  the  sea.  ^^ t^e  wood, 

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 —  '^PP^^'^^^". 
'  And  they  answered  not  our  cheer  !  with  won-^ 

The  planks  looked  wai-ped  !  and  see  those  der. 

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. 


98  THE  ANCIENT  MARINEE. 

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. 

The  ship       Under  the  water  it  rumbled  on, 
suddenly       gtiH  louder  and  more  dread  : 

It  reached  the  ship,  it  split  the  bay ; 

The  ship  went  down  like  lead. 


einketh. 


The  ancient  Stunned  by  that  loud  and  dreadful  sound, 

Mariner  is     Which  sky  and  ocean  smote, 

PiiotVboat   ^^^®  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. 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

99 

0  shrieve  me,  shrieve  me,  holy  man  ! 

The  ancient 

The  Hermit  crossed  his  brow. 

Mariner 

earnestly 

entreateth 

*Say  quick,'  quoth  he,  '  I  bid  thee  say — 

What  manner  of  man  art  thou  ?' 

thie  Hermit 

to  shrieve 

Forthwith  this  frame  of  mme  was  wrenched  J'i^i  .Tl  „ 

With  a  woful  agony, 

of  life  falls 

Which  forced  me  to  begin  my  tale  ; 

on  him. 

And  then  it  left  me  free. 

Since  then,  at  an  uncertain  hour, 

And  ever 

That  agony  returns  : 

and  anon 

And  till  my  ghastly  tale  is  told, 

throughout 
his  future 

This  heart  within  me  burns. 

life  an  agony 

constrain- 

I  pass,  like  night,  from  land  to  land ; 

eth  him  to 
travel  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. 

WTiat  loud  uproar  bursts  from  that  door 

! 

The  wedding-guests  are  there  : 

But  in  the  garden-bower  the  bride 

And  bride-maids  siuging  are  : 

And  hark  the  little  vesper  bell, 

Which  biddeth  me  to  prayer ! 

0  Wedding-Guest !  this  soul  hath  been 

Alone  on  a  wide  wide  sea : 

So  lonely  'twas,  that  God  himself 

Scarce  seemed  there  to  be. 

0  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, 

100 


THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 


And  to  teach 
by  his  own 
example 
love  and  re- 
verence to 
all  things 
that  God 
made  and 
loveth. 


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. 


CHRISTABEL. 

PREFACE.* 

The  first  part  of  the  following  poem  was  written  in  the 
year  1797,  at  Stowey,  in  the  county  of  Somerset.  The 
second  part,  after  my  return  from  Germany,  in  the  year 
1800,  at  Keswick,  Cumberland.  It  is  probable,  tliat 
if  the  poem  had  been  finished  at  either  of  the  former 
periods,  or  if  even  the  first  and  second  part  had  been 
published  in  the  year  1800,  the  impression  of  its  origi- 
nality would  have  been  much  greater  than  I  dare  at 
present  expect.  But  for  this,  I  have  only  my  own  indo- 
lence to  blame.  The  dates  are  meationed  for  the  exclu- 
sive purpose  of  precluding  charges  of  plagiarism  or  servile 
imitation  from  myself.  For  there  is  amongst  us  a  set 
of  critics,  who  seem  to  hold,  that  every  possible  thought 
and  image  is  traditional ;  who  have  no  notion  that  there 
are  such  things  as  fountains  in  the  world,  small  as  well 
as  great ;  and  who  would  therefore  charitably  derive 
every  rill  they  behold  flowing,  from  a  perforation  made 
in  some  other  man's  tank.  I  am  confident,  however, 
that  as  far  as  the  present  poem  is  concerned,  the  cele- 
brated poets  whose  writings  I  might  be  suspected  of 
having  imitated,  either  in  particular  passages,  or  in  the 
tone  and  the  spirit  of  the  whole,  would  be  among  the 
first  to  vindicate  me  from  the  charge,  and  who,  on  any 
striking  coincidence,  would  permit  me  to  address  them 
in  this  doggerel  version  of  two  monkish  Latin  hexameters. 

'Tis  mine  and  it  is  likewise  yours ; 
But  an  if  this  will  not  do  ; 
Let  it  be  mine,  good  friend  !  for  I 
Am  the  poorer  of  the  two. 

*  To  the  edition  of  1816. 


102  CHRISTABEL. 

I  have  only  to  add,  that  the  metre  of  the  Christabel 
is  not,  properly  speaking,  irregular,  though  it  may  seem 
so  from  its  being  founded  on  a  new  principle  :  namely, 
that  of  counting  in  each  line  the  accents,  not  the  sylla- 
bles. Though  the  latter  may  vary  from  seven  to  twelve, 
yet  in  each  line  the  accents  will  be  found  to  be  only 
four.  Nevertheless  this  occasional  variation  in  number 
of  syllables  is  not  introduced  wantonly,  or  for  the  mere 
ends  of  convenience,  but  in  correspondence  with  some 
transition,  in  the  natui'e  of  the  imagery  or  passion. 


PART  I. 

'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  bitch  ; 
From  her  kennel  beneath  the  rock 
She  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. 


CHRISTABEL.  103 

The  lovely  lady,  .Christabel. 
^Vllom  her  father  loves  so  well, 
What  makes  her  iu  the  wood  so  late, 
A  furlong  from  the  castle  gate  1 
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  nought  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,  skecannat  telL-r- 
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  moaueth  bleak  1 
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  ? 


104  CHEISTABEL. 

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  earnest  thou  here  1 
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  Geraldiue : 
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. 


CHRISTABEL.  IC 

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  : 
0  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  : 


106  CHRISTABEL. 

Then  the  lady  rose  agam, 

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 :  light  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 ! 
'Knd  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  1 

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 
Ajtongufl  of  Jight,  a  fit  of  flame  i 
And  Christabel  saw  the  lady's  eye, 
And  nothing  else  saw  she  thereby, 
Save  the  boss  of  the  shield  of  Sir  LeoHne  tall. 
Which  hung  in  a  murky  old  niche  in  the  wall. 
0  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. 


CHRISTABEL.  107 

Now  in  glimmer,  and  now  in  gloom, 
And  now  they  pass  the  Bai-on's  room, 
As  still  as  death  with  stifled  breath  ! 
And  now  have  reached  her  chamber  door; 
And  now  doth  Geraldiue  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, 
WhUe  Geraldine,  in  wretched  plight. 
Sank  down  upon  the  floor  below. 

0  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. 

0  mother  dear  !  that  thou  wert  here  ! 

1  would,  said  Geraldine,  she  were  ! 
But  soon  with  altered  voice,  said  she — 

"  Off",  wandericg  mother  !  Peak  and  pine  ! 
I  have  power  to  bid  thee  flee." 


108  CHRISTABEL. 

Alas  !  wliat  ails  poor  Geraldine  1 
Why  stares  she  with  uusettled  eye  ] 
Can  she  the  bodiless  dead  espy  1 
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  countr^e. 

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  befell, 
Even  I  in  my  degree  Avill  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 


CHRISTABEL.  109 

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, 

Bphold  !  her  bosoin  andjialf  her  side 

A  sight  to  dream  of,  not  to^telT!        ~ 
0  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  well-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 
TlaaJXUuJi_of  my  shamOj  this  seal  of  my_sorrow  ; 
But  vainly  thou  warrest, 

For  this  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. 


CHRISTABEL. 


THE  CONCLUSION  TO  PART  I. 

It  was  a  lovely  sight  to  see 
The  lady  Christabel,  when  she 
Was  praying  at  the  old  oak  tree. 

Amid  the  jagged  sliadows 

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 — 
0  sorrow  and  shame  !     Can  this  be  she, 
The  lady,  who  knelt  at  the  old  oak  tree  ? 
And  lo  !  the  worker  of  these  harms, 
Tiiat  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, 
0  Geraldine  !  since  arms  of  thine 
Have  been  the  lovely  lady's  prison. 
0  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  cUfF  and  tower,  tu — whoo  !  tu — whoo  ! 
Tu — whoo  !  tu — whoo  !  from  wood  and  fell  ! 
And  see  !  the  lady  Christabel 


CHRISTABEL.  Ill 

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  ! 


PART  II. 

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. 


112  CHRISTABEL. 

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  foiJly  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  Borodale. 

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  1 
I  trust  that  you  have  rested  well." 

And  Christabel  awoke  and  spied 
The  same  who  lay  down  by  her  side — 
0  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  sinned  !  "  said  Christnbel, 
"  Now  heaven  be  praised  if  all  be  well  !  " 


CHRISTABEL.  118 

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 
2!o  meeFher  sire,  Sii'  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. 


114  CHRISTABEL. 

Each  spake  woi'ds  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  clifis  which  bad  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. 

0  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, 
AVere  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, 


CHRISTABEU  115 

The  vision  of  fear,  the  touch  and  pain  1 

She  shinink  and  shuddered,  and  saw  again — 

(Ah,  woe  is  me  !     Was  it  for  thee, 

Thou  gentle  maid  !  such  sights  to  see  ?) 

^gain  she  saw  that  bosom  old, 

Again  she  felt  that  bosom  cold, 

Andjll'ew  in  her  breath  with  a  hissing  saiandt- 

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  tone6  she  prayed, 
She  might  be  sent  without  delay 
Home  to  her  father's  mansion. 

"  Nay  ! 
Nay,  by  my  soul  ! "  said  Leoline. 
"  Ho  !  Bracy,  the  baid,  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  leaz-n  thy  song, 


I  2 


116  CHRISTABEL. 

And  clothe  you  both  in  solemn  vest, 

And  over  the  mountains  haste  along. 

Lest  ■svaudei'ing  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  an-ay 
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  Bi'acy  rephed,  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. 


CHRISTABEL.  117 

So  strange  a  dream  hath  come  to  me  ; 
That  I  had  vowed  with  music  loud 
To  clear  yon  wood  from  thing  unblest, 
Warned  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  gi'cen  herbs  in  the  forest»alone. 
Which  when  I  saw  and  when  I  heai'd, 
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  horn-, 
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." 


lis  CHRISTABEL. 

Thus  Bracy  said  :  the  Baron,  the  while, 
Half-listeuiug  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  coux-tesy  fine 
She  turned  her  from  Sir  Leoline  ; 
Softly  gathering  wp  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  looked  askance !  — 
One  moment — and  the  sight  was  fled  ! 
But  Christabel  in  dizzy  trance 
Stumbling  on  the  unsteady  ground 
Shuddered  aloud,  with  a  hissing  soimd ; 
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 


CHRIST  ABEL. 


119 


So  deeply  had  she  drunken  in 

That  look,  those  shrunken  serpent  eyea, 

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  innoceut  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  covild  not  tell, 
O'er-mastei-ed  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, 


120  CHRISTABEL. 

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. 

Dishonoured  thus  in  his  old  age  ; 

Dishonoured  by  his  only  child, 

And  all  his  hospitality 

To  the  wrong'd  daughter  of  his  friend 

By  more  than  woman's  jealousy 

Brought  thus  to  a  disgraceful  end — 

He  rolled  his  eye  wath  stern  regard 

Upon  the  gentle  minstrel  bard, 

And  said  in  tones  abrupt,  austere — 

"  Why,  Bracy  !  dost  thou  loiter  here  1 

I  bade  thee  hence !  "     The  bard  obeyed ; 

And  turning  from  his  own  sweet  maid, 

The  aged  knight,  Sir  Leoline, 

Led  forth  the  lady  Geraldine ! 


THE  CONCLUSION  TO  PART   II. 

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 


KUBLA  KHAN.  1 

A  sweet  recoil    f  love  and  pity. 

And  what,  if  in  a  world  of  sin 

(0  sorrow  and  shame  should  this  be  true  !) 

Sxich  giddiness  of  heart  and  brain 

Comes  seldom  save  from  rage  and  pain, 

So  talks  as  it's  most  used  to  do. 

Part  I.,  1797.— Part  II.,  ISOO. 


KUBLA  KHAN;  OR,  A  VISION  IN  A  DEEAM. 

A    FRAGMENT. 

In  the  summer  of  the  year  1797,  the  Author,  then 
in  ill  health,  had  retired  to  a  lonely  farm-house  between 
Porlock  and  Linton,  on  the  Exmoor  confines  of  Somerset 
and  Devonshire.  In  consequence  of  a  slight  indisposi- 
tion, an  anodyne  had  been  prescribed,  from  the  effect  of 
which  he  fell  asleep  in  his  chair  at  the  moment  he  was 
reading  the  following  sentence,  or  words  of  the  same 
substance,  in  "  Purchas's  Pilgrimage:"  —  "Here  the 
Khan  Kubla  commanded  a  palace  to  be  built,  and  a 
stately  garden  thereunto  :  and  thus  ten  miles  of  fertile 
ground  were  inclosed  with  a  wall."  The  author  con- 
tinued for  about  three  hours  in  a  profound  sleep,  at 
least  of  the  external  senses,  during  wliich  time  he  has 
the  most  vivid  confidence  that  he  could  not  have  com- 
posed less  than  from  two  to  three  hundred  lines  ;  if 
that  indeed  can  be  called  composition  in  which  all  the 
images  rose  up  before  him  as  things,  -ftdth  a  parallel 
production  of  the  correspondent  expressions,  without 
any  sensation  or  consciousness  of  effort.  On  awaking 
he  appeared  to  himself  to  have  a  distinct  recollection  of 
the  whole,  and  taking  his  pen,  ink,  and  paper,  instantly 
and  eagerly  wrote  down  the  lines  that  are  here  preserved. 
At  this  moment  he  was  unfortunately  called  out  by  a 
person  on  business  from  Porlock,  and  detained  by  him 


122 


KUBLA  KHAN. 


above  an  hour,  and  on  liis  return  to  liis  room,  found, 
to  liis  no  small  surprise  and  mortification,  that  though 
he  still  retained  some  vague  and  dim  recollection  of  the 
general  purport  of  the  vision,  yet,  with  the  exception  of 
some  eight  or  ten  scattered  lines  and  images,  all  the 
rest  had  passed  away  like  the  images  on  the  surface  of 
a  stream  into  which  a  stone  had  been  cast,  but,  alas  ! 
without  the  after  restoration  of  the  latter. 

Then  all  the  charm 
Is  broken — all  that  Y^hantom-world  so  fair 
Vanishes,  and  a  thousand  circlets  spread, 
And  each  mis-shape  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. 

Yet  from  the  still  surviving  recollections  in  his  mind, 
the  Author  has  frequently  purposed  to  finish  for  himself 
what  had  been  originally,  as  it  were,  given  to  him. 
Kvpiov  a^iov  acru)  :  but  the  to-morrow  is  yet  to  come. 

1816. 


In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 
A  stately  pleasure-dome  decree  : 
Wbere.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  there  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills 
"Where  blossomed  many  an  incense-boaring  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  ! 


KUBLA  KHAN,  123 

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  threshei-'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  rnixacle  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  tliricfi« 
And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread, 
For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed. 
And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise. 

1797. 


124 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  CAIN. 

PREFATORY   NOTE. 

A  PROSE  composition,  one  not  in  metre  at  least,  seems 
prima  facie  to  require  explanation  or  apology.  It  was 
written  in  the  year  1798,  near  Nether  Stowey,  in 
Somersetshire,  at  which  place  {sanctum  et  amahile 
nomen  !  rich  by  so  many  associations  and  recollections) 
the  author  had  taken  up  his  residence  in  order  to  enjoy 
the  society  and  close  neighbourhood  of  a  dear  and 
honoured  friend,  T.  Poole,  Esq.  The  work  was  to 
have  been  written  in  concert  with  another,  whose  name 
is  too  venerable  within  the  precincts  of  genius  to  be 
unnecessarily  brought  into  connection  with  such  a  trifle, 
and  Avho  was  then  residing  at  a  small  distance  from 
Nether  Stowey.  The  title  and  subject  were  suggested 
by  myself,  who  likewdse  drew  out  the  scheme  and  the 
contents  for  each  of  the  three  books  or  cantos,  of  which 
the  work  was  to  consist,  and  which,  the  reader  is  to  be 
informed,  was  to  have  been  finished  in  one  night !  My 
partner  undertook  the  first  canto  :  I  the  second  :  and 
which  ever  had  done  first,  was  to  set  about  the  third. 
Almost  thirty  years  have  passed  by ;  yet  at  this  mo- 
ment I  cannot  without  something  more  than  a  smile 
moot  the  question  which  of  the  two  things  was  the 
more  impracticable,  for  a  mind  so  eminently  original 
to  compose  another  man's  thoughts  and  fancies,  or  for 
a  taste  so  austerely  pure  and  simple  to  imitate  the 
Death  of  Abel  ?  IMethinks  I  see  his  grand  and  noble 
countenance  as  at  the  moment  when  having  despatched 
my  own  portion  of  the  task  at  full  finger-speed,  I 
hastened  to  him  with  my  manuscript — that  look  of 
humourous  despondency  fixed  on  his  almost  blank  sheet 
of  paper,  and  then  its  silent  mock-piteous  admission  of 
failure  struggling  with  the  sense  of  the  exceeding  ridi- 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  CAIN.  125 

culousness  of  the  whole  scheme — which  broke  up  in  a 
laugh  :  and  the  Ancient  Mariner  was  written  instead. 

Years  afterward,  however,  the  di-aft  of  the  plan  and 
proposed  incidents,  and  the  portion  executed,  obtained 
favour  in  the  eyes  of  more  than  one  person,  whose  judg- 
ment on  a  poetic  work  could  not  but  have  weighed  with 
me,  even  though  no  parental  partiality  had  been  thro"svn 
into  the  same  scale,  as  a  makeweight :  and  I  deter- 
mined on  commencing  anew,  and  composing  the  whole 
in  stanzas,  and  made  some  progress  in  realising  this 
intention,  when  adverse  gales  drove  my  bark  off  the 
"Fortunate  Isles"  of  the  Muses:  and  then  other 
and  more  momentous  interests  prompted  a  different 
voyage,  to  firmer  anchorage  and  a  securer  port.  I  have 
in  vain  tried  to  recover  the  lines  from  the  palimpsest 
tablet  of  my  memory  :  and  I  can  only  offer  the  intro- 
ductory stanza,  which  had  been  committed  to  writing 
for  the  purpose  of  procuring  a  friend's  judgment  on  the 
metre,  as  a  specimen. 

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  gi-ew 

On  many  a  shnib  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  ? 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  CAIN. 


CANTO  II. 

"  A  LITTLE  farther,  0  my  father,  yet  a  little  further, 
and  we  shall  come  into  the  open  moonlight."  Their 
road  was  through  a  forest  of  fir-trees ;  at  its  entrance 
the  trees  stood  at  distances  from  each  other,  and  the 
path  was  broad,  and  the  moonlight  and  the  moonlight 
shadows  reposed  upon  it,  and  appeared  quietly  to 
iuhabit  that  solitude.  But  soon  the  path  winded  and 
became  narrow;  the  sun  at  high  noon  sometimes 
speckled,  but  never  illumined  it,  and  now  it  was  dark 
as  a  cavern. 

''  It  is  dark,  0  my  father  !  "  said  Enos,  "  but  the 
path  under  our  feet  is  smooth  and  soft,  and  we  shall 
soon  come  out  into  the  open  moonlight." 

"  Lead  on,  my  child  !  "  said  Cain  :  "  guide  me,  little 
child  ! "  And  the  innocent  little  child  clasped  a  finger 
of  the  hand  which  had  murdered  the  righteous  Abel, 
and  he  guided  his  father.  "  The  fir  branches  drip 
upon  thee,  my  son."  "  Yea,  pleasantly,  father,  for  I 
ran  fast  and  eagerly  to  bring  thee  the  pitcher  and  the 
cake,  and  my  body  is  not  yet  cool.  How  happy  the 
squirrels  are  that  feed  on  these  fir-trees  !  they  leap 
from  bough  to  bough,  and  the  old  squirrels  play  round 
then-  young  ones  in  the  nest.  I  clomb  a  tree  yester- 
day at  noon,  0  my  father,  that  I  might  play  with 
them,  but  they  leaped  away  from  the  branches,  even 
to  the  slender  twigs  did  they  leap,  and  in  a  moment 
I  beheld  them  on  anotlier  tree.  Why,  0  my  father, 
would  they  not  play  with  me  ?  I  would  be  good  to 
them  as  thou  art  good  to  me  :  and  I  groaned  to  them 
even  as  thou  groanest  when  thou  givest  me  to  eat,  and 
when  thou  coverest  me  at  evening,  and  as  often  as  I 
stand  at  thy  knee  and  thine  eyes  look  at  me  ? "  Then 
Cain  stopped,  and  stifling  his  groans  he  sank  to  the 
earth,  and  the  child  Enos  stood  in  the  darkness 
beside  him. 


THE  TVANDERINGS  OF  CAIN.  127 

And  Cain  lifted  up  his  voice  and  cried  bitterly,  and 
said,  "  The  Mighty  One  that  persecuteth  me  is  on  this 
side  and  on  that ;  he  pursueth  my  soul  like  the  wind, 
like  the  sand-blast  he  passeth  through  me ;  he  is  around 
me  even  as  the  air  !  0  that  I  might  be  utterly  no 
more  !  I  desire  to  die — yea,  the  things  that  never 
had  life,  neither  move  they  upon  the  earth — behold  ! 
they  seem  precious  to  mine  eyes.  0  that  a  man  might 
live  without  the  bi^eath  of  his  nostrils.  So  I  might 
abide  in  darkness,  and  blackness,  and  an  empty  space  ! 
Yea,  I  would  lie  down,  I  would  not  rise,  neither  would 
I  stir  my  limbs  till  I  became  as  the  rock  in  the  den 
of  the  lion,  on  which  the  young  lion  resteth  his  head 
whilst  he  sleepeth.  For  the  torrent  that  roareth  far 
off  hath  a  voice:  and  the  clouds  in  heaven  look  ter- 
ribly on  me ;  the  Mighty  One  who  is  against  me 
speaketh  in  the  wind  of  the  cedar  grove  ;  and  in 
silence  am  I  dried  up."  Then  Euos  spake  to  his 
father,  "  Ai'ise,  my  father,  arise,  we  are  but  a  little 
way  from  the  place  where  I  found  the  cake  and  the 
pitcher."  And  Cain  said,  "  How  knowest  thou  ?  "  and 
the  child  answered — "  Behold  the  bare  rocks  are  a  few 
of  thy  strides  distant  from  the  forest;  and  while 
even  now  thou  wert  lifting  up  thy  voice,  I  heard  the 
echo."  Then  the  child  took  hold  of  his  father,  as  if 
he  would  raise  him  :  and  Cain  being  faint  and  feeble 
rose  slowly  on  his  knees  and  pressed  himself  against 
the  trunk  of  a  fir,  and  stood  upright  and  followed 
the  child. 

The  path  was  daik  till  within  three  strides'  length 
of  its  termination,  \\  hen  it  turned  suddenly ;  the  thick 
black  trees  formed  a  low  arch,  and  the  moonlight 
appeared  for  a  moment  like  a  dazzling  portal.  Enos 
ran  before  and  stood  in  the  open  air  ;  and  when  Cain, 
his  father,  emerged  from  the  darkness,  the  child  was 
affrighted.  For  the  mighty  limbs  of  Cain  were  wasted 
as  by  fire  ;  his  hair  was  as  the  matted  curls  on  the 
bison's  forehead,  and  so  glared  his  fierce  and  sullen 
eye  beneath  :  and  the  black  abundant  locks  on  either 
side,  a   rank  and    tangled    mass,  wex-e   stained    and 


128  THE  WANDERINGS  OF  CAIN. 

scorched,  as  though  the  grasp  of  a  burning  iron 
hand  had  striven  to  rend  them ;  and  his  countenance 
told  in  a  strange  and  terrible  language  of  agonies 
that  had  been,  and  were,  and  were  still  to  continue 
to  be. 

The  scene  around  was  desolate ;  as  far  as  the  eye 
could  reach  it  was  desolate  :  the  bare  rocks  faced  each 
other,  and  left  a  long  and  wide  interval  of  thin  white 
sand.  You  might  wander  on  and  look  round  and 
round,  and  peep  into  the  crevices  of  the  rocks  and 
discover  nothing  that  acknowledged  the  influence  of 
the  seasons.  There  was  no  spring,  no  summer,  no 
autumn  :  and  the  winter's  snow,  that  would  have 
been  lovely,  fell  not  on  these  hot  rocks  and  scorching 
sands.  Never  morning  lark  had  poised  himself  over 
this  desert ;  but  the  huge  serpent  often  hissed  there 
beneath  the  talons  of  the  vulture,  and  the  vulture 
screamed,  his  wings  imprisoned  within  the  coils  of 
the  serpent.  The  pointed  and  shattered  summits  of 
the  ridges  of  the  rocks  made  a  rude  mimicry  of 
human  concei-ns,  and  seemed  to  prophesy  mutely  of 
things  that  then  were  not ;  steeples,  and  battlements, 
and  ships  with  naked  masts.  As  far  from  the  wood 
as  a  boy  might  sling  a  pebble  of  the  brook,  there  was 
one  rock  by  itself  at  a  small  distance  from  the  main 
ridge.  It  had  been  precipitated  there  perhaps  by  the 
gi'oan  which  the  Earth  uttei-ed  when  our  first  father 
fell.  Before  you  approached,  it  appeared  to  lie  flat 
on  the  ground,  but  its  base  slanted  from  its  point, 
and  between  its  point  and  the  sands  a  tall  man  might 
stand  upright.  It  was  here  that  Euos  had  found  the 
pitcher  and  cake,  and  to  this  place  he  led  his  father. 
But  ere  they  had  reached  the  rock  they  beheld  a 
human  shape  :  his  back  was  towards  them,  and  they 
were  advancing  unperceived,  when  they  heai'd  him 
smite  his  breast  and  cry  aloud,  "  Woe  is  me  !  woe  is 
me  !  I  must  never  die  again,  and  yet  I  am  perishing 
with  thirst  and  hunger." 

Pallid,  as  the  reflection  of  the  sheeted  lightning  on 
the  heavy-sailing  night-cloud,  became  the  face  of  Cain; 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  CAIN.  129 

but  the  child  Euos  took  hold  of  the  shaggy  skin,  his 
father's  robe,  and  raised  his  eyes  to  his  father,  and 
listening  whispered,  "  Ere  yet  I  could  speak,  I  am 
sure,  0  my  father,  that  I  heard  that  voice.  Have 
not  I  often  said  that  I  remembered  a  sweet  voice  ? 
0  my  father  !  this  is  it  : "  and  Cain  trembled  ex- 
ceedingly. The  voice  was  sweet  indeed,  but  it  was 
thin  and  querulous,  like  that  of  a  feeble  slave  in 
misery,  who  despau"s  altogether,  yet  can  not  refrain 
himself  from  weeping  and  lamentation.  And,  behold! 
Enos  glided  forward,  and  creeping  softly  round  the 
base  of  the  rock,  stood  before  the  stranger,  and 
looked  up  into  his  face.  And  the  Shape  shrieked, 
and  turned  round,  and  Cain  beheld  him,  that  his 
limbs  and  his  face  were  those  of  his  brother  Abel 
whom  he  had  killed  !  And  Cain  stood  like  one 
who  struggles  in  his  sleep  because  of  the  exceeding 
terribleness  of  a  dream. 

Thus  as  he  stood  in  silence  and  darkness  of  soul, 
the  Shape  fell  at  his  feet,  and  embraced  his  knees, 
and  cried  out  with  a  bitter  outcry,  *•  Thou  eldest  bom 
of  Adam,  whom  Eve,  my  mother,  brought  forth,  cease 
to  torment  me  !  I  was  feeding  my  flocks  in  green 
pastures  by  the  side  of  quiet  i"ivers,  and  thou,  killedst 
me ;  and  now  I  am  in  misery."  Then  Cain  closed 
his  eyes,  and  hid  them  with  his  hands ;  and  again  he 
opened  his  eyes,  and  looked  around  him,  and  said  to 
Enos,  "  What  beholdest  thou  ?  Didst  thou  hear  a 
voice,  my  son  1 "  '■'  Yes,  my  father,  I  beheld  a  man 
in  unclean  garments,  and  he  uttered  a  sweet  voice, 
full  of  lamentation."  Then  Cain  i^ai^ed  up  the  Shape 
that  was  like  Abel,  and  said  : — "  The  Creator  of  our 
father,  who  had  respect  imto  thee,  and  unto  thy 
offering,  wherefore  hath  he  forsaken  thee?"  Then 
the  Shape  shrieked  a  second  time,  and  rent  his  gar- 
ment, and  his  naked  skin  was  like  the  white  sands 
beneath  their  feet ;  and  he  shrieked  yet  a  third  time, 
and  threw  himself  on  his  face  upon  the  sand  that  was 
black  with  the  shadow  of  the  rock,  and  Cain  and  Enos 
sate  beside  him;   the  child  by  his  right  hand,  and 


130  THE  WANDERINGS  OF  CAIN. 

Cain  by  his  left.  They  were  all  three  under  the 
rock,  and  within  the  shadow.  Tlie  Sljape  that  was 
like  Abel  raised  himself  up,  and  spake  to  the  child  : 
"  I  know  where  the  cold  waters  are,  but  I  may  not 
drink,  wherefore  didst  thou  then  take  away  my 
pitcher  ] "  But  Cain  said,  "  Didst  thou  not  find 
ffivour  in  the  sight  of  the  Lord  thy  God?"  The 
Shape  answered,  "  The  Lord  is  God  of  the  living 
only,  the  dead  have  another  God."  Then  the  child 
Enos  lifted  up  his  eyes  and  prayed  ;  but  Cain  rejoiced 
secretly  in  his  heart.  "  Wretched  shall  they  be  all 
the  days  of  their  mortal  life,"  exclaimed  the  Shape, 
"  who  sacrifice  worthy  and  acceptable  sacrifices  to  the 
God  of  the  dead ;  but  after  death  their  toil  ceaseth. 
Woe  is  me,  for  I  was  well  beloved  by  the  God  of  the 
living,  and  cruel  wert  thou,  0  my  brother,  who  didst 
snatch  me  away  from  his  power  and  his  dominion." 
Having  uttered  these  words,  he  rose  suddenly,  and 
fled  over  the  sands  :  and  Cain  said  in  his  heai't,  "  The 
curse  of  the  Lord  is  on  me ;  but  who  is  the  God  of 
the  dead?  and  he  ran  after  the  Shape,  and  the  Shape 
fled  shrieking  over  the  sands,  and  the  sands  rose  like 
white  mists  behind  the  steps  of  Cain,  but  the  feet  of 
him  that  was  like  Abel  disturbed  not  the  sands.  He 
greatly  outrun  Cain,  and  turning  short,  he  wheeled 
round,  and  came  again  to  the  rock  where  they  had 
been  sitting,  and  where  Enos  still  stood ;  and  the 
child  caught  hold  of  his  gai-ment  as  he  passed  by, 
and  he  fell  upon  the  ground.  And  Cain  stopped,  and 
beholding  him  not,  said,  "  he  has  passed  into  the  dark 
woods,"  and  he  walked  slowly  back  to  the  rocks; 
and  when  he  reached  it  the  child  told  him  that  he 
had  caught  hold  of  his  garment  as  he  passed  by,  and 
that  the  man  had  ftillen  upon  the  ground  :  and  Cain 
once  more  sate  beside  him,  and  said,  "  Abel,  my 
brother,  I  would  lament  for  thee,  but  that  the  spirit 
within  me  is  withered,  and  burnt  up  with  extreme 
agony.  Now,  I  pray  thee,  by  thy  flocks,  and  by  thy 
pastures,  and  by  the  quiet  rivers  which  thou  lovedst, 
that  thou  tell  me  all  that  thou  kuowest.     Who  is  the 


THE  WANDERINGS  OF  CAIN.  131 

God  of  the  dead  ?  where  doth  he  make  his  dwelling  1 
what  sacrifices  are  acceptable  unto  him  ?  for  I  have 
offered,  but  have  not  been  received;  I  have  prayed, 
and  have  not  been  heard  ;  and  how  can  I  be  afflicted 
more  than  I  already  am  ? "  The  Shape  arose  and 
answered,  "  0  that  thou  hadst  had  pity  on  me  as  I 
will  have  pity  on  thee.  Follow  me,  Son  of  Adam  ! 
and  bring  thy  child  with  thee  !  " 

And    they   three   passed    over    the    white    sands 
between  the  rocLs,  silent  as  the  shadows. 


SIBYLLINE   LEAVES. 


I.— POEMS  OCCASIONED  BY  POLITICAL  EVENTS  OB 
FEELINGS  CONNECTED  WITH  THEM. 


When  I  have  borne  in  memory  what  has  tamed 

Great  nations,  how  ennobling-  thoughts  depart 

When  men  change  swords  for  ledgers,  and  desert 

The  student's  bower  for  gold,  some  fears  unnamed 

I  had;  my  country  !    Am  I  to  be  blamed  ? 

Now,  when  I  think  of  thee,  and  what  thou  art. 

Verily,  in  the  bottom  of  my  heart. 

Of  those  uufilial  fears  I  am  ashamed. 

For  dearly  must  we  prize  thee  ;  we  who  find 

In  thee  a  bulwark  for  the  cause  of  men  ; 

And  I  by  my  affection  was  beguiled. 

What  wonder  if  a  poet  now  and  then, 

Among  the  many  movements  of  his  mind. 

Felt  for  thee  as  a  Lover  or  a  Child  ! 

WORDSWORTH. 


ODE  TO   THE  DEPARTING  YEAR.* 


'Tt'  av  /xl  ^iino;  ot^OofA.a.v'Tfiot.';  Tevo^ 
2r|o/36t,  rot^oca-irav  (p^oif^iots  i<prifjt.iot? 

^schyl.  Agam.  1225. 
ARGUMENT. 

The  Ode  commences  with  an  address  to  the  Divine  Provi- 
dence, that  regulates  into  one  vast  harmony  all  the  events  of 
time,  however  calamitous  some  of  them  may  appear  to  mor- 
tals. The  second  Strophe  calls  on  men  to  suspend  their  private 
joys  and  sorrows,  and  devote  them  for  a  while  to  the  cause  of 
human  nature  in  general.  The  first  Epode  speaks  of  the 
Empress  ot  Russia,  who  died  of  an  apoplexy  on  the  I'Tth  of 
November,  1796  ;  having  just  concluded  a  subsidiary  treaty 
with  the  Kings  Ciimbined  against  France.  The  first  and 
second  Autistrophe  describe  the  image  of  the  Departing 
Year,  &c.  as  in  a  vision.  The  second  Epode  prophesies,  in 
anguish  of  spii-it,  the  downfall  of  this  country. 


Spirit  who  sweepest  the  wild  harp  of  Time  ! 

It  is  most  hard,  with  an  untroubled  ear 

Thy  dark  inwoven  harmonies  to  hear  ! 
Yet,  mine  eye  fixed  on  Heaven's  unchanging  clime, 
Long  had  I  listened,  free  from  mortal  fear. 

With  inward  stillness,  and  a  bowed  mind; 

When  lo  !  its  folds  far  waving  on  tlie  wind, 
I  saw  the  train  of  the  departing  Year 

Starting  from  my  silent  sadness 

Then  with  no  unholy  madness 

*  This  Ode  was  composed  on  the  24th,  25th,  and  26th  day.s 
of  December,  1796 ;  and  was  first  published  on  the  last  day  of 
that  year. 


136  ODE  TO  THE  DEPARTING  TEAR. 

Ere  yet  the  entered  cloud  foreclosed  my  sight, 

I  raised  the  impetuous  song,  and  solemnised  his  flight. 


Hither,  from  the  recent  tomb, 

From  the  prison's  direr  gloom. 
From  distemper's  midnight  anguish  ; 
And  thence,  where  poverty  doth  waste  and  languish! 
Or  where,  his  two  bright  torches  blending, 

Love  illumines  manhood's  maze ; 
Or  where  o'er  ci-adled  infants  bending 

Hope  has  fixed  her  wishful  gaze; 

Hither,  in  perplexed  dance, 
Ye  Woes  !  ye  young-eyed  Joys  !  advance  ! 

By  Time's  wild  harp,  and  by  the  hand 
Whose  indefatigable  sweep 
Raises  its  fateful  strings  from  sleep, 
I  bid  you  haste,  a  mixed  tumultuous  band  ! 
From  every  private  bower. 

And  each  domestic  hearth, 
Haste  for  one  solemn  hour  ; 
And  with  a  loud  and  yet  a  louder  voice, 
O'er  Nature  struggling  in  portentous  birth. 

Weep  and  rejoice  ! 
Still  echoes  the  dread  name  that  o'er  the  earth 
Let  slip  the  storm,  and  woke  the  brood  of  hell : 

And  now  advance  in  saintly  jubilee 
Justice  and  Truth  !     They  too  have  heard  thy  spell ! 
They  too  obey  thy  name,  divinest  Liberty  ! 

III. 
I  marked  Ambition  in  his  war-array  ! 

I  heard  the  mailed  Monarch's  troublous  cry — 
"  Ah !  wherefore  does  the  Northern  Conqueress  stay  ! 
Groans  not  her  chariot  on  its  onward  way  ? " 
Fly,  mailed  Monarch,  fly  ! 
Stunned  by  Death's  twice  mortal  mace, 
No  more  on  murder's  lurid  face 
The  insatiate  hag  shall  gloat  with  drunken  eye  ! 


ODE  TO  THE  DEPAETING  YEAR. 

Manes  of  the  unnumbered  slain  ! 

Ye  that  gasped  on  Warsaw's  plain  ! 
Ye  that  erst  at  Ismail's  tower, 
When  human  ruin  choked  the  streams, 

Fell  in  conquest's  glutted  hour, 
'Mid  women's  shrieks  and  infants'  screams  ! 
Spirits  of  the  uncoflBned  slain. 

Sudden  blasts  of  triumph  swelling. 
Oft,  at  night,  in  misty  train, 

Rush  around  her  narrow  dwelling  ! 
The  exterminating  fiend  is  fled — 

(Foul  her  life,  and  dark  her  doom) 
Mighty  armies  of  the  dead 

Dance,  like  death-fires,  round  her  tomb 
Then  with  prophetic  song  relate, 
Each  some  tyrant-murderer's  fate  ! 


Depai'ting  Year  !  'twas  on  no  earthly  shore 
My  soul  beheld  thy  vision  !     Where  alone, 
Voiceless  and  stern,  before  the  cloudy  throne, 
A.ye  Memory  sits  :  thy  robe  inscribed  with  gore, 
With  many  an  unimaginable  groan 
Thou  storied'st  thy  sad  hours  !     Silence  ensued, 
Deep  silence  o'er  the  ethereal  multitude, 
Whose  locks  with  wreaths,  whose  wreaths  with 
glories  shone. 
Then,  his  eye  wild  ardours  glancing, 
From  the  choired  gods  advancing, 
The  Spirit  of  the  Earth  made  reverence  meet. 
And  stood  up,  beautiful,  before  the  cloudy  seat. 

V. 

Throughout  the  blissful  throng. 

Hushed  were  harp  and  song  : 
Till  wheeling  round  the  throne  the  Lampads  seven, 

(The  mystic  Words  of  Heaven) 

Permissive  signal  make  : 
The  fervent  Spirit  bowed,  then  spread  his  wings  and 


138       ODE  TO  THE  DEPARTING  TEAR. 

"  Thou  in  stormy  blackness  throning 

Love  and  uncreated  Light, 
By  the  Earth's  unsolaced  groaning, 
Seize  thy  terrors,  Arm  of  might  ! 
By  peace  with  proflfered  insult  scared, 
Masked  hate  and  envying  scorn  ! 
By  years  of  havoc  yet  unborn ! 
And  hunger's  bosom  to  the  frost-winds  bared  ! 
But  chief  by  Afric's  wrongs, 

Strange,  horrible,  and  foul ! 
By  what  deep  guilt  belongs 
To  the  deaf  Synod,  *  full  of  gifts  and  lies  ! ' 
By  wealth's  insensate  laugh  !  by  torture's  howl ! 
Avenger,  i-ise  ! 
For  ever  shall  the  thankless  Island  scowl. 
Her  quiver  full,  and  with  unbroken  bow  1 
Speak !  from  thy  storm-black  Heaven  0  speak  aloud  ! 

And  on  the  darkling  foe 
Open  thine  eye  of  fire  from  some  uncertain  cloud  ! 

0  dart  the  flash  !  0  rise  and  deal  the  blow  ! 
The  Past  to  thee,  to  thee  the  Future  cries ! 

Hark  !  how  wide  Nature  joins  her  groans  below  ! 
Rise,  God  of  Nature  !  rise." 


The  voice  had  ceased,  the  vision  fled; 
Yet  still  I  gasped  and  reeled  with  dread. 
And  ever,  when  the  dream  of  night 
Renews  the  phantom  to  my  sight. 
Cold  sweat-drops  gather  on  my  limbs ; 

My  ears  throb  hot ;  my  eye-balls  start ; 
My  brain  with  horrid  tumult  swims  ; 

Wild  is  the  tempest  of  my  heart ; 
And  my  thick  and  strugglljig  breath 
Imitates  the  toil  of  dejith  ! 
No  stranger  agony  confounds 

The  soldier  on  the  war-field  spread, 
Wlien  all  foredone  with  toil  and  wounds, 

Death-like  he  dozes  among  heaps  of  dead  ! 


ODE  TO  THE  DEPARTING  YEAR.  139 

(The  strife  is  o'er,  the  day-light  fled, 
And  the  night-wind  clamours  hoarse  ! 

See  !  the  starting  wretch's  head 
Lies  pillowed  on  a  brother's  corse  !) 


Not  yet  enslaved,  not  wholly  vile, 
0  Albion !     0  my  mother  Isle ! 
Thy  valleys,  fair  as  Eden's  bowers, 
Glitter  green  with  sunny  showers ; 
Thy  grassy  uplands'  gentle  swells 

Echo  to  the  bleat  of  flocks; 
(Those  grassy  hills,  those  glittering  dells 

Proudly  ramparted  with  rocks) 
And  Ocean  mid  his  uproar  wild 
Speaks  safety  to  his  island-child. 

Hence  for  many  a  fearless  age 

Has  social  Quiet  loved  thy  shore ; 

Nor  ever  proud  invader's  rage 
Or  sacked  thy  towers,  or  stained  thy  fields  with  gore. 


Abandoned  of  Heaven  !  mad  avarice  thy  guide. 
At  cowardly  distance,  yet  kindling  with  pride — 
Mid  thy  herds  and  thy  corn-fields  secure  thou  hast 

stood, 
And  joined  the  wild  yelling  of  famine  and  blood ! 
The  nations  curse  thee  !     They  with  eager  wondering 

Shall  hear  Destruction,  like  a  vulture,  scream  ! 

Strange-eyed  Destruction  !  who  with  many  a  dream 
Of  central  fires  through  nether  seas  upthundering 

Soothes  her  fierce  solitude ;  yet  as  she  lies 

By  livid  fount,  or  red  volcanic  stream. 

If  ever  to  her  lidless  dragon-eyes, 

0  Albion !  thy  predestined  ruins  rise. 
The  fiend-hag  on  her  perilous  couch  doth  leap. 
Muttering  distempered  triumph  in  her  charmed  sleep. 


140  FRANCE.    AN  ODE. 

IS. 

Away,  my  soul,  away  ! 
In  vaiD,  in  vain  the  birds  of  warning  sing — 
And  hark  !  I  hear  the  famished  brood  of  prey 
Flap  their  lank  pennons  on  the  groaning  wind ! 
Away,  my  soul,  away ! 
I  unpartaking  of  the  evil  thing, 
'^^'ith  daily  prayer  and  daily  toil 
Soliciting  for  food  my  scanty  soil, 
Have  waiJed  my  country  with  a  loud  Lament. 
Xow  I  recentre  my  immortal  mind 

In  the  deep  sabbath  of  meek  self-content; 
Cleansed  from  the  vaporous  passions  that  bedim 
God's  Image,  sister  of  the  Seraphim. 


FRANCE.    AN  ODE. 


Ye  Clouds !  that  far  above  me  float  and  pause, 

Whose  pathless  march  no  mortal  may  control ! 

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  0  ye  Forests  high ! 

And  0  ye  clouds  that  far  above  me  soared ! 
Thou  rising  Sun  !  thou  blue  rejoicing  Sky  ! 


FRANCE.    AN  ODE.  141 

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  diviuest  Liberty. 


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  joined  the  dire  array ; 

Though  dear  her  shores  and  circling  ocean, 
Though  many  friendships,  many  youthful  loves 

Had  swol'n  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  delayed  and  vain  retreat ! 
For  ne'er,  0  Liberty  !  with  partial  aim 
I  dimmed  thy  light  or  damped  thy  holy  flame ; 

But  blessed  the  pseans  of  delivered  France, 
And  hung  my  head  and  wept  at  Britain's  name. 


"And  what,"  I  said,  "though  Blasphemy's  loud  scream 

With  that  sweet  music  of  dehverance  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 ; 


142  FRANCE,    AN  ODE. 

When  France  her  front  deep-scarr'd  and  gory 
Concealed  with  clustering  Avreaths  of  glory ; 

"When,  insuppoi'tably  advancing, 
Her  arm  made  mockery  of  the  wai-rior's  tramp  ; 

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  hapjDiness  alone, 

Shall  France  compel  the  nations  to  be  free, 
Till  Love  and  Joy  look  round,  and  call  the  Earth 
their  own." 


Forgive  me.  Freedom  !  0  forgive  those  dreams  ! 
I  hear  thy  voice,  I  hear  thy  loud  lament, 
From  bleak  Helvetia's  icy  cavern  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 — 

0  France,  that  mockest  Heaven,  adulterous,  blind. 
And  pati-iot  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  ? 


FEARS  IN  SOLITUDE. 


The  Sensual  and  the  Dark  rebel  in  vain, 
Slaves  by  their  own  compulsion  I  In  mad  game 
They  burst  their  manacles  and  wear  the  name 

Of  Freedom,  graven  on  a  heavier  chain  ! 
0  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  tliee  ! — 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, 

0  Liberty  !  my  spii'it  felt  thee  there. 

February,  1797. 


FEARS  IN   SOLITUDE, 

WRITTEN  IN  AKRIL,  179S,  DURING   THE  ALARM  OF  AN  INVASION. 

A  GREEN  and  silent  spot,  amid  the  hills, 
A  small  and  silent  dell !     O'er  stiller  place 
No  siu'.'ing  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, 


144  FEARS  IN  SOLITUDE, 

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-healiug  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  natm'e  ! 
And  so,  his  senses  gradually  wrapt 
In  a  half  sleep,  he  dreams  of  better  worlds, 
And  dreaming  hears  thee  still,  0  siuging-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 — 0  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, 


FEARS  IN  SOLITUDE.  145 

Our  brethren  !     Like  a  cloud  that  travels  on, 

Steamed  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 

Engulfed  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,  w^ords  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  I  the  book  of  life  is  made 

A  superstitious  instnrment,  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  ? " 


146  FEARS  IN  SOLITUDE. 

Thankless  too  for  peace, 
(Peace  long  preserved  by  fleets  and  perilous  seas) 
Seciu'e  from  actual  warfare,  we  have  loved 
To  swell  the  war-whoop,  passionate  for  jvar  ! 
Alas  !  for  ages  ignorant  of  all 
Its  ghastlier  woi'kings,  (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  or  contingency, 
However  dim  and  vague,  too  vague  and  dim 
To  yield  a  justifying  cause;  and  forth, 
(Stufi'ed  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  i  Boys  and  girls, 
And  women,  that  would  groan  to  see  a  child 
Pull  ofl"  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. 
Bttcomes  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  I 
And  what  if  all-avenging  Provideuce, 


FEARS  IN  SOLITUDE.  147 

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  !  0  !  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  ti-iumph.  but  with  fear. 
Repenting  of  the  wrongs  with  which  we  stung 
So  fierce  a  foe  to  frenzy  ! 

I  have  told, 
0  Britons !  0  my  brethren  !  I  hare  told 
Most  bitter  truth,  but  without  bitterness. 
Nor  deem  my  zeal  or  factious  or  mis-timed ; 
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 


us  FEARS  IX  SOLITUDE. 

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,  0  dear  Britain  !  0  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. 

0  native  Britain  !  0  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  I'ocks  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  countrv'.     0  divine 

Axid  beauteous  island  !  thou  hast  been  my  sole 

And  most  magnificent  temple,  in  the  which 

1  walk  with  awe,  and  sing  my  stately  songs. 
Loving  the  God  that  made  me  ! 


FEAES  IN  SOLITUDE.  149 

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,  bowed  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,  0  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,  0  green  and  silent  dell ! 
And  grateful,  that  by  nature's  quietness 
And  solitary  musings,  all  my  heart 
Is  softened,  and  made  worthy  to  indulge 
Love,  and  the  thoughts  that  yearn  for  human  kind. 

Nether  Stowey, 
April  2Sth,  1798. 


FIEE,  FAMINE,   AND  SLAUGHTER. 

APOLOGETIC   PREFACS. 

At  the  house  of  a  gentleman,  who,  by  the  principles 
and  corresponding  virtues  of  a  sincere  Chi'istian,  con- 
secrates a  cultivated  genius  and  the  favourable  accidents 
of  birth,  opulence,  and  splendid  connexions,  it  was  my 
good  fortune  to  meet,  in  a  dinner-party,  with  more  men 
of  celebrity  in  science  or  polite  literature,  than  are  com- 
monly found  collected  round  the  same  table.  In  tlie 
course  of  conversation,  one  of  the  party  reminded  an 
illustrious  poet,  then  present,  of  some  verses  m  hich  he 
had  recited  that  morning,  and  which  had  appeared  in  a 
newspaper  under  the  name  of  a  War-Eclogue,  in  which 
Fire,  Famine,  and  Slaughter  were  introduced  as  the 
speakers.  The  gentleman  so  addressed  replied,  that  he 
was  rather  surprised  that  none  of  us  should  have  noticed 
or  heard  of  the  poem,  as  it  had  been,  at  the  time,  a  good 
deal  talked  of  in  Scotland.  It  may  be  easily  supposed, 
that  my  feelings  were  at  this  moment  not  of  the  most 
comfortable  kind.  Of  all  present,  one  only  knew,  or 
suspected  me  to  be  the  author  ;  a  man  who  would  have 
established  himself  in  the  first  rank  of  England's  living 
poets,  if  the  Genius  of  our  countiy  had  not  decreed  that 
he  should  rather  be  the  first  in  the  first  rank  gf  its  phi- 
losophers and  scientific  benefactors.  It  appeared  the 
general  wish  to  hear  the  lines.  As  my  friend  chose 
to  remain  silent,  I  chose  to  follow  his  example,  and 
Mr.  *****  recited  the  poem.  This  he  could  do  with 
the  better  grace,  being  known  to  have  ever  been  not  only 
a  firm  and  active  Anti-Jacobin  and  Anti-Gallican,  but 
likewise  a  zealous  admirer  of  Mr.  Pitt,  both  as  a  good 
man  and  a  great  statesman.  As  a  poet  exclusively, 
he  had  been  amused  with  the  Eclogue  ;  as  a  poet  he 
recited  it ;  and  in  a  spirit,  which  made  it  evident,  that 


FIRE,  FAMINE,  AND  SLAUGHTER.  151 

he  would  have  read  and  repeated  it  with  the  same  plea- 
sure, had  his  own  name  been  attached  to  the  imaginary 
object  or  agent. 

After  the  recitation,  our  amiable  host  observed,  that  in 
his  opinion  Mr.  *****  had  over-rated  the  merits  of  the 
poetry  ;  but  had  they  been  tenfold  greater,  they  could 
not  have  compensated  for  that  malignity  of  heart,  which 
could  alone  have  prompted  sentiments  so  atrocious.  I 
perceived  that  my  illustrious  friend  became  gi-eatly  dis- 
tressed on  my  account  ;  but  fortunately  I  was  able  to 
preserve  fortitude  and  presence  of  mind  enough  to  take 
up  the  subject  without  exciting  even  a  suspicion  how 
nearly  and  painfully  it  interested  me. 

What  follows,  is  the  substance  of  what  I  then  replied, 
but  dilated  and  in  language  less  colloquial.  It  was  not 
my  intention,  I  said,  to  justify  the  publication,  what- 
ever its  author's  feelings  might  have  been  at  the  time  of 
composing  it.  That  they  are  calculated  to  call  forth 
so  severe  a  reprobation  from  a  good  man,  is  not  the 
worst  feature  of  such  poems.  Their  moral  deformity  is 
aggravated  in  proportion  to  the  pleasure  which  they  are 
capable  of  affording  to  vindictive,  turbulent,  and  un- 
principled readers.  Could  it  be  supposed,  though  for  a 
moment,  that  the  author  seriously  wished  what  he  had 
thus  wildly  imagined,  even  the  attempt  to  palliate  an 
inhumanity  so  monstrous  would  be  an  insult  to  the 
hearers.  But  it  seemed  to  me  worthy  of  consideration, 
whether  the  mood  of  mind,  and  the  general  state  of  sen- 
sations, in  which  a  poet  produces  such  vivid  and  fantastic 
images,  is  likely  to  co-exist,  or  is  even  compatible  with, 
that  gloomy  and  deliberate  ferocity  which  a  serious  wish 
to  realise  them  would  pre-suppose.  It  had  been  often 
observed,  and  all. my  experience  tended  to  confirm  the 
observation,  that  prospects  of  pain  and  evil  to  others, 
and  in  general,  all  deep  feelings  of  revenge,  are  com- 
monly expressed  in  a  few  words,  ironically  tame,  and 
mild.  The  mind  under  so  direful  and  fiend-like  an  in- 
fluence seems  to  take  a  morbid  pleasure  in  contrasting 
the  intensity  of  its  wishes  and  feelings,  with  the  slight- 
ness  or  levity  of  the   expressions   by  which   they  are 


152  FIRE,  FAMINE,  AND  SLAUGHTER. 

hinted  ;  and  indeed  feelings  so  intense  and  solitary,  if 
they  were  not  precluded  (as  in  almost  all  cases  they 
would  be)  by  a  constitutional  activity  of  fancy  and  asso- 
ciation, and  by  the  specific  joyousness  combined  with 
it,  would  assuredly  themselves  preclude  such  activity. 
Passion,  in  its  own  quality,  is  the  antagonist  of  action  ; 
though  in  an  ordinary  and  natural  degree  the  former 
alternates  with  the  latter,  and  thereby  revives  and 
strengthens  it.  But  the  more  intense  and  insane  the 
passion  is,  the  fewer  and  the  more  fixed  are  the  cor- 
respondent forms  and  notions.  A  rooted  hatred,  an 
inveterate  thirst  of  revenge,  is  a  sort  of  madness,  and 
still  eddies  round  its  favourite  object,  and  exercises  as 
it  were  a  perpetual  tautology  of  mind  in  thoughts  and 
words,  which  admit  of  no  adequate  substitutes.  Like  a 
fish  in  a  globe  of  glass,  it  moves  restlessly  round  and 
round  the  scanty  circumference,  which  it  cannot  leave 
without  losing  its  vital  element. 

There  is  a  second  character  of  such  imaginary  repre- 
sentations as  spring  from  a  real  and  earnest  desire  of  evil 
to  another,  which  we  often  see  in  real  life,  and  might 
even  anticipate  from  the  nature  of  the  mind.  The 
images,  I  mean,  that  a  vindictive  man  places  before  his 
imagination,  will  most  often  be  taken  from  the  realities 
of  life  :  they  will  be  images  of  pain  and  sutFeriug  which 
he  has  himself  seen  inflicted  on  other  men,  and  which 
he  can  fancy  himself  as  inflicting  on  the  object  of  his 
hatred.  I  will  suppose  that  we  had  heard  at  difierent 
times  two  common  sailors,  each  speaking  of  some  one 
who  had  wronged  or  offended  him  :  that  the  first  with 
apparent  violence  had  devoted  every  ])art  of  his  adver- 
sary's body  and  soul  to  all  the  horrid  •  phantoms  and 
fimtastic  places  that  ever  Quevedo  dreamt  of,  and  this 
in  a  rapid  flow  of  those  outrageous  and  wildly  combined 
execrations,  which  too  often  with  our  lower  classes  sen'-e 
for  escajje -valves  to  carry  ofi"  the  excess  of  their  passions, 
as  so  much  superfluous  steam  that  would  endanger  the 
vessel  if  it  were  retained.  The  other,  on  the  contrary, 
with  that  sort  of  calmness  of  tone  which  is  to  the  ear 
what  the  paleness  of  anger  is  to  the  eye,  shall  simply 


FIRE,  FAMINE,  AND  SLAUGHTER.  153 

say,  "  If  I  chance  to  be  made  boatswain,  as  I  tope  I 
soon  shall,  and  can  but  once  get  that  fellow  under  my 
hand  (and  I  shall  be  upon  the  watch  for  him),  I'll  tickle 
his  pretty  skin  !     I  won't  hurt  him  !  oh  no  !  I'll  only 

cut  the to  the  liver  !  "     I  dare  appeal  to  all  present, 

which  of  the  two  they  would  regard  as  the  least  decep- 
tive symptom  of  deliberate  malignity  ?  nay,  whether  it 
would  surprise  them  to  see  the  first  fellow,  an  hour  or 
two  afterwards,  cordially  shaking  hands  with  the  very 
man,  the  fractional  parts  of  whose  body  and  soul  he  had 
been  so  charitably  disposing  of ;  or  even  perhaps  risking 
his  life  for  him.  What  language  Shakespeare  considered 
characteristic  of  malignant  disposition,  we  see  in  the 
speech  of  the  good-natured  Grratiano,  who  spoke  "an 
infinite  deal  of  nothing  more  than  any  man  in  all 
Venice ; " 

— "Too  wild,  too  rude  and  bold  of  voico  !" 

the  skipping  spirit,  whose  thoughts  and  words  recipro- 
cally ran  away  with  each  other  ; 

"  0  be  thou  damn'd,  inexorable  dog  ! 

And  for  thy  life  let  j  ustice  be  accused !  " 

and  the  wild  fancies  that  follow,  contrasted  with  Shy- 
lock's  tranquil  "I  stand  here  for  Law." 

Or,  to  take  a  case  more  analogous  to  the  present 
subject,  should  we  hold  it  either  fair  or  charitable  to 
believe  it  to  have  been  Dante's  serious  wish,  that  all  the 
persons  mentioned  by  him  (many  recently  departed,  and 
some  even  alive  at  the  time),  should  actually  suffer  the 
fantastic  and  horrible  punishments,  to  which  he  has 
sentenced  them  in  his  Hell  and  Purgatory  ?  Or  what 
shaU  we  say  of  the  passages  in  which  Bishop  Jeremy 
Taylor  anticipates  the  state  of  those  who,  vicious  them- 
selves, have  been  the  cause  of  vice  and  misery  to  their 
fellow-creatures.  Could  we  endure  for  a  moment  to 
think  that  a  sjnrit,  like  Bishop  Taylor's,  burning  with 
Christian  love  ;  that  a  man  constitutionally  overflowing 
with    pleasurable   kindliness ;   who  scarcely  even  in  a 


154  FIRE,  FAMINE,  AND  SLAUGHTER. 

casual  illustration  introduces  tte  image  of  ■woman,  cliild, 
or  bird,  but  he  embalms  the  thought  with  so  rich  a 
tenderness,  as  makes  the  very  words  seem  beauties  and 
fragments  of  poetry  from  Euripides  or  Simonides  ; — can 
we  endure  to  think,  that  a  man  so  natured  and  so 
discipliaed,  did  at  the  time  of  composing  this  horrible 
picture,  attach  a  sober  feeling  of  reality  to  the  phrases  ? 
or  that  he  would  have  described  in  the  same  tone  of 
justification,  in  the  same  luxuriant  flow  of  phrases,  the 
tortures  about  to  be  inflicted  on  a  living  individual  by  a 
verdict  of  the  Star-Chamber  ?  or  the  stni  more  atrocious 
sentences  executed  on  the  Scotch  anti-prelatists  and 
schismatics,  at  the  command,  and  in  some  instances 
under  the  very  eye  of  the  Duke  of  Lauderdale,  and  of 
that  wretched  bigot  who  afterwards  dishonoured  and 
forfeited  the  throne  of  Great  Britain  ?  Or  do  we  not 
rather  feel  and  understand,  that  these  violent  words  were 
mere  bubbles,  flashes  and  electrical  apparitions,  from 
the  magic  cauldron  of  a  fervid  and  ebullient  fancy,  con- 
stantly fuelled  by  an  unexampled  opulence  of  language. 

Were  I  no-^  to  have  read  by  myself  for  the  first  time 
the  poem  in  question,  my  conclusion,  I  fully  believe, 
would  be,  that  the  writer  must  have  been  some  man  of 
warm  feelings  and  active  fancy  ;  that  he  had  painted  to 
liimself  the  circumstances  that  accompany  war  in  so 
many  vivid  and  yet  fantastic  forms,  as  proved  that 
neither  the  images  nor  the  feelings  were  the  result  of 
observation,  or  in  any  way  derived  from  realities.  I 
should  judge,  that  they  were  the  product  of  his  own 
seething  imagination,  and  therefore  impregnated  with 
that  pleasurable  exultation  which  is  experienced  in  all 
energetic  exertion  of  intellectual  power  ;  that  in  the 
same  mood  he  had  generalised  the  causes  of  the  war,  and 
then  personified  the  abstract  and  christened  it  by  the 
name  which  he  had  been  accustomed  to  hear  most  often 
associated  with  its  management  and  measures,  I  should 
guess  tliat  the  minister  was  in  the  author's  mind  at 
the  moment  of  composition,  as  completely  oTra^^s,  avai- 
uSaapKos,  as  Anacreon's  grasshopper,  and  that  he  had  as 
little  notion  of  a  real  person  of  flesh  and  blood, 


FIRE,  FAMINE.  AND  SLAUGHTER.  155 

"  Distinguishable  in  member,  joint,  or  limb," 

as  Milton  had  in  the  grim  and  terrible  phantoms  (half 
person,  half  allegory)  which  he  has  placed  at  the  gates 
of  Hell.  I  concluded  by  observing,  that  the  poem  was 
not  calculated  to  excite  passion  in  any  mind,  or  to  make 
any  impression  except  on  poetic  readers  ;  and  that  from 
the  culpable  levity,  betrayed  at  the  close  of  the  eclogue 
by  the  grotesque  union  of  epigrammatic  wit  with  allegoric 
personification,  in  the  allusion  to  the  most  fearful  of 
thoughts,  I  should  conjecture  that  the  "rantin'  Bardie," 
instead  of  really  believing,  much  less  wishing,  the  fate 
spoken  of  in  the  last  line,  in  application  to  any  human 
indi^ddual,  would  shrink  from  passing  the  verdict  even 
on  the  Devil  himself,  and  exclaim  with  poor  Bums, 

But  fare  ye  weel,  auld  Nickie-ben  ! 
Oh  !  wad  ye  tak  a  thought  an'  men  ! 
Ye  aiblius  might — I  dinua  ken — 

Still  hae  a  stake — 
I'm  wae  to  think  upon  you  den, 

Ev'n  for  your  sake. 

I  need  not  say  that  these  thoughts,  which  are  here 
dilated,  were  hx  such  a  company  only  rapidly  suggested. 
Our  kind  host  smiled,  and  with  a  courteous  compliment 
observed,  that  the  defence  was  too  good  for  the  cause. 
My  voice  faltered  a  little,  for  I  was  somewhat  agitated  ; 
though  not  so  much  on  my  own  account  as  for  the 
uneasiness  that  so  kind  and  friendly  a  man  would  feel 
from  the  thought  that  he  had  been  the  occasion  of  dis- 
tressing me.  At  length  I  brought  out  these  words  : 
' '  I  must  now  confess.  Sir !  that  I  am  author  of  that 
poem.  It  was  written  some  years  ago.  I  do  not  attempt 
to  justify  my  past  self,  young  as  I  then  was  ;  but  as 
little  as  I  would  now  write  a  similar  poem,  so  far  was 
I  even  then  from  imagining,  that  the  lines  would  be 
taken  as  more  or  less  than  a  sport  of  fancy.  At  all 
events,  if  I  know  my  own  heart,  there  was  never  a 
moment  in  my  existence  in  which  I  should  have  been 
more  ready,  had  Mr,  Pitt's  person  been  in  hazard,  to 
interpose  my  own  body,  and  defend  his  life  at  the  risk 
of  my  own." 


156  FIRE,  FAMINE,  AND  SLAUGHTER. 

I  have  prefaced  the  poem  with  this  anecdote,  because 
to  have  printed  it  without  any  remark  might  well  have 
been  understood  as  implying  an  unconditional  approba- 
tion on  my  part,  and  this  after  many  years'  consideration. 
But  if  it  be  asked  why  I  re-published  it  at  all,  I  answer, 
that  the  poem  had  been  attributed  at  diiferent  times  to 
different  other  persons  ;  and  what  I  had  dared  beget,  I 
thought  it  neither  manly  nor  honoui-able  not  to  dare 
father.  From  the  same  motives  I  should  have  published 
perfect  copies  of  two  poems,  the  one  entitled  The  Devil's 
Thoughts,  and  the  other,  The  Two  Round  Spaces  on  the 
Tomb-Stone,*  but  that  the  first  three  stanzas  of  the 
former,  which  were  worth  all  the  rest  of  the  poem,  and 
the  best  stanza  of  the  remainder,  were  written  by  a 
friend  of  deserved  celebrity ;  and  because  there  are 
passages  in  both,  which  might  have  given  offence  to  the 
religious  feelings  of  certain  readers.  I  myself  indeed 
see  no  reason  why  vulgar  superstitions,  and  absurd  con- 
ceptions that  deform  the  pure  faith  of  a  Christian,  should 
possess  a  greater  immunity  from  ridicule  than  stories  of 
witches,  or  the  fables  of  Greece  and  Rome.  But  there 
are  those  who  deem  it  profaneness  and  irreverence  to 
call  an  ape  an  ape,  if  it  but  wear  a  monk's  cowl  on  its 
head  ;  and  I  would  rather  reason  with  this  weakness 
than  offend  it. 

The  passage  from  Jeremy  Taylor  to  which  I  refen-ed, 
is  found  in  his  second  Sermon  on  Christ's  Advent  to 
Judgment ;  which  is  likewise  the  second  in  his  year's 

*  Both  these  poems  were  subsequently  admitted  by  the 
author  into  the  general  collection  of  his  poetical  works  ;  "  The 
Devil's  Thoughts,"  in  182S,  with  the  omission  of  several  stan- 
zas, afterwards  restoi-ed  ;  the  "Two  Round  Spaces  on  a  Tomb- 
stone," in  1834,  with  a  statement  prefixed,  in  which  he 
expressed  a  regret  that  this  sportive  production  of  his  youth, 
then  for  the  first  time  published  by  himself,  had  not  been 
allowed  to  perish.  In  the  present  edition  the  former  piece  is 
retained,  the  latter  omitted,  as  the  coui'se  which  appears  to 
the  Editors  most  agreeable  to  the  implied  wish  and  judgment 
of  the  author.  "Tlie  Devil's  Thoughts, "  under  the  name  of 
"  Tlie  Devil's  Walk,"  has  also  been  published  with  large  addi- 
tions by  Mr.  Southey,  Poetical  Works,  vol.  iii.,  p.  S3.— Edd. 


FIRE,  FAMINE,  AND  SLAUGHTER.  157 

course  of  sermons.  Among  many  remarkable  passages 
of  the  same  character  in  those  discourses,  I  have  selected 
this  as  the  most  so.  "  But  when  this  Lion  of  the  tribe 
of  Judah  shall  appear,  then  Justice  shall  strike,  and 
Mercy  shall  not  hold  her  hands ;  she  shall  strike  sore 
strokes,  and  Pity  shall  not  break  the  blow.  As  there 
are  treasures  of  good  things,  so  hath  God  a  treasure  of 
wrath  and  fury,  and  scourges  and  scorpions  ;  and  then 
shall  be  produced  the  shame  of  lust  and  the  malice  of 
envy,  and  the  groans  of  the  oppressed  and  the  perse- 
cutions of  the  saints,  and  the  cares  of  covetousness  and 
the  troubles  of  ambition,  and  the  indolence  of  traitors 
and  the  violence  of  rebels,  and  the  rage  of  anger  and 
the  uneasiness  of  impatience,  and  the  restlessness  of 
unlaTv^ul  desires  ;  and  by  this  time  the  monsters  and 
diseases  will  be  numerous  and  intolerable,  when  God's 
heavy  hand  shall  press  the  sanies  and  the  intolerableness, 
the  obliquity  and  the  unreasonableness,  the  amazement 
and  the  disorder,  the  smart  and  the  sorrow,  the  guilt 
and  the  punishment,  out  from  all  our  sins,  and  pour 
them  into  one  chalice,  and  mingle  them  with  an  infinite 
wrath,  and  make  the  wicked  drink  off  all  the  vengeance, 
and  force  it  down  their  unwilling  throats  with  the 
violence  of  devils  and  accursed  spirits. 

That  this  Tartarean  drench  displays  the  imagination 
rather  than  the  discretion  of  the  compounder  ;  that,  in 
short,  this  passage  and  others  of  the  same  kind  are  in  a 
bad  taste,  few  will  deny  at  the  present  day.  It  would, 
doubtless,  have  more  behoved  the  good  bishop  not  to 
be  wise  beyond  what  is  written  on  a  subject  in  which 
Eternity  is  opposed  to  Time,  and  a  death  threatened, 
not  the  negative,  but  the  positive  Opposite  of  Life ;  a 
subject,  therefore,  which  must  of  necessity  be  inde- 
scribable to  the  human  understanding  in  our  present 
state.  But  I  can  neither  find  nor  believe,  that  it  ever 
occurred  to  any  reader  to  ground  on  such  passages  a 
charge  against  Bishop  Taylor's  humanity,  or  goodness  of 
heart.  I  was  not  a  little  surprised  therefore  to  find,  in 
the  Pursuits  of  Literature  and  other  works,  so  honible 
a  sentence  passed   on  Milton's  moral   character,   for  a 


IJS  FIRE,  FAMINE,  AND  SLAUGHTER. 

passage  in  his  prose  writings,  as  nearly  parallel  to  tliis 
of  Taylor's  as  two  passages  can  well  be  conceived  to  be. 
All  his  merits,  as  a  poet,  forsooth — all  the  glory  of 
having  written  the  Paradise  Lost,  are  light  in  the  scale, 
nay,  kick  the  beam,  compared  with  the  atrocious 
malignity  of  heart,  expressed  in  the  offensive  paragraph. 
I  remembered,  in  general,  that  Milton  had  concluded 
one  of  his  works  on  Reformation,  written  in  the  fervour 
of  his  youthful  imagination,  in  a  high  poetic  strain,  that 
wanted  metre  only  to  become  a  lyrical  poem.  I  remem- 
bered that  in  the  former  part  he  had  formed  to  himself 
a  perfect  ideal  of  human  virtue,  a  character  of  heroic, 
disinterested  zeal  and  devotion  for  Truth,  Religion,  and 
public  Liberty,  in  act  and  in  suffering,  in  the  day  of 
triumph  and  in  the  hour  of  martyrdom.  Such  spirits, 
as  more  excellent  than  others,  he  describes  as  having  a 
more  excellent  reward,  and  as  distinguished  by  a  trans- 
cendant  glory  :  and  this  reward  and  this  glory  he 
displays  and  particularises  with  an  energy  and  brilliance 
that  announced  the  Paradise  Lost  as  plainly,  as  ever 
the  bright  purple  clouds  in  the  east  announced  the 
coming  of  the  Sun.  IMilton  then  passes  to  the  gloomy 
contrast,  to  such  men  as  from  motives  of  selfish  ambition 
and  the  lust  of  personal  aggrandisement  should, 
against  their  own  light,  persecute  tmth  and  the  true 
religion,  and  wilfully  abuse  the  powers  and  gifts  entrusted 
to  them,  to  bring  vice,  blindness,  misery  and  sla-^ery, 
on  their  native  country,  on  the  very  country  that  had 
trusted,  enriched  and  honoured  them.  Such  beings, 
after  that. speedy  and  appropriate  removal  from  their 
sphere  of  mischief  which  all  good  and  humane  men  must 
of  course  desire,  will,  he  takes  for  granted  by  parity  of 
reason,  meet  with  a  punishment,  an  ignominy,  and  a 
retaliation,  as  much  severer  than  other  wicked  men,  as 
their  guilt  and  its  consequences  were  more  enormous. 
His  description  of  this  imaginary  .punishment  presents 
more  distinct  pictures  to  the  fancy  than  the  extract  from 
Jeremy  Taylor ;  but  the  thoughts  in  the  latter  are 
incomparably  more  exaggerated  and  horrific.  All  this 
I  knew  ;  but  I  neither  remembered,   nor  by  reference 


FIRE,  FAMINE,  AND  SLAUGHTER.  159 

and  careful  re-perusal  could  discover,  any  other  meaning, 
either  in  Milton  or  Taylor,  but  that  good  men  Tvdll  be 
rewarded,  and  the  impenitent  wicked  punished,  in  pro- 
portion to  their  dispositions  and  intentional  acts  in  this 
life  ;  and  that  if  the  punishment  of  the  least  wicked  be 
fearful  beyond  conception,  all  words  and  descriptions 
must  be  so  far  true,  that  they  must  fall  short  of  the 
punishment  that  awaits  the  transcendantly  wicked. 
Had  Milton  stated  either  his  ideal  of  virtue,  or  of  depra- 
vity, as  an  individual  or  individuals  actually  existing  ? 
Certainly  not.  Is  this  representation  worded  historically, 
or  only  hyiDothetically  ?  Assuredly  the  latter.  Does  he 
express  it  as  his  own  -wish,  that  after  death  they  should 
suffer  these  tortures  ?  or  as  a  general  consequence, 
deduced  from  reason  and  revelation,  that  such  wiU  be 
their  fate  ?  Again,  the  latter  only.  His  wish  is  ex- 
pressly confined  to  a  speedy  stop  being  put  by  Providence 
to  their  power  of  inflicting  misery  on  others.  But  did 
he  name  or  refer  to  any  i)€rsons  living  or  dead  ?  No. 
But  the  calumniators  of  Milton  dare  say  (for  what  will 
calumny  not  dare  say  ?)  that  he  had  Laud  and  Strafford 
in  his  mind,  while  writing  of  remorseless  persecution, 
and  the  enslavement  of  a  free  country,  from  motives  of 
selfish  ambition.  "Now,  what  if  a  stem  anti-prelatist 
should  dare  say,  that  in  speaking  of  the  insolencies  of 
traitors  and  the  violences  of  rebels,  Bishop  Taylor  must 
have  individualised  in  his  mind,  Hampden,  Hollis,  Pym, 
Fairfax,  Ireton,  and  Milton  ?  And  what  if  he  should 
take  the  liberty  of  concluding,  that,  in  the  after  descrip- 
tion, the  Bishop  was  feeding  and  feasting  his  party- 
hatred,  and  with  those  individuals  before  the  eyes  of  his 
imagination  enjoying,  trait  by  trait,  horror  after  horror, 
the  picture  of  their  intolerable  agonies  ?  Yet  this  bigot 
would  have  an  equal  right  thus  to  criminate  the  one 
good  and  great  man,  as  these  men  have  to  criminate  the 
other.  Milton  has  said,  and  I  doubt  not  but  that  Taylor 
with  equal  truth  could  have  said  it,  "that  in  his  whole 
life  he  never  spake  against  a  man  even  that  his  skin 
should  be  grazed."  He  asserted  this  when  one  of  his 
opponents  (either  Bishop  Hall  or  his  nephew)  had  called 


ICO  FIRE,  FAMINE,  AND  SLAUGHTER. 

upon  theVomen  and  children  in  the  streets  to  take  up 
stones  and  stone  him  (Milton).  It  is  known  that  Milton 
repeatedly  used  his  interest  to  protect  the  royalists  ;  but 
even  at  a  time  when  all  lies  would  have  been  meritorious 
against  him,  no  charge  was  made,  no  story  pretended, 
that  he  had  ever  directly  or  indirectly  engaged  or  assisted 
in  their  persecution.  Oh  !  methinks  there  are  other 
and  far  better  feelings,  which  should  be  acquired  by  the 
perusal  of  our  great  elder  writers.  When  I  have  before 
me  on  the  same  table,  the  works  of  Hammond  and 
Baxter  :  when  I  reflect  with  what  joy  and  deamess  their 
blessed  spirits  are  now  loving  each  other  :  it  seems  a 
mournful  thing  that  their  names  should  be  perverted  to 
an  occasion  of  bitterness  among  us,  who  are  enjoying 
that  happy  mean  which  the  human  too-much  on  both 
sides  was  perhaps  necessary  to  produce.  "  The  tangle  of 
delusions  which  stifled  and  distorted  the  growing  tree  of 
our  well-being  has  been  torn  away  ;  the  parasite-weeds 
that  fed  on  its  very  roots  have  been  plucked  up  with  a 
salutary  violence.  To  us  there  remain  only  quiet  duties, 
the  constant  care,  the  gradual  improvement,  the  cautious 
unhazardous  labours  of  the  industrious  though  contented 
gardener — to  prune,  to  strengthen,  to  engraft,  and  one 
by  one  to  remove  from  its  leaves  and  fresh  shoots  the 
slug  and  the  caterpillar.  But  far  be  it  from  us  to 
undervalue  with  light  and  senseless  detraction  the  con- 
scientious hardihood  of  our  predecessors,  or  even  to 
condemn  in  them  that  vehemence,  to  which  the  blessings 
it  won  for  us  leave  us  now  neither  temptation  nor  pre- 
text. We  ante-date  the  feelings,  in  order  to  criminate 
the  authors,  of  our  present  liberty,  light  and  toleration."  * 
If  ever  two  great  men  might  seem,  during  their  whole 
lives,  to  have  moved  in  direct  opposition,  though  neither 
■of  them  has  at  any  time  introduced  the  name  of  the 
other,  Milton  and  Jeremy  Taylor  were  they.  The  former 
commenced  his  career  by  attacking  the  Clmrch-Liturgy 
and  all  set  forms  of  prayer.  The  latter,  but  far  more 
successfully,    by   defending  both.     Milton's  next  work 

*  The  Frieud,  vol.  L,  p.  81. 


FIRE,  FAMINE,  AND  SLAUGHTER.  161 

was  then  against  the  Prelacy  and  the  then  existing 
Church- Government — TayL^r's  in  vindication  and  sup- 
port of  them.  Milton  became  more  and  more  a  stern 
republican,  or  rather  an  advocate  for  that  religious  and 
moral  aristocracy  which,  in  his  day,  was  called  republi- 
canism, and  which,  even  more  than  royalism  itself,  is 
the  direct  antipode  of  modern  jacobinism.  Taylor,  as 
more  and  more  sceptical  concerning  the  fitness  of  men  in 
general  for  power,  became  more  and  more  attached  to 
the  prerogatives  of  monarchy.  From  Calvinism  with  a 
still  decreasing  respect  for  Fathers,  Councils,  and  for 
Church -antiquity  in  general,  Milton  seems  to  have  ended 
in  an  indifTerence,  if  not  a  dislike,  to  all  forms  of 
ecclesiastic  government,  and  to  have  retreated  wholly 
into  the  inward  and  spiritual  church -communion  of  his 
own  spirit  with  the  Light,  that  lighteth  every  man  that 
Cometh  into  the  world.  Taylor,  with  a  growing  reve- 
rence for  authority,  an  increasing  sense  of  the  insujfi- 
ciency  of  the  Scriptures  without  the  aids  of  tradition 
and  the  consent  of  authorised  interpreters,  advanced  as 
far  in  his  approaches  (not  indeed  to  Popery,  but)  to 
Roman-Catholicism,  as  a  conscientious  minister  of  the 
English  Church  could  well  venture.  Milton  would  be, 
and  would  utter  the  same,  to  all,  on  all  occasions  :  he 
would  tell  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  and  nothing  but 
the  truth,  Taylor  would  become  all  things  to  all  men, 
if  by  any  means  he  might  benefit  any  ;  hence  he  availed 
himself,  in  his  popular  writings,  of  opinions  and  repre- 
sentations which  stand  often  in  striking  contrast  with 
the  doubts  and  convictions  expressed  in  his  more  philo- 
sophical works.  He  appears,  indeed,  not  too  severely 
to  have  blamed  that  management  of  truth  (istam 
falsitatem  dispensativam)  authorised  and  exemplified  by 
almost  all  the  fathers  :  Integrum  omnino  doctoribus  et 
coetus  Christiani  antistitibus  esse,  ut  dolos  versent,  falsa 
veris  intermisceant  et  imprimis  religioiiis  hostes  fallant, 
dummodo  veritatis  commodis  et  utilitati  inserviant.* 


*  Such  is  the  unwillinsr  confession  of  Ribof  (Proffram.  de 
(Economid  Patrum)  quoted  in  the  Friend,  vol.  L,  p.  41. 


162  FIRE,  FAMINE,  AND  SLAUGHTER. 

The  same  antithesis  might  he  carried  on  -ndth  the 
elements  of  their  several  intellectual  powers.  Milton, 
austere,  condensed,  imaginative,  supporting  his  truth  by 
direct  enunciation  of  lofty  moral  sentiment  and  by 
distinct  visual  representations,  and  in  the  same  spirit 
overwhelming  what  he  deemed  falsehood  by  moral 
denunciation  and  a  succession  of  pictures  appalling  or 
repulsive.  In  his  prose,  so  many  metaphors,  so  many 
allegorical  miniatures,  Taylor,  eminently  discursive, 
accumulative,  and  (to  use  one  of  his  o'wti  words)  agglo- 
merative  ;  still  more  rich  in  images  than  IVIilton  himself, 
but  images  of  fancy,  and  presented  to  the  common  and 
passive  eye,  rather  than  to  the  eye  of  the  imagination. 
Whether  supporting  or  assailing,  he  makes  his  way 
either  by  argument  or  by  appeals  to  the  affections, 
unsurpassed  even  by  the  schoolmen  in  subtlety,  agility, 
and  logic  wit,  and  unrivalled  by  the  most  rhetorical  of 
the  fathers  in  the  copiousness  and  vividness  of  his 
expressions  and  illustrations.  Here  words  that  convey 
feelings,  and  words  that  flash  images,  and  words  of 
abstract  notion,  flow  together,  and  whirl  and  rush 
onward  like  a  stream,  at  once  rapid  and  full  of  eddies  ; 
and  yet  stdl  interfused  here  and  there,  we  see  a  tongue 
or  islet  of  smooth  water,  with  some  picture  in  it  of  eaxth 
or  sky,  landscape  or  living  group  of  quiet  beauty. 

Differing,  then,  so  widely,  and  almost  contrariantly, 
wherein  did  these  great  men  agree  ?  wherein  did  they 
resemble  each  other  ?  In  genius,  in  learning,  in  unfeigned 
piety,  in  blameless  purity  of  life,  and  in  benevolent 
aspii-ations  and  purposes  for  the  moral  and  temporal 
improvement  of  their  fellow-creatm-es  !  Both  of  them 
wrote  a  Latin  Accidence,  to  render  education  less  painful 
to  children  ;  both  of  them  composed  hymns  and  psalms 
proportioned  to  the  capacity  of  common  congregations  ; 
both,  nearly  at  the  same  time,  set  the  glorious  example 
of  publicly  recommending  and  supporting  general  tolera- 
tion, and  the  liberty  both  of  the  pulpit  and  the  press  ! 
In  the  WTitings  of  neither  shall  we  find  a  single  sentence, 
like  those  meek  deliverances  to  God's  mercy,  with 
which  Laud  accompanied  his  votes  for  the  mutilations 


FIRE,  FAMINE,  AND  SLAUGHTER.  163 

and  loathsoifie  dungeoning  of  Leighton  and  others  ! — ■ 
no  where  such,  a  pious  prayer  as  we  find  in  Bishop 
Hall's  memoranda  of  his  own  life,  concerning  the  subtle 
and  witty  atheist  that  so  grievously  perplexed  and 
gravelled  him  at  Sir  Robert  Drury's  till  he  prayed  to 
the  Lord  to  remove  him,  and  behold  !  his  prayers  were 
heard  :  for  shortly  afterwards  this  Philistine -combatant 
went  to  London,  and  there  perished  of  the  plaguein 
great  misery  !  In  short,  no  where  shall  we  find  the 
least  approach,  in  the  lives  and  MTitings  of  John  Milton 
or  Jeremy  Taylor,  to  that  guarded  gentleness,  to  that 
sighing  reluctance,  with  which  the  holy  brethren  of  the 
Inquisition  deliver  over  a  condemned  heretic  to  the  ci\al 
magistrate,  recommending  him  to  mercy,  and  hoping 
that  the  magistrate  will  treat  the  erring  brother  with 
all  possible  mildness  !  — the  magistrate,  who  too  well 
knows  what  would  be  his  own  fate,  if  he  dared  offend 
them  by  acting  on  their  recommendation. 

The  opportunity  of  diverting  the  reader  from  myself 
to  characters  more  worthy  of  his  attention,  has  led  me 
far  beyond  my  first  intention  ;  but  it  is  not  unimportant 
to  expose  the  false  zeal  which  has  occasioned  these 
attacks  on  our  elder  patriots.  It  has  been  too  much  the 
fashion,  first  to  personify  the  Church  of  England,  and 
then  to  speak  of  different  individuals,  who  in  different 
ages  have  been  rulers  in  that  Church,  as  if  in  some 
strange  way  they  constituted  its  personal  identity.  Why 
should  a  clergyman  of  the  present  day  feel  interested  in 
the  defence  of  Laud  or  Sheldon  ?  Surely  it  is  sufficient 
for  the  warmest  partisan  of  our  establishment,  that  he 
can  assert  with  truth,  — when  our  Church  persecuted,  it 
was  on  mistaken  principles  held  in  common  by  all 
Christendom  ;  and  at  all  events,  far  less  culpable  was 
this  intolerance  in  the  Bishops,  who  were  maintaining 
the  existing  laws,  than  the  persecuting  spirit  afterwards 
shown  by  their  successful  opponents,  who  had  no  such 
excuse,  and  who  should  have  been  taught  mercy  by  their 
own  sufferings,  and  wisdom  by  the  utter  failure  of  the 
experiment  in  their  own  case.  We  can  say,  that  our 
Church,   apostolical  in  its  faith,   primitive  in  its  cere- 


164  FIRE,  FAMINE,  AND  SLAUGHTER. 

monies,  tineqtialled  in  its  liturgical  forms  ;  ttat  our 
Church,  which  has  kindled  and  displayed  more  bright 
and  burning  lights  of  genius  and  learning,  than  all 
other  protestant  churches  since  the  reformation,  was 
(with  the  single  exception  of  the  times  of  Laud  and 
Sheldon)  least  intolerant,  when  all  Christians  unhappily 
deemed  a  species  of  intolerance  their  religious  duty  ; 
that  Bishops  of  our  Church  were  among  tlie  first  that 
contended  against  this  error  ;  and  finally,  that  since  the 
Reformation,  when  tolerance  became  a  fashion,  the 
Church  of  England  in  a  tolerating  age,  has  shown  her- 
self eminently  tolerant,  and  far  more  so,  both  in  spirit 
and  in  fact,  than  many  of  her  most  bitter  opponents, 
who  profess  to  deem  toleration  itself  an  insult  on  the 
rights  of  mankind  !  As  to  myself,  who  not  only  know 
the  Church-Establishment  to  be  tolerant,  but  who  see  in 
it  the  greatest,  if  not  the  sole  safe  bulwark  of  toleration, 
I  feel  no  necessity  of  defending  or  palliating  oppressions 
under  the  two  Charleses,  in  order  to  exclaim  with  a  full 
and  fervent  heart,  Esto  perpetua  ! 


FIRE,  FAMINE,  AND  SLAUGHTER. 

A  WAR  ECLOGUE. 

The  Scene  a  desolated  Tract  in  La  Vendue.     Famine  is  discovered 
lying  on  the  ground  ;  to  her  enter  Fire  and  Slaughter, 

FAMINE. 

Sisters!  sisters!   who  sent  you  here? 

SLAUGHTER.    \t0  FIRE.] 

I  will  whisper  it  in  her  ear. 

FIRE. 

No  !  no  !  no  ! 
Spirits  hear  what  spii-its  tell  : 
'Twill  make  a  holiday  in  Hell. 

No  !  no  !  no  ! 


FIRE,   FAMINE,  AND  SLAUGHTER.  165 

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 : 
'Iwill  make  a  holiday  in  Hell ! 


Whisper  it,  sister  !  so  and  so  ! 
In  a  dark  hint,  soft  and  slow. 

SLAUGHTER. 

Letters  four  do  form  his  name — 
And  who  sent  you  ? 

BOTH. 

The  same  !  the  same  ! 

SLAUGHTER. 

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  it  ? 

SLAUGHTER. 

The  same  !  the  same  ! 
Letters  four  do  form  his  name. 
He  let  me  loose,  and  cried.  Halloo  ! 
To  him  alone  the  praise  is  due. 


Thanks,  sister,  thanks  !  the  men  have  bled, 
Their  wives  and  their  children  faint  for  bread. 


FIRE,   FAMINE,   AND   SLAUGHTER. 

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  1 

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. 


A  baby  beat  its  dying  mother : 

I  had  starved  the  one  and  was  starving  the  other ! 

BOTH. 

Who  bade  you  do't  1 


The  same  !  the  same  ! 
Letters  four  do  form  his  name. 
He  let  me  loose,  and  cried,  Halloo  ! 
To  him  alone  the  praise  is  due. 


Sisters  !  I  from  Ireland  came ! 

Hedge  and  corn-fields  all  on  flame, 

I  triumphed  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  1  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  blaziug  cot 

Was  many  a  naked  rebel  shot : 


FIRE,   FAMINE,   AND   SLAUGHTER.  167 

The  liouse-sti'eam  met  the  flame  and  hissed, 
While  ci-ash  !  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. 


He  let  us  loose,  and  cried  Halloo  ! 
How  shall  we  yield  him  honour  due? 

FAMINE. 

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 — 

SLAUGHTER. 

They  shall  tear  him  limb  from  limb  ! 


0  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  ! 

1  alone  am  faithful !  I 
Cling  to  him  everlastingly. 

1796 


THE  DEVIL'S  THOUGHTS. 


From  his  brimstone  bed  at  break  of  day 

A  walking  the  Devil  is  gone, 
To  visit  his  snug  little  farm  the  Earth, 

And  see  how  his  stock  goes  on, 

II. 
Over  the  hill  and~over  the  dale. 

And  he  went  over  the  plain, 
And  backward  and  forward  he  switched  hie  long  tail 

As  a  gentleman  switches  his  cane. 

III. 
And  how  then  was  the  Devil  drest  1 
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. 

IV. 

He  saw  a  Lawyer  killing  a  viper 

On  a  dunghill  hard  hj  his  own  stable  ; 

And  the  Devil  smiled,  for  it  put  him  in  mind 
Of  Cain  and  his  brother  Abel. 


He  saw  an  Apothecary  on  a  white  horse 

Ride  by  on  his  vocations  ; 
And  the  Devil  thought  of  his  old  friend 

Death  in  the  Revelations. 

VI. 

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. 


THE   DEVIL'S  THOUGHTS.  169 


He  peeped  into  a  rich  bookseller's  shop, 
Quoth  he,  "  We  are  both  of  one  college  ! 

For  I  sate  myself,  like  a  cormorant,  once 
"Hard  by  the  tree  of  knowledge."* 


Down  the  river  did  glide,  with  wind  and  with  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." 

*  And  all  amid  them  stood  the  tree  of  life 
High  eminent,  blooming  ambrosial  fruit 
Of  vegetable  gold  (query  paper  money  :)  and  next  to  life 
Our  Death,  the  tree  of  knowledge,  grew  fast  by. — 

So  clomb  this  first  grand  thief 

Thence  up  he  flew,  and  on  the  tree  of  life 

Sat  like  a  cormorant.  Par.  Lost,  iv. 

The  allegory  here  is  so  apt,  that  in  a  catalogue  of  various 
readings  obtained  from  collating  the  MSS.  one  might  expect 
to  find  it  noted,  that  for  "life  "  Cod.  quid,  habent  "trade." 
Though  indeed  the  trade,  i.e.  the  bibliopolic,  so  called  ««t' 
llox'^v,  may  be  regarded  as  Life  sensu  eminentiori ;  a  sug- 
gestion, which  I  owe  to  a  youi  g  retailer  in  the  hosiery  line, 
who  on  heariug  a  description  of  the  net  profits,  dinnerparties, 
country  houses,  (Jic.  of  the  trade,  exclaimed,  "  Ay  !  that's 
what  I  call  life  now!" — This  "Life,  our  Death,"  is  thus 
happily  contrasted  with  the  fruits  of  authorship — Sic  nos  non 
nobis  mellificamus  apes. 

Of  this  poem,  which  with  the  Fire,  Famine,  and  Slaughter, 
first  appeared  in  the  Morning  Post,  the  1st,  2nd,  3rd,  9th,  and 
16th  stanzas  were  dictated  by  Mr.  Southey.  See  Apologetic 
Preface. 

If  any  one  should  ask  who  General meant,  the  Author 

begs  leave  to  inform  him,  that  he  did  once  see  a  red-faced 
person  in  a  dream  whom  by  the  dress  he  took  for  a  General ; 
but  he  might  have  been  mistaken,  and  most  certainly  he  did 
not  hear  any  names  mentioned.  In  simple  verity,  the  author 
never  meant  any  one,  or  indeed  any  thing  but  to  put  a  con- 
cluding stanza  to  his  doggerel. 


170  THE  DEVIL'S  THOUGHTS. 


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. 


He  saw  a  Turnkey  in  a  trice 

Fetter  a  troublesome  blade  ; 
"  Nimbly,"  quoth  he,  "  do  the  fingers  move 

If  a  man  be  but  used  to  his  trade." 


He  saw  the  same  Turnkey  unfetter  a  man 

With  but  little  expedition, 
Which  put  him  in  mind  of  the  long  debate 

On  the  Slave-trade  abolition. 


He  saw  an  old  acquaintance 

As  he  passed  by  a  Methodist  meeting  ;- 
She  holds  a  consecrated  key, 

And  the  Devil  nods  her  a  greeting. 


She  turned  up  her  nose,  and  said, 
"  Avaunt !  my  name's  Religion," 

And  she  looked  to  Mr. 

And  leered  like  a  love-sick  pigeon. 

XIV. 

He  saw  a  certain  minister 

(A  minister  to  his  mind) 
Go  up  into  a  certain  House, 

With  a  majority  behind. 

XV. 

The  Devil  quoted  Genesis, 
Like  a  very  learned  clerk, 

How  "  Noah  and  his  creeping  things 
Went  up  into  the  Ark." 


LEWTI.  171 

XVI. 

He  took  from  the  poor, 

And  he  gave  to  the  rich, 
And  he  shook  hands  with  a  Scotchman, 

For  he  was  not  afraid  of  the 


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. 

Sep.  6,  1799. 


II.— LOYE   POEMS. 

Quas  humilis  tenero  stylus  olim  effudit  in  sevo, 

Perlegis  hie  lacrymas,  et  quod  pharetratus  acuta 

Ille  puer  puero  fecit  mihi  cuspide  vulnus. 

Omnia  paulatim  cousumit  lougior  setas, 

Vivendoque  simul  morimur,  rapimurque  manendo. 

Ipse  mihi  collatus  enim  non  ille  videbor : 

Frons  alia  est,  moresque  alii,  nova  mentis  imago, 

Voxque  aliud  sonat — 

Pectore  nunc  gelido  calidos  miscremur  amantes, 

Jamque  arsisse  pudet.     Veteres  tranquilla  tumultus 

Mens  horret,  relcgonsque  alium  putat  ista  locutum. 

PETHARCH. 

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. 


172  LEWTI. 

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  pendant  boughs  of  tressy  yew — 
So  shines  my  Lewti's  forehead  fair, 
Gleaming  through  her  sable  hair. 
Image  of  Lewti  !  fi'om  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  reached  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  ! 
Kay,  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  He, 
A  dying  man  for  love  of  thee. 
Nay,  treacherous  image  !  leave  my  mind- 
And  yet,  thou  didst  not  look  vmkiud. 


LEWTI.  173 

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. 

0  beauteous  birds  !  metliinks  ye  measure 
Your  movements  to  some  heavenly  tune  ! 

0  beauteous  birds  !  'tis  such  a  pleasure 
To  see  you  move  beneath  the  moon, 

1  would  it  were  your  true  delight 

To  sleep  by  day  and  wake  all  night.  ^ 

I  know  the  place  where  Lewti  lies, 
Wlien  silent  night  has  closed  her  eyes : 

It  is  a  breezy  jfismine-bower. 
The  nightingale  sings  o't-r  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  ?eem, 
Yet  fair  withal,  as  spirits  are  ! 


174  LOVE. 

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. 

17 


LOVK 

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  leaned  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  soDgs  that  make  her  grieve. 

I  played  a  soft  and  doleful  air, 
I  sang  an  old  and  moving  story — 
An  old  rude  soner,  that  suited  well 
That  ruin  wild  and  hoary. 


LOVE.  175 

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  bx'and  ; 
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, 
Intei-preted  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  sf'orn 
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; — 


176  LOVE. 

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  j^ellow  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  liarp 
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  b]ui-hed  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  stept — 
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. 


LINES  SUGGESTED  AT  THEATRE.  177 

'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. 


LINES  SUGGESTED  AT  THEATRE. 

Maiden,  that  with  sullen  brow 
Sitt'st  behind  those  vii-gins  gay. 

Like  a  scorched  and  mildewed  bough. 
Leafless  'mid  the  blooms  of  May  ! 

Him  who  lured  thee  and  forsook, 

Oft  I  watched  with  angxy  gaze. 
Fearful  saw  his  pleading  look, 

Anxious  heard  his  fervid  phrase. 

Soft  the  glances  of  the  youth, 

Soft  his  speech,  and  soft  his  sigh  ; 

But  no  sound  like  simple  truth, 
But  no  true  love  in  his  eye. 

Loathing  thy  polluted  lot, 

Hie  thee.  Maiden,  hie  thee  hence  ! 

Seek  thy  weeping  Mother's  cot, 
With  a  wiser  innocence. 

Thou  hast  known  deceit  and  folly, 
Thou  hast  felt  that  vice  is  woe : 

With  a  musing  melancholy 
Inly  armed,  go,  Maiden  !  go. 


17S  TO . 

Mother  sage  of  self-dominion, 
Firm  thy  steps,  0  Melancholy  ! 

The  strongest  plume  in  wisdom's  pinion 
Is  the  memory  of  past  folly. 

Mute  the  sky-lark  and  forlorn, 

While  she  moults  the  firstling  plumes. 

That  had  skimmed  the  tender  corn, 
Or  the  bean-field's  odorous  blooms. 

Soon  "with  renovated  vsdng 
Shall  she  dare  a  loftier  flight, 

Upward  to  the  day-star  spring, 
And  embathe  in  heavenly  light. 


TO  . 

Myrtle-leaf  that,  ill  besped, 
Finest  in  the  gladsome  ray. 

Soiled  beneath  the  common  tread, 
Far  from  thy  protecting  spray  ! 

When  the  partridge  o'er  the  sheaf 
Whirred  along  the  yellow  vale, 

Sad  I  saw  thee,  heedless  leaf ! 
Love  the  dalliance  of  the  gale. 

Lightly  didst  thou,  foolish  thing 
Heave  and  flutter  to  his  sighs, 

Wbile  the  flatterer,  on  his  wing. 
Wooed  and  whispered  thee  to  rise. 

Gaily  from  thy  mother-stalk 

Wert  thou  danced  and  wafted  high- 
Soon  on  this  unsheltered  walk 

Flung  to  fade,  to  rot  and  die. 


179 


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 ;  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 


180  THE  PICTURE. 

His  dainty  feet,  the  briei*  and  the  thorn 

Make  his  plumes  haggard.     Like  a  wounded  bird 

Easily  caught,  ensnare  him,  0  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,  0  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  I  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. 


THE  PICTURE.  181 

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-shape  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  wild-flower  on  the  marge  inverted  there. 
And  there  the  half-uprooted  tree — but  where, 
0  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 ! 


182  THE  PICTURE. 

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, 

0  wild  and  desert  stream !  belongs  this  tale  : 
Gloomy  and  dark  art  thou — the  crowded  firs 
Sph'e  from  thy  shores,  and  stretch  across  thy  bed, 
Making  thee  doleful  as  a  cavera-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  passions  dreams,  a  freeman,  and  alone, 

1  rise  and  trace  its  devious  course.     0  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  i-e-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  hai-k,  the  noise  of  a  neai-  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  bursts 

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, 


THE  i-ICTURE.  1S3 

Half  hid  b^'-  rocks  and  fruit-trees.     At  my  feet, 

The  whortle-berries  are  bedewed  with  spray, 

Dashed  upwards  by  the  furious  waterfall. 

How  solemuly  the  pendant-ivy-mass 

Swings  in  its  winnow  ;  all  the  air  is  calm. 

The  smoke  from  cottage  chimneys,  tinged  with  light, 

Eises  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  pillowed  on  a  sleeping  dog — 

One  arm  between  its  fore  legs,  and  the  hand 

Holds  loosely  its  small  handful  of  wild-flowers, 

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  canvass,  and  those  purple  berries 

Her  pencil  !     See,  the  juice  is  scai'cely  dried 

On  the  fine  skin  !     She  has  been  newly  here ; 

And  lo  !  yon  patch  of  heath  has  been  her  couch — 

The  pressure  still  remains  !     0  blessed  couch  ! 

For  this  mayst  thou  flower  early,  and  the  sun. 

Slanting  at  eve,  rest  bright,  and  linger  long 

Upon  thy  purple  bells  !     0  Isabel  ! 

Daughter  of  genius  !  stateliest  of  our  maids  ! 

More  beautiful  than  whom  Alc^eus  wooed 

The  Lesbian  woman  of  immortal  song  ! 

0  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  coppice-wood 

Needs  must  the  pathway  turn,  that  loads  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  I'estore  this  sketch, 

Dropt  unawares  no  doubt.     Why  should  I  yearn 

To  keep  the  relique  1  'twill  but  idly  feed 

The  passion  that  consumes  me.     Let  me  haste  ! 


184  THE   NIGHT-SCENE. 

The  picture  in  my  hand  which  she  has  left ; 

She  cannot  blame  me  that  I  followed  her : 

And  I  may  be  her  guide  the  long  wood  through. 


THE  NIGHT-SCENE. 


A    DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT. 


Sandoval.  You  loved  the  daughter  of  Don  Manrique? 

Earl  Henry.  Loved  1 

Sandoval.  Did  you  not  say  you  wooed  her? 

Earl  Henry.  Once  I  loved 

Her  whom  I  dared  not  woo  ! 

Sandoval.  And  wooed,  perchance, 

One  whom  you  loved  not  ! 

Eai'l  Henry.  Oh !  I  were  most  base, 

Not  loving  Oropeza.     True,  I  wooed  her, 
Hoping  to  heal  a  deeper  wound ;  but  she 
Met  my  advances  with  impassioned  pride, 
That  kindled  love  with  love.     And  when  her  sire, 
"Who  in  his  dream  of  hope  alreadj^  grasped 
The  golden  circlet  in  his  hand,  rejected 
My  stiit  with  insult,  and  in  memory 
Of  ancient  feuds  poured  curses  on  my  head. 
Her  blessings  overtook  and  baflfled  them  ! 
But  thou  art  stern,  and  with  iinkindly  countenance 
Art  inly  reasoning  whilst  thou  listenest  to  me. 

Sandoval.  Anxiously,  Henry  !  reasoning  anxiously. 
But  Oropeza — 

Earl  Henry.  Blessings  gather  round  her  ! 
Within  this  wood  there  winds  a  secret  passage. 
Beneath  the  walls,  which  opens  out  at  length 
Into  the  gloomiest  covert  of  the  garden. — 
The  night  ere  my  departure  to  the  army, 
She,  nothing  trembling,  led  me  through  that  gloom, 
And  to  that  covert  by  a  silent  stream. 


THE   NIGHT-SCENE.  1S5 

T\Tiicb,  with  one  star  reflected  near  its  marge, 

"Was  the  sole  object  visible  around  me. 

No  leaflet  stirred;  the  air  was  almost  sultry  ; 

So  deep,  so  dark,  so  close,  the  umbrage  o'er  iis  ! 

No  leaflet  stirred; — yet  pleasure  hung  upon 

The  gloom  and  stillness  of  the  balmy  night-air. 

A  little  further  on  an  ai-bour  stood, 

Fragrant  with  flowering  trees — I  well  remember 

What  an  uncertain  glimmer  in  the  darkness 

Their  snow-white  blossoms  made — thither  she  led  me, 

To  that  sweet  bower  !  Then  Oropeza  trembled — 

I  heard  her  heart  beat — if  'twere  not  my  own. 

Sandoval.  A  rude  and  scaring  note,  my  friend. 

Earl  Eenry.  -  Oh  !  no  ! 

I  have  small  memory  of  aught  but  pleasure. 
The  inquietudes  of  fear,  like  lesser  streams 
Still  flowing,  still  were  lost  in  those  of  love  : 
So  love  grew  mightier  from  the  fear,  and  Nature, 
Fleeing  from  pain,  sheltered  herself  in  joy. 
The  stars  above  our  heads  were  dim  and  steady, 
Like  eyes  suffused  with  rapture. — Life  was  in  us  : 
We  were  all  life,  each  atom  of  our  frames 
A  living  soul — I  vowed  to  die  for  her  : 
With  the  faint  voice  of  one  who,  having  spoken, 
Relapses  into  blessedness,  I  vowed  it : 
That  solemn  vow,  a  whisper  scarcely  heard, 
A  murmur  breathed  against  a  lady's  ear. 
Oh  !  there  is  joy  above  the  name  of  pleasure, 
Deep  self-possession,  an  intense  repose. 

Sandoval  {loith  a  sarcastic  smile).  No  other  than  as 
eastern  sages  paint, 
The  Gorl,  who  floats  upon  a  lotos  leaf, 
Dreams  for  a  thousand  ages ;  then  awaking. 
Creates  a  world,  and  smiling  at  the  bubble. 
Relapses  into  bliss. 

EoA  Henrjj.        Ah  !  was  that  bliss 
Feared  as  an  alien,  and  too  vast  for  man  1 
For  suddenly,  impatient  of  its  silence, 
Did  Oropeza,  starting,  grasp  my  forehead, 
I  caught  her  arms ;  the  veins  were  swelling  on  them. 


186      LINES  COMPOSED   IN  A  CONCERT-ROOM. 

Through  the  dark  bower  she  sent  a  hollow  voice  ; — 

"  Oh  !  what  if  all  beti'ay  me  ?  what  if  thou  ■?  " 

I  swore,  and  with  an  inward  thought  that  seemed 

The  purpose  and  the  substance  of  my  being, 

I  swore  to  her,  that  were  she  red  with  guilt, 

I  would  exchange  my  uublenched  state  with  hers. — 

Friend  !  by  that  winding  passage,  to  that  bower 

I  now  will  go — all  objects  there  will  teach  me 

Unwavering  love,  and  singleness  of  heart. 

Go,  Sandoval  !  I  am  prepared  to  meet  her — 

Say  nothing  of  me — I  myself  will  seek  her — 

Nay  leave  me,  friend  !  I  cannot  bear  the  torment 

And  keen  inquiry  of  that  scanning  eye. — 

[Earl  Heney  retires  into  the  wood. 

Sandoval  {alone).  0  Henry  !  always  striv'st  thou  to 

be  great 
By  thine  own  act — yet  art  thou  never  great 
But  by  the  inspiration  of  great  passion. 
The  whirl-blast  comes,  the  desert-sands  rise  up 
And  shape  themselves  :  from  earth  to  heaven  they 

stand, 
As  though  they  were  the  pillars  of  a  temple, 
Built  by  Omnipotence  in  its  own  honour ! 
But  the  blast  pauses,  and  their  shaping  spirit 
Is  fled  :  the  mighty  columns  were  but  sand, 
And  lazy  snakes  trail  o'er  the  level  ruins ! 


LINES  COMPOSED  IN  A  CONCERT-EOOM. 

Nor  cold,  nor  stern,  my  soul  !  yet  I  detest 

These  scented  rooms,  where,  to  a  gaudy  throng, 

Heaves  the  proud  harlot  her  distended  breast 
In  intricacies  of  laborious  song. 


LINES   COMPOSED   IN  A  CONCERT-ROOM.       1S7 

These  feel  not  Music's  genuine  power,  nor  deign 
To  melt  at  Nature's  passion-warbled  plaint ; 

But  when  the  long-breathed  singei-'s  uptiilled  strain 
Bursts  in  a  squall — they  gape  for  wonderment. 

Hark  !  the  deep  buzz  of  vanity  and  hate  ! 

Scornful,  yet  envious,  with  self-torturing  sneer 
My  lady  eyes  some  maid  of  humbler  state, 

While  the  pert  captain,  or  the  primmer  priest, 

Prattles  accordant  scandal  in  her  ear. 

0  give  me,  from  this  heartless  scene  released, 
To  hear  our  old  musician,  blind  and  gray, 

(Whom  stretching  from  my  nurse's  arms  I  kissed,) 
His  Scottish  tunes  and  warlike  marches  play, 

By  moonshine,  on  the  balmy  summer-night, 
The  while  I  dance  amid  the  tedded  hay 

With  merry  maids,  whose  ringlets  toss  in  light. 

Or  lies  the  purple  evening  on  the  bay 
Of  the  calm  glossy  lake,  0  let  me  hide 

Unheard,  unseen,  behind  the  alder-trees, 
For  round  their  roots  the  fisher's  boat  is  tied, 

On  whose  trim  seat  doth  Edmund  stretch  at  ease, 
And  while  the  lazy  boat  sways  to  and  fro, 

Breathes  in  his  flute  sad  airs,  so  wild  aud  slow, 
That  his  own  eheek  is  wet  with  quiet  tears. 

But  0,  dear  Anne  !  when  midnight  wind  careers, 
And  the  gust  pelting  on  the  out-house  shed 

Makes  the  cock  shrilly  on  the  rain  storm  crow. 

To  hear  thee  sing  some  ballad  full  of  woe. 
Ballad  of  ship-wrecked  sailor  floating  dead. 

Whom  his  own  true-love  buried  in  the  sands  ! 
Thee,  gentle  woman,  for  thy  voice  re-measures 
Whatever  tones  aud  melancholy  pleasures 

The  things  of  Nature  utter  ;  birds  or  trees 
Or  moan  of  ocean-gale  in  weedy  caves. 
Or  where  the  stiif  grass  'mid  the  heath-plant  waves, 

Murmur  and  music  thin  of  sudden  breeze. 

1799. 


188 


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  !" 

1798-9. 


TO  A  LADY. 

WITH   falconer's    "SHIPWRECK. 


Ah  !  not  by  Cam  or  Isis,  famous  streams 

In  arched  groves,  the  youthful  poet's  choice;     . 

Nor  while  half-listening,  'mid  delicious  dreams, 
To  harp  and  song  from  lady's  hand  and  voice ; 

Nor  yet  while  gazing  in  sublimer  mood 

On  cliff,  or  cataract,  in  Alpine  dell; 
Nor  in  dim  cave  with  bladdery  sea-weed  strewed, 

Framing  wild  fancies  to  the  ocean's  swell  j 

Our  sea-bard  sang  this  song  !  which  still  he  sings, 
And  sings  for  thee,  sweet  friend  !  Hark,  Pity,  hark  1 

Now  mounts,  now  totters  on  the  tempest's  wings, 
Now  groans,  and  shivers,  the  replungiug  bark  1 


TO  A  YOUNG  LADY.  ISO 

''  Cling  to  the  shrouds ! "  In  vain  !  The  breakers  roar — 
Death  shrieks  !  With  two  aloue  of  all  his  clan 

Forlorn  the  poet  paced  the  Grecian  shore, 
Ko  classic  roamer,  but  a  ship-wrecked  man  ! 

Say  then,  what  muse  inspired  these  genial  strains 
And  lit  his  spirit  to  so  bright  a  flame  ? 

The  elevating  thought  of  suffered  pains, 

Which  gentle  hearts  shall  mourn ;  but  chief,  the  name 

Of  gratitude  !  remembrances  of  fx'iend. 
Or  absent  or  no  more  !  shades  of  the  Past, 

Which  Love  makes  substance !     Hence  to  thee  I  send, 
0  dear  as  long  as  life  and  memory  last  ! 

I  send  with  deep  regards  of  heart  and  head. 

Sweet  maid,  for  friendship  formed!  this  work  to  thee: 

And  thou,  the  while  thou  canst  not  choose  but  shed 
A  tear  for  Falconer,  wilt  remember  me; 


TO  A  YOUXQ  LADY. 

ON  HEK  RECOVERY  FROM  A  FEVER. 

Why  need  I  say,  Louisa  dear  ! 
How  glad  I  am  to  see  you  here, 

A  lovely  convalescent; 
Risen  from  the  bed  of  pain  and  fear. 

And  feverish  heat  incessant. 

The  sunny  showers,  the  dappled  sky, 
The  little  birds  that  warble  high, 

Their  vernal  loves  commencing. 
Will  better  welcome  you  than  I 

With  their  sweet  influencing:. 


190   IXTRODUCTIOX  TO  TALE  OF  THE  DARK  LADIE.. 

Believe  me,  while  in  bed  you  lay, 
Your  danger  taught  us  all  to  pray: 

You  made  us  grow  devouter  ! 
Each  eye  looked  up  and  seemed  to  say, 

How  can  we  do  without  her  1 

Besides,  what  vexed  us  worse,  we  knew, 
They  have  no  need  of  such  as  you 

In  the  place  where  you  were  going: 
This  world  has  angels  all  too  few, 

And  Heaven  is  overflowing  ! 

1799. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  THE  TALE  OF  THE 
DARK  LADIE. 

0  LEAVE  the  lily  on  its  stem  ; 
0  leave  the  rose  upon  the  spray; 
0  leave  the  elder  bloom,  fair  maids  ! 
And  listen  to  my  lay. 

A  cypress  and  a  myrtle  bough  , 
This  mora  around  my  harp  you  twined, 
Because  it  fashioned  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. 

But  most,  my  own  dear  Genevieve, 
It  sighs  and  trembles  most  for  thee  ! 
O  come  and  hear  the  cniel  wrongs, 
Befell  the  Dark  Ladie  !  * 


Here  followed  the  Stanzas,  afterwards  piiblislied  separately 


THE   BAIJ.AD   OF  THE   DARK  LADIE.  19] 

And  now,  once  more  a  tale  of  woe, 
A  woeful  tale  of  love  I  sing ; 
For  thee,  my  Genevieve,  it  sighs, 
And  trembles  on  the  string. 

When  last  I  sang  the  cruel  scorn, 
That  crazed  this  bold  and  lovely  knight, 
And  how  he  roamed  the  mountain  woods, 
Kor  rested  day  nor  night ; 

I  promised  thee  a  sister  tale, 
Of  man's  perfidious  cinielty  ; 
Come  then,  and  hear  what  cruel  wrong 
Befell  the  Dark  Ladle. 


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  Ladie  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. 

under  the  title  "Love"  (see  p.  174),  and  after  them  came  the 
other  three  stanzas  printed  above  ;  the  whole  forming:  the 
introduction  to  the  intended  Dark  Ladie,  of  which  all  that 
exists  is  subjoined. 


THE  BALLAD   OF  THE  DARK  LADIE, 

The  sun  was  sloping  down  the  sky, 
And  she  had  lingered  there  all  day, 
Counting  moments,  dreaming  fears — 
0  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,  is  it  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  teaz'S. 


"  My  friends  with  rude  ungentle  words 
They  scoff  and  bid  me  fly  to  thee  ! 

0  give  me  shelter  in  thy  breast ! 

0  shield  and  shelter  me  ! 

"  My  Henry,  I  have  given  thee  much, 

1  gave  what  I  can  ne'er  recall, 

I  gave  my  heart,  I  gave  my  peace, 
0  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  laud. 

"  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  twiukliu"  stars  !  " — 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 

"  The  dark?  the  dark  ?     No  !  not  the  dark  ? 
The  twinkling  stars  1     How,  Henry  ]     How  ? 
0  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  flow'rs  before  : 

"  But  first  the  nodding  minstrels  go 
With  music  meet  for  lordly  bow'rs, 
The  children  next  in  snow-white  vests, 
Strewing  buds  and  flow'rs  ! 

"  And  then  my  love  and  I  shall  pace, 
My  jet  black  hair  in  pearly  braids, 
Between  our  comely  bachelors 
And  blushing  bridal  maids." 


1799. 


THE  DAY-DREAM. 

FROM   Ay   EMIGRANT   TO   HIS  ABSENT   WIFE 

If  thou  wert  here,  these  tears  were  tears  of  light  ! 

But  from  as  sweet  a  vision  did  I  start 
As  ever  made  these  eyes  grow  idlj'  bright  ! 

And  though  I  weep,  yet  still  around  my  heart 
A  sweet  and  playful  tenderness  doth  linger. 
Touching  my  heart  as  with  an  infant's  finger. 

My  mouth  half  open,  like  a  witless  man, 
I  saw  our  couch,  I  saw  our  quiet  room, 
Its  shadows  heaving  by  the  fire-light  gloom; 

And  o'er  my  lips  a  subtle  feeliog  ran, 


194  SOMETHING  CHILDISH,   BUT  VERY  NATURAL. 

All  o'ei'  my  lips  a  soft  and  breeze-like  feeling — 
I  know  not  what — but  had  the  same  been  stealing 

Upon  a  sleeping  mother's  lips,  I  guess 

It  would  have  made  the  loving  mother  dream 

That  she  was  softly  bending  down  to  kiss 

Her  babe,  that  something  more  than  babe  did  seem, 

A  floating  presence  of  its  darling  father, 

And  yet  its  own  dear  baby  self  far  rather  ! 

Across  my  chest  there  lay  a  weight,  so  warm  ! 

As  if  some  bird  had  taken  shelter  there ; 
And  lo  !  I  seemed  to  see  a  woman's  form — 

Thine,  Sara,  thine  ?     0  joy,  if  thine  it  were  ! 
I  gazed  with  stifled  breath,  and  feared  to  stir  it, 
No  deeper  trance  e'er  wrapt  a  yearning  spirit  ! 

And  now,  when  I  seemed  sure  thy  face  to  see. 
Thy  own  dear  self  iu  our  own  quiet  home  ; 

There  came  an  elfish  laugh,  and  wakened  me : 
'Twas  Frederic,  who  behind  my  chair  had  clomb, 

And  with  his  bright  eyes  at  my  face  was  peeping. 

I  blessed  him,  tried  to  laugh,  and  fell  a  weeping  !  * 


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. 

*  See  note. 


ON  REVISITING  THE   SEA-SHORE.  l! 

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. 

179S-9. 


ON  EEVISITING  THE  SEA-SHORE. 

AITTER   LONG  ABSENCE,   UNDER  STRONG   MEDICAL 
BECOMSIENDATION   NOT  TO   BATHE. 

God  be  with  thee,  gladsome  Ocean  ! 

How  gladly  greet  I  thee  once  more  ! 
Ships  and  waves,  and  ceaseless  motion. 

And  men  rejoicing  on  thy  shore. 

Dissuading  spake  the  mild  physician, 
"  Those  briny  waves  for  thee  are  death  ! 

But  my  soul  fulfilled  her  mission, 

And  lo  !  I  breathe  untroubled  breath  ! 

Fashion's  pining  sons  and  daughters, 
That  seek  the  crowd  they  seem  to  fly, 

Trembling  they  approach  thy  waters ; 
And  what  cares  Nature,  if  they  die  1 

Me  a  thousand  hopes  and  pleasures, 
A  thousand  recollections  bland. 

Thoughts  sublime,  and  stately  measures, 
Revisit  on  thy  echoing  strand  : 


196  THE  KEEPSAKE. 

Dreams,  (the  soul  herself  forsaking.) 
Tearful  raptures,  boyish  mirth  ; 

Silent  adorations,  making 

A  blessed  shadow  of  this  Earth  ! 

0  re  hopes,  that  stir  within  me, 
Health  comes  with  you  from  above 

God  is  with  me,  God  is  iu  me  ! 
I  cannot  die,  if  Life  be  Love. 


1801. 


THE   KEEPSAKE. 


The  tedded  hay,  the  first  fmits  of  the  soil, 

The  tedded  hay  and  corn-sheaves  in  one  field, 

Show  summer  gone,  ere  come.     The  foxglove  tall 

Sheds  its  loose  purple  bells,  or  in  the  gust, 

Or  when  it  bends  beneath  the  up-ppriuging  lark, 

Or  mountain-finch  alighting.     And  the  rose 

(In  vain  the  darling  of  successful  love) 

Stands,  like  some  boasted  beauty  of  past  years, 

The  thorns  remaining,  and  the  flowers  all  gone. 

Nor  can  I  find,  amid  my  lonely  walk 

By  rivulet,  or  sprine,  or  wet  road-side. 

That  blue  and  bright-eyed  floweret  of  the  brook, 

Hope's  gentle  gem,  the  sweet  Forget-me-not !  * 

So  will  not  fade  the  flowers  which  Emmeline 

"With  delicate  fingei's  on  the  snow-white  silk 

Has  worked,  (the  flowers  which  most  she  knew   I 

loved,) 
And,  more  beloved  than  they,  her  auburn  hair. 

*  One  of  the  names  fand  meritinsr  to  be  the  only  one)  of  the 
Myoaotiff  Scorpioidex  Paluftris.  a  flower  from  six  to  twelve 
inchi  s  high,  with  bkie  blossom  and  bright  yellow  eye.  It 
has  the  s:ime  name  over  the  whole  Empire  of  Gei-many  (Ver- 
gissmein  nicht)  and,  I  bcUeve,  in  Denmark  and  Sweden. 


THE  VISIONARY  HOPE.  197 

In  the  cool  morning  twilight,  early  waked 
By  her  full  bosom's  joyous  restlessness, 
Softly  she  rose,  and  lightly  stole  along, 
Down  the  slope  coppice  to  the  woodbine  bower. 
Whose  rich  flowers,  swinging  in  the  morning  breeze, 
Over  their  dim  fast-moving  shadows  hung, 
Making  a  quiet  image  of  disquiet 
In  the  smooth,  scarcely  moving  river-pool. 
There,  in  that  bower  where  first  she  owned  her  love, 
And  let  me  kiss  my  own  warm  tear  of  joy 
From  off  her  glowing  cheek,  she  sate  and  stretched 
The  silk  upon  the  frame,  and  worked  her  name 
Between  the  Moss-Rose  and  Forget-me-not — 
Her  own  dear  name,  with  her  own  auburn  hair  ! 
That  forced  to  wander  till  sweet  spring  return, 
I  yet  might  ne'er  forget  her  smile,  her  look, 
Her  voice,  (that  even  in  her  mirthful  mood 
Has  made  me  wish  to  steal  away  and  weep,) 
Nor  yet  the  entrancement  of  that  maiden  kiss 
With  which  she  promised,  that  when  spring  returned, 
She  would  resign  one  half  of  that  dear  name, 
And  own  thenceforth  no  other  name  but  mine  ! 

1801. 


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 : 


19S  HOME-SICK. 

Though  obscure  pangs  made  curses  of  his  dreams, 
Aud  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. 


flOME-SICK. 

WRITTEN   IN   GERMANY. 


'Tis  sweet  to  him,  who  all  the  week 

Through  city-crowds  must  push  his  way, 

To  stroll  alone  through  fields  and  woods, 
And  hallow  thus  the  Sabbath-day. 

And  sweet  it  is,  in  summer  bower, 

Sincere,  aiFectionate  and  gay. 
One's  own  dear  children  feasting  round, 

To  celebrate  one's  marriage-day. 

But  what  is  all,  to  his  delight, 

Who  having  long  been  doomed  to  roam, 
Throws  off  the  bundle  from  his  back. 

Before  the  door  of  his  own  home  ? 


THE  HAPPY  HUSBAND.  199 

Home-sickness  is  a  wasting  pang ; 

This  feel  I  hourly  more  and  more  : 
There's  healing  only  in  thy  wings, 

Thou  Breeze  that  play'st  on  Albion's  shore  ! 

1798-9. 


THE  HAPPY  HUSBAND. 

Oft,  oft  methinks,  the  while  with  Thee 
I  breathe,  as  from  the  heart,  thy  dear 
And  dedicated  name,  I  hear 

A  promise  and  a  mystery, 

A  pledge  of  more  than  passing  life, 
Yea,  in  that  very  name  of  Wife ! 

A  pulse  of  love,  that  ne'er  can  sleep ! 

A  feeling  that  upbraids  the  heart 

With  happiness  beyond  desert, 
That  gladness  half  requests  to  weep  ! 

Nor  bless  I  not  the  keener  sense 

And  unalarmmg  turbulence 

Of  transient  joys,  that  ask  no  sting 
From  jealous  fears,  or  coy  denying  ; 
But  born  beneath  Love's  brooding  wing, 

And  into  tenderness  soon  dying, 

Wheel  oiit  their  giddy  moment,  then 
Resign  the  soul  to  love  again ;  — 

A  more  precipitated  vein 

Of  notes,  that  eddy  in  the  flow 

Of  smoothest  song,  they  come,  they  go, 

And  leave  their  sweeter  understrain 
Its  own  sweet  self — a  love  of  Thee 
That  seems,  yet  cannot  greater  be  ! 


200 


RECOLLECTIONS  OF  LOVE. 

I. 
How  warm  this  woodland  wild  Recess  ! 

Love  surely  hath  been  breathing  here  ; 

And  this  sweet  bed  of  heath,  my  dear  ! 
Swells  up,  then  sinks  with  faint  caress, 

As  if  to  have  you  yet  more  near. 

II. 

Eight  springs  have  flown,  since  last  I  lay 
On  sea-wai-d  Quantock's  heathy  hills, 
Where  quiet  sounds  from  hidden  rills 

Float  here  and  there,  like  things  astray, 
And  high  o'er  head  the  sky-lark  shrills. 

III. 

No  voice  as  yet  had  made  the  air 
Be  music  with  your  name  ;  yet  why 
That  asking  look  1  that  yearning  sigh  ? 

That  sense  of  promise  every  where  ? 
Beloved  !  flew  your  spirit  by  ? 


As  when  a  mother  doth  explore 

The  rose-mark  on  her  long  lost  child, 
I  met,  I  loved  you,  maiden  mild  ! 

As  whom  I  long  had  loved  before — 
So  deeply,  had  I  been  beguiled. 

v. 

You  stood  before  me  like  a  thought, 
A  dream  remembered  in  a  dream. 
But  when  those  meek  eyes  first  did  seem 

To  tell  me,  Love  within  you  wrought — 
0  Greta,  dear  domestic  stream ! 


THE  PANG  MORE  SHARP  THAN  ALL. 


Has  not,  since  then,  Love's  prompture  deep, 
Has  not  Love's  whisper  evermore 
Been  ceaseless,  as  thy  gentle  roar] 

Sole  voice,  when  other  voices  sleep, 
Dear  under-song  in  clamor's  hour. 


1S06. 


THE  PANG  MORE  SHARP  THAN  ALL. 

AN-   ALLEGORY. 


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  tir'd  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  ! 


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 ! 


202    THE  PANG  MORE  SHARP  THAN  ALL. 


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  j 
The  one  a  steady  lad  (Esteem  he  hight) 
And  Kindness  is  the  gentler  sister's  name. 
Dim  likeness  now,  tho'  fair  she  be  and  good 
Of  that  bi'ight  Boy  who  hath  us  all  foi-sook  ; — 
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! 


Ah  !  He  is  gone,  and  yet  will  not  depart ! — 
Is  with  me  still,  yet  I  from  Him  exil'd ! 
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  inisl'd 
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 ! 


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  woful  hap  to  feel, 

When  at  her  Brother's  best,  the  twiu-born  Maid 

*  Fiierie  Queene,  b.  hi.  c.  2.  s.  19. 


EEFLECTIONS. 

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. 
0  worse  than  all  !  0  pang  all  pangs  above 
Is  Kindness  counterfeiting  absent  Love  ! 


III.     MEDITATIVE   POEMS. 


IN    BLANK   VERSE. 

Yea,  he  deserves  to  find  himself  deceived. 
Who  seeks  a  Heart  in  the  unthinking  Man. 
Like  shadows  on  a  stream,  the  forms  of  life 
Impress  their  cliaracters  on  the  smooth  forehead! 
Nought  sinks  into  the  bosom's  silent  depth. 
Quick  sensibihty  of  pain  and  pleasure 
Moves  the  liaht  fluids  lightly  ;  but  no  soul 
"Warmeth  the  inner  frame.— schiller. 


REFLECTIONS 

ON   HAVING   LEFT   A   PLACE   OF   RETIREMENT. 

Sermoni  propriora. — hor. 

Low  was  our  pretty  Cot :  our  tallest  rose 
Peeped  at  tbe  chamber-window.     We  could  hear 
At  silent  noon,  and  eve,  and  early  morn, 
The  sea's  faint  murmur.     In  the  open  air 
Our  myrtles  blossomed  ;  and  across  the  porch 
Thick  jasmins  twined  :  the  little  landscape  round 
Was  green  and  woody,  and  refreshed  the  eye. 
It  was  a  spot  which  you  miglit  aptly  call 
The  Valley  of  Seclusion  !     Once  I  saw 
(Hallowing  his  Sabbath-day  by  quietness) 
A  wealthy  son  of  commerce  saunter  by, 
Bristowa's  citizen  :  methought,  it  calmed 


20i  REFLECTIONS. 

His  thirst  of  idle  gold,  and  made  him  muse 
With  wiser  feelings  :  for  he  paused,  and  looked 
With  a  pleased  sadness,  and  gazed  all  around, 
Then  eyed  our  Cottage,  and  gazed  round  again, 
And  sighed,  and  said,  it  was  a  Blessed  Place. 
And  we  were  blessed.     Oft  with  patient  eai' 
Long-listening  to  the  viewless  sky-lark's  note 
(Viewless,  or  haply  for  a  moment  seen 
Gleaming  on  sunny  wings)  in  whispered  tones 
I've  said  to  my  beloved,  "  Such,  sweet  girl ! 
The  inobtrusive  song  of  happiness, 
Unearthly  minstrelsy  !  then  only  heard 
When  the  soul  seeks  to  hear ;  when  all  is  hushed, 
And  the  heart  listens  ! " 

But  the  time,  when  first 
From  that  low  dell,  steep  up  the  stony  mount 
I  climbed  with  perilous  toil  and  reached  the  top, 
Oh  !  what  a  goodly  scene  !     Here  the  bleak  mount, 
The  bare  bleak  mountain  speckled  thin  with  sheep ; 
Gray  clouds,  that  shadowing  spot  the  sunny  fields ; 
And  river,  now  with  bushy  rocks  o'erbrowed. 
Now  winding  bright  and  full,  with  naked  banks ; 
And  seats,  and  lawns,  the  Abbey  and  the  wood, 
And  cots,  and  hamlets,  and  faint  city-spire ; 
The  Channel  there,  the  Islands  and  white  sails, 
Dim  coasts,  and  cloud-like  hills,  and  shoreless  Ocean- 
It  seemed  like  Omnipresence  !     God,  methought, 
Had  built  him  there  a  temple  :  the  whole  World 
Seemed  imaged  in  its  vast  circumference, 
No  wish  profaned  my  overwhelmed  heart. 
Blest  hour  !     It  was  a  luxury, — to  be  ! 

Ah  !  quiet  dell  !  dear  Cot,  and  mount  sublime  ! 
I  was  constrained  to -quit  you.     Was  it  right. 
While  my  unnumbered  brethren  toiled  and  bled. 
That  I  should  dream  away  the  entrusted  hours 
On  rose-leaf  beds,  pampering  the  coward  heart 
With  feelings  all  too  delicate  for  use  1 
Sweet  is  the  tear  that  from  some  Howard's  eye 


ON  AN  EARLY  BLOSSOM.  205 

Drops  on  the  cheek  of  one  he  lifts  from  earth  : 

And  he  that  works  me  good  with  unmoved  face, 

Does  it  but  half :  ho  chills  me  while  he  aids, 

My  benefactor,  not  my  brother  man  ! 

Yet  even  this,  this  cold  beneficence 

Praise,  praise  it,  0  my  soul  !  oft  as  thou  scann'st 

The  sluggard  Pity's  vision-weaving  tribe  ! 

Who  sigh  for  wretchedness,  yet  shun  the  wretched, 

Nursing  in  some  delicious  solitude 

Their  slothful  loves  and  dainty  sympathies  ! 

I  therefore  go,  and  join  head,  heart,  and  hand, 

Active  and  firm,  to  fight  the  bloodless  fight 

Of  science,  freedom,  and  the  truth  in  Christ. 

Yet  oft  when  after  honoui'able  toil 
Rests  the  tired  mind,  and  waking  loves  to  dream, 
My  spirit  shall  revisit  thee,  dear  Cot  ! 
Thy  jasmin  and  thy  window-peeping  rose 
And  myrtles  fearless  of  the  mild  sea-air. 
And  I  shall  sigh  fond  wishes — sweet  abode  ! 
Ah  ! — had  none  greater  !     And  that  all  had  such  ! 
It  might  be  so — but  the  time  is  not  yet. 
Speed  it,  0  Father  !     Let  thy  kingdom  come  ! 


ON  OBSERVING  A  BLOSSOM  ON  THE  FIRST 
OF  FEBRUARY,  1796. 

Sweet  Flower !  that  peeping  from  thy  russet  stem 

Unfoldest  timidly,  (for  in  strange  sort 

This    dark,     frieze-coated,     hoarse,    teeth-chattering 

Month 
Hath  borrowed  Zephyr's  voice,  and  gazed  upon  thee 
With  blue  voluptuous  eye)  alas,  poor  Flower  ! 
These  are  but  flatteries  of  the  faithless  year. 
Perchance,  escaped  its  unknown  polar  cave. 
E'en  now  the  keen  North-East  is  on  its  way. 


206  THE  EOLIAK   HARP. 

Flower  that  must  perish  !  shall  I  liken  thee 
To  some  sweet  girl  of  too  too  rapid  growth 
Nipped  by  consumption  'mid  untimely  charms? 
Or  to  Bristowa's  bard,*  the  wondrous  boy ! 
An  amaranth,  which  Earth  scarce  seemed  to  own, 
Till  disappointment  came,  and  pelting  wrong 
Beat  it  to  Earth  ?  or  with  indignant  grief 
Shall  I  compare  thee  to  poor  Poland's  hope. 
Bright  flower  of  Hope  killed  in  the  opening  bud  ? 
Farewell,  sweet  blossom  !  better  fate  be  thine 
And  mock  my  boding !  Dim  similitudes 
Weaving  in  moral  strains,  I've  stolen  one  hour 
From  anxious  self,  Life's  cruel  task-master! 
And  the  warm  wooings  of  this  sunny  day 
Tremble  along  my  frame,  and  harmonise 
The  attempered  organ,  that  even  saddest  thoughts 
Mix  with  some  sweet  sensations,  like  harsh  tunes 
Played  deftly  on  a  soft-toned  instrument. 


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  wei'e  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 ! 

'  Chatterton. 


THE  EOLIAN  HARP.  "ilO? 


The  stilly  mtirmur  of  the  distant  sea 
Tells  us  of  silence. 


u 


And  that  simplest  lute, 
laced  lengtli-ways  in  the  claspiug  casement,  hark! 
How  by  the  desultory  breeze  caressed, 
Like  some  coy  maid  halt  yielding  to  her  lover. 
It  pours  svich  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 
-Yovage  on  gentle  gales  from  Fairy-Land, 
Where  Melodies  round  honey-di'opping  flowers. 
Footless  and  wild,  like  birds  of  Paradise, 
Nor  pause,  nor  perch,  hovering  on  untamed  wing ! 
0  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, 
Ehythm  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 
Is  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  diversftly  framftd, 
That  tremble  into  thought,  as  o'er  them  sweeps 


20.''^!  TO  THE   REV.  GEORGE  COLERIDGE. 

Plastic  and  vast,  one  intellectual  breeze, 
At  once  the  Soufot"  each,  and  God  oi'All  ] 

But  thy  more  serious  eye  a  mild  peproof 
Darts,  0  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, 

tWildered  a.nd  dark,  and  gave  me  to  possess 
Peace,  and  this  cot,  and  thee,  heai't-honoured  Maid  ! 

1796-1828. 


TO  THE  REV.  GEORGE  COLERIDGE 

OF  OTTERY   ST.  MARY,   DEVON.      -WITH   SOME   POEMS. 

Notus  in  fratres  animi  paterni. 

HOR.  Carm.  lib.  1.  2. 

A  BLESSED  lot  hath  he,  who  having  passed 

His  youth  and  early  manliood  in  the  stir 

And  turmoil  of  the  world,  retreats  at  length, 

With  cares  that  move,  not  agitate  the  heart, 

To  the  same  dwelling  where  his  father  dwelt; 

And  haply  views  his  tottering  little  ones 

Embrace  those  aged  knees  and  climb  that  lap, 

On  which  first  kneeling  his  own  infancy 

Lisped  its  brief  prayer.     Such,  0  my  earliest  Friend  ! 

Thy  lot,  and  such  thy  brothers  too  enjoy. 


TO  THE  REV.  GEORGE  COLERIDGE.  209 

At  distance  did  ye  climb  life's  upland  road, 
Yet  cheered  and  cheering  :  now  fraternal  love 
Hath  drawn  you  to  one  centre.     Be  your  days 
Holy,  and  blest  and  blessing  may  ye  live. 

To  me  the  Eternal  Wisdom  hath  dispensed 
A  different  fortune  and  more  different  mind — 
Me  from  the  spot  where  first  I  sprang  to  light 
Too  soon  transplanted,  ere  my  soul  had  fixed 
Its  first  domestic  loves  ;  and  hence  through  life 
Chasing  chance-started  friendships.     A  brief  while 
Some  have  preserved  me  from  life's  pelting  ills  ; 
But,  like  a  tree  with  leaves  of  feeble  stem, 
If  the  clouds  lasted,  and  a  sudden  breeze 
Ruffled  the  boughs,  they  on  my  head  at  once 
Dropped  the  collected  shower  ;   and  some  most  false, 
False  and  fair-foliaged  as  the  Manchineel, 
Have  tempted  me  to  slumber  in  their  shade 
E'en  'mid  the  storm ;  then  breathing  subtlest  damps, 
Mixed  their  own  venom  with  the  rain  from  Heaven, 
That  I  woke  poisoned  !     But,  all  praise  to  Him 
Who  gives  us  all  things,  more  have  yielded  me 
Permanent  shelter  ;  and  beside  one  friend, 
Beneath  the  impervious  covert  of  one  oak, 
I've  raised  a  lowly  shed,  and  know  the  names 
Of  husband  and  of  father  ;  not  unhearing 
Of  that  divine  and  nightly-whispering  voice, 
Which  from  my  childhood  to  maturer  years 
Spake  to  me  of  predestinated  wreaths, 
Bright  with  no  fading  colours  ! 

Yet  at  times 
My  soul  is  sad,  tliat  I  have  roamed  through  life 
Still  most  a  stranger,  most  with  naked  heart 
At  mine  own  home  and  birth-place  :  chiefly  then, 
When  I  remember  thee,  my  earliest  friend ! 
Thee,  who  didst  watch  my  boyhood  and  my  youth; 
Didf^t  trace  my  wanderings  with  a  father's  eye ; 
And  boding  evil  yet  still  hoping  good. 
Rebuked  each  fault,  and  over  all  my  woes 


210  TO  THE  KEV.  GEOKGE  COLERIDGE. 

SoiTowed  in  silence  !     He  who  counts  alone 

The  beatings  of  the  solitary  heart, 

That  Being  knows,  how  I  have  loved  thee  ever, 

Loved  as  a  brother,  as  a  son  revered  thee  ! 

Oh  !  'tis  to  me  an  ever  new  delight, 

To  talk  of  thee  and  thine  :  or  when  the  blast 

Of  the  shrill  winter,  rattling  our  rude  sash, 

Endears  the  cleanly  hearth  and  social  bowl ; 

Or  when  as  now,  on  some  delicious  eve, 

We  in  our  sweet  sequestered  orchard-plot 

Sit  on  the  tree  crooked  earth- ward ;  whose  old  boughs. 

That  hang  above  us  in  an  arborous  roof, 

Stirred  by  the  faint  gale  of  departing  May, 

Send  then*  loose  blossoms  slanting  o'er  our  heads  ! 

Nor  dost  not  thou  sometimes  recall  those  hours, 
When  with  the  joy  of  hope  thou  gav'st  thine  ear 
To  my  wild  firstling-lays.     Since  then  my  song 
Hath  sounded  deeper  notes,  such  as  beseem 
Or  that  sad  wisdom  folly  leaves  behind, 
Or  such  as,  tuned  to  these  tumultuous  times, 
Cope  with  the  tempest's  swell ! 

These  various  strains, 
Which  I  have  framed  in  many  a  various  mood, 
Accept,  my  brother  !  and  (for  some  perchance 
Will  strike  discordant  on  thy  milder  mind) 
If  aught  of  error  or  intemperate  truth 
Should  meet  thine  ear,  think  thou  that  riper  age 
Will  calm  it  down,  and  let  thy  love  forgive  it ! 

1797. 


211 


TO  A  FRIEND 

WHO   HAD   DECLARED   HIS   INTENTION   OF   WKITIiSG    NO 
MORE   POETRY. 

Dear  Charles  !  whilst  yet  thou  wert  a  babe,  I  weeu 
That  Genius  plunged  thee  in  that  wizard  fount 
Hight  Castalie  :  and  (sureties  of  thy  faith) 
That  Pity  and  Simplicity  stood  by, 
And  promised  for  thee,  that  thou  shouldst  renounce 
The  world's  low  cares  and  lying  vanities, 
Steadfast  and  rooted  in  the  heavenly  Muse, 
And  washed  and  sanctified  to  Poesy. 
Yes — thou  wert  plunged,  but  with  forgetful  hand 
Held,  as  by  Thetis  erst  her  warrior  son  : 
And  with  those  recreant  unbaptised  heels 
Thou'rt  flying  from  thy  bounden  minist'ries — 
So  sore  it  seems  and  burthensome  a  task 
To  weave  unwithering  flowers !     But  take  thou  heed: 
For  thou  art  vulnerable,  wild-eyed  boy. 
And  I  have  arrows  *  mystically  dipt, 
Such  as  may  stop  thy  speed.     Is  thy  Burns  dead  1 
And  shall  he  die  unwept,  and  sink  to  earth 
"  Without  the  meed  of  one  melodious  tear  1  " 
Thy  Burns,  and  Nature's  own  beloved  bard, 
Who  to  the  "  Illustrious^  of  his  native  Land 
So  properly  did  look  for  patronage." 
Ghost  of  Maecenas  !  hide  thy  blushing  face  ! 
They  snatched  him  from  the  sickle  and  the  plough- 
To  gauge  ale-firkins. 

Oh  !  for  shame  return  ! 
On  a  bleak  rock,  midway  the  Aonian  mount, 

*  Find.  Olymp,  ii.  1.  150. 
t  Verbatim  from   Burns'  dedication  of   his  Poem  to  the 
Nobility  and  Gentry  of  the  Caledonian  Hunt. 


P  2 


212         THIS  LIME-TEEE  BOWER  MY  PRISON. 

There  stands  a  lone  and  melancholy  tree, 
Whose  aged  branches  to  the  midnight  blast 
Make  solemn  music  :  pluck  its  darkest  bough, 
Ere  yet  the  unwholesome  night-dew  be  exhaled, 
And  weeping  wreathe  it  round  thy  Poet's  tomb. 
Then  in  the  outskirts,  where  pollutions  grow, 
Pick  the  rank  henbane  and  the  dusky  flowers 
Of  night-shade,  or  its  red  and  tempting  fruit, 
These  with  stopped  nostril  and  glove-guarded  hand 
Knit  in  nice  intertexture,  so  to  twine, 
The  illustrious  brow  of  Scotch  Nobility. 

1796. 


THIS  LIME-TREE  BOWER  MY  PRISON. 

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,  mean- 
while, 
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  i)i  the  gale,  yet  tremble  still. 
Fanned  by  the  water-fall  !  and  there  my  friends 


THIS  LIME-TREE   BOWER  MY  PRISON.         213 

Boliold  the  dark  gi-een  file  of  long  lank  weeds,* 
T)iat  all  at  once  (a  most  fantastic  sight  !) 
Si  ill  nod  and  drip  beneath  the  dripping  edge 
0/ the  blue  clay-stone. 

Now,  my  friends  emerge 
Beneath  the  wide  wi  le  Heaven — and  view  again 
The  many-steepled  tiact  magnificent 
Of  hilly  fields  and  meadows,  and  the  sea, 
■^Vith  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,  methinks,  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, 
"i^e  purple  heath-flowers  !  I'ichlier  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  ho  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 

*  Of  long  lank  weeds.]  The  aaplenium  scolopendrium,  called 
in  some  countries  the  Adder's  Tongue,  in  others  the  Hart's 
Tongue  :  but  Withering  gives  the  Adder's  Tongue  as  the 
trivial  name  of  the  ophioglossum  only. 


214         THIS  LIME-TREE  BOWER  MY  PRISON. 

Some  broad  and  sunny  leaf,  and  loved  to  see 
The  shadow  of  the  leaf  and  stem  above 
Dappling  its  sunshine  !  And  that  walnut-ti'ee 
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 
Tlirough  the  late  twilight:  and  though  now  the  ba 
Wheels  silent  by,  and  not  a  swallow  twitters, 
Yet  still  the  solitary  humble  bee 
Sings  in  the  bean-flower  !     Henceforth  I  shall  knov 
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  I'ook 
Beat  its  straight  path  along  the  dusky  air 
Homewards,  1  blest  it  !  deeming,  its  black  wing 
(Now  a  dim  speck,  now  vanishing  in  light) 
Had  crossed  the  mighty  orb's  dilated  glory, 
While  thou  stood'st  gazing ;  or  when  all  was  still, 
*  Flew  creeking  o'er  tiiy  head,  and  had  a  charm 
For  thee,  my  gentle-hearted  Charles,  to  whom 
No  sound  is  dissonant  which  tells  of  Life. 

1797. 

*  Flew  creeking.']  Some  months  after  I  had  written  this 
line,  it  gave  me  pleasure  to  find  that  Bartram  had  observed 
the  same  circiimstauce  of  the  Savanna  Crane.  "When  these 
Birds  move  their  wings  in  flight,  tlieir  strokes  are  slow, 
moderate  and  regular;  and  even  when  at  a  considerable 
distance  or  high  above  us,  we  ])laiuly  hear  the  quill-feathers  ; 
tlieir  shafts  and  webs  upon  one  another  creek  as  the  joints  or 
working  of  a  vessel  in  a  tempestuous  sea." 


215 


FROST  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

The  frost  performs  its  secret  ministry,  ' 
Unhelped  by  any  wind.     The  -owlet's  cry  t- 
Came  loud — and  hark,  again  !■  loud  as  before.  \ 
The  inmates  of  my  cottage,  all  at  rest,    v 
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  1     Sea,  and  hill,  and  wood, " 
With  all  the  numberless  goings  on  of  life  -  s 
Inaudible  as  dreams  !  the  thin  blue  flame  <  ^ 
Lies  on  my  low  burnt  fire,  and  quivers  not  ;vv 
Only  that  film,  which  fluttered  on  the  grate, ,  ,- 
Still  flutters  there,  the  sole  unquiet  thing,  .t 
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  i-» 
Echo  or  mirror  seeking  of  itself,     i.>- 
Aud  makes  a  toy  of  Thought.        v  ^ 

But  0  !  howr.ft,W 
How  oft,  at  school,  with  most  believing  mind,x^' 
Presageful,  have  I  gazed  upon  the  bars,      •>■  ^ 
To  watch  that  fluttering  stranger  !  and  as  oft  >'^ 
With  unclosed  lids,  already  had  I  dreamt  x  >- 
Of  my  sweet  birth-place,  and  the  old  church -tower,  i  ^ 
Whose  bells,  the  poor  man's  only  music,  rang   v,' 
From  morn  to  evening,  all  tlie  hot  Fair-day,  - 
So  sweetly,  that  they  stirred  and  haunted  me  ^ 


216  FROST  AT  MIDNIGHT. 

With  a  wild  pleasure,  falling  on  mine  ear  J, 

Most  like  articulate  sounds  of  things  to  come*^ 

So  gazed  I,  till  the  soothing  things  I  drearnt   )> 

Lulled  me  to  sleep,  and  sleep  prolonged  my  dreams  !  t-' 

And  so  I  brooded  all  the  following  morn,  i 

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^ 

A  hasty  glance,  and  still  my  heai-t  leaped  up,  ■ 

For  still  I  hoped  to  see  the  stranger's  face,  a 

Townsman,  or  aimt,  or  si&ter  more  beloved,  ■;, 

My  play-mate  when  we  both  were  clothed  alike  !  w 

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  !  'i 
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,  i 
Which  image  in  their  bulk  both  lakes  and  shores  k 
And  mountain  crags  :  so  shalt  thou  see  and  hear  ^ 
The  lovely  shapes  and  sounds  intelligible  t^ 
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,v 
Whether  the  summer  clothe  the  general  earth  ^ 
With  greenness,  or  the  redbreast  sit  and  sing  » 
Betwixt  the  tufts  of  snow  on  the  bare  branch  -y 
Of  mossy  apple-tree,  while  the  nigh  thatch  ^  s 


THE  NIGHTINGALE.  217 

Smokes  in  the  sun-thaw  ;  whether  the  eve-drops  fall  / 
Heard  only  in  the  trances  of  the  blast,     j. 
Or  if  the  secret  ministry  of  frost  j 

Shall  hang  them  up  in  silent  icicles,      "^ 
Quietly  shining  to  the  quiet  Moon.      j,' 

1798. 


THE   NIGHTINGALE; 

A    CONVERSATION   POEM.      APRIL,    1798. 

No  cloud,  no  relique  of  the  sunken  day 

Distinguishes  the  West,  no  long  thin  slip 

Of  sullen  light,  no  obscui-e  trembling  hues. 

Come,  we  will  rest  on  this  old  mossy  bridge ! 

You  see  the  glimmer  of  the  stream  beneath, 

But  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-wandei'ing  man  whose  heart  was  pierced 

With  the  remembrance  of  a  grievovis  wrong, 

Or  slow  distemper,  or  neglected  love, 

(And  so,  poor  wretch  !  filled  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. 

*  "  Most  musical,  most  melancholy. ""l  This  passage  in  Milton 
possesses  an  excellence  far  superior  to  that  of  mere  descrip- 
tion. It  is  spoken  in  the  cliaracter  of  the  melancholy  man, 
and  has  therefoi-e  a  dramatic  propriety.  The  author  makes 
this  remark,  to  rescue  himself  from  the  charge  of  having 
alluded  with  levity,  to  a  line  in  MiltoJi. 


218  THE   NIGHTIXGALE» 

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  disburtheu  his  full  soul 
Of  all  its  music  I 

And  I  know  a  grove 
Of  large  extent,  haixl  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  song, 
With  skirmish  and  capricious  passagings, 


THE  NIGHTIXGALE.  219 

And  murmurs  musical  and  swift  jug-jng, 

And  one  low  piping  sound  more  sweet  than  all — 

Stirring  the  air  with  such  a  harmony, 

That  should  you  close  your  eyes,  you  might  almost 

Forget  it  was  not  day !  On  moon-lit  bushes, 

AVhose  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  l^ature  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  these  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  perched  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,  0  Warbler !  till  to-morrow  eve, 
And  you,  my  friends !  farewell,  a  shoi-t  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  lie  would  place  his  hand  beside  his  ear, 


220  LINES. 

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  eveniug-star ;  and  once,  when  he  awoke 

In  most  distressful  mood  (some  inward  pain 

Had  made  u.p  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  undi'opped  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. 


LINES 

WRITTEN   IN   THE   ALBUM   AT   ELBINGERODE,    IN   THE 
HARTZ   FOREST. 

I  STOOD  on  Brocken's*  sovran  height,  and  saw 
Woods  crowding  upon  woods,  hills  over  hills, 
A  surging  scene,  and  only  limited 
By  the  blue  distance.     Heavily  my  way 
Downward  I  dragged  through  fir  groves  evermore. 
Where  bright  green  moss  heaves  in  sepulchral  forms 
Speckled  with  simshine;  and,  but  seldom  heard, 
The  sweet  bird's  song  became  a  hollow  sound ; 
And  the  breeze,  murmuring  indivisibly. 
Preserved  its  solemn  murmur  most  distinct 
From  many  a  note  of  many  a  waterfall, 
And  the  brook's  chatter  ;  'mid  whose  islet  stones 

*  The  highest  mountain  in  the  Hartz,  and  indeed  in  North 
Germany. 


LINES.  221 

The  dingy  kidling  witli  its  tinkling  bell 

Leaped  frolicsome,  or  old  romantic  goat 

Sat,  his  white  beard  slow  waving.     I  moved  on 

In  low  and  languid  mood  :  *  for  I  had  fouud 

That  outward  forms,  the  loftiest,  still  receive 

Their  finer  influence  from  the  Life  within  ; — 

Fair  cyphers  else  :  fair,  but  of  import  vague 

Or  uncoucerning,  where  the  heart  not  finds 

History  or  prophecy  of  friend,  or  child, 

Or  gentle  maid,  our  first  and  early  love. 

Or  father,  or  the  venerable  name 

Of  our  adored  country  !     0  thou  Queen, 

Thou  delegated  Deity  of  Earth, 

0  dear,  dear  England  !  how  my  longing  eye 

Turned  westward,  shaping  in  the  steady  clouds 

Thy  sands  and  high  white  cliffs  ! 

My  native  Land ! 
Filled  with  the  thought  of  thee  this  heart  was  proud, 
Yea,  mine  eye  swam  with  tears  :  that  all  the  view 
From  sovi'an  Brocken,  woods  and  woody  hills. 
Floated  away,  like  a  departing  dream. 
Feeble  and  dim !  Stranger,  these  impulses 
Blame  thou  not  lightly  ;  nor  will  I  profane, 
With  hasty  judgment  or  injurious  doubt. 
That  man's  sublimer  spirit,  who  can  feel 
That  God  is  everywhere !  the  God  who  framed 
Mankind  to  be  one  mighty  family, 
Himself  our  Father,  and  the  World  our  Home. 

1798-9. 


When  I  have  gazed 


From  snme  high  eminence  on  goodly  vales, 
And  cots  and  villages  embowered  below, 
The  thought  would  rise  that  all  to  nie  was  strange 
Amid  the  Scenes  so  fair,  nor  one  t-mall  spot 
Where  my  tired  miud  might  rest,  and  call  it  home. 

Sovihey's  Hymn  to  the  Penates. 


222 


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  conspicuovis  torrents 
rush  down  its  sides;  and  within  a  few  paces  of  the  Glaciers, 
the  Gentiana  Major  grows  in  immense  numbers  with  its 
"  fiowei's  of  loveUest  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,  0  sovran  Blanc ! 
The  Arve  and  Arveiron  at  thy  base 
Have  ceaselessly ;  but  thou,  most  awful  Form  ! 
Eisest  from  forth  thy  silent  sea  of  pines, 
How  silently  !  Around  thee  and  above 
Deep  is  the  air  and  dark,  substantial,  black, 
An  ebon  mass  :  methiuks  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  ! 

0  dread  and  silent  Mount  !  I  gazed  upon  thee, 
Till  thou,  still  present  to  the  bodily  sense, 

Didst  vanish  from  my  thought :  entranced  in  prayer 

1  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! 


HYMN.  223 

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  sovran  of  the  Vale ! 
0  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,  0  wake,  and  utter  praise ! 
Who  sank  thy  sunless  pillars  deep  in  Earth? 
Who  filled  thy  countenance  with  rosy  light  1 
Who  made  thee  parent  of  perpetual  streams'? 

And  \ou,  ye  five  wild  torrents  fiercely  glad! 
Who  called  you  forth  from  night  and  utter  death, 
Fi-om  dark  and  icy  caverns  called  you  forth, 
Down  those  precipitous,  black,  jagged  Rocks, 
For  ever  shattered  and  the  same  for  ever  1 
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  1 — 
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  ! 


224  TO  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

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  etei-nal  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  sufi'used  with  tears, 
Solemnly  seemest,  like  a  vapoury  cloud. 
To  rise  before  me — Rise,  0  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. 


TO  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

i  COMPOSED     ON   THE   NIGHT   AFTER  BIS    KECITATION   OF  A   POEM 

I  ON   THE   GROWTH   OF  AN   INDIVIDUAL  MIND. 

I        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) 


TO  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH.  225 

Of  the  foundations  and  the  building  up 

Of  a  Human  Spirit  thou  hast  dai-ed  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-detei-miued,  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, 
Hybleau  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  vibi-ating 
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  genei^al  heart  of  human  kind 
Hope  sprang  forth  like  a  full-bom  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  unwauing  on  her  eyes,  to  look 


226  TO  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH. 

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  chanted  ! 

0  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  spiace 
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  listened  with  a  heart  forlorn, 
The  pulses  of  my  being  beat  anew  : 
And  even  as  life  returns  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  w'on  in  vain  ; 
And  all  which  I  liad  culled  in  wood-walks  wild, 
And  all  whicli  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  coflan,  for  the  self-same  grave  ! 

That  way  no  more  !  and  ill  beseems  it  me, 
Wlio  camn  a  welcomer  in  herald's  guise, 
Singing  of  glory,  and  futurity. 


TO  WILLIAM  WORDSWORTH.  £27 

To  wander  back  on  such  nnhealthful  road, 
Pluckiug  the  poisons  of  self-harm  !  And  ill 
Such  intertwine  beseems  triumphal  wreaths 
Strewed  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 — 0  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 — 

*  "  A  beautiful  white  cloud  of  foam  at  momentary  intervals 
coursed  by  the  side  of  the  vessel  with  a  roar,  and  little  stars 
of  flame  d;inced  and  sparkled  and  weut  out  in  it :  and  every 
now  and  then  light  rletachmentsof  tliis  white  cloud-like  foam 
darted  off  from  the  vessel's  side,  each  with  its  own  small  con- 
stellation, over  tlie  sea,  and  scoiu'cd  out  of  sight  like  a  Tartar 
troop  over  a  wilderness." — The  Frknd,  p.  220. 


228  INSCRIPTION. 

Scarce  conscious,  and  yet  conscious  of  its  close 
I  sate,  my  being  blended  in  one  thought 
(Thought  was  if?  or  aspiration]  or  resolve?) 
Absorbed,  yet  hanging  still  upon  the  sound — 
And  when  I  rose,  I  found  myself  in  prayer. 


INSCRIPTION 

FOR  A  FOUNTAIN  ON  A  HEATH. 


This  Sycamore,  oft  musical  with  bees, — 

Such  tents  the  Patriarchs  loved  !  0  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  Fairj^'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  eentle  sound, 

Or  passing  gale  or  hum  of  murmuring  bees  ! 


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  elder  times,  he  hated  to  excess, 

With  an  unquiet  and  intolerant  scorn, 

The  hollow  puppets  of  a  hollow  age, 

Ever  idolatrous,  and  changing  ever 

Its  worthless  idols  !  learning,  power,  and  time, 

(Too  much  of  all)  thus  wasting  in  vain  war 

Of  feiwid  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  starx-y  walls 

Sparkle,  as  erst  they  sparkled  to  the  flame 

Of  odorous  lamps  tended  by  Saint  and  Sage. 


230  TO   A  TOUXG   FRIEND, 

0  framed  for  calmer  times  and  nobler  hearts  ! 
0  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  tby  worth  thy  Friend  inscribes, 
Thoughtful,  with  quiet  tears  upon  his  cheek. 

1809. 


IV. 
POEMS  OF  YAEIED  CHAEACTEE. 

TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND, 

ON   HIS  PROPOSING  TO  DOMESTICATE   WITH   THE   AtJTHOR. 
COMPOSED   IN    1796. 

A  MOUNT,  not  wearisome  and  bare  and  steep. 
But  a  green  mountain  variously  up-piled, 

"Wbere  o'er  the  jutting  rocks  soft  mosses  creep. 

Or  coloured  lichens  with  slow  oozing  weep ; 
"Where  cypress  and  the  darker  yew  start  wild ; 

And  'mid  the  summer  torrent's  gentle  dash 

Dance  brightened  the  red  clusters  of  the  ash  ; 

Beneath  whose  boughs,  by  those  still  sounds  beguiled. 

Calm  Pensiveness  might  muse  herself  to  sleep; 
Till  haply  startled  by  some  fleecy  dam, 

That  rustling  on  the  bushy  cliff  above. 

With  melancholy  bleat  of  anxious  love. 

Made  meek  enquiry  for  her  wandering  lamb : 
Such  a  green  mountain  'twere  most  sweet  to  climb, 

E'en  while  the  bosom  ached  with  loneliness — 

How  more  than  sweet,  if  some  dear  friend  should  bless 


TO  A  YOUNG  FRIEND.  231 

The  adventurous  toil,  and  up  the  path  sublime 
Now  lead,  now  follow  :  the  glad  landscape  round 
Wide  and  more  wide,  increasing  without  bound  ! 

0  then  'twere  loveliest  sympathy,  to  mark 
The  berries  of  the  half-uprooted  ash 
Dripping  and  bright ;  and  list  the  torrent's  dash, — 

Beneath  the  cypress,  or  the  yew  more  dark, 
Seated  at  ease,  on  some  smooth  mossy  rock ; 
In  social  silence  now,  and  now  to  unlock 
The  treasured  heart ;  arm  linked  in  friendly  arm, 
Save  if  the  one,  his  muse's  witching  charm 
Muttering  brow-bent,  at  un watched  distance  lag  ; 

Till  high  o'er  head  his  beckoning  friend  appears 
And  from  the  forehead  of  the  topmost  crag 

Shouts  eagerly  :  for  haply  there  uprears 
Thtit  shadowing  pine  its  old  romantic  limbs, 

Which  latest  shall  detain  the  enamoured  sight 
Seen  from  below,  when  eve  the  valley  dims, 

Tinged  yellow  with  the  rich  departing  light ; 

And  haply,  basoned  in  some  unsunned  cleft, 
A  beauteous  spring,  the  rock's  collected  tears, 
Sleeps  sheltered  there,  scarce  wrinkled  by  the  gale  ! 

Together  thus,  the  world's  vain  turmoil  left, 
Stretched  on  the  crag,  and  shadowed  by  the  pine, 

And  bending  o'er  the  clear  delicious  fount, 
Ah  !  dearest  youth !  it  were  a  lot  divine 
To  cheat  our  noons  in  moralising  mood, 
While  west-winds  fanned  our  temples  toil-bedewed  : 

Then   downwards    slope,    oft    pausing,    from  the 
mount, 
To  some  lone  mansion,  in  some  woody  dale, 
Where  smiling  with  blue  eye,  domestic  bliss 
Gives  this  the  husband's,  that  the  brother's  kiss 

Thus  rudely  versed  in  allegoric  lore. 
The  Hill  of  Knowledge  I  essayed  to  trace ; 
That  verdurous  hill  with  many  a  resting-place, 

And  many  a  stream,  whose  warbling  waters  pour 

To  glad  and  fertilize  the  subject  plains ; 
That  hill  with  secret  springs,  and  nooks  untrod. 
And  many  a  fancy-blest  and  holy  sod 


232    ADDRESSED   TO   A  YOUN'G  MAN"  OP  FORTUNE. 

"Where  Inspiration,  his  diviner  strains 
Low  murmuring,  lay  ;  and  starting  from  the  rocks 
Stiff  evergreens,  whose  spreading  foliage  mocks 
Want's  barren  soil,  and  the  bleak  frosts  of  age, 
And  bigotry's  mad  fire-invoking  rage  ! 
0  meek  retiring  spirit !  we  will  climb, 
Cheering  and  cheered,  this  lovely  hill  sublime ; 

And  from  the  stirring  world  up-lifted  high, 
(Whose  noises,  faintly  wafted  on  the  wind, 
To  quiet  musings  shall  attune  the  mind, 

And  oft  the  melancholy  theme  supply) 

There,  while  the  prospect  through  the  gazing  eye 

Pours  all  its  healthful  greenness  on  the  soul, 
We'll  smile  at  wealth,  and  learn  to  smile  at  fame, 
Our  hopes,  our  knowledge,  and  our  joys  the  same. 

As  neighbouring  fountains  image,  each  the  whole  : 
Then  when  the  mind  hath  drunk  its  fill  of  ti'uth 

We'll  discipline  the  heart  to  pure  delight. 
Rekindling  sober  joy's  domestic  flame. 
They  whom  I  love  shall  love  thee,  honoured  youth  ! 

Now  may  Heaven  realize  this  vision  bright ! 


ADDRESSED  TO  A  YOUNG  MAN  OF  FORTUNE 

WHO   ABANDONED   HIMSELF   TO   AN   INDOLENT   AND 
CAUSELESS   MELANCHOLY. 

Hence  that  fantastic  wantonness  of  woe, 

0  Youth  to  partial  Fortune  vainly  dear  ! 
To  plundered  want's  half-sheltered  hovel  go, 
Go,  and  some  hunger-bitten  infant  hear 
Moan  haply  in  a  dying  mother's  ear : 
Or  when  the  cold  and  dismal  fog-damps  brood 
O'er  the  rank  church-yard  witli  sear  elm-leaves  strewed, 
Pace  round  some  widow's  grave,  whose  dearer  pai't 


SONNET  TO  THE  RIVER  OTTER.  233 

Was  slaughtered,  where  o'er  his  uncoffined  limbs 
The  flocking  flesh-birds  screamed  !     Then,  while  thy 
heart 

Groans,  and  thine  eye  a  fiercer  sorrow  dims, 
Know  (and  the  truth  shall  kindle  thy  young  mind) 
What  nature  makes  thee  mourn,  she  bids  thee  heal ! 

O  abject  !  if,  to  sickly  dreams  resigned, 
All  effortless  thou  leave  life's  common-weal 

A  prey  to  tyrants,  murderers  of  mankind. 


SOITNET  TO  THE  RIVER  OTTER. 

Dear  native  brook  !  wild  streamlet  of  the  West ! 

How  many  various-fated  years  have  past, 

What  happy,  and  what  mournful  hours,  since  last 
I  skimmed  the  smooth  thin  stone  along  thy  breast, 
Numbering  its  light  leaps  !  yet  so  deep  impi-est 
Sink  the  sweet  scenes  of  childhood,  that  mine  eyes 

I  never  shut  amid  the  sunny  ray. 
But  straight  with  all  their  tints  thy  waters  rise, 

Thy  crossing  plank,  thy  marge  with  willows  grey. 
And  bedded  sand  that,  veined  with  various  dyes. 
Gleamed  through  thy  bright  transparence !  On  my  way, 

Visions  of  childhood  !  oft  have  ye  beguiled 
Lone  manhood's  cares,  yet  waking  fondest  sighs  : 

Ah  !  that  once  more  I  were  a  careless  child  ! 


234 


THE  FOSTER  MOTHER'S  TALE. 

A.  DRAMATIC   FRAGMENT, 

The  following  Scene,  as  unfit  for  the  stage,  was  taken  from 
the  tragedy  in  the  year  1V97,  and  published  in  the  Lyrical 
Ballads. 

Entei-  TERESA  and  selma. 

Ter.  'Tis  said,  he  spake  of  you  familiarly, 
As  mine  and  Alvar's  common  foster-mother. 

Sel.  Now  blessings  on  the  man,  whoe'er  he  be, 
That  j  oined  your  names  with  mine  !    0  my  sweet  Lady, 
As  often  as  I  think  of  those  dear  times, 
When  you  two  little  ones  would  stand,  at  eve, 
On  each  side  of  my  chair,  and  make  me  learn 
All  you  had  learnt  in  the  day;  and  how  to  talk 

In  gentle  phrase ;  then  bid  me  sing  to  you 

'Tis  more  like  heaven  to  come,  than  what  has  been ! 

Ter.  But  that  entrance,  Selma  ? 

Sel.  Can  no  one  hear  1     It  is  a  perilous  tale  ! 

Ter.  No  one. 

Sel.  My  husband's  father  told  it  me, 

Poor  old  Sesina — angels  rest  his  soul ; 
He  was  a  woodman,  and  could  fell  and  saw 
With  lusty  arm.     You  know  that  huge  round  beam 
Which  props  the  hanging  wall  of  the  old  chapel? 
Beneath  that  tree,  while  yet  it  was  a  tree, 
He  found  a  baby  wi-apt  in  mosses,  lined 
With  thistle-beards,  and  such  small  locks  of  wool 
As  hang  on  brambles.     Well,  he  bronglit  him  home, 
And  reared  him  at  the  then  Lord  Valdez'  cost. 
And  so  the  babe  grew  up  a  pretty  boy, 
A  pretty  boy,  but  most  unteachable — 
And  never  learu'd  a  prayer,  nor  told  a  bead. 
But  knew  the  names  of  birds,  and  mocked  their  notes, 


THE  FOSTER  MOTHER'S  TALE.  235 

And  whistled,  as  he  were  a  bird  himself. 

And  all  the  autumn  'twas  his  only  play 

To  gather  seeds  of  wild  flowers,  and  to  plant  them 

"With  earth  and  water  on  the  stumps  of  trees. 

A  Friar,  who  gathered  simples  in  the  wood, 

A  grey-haired  man,  he  loved  this  little  boy  : 

The  boy  loved  him,  and,  when  the  friar  taught  him, 

He  soon  could  write  with  the  pen ;  and  from  that  time 

Lived  chiefly  at  the  convent  or  the  castle. 

So  he  became  a  rare  and  learned  youth  : 

But  0  !  poor  wretch  !  he  read,  and  read,  and  read, 

Till  his  brain  turned ;  and  ere  his  twentieth  year 

He  had  imlawful  thoughts  of  many  things  : 

And  though  he  prayed,  he  never  loved  to  pr  ay 

With  holy  men,  nor  in  a  holy  place. 

But  yet  his  speech,  it  was  so  soft  and  sweet. 

The  late  Lord  Yaldez  ne'er  was  wearied  with  him. 

And  once,  as  by  the  north  side  of  the  chapel 

They  stood  together  chained  in  deep  discourse, 

The  earth  heaved  under  them  with  such  a  groan, 

That  the  wall  tottered,  and  had  well  nigh  fallen 

Right  on  their  heads.    My  Lord  was  sorely  frightened: 

A  fever  seized  him,  and  he  made  confession 

Of  all  the  heretical  and  lawless  talk 

Which  brought  this  judgment:  so  the  youth  was  seized, 

And  cast  into  that  hole.     My  husband's  father 

Sobbed  like  a  child — it  almost  broke  his  heart : 

And  once  as  he  was  working  near  this  dungeon, 

He  heard  a  voice  distinctly  ;  'twas  the  youth's. 

Who  sung  a  doleful  song  about  green  fields, 

How  sweet  it  were  on  lake  or  wide  savanna 

To  hiint  for  food,  and  be  a  naked  man, 

And  wander  up  and  down  at  liberty. 

He  always  doted  on  the  youth,  and  now 

His  love  grew  desperate  ;  and  defying  death. 

He  made  that  cunning  entrance  I  described, 

And  the  young  man  escaped. 

Ter.  'Tis  a  sweet  tale : 

Such  as  would  lull  a  listening  child  to  sleep, 
His  rosy  face  besoiled  with  unwiped  tears. 


236  SONNET. 

And  what  became  of  him  ? 

ScL  He  went  on  shipboard 

With  those  bold  voyagers  who  made  discovery 
Of  golden  lauds.     Sesiua's  younger  brother 
Went  likewise,  and  when  he  returned  to  Spain, 
He  told  Sesina,  that  the  poor  mad  youth, 
Soon  after  they  arrived  in  that  new  world, 
In  spite  of  his  dissuasion,  seized  a  boat, 
And  all  alone  set  sail  by  silent  moonlight 
Up  a  great  river,  great  as  any  sea. 
And  ne'er  was  heard  of  more  :  but  'tis  supposed, 
He  lived  and  died  among  the  savage  men. 


SONNET. 

COMPOSED  ox   A   JOURNEY   HOMEWARD;    THE   AHTHOR    HAVING 
RECEIVED   INTELLIGENCE   OF  THE   BIRTH   OF   A   SON, 

Sept.  20,  1796. 

Oft  o'er  my  brain  does  that  strange  fancy  roll 

Which  makes  the  present  (while  the  flash  doth  last) 
Seem  a  mere  semblance  of  some  unkno\vn  past 
Mixed  with  such  feelings  as  perplex  the  soul 
Self-questioned  in  her  sleep  ;  and  some  have  said 
We  lived,  ere  yet  this  robe  of  flesh  we  wore,* 
0  my  sweet  baby  !  when  I  reach  my  door. 
If  heavy  looks  should  tell  me  thou  art  dead, 
(As  sometimes,  through  excess  of  hope,  I  fear) 
I  think  that  I  should  struggle  to  believe 

Thou  wert  a  spirit,  to  this  nether  sphere 
Sentenced  for  some  more  venial  crime  to  grieve  ; 
Did'st  scream,   then  spring  to  meet  Heaven's  quick 
reprieve, 
While  we  wept  idly  o'er  thy  little  bier  ! 

—Plat,  in  Phcedon. 


237 


SONNET. 

TO    A   FRIEND  WHO  ASKED,   HOW  I  FELT  'WHEN  THE  NDKSE 
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  preaageful  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. 


TELL'S   BIRTH-PLACE. 


IMITATED  FROM  STOLBERG. 


Mark  this  holy  chapel  well  ! 
The  birth-place,  this,  of  William  Tell. 
Here,  where  stands  God's  altar  dread, 
Stood  his  parents'  marriage-bed. 


TELL'S   BIRTH-PLACE. 


Here,  first,  an  infant  to  her  breast, 
Him  his  loving  mother  prest ; 
And  kissed  the  babe,  and  blessed  the  day, 
And  prayed  as  mothers  use  to  pray. 


"  Vouchsafe  him  health,  0  God  !  and  give 
The  child  thy  servant  still  to  live ! " 
But  God  had  destined  to  do  more 
Through  him,  than  through  an  armed  power. 


God  gave  him  reverence  of  laws, 

Yet  stirring  blood  in  Freedom's  cause — 

A  spirit  to  his  rocks  akin, 

The  eye  of  the  hawk,  and  the  fire  therein  ! 


To  Nature  and  to  Holy  Writ 
Alone  did  God  the  boy  commit : 
Where  flashed  and  roared  the  torrent,  oft 
His  soul  found  wings,  and  soared  aloft ! 


The  straining  oar  and  chamois  chase 
Had  formed  his  limbs  to  strength  and  grace 
On  wave  and  wind  the  boy  would  toss, 
Was  great,  nor  knew  how  great  he  was  ! 


He  knew  not  that  his  chosen  hand, 
Made  strong  by  God,  his  native  land 
Would  rescue  from  the  shameful  yoke 
Of  Slavery — the  which  he  broke  ! 


239 


ODE  TO  GEORGIANA, 

DUCHESS  OF  DEVONSHIRE,    OS  THE  TWEXTT-FOURTH    STANZA 
IN   HER   "passage   OVER  MOUNT   GOTHAJRD." 

"And  hail  the  chapel  !  hail  the  platform  wild 

Where  Tell  directed  the  avenging  dart, 
With  well  strung  arm,  that  first  preserved  his  child, 

Then  aimed  the  arrow  at  the  tyrant's  heart." 

Splendour's  fondly  fostered  child  ! 
And  did  you  hail  the  platform  wild, 

Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 

Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell  ! 
0  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure  ! 
Whence  learn'd  you  that  heroic  measure  ? 

Light  as  a  dream  your  days  their  circlets  ran, 
From  all  that  teaches  brothei'hood  to  Man 
Far,  far  removed  !  from  want,  from  hope,  from  fear  ! 
Enchanting  music  lulled  your  infant  ear, 
Obeisance,  praises  soothed  your  infant  heart : 

Emblazonments  and  old  ancestral  crests, 
With  many  a  bright  obtrusive  form  of  art. 

Detained  your  eye  from  nature  :  stately  vests, 
That  veiling  strove  to  deck  your  charms  divine. 
Rich  viands  and  the  pleasurable  wine. 
Were  yours  unearned  by  toil ;  nor  could  you  see 
The  unenjoyine  toiler's  misery. 
And  yet.  free  Nature's  uncorruj^ted  child, 
You  hailed  the  chapel  and  the  platform  wild, 
Wliere  once  the  Austrian  fell 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell  ! 

0  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure  ! 

Whence  learn'd  you  that  heroic  measure  ? 


240  ODE  TO  GEORGIAXA. 

There  crowd  your  finely-fibred  frame, 

All  living  faculties  of  bliss; 
And  Genius  to  your  cradle  came, 
His  forehead  wreathed  with  lambent  flame, 
And  bending  low,  with  godlike  kiss 
Breath'd  in  a  moi-e  celestial  life ; 
But  boasts  not  many  a  fair  compeer, 

A  heart  as  sensitive  to  joy  and  fear? 
And  some,  perchance,  might  wage  an  equal  strife, 
Some  few,  to  nobler  being  wrought, 
Corrivals  in  the  nobler  gift  of  thought. 
Yet  these  delight  to  celebrate 
Laurelled  war  and  plumy  state ; 
Or  in  verse  and  music  dress 
Tales  of  rustic  happiness — 
Pernicious  tales  !  insidious  strains  ! 
That  steel  the  rich  man's  breast, 
And  mock  the  lot  unblest, 
The  sordid  vices  and  the  abject  pains, 
Which  evermore  must  be 
The  doom  of  ignorance  and  penury  ! 
But  you,  free  Nature's  ixncorrupted  child, 
You  hailed  the  chapel  and  the  platform  wild. 
Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell  ! 
0  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure  ! 
Whence  learn'd  you  that  heroic  measui's  1 


You  were  a  mother  !     That  most  holy  name, 
Which  Heaven  and  Nature  bless, 
I  may  not  vilely  prostitute  to  those 

Whose  infants  owe  them  less 
Than  the  poor  caterpillar  owes 
Its  gaudy  parent  fly. 
You  were  a  mother !  at  your  bosom  fed 

The   babes  that   loved  you.     You,  with  laughing 
eye, 
Each  twilight-thought,  each  nascent  feeling  read, 
Which  you  yourself  created.     Oh  !  delight ! 


ON  AN  INFANT.  241 

A  second  time  to  be  a  mother. 

Without  the  mother's  bitter  groans  : 
Another  thought,  and  yet  another, 
By  touch,  or  taste,  by  looks  or  tones 
O'er  the  growing  sense  to  roll, 
The  mother  of  your  infant's  soul  ! 
The  Angel  of  the  Earth,  who,  while  he  guides 

His  chariot-planet  round  the  goal  of  day, 
All  trembling  gazes  on  the  eye  of  God, 

A  moment  turned  his  awful  face  away  ; 
And  as  he  viewed  you,  from  his  aspect  sweet 

New  influences  in  your  being  rose, 
Blest  intuitions  and  communions  fleet 

With  living  Nature,  in  her  joys  and  woes  ! 
Thenceforth  your  soul  rejoiced  to  see 
The  shrine  of  social  Liberty  ! 
0  beautiful  !  0  Nature's  child  ! 
'Twas  thence  you  hailed  the  platform  wild. 
Where  once  the  Austrian  fell 
Beneath  the  shaft  of  Tell  ! 
0  Lady,  nursed  in  pomp  and  pleasure  ! 
Thence  learn'd  you  that  heroic  measure. 


ON  AN  INFANT 

WHICH  DIED  BEFORE  BAPTISM. 

"  Be,  rather  than  be  called,  a  child  of  God, 
Death  whispered  ! — with  assenting  nod, 
Its  head  upon  its  mother's  breast, 

The  Baby  bowed,  without  demur — 
Of  the  kingdom  of  the  Blest 

Possessor,  not  inheritor. 


EPITAPH  ON"  AN  INFANT. 

Its  balmy  lips  the  infant  blest 
Kelaxing  from  its  mother's  breast, 
How  sweet  it  heaves  the  happy  sigh 
Of  innocent  satiety  ! 

And  such  my  infant's  latest  sigh  ! 
0  tell,  rude  stone  !  the  passer  by, 
That  here  the  pretty  babe  doth  lie, 
Death  sang  to  sleep  with  Lullaby. 


HYMN   TO   THE   EARTH. 

HEXAMETERS. 


Earth  !    thou  mother  of  numberless  children,  the 

nurse  and  the  mother, 
Hail !   0  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 — 
i        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. 
Thrilled  with  thy  beauty  and  love  in  the  wooded  slope 

of  the  mountain, 


HYMN  TO  THE  EARTH.  243 

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-haired  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,  0  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  enamoured  ! 
Say,  mysterious  Earth  !      0  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  wooed 

thee  and  won  thee  ! 
Fair  was  thy  blush,  the  fairest  and  first  of  the  blushes 

of  morning  ! 
Deep  was  the  shudder,  0  Earth  !  the  throe  of  thy  self- 
retention  : 
Inly  thou  strovest  to  flee,  and  didst  seek  thyself  at 

thy  centre  ! 
Mightier  for  was  the  joy  of  thy  sudden  resilience;  and 

forthwith 


244  MAHOMET. 

Myriad  myriads  of  lives  teemed  forth  from  the  mighty 
embracement. 

Thousand-fold  tribes  of  dwellers,  impelled  by  thousand- 
fold instincts, 

Filled,  as  a  dream,  the  -wide  waters ;  the  rivers  sang 
on  their  channels  ; 

Laughed  on  their  shores  the  hoarse  seas;  the  yearning 
ocean  swelled  upward ; 

Young  life  lowed  through  the  meadows,  the  woods, 
and  the  echoing  mountains. 

Wandered  bleating  in  valleys,  and  warbled  on  blos- 
soming branches. 


MAHOMET. 

Utter  the  song,  0  my  soul !  the  flight  and  return  of 

Mohammed, 
Prophet  and  priest,  who  scatter'd  abroad  both  evil 

and  blessing, 
Huge  wasteful  empires  founded  and  hallow'd  slow 

persecution, 
Soul- withering,  but  crush'd  the  blasphemous  rites  of 

the  Pagan 
And  idolatrous  Christians. — For  veiling  the  Gospel  of 

Jesus, 
They,  the  best  corrupting,  had  made  it  worse  than 

the  vilest. 
"Wherefore  Heaven  decreed  th'  enthusiast  warrior  of 

Mecca, 
Choosing  good  from  iniquity  rather  than  evil  from 

goodness. 
Loud  the  tumult  in  Mecca  surrounding  the  fane  of 

the  idol ; — 
Naked  and  prostrate  the  priesthood  were  laid — the 

people  with  mad  shouts 
Thundering  now,  and  now  with  saddest  ululatiou 


WRITTEN  DURING  A  BLINDNESS.  245 

Flew,  as  over  the  channel  of  rock-stone  the  ruinous 

river 
Shatters  its   waters   abreast,    and    in  mazy   uproar 

bewilder'd, 
Rushes  dividuous  all — all  rushing  impetuous  onward. 


THE  VIRGIN'S   CRADLE-HYMN. 

COPIED  FUOM  A  PRINT  OF  THE  VIRGIN,   IK  A  ROHAN 
CATHOLIC  VILLAGE  IN   GERMANY. 

DoRMi,  Jesu  !  Mater  ridet 

Quae  tarn  dulcem  somuum  videt, 

Dormi,  Jesu  !  blandule  ! 
Si  non  dermis,  Mater  plorat, 
Inter  fila  cautans  orat, 

Blande,  veni,  somnule. 


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  slumbei',  balmily  ! 


WRITTEN  DURING  A  TEMPORARY  BLIND- 
NESS, IN  THE  YEAR  1799. 

0,  WHAT  a  life  is  the  eye  !  what  a  strange  and  inscrut- 
able essence ! 

Him,  that  is  utterly  blind,  nor  glimpses  the  fire  that 
warms  him  : 


246  ODE  TO  TRANQUILLITY. 

Him  that  never  beheld  the   swelling  breast  of  his 

mother ; 
Him  that  smiled  in  his  gladness  as  a  babe  that  smiles 

in  its  slumber ; 
Even  for  him  it  exists  !      It  moves  and  stirs  in  its 


prison 


Lives  with  a  separate  life  :  and — "  Is  it  a  spirit  1 "  he 

murmurs  : 
"  Sure,  it  has  thoughts  of  its  own,  and  to  see  is  only  a 

language  !  " 


ODE  TO  TRANQUILLITY. 

Tranquillity  !  thou  better  name 

Than  all  the  family  of  Fame  I 

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  stedfast  shore, 
Ere  yet  the  tempest  rose  and  scared  me  with  its  roar. 

Who  late  and  lingerint?  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  behindr 

But  me  thy  gentle  hand  will  lead 

At  morning  through  tlie  accustomed  mead; 

And  in  the  sultry  summer's  heat 

Will  build  me  up  a  mossy  seat ; 


CATULLIAN  HENDECASYLLABLES.  247 

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 ! 


CATULLIAN  HENDECASYLLABLES. 

Heae,  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  placed  it. 
From  the  far  shores  of  the  bleak  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. 


DEJECTION:  AN  ODE. 

Late,  late  yestreen  I  saw  the  new  Moon, 
With  the  old  Moou  in  her  arms  ; 
And  I  fear,  I  fear,  my  Master  dear  ! 
We  shall  have  a  dea'lly  storm. 

-  BALLAD  OF  SIR  PATRICK  SPENCB. 


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  wuids,  that  ply  a  busier  trade 
Than  those  which  mould  you  cloud  in  lazy  flakes, 
Or  the  dull  sobbing  draft,  that  moans  and  i-akes 
Upon  the  strings  of  this  Eolian  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,  uuimpassioued  grief. 
Which  finds  no  natural  outlet,  no  relief, 
In  word,  or  sigh,  or  tear — 


DEJECTION:  AN  ODE.  249 

0  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; 

1  see  them  all  so  excellently  fair, 

I  see,  not  feel  how  beautiful  they  are  ! 


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. 


0  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  h^veless  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 ! 


250  DEJECTION:  AN  ODE. 


0  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  eiSuence,  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. 


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  t\\'ining  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  jiot  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. 


DEJECTION:  AN  ODE. 


251 


Hence,  viper  thoughts,  that  coil  around  my  mind, 

Eeality'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  ravest  with- 
out, 
Bare  craig,  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  woi^se  than  wintry  song, 
The  blossoms,  buds,  and  timorous  leaves  among. 

Thou  Actor,  perfect  in  all  tragic  sounds  ! 
Thou  mighty  Poet,  e'en  to  frenzy  bold  ! 
What  tell'st  thou  now  about  ] 
'Tis  of  the  rushing  of  a  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, 


*  Taim  is  a  small  lake,  generally  if  not  always  applied  to 
the  lakes  up  in  the  mountains,  and  which  are  tlie  feeders  of 
those  in  tlie  valleys.  This  address  to  the  Storm-wind  will 
not  appear  extravagant  to  those  who  have  heard  it  at  night, 
and  iu  a  mountainous  country. 


252  THE  THREE  GRAVES. 

Not  far  from  home,  but  slie  hath  lost  her  way  : 
And  now  moans  low  in  bitter  grief  and  fear, 
And  now  screams  loud,  and  hopes  to  make  her  mother 
hear. 


'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 ! 

0  simple  spirit,  guided  from  above, 
Dear  Lady  !  friend  devoutest  of  my  choice. 
Thus  may  est  thou  ever,  evermore  rejoice. 


THE  THREE  GRAVES. 

A   FRAGMENT  OF   A   SEXTOK'S   TALE. 

[The  Author  has  published  the  following  humble 
fragment,  encouraged  b}^  the  decisive  recommendation 
of  more  than  one  of  our  most  celebrated  living  Poets. 
The  language  was  intended  to  be  dramatic  ;  that  is 
suited  to  the  narrator;  and  the  metre  corresponds  to 
the  homeliness  of  the  diction.  It  is  therefore  pre- 
sented as  the  fragment,  not  of  a  Poem,  but  of  a 
common  Ballad-tale.  Whether  this  is  sufficient  to 
justify  tlie  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  pre- 


THE  THREE  GRAVES.  553 

sented  as  poetry,  and  it  is  in  no  way  connected  with 
the  Author's  judgment  concerning  poetic  diction. 
Its  merits,  if  any,  are  exclusively  psychological.  The 
story  which  must  be  supposed  to  have  been  narrated 
Ln  the  first  and  second  parts  is  as  follows. 

Edward,  a  young  farmer,  meets  at  the  house  of 
Ellen  her  bosom-friend  Maiy,  and  commences  an 
acquaintance,  which  ends  in  a  mutual  attachment. 
With  her  consent,  and  by  the  advice  of  their  common 
friend  Ellen,  he  announces  his  hopes  and  intentions 
to  Mary's  mother,  a  widow-woman  bordering  on  her 
fortieth  year,  and  from  constant  health,  the  posses- 
sion of  a  competent  property,  and  from  having  had 
no  other  children  but  Mary  and  another  daughter 
(the  father  died  in  their  infancy),  retaining  for  the 
greater  pax't,  her  personal  attractions  and  comeliness 
of  appearance;  but  a  woman  of  low  education  and 
violent  temper.  The  answer  which  she  at  once 
returned  to  Edward's  application  was  remarkable — 
"  Well,  Edward  !  you  are  a  handsome  young  fellow, 
and  you  shall  have  my  daughter."  From  this  time 
all  their  wooing  passed  under  the  mother's  eye  ;  and, 
in  fine,  she  became  herself  enamoured  of  her  future 
son-in-law,  and  practised  every  art,  both  of  endear- 
ment and  of  calumny,  to  transfer  his  affections  from 
her  daughter  to  herself.  (The  outlines  of  the  Tale 
are  positive  facts,  and  of  no  very  distant  date,  though 
the  author  has  purposely  altered  the  names  and  the 
scene  of  action,  as  well  as  invented  the  characters  of 
the  parties  and  the  detail  of  the  incidents.)  Edward, 
however,  though  perplexed  by  her  strange  detractions 
from  her  daughter's  good  qualities,  yet  in  the  inno- 
cence of  his  own  heart  still  mistaking  her  increasing 
fondness  for  motherly  affection  ;  she  at  length,  over- 
come by  her  miserable  passion,  after  much  abuse  of 
Mary's  temper  and  mor;J  tendencies,  exclaimed  vrith 
violent  emotion — "0  Edwai'd  !  indeed,  indeed,  she  is 
not  fit  for  you— she  has  not  a  heart  to  love  you  as 
you  deserve.  It  is  I  that  love  you  !  Marry  me, 
Edward  !    and  I  will  this   very   day  settle   all   my 


254  THE  THREE  GRAVE3. 

property  ou  you."  The  Lover's  eyes  were  now 
opened  ;  and  thus  taken  by  surprise,  whether  from 
the  effect  of  the  horror  which  he  felt,  acting  as  it 
were  hysterically  on  his  nervous  system,  or  that  at 
the  first  moment  he  lost  the  sense  of  the  guilt  of 
the  proposal  in  the  feeling  of  its  strangeness  and 
absurdity,  he  flung  her  from  him  and  burst  into  a  fit 
of  laughter.  Irritated  by  this  almost  to  frenzy, 
the  woman  fell  on  her  knees,  and  in  a  loud  voice 
that  approached  to  a  scream,  she  prayed  for  a  curse 
both  on  him  and  on  her  own  child.  Mary  happened 
to  be  in  the  room  directly  above  them,  heai'd  Ed- 
ward's laugh,  and  her  mother's  blasphemous  pi'ayer, 
and  fainted  away.  He,  hearing  the  fall,  ran  up  stairs, 
and  taking  her  in  his  arms,  carried  her  off  to  Ellen's 
home  ;  and  after  some  fi-uitless  attempts  on  her  part 
toward  a  reconciiiatiou  with  her  mother,  she  was 
married  to  him. — And  here  the  thii-d  part  of  the  Tale 
begins. 

I  was  not  led  to  choose  this  story  from  any  par- 
tiality to  tragic,  much  less  to  monstrous  events 
(though  at  the  time  that  I  composed  the  verses, 
somewhat  more  than  twelve  years  ago,  I  was  less 
averse  to  such  subjects  than  at  present),  but  from 
finding  in  it  a  striking  proof  of  the  possible  effect 
on  the  imagination,  from  an  Idea  violeutly  and  sud- 
denly impressed  on  it.  I  had  been  reading  Bryan 
Edwards's  account  of  the  effect  of  the  Oby  witchcraft 
on  the  negroes  in  the  West  Indies,  and  Hearne's 
deeply  interesting  anecdotes  of  similar  workings  on 
the  iniiigination  of  the  Copper  Indians  (those  of  my 
readers  who  have  it  in  their  power  will  be  well  repaid 
for  the  trouble  of  referring  to  those  works  for  the 
passHges  alluded  to)  and  I  conceived  the  design  of 
showing  that  instances  of  this  kind  are  not  peculiar 
to  savage  or  barbarous  tribes,  and  of  illustrating  the 
mode  in  which  the  mind  is  affected  in  these  cases, 
and  the  piogress  and  symptoms  of  the  morbid  action 
on  the  f  nicy  from  the  beginning. 

The  Tale  is  supposed  to  be  narrated  by  an  old 


THE   THREE  GRAVES.  255 

Sexton,  in  a  country  church-yard,  to  a  traveller  whose 
curiosity  had  been  awakened  by  the  appearance  of 
three  graves,  close  by  each  other,  to  two  only  of 
which  there  were  grave-stones.  On  the  first  of  these 
was  the  name,  and  dates,  as  usual  :  on  the  second,  no 
name,  but  only  a  date,  and  the  words,  "The  Mercy  of 
God  is  infinite."] 


1818. 


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  joined  their  hands, 
Her  limbs  did  creep  and  freeze ; 

But  when  they  prayed,  she  thought  she  saw 
Her  mother  on  her  knees. 


256  THE  THREE  GRAVES. 

And  o'er  the  church-path  they  returned — 

I  saw  poor  Mary's  back, 
Ju3t  as  she  stepped  beneath  the  boughs 

Into  the  moasy  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  : 

Ai:id  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  : 

0  Edward  !  you  are  all  to  me, 

1  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. 


THE  THREE   GRAVES.  257 

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  scai'cely  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  ! 


THE  THREE   GRAVES. 

And  then  and  there  the  mother  knelt, 

And  audibly  she  cried — 
"  Oh  !  may  a  clinging  curse  consume 

This  woman  by  my  side  ! 

0  hear  me,  hear  me,  Lord  in  Heaven, 
Although  you  take  my  life — 

0  curse  this  woman,  at  whose  house 
Young  Edward  woo'd  his  wife. 

By  night  and  day,  in  bed  and  bower, 

0  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. 

1  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  IV 

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  11" 


THE   THREE   GRAVES. 

There  was  a  hurry  in  her  looks, 
Her  struggles  she  redoubled  : 

"  It  was  a  wicked  womau's  curse, 
And  why  should  I  be  troubled  1 " 

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; 

"  0  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  froa^  evei'y  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  1 

His  farm  lies  underueath  : 
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  prayei's 

He  loved  them  both  alike  : 
Yea,  both  sweet  names  with  one  sweet  joy 

Upon  his  heart  did  strike  ! 


THE   THREE   GRAVES. 

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  f;ice  and  looked  as  if 

She  saw  some  frightful  thing. 


THE  THREE  GRAVES. 
PART  IV. 

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  1  The  Lord  he  gives, 

The  Lord  he  takes  away  : 
0  Sir  !  the  child  ol'  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  'era  all 

Than  tread  upon  these  three  ? 


THE  THREE   GRAVES.  2 

"  Ay,  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  1  Oh  !  no  ! 

But  she  was  seldom  cheerful ; 
And  Edward  looked  as  if  he  thought 

That  Ellen's  mirth  was  fearful. 

When  by  herself,  she  to  herself 

Must  sing  some  merry  i*hyme; 
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, 


THE   THREE  GRAVES. 

And  gazed  upon  her,  and  at  first 
She  gently  pressed  her  hand  ; 

Then  harder,  till  her  grasp  at  length 

Did  gi'ipe  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, 

"  Oh  !  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  !  0  God  !  my  grief, 

It  is  too  great  to  bear  !  " 


THE  THREE  GRAVES. 

'Twas  such  a  foggy  time  as  makes 

Old  sextons,  Sir  !  like  me, 
Eest  on  their  spades  to  cough  ;  the  spi'ing 

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  mom 

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. 


THE  THREE  GRAVES. 

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  gloiy,  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 

Wei*e  troubling  Edward's  rest; 
But  soon  they  heard  bis  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  hoiTor  and  huge  pain. 

Both  groaned  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  di'eam 

Had  had  time  to  depart, 
'•  0  God,  forgive  me!  (he  exclaimed) 

I  have  torn  out  her  heart." 


MELANCHOLY.  265 

Then  Ellen  shrieked,  and  forthwith  burst 

Into  ungentle  laughter; 
And  Mary  shivered,  where  she  sat, 

And  never  she  smiled  after. 

1805-6. 

Carmen   reliquuni   in  futnrum    tempus    relegatum..      To- 
morrow !  and  To-morrow  !  and  To-morrow ! 


MELANCHOLY.* 

A   FRAGMENT. 


Stretch 'd  on  a  mouldered  Abbey's  broadest  wall, 
Where  ruining  ivies  propped  the  ruius  steep — 

Her  folded  arms  wrapping  her  tattered  pall. 
Had  Melancholy  mus'd  herself  to  sleep. 

The  fern  was  press'd  beneath  her  hair, 
The  dark  green  adder's  tongue  f  was  there  ; 
And  still  as  past  the  flagging  sea-gale  weak. 
The  long  lank  leaf  bowed  fluttering  o'er  her  cheek. 

That  pallid  cheek  was  flushed :  her  eager  look 

Beamed  eloquent  in  slumber  !     Inly  wrought, 
Imperfect  sounds  her  moving  lips  forsook, 
And   her    bent    forehead    worked   with  troubled 
thought. 

Strange  was  the  dream 

1794. 

*  See  Note, 
t  A  botanical   mistake.     The   f)laut  wliich  the  poet  here 
describes  is  called  the  Hart's  Tongue. 


COMPOSED  DURING  ILLNESS  AND  IN 
ABSENCE.* 

Dim  Hour  !  that  sleep'st  on  pillowing  clouds  afar, 
0  rise,  and  yoke  the  turtles  to  thy  car  I 
Bend  o'er  the  traces,  blame  each  lingering  dove, 
And  give  me  to  the  bosom  of  my  Love  ! 
My  gentle  Love  !  caressing  and  carest, 
"With  heaving  heax-t  shall  cradle  me  to  rest ; 
Shed  the  warm  tear-drop  from  her  smiling  eyes, 
Lull  with  fond  woe,  and  med'cine  me  with  sighs ; 
While  finely-flushing  float  her  kisses  meek, 
Like  melted  rubies,  o'er  my  pallid  cheek. 
Chiird  by  the  night,  the  drooping  rose  of  May 
Mourns  the  long  absence  of  the  lovely  Day  : 
Young  Day,  returning  at  her  promised  hour, 
Weeps  o'er  the  sorrows  of  the  fav'rite  flower, — 
Weeps  the  soft  dew,  the  balmy  gale  she  sighs. 
And  darts  a  trembling  lustre  from  her  eyes. 
New  life  and  joy  th'  expanding  flow'ret  feels : 
His  pitying  mistress  mourns,  and  mom-ning  heals  ! 

1796, 


THE  VISIT  OF  THE  GODS. 

IMITATED  FROM  SCHILLER. 

Never,  believe  me, 
Appear  the  Immortals, 
Never  alone : 
Scarce  had  I  welcomed  the  sorrow-beguiler, 
lacchus  !  but  in  came  boy  Cupid  the  smiler ; 

*  See  Note. 


A  CHRISTMAS   CAROL.  267 

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  up- 

buoyance, 
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 ! 

0  give  me  the  nectar  ! 
0  fill  me  the  bowl ! 

Give  him  the  nectar  ! 
Pour  out  for  the  poet, 
Hebe  !  pour  free  ! 
Quicken  his  eyes  with  celestial  dew. 
That  Styx  he  detested  no  more  he  may  view, 
And  like  one  of  us  Gods  may  conceit  him  to  be  ! 
Thanks,  Hebe  !  I  quaff  it  !  lo  Paean,  I  cry  ! 
The  wine  of  the  Immortals 
Forbids  me  to  die  ! 

1798. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 


The  shepherds  went  their  hasty  way, 

And  found  the  lowly  stable-shed 
Where  the  Virgin-Mother  lay  : 

And  now  they  checked  their  eager  tread, 
For  to  the  Babe,  that  at  her  bosom  clung, 
A  mother's  song  the  Virgin-Mother  sung. 


A  CHRISTMAS  CAROL. 


They  told  her  how  a  glorious  light, 

Streaming  from  a  heavenly  throng, 

Around  them  shone,  suspending  night  ! 

While  sweeter  than  a  mother's  song, 

Blest  Angels  heralded  the  Saviour  s  birth. 

Glory  to  God  on  high !  and  Peace  on  Earth. 


She  listened  to  the  tale  divine, 

And  closer  still  the  Babe  she  prest ; 
And  while  she  cried,  the  Babe  is  mine  ! 
The  milk  rushed  faster  to  her  breast : 
Joy  rose  within  her,  like  a  summer's  morn  ; 
Peace,  Peace  on  Earth !  the  Prince  of  Peace  is  born. 


Thou  Mother  of  the  Prince  of  Peace, 

Poor,  simple,  and  of  low  estate  ! 

That  strife  should  vanish,  battle  cease, 

0  why  phould  this  thy  soul  elate] 

Sweet  music's  loudest  note,  the  poet's  story, 

Didst  thou  ne'er  love  to  hear  of  fame  and  glory  ? 


And  is  not  War  a  youthful  king, 

A  stately  hero  clad  in  mail  ] 
Beneath  his  footsteps  laurels  spring  ; 
Him  Earth's  majestic  mooarchs  hail 
Their  friend,  their  playmate  !  and  his  bold  bright  eye 
Compels  the  maiden's  love-confessing  sigh. 


"  Tell  this  in  some  more  courtly  scene, 

To  maids  and  youths  in  robes  of  state  ! 
I  am  a  woman  poor  and  mean. 
And  therefore  is  my  soul  elate. 
War  is  a  ruffian,  all  with  guilt  defiled. 
That  from  the  aged  father  tears  his  child  1 


LINES  TO  W.  Jm 


"  A  murderous  fiend,  by  fiends  adored, 
He  kills  the  sire  and  starves  the  son  ; 
The  husband  kills,  and  from  her  board 
Steals  all  his  widow's  toil  had  won  ; 
Plunders  God's  world  of  beauty  ;  rends  away 
All  safety  from  the  night,  all  comfort  from  the  day. 


"  Then  wisely  is  my  soul  elate, 

That  strife  should  vanish,  battle  cease  : 
I'm  poor  and  of  a  low  estate, 

The  Mother  of  the  Prince  of  Peace. 
Joy  rises  in  me,  like  a  summer's  morn  : 
Peace,  Peace  on  Earth  !  the  Prince  of  Peace  is  born. 

1799. 


LINES  TO  W.  L. 

WHILE   HE   SANG   A  SOXG  TO   PURCELL'S  MUSIC. 

While  my  young  cheek  retains  its  healthful  hues, 

And  I  have  many  friends  who  hold  me  dear ; 

L !  metbinks,  I  would  not  often  bear 

Such  melodies  as  thine,  lest  I  should  lose 
All  memory  of  the  wrongs  and  sore  distress, 

For  which  my  miserable  bretbren  weep  ! 

But  should  uncomforted  misfortunes  steep 
My  daily  bread  in  tears  and  bitterness  ; 
And  if  at  death's  drf  ad  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  pa^s  the  cup  of  anguisli  by. 

Mix  with  the  blest,  nor  know  that  I  had  died  ! 

ISOO. 


270 


THE  KNIGHT'S  TOMB. 

"Where  is  the  grave  of  Sir  Artliur  O'Kellyn  ] 

Where  may  tlie  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  roared  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. 

1802. 


METRICAL  FEET.  LESSON  FOR  A  BOY. 

Trochee  trips  from  long  to  short ; 

From  long  to  long  in  solemn  sort 

Slow  Spondee  stalks  ;  strong  fJbt !  yet  ill  able 

Ever  to  come  up  with  Dactyl  trij^yllablS. 

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, 

Ampliibracbys  hastes  with  a  stately  stride; — 

First  and  last  behig  long,  middle  short,  Amphimacer 

Strikes  his  thundering  ho"bfs  like  a  prolid  high  brSd 

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. 


A   CHILD'S  EVENING  PRAYER.  271 

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.  Cole- 

EIDGE. 

1S07. 


A  CHILD'S  EVENING  PRAYER. 

Ere  on  my  bed  my  limbs  I  lay, 
God  grant  me  grace  my  prayers  to  say  : 
O  God  !  pi'eserve  my  mother  dear 
In  strength  and  health  for  many  a  year; 
And,  0  !  preserve  my  father  too, 
And  may  I  pay  him  reverence  due  ; 
And  may  I  my  best  thoughts  employ 
To  be  my  parents'  hope  and  joy; 
And,  0  !  presei-ve  my  brothers  both 
From  evil  doings  and  from  sloth. 
And  may  we  always  love  each  other, 
Our  friends,  our  father,  and  our  mother: 
And  still,  0  Lord,  to  me  impart 
An  innocent  and  grateful  heart. 
That  after  my  great  sleep  I  may 
Awake  to  thy  eternal  day ! 

Amen. 


272 


COMPLAINT. 


How  seldom,  Friend  !  a  good  great  man  inherits 
Honour  or  wealth,  with  all  bis  worth  and  pains  ! 
It  sounds  like  stories  from  the  land  of  spirits, 
If  any  man  obtain  that  wliich  he  merits, 
Or  any  merit  that  which  he  obtains. 


KEPROOF. 


For  shame,  dear  Friend  !  renounce  this  canting  strain 

What  wouldst  thou  have  a  good  great  man  obtain  ? 

Place — titles — salary — a  gilded  chain — 

Or  throne  of  corses  -which  his  sword  hath  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. 

1809. 


PSYCHE. 

The  butterfly  the  ancient  Grecians  made 
The  soul's  fair  emblem,  and  its  only  name — 
But  of  the  soul,  escaped  the  slavish  trade 
Of  mortal  life  ! — For  in  this  earthly  frame 
Ours  is  the  reptile's  lot.  much  toil,  much  blame, 
Manifold  motions  makiug  little  speed. 
And  to  deform  and  kill  the  things  whereon  we  feed. 

1808. 


AN  ODE  TO   THE   RAIN  273 


AN  ODE  TO  THE  RAIK 

COMPOSED  BEFORE  DAYLIGHT,  ON  THE  MORNING  APPOINTED 
FOR  THE  DEPARTURE  OF  A  VERT  WORTHY,  BUT  NOT  VERT 
PLEASANT  VISITOR,  WHOM  IT  WAS  FEARED  THE  RAIN 
MIGHT  DETAIN. 

I  KNOW  it  is  dark ;  and  tliough  I  have  lain, 
Awake,  as  I  guess,  an  hour  or  twain, 
I  have  not  once  opened  the  lids  of  my  eyes, 
But  I  lie  in  the  dark,  as  a  blind  man  lies. 

0  Rain  !  that  I  lie  listening  to, 
You're  but  a  doleful  sound  at  laest  : 

1  owe  you  little  thanks,  'tis  true, 
For  breaking  thus  my  needful  rest  ! 
Yet  if,  as  soon  as  it  is  light, 

0  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  ! 
0  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  limped  on  through  this  vale  of  tears, 
Since  body  of  mine,  and  rainy  weather, 
Have  lived  on  easy  terms  togethex'. 
Yet  if,  as  soon  as  it  is  light, 
0  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 — 


274  AN  ODE  TO  THE  EAIN. 

I'll  nothing  speak  of  you  but  well. 
But  only  now  for  this  one  day. 
Do  go,  dear  Rain  !  do  go  away ! 

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  bow  very  good  you  are. — 
What  then  ]  sometimes  it  must  be  fair  ! 
And  if  sometimes,  why  not  to-day  ] 
Do  gOj  dear  Rain  !  do  go  away  ! 

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 — 
With  three  dear  friends  !  in  truth,  we  groan- 
Impatiently  to  be  alone. 
We  three,  you  mark  !  and  not  one  more  1 
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  Horners — 
In  short,  as  soon  as  it  is  day. 
Do  go,  dear  Rain  !  do  go  away. 

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  tliough  you  stayed  a  week  or  more, 
Were  ten  times  duller  than  before  ; 


A  DAY  DREAM.  ;75 

Yet  witli  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, 

1809. 


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. 
0  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  to-morrow. 

'Twas  dfvy  !     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  fallen,  and  on  the  marge  remounting 
Shines  and  its  shadow  shines,  fit  stars  for  our  sweet 
fountain, 

0  ever — ever  be  thou  blest  ! 

For  dearly,  Asra,  love  I  thee  ! 
This  brooding  warmth  across  my  breast, 

This  depth  of  tranquil  bliss — ah  me! 


276  THE   PAINS   OF  SLEEP. 

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  ! 

1814-16. 


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  imblest. 

Since  in  me,  round  me,  every  where 

Eternal  strength  and  wisdom  are. 

*  See  Note. 


THE  PAINS  OF  SLEEP.  277 

But  yester-night  I  prayed  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  intolerablo  wrong, 
And  whom  I  scorned,  those  only  strong  ! 
Thirst  of  revenge,  the  powerless  will 
Still  bafiled,  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  seemed  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  commg  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  iiaving  thus  by  tears  subdued 
My  anguish  to  a  milder  mood, 
Such  punishments,  I  said,  were  due 
To  natures  deepHest  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  whei'efore,  wherefore  fall  on  me  ? 
To  be  beloved  is  all  I  need, 
And  whom  I  love,  I  love  indeed. 


278 


A  HYMN.* 

My  Maker  !  of  thy  power  the  trace 
In  every  creature's  form  and  face 

The  wond'ring  soul  surveys  : 
Thy  wisdom,  infinite  above 
Seraphic  thought,  a  Father's  love 

As  infinite  displays  ! 

From  all  that  meets  or  eye  or  ear, 
There  falls  a  genial  holy  fear 
Which,  like  the  heavy  dew  of  morn, 
Refreshes  while  it  bows  the  heart  forlorn  ! 

Great  God  !  thy  works  how  wondrous  fair  ! 
Yet  sinful  man  didst  thou  declare 

The  whole  Earth's  voice  and  mind  ! 
Loi'd,  ev'n  as  Thou  all-present  art, 
O  may  we  still  with  heedful  heart 

Thy  presence  know  and  find  ! 
Then,  come,  what  will,  of  weal  or  woe, 
Joy's  bosom-spring  shall  steady  flow; 
For  though  'tis  Heaven  Thyself  to  see, 
Where  but  thy  Shadoto  falls,  Grief  cannot  be  ! — 


HUMAN  LIFE, 

ON   THE  DENIAL   OF  IMMORTALITY. 


If  dead,  we  cease  to  be  ;  if  total  gloom 

Swallow  up  life's  brief  flash  for  aj'e,  we  fare 

As  summor-gusts,  of  sudden  birth  and  doom. 
Whose  sound  and  motion  not  alone  declare, 
*  See  Note. 


SEPARATION.  27 

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 ; 

0  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  ci-eate. 
And  to  repay  the  other  !     AVhy  rejoices 

Thy  heart  with  hollow  joy  for  hollow  good  1 

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  thmg  as  thou  feel'st  warm  or  cold  1 
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  can'st  have  none ; 
Thy  being's  being  is  a  contradiction. 


SEPARATION* 


A  SWORDED  man  whose  trade  is  blood, 
In  grief,  in  anger,  and  in  fear, 

Thro'  jungle,  swamp,  and  torrent  flood, 
I  seek  the  wealth  you  hold  so  dear  ! 

The  dazzling  charm  of  outward  form, 
The  power  of  gold,  the  pride  of  birth. 

Have  taken  Woman's  heart  by  storm — 
Usurp'd  the  place  of  inward  worth. 

*  See  Note. 


280  OX  TAKING  LEAVE  OF  ,  1817. 

Is  not  true  Love  of  higher  price 

Than  outward  Form,  the'  fair  to  see, 

Wealth's  glittering  fairy-dome  of  ice, 
Or  echo  of  proud  ancestry  ? — 

0  !  Asra,  Asra  !  couldst  thou  see 

Into  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 
There's  such  a  mine  of  Love  for  thee. 

As  almost  might  supply  desert  ! 

(This  separation  is,  alas  ! 

Too  great  a  punishment  to  bear ; 
0  !  take  my  life,  or  let  me  pass 

That  life,  that  happy  life,  with  her  !) 

The  perils,  erst  with  steadfast  eye 
Encounter'd,  now  I  shrink  to  see — 

Oh  !  I  have  heart  enough  to  die — 
Not  half  enough  to  part  from  Thee  ! 

1816. 


ON  TAKING  LEAVE  OF  ,  1817.* 

To  know,  to  esteem,  to  love — and  then  to  part, 

Makes  up  life's  tale  to  many  a  feeling  heart ! 

0  for  some  dear  abiding-place  of  Love, 

O'er  Avhich  my  spirit,  like  the  mother  dove, 

Might  brood  with  warming  wings  ! — 0  fair  as  kind. 

Were  but  one  sisterhood  with  you  combined, 

(Your  very  image  they  in  shape  and  mind) 

Far  rather  would  I  sit  in  solitude, 

The  forms  of  memory  all  my  mental  food. 

And  dream  of  you,  sweet  sisters,  (ah,  not  mine  !) 

And  only  dream  of  you  (ah  dream  and  pine  !) 

Than  have  the  presence,  and  partake  the  pride, 

And  shine  in  the  eye  of  all  the  world  beside  ! 

*  See  Note. 


POEMS  WEITTEN  IN   LATEE   LIEE. 

In  many  ways  doth  the  full  heart  reveal 

The  presence  of  the  love  it  would  conceal ; 

But  in  far  more  th'  estranged  heart  lets  know 

The  absence  of  the  love,  which  yet  it  fain  would  show. 


To  be  a  Prodigal's  favourite — then,  worse  truth, 
A  Miser's  Pensioner — behold  our  lot ! 
O  Man  !  that  from  tny  iiiir  and  shining  youth 
Age  might  but  take  the  things  Youth  needed  not. 

WoEDSwoRTH,  The  Small  Celandine. 


288 


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  ! 
WTien  I  was  young  ] — Ah,  woful  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,  iinknown  of  yore, 
On  winding  lakes  and  livers  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  liv'd  in't  together. 

Flowers  are  lovely  ;   Love  is  flower-like  ; 
Friendship  is  a  sheltering  tree ; 
0  !  the  joys,  that  came  down  shower-like, 
Of  Friendship,  Love,  and  Liberty, 

Ere  I  was  old. 
Ere  I  was  old  1    Ah  woful  Ere, 
Which  tells  me,  Youth's  no  longer  here  ! 
0  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 ! 

*  See  Note. 


THE  EXCHANGE. 

What  strange  disguise  hast  now  put  on, 
To  make  believe,  that  Thou  ai-t  gone  ? 
I  see  these  locks  in  silvery  slips, 
This  drooping  gait,  this  altered  size : 
But  springtide  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. 


THE  EXCHANGE. 


We  pledged  our  hearts,  my  love  and  I, — 
I  in  my  arms  the  maiden  clasping ; 

I  could  not  tell  the  reason  why, 
But,  oh  !  I  trembled  like  an  aspen. 

Her  father's  love  she  bade  me  gain ; 

I  went,  and  shook  like  any  reed  ! 
I  strove  to  act  the  man — in  vain  ! 

We  had  exchanged  our  heai'ts  indeed. 


285 


THE  ALIENATED  MISTRESS : 

a  madrigal, 
(from  an  unfinished  melodrama.) 

Lady.  If  Love  be  dead,  (and  you  aver  it  !) 
Tell  me,  Bard  !  where  Love  lies  buried. 

Poet.  Love  lies  buried  where  'twas  born  : 
Ah,  faithless  ISTymph !  think  it  no  scorn 
If  in  my  fancy  I  pz*esume 
To  name  thy  bosom  poor  Love's  Tomb. 
And  on  that  Tomb  to  read  the  line, — 
"  Here  lies  a  Love  that  once  was  mine, 
But  took  a  chill,  as  I  divine, 
And  died  at  length  of  a  decline." 


THE  SUICIDE'S  ARGUMENT. 

Ere  the  birth  of  my  life,  if  I  wish'd  it  or  no. 
No  question  was  ask'd  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  fir.st,  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  ! 


TO  A  LADY. 

'Tis  not  the  lily  brow  I  prize, 
Nor  roseate  cheeks  nor  sunny  eyes, 

Enough  of  lilies  and  of  roses  ! 
A  thousand  fold  more  dear  to  me 
The  look  that  gentle  Love  discloses, — 

That  Look  ■which  Love  alone  can  see. 


SANCTI  DOMINICI  PALLIUM; 

A   DIALOGUE  BETWEEK  POET   AND   FRIEND, 

*OUND   WEITTEN   ON   THE   BLANK   LEAF   AT    THE  BEGINNING  OF 
BUTLEK'S  book   of   THE   CHURCH. 


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  ! 

made  up  of  impudence  and  trick, 

With  cloven  tongue  prepared  to  hiss  and  lick, 
Rome's  brazen  serpent — boldly  dai'es  discuss 
The  roasting  of  thy  heart,  0  brave  John  Huss  I 
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 — 


SANCTI  DOMINICl  PALLIUM.  287 

(Pleased  with  the  guilt,  yet  envy-stung  at  heart 
To  stand  outmaster'd  in  his  own  black  art  !) 
Yet 

FRIEND. 

Enough  of !  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 

POET,  (aside) 
(Kome's  smooth  go-between  !) 


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  beck'ning  hands  the  mild  Caduceus  wield  ? 


What  think  I  now  1  Ev'n  what  I  thought  before  ; — 

What boasts  tho' may  deplore, 

Still  I  repeat,  words  lead  me  not  astray 
When  the  shown  feeling  points  a  different  way. 

Smooth can  say  grace  at  slander's  feast. 

And  bless  each  haut-gout  cook'd  by  monk  or  priest ; 

Leaves  the  full  lie  on '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  ^ 


288  LINES. 

So  much  for  you,  my  Friend  !  who  own  a  Church, 
And  would  not  leave  your  mother  in  the  lurch  ! 
But  when  a  Libei'al  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  Briudle  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  whiskered  jaws  ! 


LINES 

SUGGESTED   BY   THE  LAST   WORDS  OF   BERENGARIUS, 
03.    ANNO   DOM.    10S8. 

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  threaten'd 

death 
And  dungeon  torture  made  thy  band  and  breath 


MOLES.  289 

Inconstant  to  the  truth  within  thy  heart  1 

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  ti-ue  ! 

Ye,  who  secure  'mid  trophies  not  your  own, 
Judge  him  who  won  them  when  he  stood  alone, 
And  proudly  talk  of  recreant  Bereugare — 
0  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  ! 
ISTo  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,  shall  we  decry 
The  spots  and  struggles  of  the  timid  dawn  ; 
Lest  so  we  tempt  th'  approaching  noon  to  scorn 
The  mists  and  painted  vapours  of  our  mom. 


MOLES. 

— Thet  shrink  in,  as  Moles 
(Nature's  mute  monks,  live  mandrakes  of  the  grounds 
Creep  back  from  Light — then  listen  for  its  sound  ;^ 
See  but  to  dread,  and  dread  they  know  not  why — 
The  natural  alien  of  their  negative  eye. 


290 


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  1  they  only  mean 

Their  mistress  has  lain  down  to  sleep, 
And  can't  just  then  be  seen. 


LOVE  AND  FRIENDSHIP  OPPOSITE. 

Her  attachment  may  differ  from  yours  in  degree, 

Pi'ovided  they  are  both  of  one  kind  ; 
But  Friendship  how  tender  so  ever  it  be 

Gives  no  accord  to  Love,  however  refined. 

Love,  that   meets   not    with   Love,  its    true    nature 
revealing, 

Grows  ashamed  of  itself,  and  demurs  : 
If  you  cannot  lift  hers  up  to  your  state  of  feeling, 

You  must  lower  down  your  state  to  hers. 


WORK  WITHOUT  HOPE. 

LINES  COMPOSED   21ST  FEBRUARY,   1827. 

All  ITature  seems  at  work.     Slugs  leave  their  lair — 
The  bees  are  stirring — birds  are  ou  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,  0  ye  amaranths  !  bloom  for  whom  ye  may. 
For  me  ye  bloom  not !     Glide,  rich  streams,  away  ! 
With  lips  unbrighteu'd,  wreathless  brow,  I  stroll : 
And  would  you  learn  the  spells  that  drowse  my  soul  1 
Work  without  hope  draws  nectar  in  a  sieve, 
And  hope  without  an  object  cannot  live. 


DUTY  SURVIVING  SELF-LOVE. 

THE  ONLY  SURE  FRIEND  OP  DECLINING  LIFE.      A   SOLILOQI'Y. 

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  tliou  feel  a  just  regret, 

Hadst  thou  withheld  thy  love  or  hid  thy  light 

In  selfish  forethought  of  neglect  and  slight. 

0  wiselier  then,  from  feeble  yearnings  freed, 

While,  and  on  whom,  thou  may'st — shine  on!  nor  heed 


292  PHANTOM  OB  FACT? 

Whether  the  object  by  reflected  light 
Return  thy  i-adiance  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. 


SONG. 

Though  veiled  in  spires  of  myrtle  wreath, 
Love  is  a  sword  that  cuts  its  sheath, 
And  thro'  the  clefts  itself  has  made 
We  spy  the  flashes  of  the  Blade  ! 

But  thro'  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. 


PHANTOM   OR  FACT? 

A   DIALOGUE   IN   VERSE, 


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  ! 


TO  A  LADY.  293 

'Twas  all  another,  feature,  look,  and  frame, 
And  still,  methought,  I  knew,  it  was  the  same  ! 


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. 


Call  it  a  moment's  work  (and  such  it  seems) 
This  tale's  a  fragment  from  the  life  of  dreams 
But  say,  that  years  matured  the  silent  strife, 
And  'tis  a  record  from  the  dream  of  life. 


TO  A  LADY. 

OFFENDED  BY  A  SPORTIVE  OBSERVATION  THAT   WOMEN  HAVB 
NO  SOULS. 

Nat,  deai-est  Anna  !  why  so  gi-ave  ? 

I  said,  you  had  no  soul,  'tis  true  ! 
For  what  you  are,  you  cannot  have  : 

'Tis  I,  that  have  one  since  I  first  had  you ! 

I  HAVE  heard  of  reasons  manifold 

Why  Love  must  needs  be  blind. 
But  this  the  best  of  all  I  hold — 

His  eyes  are  in  his  mind. 

What  outward  form  and  feature  are 

He  guesseth  but  in  part ; 
But  what  within  is  good  and  fair 

He  seeth  with  the  heart. 


294 


"THE  LOVE  THAT  MAKETH  NOT  ASHAMED.' 

Where  true  Love  burns  Desii-e  is  Love's  pure  flame  , 

It  is  the  reflex  of  our  eai-tlily  frame, 

That  takes  its  meaning  from  the  nobler  part, 

And  but  translates  the  language  of  the  heart. 


CONSTANCY  TO  AN  IDEAL  OBJECT. 

Since  all  that  beat  about  in  Nature's  range, 
Or  veer  or  vanish  ;  why  shouldst  thou  remain 
The  only  constant  in  a  world  of  cliange, 

0  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-enkindlmg  breath, 
Till  when,  like  strangers  shelt'i-ing  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, 

1  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, 
Lull'd  by  the  thrush  and  waken'd  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. 


FANCY  IN  NUBIBUS.  295 

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  ! 


FANCY  IN  NUBIBUS. 

OR  THE  POET  IN  THE  CLODDS. 


0  !  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  thx-ough  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. 

*  This  phenomenon,  which  the  author  has  himself  expe- 
rienced, and  of  which  the  reader  may  find  a  description  in 
one  of  the  earlier  vohimes  of  the  Manchester  Philosophical 
Transactions,  is  ap))lied  figurativelj'  in  the  following  passage 
of  the  Aids  to  Reflection. 

"Pindar's  fine  remark  respecting  the  different  effects  of 
music,  on  different  characters,  liolds  equally  true  of  Genius ; 
as  many  as  are  not  delighted  by  it  are  disturbed,  perplexed, 
irritated.  The  beholder  either  recognises  it  as  a  projected 
form  of  his  own  being,  that  moves  before  him  with  a  glory 
round  his  head,  or  recoils  from  it  as  a  spectre." — Aids  to  He- 
fliction,  p.  220. 


296 


THE  BLOSSOMING  OF  THE   SOLITARY 
DATE-TREE. 

A  LAMENT. 

I  SEEM  to  have  an  iudistinct  recollection  of  having 
read  eitlier  in  one  of  the  ponderous  tomes  of  George 
of  Venice,  or  in  some  other  compilation  from  the  un- 
inspired Hebrew  writers,  an  apologue  or  Rabbinical 
tradition  to  the  following  purpose  : 

While  our  first  parents  stood  before  their  offended 
Maker,  and  the  last  words  of  the  sentence  were  yet 
sounding  in  Adam's  ear,  the  guileful  false  serpent,  a 
counterfeit  and  a  usurper  from  the  beginning,  pre- 
sumptuously took  on  himself  the  chai'acter  of  advocate 
or  mediator,  and  pretending  to  intercede  for  Adam, 
exclaimed :  "  ISTay,  Lord,  in  thy  j  ustice,  not  so  !  for 
the  man  Avas  the  least  in  fault.  Rather  let  the 
Woman  return  at  once  to  the  dust,  and  let  Adam 
remain  in  this  thy  Paradise."  And  the  word  of  the 
Most  High  answered  Satan  :  "Tlie  tender  mercies  of 
the  wicked  are  cruel.  Treacherotis  Fiend!  if  with 
guilt  like  thine,  it  had  been  possible  for  thee  to  have 
the  heart  of  a  Man,  and  to  feel  the  yearning  of  a 
human  soul  for  its  counterpart,  the  sentence,  which 
thou  now  counsellest,  should  have  been  inflicted  on 
thyself." 

The  title  of  the  following  poem  was  suggested  by  a 
fact  mentioned  by  Linnseus,  of  a  date-tree  in  a  noble- 
man's garden  wliich  year  after  year  had  put  forth  a 
full  show  of  blossoms,  but  never  produced  fruit,  till  a 
branch  from  another  date-tree  had  been  conveyed  from 
a  distance  of  some  hundred  leagues.  The  first  leaf  of 
the  MS.  from  which  the  poem  has  been  transcribed, 
and  which  contained  the  two  or  three  introductory 


BLOSSOMIXG  OF  THE  SOLITAET  DATE-TREE.     297 

stanzas,  is  wanting ;  and  the  author  has  in  vain  taxed 
his  memory  to  repair  the  loss.  But  a  rude  draught 
of  the  poem  contains  the  substance  of  the  stanzas, 
and  the  reader  is  requested  to  receive  it  as  the  sub- 
stitute. It  is  not  impossible,  that  some  congenial 
spirit,  whose  years  do  not  exceed  those  of  the  author, 
at  the  time  the  poem  was  written,  may  find  a  pleasure 
in  restoring  the  Lament  to  its  original  integrity  by  a 
reduction  of  the  thoughts  to  the  requisite  metre. 


Beneath  the  blaze  of  a  ti^opical  sun  the  mountain 
peaks  are  the  thrones  of  frost,  through  the  absence  of 
objects  to  reflect  the  rays.  "  What  no  one  with  us 
shares,  seems  scarce  our  own."   The  presence  of  a  one, 

The  best  beloved,  who  loveth  me  the  best, 

is  for  the  heart,  what  the  supporting  air  from  within 
is  for  the  hollow  globe  with  its  suspended  car. 
Deprive  it  of  this,  and  all  without,  that  would  have 
buoyed  it  aloft  even  to  the  seat  of  the  gods,  becomes 
a  burthen  and  crushes  it  into  flatness. 


The  finer  the  sense  for  the  beautiful  and  the  lovely, 
and  the  fairer  and  lovelier  the  object  presented  to 
the  sense  ;  the  moi-e  exquisite  the  individual's  capa- 
city of  joy,  and  the  more  ample  his  means  and 
opportunities  of  enjoyment,  the  more  heavily  will  he 
feel  the  ache  of  solitariness,  the  more  unsubstantial 
becomes  the  feast  spread  around  him.  What  matters 
it,  whether  in  fact  the  viands  and  the  ministering 
graces  are  shadowy  or  real,  to  him  who  has  not  hand 
to  grasp  nor  arms  to  embrace  them  ? 


Imngination  ;  honourable  aims  ; 

Free  commune  with  the  choir  that  cannot  die ; 

Science  and  song ;  delight  in  little  things, 


298     BLOSSOMING  OF  THE  SOLITARY  DATE-TREE. 

The  buoyant  child  surviving  in  the  man; 
Fields,  forests,  ancient  mountains,  ocean,  sky, 
With  all  their  voices — 0  dare  I  accuse 
My  earthly  lot  as  guilty  of  my  spleeu, 
Or  call  my  destiny  niggard  !     0  no  !  no  ! 
It  is  her  largeness,  and  her  overflow, 
Which  being  incomplete,  disquieteth  me  so  ! 


For  never  touch  of  gladness  stirs  my  heart. 

But  tim'rously  beginning  to  rejoice 

Like  a  blind  Arab,  that  from  sleep  doth  start 

In  lonesome  tent,  I  listen  for  thy  voice. 

Beloved  !  'tis  not  thine  :  thou  art  not  there  ! 

Then  melts  the  bubble  into  idle  air, 

And  wishing  without  hope  I  restlessly  despair. 


The  mother  with  anticipated  glee 

Smiles  o'er  the  child,  that,  standing  by  her  chair 

And  flatt'ning  its  round  cheek  upon  her  knee. 

Looks  up,  and  doth  its  rosy  lips  prepare  | 

To  mock  the  coming  sounds.     At  that  sweet  sight  1 

She  hears  her  own  voice  with  a  new  delight ;  j 

And  if  the  babe  perchance  should  lisp  the  notes  aright, 


Then  is  she  tenfold  gladder  than  before  ! 
But  should  disease  or  chance  the  darling  take. 
What  then  avail  those  songs,  which  sweet  of  yore 
Were  only  sweet  for  their  sweet  echo's  sake  1 
Dear  maid  !  no  prattler  at  a  mother's  knee 
Was  e'er  so  dearly  prized  as  I  prize  thee  : 
Why  was  I  made  for  Love  and  Love  denied  to  me  ] 


THE  TWO  FOUNTS. 


STANZAS  ADDRESSED  TO  A  LADY  ON  HER  RECOVERY  WITH 
UNBLEMISHED  LOOKS,  FROM  A  SEVERE  ATTACK  OF  PAIN. 

'TwAS  my  last  vcaking  thought,  how  it  could  be 
That  thou,  sweet  friend,  such  anguish  shouldst  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  utter'd  praise  like  one  who  wish'd  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  turn'd  inward,  but  still  issue  thence 
Unconquei-'d  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. 


300  LIMBO. 

Ev'n  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  had'st  indeed  been  present  to  my  eyes, 

0  sweet,  sweet  sufferer ;  if  the  case  be  so, 

1  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  ! 


LIMBO. 

'Tis  a  strange  place,  this  Limbo  ! — not  a  Place, 
Yet  name  it  so  ; — where  Time  and  weaiy  Space 
Fettered  from  flight,  with  night-mare  sense  of  fleeing 
Sti'ive  for  their  last  crepuscular  half-beiug ; — 


COLOGNE.  SOI 

Lank  Space,  and  scytheless  Time  with  branny  hands, 

BaiTsn  and  soundless  as  the  measurlDg  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  foretop  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  hoi-ror  of  blank  ISTaught-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  ! 


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  defined,  and  several  stinks  ! 

Ye  Nymphs  that  reign  o'er  sewers  and  sinks, 

The  river  Pihine,  it  is  well  known, 

Doth  wash  your  city  of  Cologne  ; 

But  tell  me,  Nymphs  !  what  power  divine 

Shall  henceforth  wash  the  river  Rhine  ? 


ON  MY  JOYFUL  DEPARTURE  FROM  THE 
SAME  CITY. 

As  I  am  rhymer, 
And  now  at  least  a  merry  one, 

Mr.  Mum's  Rudesheimer 

And  the  chm-ch  of  St.  Geryon 

Are  the  two  things  alone 

That  deserve  to  be  known 
In  the  body  and  soul-stinking  town  of  Cologne. 


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  Intercepter — 
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  th'  eternities  in  Heaven  ! 
Sole  interdict  of  all-bedewing  prayer, 
The  all-compassionate  ! 
Save  to  the  Lampads  Seven, 
Reveal'd  to  none  of  all  th'  Angelic  State, 
Save  to  the  Lampads  Seven, 
That  watch  the  throne  of  Heaven  ! 


NAMES. 

I  ASKED  my  fair  one  happy  day, 
"What  I  should  call  her  in  my  lay ; 

By  what  sweet  name  from  Rome  or  Greece  j 
Lalage,  ISTecera,  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." 


LINES 

TO   A   COMIC   AUTHOR,    ON   AN  ABUSDVE  REVIEW. 

What    though    the   chilly  wide-mouth'd    quacking 

chorus 
From  the  rank  swamps  of  murk  Review-land  croak  : 
So  was  it,  neighbour,  in  the  times  before  us. 
When  Momus,  throwing  on  his  Attic  cloak, 
Romped  with  the  Graces ;  and  each  tickled  Muse 
(That  Turk,  Dan  Phoebus,  whom  bards  call  divine, 
Was  married  to — at  least,  he  kept — all  nine) 
Fled,  but  still  with  reverted  faces  ran  ; 
Yet,  somewhat  the  broad  freedoms  to  excuse. 
They  had  allur'd  the  audacious  Greek  to  use, 
Swore  they  mistook  him  for  their  own  good  man. 
This  Momus — Aristoplianes  on  earth 
Men  called  him — maugre  all  his  wit  and  worth 


THE  IMPROVISATORE. 


Was  eroakecl  and  gabbled  at.    How,  then,  should  you, 
Or  I,  friend,  hope  to  'scape  the  skulking  crew  1 
'Ko  !  laugh,  and  say  aloud,  in  tones  of  glee, 
'*  I  hate  the  quacking  tribe,  and  they  hate  me  ! " 


THE  IMPROVISATOEE; 

OR,   "JOHN  ANDERSON,  MY  JO,  JOHN." 

Scene — A  spacious  drawing-room,  with  music-room  adjoining. 

Katharine.  What  are  the  words  ? 

Eliza.  Ask  our  friend,  the  Improvisatore ;  here  he 
comes.     Kate  has  a  favor  to  ask  of  you,  Sir;   it  is 

that  you  will  repeat  the  ballad  that  Mr. sang 

so  sweetly. 

triend.  It  is  in  Moore's  Irish  Melodies ;  but  I  do 
not  recollect  the  words  distinctly.  The  moral  of 
them,  however,  I  take  to  be  this  : — 

Love  would  remain  the  same  if  true, 
When  we  were  neither  young  nor  new  ; 
Tea,  and  in  all  within  the  will  that  came, 
By  the  same  proofs  would  show  itself  the  same. 

Eliz.  What  are  the  lines  you  repeated  from  Beau- 
mont and  Fletcher,  which  my  mother  admired  so 
much  ?  It  begins  with  something  about  two  vines  so 
close  that  their  tendrils  intermingle. 

Fri.  You  mean  Charles'  speech,  to  Angelina,  in 
"  The  Elder  Brother." 


We'll  live  together,  like  two  neighbour  vines, 
Circling  our  souls  and  loves  in  one  another  ! 
We'll  spring  together,  and  we'll  bear  one  fruit  ; 
One  joy  shall  make  us  smile,  and  one  grief  mourn  ; 
One  age  go  with  us,  and  one  hour  of  death 
Shall  close  our  eyes,  and  one  grave  make  us  happy. 

Kath.  A  precious  boon,  that  would  go  far  to  recon- 


THE  IMPEOVISATORE.  305 

cile  one  to  old  age — this  love — if  true  !  But  is  there 
any  such  true  love  1 

Fri.  I  hope  so. 

Kath.  But  do  you  believe  it  1 

Eliz.  {eagerly).  I  am  sure  he  does. 

Fri.  From  a  man  turned  of  fifty,  Katharine,  I 
imagine,  expects  a  less  confident  answer. 

Katk.  A  more  sincere  one,  perhaps. 

Fri.  Even  though  he  should  have  obtained  the 
nick-name  of  Improvisatore,  by  perpetrating  charades 
and  extempore  verses  at  Christmas  times  ? 

Eliz.  Nay,  but  be  serious. 

Fri.  Serious  !  Doubtless.  A  grave  pei'sonage  of 
my  years  giving  a  love-lecture  to  two  young  ladies, 
cannot  well  be  otherwise.  The  difficulty,  I  suspect, 
would  be  for  them  to  remain  so.  It  will  be  asked 
whether  I  am  not  the  "elderly  gentleman"  who  sate 
"  despairing  beside  a  clear  stream,"  with  a  willow  for 
his  wig-block. 

Eliz.  Say  another  word,  and  we  will  call  it  down- 
right affectation. 

Kath.  No  !  we  will  be  affronted,  drop  a  courtesy, 
and  ask  pardon  for  our  presumption  in  expecting  that 

Mr. would  waste  his  sense  on  two  insignificant 

girls. 

Fri.  Well,  well,  I  will  be  serious.  Hem  !  Now 
then  commences  the  discourse ;  Mr.  Moore's  song 
being  the  text.  Love,  as  distiuguished  from  Friend- 
ship, on  the  one  hand,  and  from  the  passion  that  too 
often  usurps  its  name,  on  the  other — 

Lucius  {Elizas  brother,  who  had  just  joined  the  trio, 
in  a  whisper  to  the  Friend).  But  is  not  Love  the  union 
of  both] 

Fri.  [aside  to  Lucius).  He  never  loved  who  thinks 
so. 

Eliz.  Brother,  we  don't  want  you,  There !  Mrs.  H. 
cannot  arrange  the  flower  vase  without  you.  Thank 
you,  Mrs.  Hartman. 

Luc.  I'll  have  my  revenge  !  I  know  what  I  will 
say! 


30G  THE  IMPROVISATORE. 

Eliz.  Off  !  Off !  Now,  dear  Sir, — Love,  you  were 
saving — 

Fri.  Hush  !    Preacliing,  you  mean,  Eliza. 

Eliz.  {impatiently).  P.shaw  ! 

Fri.  Well,  then.  I  was  saying  that  love,  truly  such, 
is  itself  not  the  most  common  thing  in  the  world :  and 
mutual  love  still  less  so.  But  that  enduring  personal 
attachment,  so  beautifully  delineated  by  Erin's  sweet 
melodist,  and  still  more  touchingly,  perhaps,  in  the 
well-known  ballad,  "  Johu  Anderson,  my  Jo,  John,"  in 
addition  to  a  depth  and  constancy  of  character  of  no 
every-day  occurrence,  supposes  a  peculiar  sensibility 
and  tenderness  of  nature ;  a  constitutional  communi- 
cativeness and  utterancy  of  heart  and  soul;  a  delight 
in  the  detail  of  sympathy,  in  the  outward  and  visible 
signs  of  the  sacrament  within — to  count,  as  it  were, 
the  pulses  of  the  life  of  love.  But  above  all,  it  sup- 
poses a  soul  which,  even  in  the  pride  and  summer-tide 
of  life — even  in  the  lustihood  of  health  and  strength, 
had  felt  oftenest  and  prized  highest  that  which  age 
cannot  take  away,  and  which,  in  all  our  iovings,  is  the 
Love ; 

Eliz.  Thei-e  is  something  here  {pointing  to  her  heart) 
that  seems  to  underc^tand  you,  but  wants  the  word 
that  would  make  it  understand  itself. 

Kath.  I,  too,  seem  to  feel  what  you  meau.  Inter- 
pret the  feeling  for  us. 

Fri. 1  mean  that  willing  sense  of  the  unsufficing- 

ness  of  the  self  for  itself,  which  predisposes  a  generous 
nature  to  see,  in  the  total  being  of  another,  the 
supplement  and  completion  of  its  own ; — that  quiet 
perpetual  seeking  which  the  presence  of  the  beloved 
object  modulates,  not  suspends,  where  the  heart 
momently  finds,  and,  finding,  again  seeks  on; — lastly, 
when  "  life's  changeful  orb  has  pass'd  the  full,"  a 
confirmed  faith  in  the  nobleness  of  humanity,  thus 
brought  home  and  pressed,  as  it  were,  to  the  very 
bosom  of  hourly  experience ;  it  supposes,  I  say,  a 
heartfelt  reverence  for  worth,  not  the  less  deep 
because  divested  of  its  solemnity  by  habit,  by  famili- 


THE   IMPROVISATORE.  307 

arity,  by  mutual  infirmities,  and  even  by  a  feeling  of 
modesty  which  will  arise  in  delicate  minds,  when 
they  are  conscious  of  possessing  the  sam.e  or  the  cor- 
respondent excellence  in  their  own  characters.  In 
short,  there  must  be  a  mind,  which,  while  it  feels  the 
beautiful  and  the  excellent  in  the  beloved  as  its  own, 
and  by  right  of  love  appropriates  it,  can  call  Good- 
ness its  playfellow ;  and  dares  make  sport  of  time 
and  infirmity,  while,  in  the  person  of  a  thousand- 
foldly  endeared  partner,  we  feel  for  aged  virtue  the 
caressing  fondness  that  belongs  to  the  innocence  of 
childhood,  and  repeat  the  same  attentions  and  tender 
courtesies  which  had  been  dictated  by  the  same 
affection  to  the  same  object  when  attired  in  feminine 
loveliness  or  in  manly  beauty. 

Eliz.  What  a  soothing — what  an  elevating  thought ! 

Kath.  If  it  be  not  only  a  mere  fancy. 

Fri.  At  all  events,  these  qualities  which  I  have 
enumerated,  are  rarely  found  united  in  a  single  indi- 
vidual. How  much  more  rare  must  it  be,  that  two 
such  individuals  should  meet  together  in  this  wide 
world  under  circumstances  that  admit  of  their  union 
as  Husband  and  Wife.  A  person  may  be  highly 
estimable  on  the  whole,  nay,  amiable  as  neighbour, 
friend,  housemate — in  short,  in  all  the  concentric 
circles  of  attachment  save  only  the  last  and  inmost ; 
and  yet  from  how  many  causes  be  estranged  from  the 
highest  perfection  in  this  !  Pride,  coldness,  or  fasti- 
diousness of  nature,  worldly  cares,  an  anxious  or 
ambitious  disposition,  a  passion  for  display,  a  sullen 
temper, — one  or  the  other — too  often  proves  "the 
dead  fly  in  the  compost  of  spices,"  and  any  one  is 
enough  to  unfit  it  for  the  precious  balm  of  unction. 
For  some  mighty  good  sort  of  people,  too,  there  is 
not  seldom  a  sort  of  solemn  saturnine,  or,  if  you  will, 
ursine  vanity,  that  keeps  itself  alive  iDy  sucking  the 
paws  of  its  own  self-importance.  And  as  this  high 
sense,  or  rather  sensation  of  their  own  value  is,  for 
the  most  part,  gi'ounded  on  negative  qualities,  so 
they  have  no  better  means  of  preserving  the  same 


308  THE  IMPROVISATORE. 

but  by  negatives — that  is,  by  not  doing  or  saying  any 
thing  that  might  be  put  down  for  fond,  silly,  or 
nonsensical ; — or  (to  use  their  own  phrase)  by  never 
forgetting  themselves,  which  some  of  their  acquaint- 
ance are  uncharitable  enough  to  think  the  most 
worthless  object  they  could  be  employed  in  remem- 
bering. 

Eliz.  {in  ansioer  to  a  ivhisper  from  Katharine).  To 
a  hair  !  He  must  have  sate  for  it  himself.  Save  me 
from  such  folks  !  But  they  are  out  of  the  question. 

Fri.  True  !  but  the  same  effect  is  produced  in 
thousands  by  the  too  general  insensibility  to  a  very 
important  truth ;  this,  namely,  that  the  misery  of 
human  life  is  made  up  of  large  masses,  each  separated 
from  the  other  by  certain  iatervals.  One  year,  the 
death  of  a  child ;  years  aftei",  a  failure  in  trade  ;  after 
another  longer  or  shorter  interval,  a  daughter  may 
have  marx'ied  unhappily; — in  all  but  the  singularly 
unfortunate,  tlie  integral  parts  that  compose  the  sum 
total  of  the  unhappiuess  of  a  man's  life,  are  easily 
counted,  and  distinctly  remembered.  The  happiness 
of  life,  on  the  contrary,  is  made  up  of  minute  fractions 
— the  little,  soon-forgotten  charities  of  a  kiss,  a  smile, 
a  kind  look,  a  heartfelt  compliment  iu  the  disguise  of 
playful  raillery,  and  the  countless  other  infinitesimals 
of  pleasurable  thought  and  genial  feeling. 

Kath.  Well,  Sir ;  you  have  said  quite  enough  to 
make  me  despair  of  finding  a  "John  Anderson,  my 
Jo,  John,"  with  whom  to  totter  down  the  hill  of 
life. 

Fri.  Not  so  !  Good  men  are  not,  I  trust,  so  much 
scarcer  than  good  women,  but  that  what  another  would 
find  in  you,  you  may  hope  to  find  ia  another.  But 
well,  however,  may  that  boon  be  rare,  the  possession 
of  which  would  be  more  than  an  adequate  reward  for 
the  rarest  virtue. 

Eliz.  Surely,  he,  who  has  described  it  so  well,  must 
have  possessed  it  1 

Fri.  If  he  were  worthy  to  have  possessed  it,  and 
had   believingly  anticipated   and   not  found  it,  how 


THE  IMPROVISATORE.  309 

bitter  the  disappointment !     (Then,  after  a  pause  of  a 
few  minutes), 

Answer,  ex  improvise. 

Yes,  yes  !  that  boon,  life's  richest  treat 
He  had,  or  fancied  that  he  had; 
Say,  'twas  but  in  his  own  conceit — 

The  fancy  made  him  glad  ! 
Crown  of  his  cup,  and  garnish  of  his  dish, 
The  boon,  prefigured  in  his  earliest  wish, 
The  fair  fulfilment  of  his  poesy, 
When  his  young  heart  first  yearn'd  for  sympathy ! 
But  e'en  the  meteor  oflfspriug  of  the  brain 

Unnourished  wane ; 
Faith  asks  her  daily  bread, 
And  Fancy  must  be  fed. 
Now  so  it  chanced — from  wet  or  dry, 
It  boots  not  how — I  know  not  why — 
She  missed  her  wonted  food ;  and  quickly 
Poor  Fancy  stagger' d  and  grew  sickly. 
Then  came  a  restless  state,  'twixt  yea  and  nay, 
His  faith  was  fix'd,  his  heart  all  ebb  and  flow ; 
Or  like  a  bark,  in  some  half-shelter'd  bay, 
Above  its  anchor  driving  to  and  fro. 

That  boon,  which  but  to  have  possest 
In  a  belief,  gave  life  a  zest — 
Uncertain  both  what  it  had  been, 
And  if  by  error  lost,  or  luck  ; 
And  what  it  was  ; — an  evergreen 
Which  some  insidious  blight  had  struck, 
Or  annual  flower,  which,  past  its  blow, 
No  vernal  spell  shall  e'er  revive ; 
Uncertain,  and  afraid  to  know, 

Doubts  toss'd  him  to  and  fi-o  : 
Hope  keeping  Love,  Love  Hope  alive, 
Like  babes  bewildered  in  the  snow. 
That  cling  and  huddle  from  the  cold 
In  hollow  tree  or  ruin'd  fold. 


LO  THE  IMPROVISATORE. 

Those  spai'kling  colours,  once  his  boast, 

Fading,  one  by  one  away, 
Thin  and  hueless  as  a  ghost, 

Poor  Fancy  on  her  sick  bed  lay ; 
111  at  distance,  worse  when  near, 
Telling  her  dreams  to  jealous  Fear  ! 
Where  was  it  then,  the  sociable  sprite 
That  crown'd  the  Poet's  cup  and  deck'd  his  dish  ! 
Poor  shadow  cast  from  an  unsteady  wish, 
Itself  a  substance  by  no  other  right 
But  that  it  intercepted  Reason's  light ; 
It  dimm'd  his  eye,  it  darken'd  on  his  brow, 
A  peevish  mood,  a  tedious  time,  I  trow  ! 

Thank  Heaven  !  'tis  not  so  now. 

0  bliss  of  blissful  hours  ! 
The  boon  of  Heaven's  decreeing, 
While  yet  in  Eden's  bowel's 
Dwelt  the  first  husband  and  his  sinless  mate  ! 
The  one  sweet  plant,  which, piteous  Heaven  agreeing, 
They  bore  with  them  thi-o'  Eden's  closing  gate, 
Of  life's  gay  summer  tide  the  sovran  rose  ! 
Late  autumn's  amaranth,  that  more  fragrant  blows 
When  passion's  flowers  all  fall  or  fade  ; 
If  this  were  ever  his,  in  outward  being. 
Or  but  his  own  true  love's  projected  shade, 
Now  that  at  length  by  certain  proof  he  knows, 
That  whether  real  or  a  magic  show, 
Whate'er  it  was,  it  is  no  longer  so  ; 
Though  heart  be  lonesome,  hope  laid  low. 
Yet,  Lady  !  deem  him  not  unblest  : 
The  certainty  tliat  struck  hope  dead, 
Hath  left  contentment  in  her  stead  : 
And  that  is  next  to  best ! 


ALICE  DU  CLOS : 

OR  THE  FOBKED  TONGUE.   A  BALLAD. 

"  One  word  with  two  meanings  is  the  traitor's  shield  and 
shaft :  and  a  slit  tongue  be  his  blazon ! " — Caucasian  Proverb. 

"  The  Sun  is  not  yet  risen, 

But  the  dawn  lies  red  on  the  dew : 

Lord  Julian  has  stolen  from  the  hunters  away, 

Is  seeking,  Lady,  for  you. 

Put  on  your  dress  of  green. 

Your  buskins  and  your  quiver; 
Lord  Julian  is  a  hasty  man, 

Long  waiting  brook'd  he  never. 
I  dare  not  doubt  him,  that  he  means 

To  wed  you  on  a  day, 
Your  lord  and  master  for  to  be, 

And  you  his  lady  gay. 
0  Lady  !  throw  your  book  aside ! 

I  would  not  that  my  Lord  should  chide." 

Thus  spake  Sir  Hugh  the  vassal  knight 

To  Alice,  child  of  old  Du  Clos, 
As  spotless  fair,  as  airy  light 

As  that  moon-shiny  doe, 
The  gold  star  on  its  brow,  her  sire's  ancestral  crest  ! 
For  ere  the  lark  had  left  his  nest, 

She  in  the  garden  bower  below 
Sate  loosely  wrapt  in  maiden  white, 
Her  face  half  drooping  from  the  sight, 

A  snow-drop  on  a  tuft  of  snow  ! 

0  close  your  eyes,  and  strive  to  see 
The  studious  maid,  with  book  on  knee, — 
Ah  !  earliest-open'd  flower; 


312  ALICE  DU   CLOS. 

While  yet  witli  keen  vinblunted  light 
The  morning  star  shone  opposite 

The  lattice  of  her  bower — 
Alone  of  all  the  starry  host, 

As  if  in  prideful  scorn 
Of  flight  and  fear  he  stay'd  behind, 

To  brave  th'  advancing  morn, 

0  !  Alice  could  read  passing  well, 
And  she  was  conning  then 

Dan  Ovid's  mazy  tale  of  loves, 
And  gods,  and  beasts,  and  men. 

The  vassal's  speech,  his  taunting  vein, 
It  thrill'd  like  venom  thro'  her  brain ; 

Yet  never  from  the  book 
She  rais'd  her  head,  nor  did  she  deign 

The  knight  a  single  look. 

"  Off,  traitor  friend  !  how  dar'st  thou  fix 

Thy  wanton  gaze  on  me  ? 
And  why,  against  my  earnest  suit, 

Does  Juhan  send  by  thee  ? 

"  Go,  tell  thy  Lord,  that  slow  is  sure : 
Fair  speed  his  shafts  to-day  ! 

1  follow  here  a  stronger  lure, 
And  chase  a  gentler  prey." 

She  said  :  and  with  a  baleful  smile 

The  vassal  knight  reel'd  off- 
Like  a  huge  billow  from  a  bark 

Toil'd  in  the  deep  sea-trough. 
That  shouldering  sideways  in  mid  plunge, 

Is  travers'd  by  a  flash, 
And  staggering  onward,  leaves  the  ear 

With  dull  and  distant  crash. 

And  Alice  sate  with  troubled  mien 
A  moment ;  for  the  scoff  was  keen. 


ALICE  DU  CLOS.  313 

And  thro'  her  veins  did  shiver  ! 
Then  rose  and  donn'd  her  dress  of  green, 
Her  buskins  and  her  quiver. 

There  stands  the  flow'ring  may-thorn  tree  ! 
From  thro'  the  veiling  mist  you  see 

The  black  and  shadowy  stem ; — 
Smit  by  the  sun  the  mist  in  glee 
Dissolves  to  lightsome  jewelry — 

Each  blossom  hath  its  gem  ! 

With  tear-drop  glittering  to  a  smile, 
The  gay  maid  on  the  garden-stile 

Mimics  the  hunter's  shout — 
"  Hip  !  Florian,  hip  !     To  horse,  to  horse  ! 

Go,  bring  the  palfrey  out. 

"My  Julian's  out  with  all  his  clan, 

And,  bonny  boy,  you  wis, 
Lord  Julian  is  a  hasty  man. 

Who  comes  late,  comes  amiss." 

iSTow  Florian  was  a  stripling  squire, 

A  gallant  boy  of  Spain, 
That  toss'd  his  head  in  joy  and  pride, 
Behind  his  Lady  fair  to  ride, 

But  blush'd  to  hold  her  train. 

The  huntress  is  in  her  dress  of  green, — 
And  forth  they  go ;  she  with  her  bow, 

Her  buskins  and  her  quiver  ! — 
The  squire — no  younger  e'er  was  seen — 
With  restless  arm  and  laughing  een. 

He  makes  his  javelin  quiver. 

And  had  not  Ellen  stay'd  the  race, 
And  stopp'd  to  see,  a  moment's  space. 

The  whole  great  globe  of  light 
Give  the  last  parting  kiss-like  touch 
To  the  eastern  ridge,  it  lack'd  not  much, 

They  had  o'erta'en  the  knight. 


314  ALICE  DU  CLOS. 

It  chanced  that  up  the  covert  lane, 

Whei'e  Julian  waiting  stood, 
A  neighbour  knight  prick'd  on  to  join 

The  huntsmen  in  the  wood. 

And  with  him  must  Lord  Julian  go, 

Tho'  with  an  anger'd  mind  : 
Betroth'd  not  wedded  to  his  bi'ide, 
In  vain  he  sought,  'twixt  shame  and  pride, 

Excuse  to  stay  behind. 

He  bit  his  lip,  he  wrung  his  glove, 
He  look'd  around,  he  look'd  above, 

But  pretext  none  could  find  or  frame  ! 
Alas  !  alas  !  and  well-a-day  ! 
It  grieves  me  sore  to  think,  to  say, 
That  names  so  seldom  meet  with  Love, 

Yet  Love  wants  courage  without  a  name  ! 

Straight  from  the  forest's  skirt  the  trees 
O'er-branching,  made  an  aisle, 

Where  hermit  old  might  jiace  and  chaunt 
As  in  a  minster's  pile. 

From  underneath  its  leafy  screen. 

And  from  the  twilight  t^hade, 
You  pass  at  once  into  a  green, 

A  green  and  lightsome  glade. 

And  there  Lord  Julian  sate  on  steed ; 

Behind  him,  in  a  round, 
Stood  knight  and  squire,  and  menial  train; 
Against  the  leash  the  greyhounds  strain ; 

The  horses  paw'd  the  ground. 

When  up  the  alley  green.  Sir  Hugh 

Spurr'd  in  upon  the  sward. 
And  mute,  without  a  word,  did  he 

Fall  in  behind  his  lord. 


ALICE  DU  CLOS. 

Lord  Julian  turn'd  his  steed  half  round, — 

"  What  !  doth  not  Alice  deign 
To  accept  your  loving  convoy,  knight? 
Or  doth  she  fear  our  vpoodlaud  sleight, 

And  joins  us  on  the  plain  ?" 

With  stifled  tones  the  knight  replied, 
And  look'd  askance  on  either  side, — 

*'  Nay,  let  the  hunt  proceed  ! — 
The  Lady's  message  that  I  bear, 
I  guess  would  scantly  please  your  ear, 

And  less  deserves  your  heed. 

"  You  sent  betimes.     ISTot  yet  unbarr'd 

I  found  the  middle  door ; — 
Two  stirrers  only  met  my  eyes. 

Fair  Alice,  and  one  more. 

"  I  came  unlook'd  for :  and,  it  seem'd, 

In  an  unwelcome  hour  ; 
And  found  the  daughter  of  Du  Clos 

Within  the  lattic'd  bower. 

"  But  hush  !  the  rest  may  wait.     If  lost, 

No  great  loss,  I  divine  ; 
And  idle  words  will  better  suit 

A  fair  maid's  lips  than  mine." 

"  God's  wrath  !  speak  out,  man,"  Julian  cried, 

O'ei-master'd  hy  the  sudden  smart; — 
And  feignhig  wrath,  sharp,  blunt,  and  rude, 
The  knight  his  subtle  shift  pursued, — 
"  Scowl  not  at  me  ;  commaud  my  skill. 
To  lure  your  hawk  back,  if  you  will, 
But  not  a  woman's  heart. 

" 'Go  ! '  (said  she)  ' tell  him, — slow  is  sure ; 

Fair  speed  his  shafts  to-day  ! 
I  follow  here  a  stronger  lure. 

And  chase  a  gentler  prey.* 


316  ALICE  DU  CLOS. 

"  The  game,  pardie,  was  full  in  sight, 
That  then  did,  if  I  saw  aright, 

The  fair  dame's  eyes  engage  ; 
For  turning,  as  I  took  my  ways, 
I  saw  them  fix'd  with  steadfast  gaze 

Full  on  her  wanton  page. ' 

The  last  word  of  the  traitor  knight 
It  had  but  entered  Julian's  ear, — 
From  two  o'erarching  oaks  between. 
With  glist'ning  helm-like  cap  is  seen, 
Borne  on  in  giddy  cheer, 

A  youth,  that  ill  his  steed  can  guide  ; 
Yet  with  reverted  face  doth  ride, 

As  answering  to  a  voice, 
That  seems  at  once  to  laugh  and  chide — 
"  Not  mine,  dear  mistress,"  still  he  cried, 

"  'Tis  this  mad  filly's  choice." 

With  sudden  bound,  beyond  the  boy, 
See  !  see  !  that  face  of  hope  and  joy, 

That  regal  front  !  those  cheeks  aglow  ! 
Thou  needed'st  but  the  crescent  sheen, 
A  quiver'd  Dian  to  have  been, 

Thou  lovely  child  of  old  Du  Clos  ! 

Dark  as  a  dream  Lord  Julian  stood. 
Swift  as  a  dream,  from  forth  the  wood, 

Sprang  on  the  plighted  Maid  ! 
With  fatal  aim,  and  frantic  force, 
The  shaft  was  hurl'd  ! — a  lifeless  corse, 
Fair  Alice  from  her  vaulting  horse, 

Lies  bleeding  on  the  glade. 


317 


FROM  THE  GERMAN. 

Know'st  thou  the  land  where  the  pale  citrons  grow, 
The  golden  fruits  in  darker  foliage  glow  1 
Soft  blows  the  wind  that  breathes  from  that  blue  sky ! 
Still  stands  the  myrtle  and  the  laurel  high  ! 
Know'st  thou  it  well  that  land,  beloved  Friend  ? 
Thither  with  thee.  0,  thither  would  I  wend  ! 


Anxious  to  associate  the  name  of  a  most  dear  and  honoured 
friend  with  my  own,  I  solicited  and  obtained  the  permission 
of  Professor  J.  H.  Green  to  permit  the  insertion  of  the  two 
following  poems,  by  him  composed. — S.  T.  Coleridge. 


MORNING  INVITATION  TO  A  CHILD. 

The  house  is  a  prison,  the  school-room's  a  cell ; 

Leave  study  and  books  for  the  upland  and  dell  ; 

Lay  aside  the  dull  poring,  quit  home  and  quit  care  ; 

Sally  forth  !  Sally  forth  !  Let  us  breathe  the  fresh  air ! 

The  sky  dons  its  holiday  mantle  of  blue  ; 

The  sun  sips  his  morning  refreshment  of  dew  ; 

Shakes  joyously  laughing  his  tresses  of  light, 

And  here  and  there  turns  his  eye  piercing  and  bright ; 

Then  jocund  mounts  up  on  his  glorious  car, 

With  smiles  to  the  morn, — for  he  means  to  go  far ; — 

While  the  clouds,  that  had  newly  paid  court  at  his 

levee, 
Spread  sail  to  the  breeze,  and  glide  off  in  a  bevy. 
Tree,  and  tree-tufted  hedge-row,  and  sparkling  between 
Dewy  meadows  enamelled  in  gold  and  in  green, 
With  king-cups  and  daisies,  tliat  all  the  year  pleas^-, 
Sprays,  petals  and  leaflets,  that  nod  in  the  breeze, 


318  CONSOLATION   OP  A  MANIAC. 

With  carpets,  and  garlands,  and  wreaths  deck  the  way, 
And  tempt  the  blithe  spirit  still  onward  to  stray, 
Itself  its  own  home ; — far  away  !  far  away  ! 

The  butterflies  flutter  in  pairs  round  the  bower  ; 
The  humble-bee  sings  in  each  bell  of  each  flower ; 
The  bee  hums  of  heather  and  bx-eeze-wooing  hill, 
And  forgets  in  the  sunshine  his  toil  and  his  skill ; 
The  birds  carol  gladly  ! — the  lark  mounts  on  high  ; 
The  swallows  on  wing  make  their  tune  to  the  eye, 
And  as  birds  of  good  omen,  that  summer  loves  well. 
Ever  wheeling  weave  ever  some  magical  spell. 
The  hunt  is  abroad  : — hark  !  the  horn  sounds  its  note, 
And  seems  to  invite  us  to  regions  remote. 
The  hoi^se  in  the  meadow  is  stirred  by  the  sound. 
And  neighing  impatient  o'erleaps  the  low  mound  ; 
Then  proud  in  his  speed  o'er  the  champaign  he  bounds, 
To  the  whoop  of  the  huntsman  and  tongue  of  the 

hounds. 
Then  stay  not  within,  for  on  such  a  blest  day 
We  can  never  quit  home,  while  with  Nature  we  stray ; 

— far  away  !  far  away  ! 


CONSOLATION  OF  A  MANIAC. 

The  feverous  dream  is  past  !  and  I  awake, 

Alone  and  joyless  in  my  prison-cell. 

Again  to  ply  the  never  ending  toil, 

And  bid  the  task- worn  memory  weave  again 

The  tangled  threads,  and  ravell'd  skein  of  thought, 

Disjointed  fragments  of  my  care-worn  life  ! 

The  mirror  of  my  soul, — ah  !  when  again 

To  welcome  and  reflect  calm  joy  and  hope  ! — 

Again  subsides,  and  smooths  its  turbid  swell, 

Late  surging  in  the  sweep  of  frenzy's  blast, — 


CONSOLATION   OF  A  MANIAC.  319 

And  the  sad  forms  of  scenes  o,nd  deeds  long  past 
Blend  into  spectral  shapes  and  deathlike  life, 
And  pass  in  silent,  stern  procession  ! — 
The  storm  is  past ; — but  in  the  pause  and  hush, 
Nor  calm  nor  tranquil  joy,  nor  peace  are  mine  ; 
My  spirit  is  rebuk'd  ! — and  like  a  mist, 
Despondency,  in  grey  cold  mantle  clad, 
In  phantom  form  gigantic  floats  !  — 

That  dream, 
That  dream,  that  dreadful  dream,  the  potent  spell, 
That  calls  to  life  the  phantoms  of  the  past, — 
Makes  e'en  oblivion  memory's  register, — 
Still  swells  and  vibrates  in  my  throbbing  brain  ! 
Again  I  wildly  quaflf'd  the  maddening  bowl. 
Again  I  stak'd  my  all, — again  the  die 
Pi'ov'd  traitor  to  my  hopes  ; — and  'twas  for  her. 
Whose  loVe  more  madden'd  than  the  bowl,whose  love. 
More  dear  than  all,  was  treacherous  as  the  die  : — 
Again  I  saw  her  with  her  paramour. 
Again  I  aim'd  the  deadly  blow,  again 
I  senseless  fell,  and  knew  not  whom  I  struck. 
Myself,  or  her,  or  him  : — I  heard  the  shi'iek. 
And  mingled  laugh,  and  cry  of  agony : 
I  felt  the  whirl  of  rapid  motion, — 
And  hosts  of  fiendish  shapes,  imcertain  seen 
In  murky  air,  glared  fiercely  as  I  pass'd ; — 
They  Avelcom'd  me  with  bitter  laughs  of  scorn, 
They  pledged  me  in  the  brimming  cup  of  hate. — 
But  stay  your  wild  career,  unbridled  thoughts, 
Or  fx'enzy  must  unseat  my  reason's  sway, — 
Again  give  license  to  my  lawless  will ! — 
And  yet  I  know  not,  if  that  demon  rout 
Be  fancy  stirred  by  passion's  power,  or  true ; — 
Or  life  itself  be  but  a  shadowy  dream. 
The  act  and  working  of  an  evil  will  ! — 
Dread  scope  of  fantasy  and  passion's  power  ! 
Oh  God  !  take  back  the  boon,  the  precious  gift 
Of  will  mysterious. — Give  me,  give  again. 
The  infliction  dire,  fell  opiate  of  my  griefs ; 
Sharp  wound,  but  in  the  smart  the  panoply 


320  A  CHARACTER. 

And  shield  against  temptations,  that  assail 
My  weak  and.  yielding  spirit  ! — Madness  come  ! 
The  balm  to  guilt,  the  safeguard  from  remorse, 
Make  me  forget,  and  save  me  from  myself  ! 


A  CHARACTER. 


A  BIRD,  who  for  his  other  sins 

Had  liv'd  amongst  the  Jacobins; 

Tho'  like  a  kitten  amid  rats, 

Or  callow  tit  in  nest  of  bats, 

He  much  abhorr'd  all  democrats; 

Yet  nathless  stood  in  ill  report 

Of  wishing  ill  to  Church  and  Court, 

Tho'  he'd  nor  claw,  nor  tooth,  nor  sting. 

And  learnt  to  pipe  God  Bave  the  King ; 

Tho'  each  day  did  new  feathers  bring, 

All  swore  he  had  a  leathern  wing ; 

Nor  polish'd  wing,  nor  feather'd  tail, 

Nor  down-clad  thigh  would  aught  avail ; 

And  tho' — his  tongue  devoid  of  gall — 

He  civilly  assur'd  them  all : — 

**  A  bird  am  I  of  Phoebus'  breed. 

And  on  the  sunflower  cling  and  feed ; 

My  name,  good  Sirs,  is  Thomas  Tit  !  " 

The  bats  would  hail  him  brother  cit, 

Or,  at  the  furthest,  cousin-german. 

At  length  the  matter  to  determine, 

He  publicly  denounced  the  vermin  ; 

He  spared  the  mouse,  he  prais'd  the  owl; 

But  bats  were  neither  flesh  nor  fowL 

Blood-sucker,  vampire,  harpy,  goul. 

Came  in  full  clatter  from  his  throat, 

Till  his  old  nest-mates  chang'd  their  note 

To  hireling,  traitor,  and  turncoat, — 

A  base  apostate  who  had  sold 

His  very  teeth  and  claws  for  gold ; — 


A  CHARACTER.  321 

And  then  his  feathers  ! — sharp  the  jest — 
No  doubt  he  feather'd  well  his  nest  ! 
A  Tit  indeed  !  aye,  tit  for  tat — 
With  place  and  title,  brother  Bat, 
We  soon  shall  see  how  well  he'll  play 
Count  Goldfinch,  or  Sir  Joseph  Jay  ! 

Alas,  poor  Bird  !  and  ill-bestarred — 
Or  rather  let  us  say,  poor  Bard  ! 
And  henceforth  quit  the  allegoric 

With  metaphor  and  simile, 
For  simple  facts  and  style  historic  : — 
Alas,  poor  Bard  !  no  gold  had  he 
Behind  another's  team  he  stept, 
And  plough'd  and  sow'd,  while  others  reapt ; 
The  work  was  his,  but  theirs  the  glory, 
Sic  Tos  non  vohis,  his  whole  story. 
Besides,  whate'er  he  wrote  or  said 
Came  from  his  heart  as  well  as  head ; 
And  tho'  he  never  left  in  lurch 
His  king,  his  country,  or  his  church, 
'Twas  but  to  humour  his  own  cynical 
Contempt  of  doctrines  Jacobinical  ; 
To  his  own  conscience  only  hearty, 
'Twas  but  by  chance  he  serv'd  the  pai'ty ; — 
The  self-same  things  had  said  and  writ, 
Had  Pitt  been  Fox,  and  Fox  been  Pitt  ; 
Content  his  own  applause  to  win 
Would  never  dash  thro'  thick  and  thin, 
And  he  can  make,  so  say  the  wise, 
No  claim  who  makes  no  sacrifice ; — 
And  bard  still  less  : — what  claim  had  he, 
Who  swore  it  vex'd  his  soul  to  see 
So  grand  a  cause,  so  proud  a  realm 
With  Goose  and  Goody  at  the  helm  ; 
Who  long  ago  had  fall'n  asunder 
But  for  their  rivals,  baser  blunder, 
The  coward  whine  and  Frenchified 
Slaver  and  slang  of  the  other  side? — 

Thus,  his  own  whim  his  only  bribe. 
Our  bard  pm-sued  his  old  A.  B.  C. 


TRANSLATED  FROM  SCHILLER. 

Contented  if  lie  could  subscribe 
In  fullest  sense  his  name  "Earriffe  ; 
('Tis  Punic  Greek,  fox-  *he  bath  stood  ! ') 
Whate'er  the  men,  the  cause  was  good ; 
And  therefore  with  a  right  good  will, 
Poor  fool,  he  fights  their  battles  still. 
Tush  !  squeak'd  the  Bats ; — a  mere  bravado 
To  whitewash  that  base  renegado ; 
'Tis  plain  unless  you're  blind  or  mad, 
His  conscience  for  the  bays  he  barters ; — 
And  true  it  is — as  true  as  sad — 
These  circlets  of  green  baize  he  had — 
But  then,  alas  !  they  were  his  garters  ! 

Ah  !  silly  Bard,  unfed,  untended. 
His  lamp  but  glimmer'd  in  its  socket ; 
He  liv'd  unhouor'd  and  unfriended 
With  scarce  a  penny  in  his  pocket ; — 
Nay — tho'  he  hid  it  from  the  many — 
With  scarce  a  pocket  for  his  penny  ! 


TRANSLATED  FEOM  SCHILLER.* 
I. 

THE   HOMEEIC  HEXAMETER  DESCRIBED  AND  EXEMPLIFIED. 

Strongly  it  bears  us  along  in  swelling  and  limitless 

billows. 
Nothing  before  and  nothing  behind  but  the  sky  and 

the  Ocean. 

II. 

THE   OVIDIAN   ELEGIAC   METRE   DESCRIBED   AND  EXEMPLIFIED. 

In  the  hexameter  rises  the  formtain's  silvery  column; 
In  the  pentameter  aye  falling  in  melody  back. 

*  See  Note. 


HUMILITY  THE  MOTHER  OF  CHARITY. 

Fbail  creatures  are  we  all  !  To  be  the  best, 
Is  but  the  fewest  faults  to  have : — 

Look  thou  then  to  thyself,  and  leave  the  rest 
To  God^  thy  conscience,  and  the  grave. 


PROFUSE  KINDNESS. 

N'^T/a/,  ovz  'tirK(riv  oircu  !7Xiov  '7,u.Krv  tccvto';. — Hesiod, 

What  a  spring-tide  of  Love  to  dear  friends  in  a  shoal ! 
Half  of  it  to  one  were  worth  double  the  whole  ! 


THE  GARDEN  OF  BOCCACCIO. 

Of  late,  in  one  of  those  most  weary  hours, 
AYhen  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  slumb'ring,  seeni'd  alone  to  wake 
0  Friend  !  long  wont  to  notice,  yet  conceal. 
And  soothe  by  silence  what  words  cannot  heal. 


324  THE   GARDEN   OF  BOCCACCIO. 

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  gi'adual  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,  mayoi*,  and  many  a  guild  in  long  ai-ray, 
To  liigh-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. 


THE   GAEDEN  OF  BOCCACCIO.  325 

That  had  but  newly  left  a  mother's  knee, 

Prattled  and  play'd  with  bird  and  flower,  and  stone 

As  if  w'ith  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-SAvard,  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  tow^er,  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,  0  thou  once  free, 
And  always  fair,  rare  land  of  courtesy  ! 
0  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 


326  THE  GARDEN  OF  BOCCACCIO. 

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 !  + 

0  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  Diau's  vest  between  the  ranks 
Of  the  trim  vines,  some  maid  that  half  believes 
The  vestal  fii^es,  of  which  her  lover  grieves, 
With  that  sly  satyr  peeping  through  the  leaves  ! 

1829. 

*  Boccaccio  claimed  for  himself  the  gloiy  of  having  first 
introduced  the  works  of  Homer  to  his  couutrj'meu, 

t  I  know  few  more  striking  or  more  interesting-  proofs  of  the 
overwhelming  influence  which  the  studj'  of  the  Greek  and 
Roman  classics  exercised  on  the  judgments,  feelings,  and 
imaginations  of  the  literati  of  Europe  at  the  commencement 
of  the  restoration  of  literature,  than  the  passage  in  the 
Filocopo  of  Boccaccio  :  where  the  sage  instructor,  Racheo,  as 
soon  as  the  young  prince  and  the  beautiful  girl  Biaucofiore 
had  learned  their  letters,  sets  them  to  study  the  Holy  Book, 
Ovid's  Art  of  Love.  "  Incomincib  Racheo  a  mettere  il  suo 
officio  in  esecuzioue  con  iutera  soUecitudine.  E  loro,  in  breve 
tempo,  insegnato  a  conoscer  le  lettere,  fece  h  ggere  il  saiito 
libro  d'Ovvidio,  ncl  quale  il  sommo  poetamostia,  come  isanti 
fuochi  di  Venere  si  debbano  ue'  fieddi  cuori  accendere." 


327 


CHARITY  IN  THOUGHT. 

To  praise  men  as  good,  and  to  take  them  for  such, 
Is  a  grace,  which  no  soul  can  mete  out  to  a  tittle; — 

Of  which  he  who  has  not  a  little  too  much, 

Will  by  Charity '3  gage  surely  have  much  too  little. 


ON  BERKELEY  AND  FLORENCE  COLERIDGE, 

WHO   DIED   ON  THE   16TH   OF   JANUARY.  1S34.* 

0  FRAIL  as  sweet !  twin  buds,  too  rathe  to  bear 

The  Winter's  unkind  air  ; 
0  gifts  beyond  all  price,  no  sooner  given 

Than  straight  required  by  Heaven  ; 
Match'd  jewels,  vainly  for  a  moment  lent 

To  deck  my  brow,  or  sent 
Untainted  from  the  earth,  as  Christ's,  to  soar, 

And  add  two  spirits  more 
To  that  dread  band  seraphic,  that  doth  lie 

Beneath  the  Almighty's  eye ; — 
Glorious  the  thought — yet  ah  !  my  babes,  ah  !  still 

A  father's  heart  ye  fill  ; 
Though  cold  ye  lie  in  earth — though  gentle  death 

Hath  suck'd  your  balmy  breath, 
And  the  last  kiss  which  your  fair  cheeks  I  gave 

Is  buried  in  yon  grave. 
No  tears — no  tears — I  wish  them  not  again  ; 

To  die  for  them  was  gain, 
Ere  Doubt ,  or  Fear,  or  Woe,  or  act  of  Sin 
'   Had  maiT'd  God's  light  within. 

*  By  a  friend. 


IMPROVED  FROM  STOLBERG. 

ON  A  CATARACT  FROM  A  CAVERN  NEAR  THE   SUMMIT   OF 
A   MOUNTAIN   PRECIPICE. 


CTnperishing  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-murmured  charm  of  the  son  of  the  rock, 

That  is  lisp'd  evermore  at  his  elumberless  fountain. 

There's  a  cloud  at  the  portal,  a  spray-woven  veil 

At  the  shrine  of  his  ceaseless  renewing ; 

It  embosoms  the  I'oses  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. 


329 


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  tho  idle  brain,  the  while 
I  watched  the  sickly  calm  with  aimless  scope, 
In  my  own  heart ;  or  that,  indeed  a  trance, 
Turn'd  my  eye  inward — thee,  0  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,  nurst  in  tenderest  care,  yet  fades 
In  the  chilled  heart  by  gradual  self-decay. 


WHAT  IS  LIFE? 


Resembles  life  what  once  was  deemed  of  light, 
Too  ample  in  itself  for  human  sight  ? 
An  absolute  self — an  element  ungrounded — 
All  that  we  see,  all  colours  of  all  shade 
By  encroach  of  darkness  made  ? — 
Is  very  life  by  consciousness  unbounded] 
And  all  the  thoughts,  pains,  joys  of  mortal  breath, 
A  war-embrace  of  wrestling  life  and  death  ? 

1S29. 


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  ! 

1830. 


331 


LOVE,  HOPE,  AlW  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  he  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  grouped,  in  seemly  show, 
The  straightened  arms  upraised,  the  palms  aslope. 
And  robes  that,  touching  as  adown  they  flow. 
Distinctly  blend,  like  snow  embossed  in  snow. 
0  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, 
Woos  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  overtasked  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. 


332 


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  spai'k  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  ! 


— E  ccelo  desceudit  ■yviudi  enct'jrov. — Juvenal. 

Tvcodi  creavTov  ! — and  is  this  the  prime 

And  heaven-sprung  adage  of  the  olden  time  ! 

Say,  canst  thou  make  thyself  ? — Learn  first  that  tradej' 

Haply  thou  mayst  know  what  thyself  had  made. 

What  hast  thou,  Man,  that  thou  dar'st  call  thine  own  ? 

What  is  there  in  thee,  Man,  that  can  be  known  1 — 

Dark  fluxion,  all  unfixable  by  thought, 

A  phantom  dim  of  past  and  future  wrought, 

Vain  sister  of  the  worm, — life,  death,  soul,  clod — 

Ignore  thyself,  and  strive  to  know  thy  God ! 

*  See  Note. 


£niTA*ION  ATTOrPAnTON. 

Qu^  linquam,  aut  nihil,  aut  nihili,  aut  vis  sunt  mea — 
sordes 
Do  morti : — reddo  csetera,  Christe  !  tibi. 


TO  THE  YOUNG  ARTIST,  KAYSER   OF 
ICAYSERWERTH. 

E1A.YSER  !  to  whom,  as  to  a  second  self, 
Nature,  or  Nature's  next-of-kin,  the  Elf, 
Hight  Genius,  hath  dispensed  the  happy  skill 
To  cheer  or  soothe  the  parting  friend's,  alas  ! 
Turning  the  blank  scroll  to  a  magic  glass, 
That  makes  the  absent  present  at  our  will ; 
Ajad  to  the  shadowing  of  thy  pencil  gives 
Such  seeming  substance,  that  it  almost  lives. 

Well  hast  thou  given  the  thoughtful  Poet's  face ! 
Yet  hast  thou  on  the  tablet  of  his  mind 
A  more  delightful  portrait  left  behind — 
Ev'u  thy  own  youthful  beauty,  and  artless  grace, 
Thy  natural  gladness  and  eyes  bright  with  glee  ! 

Kayser  farewell ! 
Be  wise  !  be  happy  !  and  forget  not  me. 

1833. 


334 


MY  BAPTISMAL  BIRTH-DAY. 

God's  child  in  Christ  adopted, — Christ  my  all, — 
"What  that  earth  boasts  were  not  lost  cheaply,  rather 
Than  forfeit  that  blest  name,  by  which  I  call 
The  Holy  One,  the  Almighty  God,  my  Father?— 
Father  !  in  Christ  we  live,  and  Christ  in  Thee — 
Eternal  Thou,  and  everlasting  we. 
The  heir  of  heaven,  henceforth  I  fear  not  death  : 
In  Christ  I  live  !  in  Christ  I  draw  the  breath 
Of  the  true  life  ! — Let  then  earth,  sea,  and  sky 
Make  war  against  me  !     On  my  front  I  show 
Their  mighty  master's  seal.     In  vain  they  try 
To  end  my  life,  that  can  but  end  its  woe. — 
Is  that  a  death-bed  where  a  Christian  lies  ? — 
Yes  !  but  not  his — 'tis  Death  itself  there  dies. 


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. — 
0,  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  ftime 
He  ask'd,  and  hoped,  through  Christ,     Do  thou  the 
! 

9th  November,  1S33. 


NOTES. 


Page  3.— FIRST  ADVENT  OF  LOVE. 

The  early  date  assigned  to  these  exquisite  lines  is 
derived  from  a  memorandum  of  the  author.  * '  Relics 
of  my  School-boy  Muse  ;  i.  e.  fragments  of  poems  com- 
posed before  my  fifteenth  year. 

Love's  Fikst  Hope — 

'  0  fair  is  Love's  first  hope,'  &c. 

The  concluding  stanza  of  an  Elegy  on  a  Lady,  who 
died  in  early  youth  : — 

O'er  the  raised  earth  the  gales  of  evening  sigh  ; 
And  see  a  Daisy  peeps  upon  its  slope  ! 
wipe  the  dimming  waters  from  mine  eye  ; 
Even  on  the  cold  Grave  lights  the  Cherub  Hope  ! 

Age. — A  stanza  written  forty  years  later  than  the 
preceding  :— - 

Dew-drops  are  the  Gems  of  Morning, 

But  the  Tears  of  dewy  Eve  ! 
Where  no  Hope  is,  Life's  a  warning, 
That  only  serves  to  make  us  grieve. 
When  we  are  old. 

S.  T.  C.    Sept.  1827." 

GENEVIEVE. 

"This  little  poem  was  written  when  the  author  was 
a  boy."     Kote  to  the  edition  of  1796. 


836  NOTES. 

The  Raven  and  Time,  eeal  and  imaginary,  are 
mentioned  as  "School-boy  Poems"  in  the  Preface  to  the 
"Sibylline  Leaves,"  published  in  1817. 

Page  11.— KISSES. 

This  "Effusion"  and  "The  Rose"  were  originally 
addressed  to  a  Miss  F.  Nesbitt,  at  Plymouth,  whither 
the  author  accompanied  his  eldest  brother,  to  whom  he 
Avas  paying  a  visit,  when  he  was  twenty-one  years  of 
age.  Both  poems  are  written  iu  pencil  on  the  blank 
pages  of  a  copy  of  Langhorne's  Collins.  "Kisses"  is 
entitled  * '  Cupid  turned  Chymist ; "  is  signed  S.  T. 
Coleridge,  and  dated  Friday  evening,  1793. 

"  The  Rose "  has  this  heading  : — "On  presenting  a 
Moss  Rose  to  Miss  F.  Nesbitt."     In  both  poems   the 
name   of  Nesbitt  appears  instead  of  Sara,  afterwards 
I        substituted. 
I 

"Kisses "  has  this  note  in  the  edition  of  1796  : — 

"  Effinxit  quondam  blandum  meditata  laborem, 

Basia  lasciva  Cypria  Diva  manu. 
AmbrosiiB  succos  occulta  temperat  arte, 

Fragransque  iufuso  nectare  tingit  opus. 
Sufficit  et  partem  mellis,  quod  subdolus  dim 

Non  impune  favis  surripuisset  Amor. 
Decussos  violaj  foliis  admiscet  odores, 

Et  spolia  festivis  plurima  rapta  rosis : 
Addit  et  illecebras,  et  mille  et  mille  lepores 

Et  quot  Acidalius  gaudia  Cestus  habet. 
Ex  his  composuit  Dea  basia  ;  et  omuia  libans 

Invenias  uitidse  sparsa  per  era  Cloes." 

Carm.  Quad.,  vol.  ii. 

Page  15.— LINES  ON  AN  AUTUMNAL  EVENING. 

In  the  edition  of  1796  this  poem  is  stated  to  have 
been  written  in  early  youth  ;  and  in  a  note  to  the  line 
"0  (have  I  sighed)  were  mine  the  wizard's  rod,"  the 
author  "entreats  the  Public's  pardon  for  having  care- 
lessly suffered  to  be  printed  such  intolerable  stuff  as 


NOTES.  337 

this  and  the  thirteen  following  lines  ; "  adding,  ' '  that 
they  have  not  even  the  merit  of  originality,  as  every 
thought  is  to  be  found  in  the  Greek  epigrams."  In  the 
edition  brought  out  the  following  year,  the  whole  poem 
was  first  omitted,  but  eventually  "reprieved"'  and 
printed  in  an  Appendix,  at  the  request  of  some  intel- 
ligent friends,  who  observed,  that  "  what  most  delighted 
the  author  when  he  was  young  in  writing  would  probably 
best  please  those  who  are  young  in  reading  poetry,"  and 
that  "  a  man  must  learn  to  be  jpleased  with  a  subject 
before  he  can  yield  that  attention  to  it  which  is  necessary 
in  order  to  acquire  a  just  taste."  In  the  edition  of 
1803  the  poem  appears  in  its  proper  place,  without  any 
remark.  Few  readers  will  have  regretted  that  this 
bright  and  popular  strain  was  thus  rescued  from  the 
hasty  condemnation  of  its  youthful  author.  In  the  note, 
the  author  repels  an  imputation  of  plagiarism  from 
Mr,  Rogers's  "Pleasures  of  Memory,"  and  brings  a 
similar  charge  against  his  distinguished  cotemporary. 
He  finds  the  original  of  the  tale  of  "Florio,"  "in 
'  Lochleven,'  a  poem  of  great  merit  by  Michael  Bruce." 
This  assertion  he  afterwards  withdrew,  apologising  (in 
the  Appendix  above  referred  to)  for  his  rashness,  in  very 
handsome  terms.  This  occurred  fifty-six  years  ago. 
Mr.  Rogers  still  lives  to  wear  his  unwithering  laurels. 
He  has  seen  two  generations  of  his  poetic  brethren  pass 
away, — fj.^Ta  8e  TpnaTOKTiv  avdaaei. 

The  following  note,  in  the  edition  of  1796,  may  be 
cited  as  a  proof  how  early,  and  how  decidedly,  the 
genius  of  Wordsworth  was  detected  and  proclaimed  by 
Coleridge:  —  "The  expression,  *  green  radiance, '  "  he 
says,  (referring  to  the  "Lines  written  at  Shurton  Bars," 
p.  45  of  the  present  edition,)  "is  borrowed  from  Mr. 
Wordsworth,  a  poet  whose  versification  is  occasionally 
harsh,  and  his  diction  too  frequently  obscure,"  (the 
"Descriptive  Sketches,"  and  "Evening  Walk,"  pub- 
lished 1793,  since  republished,  with  numerous  correc- 
tions, as  juvenile  pieces,  were  the  poems  thus  charac- 
terised);    "but  whom    I    deem  unrivalled  among  the 


338  NOTES. 

writers  of  the  present  day  in  manly  sentiment,   novel 
imagery,  and  vivid  colouring."  D.  C. 


Page  28.— MOXODY  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  CHATTERTON. 

This  monody  was  sketched  at  Clirist's  Hospital ;  but 
meagre  indeed  is  the  boyish  schema,  -with  scarce  any  of 
the  fire  and  felicity  of  the  finished  composition.  October, 
1794,  is  the  date  afiixed  by  the  author.  It  appears 
from  a  passage  in  one  of  Mr,  Southey's  letters,  that 
seven  lines  and  a  half,  toTvard  the  end  of  the  poem, 
were  borrowed  from  a  young  friend  and  fellow-poet. 

*' Everything  is  in  the  fairest  trim.  FaveU  and  Le 
Grice  "  (a  younger  brother  of  Charles  Lamb's  Valentine 
Le  Grice),  "two  young  Pantisocrats  of  nineteen,  join  us. 
They  possess  great  genius.  You  may  perhaps  like  the 
sonnet  on  the  subject  of  our  emigration,  by  Favell  : — 

"  No  more  my  visionary  soul  shall  dwell 

On  joys  that  were  :  no  more  endure  to  weigh 
Tlie  shame  and  anguish  of  the  evil  day, 

Wisely  forgetful  !     O'er  the  ocean  swdl 

Sublime  of  Hope,  I  seek  the  cottaged  dell. 

Where  Virtue  calm  with  carehss  step  may  stray. 
And  dancing  to  the  moonlight  roundelay. 

The  wizard  Possum  wears  (sic)  a  holy  spell. 

Eyes  tbaf  have  nched  with  anguish  !  ye  shall  weep 
Tears  of  doubt- mingled  jo}^  as  those  who  start 

From  precipices  of  distempered  sleep. 

On  which  the  fierce-eyed  fiends  their  revels  keep, 
And  see  the  rising  sun,  and  find  it  dart 
New  rays  of  pleasure  trembling  to  the  heart." 

Southey's  Life  and  Correspo^idence,  vol.  i.,  p.  224. 

At  the  end  of  the  Preface  to  the  edition  of  1796, 
jMr.  Coleridge  acknowledges  himself  indebted  to  Mr. 
Favell  for  the  "rough  sketch"  of  Effusion  XVI.,— 

"  Sweet  Mercy !  how  my  weary  heart  has  bled  ; " 

and  to  the  author  of  "Joan  of  Arc"  for  the  first  half  of 
Efiusion  XV.,— 

"Pale  Reamer  through  the  night,"  <fec. 


NOTES.  330 

It  is  remarkable  that  when  these  obligations  were 
particularised,  the  passage  borrowed  from  the  Monody- 
should  not  have  been  refeiTed  to  its  author.  But  this 
is  but  one  of  a  thousand  instances  that  could  be  given 
of  ]\Ir.  Coleridge's  partial  and  uncertain  (though  in 
some  respects  powerful)  memory.  In  1803  he  published, 
without  signature,  among  his  own  productions,  Mr. 
Lamb's  Sonaet  to  Mrs.  Siddons,  which  had  appeared 
in  the  edition  of  1796,  signed  C.  L.,  and  in  1797  ia 
Lamb's  portion  of  the  joint  volume. 

Page  34.— SONNET  III. 

This  Sonnet,  and  the  ninth,  to  ''Stanhope,"  were 
among  the  pieces  v/ithdrawn  from  the  second  edition  of 
1797.  They  reappeared  in  the  edition  of  1803,  and 
were  again  withdrawn  in  1828,  solely,  it  may  be  pre- 
sumed, on  account  of  their  political  vehemence.  They 
will  excite  no  angry  feelings,  and  lead  to  no  misappre- 
hensions now  ;  and  as  they  are  fiilly  equal  to  their  com- 
panions in  poetical  merit,  the  Editors  have  not  scrupled 
to  reproduce  them.  These  Sonnets  were  originally  en- 
titled "Eifusions." 


Page  79.— THE  RIME  OF  THE  ANCIENT  MARINER. 

The  following  interesting  notices  concerning  "  The 
Ancient  Mariner"  are  contained  in  a  letter  of  the  Kev. 
Alexander  Dyce,  the  well-known  admirable  Editor  of 
old  Plays,  to  the  late  H,  N.  Coleridge  : — 

"When  my  truly  honoured  friend  Mr.  Wordsworth 
was  last  in  London,  soon  after  the  appearance  of  De 
Quincy's  papers  in  '  Tait's  Magazine,'  he  dined  with  me 
in  Gray's  lun,  and  made  the  following  statement,  which, 
I  am  quite  sure,  I  give  you  correctly  :  '  "  The  Ancient 
Mariner  "  was  founded  on  a  strange  dream,  which  a  friend 
of  Coleridge  had,  who  fancied  he  saw  a  skeleton  ship, 
with  figures  in  it.  We  had  both  determined  to  write 
some  poetry  for  a  monthly  magazine,  the  profits  of  which 
were  to  defray  the  exjjenses  of  a  little  excursion  we  were 


340  NOTES. 

to  make  together,  "The  Ancient  Mariner"  was  in- 
tended for  this  periodical,  but  was  too  long.  I  had  very 
little  share  in  the  composition  of  it,  for  I  soon  found  that 
the  style  of  Coleridge  and  myself  would  not  assimilate. 
Besides  the  lines  (in  the  fourth  part), 

"  And  thou  art  long,  and  lank,  and  brown. 
As  is  the  ribbed  sea-sand," 

I  wrote  the  stanza  (in  the  first  part), 

"  He  holds  him  with  bis  glittering  eye — 
The  Wedding-Guest  stood  still, 
And  I'steus  like  a  three-years'  child  : 
The  Mariner  hath  his  will," 

and  four  or  five  lines  more  in  different  parts  of  the  poem, 
which  I  could  not  now  point  out.  The  idea  of  ' '  shooting 
an  albatross''^  loas  mine;  for  I  had  been  reading 
ShelvocJce' s  Voyages,  ichich  j)robably  Coleridge  never  saw. 
I  also  suggested  the  reanimation  of  the  dead  bodies,  to 
work  the  ship.'  "  See  also  "  Memoii's  of  William  Words- 
worth," by  Dr.  Christopher  Wordsworth,  vol.  i.,  chap, 
xi.,  p.  107—8. 

Page  103.— THE  DAT-DREAlVr. 

This  little  poem  first  appeared  in  the  "  Morning  Post," 
in  1802,  but  was  doubtless  composed  in  Grermany.  It 
seems  to  have  been  forgotten  by  its  author,  for  this  was 
the  only  occasion  on  which  it  saw  the  light  tlirougk  him. 
The  Editors  think  that  it  will  plead  against  parental 
neglecfin  the  mind  of  most  readers. 

Page  265.— MELANCHOLY. 

First  published  in  the  "Morning  Chronicle,"  1794. 
The  original  conclusion,  which  appears  in  the  edition  of 
1817,  was  as  follows  : — 

.     .     .     .      "  that  filled  her  soul, 

Nor  did  not  whispering  spirits  roll 

A  mystic  tumult,,  and  a  fateful  chime 

Mi.x.t  with  wild  shai)ings  of  the  unborn  time." 


NOTES.  341 


Page  266.— COMPOSED  IN  SICKNESS  AND  IN  ABSENCE. 

This  little  poem,  wMch  first  appeared  under  the  above 
title  in  the  "  Watchman,"  was  written  in  half-mockery 
of  Darwin's  style,  with  its  dulcia  vitia,  but  was  so 
seriously  admired  by  some  of  the  Author's  friends  that 
he  admitted  it  into  the  Appendix  of  his  joint  publication 
with  Lloyd  and  Lamb,  and  afterwards  into  the  edition 
of  1803.  It  was  withdrawn  from  the  edition  of  1828, 
but  re-admitted  by  his  last  Editor  under  the  sportive 
title  of  "  Darwiniana." 


Page  276.— THE  PAINS  OP  SLEEP. 

This  poem  was  first  published,  with  the  *^  Kubla 
Khan,"  in  1816,  with  the  following  notice: — "As  a 
contrast  to  this  vision  I  have  annexed  a  fragment  of  a 
very  difierent  character,  describing  with  equal  fidelity 
the  dream  of  pain  and  disease."  It  has  been  recently 
ascertained  to  have  been  written  in  1803. 


Page  278.— A  HYMN. 

The  manuscript  of  this  poem,  which  is  now  printed 
for  the  first  time,  was  communicated  to  the  Editors  by 
J.  W.  Wilkins,  Esq.,  of  Trinity  Hall,  Cambridge, 
with  the  following  memorandum  : — 

"The  accompanying  autograph,  dated  1814,  and 
addressed  to  Mrs.  Hood,  of  Brunswick- square,  was 
given  not  later  than  the  year  1817,  to  a  relative  of  my 
own,  who  was  then  residing  at  Clifton  (and  was,  at  the 
time  at  which  it  passed  into  his  hands,  an  attendant  on 
Mr.  Coleridge's  lectures,  which  were  in  course  of  delivery 
at  that  place),  either  by  the  lady  to  whom  it  is 
addressed,  or  by  some  other  friend  of  Mr.  Coleridge. 
It  was  subsequently  placed  among  other  papers,  and  its 
existence  was  partially  forgotten,  until  last  year,  when 
it  finally  passed  into  my  hands. 

"  J.  W.  Wilkins." 


342  NOTES. 


Page  279.— SEPAEATION. 


The  fourth  and  last  stanzas  are  from  Cotton's 
Chlorinda,  with  very  slight  alteration. 

Page  2S0.— ON  TAKING  LEAVE  OF ,  1817. 

"To  Mary  Morgan  and  Charlotte  Brent.  Nov.,  1817, 
St.  James's  Square,  Bristol."— S.  T.  C. 

Page  283.— YOUTH  AND  AGE. 

There  has  been  more  difficulty  in  the  chronological 
arrangement  of  this  last  section  than  in  either  of  the 
preceding.  It  has  been  found  impossible  to  ascertain 
the  date  of  ' '  Alice  du  Clos, "  and  of  some  of  the  others  ; 
but  it  was  thought  best  to  include  them  in  the  last 
division,  as  they  were  so  placed  in  the  edition  of  1834. 
As  a  whole,  they  possess  a  distinct  character  which 
certainly  belongs  to  the  Poet's  "later  life."  With 
respect  to  the  date  of  the  admired  composition  ' '  Youth 
and  Age,"  memories  and  opinions  differ.  It  is  the  im- 
pression of  the  writer  of  this  note  that  the  first  stanza, 
from  "Verse,  a  breeze,"  to  "liv'd  in't  together,"  was 
produced  as  late  as  1824,  and  that  it  was  subsequently 
prefixed  to  the  second  stanza,  "Flowers  are  lovely," 
which  is  said  to  have  been  composed  many  years  before. 
It  appears,  from  the  Author's  own  statement,  already 
quoted,  that  the  last  verse  was  not  added  till  1827,  to 
which  period  the  poem,  considered  as  a  whole,  may  very 
well  be  assigned. 

Page  322. -TRANSLATED  FROM  SCHILLER. 

The  originals  of  Count  Stolberg's  poem,  of  which  the 
lines  on  a  Cataract  are  an  expansion,  of  Schiller's 
Homeric  and  Ovidian  couplets,  of  Mathisson's  Hende- 
casyllables,  freely  translated  .in  the  same  metre,  page 
247,  and  of  the  poem  of  Frederica  Bruun,  which  is 
supposed  to  have  suggested  the  Hymn  in  the  Yale  of 
Chamouni,  are  here  given  as  follows  : — 


NOTES.  343 

Unsterblicher  Jiingling ! 

Der  stromest  hervor 

Aus  der  Felsenklufc. 

Kein  sterblicher  sah 

Die  "Wiege  des  Starken  ; 

Es  horte  kein  Ohr 

Das  ]jallen  des  Edlen  im  spinidelnden  Quell 

Dich  kleidet  die  Sonne 

In  Strahlen  des  Rulimes  ! 

Sie  mahlet  mit  Farben  des  himmlischeu  Bogens 

Die  schwebenden  Wolken  der  staubendeu  Fluth. 


DER   EPISCHE  HEXAMETER. 


Schwindelnd  tragt  er  dich  fort  anf  rastlos  stromenden  Wogen  ; 
Hiuter  dir  siehSt  du,  du  siehst  vor  dir  uur  Himmel  und  Meer. 


DAS  DISTICHON. 


Im  Hexameter  steigt  des  Spring-quells  fliissige  Satile  , 
Im  Pentameter  drauf  fallt  sie  meludisch  herab. 


MILESISCHES  MAHECHEN. 

Ein  milesisches  Mahrciien,  Adonide  ! 

Unter  heiligeu  Lorbeerwipfeln  giauzte 

Hoch  auf  lausclieudem  Vorgcbirg  ein  Tempel. 

Aus  den  Fluthen  erhub,  von  Pan  ge^egnet, 

Im  Gediifte  der  Feme  sich  ein  Eiland. 

Oft,  in  mondlicher  Dammrung,  schwebt'  ein  Nacheu, 

Vom  Gestade  des  heerdeureiclien  Eilands, 

Zur  umwaldeteu  Bucht,  wo  sich  eiu  Steiupfad 

Zwischen  Mirten  zum  TempelhaiM  eniporwaud, 

Dort  im  Rosengebiisch,  der  Huldgottinnen 

Warmorgruppe  geheiligt,  fleht'  olt  einsam 

Eine  I'riesterinu,  reizend  wie  Apelles 

Seine  Grazieu  mahlt,  zum  Sohn  Cythereus, 

Ihren  Kallias  freundlich  zu  umschweben 

Und  durch  Wogel  und  Dunkel  ihu  zu  leiten. 

Bis  der  uachtliche  Schiffer,  wouneschauernd. 

An  den  Busen  ihr  sauk. 


Aus  tiefem  Schatten  des  schweigenden  Tannenhaius  j 

Erblick'  icli  beheuddich,  Scheitel  der  Ewigkeit,  i 

Blendeuder  Gipfol,  von  dessen  HGhe 
Ahndend  mein  Geist  ins  uneudliche  schwebet ! 


344  NOTES. 

Wer  seukte  den  Pfeiler  tief  iu  der  Erde  Schooss, 
Der,  seit  Jabrtausendou,  fest  deiue  Masse  stlitzt  V 
Wer  thurinte  hoch  in  des  Aethers  Wolbung 
Miichtig  und  kiihu  deiu  umstrahltes  Autlitz? 

Wer  goss  Euch  hoch  aus  der  ewigeu.  Winter's  Reich, 
O  Zackeustrome,  mit  fjonuergetus  herab? 
Und  wer  gebietet  laut  mit  der  Allmacht  Stimme ; 
"  Hier  sollen  ruhen  die  starrendeu  Wogen?" 

Wer  zeichnet  dort  dem  Morgensterue  die  Bahn  ? 
Wer  kriiuzt  mit  Bltithen  des  ev/igen  Frostes  Saum? 
Wem  tont  in  scbrecklichen  Harmonieen, 
Wilder  Arveiron  dein  Wogentiimmel  ? 

Jehovah  !  Jehovah  !  kracht's  im  bersteuden  Eis  ; 
Lavinendonner  rolleu's  die  Kluft  hinab : 
Jehovah  rauscht's  in  deu  heileu  "Wipfebi, 
Fliistert's  an  reiselndeu  SUberbachen. 


Page  332. 
"  Gently  I  took  that  which  ungently  came" 
Spenser's    Shepherd's    Calendar.        February     3rd, 


APPENDIX. 


APPENDIX. 


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. 


FAREWELL  TO  LOVE. 


Farewell,  sweet  Love  !  yet  blame  you  not  my  truth 
More  fondly  ne'er  did  mother  eye  her  child 

Than  I  your  form;  yours  were  my  hopes  of  youth, 
And  as  you  shaped  my  thoughts  I  sigh'd  or  smiled. 


348  APPENDIX. 

While  most  were  wooing  wealth,  or  gaily  swerving 
To  pleasure's  secret  haunt,  and  some  apart 

Stood  strong  in  pride,  self-conscious  of  deserving, 
To  you  I  gave  my  whole  weak  wishing  heart. 

And  when  I  met  the  maid  that  realized 

Your  fair  creations,  and  had  won  her  kindness, 

Say  but  for  her  if  aught  in  earth  I  prized  ! 

Your   dreams   alone   I  dreamt,  and  caught  your 
blindness. 

0  grief!  but  farewell  Love !  I  will  go  play  me 
With  thoughts  that  please  me  less,  and  less  betray 


1  YET  remain 

To  mourn  the  hours  of  youth  (yet  mourn  in  vain) 
That  fled  neglected  :  wisely  thou  hast  trod 

The  better  path and  that  high  meed  which  God 

Assign'd  to  virtue,  tow'ring  from  the  dust, 
Shall  wait  thy  rising,  spirit  pure  and  just ! 

God  !  how  sweet  it  were  to  think,  that  all 
Who  silent  mourn  around  this  gloomy  hall 
Might  hear  the  voice  of  joy; — but  'tis  the  will 
Of  man's  great  author,  that,  through  good  and  ill, 
Calm  he  should  hold  his  course,, and  so  sustain 
His  varied  lot  of  pleasure,  toil  and  pain  ! 

I7i)3. 


From  "Letters,"  &c.,  of  S.  T.  Coleridge. 


APPENDIX.  349 


COUNT  EUMFORD'S  ESSAYS. 

These,  Virtue,  are  thy  triumphs,  that  adorn 
Fitliest  our  nature,  and  bespeak  us  born 
For  loftiest  action ; — not  to  gaze  and  run 
From  clime  to  clime;  or  batten  in  the  sun, 
Dragging  a  drony  flight  from  flower  to  flower, 
Like  summer  insects  in  a  gaudy  hour; 
Nor  yet  o'er  lovesick  tales  with  fancy  range, 
And  cry  *'  'Tis  pitiful,  'tis  passing  strange !  " 
But  on  life's  varied  views  to  look  around, 
And  raise  expiring  sorrow  from  the  ground  : — 
And  he  who  thus  hath  borne  his  part  assign'd 
For  the  sad  fellowship  of  human  kind. 
Or  for  a  moment  soothed  the  bitter  pain 
Of  a  poor  brother — has  not  lived  in  vain. 


In  my  calmer  moments  I  have  the  firmest  faith  that  all 
things  work  together  for  good.  But  alas  !  it  seetus  a  long  and 
a  dark  process. 

The  early  year's  fast-flying  vapours  stray 
In  shadowing  trains  across  the  orb  of  day; 
And  we,  poor  insects  of  a  few  short  hours, 
Deem  it  a  world  of  gloom. 
Were  it  not  better  hope,  a  nobler  doom, 
Proud  to  believe,  that  with  more  active  powers, 
On  rapid  many-coloured  wing. 
We  thro'  one  bright  perpetual  spring 
Sball  hover  round  the  fruits  and  flowers, 
Screen'd   by  those   clouds,  and   cherish'd   by  those 
showers  1 

179(5. 


350  APPENDIX. 


TO  THE  REV.  W.  J.  H., 

WHILE     TEACHING    A    YOUNG     LADY    SOME    SONG-TCJNES    ON    HI3 
FLUTE. 


Hush,  ye  clamorous  Cares  !  be  mute ! 

Again,  dear  Harmonist!  again 
Thro'  the  hollow  of  thy  flute 

Breathe  that  passion-warbled  strain  : 
Till  Memory  each  form  shall  bring 

The  loveliest  of  her  shadowy  throng; 
And  Hope,  that  soars  on  skylark  wing, 

Carol  wild  her  gladdest  song. 


0  skill'd  with  magic  spell  to  roll 

The  thrilling  tones,  that  concentrate  the  soul ! 

Breathe  thro'  thy  flute  those  tender  notes  again, 
While  near  thee  sits  the  chaste-eyed  Maiden  mild; 

And  bid  her  raise  the  Poet's  kindred  strain 
In  soft  impassiou'd  voice,  correctly  wild. 


In  Freedom's  Undivided  dell, 

Where  Toil  and  Health  with  mellow'd  Love  shall  dwell, 

Far  from  Folly,  fiir  from  men. 

In  the  rude  I'omantic  glen, 

Up  the  chff,  and  thro'  the  glade, 

Wand'ring  with  the  dear,  loved  maid, 

I  shall  listen  to  the  lay 

And  ponder  on  thee  far  away  ! 

Still,  as  she  bids  these  thrilling  notes  aspire 

"  Making  my  fond  attuned  heart  his  lyre" 

Thy  houor'd  form,  my  Friend,  shall  re-appear. 

And  I  will  thank  thee  with  a  raptur'd  teax-. 

179G. 


APPENDIX. 
TO  A  PRIMROSE. 

THE   FIRST   SEEN   IN   THE   SEASON. 

"nitens  et  roboris  expers 
Turget  et  insolida  est :  at  spe  delectat. " — Ovid. 

Thy  smiles  I  note,  sweet  early  flower, 
That,  peeping  from  thy  rustic  bower, 
The  festive  news  to  earth  dost  bring, 
A  fragrant  messenger  of  Spring ! 

But,  tender  blossom  !  why  so  pale] 
Dost  hear  stern  Winter  in  the  gale  1 
And  didst  thou  tempt  the  ungentle  sky 
To  catch  one  vernal  glance  and  die  ] 

Such  the  -wan  lustre  sickness  wears, 
When  health's  first  feeble  beam  appears; 
So  languid  are  the  smiles  that  seek 
To  settle  on  the  careworn  cheek. 

When  timorous  hope  the  head  uprears. 

Still  drooping  and  still  moist  with  tears, 
If  through  dispei-sing  grief  be  seen 
Of  bliss  the  heavenly  spark  serene. 


171 


ON  THE  CHRISTENING  OF  A  FRIEND'S 
CHILD. 

This  day  among  the  faithful  placed, 

And  fed  with  fontal  manna, 
O  with  maternal  title  graced, 

Dear  Anna's  dearest  Anna  ! 


352  APPENDIX. 

While  others  wish  thee  wise  and  fair, 

A  maid  of  spotless  fame, 
I'll  breathe  this  more  compendious  prayer,- 

May'st  thou  deserve  thy  name  ! 

Thy  mother's  name — a  potent  spell, — 

That  bids  the  virtues  hie 
From  mystic  grove  and  living  cell, 

Confess'd  to  Fancy's  eye  ; — 

Meek  quietness  without  ofience ; 

Content  in  homespun  kirtle  ; 
True  love ;  and  true  love's  innocence,. 

White  blossom  of  the  myrtle  ! 

Associates  of  thy  name,  sweet  child  ! 

These  virtues  may'st  thou  win  ; 
With  face  as  eloquently  mild 

To  say,  they  lodge  within. 

So,  when,  her  tale  of  days  all  flown, 
Thy  mother  shall  be  mist  here ; 

When  Heaven  at  length  shall  claim  its  own, 
And  angels  snatch  their  sister. 

Some  hoary -headed  friend  perchance 

May  gaze  with  stifled  breath. 
And  oft,  in  momentary  trance, 

Forget  the  waste  of  death. 

Even  thus  a  lovely  rose  I  view'd. 

In  summer-swelling  pride ; 
Nor  mark'd  the  bud,  that,  green  and  rude, 

Peep'd  at  the  rose's  side. 

It  chanc'd  I  pass'd  again  that  way 

In  autumn's  latest  hour. 
And  wond'ring  saw  the  self-same  spray 

Rich  with  the  self-same  flower. 


APPENDIX. 

Ah  !  fond  deceit  !  the  rude,  green  bud, 

Alike  in  shape,  place,  name, 
Had  bloom'd  where  bloom'd  the  parent  stud, 

Another,  and  the  same  ! 

17 


MUTUAL  PASSION. 

ALTERED  ANT)   MODERNIZED   FROM   AN   OLD  POET. 

[  LOVE  and  he  loves  me  again. 

Yet  dare  I  not  tell  who  : 
For  if  the  nymphs  should  know  my  swain, 
I  fear  they'd  love  him  too. 
Yet  while  my  joy's  unknown, 
Its  rosy  buds  are  but  half  blown  ; 
What  no  one  with  me  shares,  seems  scarce  my  own. 

I'll  tell,  that  if  they  be  not  glad, 

They  yet  may  envy  me ; 
But  then,  if  I  grow  jealous  mad. 
And  of  them  pitied  be, 

'Twould  vex  me  worse  than  scorn  ! 
And  yet  it  cannot  be  forborne, 
Unless  my  heart  would  like  my  thoughts  be  torn. 

He  is,  if  they  can  find  him,  fair 
And  fresh,  and  fragrant  too  ; 
As  after  rain  the  summer  air, 
And  looks  as  lilies  do, 

That  are  this  morning  blown  ! 
Yet,  yet  I  doubt,  he  is  not  known, 
Yet,  yet  I  fear  to  have  him  fully  shown. 

But  he  hath  eyes  so  large  and  bright. 

Which  none  can  see  and  doubt 
That  Love  might  thence  his  torches  light 

Tho'  Hate  had  put  them  out ! 


S54  APPENDIX. 

But  then  to  raise  my  fears, 
His  voice — what  maid  so  ever  hears 
Will  be  my  rival,  tho'  she  have  but  ears. 

ril  tell  no  more  !  yet  I  love  him. 

And  he  loves  me ;  yet  so. 
That  never  one  low  wish  did  dim 
Our  love's  pure  light,  I  know — 
In  each  so  free  from  blame 
That  both  of  us  would  gain  new  fame 
If  love's  strong  fears  would,  let  me  tell  his  name. 

From  the  edition  of  1817. 


FROM  A  YOUNG  LADY. 

She  had  lost  her  sUver  thimble,  and  her  complaint  being 
accidentally  overheard  by  him,  her  friend,  he  immedi- 
ately sent  her  four  others  to  take  her  choice  of. 

As  oft  mine  eye  with  careless  glance 

Has  gallop'd  through  some  old  romance. 

Of  speaking  Birds,  and  Steeds  with  wings. 

Giants  and  Ihvarfs  and  Fiends  and  Kings  ;. 

Beyond  the  rest  with  more  attentive  care 

I've  lov'd  to  read  of  elfin-favor'd  Fair — 

How  if  she  long'd  for  aught  beneath  the  sky 

And  suffered  to  escape  one  votive  sigh. 

Wafted  along  on  viewless  pinions  aery 

It  lay'd  itself  obsequious  at  her  Feet ! 

Such  things,  I  thought,  one  might  not  hope  to  meet 

Save  in  the  dear  delicious  land  of  Faery  ! 

But  now  (by  proof  I  know  it  well) 

There's  still  some  peril  in  free  wishing — 

Politeness  is  a  licensed  spell, 

And  you,  dear  Sir  !  the  arch-magiciau. 


APPENDIX.  355 

You  much  perplex'd  me  by  the  various  set. 

They  were  indeed  an  elegant  quartette  ! 

My  mind  went  to  and  fro,  and  wavei-'d  icng : 

At  length  I've  chosen  (Samuel  thinks  me  wrong) 

That,  around  whose  azure  rim 

Silver  figm-es  seem  to  swim, 

Like  fleece-Avhite  clouds,  that  on  the  skiey  Blue, 

Waked  by  no  breeze,  the  self-same  shapes  retain  ; 

Or  Ocean  Nymphs,  with  limbs  of  snowy  hue^ 

Slow-floating  o'er  the  calm  cerulean  plain. 

Just  such  a  one,  mon  cher  ami, 

(The  finger-shield  of  industry) 

Th'  inventive  Gods,  I  deem,  to  Pallas  gave 

What  time  the  vain  Arachne,  madly  brave, 

Cballeng'd  the  blue-eyed  Virgin  of  the  sky 

A  duel  in  embroider'd  work  to  try. 

And  hence  the  thimbled  finger  of  grave  Pallas 

To  th'  erring  needle's  point  was  more  than  callous. 

But  ah  the  poor  Arachne  !     She  unarm'd, 

Blundering  thro'  hasty  eagerness,  alarm'd 

With  all  a  RivaVs  hopes,  a  Mortal's  fears, 

Still  miss'd  the  stitch,  and  stain'd  the  web  with  tears. 

Unnumber'd  punctures  small  yet  sore 

Full  fretfully  the  maiden  bore, 

Till  she  her  lily  finger  found 

Crimson'd  with  many  a  tiny  wound ; 

And  to  her  eyes,  suffus'd  with  watery  woe, 

Her  flower-embroider'd  web  danced  dim,  I  wist, 

Like  blossom'd  shrubs,  in  a  quick-moving  mist  ; 

Till  vanquish'd  the  despairing  maid  sunk  low. 


0  Bard  !  whom  sure  no  common  Muse  inspires, 

1  heard  your  Verse  that  glows  with  vestal  fires  : 
And  I  from  unwatch'd  needle's  erring  point 
Had  surely  sufiFer'd  on  each  finger-joint 

Those  wounds  which  erst  did  poor  Arachne  meet 
While  he,  the  much-loved  object  of  my  choice, 
(My  bosom  thrilling  with  enthusiast  heat) 
Pour'd  on  mine  ear  with  deep  impressive  voice 


356  APPENDIX. 

Eow  the  great  Prophet  of  the  Desart  stood, 

And  preach'd  of  Peuiteuce  by  Jordan's  Flood  : 

On  War ;  or  else  the  legendary  lays 

In  simplest  measures  hymu'd  to  Alla's  praise; 

Or  what  the  Bard  from  his  heart's  inmost  stores 

O'er  his  Friend's  grave  in  loftier  numbers  pours ; 

Yes,  Bai'd  Polite  !  you  but  obey'd  the  laws 

Of  Justice,  when  the  thimble  you  had  sent; 

"What  wounds  your  thought-bewildering  Muse  might 

cause, 
'Tis  well  your  finger-shielding  gifts  prevent. 

Sara.* 
1796. 


TRANSLATION  OF  A  PASSAGE  IN  OTTFRIED'S 
METRICAL  PARAPHRASE  OF  THE  GOSPELS. 

"  This  paraphrase,  written  about  the  time  of  Charlemagne, 
is  by  no  means  deficient  in  occasional  passages  of  considei-- 
able  poetic  merit.  There  is  a  flow  and  a  tender  enthusiasm 
in  the  following  lines  (at  the  conclusion  of  chap,  v.),  which, 
oven  in  the  translation,  will  not,  I  flatter  myself,  fail  to 
interest  the  reader.  Ottfried  is  describing  the  circumstances 
immediately  following  the  birth  of  our  Lord."— Biog.  Lit., 
vol.  i.,  p.  203. 

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  infant  Saviour  kiss'd ; 
And  blessed,  blessed  was  the  mother 
Who  wrapp'd  his  limbs  in  swaddling  clothes, 
Singing  placed  him  in  her  lap, 

*  There  can  be  httle  doubt  that  this  jeu  d'esprit,  notwith- 
.standing  its  title  and  signature,  was  in  whole  or  in  part  the 
production  of  the  youthful  poet  to  whom  it  was  addressed. 
Arachne's  thimble  is  represented  as  protecting  the  finger 
from  the  poi7it,  not  the  head  of  the  needle.  This  at  least  is 
.surely  a  masculine  conception. — D.  C. 


APPENDIX.  357 

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  babe  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. 

1810. 

"  Most  interesting  is  it  to  consider  the  effect,  when  the 
feelings  are  wrought  above  the  natural  pitch  by  the  belief 
of  something  mysterious,  while  aU  the  images  are  purely 
natural ;  then  it  is  that  religion  and  poetry  strike  deepest." — 
B.  L.,  vol.  i.,  p.  204. 


ISRAEL'S  LAMENT. 

ON    THE    DEATH    OF    THE    PRINCESS    CHARLOTTE  OF  WALES. 
FROM   THE   HEBREW   OF   HYMAN   HURWITZ. 

MouRK,  Israel  !  sons  of  Israel,  mourn  ! 

Give  uttei'ance  to  the  inward  throe, 
As  walls,  of  her  first  love  forlorn. 

The  virgin  clad  in  robes  of  woe  ! 

Mourn  the  young  mother  suatch'd  away 
From  light  and  life's  ascending  sun  ! 

Mourn  for  the  babe,  death's  voiceless  prey, 
Earn'd  by  long  pangs,  and  lost  ere  won ! 


358  APPENDIX. 

Mourn  the  bright  rose  that  bloora'd  and  went, 
Ere  half  disclos'd  its  vernal  hue  1 

Mourn  the  green  bud,  so  rudely  rent, 
It  brake  the  stem  on  which  it  grew ! 

Mourn  for  the  universal  woe. 

With  solemn  dirge,  and  falt'ring  tongue: 
For  England's  Lady  is  laid  low. 

So  dear,  so  lovely,  and  so  young  ! 

The  blossoms  on  her  tree  of  life 

Shone  with  the  dews  of  recent  bliss  ! 

Translated  in  that  deadly  strife 
She  plucks  its  fruit  in  Paradise. 

Mourn  for  the  prince,  who  rose  at  morn 
To  seek  and  bless  the  firstling  bud 

Of  his  own  rose,  and  found  the  thorn, 
Its  point  bedew'd  with  tears  of  blood. 

Mourn  for  Britannia's  hopes  decay'd  ! 

Her  daughters  wail  their  dear  defence, 
Their  fair  example,  prostrate  laid, 

Chaste  love,  and  fervid  innocence ! 

0  Thou  !  who  mark'st  the  monarch's  path, 

To  sad  Jeshurun's  sons  attend  ! 
Amid  the  lightnings  of  thy  wrath 

The  showers  of 'consolation  send  ! 

Jehovah  frowns  ! — The  Islands  bow, 
And  prince  and  people  kiss  the  rod  ! 

Their  dread  chastising  judge  wert  thou — 
Be  thou  their  comforter,  0  God ! 


181/ 


BEADBURY    AND  EVANS,    PRINTERS,    WHITEFRIARS. 


rti  Coleridge,   Samuel  Taylor 

4478  Poems     A  new  ed. 

Al 
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