CORNELL UNIVERSITY LIBRARY BOUGHT WITH THE INCOME OF THE SAGE ENDOWMENT FUND GIVEN IN 1891 BY HENRY WILLIAMS SAGE Date Due AUG i- 1 I; g5. hn 3 '4£ OCT 3 NOV 3 3^ 1 FEB- rrr is&^A k¥m^ .^^ mn^.^w^:^- (XfTaa PR 4472.T46"'" ""'"'■"•*' '""'"'^ Selections from the poems of Samuel Tayl 3 1924 013 465 137 Cornell University Library The original of tliis book is in tine Cornell University Library. There are no known copyright restrictions in the United States on the use of the text. http://www.archive.org/details/cu31924013465137 Knglish Romantic Poets Selections from the Poems of "Samuel Taylor Coleridge CAMBRIDGE UNIVERSITY PRESS C. F. CLAY, Manager fLDttHon: FETTER LANE, E.C. ESinblttsI) : loo PRINCES STREET j^elji Snrft: G. P. PUTNAM'S SONS BomiBE, (iralculta an* iWalrtSB: MACMILLAN AND CO., Ltd. Toronto: J. M. DENT AND SONS, Ltd. SrokEo: THE MARUZEN-KAEUSHIKI-KAISHA All rights reserved Selections from the Poems of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Edited by A. Hamilton Thompson, m.a., f.s.a. Cambridge : at the University Press 1916 K.3i» 4=107 PREFACE THE poems included in this selection and arranged, as far as possible, in chronological order, represent the best of Coleridge's work. The difference of level in his poetry is much more noticeable than is the case with the other poets of the Romantic movement, and the supreme excellence in their unapproachable manner of The Ancient Mariner and his purely romantic fragments has cast into the shade much of the reflective verse in which he embodied his most characteristic thought. It has therefore been thought fit to make a fairly copious selection from those poems in blank verse which exhibit him in his .closest relation to his friend Wordsworth, and, if they fall short of the dignity and sustaining power of Wordsworth's poetry, are remarkable for their pervading sense of natural beauty and their singular autobio- graphical interest. Special acknowledgment must be made to the editions of Coleridge's poems by the late Mr J. Dykes Campbell and by Mr E. H. Coleridge, which have been constantly consulted, and, among the abun- dant literature of the subject, to Mr Dykes Campbell's invaluable Life of Coleridge. My wife has also given me much help and advice with regard both to the selection of poems and the notes. A. H. T. South Place Gretton, Northants April 1916 CONTENTS PAGE Principal Dates in the Life of Coleridge . viii Introduction . xiii Selections : To the Author of ' The Robbers ' . . i Lines on a Friend i To the Rev. W. L. Bowles .... 3 Lines composed while climbing the left ascent of Brockley Coomb 4 The Eolian Harp 5 v This Lime-tree bower 'my prison . 7 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner . .11 Selections from Christabel 38 Lewti, or the Circassian Love-chaunt . 51 1^ France: an ode 54 t' Frost at Midnight 59 " Among the Quantocks (from Fears in Solitude) 61 — Nightingales at Stowey (from The Nightingale) 64 ^ Kubla Khan 66 '^ Love 68 Dejection : an ode ...... 72 Hymn before Sun-risis, in the vale of Chamouni 78 CONTENTS VU Selections [continue^ : page Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath . . 8i The Pains of Sleep 82 To Wordsworth 84 The Visionary Hope 86 A Tombless Epitaph 88 The Knight's Tomb 89 Fancy in Nubibus, or the Poet in the Clouds 90 Youth and Age 90 First Advent of Love 92 Work without Hope 93 Epitaph ... .... 94 Notes 95 Index to Notes 157 T. c. PRINCIPAL DATES IN THE LIFE OF COLERIDGE 1772, 21 Oct. Born at the vicarage, Ottery St Mary, Devon. 1781, 4 Oct. Deathofhisfather, the Rev. John Coleridge. 1782, 18 July. Enters the junior school of Christ's hospital at Hertford, proceeding to Christ's hos- pital in Sept. 1791, Oct. Goes into residence at Jesus college, Cam- bridge. 1793. Nov. Runs away from Cambridge, enlisting on 2 Dec. in the King's regiment of light dragoons under the name of SUas Tomkyn Comberbacke. 1794, April. Returns to Cambridge after discharge from the army. 1794, June. Visits Oxford and meets Southey. Begin- ning of the scheme of pantisocracy, developed in a visit to Southey at Bristol during Aug. and Sept. 1794, Oct. Pubhcation of The Fall of Eobespierre by Coleridge [and Southey] at Cambridge. 1794. Dec. Leaves Cambridge without taking a degree. 1795. Jan. Lodges at 48, College street, Bristol, with Southey and George Burnett. Bristol still his head-quarters after the abandon- ment of pantisocracy in the summer of 1795. 1795. 4 Oct. Marries Sarah Fricker at St Mary Redcliffe, Bristol. Goes for a short time to Clevedon, returning to lodgings on Redchffe hill, Bristol. PRINCIPAL DATES IN THE LIFE OF COLERIDGE IX 1796, Jan. Tour in the midlands and north to obtain subscribers for The Watchman. PubUcation of Poems on various subjects. Birth of Hartley Coleridge. Charles Lloyd joins Coleridge's household about this time. The Coleridges and Lloyd remove to Nether Stowey. Visit to Wordsworth at Racedown, Dorset. Second edition of Poems on various subjects, with poems by Lamb and Lloyd added. Visit of William and Dorothy Wordsworth to Stowey, where I-amb joins the party later. The Wordsworths settle at Alfox- den in the middle of July. Osorio completed and rejected at Drury lane. Beginning of The Ancient Mariner on a walk from Stowey to Watchet. Christa- bel probably begun shortly after. Coleridge visits Shrewsbury as a candidate for the -ministry of the unitarian chapel, and meets Hazlitt. Resigns his candi- dature on receiving the oiler of an annuity of ;f 150 from Josiah and Thomas Wedgwood (withdrawn by Josiah, the surviving brother, in 181 2). 1798, spring. Breaking of the friendship of Coleridge with Lloyd, resulting in a temporary rupture with Lamb. Composition of Kubla Khan. 1798, 14 May. Birth ofBerkeley Coleridge (died 1799, Feb.). 1798, midsummer. The Wordsworths leave Alfoxden. 1798, Sept. Publication of Lyrical Ballads. Coleridge leaves Stowey and goes to Germany with the Wordsworths and John Chester, a friend from Stowey, on 14 Sept. 1798, Oct.-i799, Feb. Resides at Ratzeburg, near Liibeck. 62 1796, spring. 1796, 19 Sept. 1796, 30 Dec. 1797. June. I797i summer. 1797. 2 July. 1797, autumn. 1797, 13 Nov. 1797, Dec. X PRINCIPAL DATES IN THE LIFE OF COLERIDGE 1799. Feb.-24 June. Resides at Gottingen, from which he returns to England. 1799, Oct., Nov. Visits Wordsworth at Sockburn, co. Durham. Tour in the Lake country. Wordsworth settles at Grasmere in Dec. 1799, Nov. Goes to London as political correspondent of The Morning Post. 1799, Dec.-i8oo, Feb. Resides with Mrs Coleridge at 21, Buckingham street. Strand: from the end of Feb. for some weeks with the Lambs at Pentonville. 1800, April. Wallenstein (translated from Schiller) com- pleted for publication at Grasmere. 1800, 24 July. Beginning of residence at Greta hall, Keswick, continuing, with intervals of increasing length, till Dec, 1803. 1800, 14 Sept. Birth of Derwent Coleridge. 1801, Jan. Publication of the second edition of Lyrical Ballads (dated 1800). 1802, 23 Dec. Birth of Sara Coleridge (married her cousin, H. N. Coleridge, 1829). 1803, summer. Reprint of the Poems of 1796 and 1797. 1803, 14 Aug.-i5 Sept. Tour in Scotland, begun with the Words worths. 1804, 9 April. Sails for Malta. Arrives on 18 May: from 6 July acts as private secretary to the civil commissioner, sir Alexander Ball, and in 1805, Jan.-Sept., as temporary public secretary. 1805, 21 Sept. Leaves Mcdta for Naples, proceeding to Rome in 1806, Jan. 1806, 18 May. Leaves Rome, arriving at Portsmouth, II August. 1806, Dec.-i8o7, Feb. At Coleorton, Leices., with the Wordsworths. In 1807, Jan., Words- worth recites The Prelude to Coleridge. 1807, June-Sept. Visit to Thomas Poole at Stowey. At Bristol, Sept.-Nov. PRINCIPAL DATES IN THE LIFE OF COLERIDGE XI 1808, Feb.-June. Lectures in London. 1808, Sept.-i8io, Oct. In the Lake country, residing with the Wordsworths at Allan bank, Grasmere, and with his family and the Southeys at Greta hall in the summer and autumn of 18 10. 180Q, I June. First number of The Friend : a literary, moral, and political weekly paper pub- lished at Penrith. The last number (xxvii) published 15 March 1810. 1810, Oct. Goes to London with Basil Montagu. Beginning of estrangement from Words- worth, due to Montagu's tactlessness. 18 10, 3 Nov. Beginning of residence with the Morgans at 7, Portland place, Hammersmith. 181 1, 18 N0V.-1812, 27 Jan. Delivery of the seventeen lectures on Shakespeare at the rooms of the London philosophical society in Crane court. Fetter lane. [These were delivered without notes. J. P. Collier printed his notes taken in shorthand in 1856, and these and other notes were collected in one vol. by T. Ashe, 1883.] 1812, Feb.-April. At Greta hall. Returns to the Morgans at 71, Bemers street. » 1 812, 19 May-5 June. Second course of lectures on the drama at Willis's rooms. 1 81 2, summer. Osorio rewritten under the title Remorse and accepted at Drury lane. 1812, 3 N0V.-1813, 26 Jan. Third course of lectures at the Surrey institution. 1813, 23 Jan. Remorse successfully produced at Drury lane. 1813, Oct. Goes to Bristol to lecture. Delivers three courses between 28 Oct. and 1814, 14 April, and remains at Bristol till Sept. 1814, Sept. With the Morgans at Ashley, near Box, Wilts. xii PRINCIPAL DATES IN THE LIFE OF COLERIDGE 1814, N0V.-1816, March. At Calne, Wilts. Composition of Zapolya and preparation of Sibylline Leaves and Biographia Literaria for the Press. 1816, 14 April. Beginning of residence as a patient with the Gillmans at the Grove, Highgate. 1816, June. Publication of Christabel, Kubla Khan, and The Pains of Sleep. 1816, Sept.-Nov. Visit to Muddiford, near Christchurch, Hants., from which he returns to Highgate. 1817, spring. Publication of Sibylline Leaves and Bio- graphia Literaria. 1817, Christmas. Publication of Zapolya. 1818. The Friend pubUshed in an entirely remodelled form. 1818, 27 Jan. Beginning of a new course of lectures on Shakespeare, etc., in Flower-de-Luce court. Fetter lane, leading to friendship with Thomas AUsop. 1818, Dec. Beginning of last courses of lectures, on the History of philosophy and six plays of Shakespeare, at the Crown and Anchor tavern. Strand. 1822, Dec.-i823, Feb. Visit of Mrs Coleridge and Sara to Highgate. 1825, summer. Publication of Aids to Reflection. 1825. Elected as a royal associate of the Royal society of literature, with annuity of 100 guineas from the privy purse. 1828, summer. Tour on the Rhine with Wordsworth and his daughter. 1828. Poetical Works published in 3 vols. A later edition in 1829 with considerable dif- ferences, followed by another (ed. H. N. Coleridge) in 1834. 1834, 25 July. Death at Highgate. INTRODUCTION COLERIDGE'S imagination, like that of Words- worth, was quickened to its eariiest stirring by the political revolution of which the Romantic movement was in no small degree the literary counter- part. While he was stiU at Christ's hospital, the destruction of the Bastille roused him to an apostrophe to ' Liberty the soul of Life ' in its conflict with tyranny. Throughout his singular career at Cambridge, and until the beginning of his fruitful association with Wordsworth ^ in 1297, his poetry was to a large extent preoccupied by heterodox speculations in theology and politics. 'Too soon transplanted' from the early influences of his home, he devoted himself with unprejudiced fervour to these new enthusiasms. It was not in his nature, however, to continue long in one stay. As the French revolution progressed, his opinions imderwent constant change. From his disillusionment with Jacobinism he turned with Southey to the vision of a ' pantisocratic ' community to be founded in an earthly paradise on the banks of the Susquehanna. His unitarianism, imbibed from Priestley, was qualified by philosopmcal refinements to which he afterwards gave a definition in a retrospective chapter of Bioerai>hia Lit eraria. Meanwhile, the sonnets of William Lisle Bowles imparted a purely literary influence to his reflective temperament, and the works xiv INTRODUCTION of Berkeley and Da vid Hart ley guided him along his favourite path of metaphysical speculation. His hfe- long craving for love and sympathy inspired him with more than one romantic passion, and the practical outcome of his pantisocratic dreams with Southey at Bristol was his premature and improvident marriage to S arah Frick er. In the early happiness of his honey- moon at Clevedon, he looked forward to an active future in which he would join head, heart, and hand. Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight Of science, freedom, and the truth in Christ. The story of his excursion through England 'in a blue coat and white waistcoat,' soliciting subscriptions for The Watchman, a periodical with the ambitious design that 'all might know the truth, and that the truth might make us free,' has been told by himself in Bio- graphia Literaria with a consciousness of the humorous side of his early enthusiasms. Hazlitt, in a no less famous passage, describing Coleridge's visit to Wem and Shrewsbury in answer to a call to an unitarian pulpit, celebrates the fascination of the voice and power of monologue which, after long years, was recalled by Lamb cis it had enchained his schoolfellows in the cloisters of Christ's hospital. Coleridge's conversational eloquence was throughout life his most valuable asset from a practical point of view. ' Great in his writings,' said Lamb, 'he was greater in his conversation.' It con- vincingly revealed powers of thought and reasoning INTRODUCTION XV which his restlessness and indolence prevented him from clothing in a more permanent form. To some the voice 'like a steam of rich distilled perfumes' and the unction of its owner's sentiments were doubtless intolerable. Others, hypnotised by their attraction, readily opened their homes to the celestial visitant who reasoned so ceaselessly of tr anscendent^ mysteries. As Coleridge's dream of his future as poet and prophet of freedom receded from him, 'that continuous flow of converse, fetched from Helicon or Zion,' still exercised its magic and enabled him to possess the comforts of life on which his hold was otherwise insecure. Coleridge's first volume of poems was published in 1796, during the spring succeeding his marriage. It opened with the Monody to Chatterton, originally written in 1790 and not brought into its final form until 1829, and closed with Religious Musings, in which he proclaimed his ideals in facile blank verse, much indebted to Milton. The assured ease and self-complacency with which he delivered his views, as one of 'the elect of Heaven,' armed with Faith and supplied with vials of "salutary wrath' from 'the renovating wells of Love,' upon the unregenerate foes of Freedom, the monarchs and priests combined against France, are somewhat irritating. Against these, however, must be set his evident sincerity and conyktion of his prophetic missig|i. His vision of the future as the Thousand Years Lead up their mystic dance XVI INTRODUCTION and the mighty dead, 'coadjutors of God,' rise to take their place in the train of returning Love, has, if not actual sublimity, at any rate the true fire of ecstasy. With all its extravagance. Religious Musings contains the germ of much of Coleridge's characteristic thought, the diffusion of God throughout creation, the identifica- tion of the 'omnipresent Mind' with Love, and the gradual attraction of the individual §oul 'from Hope and firmer Faith to perfect Love,' until it is absorbed 'by exclusive consciousness of God' into identification /with Him. Although Coleridge's speculations were hardly upon the lines of historic Christianity, their warmth of devout sentiment was somewhat unusual in a poet so thoroughly permeated as he was at this time (1794) by revolutionary ideals. Some of the shorter 'effusions,' as he chose to call them, among the poems of 1796, prove that his draughts from the wells of Love were stimulants to fierce invective; and his sonnet to Pitt, which appeared in The Morning Chronicle the day before his Religious Musings assumed its first form, might have a place in an smthology of vituperation beside the most outspoken lyrics of Shelley, Swinburne and Victor Hugo. ^ Although the chief subjects of Religious Musings continued to occupy much of Coleridge's thought and conversation to the end of his life, his reputation as a poet was not destined to rest upon his didactic treatment of such high themes.- The Eolian Harp, the firstfruits of his stay at Clevedon, which also appeared in the INTRODUCTION XVU Poems of 1796, was the offspring of his ' young noviciate thought ' under the restraint of softer influences. Lewti, although it bears the date 1794, did not appear in print until 1798, and The Eolian Harp, first of his published poems, bears complete witness to his observation of the outward beauty of Nature and his passive surrender of his imagination to receive its impressions. The somewhat earlier lines composed above Brockley combe are a charming picture of an attractive landscape, but their sentiment is commonplace. At Clevedon, amid unclouded happiness and hope, the witchery of Nature first flung its spell over an imagination as receptive to its charm as the 'subject lute' to the wind that played about his casement. The lines on leaving Clevedon,'' added to the second edition of his Poems in 1797, utter the regret with which he left this place of retirement to prosecute his himianitarian aims; and it is not surprising that, little more than a year after his depar- ture, he returned to seclusion at Nether Stowey, - promising himself ideal happiness in his 'lowly shed' amid the lovely scenery of the Quantocks, in the duties of husband and father, the friendship of Thomas Poole and the companionship, soon to become uncongenial and irksome, of Charles Lloyd. Coleridge is numbered conventionally among the 'L^Jkepoets.' His residence at Keswick, however, was a period from which his poetry never recovered; and the years in which his imagination translated itself into verse with unrestrained freedom were 1797 and XVlll INTRODUCTION 1798, while his head-quarters .were at Stowey. So far as a poet's mind can be bounded by place, Coleridge is the poet of the Quantoc ks. Unlike Shelley, conjuring up the gigantic visions of Alastor on the borders of Windsor forest or the dream-land wonders of The Revolt of Islam in the back-waters of the Thames, Coleridge found immediate inspiration in what lay under his eye. The exqmsite blank verse written at Stowey and among the combes of the Quantocks, with its faithful pictures of local scenery, takes a secondary place beside The Ancient Mariner and Christabel; but even The Ancient Mariner owed something to its inception on a, November afternoon within hearing of the Bristol channel, and the enchanted woodland and castle of Christabel, which were localised in Westmorland only in the second part of the poem, had their counterparts in the thickets and the site of the feudal stronghold on the hUl-side at Stowey. So far did the scenes among which he lived contribute to Coleridge's verse. On the other hand, any beautiful scenery could have exercised the same power under normal conditions. Only a few years later, with equal readiness to appreciate the grander beauties of the Lake country, Coleridge bewailed the suspension of contact between his imagination and the objects which, seen with the outward eye, failed to translate themselves into spiritual shapes and take definite form in poetry. He then recognised that poetic power depends, not on the richness of the concrete material upon which it can be exercised, but on the INTRODUCTION XIX state of the soul to which that material ofifers itself. Stowey and the Quantocks happened to be the nearest visible objects on which his imagination exercised its shaping power in the days before its untrammelled intercourse with Nature was broken by the interference of discontent and ill-health. Long after, on a September morning at Highgate, a memory of the Quantocks, flashing across his brain, brought back for a moment the lost joy of those vanished years and bore fruit in the lines which eventually took shape as Youth and Ag e. the most perfect lyric of his later life. If, however, a particular locahty was not essential to his genius, the friendship of William and Dorothy Wordsworth provided it with an outward stimulus congenial to its action. The date of Coleridge's first meeting with Wordsworth remains uncertain, but the beginning of their intimate friendship was the visit which Coleridge paid to him and his sister at Racedown, near Crewkerne, in Jime, 1797. The attractive power of Coleridge's company was such that, in the following month, the Wordsworths took up their abode at Alfoxden, some three miles west of Stowey. The two poets lived in constant communion, encouraged by the equal mind and ready sympathy of Dorothy. In the history of Uterature That summer, under whose indulgent skies. Upon smooth Quantock's airy ridge we roved Unchecked, or loitered 'mid her sylvan combs, marks the attainment by EngUsh poetry of that fuller XX INTRODUCTION liberty the desire for which had never been wholly lost under the artificial restraint of eighteenth-century fashions. Wordsworth's concentration upon his poetic mission was fortified by the companionship of one to whom poetry was equally a divine and hallowed ministry. Different as their temperaments and fates were, their thought had been moulded by the same influence of passionate sympathy with the awakening [of. European freedom. Each, independently of the [other, had accepted the same theological conception !of Nature and its kinship with humanity. In the conditions under which Lyrical Ballads came into existence, each was, as it were, half of a single soul, supplpng its necessary complement to the other half. I Wordsworth's austerity, to which concrete beauty appealed almost exclusively as material for translation into terms of abstract thought, was met halfway by Coleridge's unrestrained joy in the influence of Nature upon the senses. Further, Wordsworth's contemplative faculty was strengthened and enlarged by association j with a mind more variously stored and more susceptible to new impressions. This restless susceptibility, so enlivening to all who jcame into sjrmpathetic contact with it, was fatal to ' the completeness of Coleridge's work, which, whether in poetry or prose, is a collection of fragments visited by dazzling gleams of imagination, but with long and ineffectual intervals of cloudiness. The light which visited Wordsworth's poetry was by no means steady. INTRODUCTION XXI but to himself, working with an undivided aim, it was always clear; and the result is a compact and shapely body of work which, although there is a remarkable contrast between its passages of sustained inspiration and its tracts of prosaic reflection, is singularly imposing beside Coleridge's legacy of abandoned and imperfect efforts. Much of Coleridge's poetry suffers by its Uke-\ ness to Wordsworth's. Their blank verse, founded oni the same model, is very similar. The tendency to be\ prolix and sententious is as marked in one as the other. ' The spirit, 'plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,' which animated Nature for Coleridge, is identical with the motion and spirit, that impels All thinking things, all objects of all thought. And rolls through all things of Wordsworth. But there can be no question that, while Wordsworth, as in the famous passage just quoted, achieves sublimity in his highest moments of contem- plation, Coleridge, occupied with similar subjects, never i rises to more than a high level of reflective beauty. Religious Musings, a juvenile effort, contains promises of the subUme; but, when Coleridge was on the verge of such unhindered communion with the secrets of Nature as we find in Tintern Abbey, the latest philo- sopher in favour intervened with his Monads or vibratory waves, or some uncongenial simile "stepped in and broke the charm. The splendid opening of the ode France is followed by a succession of passages which, fine k XXll INTRODUCTION though they are from the rhetorical and autobiographical points of view, fall short of the passion of the first stanza. Even where, eis in Dejection, he was most simple and direct, he halted under the sense of impaired power, and the thoughts expressed in that poem were more fully worked out, under the impulse of greater confidence, in Wordsworth's Intimations of Immortality. Thus Coleridge's contemplative poetry, original in itself and fuU of attraction, is in the long run little more han a handmaid to Wordsworth's. But it cannot be too strongly emphasised that, in spite of their year of personal contact and fused identity among the Quantocks, their temperaments were actually dissimilar. Their spirits, when they met, were traveUing in opposite directions. The charms of the eye and ear, the delight in colour and form, a feeling and a love. That had no need pf a remoter charm. By thought supplied, nor any interest Unborrowed from the eye which had haunted Wordsworth's boyhood, had 5delded with abundant recompense to the inward sense of the interfused presence Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns. And the round ocean and the living air. And the blue sky, and in the mind of man. But the "sounding cataract' still haunted Coleridge 'like a passion,' and it can hardly be doubted that much INTRODUCTION XXUl of his time at Stowey was spent in the surrender of his whole being to the influence of impressions from without. His masterpieces in poetry were the fruit of momentsi in which his sense of his mission sat most Hghtly uponj him. His imagination was quickened to its fullest| activity by the pleasures of the eye and ear enjoyed; for their own sake. In such moments his 'shaping spirit,' instead of blending the various forms of Nature into a spiritual whole animgied by one eternal Mind,, gave to each separate form a sharp definiteness and , added to it a new intensity. It has been said already that this special quality of Coleridge's imagination had its influence on Words- worth. Wordsworth indeed suggested the subject and at least two striking passages of The Ancient Manner. The poem was at first a joint attempt, but the essential difference between the two authors induced Wordsworth to leave the partnership at an early stage. Their union in aim is explained by Coleridge at the opening of his famous examination of Wordsworth's poetry in Bio- graphia Liter aria. 'The two cardinal points of poetry,' in their view, were ' the power of exciting the sympathy of the reader by a faithfiil adherence to the truth of nature, and the power of giving the interest of novelty by the modifying colours of imagination.' From the combination of these proceeded the idea of Lyrical Ballads, one division of which was intended to deal with supernatural subjects treated with dramatic realism, while the other was concerned with the simple xxiv INTRODUCTION • subjects of ordinary life. Coleridge undertook to give j the supernatural ' a human interest and a semblance of I truth sufficient to procure for these shadows of imagina- : tion that willing sus pensio n of disbelief for the moment, i which constitutes poetic faith.' Wordsworth's part was ■ to awaken the mind from ' the lethargy of custom ' and i display the inward beauty of the most ordinary and every-day objects. With many schemes before his eyes, Coleridge con- tributed to the first edition of Lyrical Ballads only one poem, The Ancient Mariner. In this, however, he achieved his end with singular completeness. The public interest in supernatural narratives had been stirred a generation earlier by Horace Walpole's Castle of Otranto, the precursor of the 'tale of Terror' which in 1794 had reached its climax in Mrs Radcliffe's The Mysteries of Udolpho. German romanticism had added its powerful influence to the recent development of experiments in the marvellous and at this very time was impelling Scott, a year older than Coleridge, to his earliest work. It was not unnatural that critics should at first rank The Ancient Mariner with other imitations of German romantic poetry. Southey, who ought to have known better, called it ' a Dutch attempt at German sublimity.' Wordsworth found himself obliged, as he imagined, to excuse its appearance, in a revised and improved form, in the second edition of Lyrical Ballads, pointing out its supposed defects, the absence of any distinct character in the Ancient Mariner INTRODUCTION XXV himself, 'either in his profession of Mariner, or as a human being who having been long under the controul of supernatural impressions might be supposed himself to partake of something supernatural,' his entire sub- jection to the action of outer influences, the want of necessary connection between the various events, and the laborious accumulation of imagery. He allowed, however, that its passion was ' everjrwhere true to nature,' that it contained beautiful images and was "expressed with unusual felicity of language,' and, while taking exception to the metre as 'unsuitable for long poems,' acknowledged the mastery with which it was used. To Southey's depreciation. Lamb, although he steadily disliked the miraculous incidents of the poem, gave a point-blank contradiction: 'I call it a right English attempt, and a successful one, to dethrone German sublimity.' He met Wordsworth's criticisms as boldly, especially the first, which was ridiculous in its demand for some professional signs of the Mariner's occupation, and, in its refusal to recognise the supernatural element in his personality, was bUnd to the obvious. 'I am hurt and vexed,' wrote Lamb, 'that you shotild think it necessary, with a prose apology, to open the eyes of dead men that cannot see.' In one point Wordsworth perhaps was justified. The cause and effect which actually are linked together in the poem are not wholly obvious, and its quick transitions, to be thoroughly understood, require some reading between the lines. The beautiful prose commentary which Coleridge added XXVI INTRODUCTION to the margin of later editions of the poem supphed the necessary explanations. But while, in its first state, The Ancient Manner had, as its sole object, the power of exciting sympathy and producing a pleasurable illu- sion of reality, the commentary gave it a philosophical significance which was probably an after-thought arising from the wish to give it a coherent meaning. The Ancient Mariner is a perfect illustration of the influence of imagination upon the natural gift of terse and direct description. The ultimate aim of Coleridge and Wordsworth in Lyrical Ballads was one and the same — the revelation of the beauty and wonder of Nature. While the material upon which each chose to work was different, Wordsworth taking the common objects that lay close to his hand, Coleridge preferring the remote and strange, their methods of expression had much in common. In the preface of 1800 to Lyrical Ballads, Wordsworth formulated his objections to the arbitrary and lawless character of poetic diction, stating that, 'in order to excite rational sympathy,' the poet 'must express himself as other men express themselves.' But, in so doing, he drew a sharp distinction between the laws of diction and those of metre, as if the language of poetry and the form in which it js cast had no dependence on one another. The weaknesses of his theory were exposed by Coleridge in Biographia Literaria and confuted by references to Wordsworth's own poetry, where noble use is made of a poetic diction peculiarly his own. With a lucidity INTRODUCTION XXVll which was the outcome of reasoned conviction, Coleridge established the true connection between metre and language. Metre is the appropriate garment for a diction essentially different from the ordinary language of prose. In clothing simple, and often baldly simple, language with metre, Wordsworth could not escape from the formation of an individual poetic style. In revealing the beauty of common things, it was inevitable that he should give a special colour to his medium of ex- pression, however simple it might be. But Coleridge, working with a firmer grasp of critical principles, and choosing subjects which might excuse the employment of highly coloured and unfamiliar language, was actually as simple in his diction as Wordsworth. If the con- nection between the incidents of The Ancient Mariner is not always clear, the style in which they are told is as clear and succinct as any prose narrative. It would be idle to cite examples. The poem is a series of pictures drawn with a masterly economy of material. Coleridge describes what he sees with the eye of imagination, suppressing everything which would tend to impair or obscure the reality of the vision. The entire success of his method may be illustrated by contrast. It would be possible, on the one hand, to tell the story of The Ancient Mariner in the characteristic couplet of the eighteenth century, with a free use of that artificial diction which was the real object of Wordsworth's distinction between the language of poetry and of every-day life. In such a case, the picture XXVIU INTRODUCTION Merrily did we drop Below the kirk, below the hill. Below the lighthouse-top would translate itself into some such form as With careless hearts our voyage we pursue : The land recedes, the church is lost to view. The mounting distance hides the hill from sight. And last, the beacon veils its glimmering light. Or, on the other hand, the story might be told in prose with little alteration. 'As we sailed on cheerfully we seemed to drop below the church, then below the hill, and last, below the summit of the lighthouse.' In the first case, metre is retained with the addition of a special and formal diction. This, even in the most skilful hands, could add nothing to the picture, while it takes away its most striking element, transferring the real movement of the ship to the apparent movement of the land, a figure thoroughly in keeping with the habits of eighteenth-century poetry. In the second case, where metre disappears, the accuracy of the picture, which was injured by the resort to artificial language, is kept, but all its colour and movement have faded out of it. The quickness and vividness of Coleridge's imagination, identifying itself with the Ancient Mariner as he tells his tale, conjured up scenes of which every detail was as visible as though it lay before his eyes. Its dramatic power gave life and movement to the objects which it created and combined: one after another, it touched them briefly and sufficiently, communicating its magic INTRODUCTION XXIX to each simple word, and clothing them in a metre delicately sensitive to its least demand. It was this influence of imagination over ordinary language and its capacity for evoking the highest music out of the simplest substance that the poetry of the eighteenth century, with its obedience to mechanical laws of fashion, had lost. With high metrical skill of a limited kind, with a diction that drew freely upon an abstract- vocabulary of phrase in whose common forms Nature had lost any real likeness to herself, its thought became common- place and its fount of imagination was dried up. In the poetry of Wordsworth and Coleridge the checked stream began to flow freely again. Stilted conventions of phrase gave way to sincerity, a boundless field was opened to metrical variety, and Nature was seen once more in her vesture of magic radiance. In Tintem Abbey the change received its fullest spiritual explanation, while The Ancient Mariner illustrated its concrete aspect most effectively. Three other poems of Coleridge belong to the same class as The Ancient Mariner. Their incompleteness prevents their being judged in the same way. There was a considerable interval between the composition of the first and second parts of Christabel, and the narrative was abandoned at a critical point, while its development was still uncertain. There can be little doubt that Coleridge's plans for its continuation, as explained by himself, would have been altered as it proceeded, and it is highly probable that no fixed scheme existed in XXX INTRODUCTION his mind. The poem was in the first instance a fairy- tale told for the mere pleasure of telling: its moral, if it had any apart from the natural contrast suggested by the contact of the pure Christabel with the evil Geraldine, was as much an after-thought as the philo- sophical meaning of The Ancient Mariner. As it is, Christabel is left under the dominion of the power of evil, without a hint of her ultimate delivery and, still less, of the reclamation of Geraldine, which, according to Coleridge, was to point the real purpose of the story. Nor is the fragment which remains, full though it is of mysterious beauty, as consistently excellent as The Ancient Mariner. The abandonment of the stanza form for what may be called the paragraph of linked rhymes gives more opportunity for digression and prolixity. While it is inevitable that certain passages of The Ancient Mariner stand out cis supreme exsmiples of imaginative power, such as the perfect union of inward with outward vision in The moonlight steeped in silentness The steady weathercock or the comparison of the flapping of the sails to the voice of the brook 'in the leafy month of June,' there is hardly a passage in the poem which does not display this quality in some striking degree. To select from it would be necessarily to omit some vital part without which its beauty is marred. Christabel, on the other hand, has a much less even surface. The opening of INTRODUCTION XXXI the first part, as far as the appearance of Geraldine, is a piece of flawless description. The bleak and chill night, with its silence broken by the owls, the drowsy crowing of the cock and the baying of the mastiff as the clock strikes the quarters, the shrunken full moon behind 'the thin gray cloud,' the bare forest where naught was green upon the oak But moss and rarest misletoe and ' the one red leaf, the last of its clan ' hangs motionless in the windless air, form a magnificent setting for the encounter of Christabel with the power of witchcraft. But the magic touches which are accumulated so richly in this passage of "wizard twilight' are less frequent in the sequel, and there are sections of it which, but for the romantic spell cast over the poem by the opening scene, are of interest merely as explanatory links in the nairative. Yet, while Christabel possesses and "^ promises a much less level excellence than The Ancient Manner, the originality and freedom of its metrical form, varying its sound and movement in perfect ' obedience to the requirements of thought, combined • with the simplicity of its language, caused it to exercise i a more powerful influence than any other of Coleridge's poems. During the years in which it remained in manu- script, it obtained a celebrity among poets and critics,^ unique in such a case. Scott recognised in it the fasci- nation of the older ballad-poetry, conspicuous in phrases Uke XXXli INTRODUCTION She was most beautiful to see, Like a lady of a far countree, and Christabel became thus the parent of The Lay of the Last Minstrel and the other poetic romances which eventually yielded place to Byron's competition in the same field. And, apart from its literary influence and its other individual qualities, Christabel contains the passage in which Coleridge most perfectly achieved the power, inherent only in the highest poetry, of giving final, because unsurpassable, expression to famUiar forms of human emotion. The description of the severed feiendship between sir Roland and sir Leoline, full of a passion prompted by personal experience, is enough ito give Coleridge a place among the great interpreters of human nature hardly second to that which he occupies bs an interpreter of the mystery of natural shapes and sounds. The brief stanza-poem. Love, with its noble opening and the story of the wdoing of Genevieve by the reading of a tale of chivalrous prowess, was intended to be a prelude to that tale itself with its concomitants of mystery and enchantment. It possesses, however, completeness in itself, while it sketches the general outlines of the story which was to foUow. In his atten- tion to atmosphere and realistic detail, and his power to invest them with a romantic and supernatural interest, Coleridge often forecasts the work of Rossetti and the romantic poets and painters of the mid- Victorian period. ' The statue of the armed knight ' against which Genevieve INTRODUCTION XXXIU leans in the love-laden moonlight, kinder than the cold moonlight' of Christabel, has its own part in the episode, a mute watcher like the tomb of king Arthur in William Morris's poem of the last interview of Launcelot and Guenevere in the orchard at Glaston- bury. The source of Love was, once more, a delight in beauty and a desire to give it expression unmingled with any other motive. This too was the origin ofi Kuhla Khan, confessedly a mere fragment, but a frag-| ment perfect in itself, in which the opening description! is succeeded by a gorgeous passage of romantic embroi-'' dery ending in a tumult of poetic ecstasy. Whatever may have been the true circumstances of its composition, the vision which inspired it bore fruit in one of the most remarkable examples of poetry detached from thQ realities of life and evoking pleasure from a world of unalloyed fancy. , In preparing a selection of Coleridge's poems to be printed at the Kelmscott press, William Morris found that The Ancient Manner, Christabel, Kubla Khan and Love were 'the only ones' that had 'any interest' for him. He made a doubtful exception in favour of the baUad called The Three Graves, ' which at least has some character, thoughrather tainted with Wordsworthianism.' If to these he had added Lewti, which, though an early ^ piece and crude as compared with the others, and the fragment of The Ballad of the Dark Ladii, he would practically have summed up the poems in which Coleridge's individuality as a poet is most clearly XXXIV INTRODUCTION visible. Coleridge's metaphysics and politics diverted his poetry from pursuing a consistent course. Had his devotion to beauty occupied his mind as it occupied that of Keats, instead of manifesting itself uncertainly and fitfully, there can be little doubt that we should have been spared much of the rambling occasional verse which swelled the volume of his work without adding to its value. His departure from Stowey and his wanderings in Germany put an end to a period of production which was only too short. Although the second part of Christabel was yet to come, his poetic power never returned to him again with any constancy. '^His growing indulgence in opium, although the extent to which it clouded a brain which to the end of his life teemed with splendid visions may be disputed, injured his health and ruined any capacity for industry and concentration. No man naturally stood more in need of such a capacity than Coleridge, ever liable to be diverted from one absorbing interest by another. During the early days of his life at Greta hall, he was stimulated to new hope and endeavour by the novelty of the magnificent scenery which surrounded him. But Nature was not to him the all-sustaining food of his inner life which it was to Wordsworth. His softer disposition felt the craving for human sympathy and love which 'the voice of mountain-torrents' could not satisfy, and from the nearest sources of sympathy and love, where they offered themselves in his own family, "^ he had gradually alienated himself. The neighbourhood INTRODUCTION XXXV of the Wordsworths, it is true, provided him with consolation, but the contrast of that quiet and united household with his own dissatisfaction and sense of wasted energy was an irritating rather than a soothing element in his life. If he himself was largely to blame for these misfortunes and became a trial to the patience of his family and friends, it may at least be pleaded in extenuation that he wore out no-one's patience more severely than his own. The ode Dejection, the some- what inappropriate gift with which he hailed Words- worth's marriage, depicts in verse of singular beauty and melancholy insight the mental and physical torpor of this period of his career. At intervals of his later life his poetic gifts returned to him, but never in the shape which they had assumed during his life at Stowey. Beautiful as much of his later work is, its light is the lumiere voiUe of a grey summer evening, and its prevailing spirit is regret, tranquil but constant, for the permanent over-clouding of the hope of youth. In his early days he had attempted drama, and, in addition to the rhetorical The Fall of Robespierre, written in collaboration with Southey, had composed a tragedy, Osorio, and had translated Schiller's The Piccolomini and The Death of Wallenstein with much success. Among the erratic efforts of the years preceding his final retirement to Highgate in 1816, the remodelling of Osorio as Remorse, under which title it was produced at Drury lane in 1813, was the most satisfactory. If the play is more remarkable for the even flow of its XXXVl INTRODUCTION verse than for any passages of striking dramatic power, its story is dramatic, and it contains much that suppHes a commentary upon its author's life and poetry. His second tragedy, Zapolya, is in all respects inferior to Remorse and was rejected for the stage, but had some .success on publication. By this time (1817), Coleridge ' had become an inmate of GUlman's hcSuse in Highgate, where he spent the last eighteen years of his life. The years 1816 and 1817, however, not only mark the end of the long period of wandering which followed his departure from Keswick, but are of definite Uterary importance. It was in 1816 that Christabel and Kubla Khan first appeared in print, and in 1817 the famous collection of his poems, under the appropriate title Sibylline Leaves, and the miscellaneous ■ prose volmne, Biographia Literaria, whose later chapters are one of the classics of English literary criticism, saw the light. Of Coleridge in his closing years, 'looking down on London and its smoke-tumult, like a sage escaped from the inanity of life's battle,' dispensing conversation ■ concerning all conceivable or inconceivable things ' to all who entered 'his Dodona oak-grove,' we possess a vivid, if unsympathetic, description in Carlyle's Life of John Sterling. More laboured, but more gentle, is the admiring account of his nephew, Henry Nelson Coleridge, the preserver and editor of his Table Talk, occasional utterances of wisdom and criticism arrested from the endless monologue with which he fascinated INTRODUCTION XXXVll his visitors as, years before, he had fascinated the young HazUtt. The poet and philosopher had wandered far from his early republicanism and unitarianism, and the thought of his later life bore the greatest fruit in minds which would have recoiled, like his gentle Sara's, from the speculations that startled her in their cottage at Clevedon. But this side of his work does not concern us here, save in so far as his philosophical visions pro- ceeded from the same 'shapfing spirit of Imagination' which wrought into music the dreams of Christabel and The Ancient Mariner. It is by virtue of these poems and their companions, aU too few in number, that Coleridge takes his place among the masters of romantic poetry, and the scantiness of their volume is of no account beside their inexhaustible power to charm and stimulate. It may fairly be said that the spirit of re-awakening Romance in Europe called into activity no poet of greater or more various powers. 'No man,' said Scott in 1818, ' has all the resources of poetry in such profusion, but he cannot manage them so as to bring out anything of his own on a large scale at all worthy of his genius.' The very vastness of his gifts, however, was in itself a temptation to desultoriness and hindered perfectness of execution. Possessing potentially within the compass of his genius the entire riches of romantic poetry, it was only in one perfect poem, and ' in those unfinished scraps of poetry, which, like the Torso of antiquity, defy the skill of his poetical brethren to complete them,' that he displayed individual characteristics beyond the XXXVlll INTRODUCTION reach of imitation. In these, surrendering himself to the spell of 'natural magic,' he became the sole tenant of an atmosphere in which his dreams took shape as^ clear and definite realities invested and transfigured by the phantom gleam of the supernatural. TO THE AUTHOR OF 'THE ROBBERS.' 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 famish'd Father's cry — Lest in some after moment aught more mean Might stamp me mortal ! A triumphant shout Black Horror scream'd, and all her goblin rout Diminish'd shrunk from the more withering scene ! Ah! Bard tremendous in sublimity! Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood i Wandering at^ve with finely-frenzied eye Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood! Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood: Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy ! 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 early youth If gifted with th' Ithuriel lance of Truth LINES ON A FRIEND We force to start amid her feign'd caress 5 Vice, siren-hag ! in native ugUness ; 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, 10 The faithless guest shall stamp the enchanted ground, And mingled forms of Misery rise around: Heart-fretting Fear, with palUd look aghast, That courts the future woe to hide the past ; Rdmorse, the poison'd arrow in his side, 15 And loud lewd Mirth, to Anguish close alUed: Till Frenzy, fierce-eyed child of moping Pain, Darts her hot lightning-flash athwart the brain. Rest, injured shade ! Shall Slande» squatting near Spit her cold venom in a dead man's ear? 20 '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. Nurs'd in thy heart the firmer Virtues grew, 25 And in thy heart they wither'd ! Such chill dew Wan Indolence on each young blossom shed; And Vanity her filmy net-work spread, With eye that roU'd around in asking gaze. And tongue that traffick'd in the trade of praise. 30 Thy follies such ! the hard world mark'd them well ! Were they more wise, the Proud who never fell? LINES ON A FRIEND 3 Rest, injur'd 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, 35 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 assign'd Energic Reason and a shaping mind, 40 The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part. And Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart — Sloth-jaundic'd all ! and from my graspless hand Drop Friendship's precious pearls, like hour-glass sand. I weep yet stoop not ! the faint anguish flows, 45 A dreamy pang in Morning's feverous doze. .* Is this piled earth our Being's passless mound? TeU me, cold grave ! is Death with poppies crown'd ? Tired Sentinel ! mid fitful starts I nod. And fain would sleep, though pillowed on a clod ! 50 TO THE REV. W. L. BOWLES. My heart has thank'd 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 4 TO THE REV. W. L. BOWLES Through Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went : And when the darker day of Ufe began, 6 And I did roam, a thought-bewilder'd man, Their mild and manUest melancholy lent A mingled charm, such as the pang consign'd To slumber, though the big tear it renew'd; lo Bidding a strange mysterious Pleasure brood Over the wavy and tumultuous mind, As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep Mov'd on the darkness of the unform'd deep. LINES composed while climbing the left ascent of Brockley 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 5 That on green plots o'er precipices browze: From the forc'd fissures of the naked rock The Yew-tree bursts ! Beneath its dark green boughs (Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white) Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, 10 I rest: — ^and now have gain'd the topmost site. BROCKLEY COOMB 5 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 : 15 Enchanting spot ! O were my Sara here ! 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-flower'd Jasmin, and the broad-leav'd Myrtle, (Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love !) 5 And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light, Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve Serenely brilUant (such should Wisdom be) Shine opposite ! How exquisite the scents Snatch'd from yon bean-field ! and the world so hush'd ! The stilly murmur of the distant Sea 11 Tells us of silence. And that simplest Lute, Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark ! How by the desultory breeze caress'd. Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover, 13 It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs 6 THE EOLIAN HARP Tempt ±0 repeat the wrong! And now, its strings Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes Over deUcious surges sink and rise. Such a soft floating witchery of sound 20 As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land, Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise, Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untam'd wing! 25 O ! the one Life within us and abroad, Which meets all motion and becomes its soul, A light in sound, a sound-hke power in light. Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every where — Methinks, it should have been impossible 30 Not to love all things in a world so fill'd ; 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 hiU I stretch my limbs at noon, 35 Whilst through my half-clos'd eye-lids I behold The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main, And tranquil muse upon tranquillity; Full many a thought imcall'd and undetain'd. And many idle flitting phantasies, 40 Traverse my indolent and passive brain. As wild and various as the random gales That swell and flutter on this subject Lute! And what if all of animated nature Be but organic Harps diversely fram'd, 45 THE EOLIAN HARP 7 That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze. At once the Soul of each, and God of all? But thy more serious eye a mild reproof Darts, O beloved Woman ! nor such thoughts 50 Dim and unhallow'd 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 disprais'd These shapings of the unregenerate mind; 55 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 ; 60 Who with his saving mercies heal6d me, A sinful and most miserable man. Wilder' d and dark, and gave me to possess Peace, and this Cot, and thee, heart -honour'd Maid! THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON, ADDRESSED TO CHARLES LAMB, OF THE INDIA HOUSE, London. 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 8 THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON Had dimm'd mine eyes to blindness ! They, meanwhile, Friends, whom I never more may meet again, 6 On springy heath, along the hUl-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, lo 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, Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still, 15 Fann'd by the water-fall ! and there my friends Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds. That all at once (a most fantastic sight !) Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge Of the blue clay-stone. 20 Now, my friends emerge Beneath the wide wide Heaven — and view again The many-steepled tract magnificent Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea. With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up The sUp of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles 25 Of purple shadow! Yes! they wander on In gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad. My gentle-hearted Charles! for thou hast pined And hunger' d after Nature, many a year, In the great City pent, winning thy way 30 With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain And strange calamity! Ah! slowly sink THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON 9 Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun! Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb, Ye purple heath-flowers ! richlier bum, ye clouds ! 35 Live in the yeUow 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 40 Less gross than bodily; and of such hues As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makes Spirits perceive his presence. A delight Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad As I myself were there ! Nor in this bower, 45 This little lime-tree bower, have I not mark'd Much that has soothed me. Pale beneath the blaze Hung the transparent foliage; and I watch'd Some broad and sunny leaf, and lov'd to see The shadow of the leaf and stem above 50 Dappling its sunshine ! And that walnut-tree Was richly ting'd, 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 55 Through the late twilight : and though now the bat Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters. Yet still the solitary humble-bee Sings in the bean-flower ! Henceforth I shall know That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure; 60 10 THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON 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, 65 That we may lift the soul, and contemplate With lively joy the joys we cannot share. My gentle-hearted Charles ! when the last rook Beat its straight path along the dusky air Homewards, I blest it ! deeming its black wing 70 (Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light) Had cross'd the mighty Orb's dilated glory. While thou stood'st gazing; or, when all was still. Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a charm For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom 75 No sound is dissonant which tells of Life. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER II THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER IN Seven Parts. Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibiles in rerum universitate. Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit? et gradus et cognationes et discrimina et singulorum munera? Quid agunt? quae loca habitant? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingenium hiunanmn, nunquam attigit. Juvat, interea, non diffiteor, quandoque in animo, tanquam in tabula, majoris et melioris mundi imaginem contemplari : ne mens assuefacta hodiemae vitae minutiis se contrahat nimis, et tota subsidat in pusillas cogitationes. Sed veritati interea invigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut certa ab incertis, diem a nocte, distinguamus. T. Burnet, Archaeol. Phil. p. 68. Argument. How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole; and how from thence she made her course to the tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean ; and of the strange things that befell ; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to his own Country. 12 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER Part I. An ancient It is an anciciit Mariner, Mariner meeteth three Gallants And he stoppeth One of three. bidden to a w'^ding-feast, 'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, one. Now wherefore stopp'st thou me? The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, 5 And I am next of kin ; The guests are met, the feast is set : May'st hear the merry din.' He holds him with his skinny hand, 'There was a ship,' quoth he. 10 'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!' Eftsoons his hand dropt he. The Wedding- Guest is spell- bound by the eye of the old sea-faring man, and constrained to hear his tale. He holds him with his glittering eye — The Wedding-Guest stood still. And listens like a three years' child : 15 The Mariner hath his will. The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone : He cannot choose but hear ; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner, 20 'The ship was cheeredv^he harbour cleared. Merrily did we drop ..T Below the kirk, below the hill. Below the lighthouse-top. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER I3 The Mariner The Suji Came UD UDon the left, 25 tells how the ship r r > j sailed southward Qut of the Sea Came he ! with a good wind tiiut^reach?*"' ^^'~^ ^® shonc bright, and on the right the line. Went down into the sea. Higher and higher every day, 'Till over the mast at noon — ' 30 The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast, For he heard the loud bassoon. The Wedding. The brfde hath paced into the hall. Guest heareth *■ the bridal music; Red as a rosc is she : but the Manner rontinueth his NoddLng their heads before her goes 35 The merry minstrelsy. The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, Yet he cannot choose but hear ; And thus spake on that ancient man, The bright-eyed Mariner. 40 The ship driven • And uow the Storm-blast came, and he by a storm toward the Was t3rrannous and strong : He struck with his o'ertaking wings. And chased us south along. With sloping masts and dipping prow, 45 As who pursued with yeU and blow Still treads the shadow of his foe, And forwcird bends his head, The ship drove past, loud roared the blast. And southward aye we fled. 50 14 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER And now there came both mist and snow, And it grew wondrous cold : And ice, mast-high, came floating by. As green as emerald. The land of ice. And through the drifts the snowy clif ts 55 and of fearful " *^ sounds where no Did Send a dismal sheen : living thing was to be seen. Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — The ice was all between. The ice was here, the ice was there. The ice was aU around : 60 It cracked and growled, and roared and howled. Like noises in a swound ! Till a great sea- At length did CTOss an Albatross, bird, called the ° Albatross, came ThoTOugh the fog it caiuc ; snow-fog, and As if it had been a Christian soul, 65 was received '''*e«^'j°y We hailed it in God's name. and hospitality. 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 ! 70 And lo ! the Albatross rf good omin"! ^''^^ ^ S^^*^ south wiud Sprung up behind ; the sh^Tit*" The Albatross did follow, wtTthrough*" And every day, for food or play, fog and floating Qame to the mariner's hollo ! TH^ RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 15 In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 75 It perched for vespers nine ; Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white. Glimmered the white Moon-shine.' The ancient Mariner in- ' God save thee, ancient Mariner ! kiiietffi ious From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! — 80 Why look'st thou so ? ' — ' With my cross-bow I shot the Albatross. bird of good omen. 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. 83 And the good south wind stiU blew behind. But no sweet bird did follow. Nor any day for food or play Came to the mariners' hollo ! 90 His shipmates cry out against the ancient Mariner, for killing the bird of good luck. And I had done a hellish thing, And it would work 'em woe : For all averred, I had killed the bird That made the breeze to blow. Ah wretch ! ,said they, the bird to slay. That made the breeze to blow ! 95 l6 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER But when the jn^qj- (jjju j^qj- j-ed, like God's own head, fog cleared off, ' SSL^anKs The glorious Sun uprist : make themselves j^y^^ a.11 averrcd, I had killed the bird accomjjlices in ' the crime. j]j^^^ brought the fog and mist. loo 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay, That bring the fog and mist. The fair breeze jjie fair brcezc blew, the white foam flew, contmues; the ^ ship enters the The furrow foUowcd free ; Pacific Ocean, and sails north- -^g y/Qxe the first that ever burst 105 ward, even till it '^ reaches the Line. Jji^o ^Jjat sileut SCa. The ship hath Dowu dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, been suddenly ■*■ * becalmed. 'Twas sad as sad could be ; And we did speak only to break The silence of the sea ! no 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, 115 We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; As idle as a painted ship Upon a painted ocean. And ">e Water, water, every where, Albatross begins "^ to be avenged. And all the boards did shrink ; Water, water, every where. Nor any drop to drink. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 17 The very deep did rot : O Christ ! That ever this should be ! Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 125 Upon the sUmy sea. About, about, in reel and rout The death-fires danced at night ; The water, like a witch's oils, Burnt green, and blue and white. 130 ASpirithad ^^d somc in dreams assured were followed them ; i'n^'ibk L ^^ *^^ Spirit that plagued Us so ; pS"neithM ' Ni"^^ fat^m deep he had followed us no? "igeiirion- F^om the land of mist and snow. ceming whom the learned Jew, Josephiis, and ^...^ ^nttaopoiitS,"' And every tongue, through utter drought. mi?be''con?""'' Was withered at the root ; 136 arl've'ry'^''^'' We could not speak, no more than if rhe"^"rno ^'^ We had been choked with soot. climate or element without one or more. The shipmates, Ah ! wcll a-dav ! what evil looks in their sore -^ fi'nTSow'the'* ^^^ ^ ^^^^ °^^ ^^^ yO^^g ' 140 whole ^iit on Instead of the cross, the Albatross the ancient ^^ whe«rf About my neck was hung. they hang the dead sea-bird round his neck. T. C. l8 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER Part III. There passed a weary time. Each throat Was parched, and glazed each eye. A weary time ! a weary time ! i45 How glazed each weary eye, The ancient When looking westward, I beheld h^wS"a sign in A sometMng in the sky. tlie element At first it seemed a little speck. And then it seemed a mist ; . 15° It moved and moved, and took at last A certain shape, I wist. A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! And still it neared and neared : As if it dodged a water-sprite, 155 It plunged and tacked and veered. At its nearer With throats unslaked, with black lips baked, seinSh him to We could nor laugh nor wail ; at a dear ransom Through utter drought all dumb we stood ! speech from the I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 160 honds of thirst. And cried, A sail ! a sail ! With throats unslaked, with black lips baked. Agape they heard me call : A flash of joy ; Gramercy ! they for joy did grin. And all at once their breath drew in, 165 As they were drinking all. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER IQ And horror See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more ! follows. For * ' ran it be a ship Hither to work US weal ; that comes onward without Without a bieezc, without a tide, wind or tide 7 She steadies with upright keel ! 170 The western wave was all a-flame. The day was well nigh done ! Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright Sun ; When that strange shape drove suddenly 175 Betwixt us and the Sun. It seemeth him And Straight the Sun was flecked with bars, but the skeleton ° of a ship. (Heaven's Mother send us grace !) As if through a dungeon-grate he peered With broad and burning face. 180 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? And its ribs are Are those her ribs through which the Sun 185 seen as bars on ,i_ i. . -, the face of the Did peer, Bs through a grate? setting Sun. The Spectre- And is that Woman all her crew? Sh-male.and Is that a Death? and are there two? wd ?he°" ' Is Death that woman's mate ? skeleton ship. ,. jiii t Like vessel, like H^"^ ^^ps wcre red, her looks were free, 190 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. crew ! 20 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER Death and Life- The naked hulk alongside came, 195 m-Death have ° diced for the And the twain were casting dice ; ship s crew, and " she (the latter) " jjyQ game is done ! I've won ! I've won ! " winneth the *^ ancient Mariner. Quoth she, and whistles thrfce. No twUight The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out : within the courts of the Sun. At one stride comes the dark ; 200 With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea. Off shot the spectre-bark. At the rising of Wc Hstcued End looked sideways up ! the Moon, •' *^ Fear at my heart, as at a cup. My hfe-blood seemed to sip ! 205 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 210 Within the nether tip. One after another. One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, Too quick for groan or sigh, Each turned his face with a ghastly pang. And cursed me with his eye. 215 His shipmates Four timcs fifty Uving men, drop down dead. (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) With heavy thump, a Ufeless lump. They dropped down one by one. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 21 But Life-in- The souls did from their bodies fly — 220 Death begins '' her work on the Thcv fled to bHss Or woe ! ancient Mariner. •' — ^ — And every soul, it passed me by, Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! ' Part IV. The Wedding- ' I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! Guest feareth that a Spirit is I tear thy skinny hand ! talking to him. And thou art long, and lank, and brown. As is the ribbed sea-sand. 225 I fear thee and thy glittering eye. And thy skinny hand, so brown.' — But the ancient ' Fcar not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest ! 230 Mariner assureth ,-,, . ., - , , , , him of his bodily This body dropt not down. life, and pro- ceedeth to relate . , - 11 n i his horrible Alonc, aloue, all, all alone, Alone on a wide wide sea ! And never a saint took pity on My soul in agony. 235 He despiseth The many men, so beautiful ! the creatures of . , ,, „ , ,,.,,. the calm, And they all dead did lie : And a thousand thousand slimy things Lived on ; and so did I. And eovieth I lookcd upon the TOtting sea, 240 that tkey should . - - live, and so And drew my eyes away ; many le a . j j^^^j^g^ upon the rotting deck, And there the dead men lay. 22 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER I looked to heaven, and tried to pray ; But or ever a prayer had gusht, 245 A wicked whisper came, and made My heart as dry as dust. I closed my lids, and kept them close. And the balls like pulses beat ; For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky 250 Lay like a load on my weary eye. And the dead were at my feet. But the curse The cold swcat melted from their Umbs, liveth for him in , , . ^ , the eye of the Nor rot nor reek did they : dead men. The look with which they looked on me 255 Had never passed away. An orphan's curse would drag to heU_ A spirit from on high ; But oh ! more horrible than that Is a curse in a dead man's eye ! 260 Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse. And yet I could not die. In his loneliness The moviug Moon weut Up the sky, and fixedness he SI. ■ * -^ yearneth towards ^nd uo wherc did abide : the journeying ^a°s"thlfstiil° Softly she was going up, 265 mtve'oJa'rdf And a star or two beside— THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 23 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 certainly ex- pected and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival. By the light o< the Moon he beholdeth God's creatures of the great calm. 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 stiU and awful red. 270 Beyond the shadow of the ship, I watched the water-snakes : They moved in tracks of shining white, And when they reared, the elfish light 275 Fell off in hoary flakes. Within the shadow of the ship ' I watched their rich attire : Blue, glossy green, and velvet black. They coiled and swam ; and every track 280 Was a flash of golden fire. Their beauty and their happiness. He blesseth them in his heart. O happy Uving things ! no tongue Their beauty might declare : A spring of love gushed from my heart. And I blessed them unaware : 285 ■ Sure my kind saint took pity on me. And I blessed them imaware. The spell begins jjie selfsamc momeut I could pray ; to break. And from my neck so free The Albatross fell off, and sank Like lead into the sea. 290 24 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 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. 295 hoi^Bthlr^^ The silly buckets on the deck, SlriniTs' ' T^^^i had so long remained, rlS!'"'^'' '^"'' I dreamt that they were filled with dew ; And when I awoke, it rained. 300 My hps were wet, my throat was cold. My garments all were dank ; Sure I had drunken in my dreams. And still my body drank. I moved, and could not feel my limbs : I was so Ught — almost I thought that I had died in sleep. And was a blessed ghost. 305 And soon I heard a roaring wind : It did not come anear ; He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights and com- motions in the But With its souud it shook the sails, sky and the element. That wcre SO thin and sere. 310 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 25 The upper air burst into life ! Arid a hundred fire-flags sheen, To and fro they were hurried about ! 315 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 Uke sedge ; And the rain poured down from one black cloud ; 320 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 Ughtning fell with never a jag, 325 A river steep and wide. ihe bodies of The loud wind never reached the ship, the ship's crew are inspired, Yct HOW thC Shlp mOVCd On ! and the ship moves on ; Bcueath the lightning and the Moon The dead men gave a groan. 330 They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose. Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; It had been strange, even in a dream. To have seen those dead men rise. The helmsman steered, the ship moved on ; Yet never a breeze up-blew ; 336 The mariners all 'gan work the ropes. 26 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER Where they were wont to do ; They raised their hmbs Uke Ufeless tools — We were a ghastly crew. 34° 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.' But not by the ' I fear thec, ancient Mariner ! ' 345 souls of the men, -r^ , , --Tr i i. ^ nor by daemons ' Bc Calm, thou Wcdding-Guest ! of earth or i -, « ■, . middle air, but Twas not thosc souls that fled m pain, by a blessed troop of angelic Which to their corses came again, spints, sent down by the invocation But a trOOp of Spirits blcst : of the guardian For when it dawned — they dropped their arms, 350 And clustered round the mast ; Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths. And from their bodies passed. Around, around, flew each sweet sound. Then darted to the Sun ; 355 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 cdl little birds that are, 360 How they seemed to fill the sea and air With their sweet jargoning ! THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 27 The lonesome Spirit from tlie south-pole carries on the ship as far as the Line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance. And now 'twas like all instruments. Now like a lonely flute ; And now it is an angel's song, 365 That makes the heavens be mute. It ceased ; yet still the sails made on A pleasant noise till noon, A noise like of a hidden brook In the leafy month of June, 370 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, 375 Moved onward from beneath. Under the keel nine fathom deep, From the land of mist and snow, The spirit sUd : and it was he That made the ship to go. 380 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, 385 With a short uneasy motion — Backwards and forwards half her length With a short uneasy motion. 28 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER The Polar Spirit's fellow- daemons, the invisible in- habitants of the element, take part in his wrong ; and two of them relate, one to the other, that penance long and heavy for the ancient Mariner hath been accorded to the Polar Spirit, who returneth south- ward. Then like a pawing horse let go, She made a sudden bound : 390 It flung the blood into my head, And I fell down in a swoimd. How long in that same fit I lay, I have not to declare ; But ere my living life returned, 395 I heard and in my soul discerned Two voices in the air. " Is it he? " quoth one, " Is this the man? By him who died on cross. With his cruel bow he laid full low 400 The harmless Albatross. The spirit who bideth by himself In the land of mist and snow. He loved the bird that loved the man Who shot him with his bow." 405 The other was a softer voice. As soft as honey-dew : Quoth he, " The man hath penance done. And penance more will do." THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 29 Part VI. First Voice. " But tell me, tell me ! speak again. Thy soft response renewing — What makes that ship drive on so fast? What is the ocean doing? " 410 Second Voice. " Still as a slave before his lord. The ocean hath no blast ; 415 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 420 She looketh down on him." The Mariner bath been cast into a trance r for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward faster than human life could endure. First Voice. " But why drives on that ship so fast. Without or wave or wind? " Second Voice. " The air is cut away before, And closes from behind. 425 30 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! Or we shall be belated : For slow and slow that ship will go. When the Mariner's trance is abated." The super- I woke, and we were sailing on 430 natural motion is retarded ; the As in a gentle wcathcr : Mariner awakes, and his penance 'Twas night. Calm night, the moon was high ; The dead men stood together. All stood together on the deck. For a charnel-dungeon fitter : 435 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, 440 Nor turn them up to pray. The curse is And now this speU was snapt : once more finally expiated. . I Viewed the ocean green. And looked far forth, yet little saw Of what had else been seen — 445 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 450 Doth close behind him tread. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 31 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. 455 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, 460 Yet she sailed softly too : Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — On me alone it blew. And the ancient Oh ! drcam of joy ! is this indeed Manner be- ^ hoidethhis xhc light-house top I see? 465 native country. u j. 1 .^ Is this the hill? is this the kirk? Is this mine own countree? We drifted o'er the harbour-bar. And I with sobs did pray — O let me be awake, my God ! 470 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. 475 32 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER The rock shone bright, the kirk no less. That stands above the rock : The moonUght steeped in silentness The steady weathercock. And the bay was white with silent light, 480 Till rising from the same, The angelic Full many shapes, that shadows were, spirits leave the -. . . ^ad bodies, In cnmson colours came. And appear in A little distance from the prow their own forms ,„, .11 of light. Those cnmson shadows were : 485 I turned my eyes upon the deck — Oh, Christ ! what saw I there ! Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat. And, by the holy rood ! A man all light, a seraph-man, 490 On every corse there stood. This seraph-band, each waved his hand : It was a heavenly sight ! They stood as signals to the land. Each one a lovely hght ; 495 This seraph-band, each waved his hand, No voice did they impart — No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank Like music on my heart. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 33 But soon I heard the dash of oars, 500 I heard the Pilot's cheer ; My head was turned perforce away And I saw a boat appear. The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, I heard them coming fast : 505 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 510 That he makes in the wood. He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away The Albatross's blood. Part VII. The Hermit of This Hermit good lives in that wood Which slopes down to the sea. 515 How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! He loves to lalk with marineres That come from a far countree. He kneels at mom, and noon, and eve — He hath a cushion plump : 520 It is the moss that wholly hides The rotted old oak-stump. T, c. 3 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER Approacheth the ship with wonder. The ship sud- denly sinketh. The skiff-boat neared : I heard them talk, " Why, this is strange, I trow ! Where are those Ughts so many and fair, 525 That signal made but now? " " Strange, by my faith ! " the Hermit said — " And they answered not our cheer ! The planks looked warped! and see those sails, How thin they are and sere ! 530 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, 535 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-f eared " — " Push on, push on ! " 540 Said the Hermit cheerily. The boat came closer to the ship, But I nor spake nor stirred ; The boat came close beneath the ship. And straight a sound was heard. 345 Under the water it rimibled on, Still louder and more dread : It reached the ship, it spUt the bay ; The ship went down hke lead. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 35 The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat. The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him ; and the penance of life falls on him. Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, Which sky and ocean smote, 551 Like one that hath been seven days drowned My body lay afloat ; But swift as dreams, myself I found Within the Pilot's boat. 555 Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, The boat spun round and round ; And all was still, save that the hill Was telUng of the sound. I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 560 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, 565 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, aU in my own countree, 570 I stood on the firm land ! The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, And scarcely he could stand. " O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man ! " The Hermit crossed his brow. 575 " Say quick," quoth he, " I bid thee say — What manner of man art thou? " 3—2 36 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched With a woful agony. Which forced me to begin my tale ; 580 And then it left me free. And ever and Sincc then, at an uncertain hour, anon through- out his future That agonv returns : life an agony constraineth him And till my ghastly tale is told, to travel from jj o j land to land ; jhis heart withiu me burns. 585 I pass, like night, from land to land ; I have strange power of speech ; That moment that his face I see, I know the man that must hear me : To him my tale I teach. 590 What loud uproar bursts from that door ! The wedding-guests are there : But in the garden-bower the bride And bride-maids singing are : And hark the little vesper-bell, 595 Which biddeth me to prayer ! O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been Alone on a wide wide sea : So lonely 'twas, that God himself Scarce seem6d there to be. 600 sweeter than the marriage-feast, 'Tis sweeter far to me. To walk together to the kirk With a goodly company ! — THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 37 To walk together to the kirk, 605 And all together pray, While each to his great Father bends, Old men, and babes, and loving friends / And youths and maidens gay ! And to teach, by Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 610 his own example, ,— , , --t if r^ t love and To thee, thou Weddmg-Guest ! reverence He prayeth well, who loveth well Both man and bird and beast. He prayeth best, who loveth best All things both great and small ; 615 For the dear God who loveth us, /He made and loveth all.' >l The Mariner, whose eye is bright. Whose beard with age is hoar. Is gone : and now the Wedding-Guest 620 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. 625 X) 38 SELECTIONS FROM CHRISTABEL SELECTIONS FROM CHRISTABEL. '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. 5 Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, Hath a toothless mastiff which From hei: kennel beneath the rock Maketh answer to the clock, Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour ; lo 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. 15 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: 20 'Tis a month before the month of May, And the Spring comes slowly up this way. SELECTIONS FROM CHRISTABEL 39 The lovely lady, Christabel, Whom her father loves so well, What makes her in the wood so late, 25 A furlong from the castle gate? She had dreams all yesternight Of her own betrothed knight; And she in the midnight wood will pray For the weal of her lover that's far away. 30 She stole along, she nothing spoke. The sighs she heaved were soft and low. And naught was green upon the oak But moss and rarest misletoe : She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, 35 And in silence prayeth she. The lady sprang up suddenly. The lovely lady, Christabel ! It moaned as near, as near can be. But what it is she cannot tell. — 40 On the other side it seems to be, Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. The night is chill; the forest bare; Is it the wind that moaneth bleak? There is not wind enough in the air 45 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, 50 46 SELECTIONS FROM CHRISTABEL 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, 55 And stole to the other side of the oak. What sees she there? There she sees a damsel bright, Drest in a silken robe of white. That shadowy in the moonlight shone : 60 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. 65 I guess, 'twas frightful there to see A lady so richly clad as she — Beautiful exceedingly ! II. 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 5 A tongue of light, a fit of flame ; And Christabel saw the lady's eye. And nothing else saw she thereby, Selections from christabel 41 Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leohne tall, Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall. 10 O softly tread, said Christabel, My father seldom sleepeth well. Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare. And jealous of the listening air They steal their way from stair to stair, 15 Now in glimmer, and now in gloom. And now they pass the Baron's room. As still as death, with stifled breath ! And now have reached her chamber door ; And now doth Geraldine press down 20 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, 25 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 ang^'s feet. 30 The silver lamp burns dead and dim; But Christabel the lamp will trim. She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright, And left it swinging to and fro. While Geraldine, in wretched plight, 35 Sank down upon the iioor below. 42 SELECTIONS FROM CHRISTABEL III. 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 sicTc assay. And eyes the maid and seeks delay; 5 Then suddenly, as one defied, Collects herself in scorn and pride. And lay down by the Maiden's side! — And in her arms the maid she took, Ah wel-a-day! 10 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 15 This mark of my shame, 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, 20 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.' SELECTIONS FROM CHRISTABEL 43 IV. Each matin bell, the Baron saith, Knells us back to a world of death. These words Sir LeoUne first said. When he rose and found his lady dead: These words Sir Leoline will say 5 Many a mom to his d57ing 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 lo Between each stroke — a warning knell. Which not a soul can choose but hear From Bratha Head to Wyndermere. Saith Bracy the bard, So let it knell! And let the drowsy sacristan 15 Still count as slowly as he can ! There is no lack of such, I ween. As well fill up the space between. In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent, 20 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 Uving brother; 44 SELECTIONS FROM CHRISTABEL And oft too, by the knell offended, 25 Just as their one ! two ! three ! is ended. The devil mocks the doleful tale With a merry peal from Borrowdale. V. 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 5 Doth work like madness in the brain. And thus it chanced, as I divine. With Roland and Sir LeoUne. Each spake words of high disdain And insult to his heart's best brother : 10 They parted — ne'er to meet again ! But never either found another To free the hollow heart from paining — They stood aloof, the scars remaining. Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; 15 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. SELECTIONS FROM CHRISTABEL 45 VI. ' Nay, by my soul ! ' said Leoline. ' Ho ! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine ! Go thou, with music sweet and loud, And take two steeds with trappings proud, And take the youth whom thou lov'st best 5 To bear thy harp, and learn thy song, And clothe you both in solemn vest. And over the mountains haste along. Lest wandering folk, that are abroad. Detain you on the valley road. 10 "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. 15 ' 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 ! 20 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 : 25 And he will meet thee on the way 46 SELECTIONS FROM CHRISTABEL With all his numerous array White with their panting palfreys' foam : And, by mine honour ! I will say, That I repent me of the day 30 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 35 Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine.' The lady fell, and clasped his knees. Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing ; And Bracy replied, with faltering voice. His gracious Hail on all bestowing ; 40 'Thy words, thou sire of Christabel, Are sweeter than my harp can tell; Yet might I gain a boon of thee. This day my journey should not be. So strange a dream hath come to me, 45 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, 50 And caU'st by thy own daughter's name — Sir Leoline ! I saw the same. Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan, Among the green herbs in the forest alone. SELECTIONS FROM CHRISTABEL 47 Which when I saw and when I heard, 55 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 ; 60 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 65 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; 70 And with the dove it heaves and stirs. Swelling its neck as she swelled hers! I woke ; it was the midnight hour. The clock was echoing in the tower ; But though my slumber was gone by, 75 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, 80 Lest aught unholy loiter there.' 48 SELECTIONS FROM CHRISTABEL Thus Bracy said : the Baron, the while, Half-hstening heard him with a smile; Then turned to Lady Geraldine, His eyes made up of wonder and love ; 85 And said in courtly accents fine, 'Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove. With arras more strong than harp or song. Thy sire and I will crush the snake ! ' He kissed her forehead as he spake, 90 And Geraldine in maiden wise Casting down her large bright eyes. With blushing^ cheek and courtesy fine She turned her from Sir LeoUne; Softly gathering up her train, 95 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 weU ! 100 A snake's small eye bhnks dull and shy, And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head. Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye. And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread. At Christabel she look'd askance! — 105 One moment — and the sight was fled!- But Christabel in dizzy trance Stumbling on the unsteady ground Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound; SELECTIONS FROM CHRISTABEL 49 And Geraldine again turned round, no And like a thing, that sought rehef. 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, 115 She nothing sees — no sight but one ! The maid, devoid of guile and sin, I know not how, in fearful wise. So deeply had she drunken in That look, those shrunken serpent eyes, izo 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, 125 Still picturing that look askance With forced unconscious sympathy Full before her father's view — As far as such a look could be In eyes so innocent and blue ! 130 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!' 135 She said : and more she could not say : For what she knew she could not tell. 50 SELECTIONS FROM CHRISTABEL O'er-mastered by the mighty spell. Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, Sir LeoUne? Thy only child 14° 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! 145 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, 150 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, 155 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; 160 Dishonoured by his only child. And all his hospitality To the wronged daughter of his friend By more than woman's jealousy Brought thus to a disgraceful end — 165 SELECTIONS FROM CHRISTABEL 5 1 He rolled his eye with stern regard Upon the gentle minstrel bard, And said in tones abrupt, austere — 'Why, Bracy ! dost thou loiter here? I bade thee hence!' The bard obeyed; 170 And turning from his own sweet maid. The aged knight. Sir Leoline, Led forth the lady Geraldine! LEWTI, OR THE Circassian Love-Chaunt. At midnight by the stream I roved. To forget the form I loved. Image of Lewti! from my mind Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. The Moon was high, the moonlight gleam And the shadow of a star Heaved upon Tamaha's stream; But the rock shone brighter far, The rock half sheltered from my view By pendent boughs of tressy yew. — So shines my Lewti's forehead fair. Gleaming through her sable hair. Image of Lewti ! from my mind Depart; for Lewti is not kind. 4—2 52 LEWTI I saw a cloud of palest hue, 15 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, 20 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 ! 25 Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind. If Lewti never will be kind. The little cloud — it floats away. Away it goes; away so soon? Alas ! it has no power to stay : 30 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 — 35 And now 'tis whiter than before ! As white as my poor cheek will be. When, Lewti ! on my couch I lie, A dying man for love of thee; Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind — 40 And yet, thou didst not look unkind. LEWTI 53 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 45 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. 50 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, 35 They plunge into the gentle river. The river-swans have heard my tread. And startle from their reedy bed. O beauteous birds ! methinks ye measure Your movements to some heavenly tune ! 60 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, 65 When silent night has closed her eyes: It is a breezy jasmine-bower. The nightingale sings o'er her head : Voice of the Night! had I the power 54 LEWTI That leafy labyrinth to thread, 7° 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-sweUing wave. 75 Oh ! that she saw me in a dream. And dreamt that I had died for care; All pale and wasted I would seem. Yet fair withal, as spirits are ! I'd die indeed, if I might see 8o Her bosom heave, and heave for me ! Soothe, gentle image ! soothe my mind ! To-morrow Lewti may be kind. FRANCE: AN ODE. Ye Clouds ! that far above me float and pause. Whose pathless march no mortal may controid ! 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! FRANCE: AN ODE 55 Where, like a man beloved of God, Through glooms, which never woodman trod, lo How oft, pursuing fancies holy My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound. Inspired, beyond the guess of folly. By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound! O ye loud Waves ! and O ye Forests high ! 15 And O ye Clouds that far above me soared! Thou rising Sun ! thou blue rejoicing Sky ! Yea, every thing that is and will be free! Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be. With what deep worship I have still adored 20 The spirit of divinest Liberty. 11. 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! 25 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, 30 And Britain join'd the dire array; Though dear her shores and circling ocean. Though many friendships, many youthful loves Had swoln the patriot emotion And flung a magic Ught o'er aU her hills and groves ; 35 56 FRANCE: AN ODE Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance. And shame too long delay'd and vain retreat ! For ne'er, O Liberty ! with partial aim I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame ; 40 But blessed the paeans of delivered France, And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. HI. "And what,' I said, 'though Blasphemy's loud scream With that sweet music of deliverance strove ! Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove 45 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 Ught ! ' And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled. The dissonance ceased, and all seemed cahn and bright ; When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory 51 Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory; When, insupportably advancing. Her arm made mockery of the warrior's ramp ; WhUe timid looks of fury glancing, 55 Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp, Writhed Uke 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 ! 60 FRANCE: AN ODE 57 And, conquering by her happiness alone, Shall France compel the nations to be free, Till Love and Joy look ronnd, and caU the Earth their own.' IV. Forgive me. Freedom ! O forgive those dreams ! I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, 65 From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent — I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams ! Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished. And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows With bleeding wounds ; forgive me, that I cherished One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes ! 71 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; 75 And with inexpiable spirit To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer — France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind, And patriot only in pernicious toils ! Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind? 80 To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway. Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey ; To insiilt the shrine of Liberty with spoils From freemen torn; to tempt and to betray? 58 FRANCE: AN ODE V. The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, 85 Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game They burst their manacles and wear the name Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain ! O Liberty, with profitless endeavour Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour ; 90 But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. Alike from aU, howe'er they praise thee, (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee) Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, 95 And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves. Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions. The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves ! And there I felt thee ! — on that sea-cUff's verge. Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above, 100 Had made one murmur with the distant surge ! Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare, And shot my being through earth, sea and air. Possessing all things with intensest love, O Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there. 105 FROST AT MIDNIGHT 5g FROST AT MIDNIGHT. The Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud — and hark, again ! loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits 5 Abstruser musings : save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 'Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs A]jd vexes meditation with its strange And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, 10 This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood, With all the nxmiberless goings-on of life. Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not ; Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, 15 Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature Gives it dim sympathies with rtie who live. Making it a companionable form, Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit 20 By its own moods interprets, every where Echo or mirror seeking of itself, And makes a toy of Thought. But O! how oft, How oft, at school, with most believing mind, Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, 25 6o FROST AT MIDNIGHT To watch that fluttering stranger \ and as oft With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower, Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, 30 So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me With a wild pleasure, falling on my ear Most like articulate sounds of things to come ! So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt. Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams ! 35 And so I brooded all the following morn. Awed by the stem preceptor's face, mine eye Fixed with mock study on my swimming book : Save if the door half opened, and I snatched A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, 40 For still I hoped to see the stranger's face. Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved. My play-mate when we both were clothed alike ! Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side. Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, 45 Fill up the interspersed vacancies And momentary pauses of the thought ! My babe so beautiful ! it thriUs my heart With tender gladness, thus to look at thee. And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, 50 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 FROST AT MIDNIGHT 6l By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 55 Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds. Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible Of that eternal language, which thy God 60 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, 65 Whether the summer clothe the general earth With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall Heard only in the trances of the blast ,^ 71 Or if the secret ministry of frost Shall hang them up in silent icicles. Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. AMONG THE QUANTOCKS. (From Fears in Solitude.) A green and silent spot, amid the hills, A small and silent dell! O'er stiller place No singing sky-lark ever poised himself. The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope, 62 AMONG THE QUANTOCKS Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on, 5 All golden with the never-bloomless furze, Which now blooms most profusely : but the dell. Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax, When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve, 10 The level sunshine glimmers with green light. Oh ! 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook ! Which all, methinks, would love ; but chiefly he. The humble man, who, in his youthful years. Knew just so much of folly, as had made 15 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, 20 Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame ; And he,' with many feelings, many thoughts. Made up a meditative joy, and found Religious meanings in the forms of Nature ! And so, his senses gradually wrapt 25 In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds. And dreaming hears thee still, O singing lark; That singest like an angel in the clouds ! * * * * But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze : 30 The Ught has left the simimit of the hill, Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful AMONG THE QUANTOCKS 63 Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell, Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot ! On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill, 35 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, 40 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 45 A livelier impulse and k 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, 50 Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe And my babe's mother dwell in peace! With hght And quickened footsteps thitherward I tend, Remembering thee, O green and silent dell ! And grateful, that by nature's quietness 55 And solitary musings, all my heart Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind. 64 NIGHTINGALES AT STOWEY NIGHTINGALES AT STOWEY. '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 5 His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul Of all its music ! And I know a grove Of large extent, hard by a castle huge. Which the great lord inhabits not; and so The grove is wild with tangling underwood, 10 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, 15 They answer and provoke each other's song, With skirmish and capricious passagings, And murmurs musical and swift jug jug. And one low piping sound more sweet than all — Stirring the air with such an harmony, 20 That should you close your eyes, you might almost Forget it was not day ! On moonhght bushes. Whose dewy leaflets are but half-disclosed. NIGHTINGALES AT STOWEY 65 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 26 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 30 To something more than Nature in the grove) Glides through the pathways ; she knows all their notes. That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment's space, What time the moon was lost behind a cloud. Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moon 35 Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky With one sensation, and those wakeful birds Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy. As if some sudden gale had swept at once A hundred airy harps ! And she hath watched 40 Many a nightingale perch giddily On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze. And to that motion tune his wanton song Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head. 66 KUBLA KHAN KUBLA KHAN. In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree : Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. 5 So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ; And here were forests ancient as the hills, lo 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 15 By woman waihng for her demon-lover! And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething. As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced : Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 20 Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail : And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 25 Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, KUBLA KHAN 67 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 ! 30 The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, 35 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, 40 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, 45 I would build that dome in air. That simny 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 ! 50 Weave a circle round him thrice. And close your eyes with holy dread. For he on honey-dew hath fed. And drunk the milk of Paradise. 5—2 68 LOVE LOVE. All thoughts, all passions, all delights. Whatever stirs this mortal frame. All are but ministers of Love, And feed his sacred flame. Oft in my waking dreams do I 5 Live o'er again that happy hour. When midway on the mount I lay, Beside the ruined tower. The moonshine, steaUng o'er the scene Had blended with the lights of eve; 10 And she was there, my hope, my joy. My own dear Genevieve! She leant against the arm6d man, The statue of the armdd knight; She stood and listened to my lay, 15 Amid the lingering light. Few sorrows hath she of her own. My hope! my joy! my Genevieve! She loves me best, whene'er I sing The songs that make her grieve. 20 I played a soft and doleful air, I sang an old and moving story — An old rude song, that suited well That ruin wild and hoary. LOVE 69 She listened with a flitting blush, 25 With downcast eyes and modest grace; For well she knew, I could not choose But gaze upon her face. I told her of the Knight that wore Upon his shield a burning brand; 30 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, 35 Interpreted my own. She listened with a flitting blush. With downcast eyes, and modest grace; And she forgave me, that I gazed Too fondly on her face ! 40 But when I told the cruel scorn That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, And that he crossed the mountain-woods. Nor rested day nor night ; That sometimes from the savage den, 45 And sometimes from the darksome shade. And sometimes starting up at once In green and sunny glade, — There came and looked him in thfe face An angel beautiful and bright; 50 And that he knew it was a Fiend, This miserable Knight ! 70 LOVE And that unknowing what he did, He leaped amid a murderous band, And saved from outrage worse than death 55 The Lady of the Land ! And how she wept, and clasped his knees ; And how she tended him in vain — And ever strove to expiate The scorn that crazed his brain ; — 60 And that she nursed him in a cave ; And how his madness went away. When on the yellow forest-leaves A dying man he lay ; — His dying words — but when I reached 6g The tenderest strain of all the ditty, My faultering voice and pausing harp Disturbed her soul with pity! All impulses of soul and sense Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; 70 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, 75 Subdued and cherished long! She wept with pity and deUght, She blushed with love, and virgin-shame; And like the murmur of a dream, I heard her breathe my name. 80 LOVE 71 Her bosom heaved^ — she stepped aside, As conscious of my look she stepped — Then suddenly, with timorous eye She fled to me and wept. She half enclosed me with her arms, 85 She pressed me with a meek embrace ; And bending back her head, looked up, And gazed upon my face. 'Twas partly love, and partly fear. And partly 'twas a bashful art, 90 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, 95 My bright and beauteous Bride. 72 dejection: an ode DEJECTION: AN ODE. Written April 4, 1802. Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, With the old Moon in her arms; And I fear, I fear, my Master dear! We shall have a deadly storm. Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence. I. Well ! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flalies, 5 Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes Upon the strings of this .^olian Jute, Which better far were mute. For lo ! the New-moon winter-bright'f And oversprea.d with phantom hght, 10 (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, 15 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, 19 Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live ! dejection: an ode 73 n. A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief. Which finds no natural outlet, no relief, In word, or sigh, or tear — Lady ! in this wan and heartless mood, 25 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 pecuhar tint of yellow green : And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye ! 30 Andjhose 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 35 In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ; 1 see them all so excellently fair, I see, not feel, how beautiful they are ! III. My genial spirits fail ; And what can these avail 40 To lift the smothering weight from off my breast? It were a vain endeavour. Though I should gaze for ever ,:^ 74 dejection: an ode On that green light that lingers in the west : I may not hope from outward forms to win 45 The passion and the life, whose fountains are within. IV. ■\ 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, 50 Than that inanimate cold world allowed To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd. Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud Enveloping the Earth — 55 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 ! O pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me What this strong music in the soul may be ! 60 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, 65 Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, dejection: an ode 75 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 — 70 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. 75 VI. There was a time when, though my path was rough, This joy within me dallied with distress. And all misfortunes were but as the stuff Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness : For hope grew round me, like the twining vine, 80 And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed niine. But now afflictions bow me to the earth ; Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth ; But oh! each visitation Suspends what nature gave me at my birth, 85 My shaping spirit of Imagination. For not to think of what I needs must feel, But to be still and patient, all I can ; And haply by abstruse research to steal From my own nature all the natural man — 90 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. 76 dejection: an ode VII. Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind, Redity.'s_da£k_ dream ! 95 I turn from you, and listen to the wind, Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream Of agony by torture lengthened out That lute sent forth ! Thou Wind, that rav'st without, Bare crag, or mountain-taim, or blasted tree, loo 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, 105 Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song. The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds ! Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold! What tell'st thou now about? no 'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout. With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds — At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold ! But hush ! there is a pause of deepest silence ! And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, 115 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, dejection: an ode 'j'j As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, — 120 'Tis of a Uttle child Upon a lonesome wild, Not far from home, but she hath lost her way : And now moans low in bitter grief and fear. And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear. 125 VIII. 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep : Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep ! Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of healing. And may this storm be but a mountain-birth. May all the stars hang bright above her dwelUng, 130 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, 135 Their Ufe the eddying of her living soul! O simple spirit, guided froin above. Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice. Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice. 78 HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE, HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star In his steep course? So long he seems to pause On thy bold awful head, O sovran Blanc ! The Arve and Arveiron at thy base Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form ! 5 Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines. How silently ! Around thee and above Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it. As with a wedge ! But when I look again, 10 It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, Thy habitation from eternity ! 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. 16 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 : 20 Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused. Into the mighty vision passing — there As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven ! IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI 79 Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, 25 Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake, Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake! Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn. Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale ! O struggling with the darkness all the night, 30 And visited all night by troops of stars. Or when they climb the sky or when they sink : Companion of the morning-star at dawn, Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn Co-herald : wake, O wake, and utter praise ! 35 Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth? Who fiU'd thy countenance with rosy light? Who made thee parent of perpetual streams? And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Who called you forth from night and utter death, 40 From dark and icy caverns cdled you forth, Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks. For ever shattered and the same for ever? Who gave you your invulnerable life. Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, 45 Unceasing thunder and eternal foam? And who commanded (and the silence came). Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest? Ye Ice-falls 1 ye that from the mountain's brow Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 50 8o HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE, Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice, And stopped at once amid their maddest plimge ! Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun 55 Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? — God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice ! 60 Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sovmds ! And they too have a voice, yon pUes of snow, And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 65 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, 71 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 75 In adoration, upward from thy base Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI 8l To rise before me — Rise, O ever rise. Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth ! 80 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. 85 INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH. This Sycamore, oft musical with bees — - Such tents the Patriarchs loved ! O long unharmed May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy The small round basin, which this jutting stone Keeps pure from falling leaves ! Long may the Spring, Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath, 6 Send up cold waters to the traveller With soft and even pulse ! Nor ever cease Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance. Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's Page, 10 As merry and no taller, dances still, Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount. Here TwiUght 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. 15 Drink, Pilgrim, here ! Here rest ! and if thy heart i>^ 82 INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh Thy spirit, hstening to some gentle sound. Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees ! 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, 5 In humble trust mine eye-hds close, With reverential resignation, No wish conceived, no thought exprest. Only a sense of supplication; A sense o'er aU my soul imprest lo That I am weak, yet not unblest. Since in me, round me, every where Eternal Strength and Wisdom are. But yester-night I prayed aloud In anguish and in agony, 15 Up-starting from the fiendish crowd Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me : A lurid light, a trampling throng. Sense of intolerable wrong. And whom I scorned, those only strong ! 20 THE PAINS OF SLEEP 83 Thirst of revenge, the powerless will StiU baffled, and yet burning still ! Desire with loathing strangely mixed On wild or hateful objects fixed. Fantastic passions ! maddening brawl ! 25 And shame and terror over all ! Deeds to be hid which were not hid, Which all confused I could not know Whether I suffered, or I did: For all seem'd guilt, remorse, or woe, 30 My own or others still the same Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame ! So two nights passed: the night's dismay Saddened and stunned the coming day. Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me 35 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; 40 And having thus by tears subdued My anguish to a milder mood. Such punishments, I said,, were due To natures deepliest stained with sin,— For aye entempesting anew 45 The unfathomable hell within, The horror of their deeds to view. To know and loathe, yet wish and do ! 6—2 84 THE PAINS OF SLEEP Such griefs with such men well agree, But wherefore, wherefore fall on me? 50 To be beloved is all I need, And whom I love, I love indeed. TO WORDSWORTH. O great Bard! Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air, With stedfast eye I viewed thee in the choir Of ever-enduring men. The truly great Have all one age, and from one visible space 5 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 10 Among the archives of mankind, thy work Makes audible a link6d lay of Truth, Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay. Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes ! Ah ! as I listen'd with a heart forlorn, 15 The pulses of my being beat anew : And even as life returns upon the drowned. Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains — TO WORDSWORTH 85 Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a babe Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart ; 20 And fears self-willed, that shunned the eye of Hope ; And Hope that scarce would know itself from Fear; Sense of past Youth, and Manhood come in vain. And Genius given, and Knowledge won in vain ; And all which I had culled in wood-walks wild, 25 And all which patient toil had reared, and all. Commune with thee had opened out — but flowers Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier. In the same coffin, for the self-same grave! That way no more ! and ill beseems it me, 30 Who came a welcomer in herald's guise, Singing of Glory, and Futurity, To wander back on such unhealthful road, Plucking the poisons of self-harm ! And ill Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths 35 Strew'd before thy advancing! Nor do thou. Sage Bard ! impair the memory of that hour Of thy communion with my nobler mind By pity or grief, already felt too long! Nor let my words import more blame than needs. 40 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. 86 TO WORDSWORTH Eve following eve, 45 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 50 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. 55 And when — O Friend ! my comforter and guide ! Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength! Thy long sustained Song finally closed, And thy deep voice had ceased — ^yet thou thyself Wert still before my eyes, and round us both 60 That happy vision of belov6d faces — Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close I sate, my being blended in one thought (Thought was it? or aspiration? or resolve?) Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound — 65 And when I rose, I found myself in prayer. 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, THE VISIONARY HOPE 87 That his sick body might have ease and rest ; He strove in vain ! the dull sighs from his chest 5 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, 10 Sickness within and miserable feeling: Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams. And dreaded sleep, each night repelled in vain. Each night was scattered by its own loud screams: Yet never could his heart command, though fain, 15 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 ! 20 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, 25 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. A TOMBLESS EPITAPH 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,) 5 '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 hoUow Puppets of an hollow Age, 10 Ever idolatrous, and changing ever Its worthless Idols ! Learning, Power, and Time, (Too much of all) thus wasting in vain war Of fervid coUoquy. Sickness, 'tis true. Whole years of weary days, besieged him close, 15 Even to the gates and inlets of his Ufe ! 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. 20 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 soxu-ce, 25 Through open glade, dark glen, and secret dell. A TOMBLESS EPITAPH 89 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, 3° He bade with lifted torch its starry walls Sparkle, as erst they sparkled to the flame Of odorous lamps tended by Saint and Sage. O framed for calmer times and nobler hearts ! O studious Poet, eloquent for truth! 35 Philosopher, contemning wealth and death. Yet docile, childlike, full of Life and Love ! Here, rather than on moniunental stone, This record of thy worth thy Friend inscribes, Thoughtful, with quiet tears upon his cheek. 40 THE KNIGHT'S TOMB. Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn? Where may the grave of that good man be? — By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, Under the twigs of a young birch tree ! The oak that in summer was sweet to hear. And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year. And whistled and 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. go FANCY IN NUBIBUS FANCY IN NUBIBUS, OR THE POET IN THE CLOUDS. O ! it is pleasant, with a heart at ease. Just after sunset, or by moonUght skies, To make the shifting clouds be what you please. Or let the easily persuaded eyes Own each qjiaint likeness issuing from the mould 5 Of a friend's fancy; or with head bent low And cheek aslant see rivers flow of gold 'Twixt crimson banks ; and then, a traveller, go From mount to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous land ! Or Ust'ning to the tide, with clos6d sight 10 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. 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! YOUTH AND AGE 9I When I was young? — ^Ah, woftil 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, 10 How lightly then it flashed along:— Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore, On winding lakes and rivers wide. That ask no aid of sail or oar. That fear no spite of wind or tide ! 15 Nought cared this body for wind or weather When Youth and I lived in't together. Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like; Friendship is a sheltering tree ; ! the joys, that came down shower-like, 20 Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, Ere I was old! Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere, Which tells me, Youth's no longer here ! O Youth, for years so many and sweet, 25 'Tis known that Thou and I were one, I'll think it but a fond conceit — It cannot be that Thou art gone ! The vesper-bell hath not yet toU'd:— And thou wert aye a masker bold! 30 What strange disguise hast now put on. To make believe, that thou art gone? 92 YOUTH AND AGE I see these locks in silvery slips, This drooping gait, this altered size : But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips, 35 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 ! 40 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, 45 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. FIRST ADVENT OF LOVE. O fair is Love's first hope to gentle mind! As Eve's first star thro' fleecy cloudlet peeping; And sweeter than the gentle south-west wind. O'er willowy meads, and shadow'd waters creeping, And Ceres' golden fields; — the sultry hind Meets it with brow uplift, and stays his reaping. WORK WITHOUT HOPE 93 WORK WITHOUT HOPE. Lines composed 2IST February, 1827. All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair — The bees are stirring — ^birds are on the wing — And winter slumbering in the open air, Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring ! And I the while, the sole unbusy thing, 5 Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. Yet well I ken the banks where arnaranths blow. Have traced the iount whence streams of nectar flow. Bloom, O ye amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may. For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away ! 10 With hps unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll : And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul? Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve. And Hope without an object cannot live. 94 EPITAPH EPITAPH. Stop, Christian passer-by! — Stop, child of God, And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod A poet lies, or that which once seem'd he. — O, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C. ; That he who many a year with toil of breath 5 Found death in life, may here find life in death ! Mercy for praise — to be forgiven for fame He ask'd, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the same ! NOTES TO THE AUTHOR OF 'THE ROBBERS.' This sonnet appears to have been written at Cambridge about 1794, and was published in Coleridge's volume of Poems in 1796. In a note to it he described the first occasion of his reading The Robbers: 'A winter midnight — the wind high — and "The Robbers" for the first time! — ^The readers of Schiller will conceive what I felt.' Die Rduber, the first play of Johann Christoph Friedrich Schiller (1759 — 1805), was published in 1781. Its freedom from the bondage of classical tradition and the imaginative daring, not without extravagance, of the prose style in which it was written, gave Schiller an European reputation. A discussion of its characteristics and of its hero, Karl von Moor, who anti- cipated the type of hero popularised by Byron, will be found in Carlyle's Life of Schiller, part i. Coleridge's mature opinion, expressed in 1822 and 1833 (Table Talk, ed. Ashe, pp. 15, 16, 192), was that The Robbers, belonging to Schiller's first stage as distinct from his later successes in 'the drama of diffused history,' was a work of 'the material Sublime,' i.e. its sublime effects were produced by methods which primarily affected the outward senses. 'To produce an effect, he sets you a whole town on fire, and throws infants with their mothers into the flames, or locks up a father in an old tower. But Shakespeare drops a handkerchief, and the same or greater effects follow.' 96 NOTES 4. In Die R&uber, iv, v, Karl von Moor discovers his father imprisoned and dying of starvation in a ruined castle. Franz, the younger Moor, has plotted to disinherit his brother and, after spreading false reports which have brought down old Moor's curse on Karl, has bribed another miscreant to bring news of his death. On hearing this, the old man has fallen into a death-Wee swoon, and Franz, though aware of the truth, has had him put in a coffin and carried away in his grave-clothes to the dungeon where Karl finds him, while a mock funeral of a dead dog has been held to deceive the public. Karl Moor at the head of his band of robbers, hears the voice from the tower crying to the accomplice of the deceitful Franz, who brings the captive his scanty food, and, breaking into the prison, discovers his father wrapped in a shroud, crying 'Erbarmen einem Elenden! Erbarmen ! ' — ^i.e. ' Have pity on a poor wretch ! Have pity ! ' 8. more withering] I.e., than any scene which the ordinary ' goblin rout ' of horror had been able to produce. 11. finely-frenzied eye] See Shakespeare, Mid. Night's Dream, v, i, 12. 12. tempest-swinging] Swayed by tempest. The active verb is used to express the sense of Hfe in Nature which in various degrees fills the poetry of the romantic movement. Cf. France : an Ode, 1. 7 (p. 54 above). LINES ON A FRIEND. This fine elegy was occasioned by the death of a son of the Rev. Fulwood Smerdon, vicar of Ottery St Mary, in November 1794, and was pubHshed in Poems, 1796. Mr E. H. Coleridge assumes it to refer to the vicar himself, who had died in the preceding August ; but this is unlikely. Coleridge's free personi- fication of abstract qualities is influenced by feelings of warm sympathy. The pathos of the poem Ues, however, not so much in its lament for the fate of the unhappy Edmund, as in Coleridge's revelation of his own sense of weakness in U. 35—46, — 'lines NOTES 97 ever memorable, though rather as a prophecy than on account of the passing mood which prompted them' (Dykes Campbell, Life of Coleridge, p. 37). The couplets are strongly under the influence of the classical school of the eighteenth century and shew no tendency to the enjambement which became characteristic of the younger romantic poets, 4. th' Ithuriel lance of Truth] See Milton, Par. Lost, iv, 810 sqq. Ithuriel, one of the two angels appointed by Gabriel to search paradise for the suspected intruder Satan, found him in the shape of a toad whispering into the ear of the dreaming Eve and, with a touch of his spear, made him assume his proper form, for no falsehood can endure Touch of celestial temper, but returns Of force to its own likeness. So the touch of truth wiU transform the hag Vice from her feigned shape of a siren into her native ugliness. 19. squatting] Lamb, in a letter to Coleridge of 10 June 1796, preferred 'couching,' which Coleridge wrote in one of his MS. drafts. But the image is that of Slander 'squat like a toad,' and Coleridge doubtless had in mind this phrase (Milton, Par. Lost, IV, 800), occurring in a passage to which he already had made allusion in 11. 4-6. 24. zoneless] Ungirdled. The 'Cares' here referred to are the little acts of kindness natural to a generous temper, which are done without effort or restraint. 30. that traSlck'd in the trade of praise] I.e., that gave praise in order to receive it. 37. introverted] Turned inwards upon the workings of the soul. 40. Energic] Active, endowed with energy. shaping] Creative. Cf. Coleridge's sonnet to Sheridan, 1. 3 : 'My soul hath marked thee in her shaping hour'; and Ode to Dejection, 86 (p. 75 above). So also Coleridge writes of 'my own shaping and disquisitive mind' in a letter of 1796 (Mrs Sand- ford, Thomas Poole and his Friends, 1888, i, 185). The word T. c, 7 gS NOTES 'poet' (7roH)Ti}s) means a 'maker,' and the Old English word for a bard was scop, derived from scifppan, to make, shape, create (cf. German schopfen). 'Makar,' equivalent to 'poet,' is used by Dunbar in his Lament for the Makaris, and ' making ' = ' poetry ' in Chaucer, Leg. of Good Women, 74, etc. 41. ken] Range of vision. 42. Cf. Chaucer, Cant. Tales A 1761: 'For pitee renneth sone in gentil herte.' In 'breathes the gentle heart' the subject and predicate of the sentence are inverted. 43. graspless] Without power of grasping. A contrast to the active sense of this form of adjective, to which Coleridge at this time was inordinately addicted, is shewn by the word ■passless,' i.e. that cannot be passed, in 1. 47 below. 48. poppies] The conventional emblem of sleep. Cf. Swinburne, Ilicet, 144 : ' the poppied sleep, the end of aJl.' 49. Tired Sentinel] Coleridge Ukens himself to a tired watchman longing for sleep. TO THE REV. W. L. BOWLES. The first version of this sonnet. No. vii of Sonnets on Eminent Characters, was printed in The Morning Chronicle of 26 Dec. 1794. It was remodelled in the form printed here for the Poems of 1796 where it appeared under the title of Effusion i. WiUiam Lisle Bowles (i 762-1 850), a Wiltshire clergyman, was the author of various sonnets and other poems which, though graceful in style, are somewhat slight in subject and commonplace in treat- ment. His sensitiveness to natural beauty and perception of the influence of its surroundings upon the human spirit gave him a high place in the affections of the early romantic poets. 'Surely,' wrote Coleridge, 'never was a writer so equal in excel- lence ! ' 2, 3. the murnxuring] This image was transplanted bodily to the second version of this sonnet from Coleridge's sonnet to Southey (No. x of Sonnets on Eminent Characters), which was not reprinted JR the volume of 1796, NOTES 99 6-12. Cf. Lamb's letter to Coleridge on 14 Nov. 1796: 'Coleridge, I love you for dedicating your poetry to Bowles. Genius of the sacred fountain of tears, it was he who led you gently by the hand through all this valley of weeping ; showed you the dark green yew trees, and the willow shades, where, by the fall of waters, you might indulge an uncomplaining melancholy, a delicious regret for the past, or weave fine visions of that awful future, "When all the vanities of life's brief day Oblivion's hurrying hand hath swept away. And all its sorrows, at the awful blast Of the archangel's trump, are but as shadows past." ' The somewhat lofty strain of this passage is excused by the youth of Lamb and his correspondent, who were only 21 and 23 years old respectively. 6, 7. Altered in 1828 to a somewhat more striking form : And when the mightier Throes of mind began, And drove me forth, a thought-bewUder'd man. 13. plastic si^eep] The moulding influence of the breath of the Spirit who 'dove-like sat brooding on the vast abyss' of Chaos : see Genesis i. 2, and cf. The Eolian Harp, 46, 47, p. 7 above. Cf: Shelley's phrase 'the one Spirit's plastic stress' in Adonais, 381, where the reference is primarily to the Platonic theory of creation. LINES COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROCKLEY COOMB. Effusion XXI in Poems, 1796. Coleridge left Cambridge in Dec. 1794 and, after a short interval in London, was persuaded by Sou they to join him in Bristol. Here he remained from January until the autumn of 1795, when, on 4 Oct., he was married at St Mary RedcUfEe, Bristol, to Sarah Fricker. Brockley combe is the best known of the beautiful wooded gorges in the 7—8 lOO NOTES limestone hills south of Bristol, from which it is about eight miles distant. In these lines the general aspect of the place and the view from the hill above are accurately described, though in somewhat conventional phrases. A somewhat similar view from one of the hills above Clevedon was described, later in the same year, by Coleridge in his Reflections on having left a place of retirement : Oh! what a goodly scene! Here the bleak mount. The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep; G*ey clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields; And river, now with bushy rocks o'erbrow'd. 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 ! 7. forc'd] Forced open by the tree-roots. The epithet was weakened by the substitution of 'deep' in Poetical Works, 1834- 16. Sara] Coleridge had become engaged in 1794 to Sarah Fricker, to whose sister Edith his friend Southey was engaged. His marriage, which preceded Southey's by a month, was impru- dent, and some years later an estrangement arose between him and his wife, to whom and her family the Southeys gave generous hospitaUty. Mrs Coleridge survived her husband, dying in 1845. There is a reminiscence of this line in a letter written by the radical and free-thinker John Thelwall to his wife, during his visit to the Coleridges and Wordsworths in 1797: 'Delightful spot, O were my Stella here ! ' ( Thomas Poole and his Friends, I. 233)- NOTES lOI THE EOLIAN HARP. This originally appeared in the Poems of 1796, under the title Effusion xxxv, and bore the date 20 August 1795. It was about this time that Coleridge, whose financial prospects depended entirely upon the sums guaranteed him by Joseph Cottle, the Bristol bookseller, took the cottage at Clevedon described by him in Reflections on having left a ■place of retirement : Low was our pretty Cot: our tallest Rose Peeped at the chamber-window. We could hear At silent noon, and eve. and early mom. The Sea's faint murmur. In the open air Our Myrtles blossom'd; and across the porch Thick Jasmins twined : the little landscape round Was green and woody, and refresh'd the eye. It was a spot which you might aptly call The Valley of Seclusion! The cottage still remains, though its surroundings have lost much of their secluded beauty. Here Coleridge and his wife stayed for a short time after their marriage, but soon returned to Bristol. Both of the Clevedon poems are of autobiographical interest ; but The Eolian Harp, though perhaps inferior in descriptive charm, reflects more clearly Coleridge's philosophical speculations, now as always the substance of the world in which his dreamy existence was spent. The boldly expressed hypothesis of U. 44-8 approaches very closely in thought to the sublime lines with which Wordsworth in Tintern Abbey defines his idea of the soul of the universe. See also 11. 26-9. The descriptive opening of the poem is somewhat vague, and, if it was written on 20 August, the scent of the bean-field must have been a reminiscence rather than a reaUty; but 11. 20-5 are full of the magic of which Coleridge's later poems proved him a master. 102 NOTES II. the distant Sea] The cottage and the old village of Clevedon stand inland at a little distance from the shore of the Bristol channel. It will be remembered that Tennyson's l3rric Break, break, break and some of the stanzas of In Memoriam recall the church of Clevedon, where Arthur Hallam is buried, on its grassy hill beside the Severn sea : There twice a day the Severn fills; The salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills. i8. sequacious] Continuous, following naturally upon one another. 46, 47. sweeps Plastic] See note on 1. 13, p. 99 above. The theory embodied in these lines is pantheistic, i.e. God, the Creator, is considered not as a force acting upon Nature and remaining external to it, but as communicating His being to all created objects and infusing His soul into them. 49. Lamb, writing to Coleridge in 1796, says of the conclusion of the long poem Religious Musings, which contained further and freer speculations (repeated in The Destiny of Nations, 11. 38 sqq.) on the "plastic power' of creative Deity, that it 'I fear, will entitle you to the reproof of your beloved woman, who wisely will not sufEer your fancy to run riot, but bids you walk humbly with your God... Of what is new to me among your poems next to the "Musings," that beginning "My Pensive Sara" gave me most pleasure: the lines in it I just alluded to are most exquisite; they made my sister and self smile, as conveying a pleasing picture of Mrs C. checking your wild wanderings, which we were so fond of hearing you indulge when among us. It has endeared us more than any thing to your good lady; and your own self-reproof that follows, delighted us.' 55. shapings] See note on 'shaping,' 1. 40, p. 97 above. 63. wilder'd and dark] Cf. the sonnet To the Rev. W. L. Bowles, 6, 7 (pp. 4, 99 above). NOTES 103 THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON. The occasion of these lines is thus described by Coleridge: '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 accideht, which disabled him from walking during the whole time of their stay. One evening, when they had leff him for a few hours, he composed the following Unes in the garden-bower.' The earliest drafts exist in letters to Sou they and Charles Lloyd, written in July 1797. The Unes were printed in The Anmial Anthology for 1800, and were included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, when Lamb's name no longer appeared in the heading of the poem. Coleridge, shortly before his death in 1834, wrote in the margin of a copy of his Poetical Works against the note quoted above : 'Ch. and Mary Lamb— dear to my heart, yea, as it were, my Heart. — S. T. C. Mt. 63 ; 1834. — 1797-1834 = 37 years I' Coleridge left Bristol on 30 Dec. 1796 for a cottage at Nether Stowey, near Bridgwater, where he was near his friend Thomas Poole, a man of remarkable intelligence and capacity for devoted friendship. He made his home here until Sept. 1798, when he went to Germany with the Wordsworths. Charles Lloyd, a young quaker from Birmingham whose admiration for Coleridge led him to share his home for a time, was at Stowey with the Coleridges until the summer of 1797 and occasionally after- wards : the hasty friendship came to an end early in 1798, when Lloyd, a sensitive and irresponsible person, made temporary mischief between Coleridge and Lamb. It was late in June 1797 when Lamb visited Stowey: the pathetic marginal note already quoted indicates that Mary Lamb accompanied him, but this is not borne out by Lamb's own allusions to the visit and is improbable on other grounds. Wordsworth and his sister were, however, with Coleridge at this time, and 104 NOTES shortly afterwards in July 1797 they moved from Racedown, on the borders of Dorset and Devon, to Alfoxden, or Alfoxton, some three miles west of Nether Stowey. Although the moralising passages of this poem are somewhat trite and marked by the self-complacent benevolence of spirit which Coleridge was only too ready to exhibit, the descriptive passages reach a high level of beauty. Nether Stowey is at the eastern foot of the Quantock hiUs, which extend from near the shores of Bridgwater bay to the neighbourhood of Taunton and are broken by beautiful valleys or combes like that described in 11. 9-20. For descriptions of the local combes by Dorothy Wordsworth and John Thelwall see Thomas Poole and his Friends, I, 225, 233. 3. Beauties and feelings] I.e., the beauties of the walk and the sensations which they and the company of his friends would have inspired. 7. springy] Elastic, as Coleridge explains in his letter to Southey, 9 July 1797. 12. the ash] It is possible that Coleridge remembered this scene, though the ash is not the same tree, in the lines To a young Friend, addressed to Charles Lloyd in 1796, 11. 6-9 : And, 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash Dance brighten'd the red clusters of the ash; Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds beguil'd, Cahn Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep. Coleridge was not then living at Stowey, but he had paid his first visit there in Sept. 1795. 17. long lank weeds] Coleridge explains these as 'the Asplenium scolopendrium, called in some countries the Adder's Tongue, in others the Hart's Tongue.' For U. 17-20 cf. Remorse, IV, i, 17-19: A jutting clay-stone Drops on the long lank weed, that grows beneath: And the weed 'nods and drips. NOTES 105 25. two Isles] The Steep and Flat Holmes in the Bristol channel between Weston-super-Mare and Cardiff. 'The Islands and white sails ' as seen from Clevedon are mentioned in Reflections on having left a place of retirement, 36. 28. My gentle-hearted Charles] Lamb wrote to Coleridge on 6 Aug. 1800, after receiving The Annual Anthology: 'For God's sake (I never was more serious) don't make me ridiculous any more by terming me gentle-hearted in print or do it in better verses. It did well enough five (sic) years ago when I came to see you, and was moral coxcomb enough at the time you wrote the lines, to feed upon such epithets; but, besides that, the meaning of "gentle" is equivocal at best, and almost always means poor-spirited ; the very quality of gentleness is abhorrent to such vile trumpetings.' Lamb had been a clerk in the East India house since 1792. A Londoner born and bred, his hunger after Nature generally found ample satisfaction no further from home than 'the green plains of pleeisant Hertfordshire.' The 'strange calamity' referred to in 1. 32 is the tragic death of his mother, which had taken place in Sept. 1796. The repetition of 'my gentle-hearted Charles' in 11. 68, 75, was substituted by Coleridge for the original ' my Sara and my friends ' in both lines. 39. with swiimning sense] With confused senses. 41. Less gross than bodily] Of a substance scarcely concrete. 47-56. The observation of light and shade in this passage is singularly minute and accurate. The 'deep radiance' (1. 52) of the ivy is paralleled by a passage in George Meredith's The Adventures of Harry Richmond, ch. xxx: 'shadows perforce of blackness had light in them, and the light a sword-like sharpness over their edges. It was inanimate radiance.' 59. the be2in-£lower] Cf. The Eolian Harp, 9, 10 (p. 5 above). 59-64. These somewhat too sententious, but highly charac- teristic lines, are typical of Coleridge's attitude to his country surroundings. On his settlement at Stowey he dreamed of supplying the needs of his family by labour in his garden, and I06 NOTES wrote to Thelwall on 6 Feb. 1797 as if the work were already in progress at that unpromising time of year. The idea amused Lamb, who inquired ' Is it a farm you have got ? And what does your worship know about farming ? ' The result shewed that, if Nature did not desert the wise and pure, in practical matters the wise and pure left Nature to her own devices. Thelwall found the vaunted garden overgrown with weeds. 'Oh,' said Coleridge, ' that is only because it has not yet come to its age qf discretion and choice. The weeds, you see, have taken the liberty to grow, and I thought it unfair in me to prejudice the soil towards roses and strawberries' (Table Talk, ed. Ashe, 103-: 26 July 1830). 74. creeking] I.e. creaking. Coleridge refers to the audible creaking of the quill-feathers of a bird in full flight upon one another, supporting his observation by a quotation relating to the flight of cranes which he noticed after writing the passage. The same idea occurs in Lines to Matilda Betham from a Stranger (r802). 44-5: Yet hurried onward by thy wings of fancy Swift as the whirlwind, singing in their quills. THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. The Rime of the Ancyent Mariner e was first printed in Lyrical Ballads, 1798. This earliest version, extending to 658 lines, was much altered in the second edition of Lyrical Ballads, 1800, and this revision was the basis of the text in the third and fourth editions, 1802 and 1805. The present form of the title was adopted in 1800, with the addition of the words A Poet's Reverie. A new argument was then substituted for the old one which is printed here, but in later editions no argument was given. In Sibylline Leaves, 1817, the poem, with few variations, reached its present form, the Latin motto and the marginal prose com- mentary being added. NOTES 107 The poem was planned in the 'dark and cloudy' twilight of 13 Nov. 1797, while Coleridge was walking from Alfoxden to Watchet across the Quantocks with William and Dorothy Wordsworth, on their way to Lynton and the valley of Rocks. Wordsworth supplied the ideas of the slain albatross and the consequent vengeance, and also of 'the navigation of the ship by dead men,' with a few of the earlier lines ; the notion of the skeleton ship is said to have been suggested to Coleridge by a dream of his friend Cruikshank, a neighbour at Nether Stowey. By the time they reached Watchet, it became clear to Words- worth that the subject suited Coleridge's manner better than his own, and the original plan of collaboration between the two poets was abandoned. Coleridge finished the first draft of the poem by 23 March 1798. The general principles which guided Coleridge in this com- position are explained in the introduction to the present volume. A translation of the motto added in 181 7, however, supplies a clue to the governing idea of the blending of the supernatural, with realistic description which is so marked a feature of The Ancient Mariner. 'I readily believe that in the universe of matter there are more species of Nature invisible than viisible. But who shall declare to us the family to which all these objects belong, their degrees, relationships, distinctions, their several endowments ? What do they do ? what places do they inhabit ? Human genius has ever sought to achieve the knowledge of these things, has never attained it. Meanwhile, I do not deny, there is some good in contemplating at times in the mind, as it were in a picture, the image of a greater and better world: that so the mind, in habitual intercourse with the trivialities of the present life, may not narrow itself too much and wholly sink into paltry ways of thought. But meantime watch must be kept over truth, and a mean be observed, that we may distinguish between the certain and the uncertain, day and night.' The author of this passage which is quoted with some freedom was Thomas Burnet (I635?-I7I5), master of the Charterhouse 1685-17 15, whose most famous work, Telluris Theoria Sacra, I08 NOTES was published in 1680. The Archaeologiae PhUosophiae was pubhshed in 1692. Lamb, writing to Southey on 8 Nov. 1798, says : ' If you wrote that review in the Critical Review, I am sorry you are so sparing of praise to the Ancient Marinere. So far from calling it as you do, with some wit, but more severity, a "Dutch Attempt," &c., I call it a right English attempt, and a successful one, to dethrone German sublimity.' Lamb's reference is to the German tales of wonder, such as Biirger's ballad Lenore, which had so strong an influence on Scott and the romantic writers generally. 12. Eftsoons] Directly, immediately ; Uterally 'soon after" (O.E. eft-sdna). The first draft of the poem contains a large number of archaic words and forms of this type, which were subsequently modified or dispensed with. Cf. 'kirk' in 11. 23, etc., below. 13-16. This stanza, or at any rate the last two lines of it, were a contribution by Wordsworth to the poem. 22. drop] Accuracy and brevity of pictorial detail are the most striking features of The Ancient Mariner. Every part of the tale of supernatural wonders is told with a minuteness of description which brings the whole scene vividly before us and compels beUef. As the ship goes out on her voyage, the horizon hides one after another the outstanding landmarks, which are given in their order as they disappear. The rhjrthm of the verse lingers Eghtly for a moment on each. 25. The marginal commentary describes the course of the ship, southward through the Atlantic to the equator; thence driven by storm into the Antarctic ocean, and so round into the Pacific. 36. minstrelsy] Company of minstrels. Cf. The Ballad of the Dark Ladii, 53: 'But first the nodding minstrels go." 46. Where direct description needs to be supplemented or heightened by simile, Coleridge's similes are as definite and vivid as any part of the actual narrative. Cf. 11. 367-72 and 446-51 below. NOTES 109 54. emerald] The archaic form 'Emerauld' was used in the first edition of the poem, riming to 'cauld' for 'cold' in 1. 52. It has been supposed that Coleridge derived the picture of the 'ice, mast-high' and other details from the Strange and dangerous Voyage of captain Thomas James, published in 1633. There was a copy of this book in the old City hbrary in King street, Bristol, where Coleridge often read. See Dykes Campbell's edition of Coleridge's poems, pp. 595-6, 597-8. 55. clifts] CUfis. The icebergs gleamed dismally through the drifting snow and mist. 56. sheen] Brightness. 57. we ken] I.e., we can perceive no shapes of men or beast. 62. in a STVoiind] Heard in a swoon. Cf. 1. 392 below. 63. an Albatross] George Shelvocke, a privateer, records in his account of his voyage (i7r9-2r) in the Speedwell, published in 1726, how he shot a black albatross while rounding cape Horn. Wordsworth, who had been reading Shelvocke's book, supplied Coleridge with this incident. 69. a thunder-fit] A clap of thunder. 76. vespers nine] Nine nights. 82. The first part of the poem concludes with the catastrophe for which the horrors that foUow are the penance. 104. The furrcw] The wake or stream of foam behind the vessel, caused by its passage through the water. In 1817 Coleridge altered this Une to 'The furrow stream'd oS free,' which he thought was more true of the effect of the wake as seen from a ship, 'like a brook flowing off from the stern.' 116. nor breath] I.e., without breath or motion. 128. The death-fires] The phosphorescent lights on the water. 129. a -witch's oils] The ingredients used by a witch in her enchanted heU-broth. See, e.g., Shakespeare, Macbeth, IV, i. 132. the Spirit] The Spirit of the south pole, charged with vengeance for the death of the albatross. The marginal comment explains that this is one of the 'invisible natures' alluded to in the Latin quotation at the opening of the poem. It is possible no NOTES that Coleridge, in the course of his remarkably wide and various reading, may have derived his information at first hand from the works of Josephus and Michael Psellus. But references were ready to hand in Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy, part I, sect, ll, mem. i, subs. 2, in which the nature of spirits and devils is discussed. 'Psellus, a Christian, and sometime Tutor (saith Ctispinian) to Michael Parapinatius, Emperor of Greece, a great observer of the nature of Devils, holds they are corporeal, and have aerial bodies, that they are mortal, live and die,' etc. (Burton, ed. Shilleto, I, 207). 'Aerial Spirits or Devils are such as keep quarter most part in the air, cause many tempests, thunder, and Ughtnings, tear oaks, fire steeples, houses, strike men and beasts, make it rain stones, as in Livy's time, wool, frogs, &c., counterfeit armies in the air, strange noises, swords, &c., as at Vienna, before the coming of the Turks, & many times in Rome...Machiavel hath illustrated by many examples, and Josephus, in his book de hello Judaico, before the destruction of Jerusalem ' (ibid, i, 217, 218). Flavins Josephus, the historian of the Jews, lived a.d. 37-95. Michael Psellus died in 1079: his pupil, the emperor Michael VII, reigned 1067-78. For the statement 'They are very numerous,' etc., Coleridge also had the authority of Burton : ' They are often seen and heard, & familiarly converse with men, as Lod. Vivcs assureth us, innumerable records, histories, and testimonies evince in all ages, times, places, and all travellers besides' (ibid, i, 209). 155. dodged] This word is also used by Keats, Endymion, i, 294 : solitary thinkings; such as dodge Conception to the very bourne of heaven. In the highly poetic diction, remote from the language of ordinary life, adopted by Keats, the word strikes a false note. Here, on the other hand, Coleridge uses the language of ordinary life heightened by imagination and emotion, and the colloquial word appropriately expresses his meaning. Cf. 1. 2ii8 below. 164. they for joy did grin] Coleridge, in his Table Talk (31 May 1830), said 'I took the thought of "grinning for joy" NOTES III ...from my companion's remark to me, when we had climbed to the top of Plinlimmon, and were nearly dead with thirst. We could not speak from the constriction, till we found a little puddle under a stone. He said to me, — "You grinned like an idiot!" He had done the same.' {Table Talk, ed. Ashe, p. 88.) 175. that strange shape] The skeleton ship seen in his friend's dream is worked by Coleridge into a fateful omen to the ancient Mariner and his companions. On it sit two ghastly figures playing dice: the prize, the ancient Mariner, falls to Life-in-Death, while Death takes the rest of the crew. For the origin of the skeleton ship, see introductory note. HazUtt, walking from Stowey to Lynton in 1798 with Coleridge and his Stowey friend John Chester 'on dark brown heaths over- looking the Channel, with the Welsh hills beyond... pointed out to Coleridge's notice the bare masts of a vessel on the very edge of the horizon and within the red-orbed disk of the setting sun, like his own spectre-ship in the Ancient Mariner.' 212. the star-dogged. Moon] Dykes Campbell quotes a. note by Coleridge to the effect that 'it is a common superstition among sailors that something evil is about to happen whenever a star dogs the moon.' 222, 223. As each soul passed him, he seemed to hear the cross-bow with which, by kilUng the albatross, he had become responsible for his companions' deaths. 226, 227. Coleridge's note, added in 1817, is: 'For the last two lines of this stanza, I am indebted to Mr Wordsworth. It was on a delightful walk from Nether Stowey to Dulverton, with him and his sister, in the Autumn of 1797, that this Poem was planned, and in part composed.' This note mentions the ultimate point reached in the famous walking-tour: the route was via Watchet and Porlock to Lynton, from which Exmoor was crossed to Dulverton upon its southern edge. 263. The beauty of the marginal comment at this line should be noticed. The passage with which it ends has been appro- priated by Mr J. W. Mackail at the conclusion of his Life of }Villiam Morris, where he speaks of ' the loneliness and fixedness ' 112 NOTES in which the subject of his biography 'had passed his mortal days.' He proceeds: 'He might seem, now the entanglement of life was snapped, to have resumed his place among the lucid ranks that, still sojourning yet still moving onward, enter their appointed rest and their native country unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected, and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival.' 284, 285. Lamb, writing to Southey, 8 Nov. 1798, says of these lines: 'I never so deeply felt the pathetic... It stung me into high pleasure through sufferings.' 286. my kind S2dnt] Cf. 1. 234, where the absence of the kind saint precedes the impulse of contempt for the living creatures of the sea. 290, 291. The conclusion of part iv balances that of part 11, just as the cross-bow which Mils the albatross at the end of part i is heard again at the death of the ship's crew which concludes part III. 297. silly] Senseless. The epithet, appUed to these lifeless objects, intensifies the ancient Mariner's account of his loneliness and suffering.- 312. sere] Withered, worn with age. 314. fire-flags] The wandering fires or ignes fatui which appear in stormy weather at sea. Burton (ut sup. i, 217) says: 'They counterfeit suns and moons, stars oftentimes, and sit on ship masts. ..St Elmo's fires they commonly call them, & they do likely appear after a. sea storm.' Cf. Ariel's account of his doings in Shakespeare, Tempest, i, ii, 196 sqq. : I boarded the king's ship; now on the beat. Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin, I flamed amazement: sometime I 'Id divide. And bum in many places; on the topmast. The yards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly. Then meet and join. 319. sedge] The simile is appropriate to the epithets 'thin and sere' in 1. 312 above. NOTES 113 325. never a jag] The lightning fell in one sheet without forked flashes. For 'jag' of. Shelley, The Cloud, 35, 'the jag of a mountain crag,' and Arethusa, 5 : From cloud and from crag. With many a, jag. Shepherding her bright fountains. 335. The helmsman steered] Cf. Constancy to an ideal object (c. 1805), 22-4: a becalmed bark. Whose helmsman on an ocean waste and wide Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside. 349. a troop of spirits blest] The marginal comment distinguishes between these angeUc and immortal spirits and the 'daemons' such as the spirit who avenged the death of the alba- tross and his companions whose conversation is recorded below. 358, 359- Cf. Shelley, To a Skylark, 33-5: From rainbow clouds there flow not Drops so bright to see As from thy presence showers a rain of melody. 371, 372. The simile of the brook singing to the sleeping woods is a striking instance of the habit, common to all poets of the romantic movement, of endowing natural objects with human attributes and emotions. _ This is known as the 'pathetic fallacy.' See also note on 11. 478, 479 below. 395. my living life] As opposed to the inanimate life of a swoon. 407. honey-dew] Cf. Kubla Khan, 53, p. 67 above. 414—7. Dykes Campbell notes that 1. 414 is borrowed from Coleridge's Osorio, v, 303 : O woman! I have stood silent like a slave before thee. This, however, seems to be an accidental likeness rather than a borrowing. There is less doubt about the original of 11. 416-7, T. c. 8 114 NOTES which in the same note are referred to the 49th stanza of the Orchsiira of sir John Davies (1594): For lo the Sea that fleets about the land. And like a girdle clips her solid waist. Music and measure both doth understand: For his great crystal eye is always cast Up to the Moon, and on her fixed fast: And as she danceth in her pallid sphere. So danceth he about the centre here. 435. a cbarnel-dungeon] A vault full of corpses. 465, 466. See note on 1. 22 above. The order of the objects is reversed as they come into sight again, one by one. 473. strewn] I.e., the water looked as if it had been laid out like a glass floor. 478, 479. The peculiar sense of silent watchfulness which bright moonlight gives to all objects beneath its radiance has never been so perfectly expressed. The 'pathetic fallacy' noted above (11. 371, 372) is natural to the human mind, which, even in the case of an inanimate object like the weathercock, seeks some analogy from its own experience to describe it properly. 512. shrieve] Absolve, shrive. 533. lag] Float slowly. 535. the ivy-tod] A thick bush or tuft of ivy. The word 'tod' is primarily applied to a bundle of wool. 'Ivy-tod' or 'tod of ivy' occurs frequently in the Elizabethan and Jacobean poets. 597. The ancient Mariner begins at this point to draw a moral from his story. Coleridge {Table Talk, ed. Ashe, p. 87; 31 May 1830) said : ' Mrs Barbauld once told me that she admired the "Ancient Mariner" very much, but that there were two faults in it, — it was improbable, and had no moral. As for the probability, I owned that that might admit some question ; but as to the want of a moral, I told her that in my own judgment the poem had too much; and that the only, or chief fault, if I might say so, was the obtrusion of the moral sentiment so NOTES 115 openly on the reader as a principle or cause of action in a work of such pure imagination. It ought to have had no more moral than the "Arabian Nights'" tale of the merchant's sitting down to eat dates by the side of a well, and throwing the shells aside, and lo ! a genie starts up, and says he rmisi kill the aforesaid merchant, because one of the date shells had, it seems, put out the eye of the genie's son.' 614-7. See note on The Pains of Sleep, 2, pp. 148-9 below. SELECTIONS FROM CHRISTABEL. Of the unfinished fragment of Christabel only 677 lines remain, although Coleridge, always apt to represent his intentions as already put into practice, said that he had written from 1300 to 1400 lines. In the preface to the poem as published in 1816, he says that the first part (11. 1-331) was written at Nether Stowey in 1797, while the rest was written ' after my return from Germany, in the year oile thousand eight hundred, at Keswick, Cumberland.' Dykes Campbell {Life of Coleridge, p. 80) traces the original of certain lines in the first part to incidents recorded in Dorothy Wordsworth's journal during the first three months of 1798. Coleridge was in Germany from Sept. 1798 to the end of June 1799. It was on a walking-tour with William and John Words- worth in the autumn of 1799 that Coleridge made acquaintance with the Lake country, in which the scene of Christabel, undefined in the first part of the poem, was fixed in the second. Wordsworth and his sister went to live at Grasmere at the end of 1799, and Coleridge and his family took up their abode at Greta hall, near Keswick, at the end of July 1800. During the first enthusiasm produced by his new surroundings, the second part was written, but the completion of the poem was checked by a languor and depression which paralysed his energies and reduced his poetic powers to 'a state of suspended animation.' Although publica- tion was indefinitely postponed, the imperfect ms. was widely read by men of letters, and the unusual metrical scheme was 8—2 ii6 NOTES j responsible for the form taken by Scott's Lay of the Lasl Minstrel (1805) and Byron's early narrative poems. It was on Bsrron's suggestion that John Murray published Christabel in 1816 with Kubla Khan and The Pains of Sleep. Coleridge was then sanguine of his ability to complete the poem, but nothing more, so far as is known, was written. In Biographia Literaria, ch. xxiv, he speaks bitterly of his disappointment at its reception, which was less cordial than the praise given to it while in MS. had led him to expect, and probably discouraged him from attempting to proceed with it. The story is one of those tales of wonder involving super- natural agency, the like of which German romanticism had made popular. Like the narrative of The Ancient Mariner, that of Christabel is Coleridge's own invention. 'The enchantment,' says Dykes Campbell, was all his own, but, as in the case of the Ancient Mariner and Kubla Khan, the elements were gathered from every quarter.' The pure maiden Christabel, venturing into the forest by night to pray for her lover, meets one of those demons whose general properties were alluded to in the marginal commentary of The Ancient Mariner. The nature of the false Geraldine, a snake-Uke creature in the form of a beautiful woman, is hinted at rather than described ; but she has much in common with the serpent-woman whom Keats later on made the subject of Lamia. She is allowed to exercise her power over Christabel, who gives her shelter from the cold of the forest, and, at the conclusion of the poem as we have it, Christabel is wholly within the spell of her enchantment, and her appeal to her father to send away the woman of whose evil nature she is conscious is all in vain. Even Bracy the bard, whose dreams have disclosed the danger which threatens Christabel, has to obey his master's bidding and leave the castle to seek Geraldine's supposed father. Coleridge sketched out a conclusion to the story, in which the evil influence is eventually defeated, in conversation with the friends who gathered round him in Gillman's house at Highgate; but it is possible that, before being brought to an end, the narra- tive would have undergone many alterations. NOTES 117 More remarkable than the story itself, which bears no com- ! parison with that of The Ancient Mariner, is its atmosphere, well j described by William Watson as 'the wizard twilight Coleridge | knew.' The details which combine to produce this effect are | enhanced by the metre and rhythm. The influence of these on Spntljand Bjjron has been noted already. Coleridge says of the metre in his preface that it 'is not, properly speaking, irregular, though it may seem so from its being founded on a [1 new principle : namely, that of counting in each line the accents, j | not the syllables. 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 nature of the imagery or passion.' I. From part I, 11. i-68. 3. The accent falls on each syllable of the line in accordance with Coleridge's general metrical scheme, to which, however, there are exceptions, as in 1. 5. 13. my lady's shroud] The dead mother of Christabel appears to have been intended to exercise a counter-influence to the magic of the false Geraldine. This is indicated by allusions in the poem and by Coleridge's description of the final scene, in which, after the removal of the enchantment, the mother's voice was to have been heard. - 1 6-1 9 . Dykes Campbell quotes a note in Dorothy Words- worth's journal for 31 Jan. 1798. 'Set forward to Stowey at half-past five. When we left home the moon immensely large, the sky scattered over with clouds. These soon closed in, con- tracting the dimensions of the moon without concealing her.' The inference, however, that Dorothy Wordsworth's observation was responsible for Coleridge's idea, is not wholly justifiable. Coleridge was capable of noticing such things for himself, and ' the thin gray cloud ' had already appeared as ' a cloud of whitest hue' in conjunction with the moon, although with less definite Il8 NOTES description, in the eariy drafts of Lewti, which seem 4o have been written, before Christabel. See p. 123 below. The pheno- menon noticed by Dorothy also appears in Wordsworth's A Night-Piece, "composed on the road between Nether Stowey and Alfoxden, extempore' in 1798: The sky is overcast With a continous cloud of texture close. Heavy and wan, all whitened by the Moon, Which through that veil is indistinctly seen A dull, contracted circle. 49-52. Dorothy Wordsworth's journal for 7 March 1798, an evening on which she and her brother had tea with Coleridge, notes : ' One only leaf upon the top of a tree — the sole remaining leaf — danced round and round like a rag blown by the wind.' Coleridge's lines are probably his independent record of the same incident. The perfect adaptation of his elastic metre to the movement which it describes is noticeable. In Rosalind and Helen, 123-4, ^ poem which shews the metrical influence of Christabel, Shelley has: The fitful wind is heard to stir One solitary leaf on high. In this passage, however, the leaf is not the 'last of its clan,' but the topmost leaf of a thick grove impermeable to the wind. 54. This line was borrowed by Scott, Lay of the Last Minstrel, I, St. i: Her bower that was guarded by word and by spell. Deadly to hear, and deadly to tell — Jesu Maria, shield us well! II. From part I, 11. 154-89. 6. a fit of flame] A flash of flame. Cf. 'thunder-fit' for a clap of thunder. The Ancient Mariner, 69, p. 14 above. 7. the lady's eye] The flickering firelight gives the first premonition of evil, to which Christabel is bUnd. NOTES 119 22. The picture of Christabel's room, though drawn in much less detail, has points in common with Keats' elaborate descriptions in The Eve of St Agnes. The carved figures and the angel to whose feet the chain is fastened may be compared with 'the carved angels, ever eager-eyed' in U. 35-7 of that poem. III. From part I, 11. 255-78. The spell which closes this part of the poem is the most ambitious part of Coleridge's metrical scheme. In the first four Unes (13—16) the metre gathers pace, which quickens through- out the five short Unes, each containing two strong accents, which follow. The long Knes at the end, uttered rapidly in a tone which rises to its highest point in 1. 22 and sinks gradually to the close, mark the false Geraldine's complete triumph. In 1. 22 the four accents are maintained in a line of fourteen syllables, and in the last Une the gradual cessation of the mur- muring voice is marked by the change of accentuation and the lingering slowness of the final foot, in which the last word but one, 'damp,' cannot be slurred over but partly anticipates the accent on 'air.' 4. sick assay] Weak attempt. 8. lay down] Notice the sudden change of tense. The present has been used hitherto to denote Geraldine's hesitation : as soon as her decision is made, it changes to the past and her actions follow one another swiftly and irrevocably. IV. The opening Unes of part II (U. 332-59). I. matin] Matins {horae matutinae) was the first office of the day in the medieval church, said in monasteries at midnight, but frequently in churches not monastic at dawn. In the coUegiate church of Ottery St Mary, Devon, it was said at 4 a.m. in the fifteenth century, and this was probably the case in many parish churches where there were a number of priests and the canonical hours were said in common. 120 NOTES 8. sacristan] The Latin sacrista or sacrist, usually known in English under the form 'sexton.' At Southwell, Notts, the sacrist, who was one of the canons and looked after the furniture and altars of the church, was commonly called the 'segeston' or 'sexton'; and a manor in county Durham which provided part of the revenue of the sacrist of the monastery of Durham was called 'Seggeston,' a word now latinised into Sacriston. lo. beads] A bead is a prayer (O.E. biddan = to pray, gehed = prayer). Hence the word was applied to the small roundels composing a rosary, each of which was fingered off as a prayer was said. From this the ordinary use of the word 'bead' is derived. 13. BrathaHead] The Bra thay flows down Little Langdale from the fells at its head into Elterwater, passing over Colwith force on its way. The Great Langdale beck joins it in Elterwater, and the stream which issues from the lake bears the name of the Brathay and flows into Windermere at its north-west end, close to Ambleside. 19, 20. The Langdale pikes, two rocky mountains called Pike o' Stickle and Harrison Stickle, are at the head of the valley known as Langdale in Westmorland. Dungeon-ghyll is a. ravine in the valley which divides the two peaks : the waterfall of one of the head-streams of the Great Langdale beck in this gorge is described by Wordsworth in The Idle Shepherd-Boys: If ever you to Langdale go; Into a chasm a. mighty block • Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock: The gulf is deep below; And, in a basin black and small. Receives a lofty waterfall. Witch's Lair appears to be another ghyll or chasm in the same district. 28. Borrowdale] The valley at the south end of Derwent- water, at some distance over the hills from Langdale. NOTES 121 V. From part IT, 11. 408-26. Coleridge possibly had in mind, when he wrote these beautiful lines, his temporary separation from Charles Lamb, owing to the 'whispering tongue' of Charles Lloyd, who had involved Lamb in his own quarrel with Coleridge. The disagreement, however, was healed early in 1800, to which the greatest portion of the second part of Christabel belongs. Coleridge called these lines 'the best and sweetest' he ever wrote. They embody one of those perfect and final definitions of the ordinary experiences of Hfe which are among the highest achievements of poetry. 15. Cf. Byron, Childe Harold, iii, st. xciv: Now, where the swift Rhone cleaves his way between Heights which appear as lovers who have parted In hate, whose mining depths so intervene. That they can meet no more, though broken-hearted ! Love was the very root of the fond rage Which blighted their life's bloom, and then departed : Itself expired, but leaving them an age Of years all winters — war within themselves to wage. VI. From part II, 11. 483-655. 6. To bear thy harp] So, in Scott's Lay of the Last Min- strel, a boy carries the old harper's instrument. 7. vest] Vesture, raiment. II. Irthing] The Irthing rises in Bewcastle fells in the north-east of Cumberland, and, flowing past Gilsland and Lanercost priory, falls into the Eden a few miles east of Carlisle. 14. that castle good] Triermain, of which some scanty ruins still exist, about three miles west of Gilsland. It formed one of the defences of northern Cumberland against Scottish marauders, the country between it and the Scottish frontier 122 NOTES consisting of wild moorland. The places named in 1. 13 are to the west of Triermain, on the north side of the Irthing. In order to reach Triermain from Langdale, Bracy would have had to cross the Kirkstone pass to Ullswater, from which his route would be in the reverse order to that given by Scott in The Bridal of Triermain, i, st. vii, viz. down the Eamont valley to Penrith and thence through Kirkoswald, at the foot of the Pennine chain, to Brampton, where, to reach Knorren, he would have crossed the Irthing. 32. Roland do Vaux] The family of Vaux (de Vallibus) were lords of the barony of Gilsland, with their local seat at Triermain castle, from the end of the eleventh to the end of the fifteenth century. Scott introduces a Roland de Vaux into The Bridal of Triermain. 53. Another remarkable example of the wedding of sound to sense. 73. the midnig'ht hour] Bracy's dream coincided with the hour at which Christabel, the dove, was exposed to the enchantments of Geraldine, the snake. 89. the snake] Sir Leoline reads the dream as indicating the wrong done to Geraldine by the lover who, according to her account, had carried her away from her home by force. 100. See note on 1. 54, p. 118 above. loi. dull and shy] The observation of which this line is an instance finds many parallels in the realistic and forcibly simple descriptions of The Ancient Mariner. 109. a hissing sound] The snake-Uke nature of Geraldine, communicated by her fascinations, begins to shew its outward workings in Christabel. In the sequel. Sir LeoUne, while he sees only the brightness of Geraldine's eyes, sees the glance of the snake in Christabel's. Her struggle against the spell ends with her vain cry of despair in 11. 134, 135. 143. thy lady died] See note on 1. 13, p. 117 above. NOTES 123 LEWTI, OR THE Circassian Love-Chaunt. Lewti was originally written in or about 1794 : in the earliest MS. draft, printed in Mr E. H. Coleridge's edition of the Poems, the name 'Mary' occurs instead of 'Lewti,' with evident reference to Coleridge's first love Mary Evans. It was much polished and altered between this date and its publication in The Morning Post of 13 April 1798, when it bore the signature Nicias Ery- thraeus. As then printed, it contained two stanzas and a couplet, subsequently omitted. It was the first of Coleridge's poems in which his lyric talent was exercised with sustained success, and is a remarkable illustration of his gift of melody and his power of employing the outward aspect of Nature as a key to human emotion. 7. Tamstha's stream] There does not seem to be any river of this name in the district formerly known as Circassia. Tama is a small town in Daghestan, east of Circassia, upon a tributary of the Bugan or UUutchai, which flows into the Caspian. In one of his early drafts, Coleridge contemplated changing the title to The Wild Indian's Love-Chaunt, and the name Tamaha is certainly more appropriate to an American river. 10. tressy] With long branches like tresses of hair. 15-19. Cf. Remorse, iv, i, 24-6: one's breath Floats round the flame, and makes as many colours As the thin clouds that travel near the moon. 53. my heedless feet from under] Note the bold inversion of the preposition and the words it governs. 124 NOTES FRANCE: AN ODE. This magnificent poem, on its earliest appearance, bore the date February 1798. It seems to have been written at Stowey, the local scenery of which is ideaUsed in harmony with Coleridge's high theme in the first and last stanzas. At the end of Jan. 1798 the French directory had violated the neutrality of Switzerland and had annexed Miihlhausen, under the pretext of supporting the democratic party in the Pays de Vaud against the oligarchic government of Berne. This treacherous action, undertaken in the name of Liberty, was in progress when Coleridge wrote and it profoundly afiected the zeal with which he had welcomed the earlier phases of the French revolution. His poem was printed in The Morning Post for 16 April 1798, with the title The Recan- tation : an Ode. Later in the year it was published in a pamphlet which also contained Fears in Solitude and Frost at Midnight: its title was then changed to France ; an Ode, under which title it was again printed in The Morning Post for 14 Oct. 1802, after the incorporation of Piedmont in the French republic. 6. reclined] The epithet- is applied to the woods, lying along the middle of the hill-slopes, between the open country above and the fields below. 7. Cf. 'Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood' in the sonnet To the Author of 'The Robbers,' 1. 12 (p. i above). Coleridge's picture of his woodland wanderings, invested with his peculiar magic, recalls his vision of SchUler in that sonnet. 9. beloved of God] Coleridge likens the inspired poet to one who walks with God : human companionship is impossible in moments when his inspiration is fuUy awakened. 23. that oath] So many oaths were taken during the French revolution, from the Tennis-court oath of June 1789 onwards, that it is difficult to define the oath to which Coleridge refers. But he was probably thinking of the federal oath sworn NOTES 125 on the anniversaries in 1790 and 1791 of the destruction of the Bastille (14 July 1789). The celebrations of 1791 deeply affected Wordsworth on his journey through France (see The Prelude, VI, 339-41): But Europe at that time was thrilled with joy, France standing on the top of golden hours. And human nature seeming born again. 29. embattled] Set in battle array. 30, 31. The French legislative assembly declared war on Austria and Prussia on 20 April 1792. On i Feb. 1793 the national convention declared war on England and Holland. 32-8. In his Ode to the Departing Year at the end of 1796 Coleridge had celebrated his love for his 'mother Isle' and prophesied her ruin in her union with ' the wild yeUing of Famine and Blood' against 'divinest Liberty.' Fears in Solitude, 153-202, contains a statement of his 'filial fears,' which poUticians of another school of thought had construed into enmity, for his 'mother Isle,' including an eloquent apostrophe (176-97). 43. Blasphemy's loud, scream] He refers to the anti- Christian ravings of the culminating period of the revolution and the reign of terror, such as those of Hubert's atheist crew, whose maddening hand Hurl'd down the altars of the hving God, With all the infidel's intolerance. (Southey in The Fall of Robespierre, iii, 1S9-91.) 50. The dissonance ceased] The reaction against the Terror, which ended with the cou^ d'itat of 9 Thermidor (27 July 1794) and the fall of Robespierre, led to the end of the national convention in Oct. 1795 and the establishment of the directory, under which the French armies, led by Buonaparte and other generals, achieveji some of their greatest victories. The apparent soUdity of the I'epubhcan government at home and the Itahan campaigns of 1796-7 are alluded to in 11. 51-7. 126 NOTES 53, 54. The passage is borrowed from Milton, Samson Agonistes, 135-9 : But safest he who stood aloof. When insupportably his foot advanc'd. In scorn of their proud arms and warlike tools, Spurn'd them to death" by troops. The bold Ascalonite Fled from his lion ramp. Dykes Campbell (Poet. Works, p. 608) notices the substitution of 'irresistibly' for 'insupportably' in 1802, and 'tramp' for 'ramp' in 181 7, with other circumstances connected with the lines. De Quincey, Literary Reminiscences (Works, ed. Masson, II, 143-8, 226-8) discusses Coleridge's plagiarisms. See also introd. note to Hymn before Sun-rise, p. 144 below. 54. ramp] Menacing attitude, usually applied to a lion: cf. the heraldic phrase 'lion rampant.' 60. Although Coleridge and Wordsworth both sympathised with the revolution at its outset, the misery and oppression of the poor was felt by Coleridge much more keenly than by his friend. Wordsworth saw very clearly the virtues whose exercise was encouraged by poverty, and the stoicism and moral nobility of the peasant class, or of that part of it which he knew best, became a favourite theme of his poetry. Contrast, e.g., with this line Wordsworth's Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, 161 : 'Love had he found in huts where poor men lie.' 73. jealous] Jealous of intrusion. 85-8. It is useless for men who are naturally slaves to sensuality and darkness to rebel: their own nature compels them to be slaves. When they break their old chains, their act is only a, madman's game, and what they call freedom is but a worse state of slavery. 91, 92. The conqueror is the natural foe of liberty, nor does her power ever appear triumphant in human form. 96. obscener] The harpies, to whom Coleridge likens the slaves of priestcraft, were obscene creatures. The slaves of NOTES 127 blasphemy who cast down altars and defiled churches in the reaction against priestcraft were worse than harpies. 103. Cf. Shelley, Adonais, 418-20: As from a centre, dart thy spirit's light Beyond all worlds, until its spacious might Satiate the void circumference. FROST AT MIDNIGHT. Written at Stowey in Feb. 1798, and printed in the same pamphlet with Fears in Solitude and France : an Ode. Apart from the charm of its blank verse and descriptive passages, the poem has a peculiar autobiographical value, and contains in 11. 60-4 a succinct expression of Coleridge's creed of Nature. 15. that film] Coleridge's original note was : 'In all parts of the kingdom these films are called strangers and supposed to portend the arrival of some absent friend.' 20. the idling Spirit] These lines explain the subjective character of Coleridge's poetry. In Biographia Literaria, ch. xii, Coleridge discusses the relation of the subjective, i.e. the con- scious self or intelligence, to the objective, i.e. the passive phenomena of nature as they are represented to the intelligence by itself. 'The act of self-consciousness is for us the source and principle of all our possible knowledge.' Thus the mind, in exploring nature, colours what it observes with its own moods. 24. at school] See Lamb's Christ's Hospital Five and Thirty Years Ago in Essays ofElia for reminiscences of Coleridge's school-days, partly amalgamated with Lamb's own reminiscences in the first person. 26. stranger] See note on 1. 15 above. 28. my sweet birth-place] Ottery St Mary in Devon, to' which there are allusions in some of Coleridge's early poems. Lamb (see note on 1. 24 above) was certainly thinking of this 128 NOTES passage when he wrote : ' How, in my dreams, would my native town (far in the west) come back, with its church, and trees, and faces ! How I would wake weeping, and in the anguish of my heart exclaim upon sweet Calne in Wiltshire ! ' See also Lamb's John Woodvil, act v: Margaret. Hark the bells, John. John. Those are the church beUs of St Mary Ottery. Margaret. I know it. John. Saint Mary Ottery, my native village In the sweet shire of Devon. Those are the bells. Margaret. Wilt go to church, John? John. I have been there already. Margaret. How can'st say thou hast been there already? The bells are only now ringing for morning service, and hast thou been at church already? John. I left my bed betimes, I could not sleep, And when I rose, I look'd (as my custom is) From my chamber window, where I can see the sun rise; And the first object I discern'd Was the glistering spire of St Mary Ottery. Ottery is described under the name of Clavering St Mary's by Thackeray in Pendennis, ch. ii. 29. the poor man's only music] See note on France: an Ode, 60 (p. 126 above). 37. the stern preceptor] 'At school I enjoyed the inestimable advantage of a very sensible, though at the same time, a very severe master' (Biog. Literaria, ch. i), elsewhere referred to by Coleridge as 'old Jemmy Bowyer' or Boyer, 'the "plagosus Orbilius" of Christ's Hospital,' and described by Lamb with humorous relish. 38. s-wiznming] I.e., seen dimly through tears. 42. sister] The sister whose approaching death Coleridge lamented in a sonnet in 1790. Her memory is also recalled in a sonnet On seeing a youth affectionately welcomed by a sister. NOTES 129 44. Dear Babe] Hartley Coleridge, the poet's eldest son, born 19 Sept, 1796 and called after David Hartley, the philo- sopher to whose theories Coleridge was strongly attached at the time. In U. 54-8 the father speaks prophetically of his child's Ufa, which was largely spent in such wanderings as he describes. Hartley Coleridge, whose promising career was spoiled by irre- solution and intemperance, died in 1849, leaving some fugitive poems and other literary remains. 52. cloisters dim] Cf. Coleridge's Sonnet on quitting school for college, written in 1791, 11. 5-8: Adieu, adieu ! ye much-loved cloisters pale ! Ah! would those happy days return again, When 'neath your arches, free from every stain, I heard of guilt and wonder'd at the tale ! In a, poem dated September 1792 To a young lady with a poem on the French Revolution, U. 1-4, this sentiment is re-used : Much on my early youth I love to dwell. Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell. When first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale, I heard of guilt and wondered at the tale! For Coleridge in the cloisters of Christ's hospital, see Lamb's famous apostrophe, 'Come back into memory,' etc., in the essay mentioned in note to 1. 24 above. 55. By lakes] The idea of removing his home to the English lakes can hardly have occurred to Coleridge until nearly two years after this poem was written, and he did not actually settle there till July 1800 (see introductory note to selections from Christabel, p. 1 1 5 above), so that these lines are a genuine prophecy. It is possible that Hartley Coleridge, who must have been well acquainted with them, fulfilled their precepts consciously. This does not affect the prophetic intuition which they shew, but the mention of lakes need not be taken as a specific reference to the Lake country. In his apostrophe to Britain in Fears in Solitude, 182 sqq., Coleridge speaks of such influence upon T. c, 9 130 NOTES himself, in terms which suggest that his love of lake-scenery had been gained at an earlier period than that of his acquaintance with Cumberland and Westmorland: native Britain! O my Mother Isle! How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holy To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills. Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas. Have drunk in all my intellectual life? 56-8. Cf. Keats, Endymion, i, 740 sqq. : 1 watch and dote upon the silver lakes Pictured in western cloudiness, that takes The semblance of gold rocks and bright gold sands. Islands and creeks, and amber-fretted strands With horses prancing o'er them. 59. shapes and sounds] Cf. France : an Ode, 13, 14 (P- 55 above), where Coleridge again confesses his susceptibility to shapes and sounds. See also The Nightingale, 24 sqq. : Poet who hath been building up the rhyme When he had better far have stretched his Umbs 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. Such shapes and sounds he here defines as the language embodying the Spirit of the universe. Cf . ' Religious meanings in the forms of Nature' (Among the Quantocks, 24, p. 62 above). 62. Cf. the theory of Nature stated as a speculation in The Eolian Harp, 44-8 (pp. 6, 7 above). 62, 63. Wordsworth has the same idea of the power of communion with Nature to mould the spirit in the stanzcis 'Three years she grew in sun and shower,' composed in the Hartz forest in 1799, e.g. : NOTES 131 The stars of midnight shall be dear To her; and she shall lean her ear In many a secret place Where rivulets dance their wayward round, And beauty bom of murmuring sound Shall pass into her face. 71. the trances] The quiet, speU-bound intervals. AMONG THE QUANTOCKS. Fears in Solitude written in April x^gS, during the alarm of an invasion bears date 'Nether Stowey, April 20th, 1798.' The poem, consisting of 232 lines, first appeared at the beginning of the pamphlet of 1798, followed by France : an Ode and Frost at Midnight. Its political and social musings, as Coleridge himself recognised in a note added to an autograph copy of the poem, are in great part sermoni propriora — more suitable for prose. The opening and closing passages, however (11. 1-28, 203-32), are striking examples of Coleridge's power of drawing accurate and deUcate landscapes. The scenes described cover much the same ground as those of This Lime-tree bower my prison (see p. 104 above): the dell, however, is different in its features from the 'still roaring dell' of that poem. Cf. Recollections of Love, 6-10; Eight springs have flown, since last I lay On sea-ward Quantock's heathy hills. Where quiet sounds from hidden rills Float here and there, Hke things astray. And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills. 9-1 1. Coleridge's sensitiveness to colour translates itself into language which conveys his impression and renders it precisely visible. 9—2 132 NOTES 18-19. So, in Reflections on having left a place of retirement, 18 sqq., Coleridge speaks of the viewless sky-lark's note (Viewless, or haply for a moment seen Gleaming on sunny wings) as The inobtrusive song of Happiness, Unearthly minstrelsy! then only heard When the Soul seeks to hear; when all is hushed. And the Heart listens! Cf. also Shelley, To a Skylark, 36-40: Like a Poet hidden In the light of thought. Singing hymns unbidden. Till the world is wrought To sympathy with hopes and fears it heeded not. 24. Cf. note on Frost at Midnight, 59 (p. 130 above). 30. For Coleridge's sensitiveness to perfume cf. The Eolian Harp, 9, 10 (p. 5 above). 33. the ivied beacon] Cf. The Destiny of Nations, 257-8 : Aside the beacon, up whose smouldered stones The tender ivy-trails crept thinly. 38. I find myself upon the brow] Cf. the description of the same view in This Lime-tree bower my prison, 20 sqq. (p. 8 above). 44. elmy fields] The 'elm-shadow'd fields' are also noticed in the prospect from the hill above Brockley combe (1. 14, p. 5 above). 48. the four huge elms] Cf. 'those fronting elms' in This Lime-tree bower my prison, 54 (p. 9 above). 49. my friend] Thomas Poole, partner in a tannery at Nether Stowey. Coleridge met him first in 1794, and was attracted to settle near him by their kinship of mind and common interests. See Thomas Poole and his Friends, by Mrs Henry NOTES 133 Sandford, 2 vols. 1888. Coleridge's 'lowly cottage,' which still stands, 'a poor cottage now, then a poorer' (Dykes Campbell, Life of Coleridge, p. 62), was near Poole's house, and the gardens touched each other. 51. my babe] See note on Frost at Midnight, 44, p. 129 above. NIGHTINGALES AT STOWEY. The Nightingale : a Conversational Poem, written in April 1798, was included in Lyrical Ballads, 1798. In Sibylline Leaves the word 'Conversational' was changed to 'Conversation.' 44 out of no lines (11. 43-86) are given here. 3. With fast thick warble] Cf. Milton, Par. Regained, IV, 244-6: the olive grove of Academe, Plato's retirement, where the Attic bird Trills her thick-warbled notes the summer long; and Crashaw, Musicks Ditell,, 62-3: Then starts she suddenly into a throng Of short thick sobs. Crasha^^'s poem is one of the numerous imitations of the Fidicinis et Philomelae helium musicum (i.e. the musical contest of the lute-player and the nightingale) of Famiano Strada (1572-1649). Other imitations of the same poem occur in Ford's The Lover's Melancholy, i, i, and in the fifth Pastoral of Ambrose Philips. 8. a castle huge] The entrenchments of the castie of Stowey remain above the village. All the buildings of the castle, a stronghold of the family. of Audley, had disappeared before Coleridge's time. 18. swift jug jug] ' Jug' is the traditional verbal equiv^ent for the nightingale's 'fast thick warble.' 134 NOTES 26. many a glow-worm] Cf. Lines written at Shurton Bars, near Bridgewater, September i7ps, 3-6: Kor now with curious sight I mark the glow-worm, as I pass. Move with 'green radiance' through the grass, An emerald of light. 'Green radiance' was borrowed from Wordsworth's An Evening Walk, 267, where it now appears as 'green unmolested light.' 27. A most gentle Maid] Dorothy Wordsworth. The poem (1. 40) apostrophises Wordsworth and Dorothy: 'My Friend, and thou, our Sister.' 28. her hospitable home] Alfoxton, spelt by the Words- worths Alfoxden, and by Poole AUfoxen, is actually some three miles from Stowey and its castle. 30. a Lady vowed and dedicate] Cf. the Lady of the garden in Shelley's The Sensitive Plant, 115 sqq. 35. a pause of silence] Cf. Wordsworth, The Prelude, VI, 379-80: when a lengthened pause Of silence came that baffled his best skill. till the moon] Cf. Milton, Par. Lost, iv, 606 sqq. : till the moon Rising in clouded majesty, at length Apparent queen unveil'd her peerless light. And o'er the dark her silver mantle threw. 37. those ■wakeful birds] Cf. 'The wakeful nightingale' of Milton, Par. Lost, rv, 602. Cf. also the description of moon- rise at Florence in Browning, One Word More, xv : Rounder 'twixt the cypresses and rounder. Perfect till the nightingales applauded. NOTES 135 KUBLA KHAN. Kubla Khan, a Vision, was first published in the Christabel volume of 1816. Coleridge himself ascribed the composition of this fragment, a masterpiece of the type of poetry which depends entirely for its success upon the pure pleasure it gives to the reader by beauty of form, colour and varying rhythm, to the summer of 1797. His dates, however, were seldom accurate and it appears from other evidence that his stay at the 'lonely farm-house between Porlock and Linton, on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire' may be assigned more probably to the early summer of 1798. He says that he was at this time in ill-health, and, whUe reading the old record of travel called Purchas his Pilgrimage after taking ' an anodyne ' which 'had been prescribed,' fell asleep in his chair. During a three hours' sleep, 'at least of the external senses,' he composed a poem of not less than two or three hundred Unes, the principal theme of which was suggested by the last sentence his waking eyes had seen in his book. Of this composition, 'if that indeed can be called composition in which all the images rose up before him as things, with a parallel production of the correspondent expressions, without any sensation or consciousness of efiort,' he appeared on waking to remember the whole, and at once began to write it out. He was interrupted, however, by a caller 'onTjusiness from Porlock' who detained him "above an hour,' and, on returning to his room, he found that he had forgotten the rest of his poem. '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 has been cast, but, alas! without the after restoration of the latter!' 136 NOTES I. The passage referred to is as follows: 'In Xamdu did Cublai Can build a, stately Palace, encompassing sixteene miles of plaine ground with a wall, wherein are fertile Meddowes, pleasant Springs, delightfuU Streames, and all sorts of beasts of chase and game, and in the middest thereof a sumptuous house of pleasure' (Purchas his Pilgrimage). Kubla (Khubilay) Khan was a grandson of the founder of the Mongol empire, Chingiz Khan (1206-27), and was the fifth Khan or emperor of his Une, ruling from 1257 to 1294. He completed the conquest of China and transferred his capital from Caracorum to Cambalu, the modem Peking. His summer palace, at Ciandu or Xandu, where he lived during June, July and August, is described by Marco Polo as three days' journey north-east of Peking, apparently at Cheng-te-fu, on a tributary of the river Lan-ho. 12-30. Note throughout this passage the effortless adapta- tion of the sound and rhythm to the various parts of the descrip- tion. 37. dulcimer] A stringed instrument which, instead of being played hke the psaltery, which resembled it in shape, by a small rod or plectrum, had small striking-rods attached to the several strings, Uke the hammers of the modem pianoforte. LOVE. Originally intended as a prelude to the fragmentary Ballad of the Dark Ladii. First printed in The Morning Post, 21 Dec. 1799, and included, with alterations bringing it to its present form, in the second ed. of Lyrical Ballads, 1800. It has been suggested by Mr E. H. Coleridge that the poem was composed at Sockbum in co. Durham, on the north bank of the Tees, where Coleridge visited Wordsworth at the end of Oct. 1799. Words- worth and his sister were then staying with the Hutchinsons, whose daughter Mary was married to Wordsworth in 1802. ' The NOTES 137 statue of the arm6d knight' is supposed to refer to the effigy of a knight of the family of Conyers, once in the ruined church, and now preserved at the neighbouring hall. In local legend the knight was reputed to have been the slayer of a fiery flying serpent or ' worm ' which infested the neighbourhood, in memory of which the lord of Sockbum was bound to present his over-lord the bishop of Durham, on his first entry into his diocese, with the falchion credited with the slaying of the worm. This story, idealised by Coleridge, may have been the basis of the lay by which the heart of Genevieve was won. In the first draft of the poem, the effigy is described as " a grey stone rudely carv'd,' and, as a matter of fact, there is a stone at Sockbum called the Grey stone, which is supposed to mark the scene of the knight's exploit. The likenesses, however, are too vague for certainty, and legends of this type and effigies of armed men are by no means peculiar to Sockburn. Coleridge in later years said of The Ancient Manner and Love: 'They may be excelled; they are not imitable.' Keats, however, achieved a closely parallel success in La Belle Dame sans Merci, which can hardly be acquitted of some debt to Love. 19, 20. Cf. Othello's account of Desdemona's pity at his stories of the dangers he had passed, Shakespeare, Othello, i, iii, 158 sqq. 33-6. So in Dante, Inferno, v, 127 sqq., the reading of the tale of Lancelot led to the discovery of the love of Paolo and Francesca. 37-40. The repetition of 11. 25-8, with the variation in the last two lines, marks the growing consciousness of love in Genevieve. 41. the cruel scorn] The scorn of the lady for whom the knight served: cf. 11. 59, 60 below. 50. An angel] So, in Keats, La Belle Dame sans Merci, the enchantress takes the form of a lady ' full beautiful, a faery's child.' 67. faultering] The spelling is Coleridge's. 138 NOTES 86. meek] A somewhat distressing epithet, peculiarly dear to Coleridge, who applies it broadcast, e.g. in the Unes To a young Ass, 'Meek Child of Misery'; to his wife. The Eolian Harp, 53 (p. 7 above); to Pity in the lines To Miss Brunton; to Piety in Religious Musings, 316, 323; to his sister, On seeing a Youth, etc., 3, 'Meek were her manners as a vernal eve"; to Charles Lloyd in To a Young Friend, 61, 'O meek retiring spirit"; and to himself. Ode to the Departing Year, 159 : Now I receutre my immortal mind In the deep sabbath of meek self-content. DEJECTION: AN ODE. This ode, composed at Greta hall, Keswick, was originally addressed to Wordsworth, and the 'Lady' who appears in 1. 47 was in the MS. draft 'WilUam.' It was printed in The Morning Post on Wordsworth's wedding-day, 4 Oct. 1802, and signed BSTHSB (i.e. S. T. C). In this version 'Edmund' was sub- stituted for 'WiUiam.' In Sibylline Leaves, 1817, when Coleridge and Wordsworth were temporarily estranged, the traces of the original application of the poem were removed by the omission or alteration of passages which were directly addressed to Words- worth, 'brother and friend of my devoutest choice,' and by the introduction of the 'Lady' instead of 'Edmund.' As it stands, however, although 'the frosts of alienation,' as Dykes Campbell well says (Life of Coleridge, p. 129), have 'withered some of its tenderest shoots,' the poem is a record of the change which came over Coleridge's spirit during his residence at Greta hall. The causes of this change are defined in the introduction to these selections. Coleridge, under their influence, felt his poetic power slipping away from him, and gave voice to his melancholy in this swan-song, in which 'the shaping spirit of Imagination' contended for utterance with the growing lethargy that absorbed his energies. NOTES 139 2. Sir Patrick Spence, a Scottish ballad, "given from two MS. copies transmitted from Scotland,' was first printed by Thomas Percy (1729-1811), then rector of Easton Maudit, Northants, and afterwards dean of Carlisle and bishop of Dromore, in Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, 1765. The stanza which forms the motto of this ode is given in Percy's version thus : Late late yestreen I saw the new moone Wi' the auld moone in hir arme ; And I feir, I feir, my deir mastfer. That we will com to harme. The line ' For I feir a deadly storme ' is the last line of the stanza immediately preceding. 6. draft] Draught, current of air. 7. tliis iEoUan lute] Less than seven years earlier, the music of the breeze upon that simplest Lute Placed length-ways in the clasping casement had conveyed to Coleridge only 'soft floating witchery of sound.' See p. 5 above. It now reminded him only of the discontent which was playing on his spirit and making discord of its har- monies — 'agony by torture lengthened out' (1. 98 below). 10. phantom light] For the sense of 'natural magic' in these lines, cf. D. G. Rossetti, My Sister's Sleep, 13-16: Without, there was a cold moon up, Of winter radiance sheer and thin; The hoUow halo it was in Was like an icy crystal cup. 13. the old Moon in her lap] I.e., the whole moon in eclipse was outUned, Ijang, as it were, in the hoUow of the thin crescent of light at its edge. The poem was written just a fortnight before Easter, which fell on 18 April in 1802, 4 April being the day on which the moon entered its first quarter. 16. slemt] Driven in diagonal Unes before the wind. 29. its peculiar tint of yelloiv ^een] See note on Among the Quantocks, 9-11 (p. 131 above). Cf. 1. 44 below. 140 NOTES 32. I.e., the stars seem to move, while the clouds seem to be motionless. Cf. Wordsworth, A Night-Piece, 14-18, with which this whole passage may be compared : There, in a black-blue vault she sails along. Followed by multitudes of stars, that, small And sharp, and bright, along the dark abyss Drive as she drives: how fast they wheel away. Yet vanish not! 47-58. Coleridge enunciates the doctrine that the aspect of Nature in itself cannot afEect the human mind. It is the mind itself which, by its own feelings, colours natural objects with attributes of beauty and happiness. Cf. Lines written in the Album at Elbingerode, 16 sqq. : for I had found That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive Their finer influence from the Life within; — Fair cyphers else. The beauty of the "green light that lingers in the west' cannot 'minister to a mind diseased,' which has lost its light and glory and can only brood upon its own miseries. So Milton, Par. Lost, I, 254-5: The mind is its own place, and in itself Can make a Heav'n of Hell, a Hell of Heav'n. The power of external objects to co-operate with the mind in producing sensations of pleasure finds an example in Wordsworth's / wandered lonely as a cloud, where the remembrance of the vision of daffodils is a definite source of pleasure : For oft, when on my couch I lie In vacant or in pensive mood. They flash upon that inward eye Which is the bUss of soUtude; And then my heart with pleasure fills, And dances with the daffodils. NOTES 141 Or again, in the lines: My heart leaps up when I behold A rainbow in the sky. But the power of the mind, as it advances with years, to touch with its own melancholy even the most beautiful scenes is con- fessed in Intimations of Immortality, where ' the visionary gleam ' emanating from natural objects has faded 'into the light of com- mon day,' and the poet recognises 'that there hath past away a glory from the earth.' This comes to the same thing as Coleridge's doctrine, viz. that the effect of Nature upon the mind depends entirely upon the capacity of the mind itself to appreciate it. Meredith in his prelude to The Egoist pictures Shakespeare on the clifi at Dover, celebrated in King Lear, 'contemplating the seas without on the reflex of that within,' which is exactly Coleridge's point of view. 49. I.e., the mind can clothe Nature with joy as with a wedding-garment or with sorrow as with a, shroud. 51, 52. Cf. Matthew Arnold, The Scholar-Gipsy, 166-70: O Ufe unlike to ours! Who fluctuate idly without term or scope. Of whom each strives, nor knows for what he strives. And each half lives a hundred different Uves; Who wait like thee, but not, hke thee, in hope. 54, 53. Cf. Wordsworth, Intimations of Immortality, 1-5: There was a time when meadow, grove, and stream, The earth, and every common sight. To me did seem Apparelled in celestial light. The glory and the freshness of a dream. 66. Joy is at once life itself, and the feelings of which life is the source, the cloud which causes the shower and the shower itself. 67. the spirit and the power] The spirit is the life-giving principle, the power is the activity which it quickens. 142 NOTES 68. wedding Nature] I.e., Nature in union with the mind. 86. My shaping spirit] See note on Lines on a Friend, 40 (pp. 97-8 above). 89. abstruse research] Amid his growing melancholy at Greta haU in 1801, Coleridge spent much of his time in meta- physical studies. To these he had always been addicted, even, according to Lamb, in his school-days. The influence of meta- physical thought on his poetry can easily be traced in these selections, both in the religious sentiments enunciated from time to time and in such instances as the motto and marginal com- mentary of The Ancient Mariner. For the influence of David Hartley upon him, see note on Frost at Midnight, 44 (p. 129 above) and Biog. Literaria, chh. v-vii. The progress of his philosophical studies is traced with florid eloquence by Hazlitt in his not over-sympathetic essay on Mr Coleridge in The Spirit of the Age, 1825 (ed. W. C. Hazlitt, pp. 50-2). 99. That lute] Cf. 1. 7 above. 100. mountain-tairn] A tarn (Old Norse tjorn) is the name given in the north of England to a 'small lake, 'generally applied,' says Coleridge in a note, 'to the lakes up the mountains and which are the feeders of those in the valleys.' loi. clomb] The old past tense of 'cUmb.' Cf. Tennyson, The Lotos -Eaters, 18: 'Up-clomb the shadowy pine above the woven copse.' For 'whither woodman never clomb' cf. France : an Ode, 10: 'Through glooms, which never woodman trod' (p. 55 above). 104. Lutemist] Player on a, lute. 105. dark-brown gardens] Cf. the description of spring in Swinburne, I licet, 11 5-6: In deep wet ways by grey old gardens Fed with sharp spring the sweet fruit hardens. 106. Devils' yule] Spring is turned, by the mad music of the wind, into a Christmas whose merry-making is that of devils. 120. Otway's self] The name of Otway was substituted NOTES 143 for that of Wordsworth, which occurred in the original version, the allusion in 11. 121-5 being primarily to Wordsworth's poem Lucy Gray, or Solitude. The allusion to the dramatist Thomas Otway (1652-85) is less appropriate, but refers to his tender treatment of tragic episodes, the most famous examples of which are the misfortunes of Monimia in The Orphan and Belvidera in Venice Preserved. Coleridge may have remembered the distracted ravings of Belvidera (Venice Preserved, V, iv): The winds 1 hark how they whistle! And the rain beats : oh, how the weather shrinks me I Cf. Monody on the death of Chatterton (first version), 19-21 : And Otway, Master of the Tragic art. Whom Pity's self had taught to sing. Sank beneath a load of woe, and the later version of the same poem, 39-42 : And o'er her darling dead Kty hopeless hung her head, WhUe 'mid the pelting of that merciless storm,' Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famished form! 126-39. Entirely remodelled from the apostrophe to Words- worth with which the original poem concluded. 129. but a mountain-birth] Possibly this means, 'May the storm be but a birth of the mountains, and may it not find its reflection in the storm of her soul.' But 'a mountain-birth' may mean 'only a trifle' and refer to the old fable of the moun- tains in labour producing a mouse. 136. See note on 11. 47-58 above. 144 NOTES HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. Printed in The Morning Post, ii Sept. 1802, with a prefatory note which might be taken as impljdng that Coleridge was f amihar with the scenes he was describing. He had, however, never visited Chamouni, and his poem was elaborated from a German original by Frederika Brun, to which he made no acknowledg- ment. See note on 11. 53, 54, p. 126 above. In his hands the original, which has only twenty lines, was transformed, although he adhered to its treatment of the theme and kept many of its phrases. Lamb, in a humorous Latin letter written to Coleridge on 9 Oct. 1802, praised the grandeur of the poem, but objected that the mountains were made to answer in English. A later version, sent to sir George and lady Beaumont in Oct. 1803, is printed by Dykes Campbell, Poetical Works, 521-2. It subsequently appeared in No. xi of The Friend, 1810, in the various issues of which corrections and additions were made to it. 3. sovran] Sovereign. 4. Arvel Coleridge treats the word as a dissyllable, which, as it is followed by another vowel, is peculiarly awkward. The Arve, which runs through the vale of Chamouni, is joined above Chamouni by the Arveiron, which issues from the foot of the Mer de Glace and Glacier des Bois. Shelley, Mont Blanc (i8i6), apostrophises the 'Ravine of Arve — dark, deep Ravine.' The Arveiron is mentioned in Frederika Brun's poem, 1. 16. 6. thy silent sea of pines] Cf. Shelley, Mont Blanc, 19-24 — still addressing the ravine of Arve: thou dost he. Thy giant brood of pines around thee clinging. Children of elder time, in whose devotion The chainless winds still come and ever came To drink their odours, and their mighty swinging To hear — an old and solemn harmony. NOTES 145 Frederika Brun begins her poem: Aus tiefem Schatten des schweigenden Tannenhains Erblick' ich bebend dich, Scheitel der Ewigkeit, i.e. 'From the deep shadow of the silent pine-wood, trembhng I gaze on thee, summit of eternity.' Cf. 1. 13 below. 16. the Invisible] So, to Shelley, Mont Blanc was the symbol of invisible power: The secret Strength of things Which governs thought, and to the infinite dome Of Heaven is as a law, inhabits thee! And what wert thou, and earth, and stars, and sea. If to the human mind's imaginings Silence and soUtude were vacancy? In the lines which follow (17-23) Coleridge develops that theory of the relation between the mind and natural objects, and the splendour lent to them by the inward sense of joy, which he had enunciated in Dejection (see note on 11. 47-58, p. 140 above). This theory is closely paralleled by the last three lines of the above quotation from Shelley, whose Mont Blanc opens with the declaration : The everlasting universe of things Flows through the mind, and rolls its rapid waves. Now dark — now glittering — now reflecting gloom — Now lending splendour, where from secret springs The source of human thought its tribute brings Of waters, — with a, sound but half its own. 17, 18. Cf. Keats, Ode on a Grecian Urn, 11, 12: Heard melodies are sweet, but those unheard Are sweeter. 29. sole sovereign of the Vale] Mont Blanc : cf. 1. 3 above. 34, 35. The higher snow-peaks are flushed with sun-rise while there is still darkness in the lower valleys. 36. Taken from Frederika Brun's poem, 1. 5: 'Wer senkte den Pfeiler tief in der Erde Schooss ? ' T. c. 10 146 NOTES 39. five wild torrents] The Arve and its tributaries. Cf. Shelley, Mont Blanc, 14-18: awful scene. Where Power in likeness of the Arve comes down From the ice-gulfs that gird his secret throne. Bursting through these dark mountains like the flame Of lightning through the tempest. 47, 48. The whole of this passage from 1. 40 is an expansion of Frederika Brun's third stanza (11. 9-12), which, literally translated, runs : ' Who poured you down from the realm on high of eternal winter, ye crooked streams, with a din of thunder ? And who with the voice of Omnipotence, cries aloud "Here shall the stiffening billows rest?"' L. 47 is an obvious remini- scence of Gen. i. 3 : cf. Ps. cxlviii. 5. 50. ravines] The accent is on the first syllable, as in cases where the word 'ravine' (Lat. rapina) has its original meaning of 'plunder, destruction.' The seventeenth-century glossarian, Ducange, endeavoured to identify 'ravine' in its meaning of a gorge down which a stream rages with the post-classical Lat. labina or lavina, meaning 'sUpperiness,' and its derivative Lauwine or Lawine, the common word in Switzerland for an avalanche or fall of melting snow. Frederika Brun uses the word Lavinendonner, i.e. thunder of avalanches; cf. Bjrron, Childe Harold, iv, xii : ' Like lauwine loosen'd from the mountain's belt.' 56, 57. Frederika Brun, 1. 14, has 'Who wreathes with flowers the edge of the eternal frost ? ' Cf . 1. 65 below. Coleridge specially refers to the gentian, 'the light-blue star-gentian in its uncontested queenliness' (Ruskin, Mod. Painters, part v, XX, § 3). Ruskin (ibid, part vi, x, § 3) speaks of the distant view in the Tyrol in spring-time of a mountain 'belted about its breast with a zone of blue.... Was it a blue cloud? a blue horizontal bar of the air that Titian breathed in youth, seen now far away, which mortal might never breathe again? Was it a mirage — a meteor? Would it stay to be approached?... The NOTES 147 ten miles of road were overpassed, the carriage left, the mountain climbed. It stayed patiently, expanding still into richer breadth and heavenly glow — a belt of gentians.' So 'gentian-blue' occurs amid his flood of comparisons for the blue of the Rhone as it issues from the lake of Geneva, like ' glass of a painted window melted in the sun, and the witch of the Alps flinging the spun tresses of it for ever from her snow' [Praeterita, vol. i). 78. like a vapoury cloud] The mountain, whose outward form (1. 15) had vanished from Coleridge's thought in his ecstasy of adoration, remained an idea blended with and guiding it (11. 19-20), until his soul seemed to aspire and rise into the invisible like a mountain-peak (U. 21-3). As he awakens from his ecstasy, the outward form of the mountain becomes detached from his thought and once more asserts itself as the concrete symbol of a 'kingly Spirit' exterior to his own. This idea of communion between man and Nature, which is the framework of the poem, has no counterpart in the German original. LI. 70-3 belong entirely to Coleridge's later version of the poem, in which 76-80 underwent some revision. 83. Hierarch] High-priest. INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH. Printed in The Morning Post, 24 Sept. 1802, where it was entitled Inscription on a jutting Stone, over a Spring. 2. Such tents] The allusion to the patriarchs is intended to refer to trees generally: e.g. the tree under which Abraham's tent was pitched in the plain of Mamre (Gen. xviii.), or in later times, Deborah's palm-tree (Judges iv. 5). 9. its soundless dance] The sand at the bottom of the fountain is constantly thrown up in a little cone by the bubbling of the spring. 10 — 2 148 NOTES 13. Here Twilight is and Coolness] Coleridge perhaps remembered Horace, Carm. iii, xiii, 9 sqq. : Te flagrantis atrox hora caniculae nescit tangere, tu frigus amabile, etc. 19. Coleridge, always alive to the sounds of Nature, begins and concludes his poem with the murmur of bees. Cf. the simile inVeigil, Aen. vi, 707-9, ending ' strepit omnis murmure campus ' ; Tennyson, The Princess, vii, 'murmuring of innumerable bees' and ibid. Prologue, The broad ambrosial aisles of lofty hme Made noise with bees and breeze from end to end. THE PAINS OF SLEEP. Printed with Christabel and Kubla Khan in 1816, when Coleridge introduced it as a contrast to the pleasurable dreams of Kubla Khan. Extracts from letters written in Sept. and Oct. 1803 shew that it was composed before these dates. At this time life at Greta hall had become intolerable to him, and from 14 August to 15 Sept. he was absent on a tour in Scotland, begun with the Wordsworths but continued restlessly by himself. The dreams which he describes in these melancholy verses, although explained by himself as due to gout, were undoubtedly the result of his indulgence in opium, the cause of the paralysis which crept over all his bodily energies and impeded his poetic faculty. 2. Coleridge, with a fervently reUgious temperament, never- theless held views the reverse of orthodox on the subject of prayer. While, on 28 Sept. 1796, after hearing of the tragedy of Lamb's mother's death, he conjured Lamb 'to have recourse in frequent prayer to... the God of mercies, and father of all comfort,' he appears habitually to have regarded prayer as a form of presumption. In Religious Musings (1796) he states that by the apprehension of Love, man identifies himself NOTES 149 with God ' diffused through all, that doth make all one whole' (1. 131) — 'we and our Father one' (1. 45). He 'who feeds and saturates his constant soul' with the truth that the name of the 'one omnipresent Mind' is love: 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-trembUng Seraphim Can press no nearer to the Almighty's throne. (U. 1 1 0-6.) This is the view tersely expressed in The Ancient Mariner, 614-7 (see p. 37 above). It implies an attitude of contemplation and confidence, from which the idea that Love can be propitiated by prayer is excluded. Cf. Fears in Solitude, 196-7 : I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs. Loving the God that made me. Dykes Campbell (Life of Coleridge, p. 262) notes that it was not until 1826 that Coleridge began to express confidence in the efficacy of prayer. His later views, fortified by the study of the older EngUsh divines, and expressed in Tahle Talk and the Notes on the Book of Common Prayer, were of the most orthodox description, and in a note to Aids to Reflection, he promised an appendix upon 'the philosophy of Prayer' which, Uke many of his promises, remained unaccomplished. 16, 17. Cf. Remorse, iv, i, 68—71 : O sleep of horrors ! Now run down and stared at By Forms so hideous that they mock remembrance! Now seeing nothing and imagining nothing. But only being afraid — stifled with Fear! 28, 29. 'Which all confused' is the object of 'suffered' and •did.' 35. the wide blessing] Cf. The Ancient Mariner, 292-3. 150 NOTES 45. entempesting] Rousing into tempest. Cf. Remorse, in, i, 58: Ye too split The ice-mount! and with fragments many and huge Tempest the new-thaw'd sea. 51, 52. Dykes Campbell, Life of Coleridge, p. 99, quotes a letter written to Mrs Coleridge from Gottingen, 12 March 1799 : 'Love is the vital air of my genius,' and remarks in a note : 'An intense craving for sympathy in all that it produces is one of the concomitants of the artistic nature. But in Coleridge's case the craving was rather for sympathy with himself.' Cf. the closing line of The Blossoming of the Solitary Date-tree (1805): 'Why was I made for I>ove and Love denied to me?' TO WORDSWORTH. The whole poem, of which 11. 47-112 are here given, is entitled To a Gentleman [William Wordsworth'] composed on the night after his recitation of a poem on the growth of an individual mind — i.e. The Prelude. Coleridge in Jan. 1807 visited the Wordsworths at Coleorton, Leicestershire, and here the poem was written. It was originally called To William Wordsworth, but, owing to causes already noticed in the introductory note to Dejection, the title was altered when it was first printed in Sibylline Leaves, and several passages were revised or omitted. The Prelude was dedicated to Coleridge, who, in 11. 1-47 of this address, recapitulates some of its contents. 4-8. This recognition of the immortality of poets is little more than an expansion of Ben Jonson's famous estimate of Shakespeare: 'He was not of an age, but for all time.' 14. Cf. Milton, L' Allegro, 133-4: Or sweetest Shakespear, Fancy's child. Warble his native wood-notes wild. NOTES 151 19, 20. In The Nightingale, 98 sqq. Coleridge records such an awakening of the infant Hartley. His method of stilling the child's outcries was to take him out into the garden to look at the moon. 25. vrood-walks wild] Cf. France : an Ode, 5-14 (pp. 54-5 above). 30. That way no more !] Coleridge has bidden farewell to his own poetic power. His poetry in its early days heralded the hope and glory of the future: to recall the steps by which its freshness had been gradually extinguished would be incon- sistent with its original character. Regret for the past would dim the brightness of a song which hails Wordsworth's advance as "a welcomer in herald's guise' of the future. 44. The Halcyon] The kingfisher. The legend was that this bird, the metamorphosed Alcyone, bred during the cahns which prevailed on the sea for the fortnight in the middle of which occurs the shortest day of winter. 51-4. Coleridge noted the origin of this passage in Satyrane's Letters, 1, where he describes his crossing from Yarmouth to Hamburg on 16 Sept. 1798. 'A beautiful white cloud of foam at momently intervals coursed by the side of the vessel with a roar, and Mttle stars of flame danced and sparkled and went out in it: and every now and then Ught detachments of this white cloud-like foam darted off from the vessel's side, each with its own small constellation, over the sea, and scoured out of sight like a Tartar troop over a wilderness.' 61. beloved faces] Wordsworth and his family, his sister and sister-in-law and Hartley Coleridge. 66. prayer] The relief sought by Coleridge at this time, and achieved only in moments of calm. See note on The Pains of Sleep, 2 (pp. 148-9 above), and introductory note to The Visionary Hope (p. 152 below). 152 NOTES THE VISIONARY HOPE. In Dykes Campbell's edition of Poetical Works, this poem, the date of which is uncertain, is assigned doubtfully to the year 1807 or 1810. Mr E. H. Coleridge prefers the second date. It was first printed in Sibylline Leaves, 1817. . It is very similar in subject to The Pains of Sleep, and, so far as the subject goes, might have been written at any time between 1803 and 1816. In view of 11. 1-5, it may be noticed that Coleridge mentioned his frustrated endeavours to pray in a letter written to Cottle in the spring of 1814. The poem was printed among the 'Love poems' in vol. i of Poetical Works, 1829. 7. Though Nature forced] Nature forced the stifling load of sighs to escape against Coleridge's will. 7-1 1. The simile may be a reminiscence of the captivity of Tigfanes at the court of Arbaces in Beaumont and Fletcher's A King and no King, a play with which Coleridge was very familiar. 15, 16. Cf. Remorse, i, i, 35-6: the very Wish too languished With the fond Hope that nursed it. 17. That Hope] The hope of love. See note on The Pains of Sleep, 51, 52, p. 150 above. A TOMBLESS EPITAPH. Coleridge printed this remarkable and accurate estimate of his own character in The Friend, No. xiv, 23 Nov. 1809, with a note to the effect that it was 'imitated, in the movements rather than the thought' from the seventh Epitafio of Gabriele Chiabrera, 'the Italian Pindar' (1552-1637). It was included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817. I. Idoloclastes Satyrane] Satyrane is the woodland knight, 'plaine, faithfuU, true, and enimy of shame,' who ac- companies Una in her escape from the satyrs and defends her from the pursuit of Sansloy (Spenser, Faerie Queene, i, vi). NOTES 153 Idoloclastes= Idol-breaker, referring to Coleridge's early warfare against what he held to be the illusions of conventional opinion, 'the hollow Puppets of an hollow Age' (1. 10), when "wealth, rank, life itself, then seemed cheap to me, compared with the interests of (what I beheved to be) the truth, and the will of my Maker' {Biog. Lit., ch. x). Saty fane's Letters was the title given to the three vivacious letters from Germany first printed in The Friend in 1810, and afterwards, as representing Coleridge to the reader 'as I was in the first dawn of my literary life,' as a supplement to Biog. Lit., ch. xxii. 4. wont] Were wont. 7. the Great] Cf. Religious Musings, 361 sqq. : The mighty Dead Rise to new life, whoe'er from earliest time With conscious zeal had urged Love's wondrous plan. Coadjutors of God. 21. not a hidden path] Cf. the 'glooms, which never woodman trod' of France: an Ode, lo (p. 55 above). 24. Hippocrene] The fountain of the Muses on mount HeUcon, said to have been produced by a stamp of the hoof of Pegasus, and therefore called 'the horse's well.' 28. med'cinable] Cf. Shakespeare, Othello, v, ii, 350: Drop tears as fast as the Arabian trees Their med'cinable gum. 37. Love] Cf. The Pains of Sleep, 51, 52, and see note (p. 150 above). THE KNIGHT'S TOMB. This arresting snatch of song, one of the later and fitful efiorts of the 'shaping spirit of Imagination' which gave birth to Christahel, was composed before 1820, when the substance of the last three lines was quoted by Scott, who found them after his own heart, in Ivanhoe, ch. viii. It was printed in Poetical Works, 1834. 10 — 5 154 NOTES FANCY IN NUBIBUS. Printed first in Felix Farley's Journal, a. Bristol newspaper, 7 Feb. i8j8; then in Blackwood's Magazine, Nov. 1819, and in Poetical Works, vol. 11, 1829. 3. the shifting clouds] The whole passage may be com- pared with the great imaginative speech of Antony to Eros, Shakespeare, Ant. and Cleo. iv, xiv, 2 sqq., 'Sometimes we see a cloud that's dragonish,' etc. 10-14. These lines were adapted by Coleridge from two stanzas of the German poet Christian Stolberg (i 748-1 821), who describes Homer standing upon the sea-shore, with the waves washing at his feet and the giant deeds of the golden age whis- pering to his fancy, till the inspiration of poetry was bom of the two Und Iliad und Odyssee Ensteigen mit Gesang der See. II. that blind bard] Homer, traditionally connected with the island of Chios in the Aegean, which, of the seven places which laid claim to the honour of his birth, was supposed to have the best right to it. YOUTH AND AGE. Printed (11. 1-38) in The Bijou and The Literary Souvenir, 1828, and subsequently in Poetical Works, vol. 11, 1828 and 1829. The first version of 11. 39-49, consisting of fourteen lines, appeared as The Old Man's Sigh : a Sonnet in Blackwood's Magazine, June 1832, with the date 18 May 1832, the existing version being added to Youth and Age, of which Coleridge called them an "out-slough, or hypertrophic stanza,' in Poetical Works, 1834. The earUest version of the poem is dated 10 Sept. 1823. Coleridge's fantastic introduction to this shews that what he called Aria Spontanea came into his head with a sudden and NOTES 155 vivid reminiscence of dawn and the song of birds among the Quantocks. The remembrance of the scenes which had awakened the best poetry of his youth was still powerful to inspire the lovehest poem of his later years. 10. Cf . Frost at Midnight, 54 sqq., and see note on pp. 129-30 above. 12. those trim skiSs] Steam-boats. 29. The vesper-bell] Coleridge was thinking of the fairy- tales of mysterious guests at a masque who, like Cinderella, vanished at the stroke of midnight. His youth has vanished at early evening, long before the midnight bell. This Une, as originally written in 1823, was composed towards the close of his fiftieth year. 33. 34- Oil 24 June 1824, Carlyle, in a letter to his brother John, drew a vivid, though by no means flattering portrait of Coleridge, printed by Froude, Thomas Carlyle, 1795-1835, i, 222. The detail is fuUer than in the famous seventh chapter of Carlyle's Life of John Sterling. His ' great bush of grey hair ' and awkward stooping gait are noticed, with his 'fat, flabby, incurvated personage, at once short, rotund, and relaxed.' 41. Where no hope is] The sad burden of Coleridge's later poems from Dejection onwards, contrasted with the earlier days when hope grew round me, like the twining vine. And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. FIRST ADVENT OF LOVE. Coleridge, in a note written in 1827, assigned these lines to the school-boy period of his life and said that they were written before his fifteenth year. No reUance, however, can be placed upon this statement, as Coleridge's memory in the later years of his Ufe was fitful and capricious. Dykes Campbell, who gives them the title of Love's First Hope (Poetical Works, p. 651), 156 NOTES shews clearly that they may be dated by a MS. note written in 1824, in which Coleridge confessed his indebtedness to a passage in sir Phihp Sidney's Arcadia for 11. 3, 4. See Arcadia, book i (lothed. 1655, p. 2): 'and as her breath is more sweet then a gentle South-west-wind, which com's creeping over flowrie fields and shadowed waters in the extreme heat of Summer.' This origin already had been recognised, without the corroborative evidence of Coleridge himself, by Mr C. M. Ingleby. The lines were printed in Poetical Works, 1834. WORK WITHOUT HOPE. This sonnet, the burden of which is the melancholy sense of the loss of poetic power clearly recognised for the first time in Dejection, was printed in The Bijou, 1828, and in vol. 11 of Poetical Works, 1828, 1829. I. Slugs] This unpoetical word was superseded in Poefo'ca/ Works, 1828, by 'Stags,' which, however, seems to have been a. misprint and is difficult to defend on the ground of appro- priateness. 7, 8. araaranths... nectar] The never- withering flowers which wreathe the brows of poets and the immortal drink which feeds their imagination and stimulates their song. EPITAPH. Coleridge's final epitaph for himself was printed in Poetical Works, 1834. 4. S. T. C] Coleridge was well known in his life-time by his initials, affixed to isolated poems and pamphlets and some- times thinly disguised under such forms as BSTHSE (see intro- ductory note to Dejection, p. 138 above). 7. for] Instead of. INDEX TO NOTES abstruse research, 142 iEolJan lute, this, 139 Alcyone, 151 Alfoxden or Alfoxton, Somer- set, 104, 107, 118, 134 amaranths, 156 Ambleside, Westmorland, 120 angel, An, 137 Annual Anthology, The, 103, 105 Arbaces, 152 Arnold, Matthew, The Scholar- Gipsy, 141 Arve river, 144, 146 Arveiron river, 144 ash, the, 104 assay, sick, 119 Audley, family of, 133 Babe, Dear, 129 — my, 133 Barbauld, Anna Letitia, 114 bard, that bhnd, 154 BastiUe, destruction of the, 125 beacon, the ivied, 132 beads, 120 bean-flower, the, 105 Beaumont, Francis, and Flet- cher, John, A King and no King, 152 — sir George and lady, 144 Berne, Switzerland, 124 Bewcastle fells, Cumberland, 121 Bijou, The, 154, 156 birds, those wakeful, 134 Birmingham, 103 birth-place, my sweet, 127-8 Blackwood's Magazine, 154 (2) Blasphemy's loud scream, 125 blessing, the wide, 149 Borrowdale, Cumberland, 120 Bowles, William Lisle, 98 Brampton, Cumberland, 122 Bratha Head, 120 Brathay river, 120 Bridgwater, Somerset, 103 — bay, 104 Bristol, 100, 103 — channel, 105 — City library, 109 — St Mary RedcUffe church, 99 Brockley combe, Somerset, 99- 100 Browning, Robert, One Word More, 134 Brun, Frederika, 144, 145, 146 Bugan river, 123 Buonaparte, Napoleon, 125 Burger, Gottfried, 108 Burnet, Thomas, 107-8 Burton, Robert, Anatomy of Melancholy, no, 112 Byron, George Gordon Noel, lord, 95, 116, 117; Childe Harold, 121, 146 Cambalu, 136 Cambridge, 95, 99 Campbell, J. Dykes, Life of Coleridge, 97, 115, 116, 133, 158 INDEX TO NOTES 138, 149, 150; edition of Coleridge's poems, 109, iii, 113, 114, 117, 126, 144, 152, 155 Caraconim, 136 Cardiff, Glamorgan, 105 Carlisle, Cumberland, 121, 139 Carlyle, Thomas, letter to his brother, 155 ; Life of Schiller, 95 ; Life of John Sterling, 155 Caspian sea, 123 castle huge, a, 133 Chamouni (Haute-Savoie), 144 charnel-dungeon, a, 114 Chaucer, Geoffrey, Canterbury Tales, 98 ; Legend of Good Women, 98 Cheng-te-fu, China, 136 Chester, John, iii Chiabrera, Gabriele, Epitaji, 152 China, Mongol conquest of, 136 Chingiz Khan, 136 Chios, 154 Ciandu, China, 136 Cinderella, 155 Circassia, 123 Clevedon, Somerset, 100, loi, 102, 105 clifts, 109 cloisters dim, 129 clomb, 142 cloud, like a vapoury, 147 clouds, the shifting, 154 Coleorton, Leices., 150 ' Coleridge, E. H., his edition of the poems, 96, 123, 136, 152 — Hartley, 129, 151 — Samuel Taylor, character- istics : archaisms, jo8, 109 classics, reminiscences of, 148 colloquial words and phrases, use of, no couplet, use of, 97 Coleridge, S. T., character- istics (cont.): depression of spirits, 115, 148, 151, 156 descriptive power, 104, 119, 123, 131 epithet, use of, 98 French revolution, influ- ence of, upon, 124, 125, 126 inversion, use of, 98, 123 light and colour, sense of, 105. 131 lyric talent, 123 melody, 123 memory, inaccuracy of, 155 metre, 117, 118, 119 moralising spirit, 104 natural magic, 139 Nature, attitude to, 127, 130, 140-1, 145, 147, 148 pantheistic sentiment, 102 patriotism, 125 perfume, sensitiveness to, 132 personification, use of, 96 philosophical speculations and studies, loi, 142 plagiarisms, 126, 144 prayer, attitude to, 148, 151. 152 reading, no realism, 108, 122 self-revelation in poems, 96-7 similes, 108, 113 sound and rhythm, 136 subjective attitude, 127 Subhme, on the, 95 supernatural, employment of the, 107 poems : Ancient Mariner, Rime of the, 106-15, 116, 117, 122, 137, 142, 149 (2) INDEX TO NOTES 159 Coleridge, S. T., poems [cont.): Ass, To a young, 138 Author of 'The Robbers,' To the, 95-6, 124 Ballad of the Dark LadU, 108, 136 Betham, Lines to Matilda, 106 Blossoming of the Solitary Date-Tree, The, 150 Bowles, Sonnet to the Rev. W. L., 98-9 Brockley Coomb, Lines com- posed while climbing the left ascent of, 99-100, 132 Brunton, To Miss, 138 Christabel, 115-22, 135, 148, 153 Constancy to an ideal object, 113 Dejection: an Ode, 97, 138- 43.145. 150. 155. 156(2) Destiny of Nations, The, 102, 132 Elbingerode, Lines written in the Album at, 140 Eolian Harp, The, 99, loi- 2, 105, 130, 132, 138, 139 Epitaph, 156 Fancy in Nubibus, 154 Fears in Solitude, 124, 125, 127, 129, 131, 149 First Advent of Love, 155-6 France: an Ode, 96, 124-7, 130, 131, 142, 153 Friend, Lines on a, 96-8 Friend, To a young, 104, 138 Frost at Midnight, 124, 127-31, 132, 142, 155 Hymn before Sun-rise, 126, 144-7 Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath, 147-8 Knight's Tomb, The, 153 Kubla Khan, 113, n6, 135-6, 148 Lady, To a young, 129 Lewti, 118, 123 Love, 136-8 Monody on the death of Chatterton, 143 Nightingale, The, 130, 133, 151 Ode to the Departing Year, 125, 138 On seeing a youth affection- ately welcomed by a sister, 128, 138 Osorio, 113 Pains of Sleep, The, 115, 116,148-50, 151, 152(2), 153 Poems (1796), 95, 96, 98, lOI Poetical Works (1828), 99, 154. 156; (1829), 152. 154, 156; (1834), 100, 103. 153, 154. 156 (2) Recollections of Love, 131 Reflections on having left a place of retirement, 100, loi, 105, 132 Religious Musings, 102, 138, 148, 149, 153 Remorse, 104, 123, 149, 150. 152 Sheridan, sonnet to, 97 Shurton Bars, Lines written at, 134 Sibylline Leaves, 103, io6, 133, 138, 150, 152(2) Sonnet on quitting school for college, 129 Sonnets on Eminent Char- acters, 98 Southey, Sonnet to, 98 This Lime-Tree Bower my Prison, 103-6, 131, 132 Tombless Epitaph, A, 152, 153 i6o INDEX TO NOTES Coleridge, S. T., poems (cont.): Visionary Hope, The, 151, 152 Wordsworth, lines to, 150-1 Work without Hope, 156 Youth and Age, 154-5 prose works : Aids to Reflection, 149 Biographia Literaria, 116, 127, 128, 142, 153 Friend, The, 144, 152, 153 letters, 104, 106, 148, 152 notes by, 103, 104, iii, 156 Notes on the Book of Com- mon Prayer, 149 Satyrane's Letters, 151, 153 Table Talk, 95, 106, iio- II, 114-5, 149 — Sarah, 99, 150 Conyers, family of, 137 Cottle, Joseph, loi, 152 Crashaw, Richard, 133 creeking, 106 Cruikshank, Mr, 107 Daghestan, 123 dance, its soundless, 147 ^ Dante AUghieri, Inferno, 137 Davies, sir John, Orchestra, 114 death-fires. The, 109 De Quincey, Thomas, 126 Derwentwater, 120 Devils' yule, 142 dodged, no draft, 139 Dromore, co. Down, 139 Ducange, Charles du Fresne, sieur, 146 dulcimer, 136 dull and shy, 122 Dulverton, Somerset, in Dunbar, William, Lament for the Makaris, 98 Dungeon-ghyll, Westmorland, 120 Durham, bishop of, 137 — monastery of, 120 Eamont river, 122 Easton Maudit, Northants, 139 Eden river, 121 Eftsoons, 108 elms, the four huge, 132 elmy fields, 132 Elterwater, Westmorland, 120 embattled, 125 Energic, 97 entempesting, 150 Evans, Mary, 123 Exmoor, in, 135 faces, beloved, 151 fallacy, pathetic, 113, 114 faultering, 137 Felix Farley's Journal, 154 film, that, 127 fire-flags, 112 fit of flame, a, 118 for, 156 forc'd, 100 forced. Though Nature, 152 Ford, John, 133 Fricker, Edith: see Southey, Edith — Sarah: see Coleridge, Sarah friend, my, 132-3 Froude, James Anthony, Tho- mas Carlyle, 155 furrow. The, 109 gardens, dark-brown, 142 gentian, 146 German romanticism, 108, 116 Germany, 103, 115, 151, 153 Gillman, James, 116 Gilsland, Cumberland, 121, 122 INDEX TO NOTES l6l glow-worm, many a, 134 God, beloved of, 124 Gottingen, 150 Grasmere, Westmorland, 115 graspless, 98 Great, the, 153 Greta hall, 115, 138, 142, 148 grin, they for joy did, iio-ii gross than bodily. Less, 105 Halcyon, The, 151 Hamburg, 151 Harrison Stickle, Westmorland, 120 Hartley, David, 129, 142 Hazlitt, William, iii, 142' — William Carew, 142 Helicon, mount, 153 hidden path, not a, 153 Hierarch, 147 Highgate, 116 Hippocrene, 153 Holmes, Steep and Flat, 105 Homer, 154 honey-dew, 113 Hope, That, 152 Horace, Carmina, 148 Hutchinson, Mary : see Words- worth, Mary Idoloclastes Satyrane, 152-3 Ingleby, C. M., 156 introverted, 97 Irthing river, 121, 122 Isles, two, 105 Italy, wars in, 125 Ithuriel lance of Truth, the, 97 ivy-tod, 114 jag, never a, 113 James, Thomas, 109 jealous, 126 Jonson, Ben, 150 Josephus, Flavins, no -jug jug, swift. 133 Keats, John, Endymion, no, 130; Eve of St Agnes, The, 119; La Belle Dame sans Merci, 137 (2); Lamia, 116; Ode on a Grecian Urn, 145 ken, 98 — we, 109 Keswick, Cumberland, 115, 138 Khubilay Khan, 136 Kirkoswald, Cumberland, 122 Kirkstone pass, Westmorland, 122 Knorren, Cumberland, 122 Lady vowed and dedicate, a, 134 lag, 114 lakes. By, 129 Lamb, Charles, 97, 99, 102, 103, 105, 106, 108, 112, 121, 127, 128, 129, 142, 144, 148; Essays of Elia, 127, 127-8, 129; John Woodvil, 128 — Mary, 103 Lanercost priory, Cumberland, 121 Langdale, Great, Westmorland, 120, 122 beck, 120 — Little, 120 — pikes, 120 Lan-ho river, China, 136 Lawine, Lauwine, 146 Literary Souvenir, The, 154 living Ufe, my, 113 Lloyd, Charles, 103, 104, 121 London, 99 Lutanist, 142 Lynton, Devon, 107, in, 135 Lyrical Ballads, 106, 136 Mackail, J. W., Life of William Morris, in-12 Maid, A most gentle, 134 Marco Polo, 136 l62 INDEX TO NOTES matins, 119 med'cinable, 153 meek, 138 Meredith, George, Egoist, The, 141; Harry Richmond, 105 Michael VII, emperor of the east, no Milton, John, L' Allegro, 150; Paradise Lost, 97 (2), 134 (2), 140 ; Paradise Regained, 133; Samson A gonistes, 126 minstrelsy, 108 Moon in her lap, the old, 139 Moon, the star-dogged, in Moor, von, Karl, 95, 96 Morning Chronicle, The, 98 Morning Post, The, 123, 124, 136, 138, 144, 147 mountain-birth, but a, 143 mountain-tairn, 142 Miihlhausen, Switzerland, 124 Murray, John, 116 Nature, wedding, 142 nectar, 156 Nether Stowey, Somerset, 103, 104, 105, 107, III, 115, 117, 118, 124, 127, 131, 132, 133, 134 Nicias Erythraeus, 123 oath, that, 124 obscener, 126-7 oils, a witch's, 109 Ottery St Mary, Devon, 96, - 119, 127, 128 Otway, Thomas, The Orphan and Venice Preserved, 143 Otway's self, 142-3 Pegasus, 153 Peking, China, 136 Penrith, Cumberland, 122 Percy, Thomas, Reliques of Ancient English Poetry, 139 phantom light, 139 Philips, Ambrose, 133 Piedmont, 124 Pike o' Stickle, Westmorland, 120 plastic sweep, 99 Poole, Thomas, 103, 132, 133, 134 poor man's only music, the, 128 poppies, 98 Porlock, Somerset, in, 135 preceptor, the stern, 128 Psellus, Michael, no Purchas his Pilgrimage, 135, 136 Quantock hills, 104, 107, 155 Racedown, Dorset, 104 ramp, 126 ravines, 146 recUned, 124 Robespierre, Maximilien, 125 Rocks, vaUey of, Devon, 107 Rossetti, D. G., My Sister's Sleep, 139 Ruskin, John, Modern Painters, 146, 147; Praeterita, 147 S.T.C., 156 sacristan, 120 Sacriston, Durham, 120 saint, my kind, 112 Sandford, Mrs H., Thomas Poole and his Friends, 97, 100, 104, 132 Sara, 100 Schiller, Johann Christoph Friedrich, The Robbers, by, 95. 96 scorn, the cruel, 137 Scotland, 148 Scott, sir Walter, 108, 117; Bridal of Triermain, The, 122; Ivanhoe, 153; Lay of the Last Minstrel, The, 116, 118, 121 INDEX TO NOTES 163 Scripture, Holy, quoted, etc.. Genesis, 99, 146, 147 ; Judges, 147; Psalms, 146 sedge, 112 Sentinel, Tired, 98 sequacious; 102 sere, 112 Shakespeare, WiUiam, 150; Antony and Cleopatra, 154; King Lear, 141 ; Macbeth, 109 ; Midsummer - Night's Dream, 96; Othello, 137, 153; Tempest, 112 shape, that strange, iii shapes and sounds, 130 shaping, 97-8, 142 shapings, 102 sheen, 109 Shelley, Percy Bysshe, A donais, 99, 127; Arethusa, 113; Cloud, The, 113; Mont Blanc, 144, 145, 146; Rosa- lind and Helen, 118; Sensi- tive Plant, The, 134; Sky- lark, To a, 113, 132 Shelvocke, George, 109 shrieve, 114 shroud, my lady's, 117 Sidney, sir Philip, Arcadia, 156 silence, a pause of, 134 silly, 112 Sir Patrick Spence, 139 sister, 128 skiffs, those trim, 155 slant, 139 Slugs, 156 Smerdon, Edmund, 96 — Rev. Fulwood, 96 Sockburn, Durham, 136, 137 Sou they, Edith, 100 — Robert, 99, 100, 103, 104, 108, 112; Fall of Robes- pierre, The, 125 Southwell, Notts, 120 sovereign of the Vale, sole, 145 sovran, 144 Spenser, Edmund, Faerie Queene, 152 Spirit, the, 109 — the idling, 127 spirit and the power, the, 141 spirits blest, a troop of, 113 springy, 104 squatting, 97 Stolberg, Christian, 154 Strada, Famiano, 133 stranger, 127 strewn, 114 sweeps Plastic, 102 swimming, 128 swimming sense, with, 105 Swinburne, Algernon Charles, Ilicet, 98, 142 Switzerland, French invasion of, 124 swound, in a, 109 Tama, 123 Tamaha's stream, 123 Taunton, Somerset, 104 Tees, river, 136 tempest-swinging, 96 Tennyson, Alfred, lord. Break, break, break, 102; In Me- moriam, 102 ; Lotos-eaters, The, 142; Princess, The, 148 tents, Such, 147 Terror, reign of, 125 Thackeray, WiUiam Make- peace, 128 That way no more, 151 ThelwaU, John, 100, 104, 106 thunder-fit, a, 109 Tigranes, 152 torrents, wild, 146 trances, the, 131 tressy, 123 UUswater, 122 Ullutchai river: see Bugan Una, 152 164 INDEX TO NOTES Vaud, Pays de, Switzerland, 124 Vaux, Roland de, 122 Vergil, Aeneid, 148 vesper-bell. The, 155 ves|)ers nine, 109 vest, 121 warble, with fast thick, 133 Watchet, Somerset, 107, III Watson, William, 117 weeds, long lank, 104 Weston-super-Mare, Somerset, 105 Windermere, 120 Witch's Lair, 120 wont, 153 wood- walks wild, 151 Wordsworth, Dorothy, 103, 104, 107, 115, 117, 118, 134, 148, 151 — John, 115 — Mary, 136 Wordsworth, WilUam, 103, 104, 107, J08, 109, III, 115, 126, 134, 136, 138, 143, 148, 150. 151 poems : Evening Walk, An, 134 / wandered, lonely as u cloud, 140 Idle Shepherd-boys, The, 120 Intimations of Immortality, 141 (2) Lucy Gray, 143 My heart leaps up, 141 Night-Piece, A, 118, 140 Prelude, The, 125, 134, 150 Song at the Feast of Brougham Castle, 126 Three years she grew, 130-1 Yarmouth, Great, Norfolk, 151 yellow green, its peculiar tint of, 139 zoneless, 97 CAMBRIDGE : PRINTED BY J. B, PEACE, M.A. AT THE UNIVERSITV PRESS Books on English Language and Literature published by the Cambridge University Press ENGLISH LANGUAGE A Junior Graphic Grammar. By E. A. A. Varnish and J. H. Hanly. Crown 8vo. With a table, is. id. The Elements of English Grammar. With a Chapter on Essay- writing. By A. S. West, M. A. Extra fcap. 8vo. is-id. A Chapter on Essay-writing, separately. 4a'. An English Grammar for Beginners. By A. S. West, M.A. Extra fcap. 8vo. 150th to 175th Thousand, is. The Revised English Grammar. A new edition of The Elements of English Grammar, based upon the recom- mendations of the Committee of Grammatical Terminology. By A. S. West, M.A. Extra fcap. Svo. 2s. 6d. The Revised English Grammar for Beginners. A new edition of English Grammar for Beginners. By A. S. West, M.A. Extra fcap. Bvo. is. Key to the Questions contained in ^Vest's Revised English Grammar and Revised English Grammar for Beginners. By A. S. West, M.A. Extra fcap. Svo. y. 6d. net. Suitable for use with both the original and revised editions. A Handbook of English for Junior and Inter- mediate Classes. By D. B. NicoLSON, M.A. Crown Svo. is. 6d. net. English Composition : with Chapters on Precis Writing, Prosody, and Style. By W. MURISON, M.A. Crown Svo. 4J. 6d. Or in two parts, 2S. 6d. each. Key to the Exercises in English Composition. By W. MURISON, M.A. Crown Svo. 4^. dd. net. Precis- Writing. By W. Murison. Crown Svo. In three parts. Part I, is. (>d. Part II, jj. Part III, 3^. 6d. A Handbook of Precis-Writing. With graduated exercises. By E. D. Evans, M.A. 2s. An Elementary Old English Grammar (Early West-Saxon). By A. J. Wyatt, M.A. Crown Svo. 4J. 6d. An Elementary Old English Reader (Early West- Saxon). By the same author. Crown Svo. 4s. 6d. Cambridge University Press The Pronunciation of English. Phonetics and Phonetic Transcriptions. By Daniel Jones, M.A. Crown 8vo. is.dd. net. (Cambridge Primers of Pronunciation.) Wall-charts for class use : 1. The Organs of Speech. On card 7,s. net, on paper i^. dd. net. Mounted on canvas, varnished, with rollers, ^s. net ; mounted on canvas, folded, \s. net. 1. English Speech Sounds. On card is. net, on paper \s. M. net. Mounted on canvas, varnished, with rollers, y. net ; mounted on canvas, folded, ^s. net. The Pronunciation of English in Scotland. By William Grant, M.A. Crown 8vo. y. 6d. net. (Cambridge Primers of Pronunciation.) Outlines of the History of the English Language. By Professor T. N. Toller, M.A. Crown 8vo. 4^. Chapters on English Metre. ByJosEPHB. Mayor, M.A. Second Edition. Demy Svo. Ts. 6d. net. A Handbook of Modern English Metre. By the same author. Extra fcap. Svo. is. ENGLISH LITERATURE Beowulf, with the Finnsburg Fragment. Edited by A. J. Wyatt. New edition, revised, with introduction and notes, by R. W. Chambers. Demy Svo. With 2 facsimiles of MSS. gs. net. Beowulf. A metrical translation into Modern English. By John R. Clark Hall. Crown Svo. 2s. 6d. net. Spindrift. Salt from the Ocean of English Prose. Edited by Geoffrey Callender, M.A. Crown 8vo. 3^. net. Stories from Chaucer. Retold from the Canterbury Tales. With Introduction and Notes by Margaret C. Macaulay. Crown Svo. With frontispiece and 28 illustrations from old MSS. IS. 6d. Without Introduction and Notes, is. The Elder Brother. A Comedy by John Fletcher. First printed in 1637, now reprinted with slight alterations and abridgement for use on occasions of entertainment, especially in Schools and Colleges. Edited by W. H. Draper, M.A. Crown Svo. With 2 illustrations. 2S. 6d. net. A Concise Anglo Saxon Dictionary for the use of Students. By John R. Clark Hall. Second Edition. Revised and enlarged. Demy Svo. i^s. net. Lyrical Forms in English. Edited with Introduction and Notes by Norman Hepple, M. Litt. Second Edition. Crown Svo. 2^. 6d. net. Principles and Method in the Study of English Literature. By W. Macpherson, M.A. Crown Svo. 2i. net. Milton. Paradise Lost. Edited by A. W. Verity, M.A. Crown Svo. "/s. 6d. Books on English Language and Literature Milton. The Poetical Works, edited with Critical Notes by William Aldis Wright, M. A., Litt.D. Crown 8vo. Cloth, 5^. net. India paper, limp lamb-skin, 7^. 6a'. net. On the Art of Writing. Lectures delivered in the University of Cambridge I9r3-i9i4. By Sir Arthur Quiller- CouCH, M.A. Demy 8vo. •}!. 6rf. net. Tennyson. In Memoriam. Edited with a Com- mentary by Arthur W. Robinson, B.D. Crown 8vo. ■2f. dd. The Literature of the Victorian Era. By Professor Hugh Walker, LL.D. Crown 8vo. ioj. net. Outlines of Victorian Literature. By Hugh Walker, LL.D., and Mrs Hugh Walker. Demy 8vo. 35. net. A Book of Victorian Poetry and Prose. Compiled by Mrs Hugh Walker. Crown 8vo. 3^. net. A Primer of English Literature. By W. T. Young, M.A. Small crown 8vo. Clolh, gilt lettering. i.s. net. School edition. Limp cloth, is. CAMBRIDGE ANTHOLOGIES Life in Shakespeare' s England. A Book of Elizabethan Prose compiled by J. D. Wilson, M.A. Illustrated. 3^. 6rf. An Anthology of the Poetry of the Age of Shake- speare. Chosenby W. T. Young, M.A. Crown 8vo. is. dd. net. ENGLISH ROMANTIC POETS Selections from the Poems of John Keats. Edited by A. Hamilton Thompson, M.A., F.S.A. Crown 8vo. is. net. Selections from the Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley. Edited by A. H. Thompson. Crown 8vo. 2s. net. PITT PRESS SERIES, ETC. Bacon's Essays. Edited by A. S. West, M.A. 2s. 6d. Bacon's History of the Reign of King Henry VII. Edited by the Rev. J. R. Lumby, D.D. y. Bacon. New Atlantis. Edited by G. C. Moore Smith, M.A. is. 6d. Ballads and Poems Illustrating English History. Edited by Frank Sidgwick. is. 6d. Without introduction and notes, is. Old Ballads. Edited by Frank Sidgwick. is. dd. Robert Browning. ASelection of Poems (1835-1864). Edited by W. T. Young, M.A. 2j. (>d. Burke. Reflections on the French Revolution. Edited by W. Alison Phillips, M.A., and Catherine Beatrice Phillips. \s. Burke. Speeches on American Taxation and Conciliaiion with America. Edited by A. D. Innes, M.A. y. Speech on Conciliation vrith America, separately. i.r. f>d. Cambridge University Press Burke. Thoughts on the Cause of the Present Discontents. Editefl by W. Murison, M.A. is. 6d. Byron. Childe Harold's Pilgrimage. Edited by A. H. Thompson, M.A. is. 6d. Chaucer. The Prologue and The Knight's Tale. Edited by M. Bentinck Smith, M.A. is. 6d. Chaucer. The Clerkes Tale and The Squieres Tale. Edited by L. Winstanley, M.A. 2s. 6d. Chaucer. The Nonne Prestes Tale. Edited by L. WiNSTANLEY, M.A. IS. Cowley's Prose Works. Edited by J. R. Lumby. 4^. De Foe. Robinson Crusoe. Part I. Edited by J. Howard B. Masterman, M.A. is. Earle. Microcosmography. Edited by A. S. West, M.A. 3J. Goldsmith. The Traveller and the Deserted Villj^e. Edited by W. MURISON, M.A. is. 6d. Gray. English Poems. Edited by D. C. Tovey, M.A. 4J. Extracts from the above Ode on the Spring and the Bard. 8^. Ode on the Spring and Elegy in a Country Churchyard. 9//. Gray's English Poems. Edited by R. F. Charles, M.A. IS. Kingsley. The Heroes, or Greek Fairy Tales for my Children. Edited with Notes, Illustrations from Greelc Vases, and Two Maps, by Ernest Gardner, M.A. is. fid. Without introduction and notes. \s. Lamb's Essays of Elia and Last Essays of Elia. Edited by A. H. Thompson, M.A. is. dd. each. Lamb, Charles and Mary. A Selection of Tales from Shakespeare. With Introduction and Notes, and an Appendix of Extracts from Shakespeare, by J. H. Flather, M.A. is. 6d. A second selection. By the same editor, is. (>d. Macaulay. The Lays of Ancient Rome, and other Poems. Edited by J. H. Flather, M.A. is. 6d. Macaulay. History of England, Chapters I — III. Edited by W. F. Reddaway, M.A. is. Macaulay. Lord Clive. Edited by A. D. Innes, M.A. IS. 6d. By the same editor Warren Hastings, is. 6d. Books on English Language and Literature Two Essays on William Pitt, Earl of Chatham. IS. 6d. Essay on The Pilgrim's Progress, i^. Macaulay. John Milton. Edited, with Introduction and Notes, by J. H. Flather, M.A. is. 6d. Nineteenth Century Essays. Edited with Introduc- tion and Notes by George Sampson, ij. THE CAMBRIDGE MILTON FOR SCHOOLS With Introduction, Notes and Glossaries, by A. W. Verity, M.A. Arcades. \s. 6d. Samson Agonistes. 25. 6d. Ode on the Morning of Christ's Nativity, L' Allegro, II Penseroso, and Lycidas. is. 6d. Sonnets, is. 6d. Comus and Lycidas. 2s. Comus, separately. 15. Paradise Lost. In 6 volumes, each containing 2 books, 2S. per volume. (For Paradise Lost in one volume see p. 2) More's Utopia. Edited by J. R. Lumby, D.D. 2s. More's History of King Richard III. Edited by J. R. Lumby, D.D. 3^. M. Pope's Essay on Criticism. Edited by A. S. West, M.A. %s. Pope's Essay on Man. Edited by A. H. Thompson, M.A. T.S. SCHOOL EDITIONS OF SCOTT'S WORKS Each volume contains Introduction, Notes and Glossary Marmion. Edited by J. H. B. Masterman, M.A. 2s. 6d. The Lady of the Lake. Same editor. 2^-. dd. The Lord of the Isles. Edited by J. H. Flather, M.A. IS. The Lay of the Last Minstrel. Same editor. 2s. A Legend of Montrose. Edited by H. F. M.Simpson, M.A. IS. Old Mortality. Edited by J. A. Nicklin. 25. Kenilworth. Edited by J. H. Flather, M.A. 2s. Quentin Durward. Edited by W. Murison, M.A. 2s. The Talisman. Edited by A. S. Gaye, B A. 2s. "Woodstock. Same editor. 2s. Cambridge University Press The Pitt Press Shakespeare. By A. W. Verity, M.A. With Introduction, Notes, and Glossary. Price \s. 6d. each. A Midsummer-Nis^ht's Dream Coriolanus The Merchant of Venice Julius Caesar As you like it King; Lear Twelfth Night Macbeth King Richard II Hamlet King Henry V The Tempest The Granta Shakespeare. By J. H. Lobban, M.A. With short Notes and brief Glossarj'. Price \s. net each. Twelfth Night King Henry IV (Part I) The Winter's Tale King Henry IV (Part II) The Merchant of Venice Macbeth Julius Caesar The Tempest A Midsummer-Night's Dream The Student's Shakespeare. Edited by A. W. Verity, M.A. With Introductions, Notes, Glossaries, etc. Coriolanus. 2s.6d.net. Hamlet, ■is.6d.nei. Macbeth. 2j.6rf.net. Sidney. An Apologie for Poetrie. Edited by E. S. Shhckburgh, Litt.D. 3^-. Spenser. The Fowre Hymnes. Edited by Lilian WiNSTANLBY, M.A. -is. 6d. net. Spenser. The Faerie Queene, Books I and II. Edited by L. Winstanlby. 2^. 6d. each. Tennyson. Fifty Poems, 1830 — 1864. Edited by J. H. Lobban, M.A. 2s. 6d. Poems by 'William Wordsworth. Selected and an- notated by Miss Clara L. Thomson, is. 6d. The Cambridge Book of Poetry for Children. Edited by Kenneth Grahame. Crown 8vo. In two parts. i.f. net each. In one volume, cloth extra, y. net. A Book of Verse for Children. Compiled by Alys RODGERS,L.L.A. (Rons.). Crown 8vo. Complete, cloth gilt, 3j.6rf. net ; cloth back, is. Parts I — III separately, limp cloth, i.r. net. English Patriotic Poetry. Selected by L. Godwin Salt, M.A. \s. 6d. Text only, without introduction and notes. 6d. net. A Book of English Poetry for the Young. Arranged for Preparatory and Elementary Schools by W. H. Woodward. \s. A Second Book of English Poetry for the Young. Arranged for Secondary and High Schools by W. H. Woodward. \s. A Book of English Prose. By Percy Lubbock, M.A. Part 1. Arranged for Preparatory and Elementary Schools, is. 6d. Part II. Arranged for Secondary and High Schools. 2s. Books on English Language and Literature ENGLISH LITERATURE FOR SCHOOLS A new series of reading books for the upper and middle forms of secondary schools. Addison. Selections from The Spectator. Edited by J. H. LoBBAN, M. A. u. 41/. Jane Austen. Pride and Prejudice. Abridged and edited by Mrs Frederick Boas. <)d. Thomas Carlyle. On Heroes, Hero-Worship and The Heroic in History. Edited by G. Wherry, M.A. is. i,d. "William Cobbett. Rural Rides. Selected and edited by J. H. LoBBAN, M.A. \s. ^d. Daniel Defoe. Memoirs of a Cavalier. Edited by Elizabeth O'Neill. \s. Selections from De Quincey. Edited by E. B. Collins. Dickens. Parisian Scenes from A Tale of Two Cities. Edited by J. H. Lobban, M.A. grf. Dryden. Virgil's Aeneid. Books I, II and VI. Edited by A. H. THOiMPSON, M.A. grf. Dryden. The Preface to the Fables. Edited by W. H. Williams, M.A. ^d. George Eliot. Silas Marner : The W^eaver of Raveloe. Edited by Miss F. E. Bevan. is. Fielding. Journal of a Voyage to Lisbon. Edited by J. H. Lobban, M.A. u. Goldsmith. Selected Essays. Edited by J. H. Lobban, M.A. is. W^illiam Hazlitt. Characters of Shakespeare's Plays. Edited by J. H. Lobban, M.A. is. Leigh Hunt. Selections in Prose and Verse. Edited by J. H. Lobban, M.A. ^d. The Paston Letters. A Selection illustrating English Social Life in the Fifteenth Century. Edited by M. D. Jones, is. Sir W^alter Scott. Tales of a Grandfather. Being the History of Scotland from the Earliest Period to the Battle of Flodden in 1513. Edited by P. Giles, M.A., Litt.D. is. Captain John Smith. True Travels, Adventures, and Observations. Edited by E. A. Benians, M.A. is. Narratives selected from Peaks, Passes and Glaciers. Edited by G. Wherry, M.A. ijd. Scenes from Eighteenth Century Comedies. Edited by A. Barter. \s. THE CAMBRIDGE HISTORY OF ENGLISH LITERATURE Edited by Sir A. W. Ward, Litt.D., F.B.A., Master of Peterhouse, and A. R. Waller, M.A., Peterhouse. Vol. I. From the Beginnings to the Cycles of Romance. II. The End of the Middle Ages. III. Renascence and Reformation. ,,. . IV. Prose and Poetry: Sir Thomas North to Michael Drayton. V, VI. The Drama to 1642. VII. Cavalier and Puritan. VIII. The Age of Dryden. IX. From Steele and Addison to Pope and Swift. X. The Age of Johnson. XI. The Period of the French Revolution. XII. The Nineteenth Century I. XIII, XIV. The Nineteenth Century II and III. Price, in buckram gs. net, in half-morocco 15J. net, each volume. Subscription price for the complete work £5. 5^. od. net in buckram, £S. I5J-. od. net in half -morocco, payable in fourteen instalments of •js. 6d. net or its. 6d. net respectively, on publication of the separate volumes. Volumes I — XII are now ready. Two additional volumes will be published which vriU contain extracts in prose and verse illustrative of the text of the History, in addition to about 100 reproductions of title-pages, portraits, facsimiles, or other illustrations. The published price of these volumes will be 10s. net each, but subscribers to the History will have the privilege of purchasing them at "js. 6d. net each. CAMBRIDGE MANUALS OF SCIENCE AND LITERATURE Royal i6rao. Cloth, 15. ^d. net; leather, 2s. dd. net. The Ballad in Literature. By T. F. Henderson. The Troubadours. By H. J. Chaytor, M.A. King Arthur in History and Legend. By Prof. W. Lewis Jones. The Icelandic Sagas. By W. A. Craigie, LL.D. English Dialects from the Eighth Century to the Present Day. By the late Prof. W. W. Skeat, Litt.D. Mysticism in English Literature. By Miss C. F. E. Spurgeon. A prospectus of the 86 volumes now ready may be obtained on application. Cambridge University Press C. F. Clay, Manager London: Fetter Lane, E.C. Edinburgh ; 100 Princes Street