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THE POEMS 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOE COLERIDGE. 
 
THE POEMS 
 
 SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 DEEWENT AND SAEA COLEEIDGE. 
 
 WITH AN APPENDIX. 
 
 A NEW EDITION. 
 
 LONDON : 
 EDWAED MOXON & CO., DOYEE STEEET. 
 
 1869. 
 
ADYEETISEMENT. 
 
 The last authorised edition of S. T. Coleridge's 
 Poems, published by Mr. Moxon in 1852, bears 
 the names of Derwent and Sara Coleridge, as joint 
 editors. In uniting my name with my sister's, I 
 yielded to her particular desire and request, but 
 the work was performed almost entirely by her- 
 self. My opinion was consulted as to the general 
 arrangement, and more especially as to the choice 
 or rejection of particular pieces. Even here I 
 had no occasion to do more than confirm the con- 
 clusions to which she had herself arrived, and 
 sanction the course which she had herself adopted. 
 I shared in the responsibility, but cannot claim 
 any share in the credit of the undertaking. This 
 edition I propose to leave intact as it came from 
 her own hands. I wish it to remain as one 
 among other monuments of her fine taste, her 
 solid judgment, and her scrupulous conscientious- 
 ness. 
 
 A few pieces of some interest appear, however, 
 
vi ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 to have been overlooked. Two characteristic 
 sonnets, not included in any former edition of 
 the Poems, have been preserved in an anonymous 
 work, entitled " Letters, Recollections, and Con- 
 versations of S. T. Coleridge." These, with a 
 further selection from the omitted pieces, princi- 
 pally from the Juvenile Poems, have been added 
 in an Appendix. So placed, they will not at any 
 rate interfere with the general effect of the collec- 
 tion, while they add to its completeness. All 
 these " buds of promise" were once withdrawn* 
 and afterwards reproduced by the author. It is 
 not easy now to draw a line of separation which 
 shall not be deemed either too indulgent or too 
 severe. 
 
 That the literary productions of S. T. Coleridge 
 should after a given period pass from under the 
 control of his executors is right and fitting. That 
 they should be brought out at the earliest period 
 permitted by law, in various forms, by watchful 
 and expectant publishers, is not a matter of sur- 
 prise, and will not be alleged by me as a matter 
 of blame. It is more pleasant for me to consider 
 this hasty competition as a tribute to the genius 
 of the author, and a proof of the estimation in 
 which his works are held. In justice, however, 
 to the author's immediate representatives, it may 
 without impropriety be stated that the present, as 
 it is the only authorised, so it is, and must for many 
 years continue to be the only complete, or nearly 
 complete, collection of his poems. 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. vii 
 
 All the " poems written in later life," many of 
 them among the author's most finished and ex- 
 quisite productions, together with the interesting 
 notes and observations supplied by his daughter, 
 are still copyright, while of the pieces now re- 
 printed in the Appendix, several, whatever may 
 be the date of composition, were not published 
 till 1834. 
 
 The respectful acknowledgments of the editor 
 are offered to those Publishers, whose courtesy 
 and forbearance, had they been generally imitated, 
 would have rendered this notice unnecessary. 
 
 DERWEI^T COLERIDGE. 
 
PEEFAOE TO THE EDITION OF 1852. 
 
 As a chronological arrangement of Poetry in 
 completed collections is now beginning to find 
 general favour, pains have been taken to follow 
 this method in the present Edition of S. T. Cole- 
 ridge's Poetical and Dramatic Works, as far as 
 circumstances permitted — that is to say, as far as 
 the date of composition of each poem was ascer- 
 tainable, and as far as the plan could be carried 
 out without effacing the classes into which the 
 Author had himself distributed his most important 
 poetical publication, the " Sibylline Leaves," 
 namely, Poems occasion^ed by Political 
 EvEi^TS, OB, Feelings connected with them; 
 Love Poems; Meditative Poems in blank 
 veese; Odes and Miscellaneous Poems. On 
 account of these impediments, together with the 
 fact, that many a poem, such as it appears in its 
 ultimate form, is the growth of different periods, 
 the agreement with chronology in this Edition is 
 approximative rather than perfect: yet in tlie 
 
xii PEEFACB. 
 
 majority of instances the date of each piece has 
 been made out, and its place fixed accordingly. 
 
 In another point of view also, the Poems have 
 been distributed with relation to time : they are 
 thrown into three broad groups, representing, 
 first the Youth, — secondly, the Early Manhood 
 and Middle Life, — thirdly, the Declining Age of 
 the Poet ; * and it will be readily perceived that 
 each division has its own distinct tone and colour, 
 corresponding to the period of life in which it was 
 composed. It has been suggested, indeed, f that 
 Coleridge had four poetical epochs, more or less 
 diversely characterised, — that there is a dis- 
 cernible difference betwixt the productions of his 
 Early Manhood and of his Middle Age, the latter 
 being distinguished from those of his Stowey life, 
 which may be considered as his poetic prime, by a 
 less buoyant spirit. Fire they have ; but it is not 
 the clear, bright, mounting fire of his earlier 
 poetry, conceived and executed when "he and 
 youth were housemates still." In the course of a 
 very few years after three-and-twenty all his 
 very finest poems were produced ; his twenty-fifth 
 year has been called his annus mirabilis. To 
 be a "Prodigal's favourite — then, worse truth! 
 a Miser's pensioner," if is the lot of Man. In 
 
 * S. T.Coleridge was bom Oct. 21, 1772 and died July 25, 1834. 
 
 t See Supplement to the Second Edition of the Biograpfda 
 Literaria, vol. ii., p. 417. 
 
 X Wordsworth's Poetical Works, vol. v., p. 294. Tlie Small 
 Celandine. See motto to the last section. 
 
PEEPACE. 
 
 respect of poetry, Coleridge was a '' Prodigal's 
 favourite," more, perhaps, tlian ever Poet was 
 before. 
 
 1. The Juvenile Poems (now called Poems 
 written in Youth), so named by the Author him- 
 self when he had long ceased to be juvenile, were 
 first published in 1796. The second edition, 
 which appeared in May, 1797, omitted nineteen 
 pieces of the previous publication, and added 
 eleven new. The volume, says Mr. H. JST. Cole- 
 ridge, in a note to the Biographia Literaria, com- 
 prised poems by Lamb and Lloyd, and on the title- 
 page was printed the prophetic aspiration : — • 
 ' ^Duplex nobis vinculum, et amiciticejunctarumque 
 Camcenarum, — quod utinam neque mors solvat , 
 neque temporis longinquitas.^^* 
 
 In the London edition of 1803, fifty- two of the 
 pieces, contained in the first and second, were 
 again presented to the public, but, what is now 
 difficult to account for, unaccompanied by many 
 fine poems which were undoubtedly written by 
 that time, but saw not the light till, in 1817, they 
 formed a part of the " Sibylline Leaves," beside 
 the "Ancient Mariner," "The Foster-Mother's 
 Tale" (an ofi'-shoot from "Eemorse," then en- 
 titled " Osorio"), and " The Nightingale: a Con- 
 versation Poem," which entered the world along 
 
 * Biographia literaria, 2nd edit., vol. i., p. 4. 
 
xiv PREFACE. 
 
 witli the afterwards celebrated and ever immortal 
 ** Lyrical Ballads" of William Wordswortli. 
 Only thirty-six of the Juvenile Poems were in- 
 eluded in the collection of Coleridge's " Poetical 
 and Dramatic "Works," published by Mr. Picker- 
 ing in 1828. These, all produced before the Au- 
 thor's twenty-fourth year, devoted as he was to 
 the '* soft strains" of Bowles, have more in com- 
 mon with the passionate lyrics of Collins and the 
 picturesque wildness of the pretended Ossian, 
 than with the well-tuned sentimentality of that 
 Muse which the over-grateful poet has repre- 
 sented as his earliest inspirer. For the young 
 they will ever retain a peculiar charm, because so 
 fraught with the joyous spirit of youth ; and in 
 the minds of all readers that feeling which dis- 
 poses men " to set the bud above the rose full- 
 blown " would secure them an interest, even if 
 their intrinsic beauty and sweetness were less 
 adequate to obtain it. 
 
 2. Poems of Early Manhood are " The Ancient 
 Mariner," '' The Wanderings of Cain," " Kubla 
 Khan," ^'Christabel," Part I. The ''Sibylline 
 Leaves" of 1817 comprises many minor poems of 
 the same date as those just mentioned, and like- 
 wise another set, which must be referred to 
 Middle Life, that collection extending from 1796 
 to the time of publication. The second part of 
 " Christabel" we know, on the Poet's own autho- 
 rity, to have been composed in 1800 ; it therefore 
 
PEEFACE. XV 
 
 occupies an intermediate station between tlie two 
 
 "Remorse" was first cast at Stowey, in 1797 
 or 8. Alvar's Soliloquy (Act v., Scene 1,) was 
 published with the '' Lyrical Ballads," in 1798, 
 under the title of '* The Dungeon." The trans- 
 lation of " Wallenstein " was made in the winter 
 of 1800. ''Zapolya," published in 1817, must 
 have been composed somewhere between 1814 and 
 1816.* 
 
 3. Poems written in Later Life. The second 
 edition of the "Sibylline Leaves" contained a 
 certain number of short poems, quaintly desig- 
 nated "Prose in Ehyme, Moralities, Epigrams, 
 and Poems without a Name." The whole of 
 these, as late productions, are placed in the last 
 section, and to them are added many other pieces, 
 serious and sportive, which are known to have 
 been the harvest of the latest season accorded to 
 the Poet in this state of existence. 
 
 The present Editors have been guided in the 
 general arrangement of this edition by those of 
 1817 and 1828, which may be held to represent 
 the author's matured judgment upon the larger 
 and more important part of his poetical produc- 
 tions. They have reason, indeed, to believe, that 
 
 * See Dramatic Works. 
 
xvi PREFACE. 
 
 the edition of 1828 was the last upon which he 
 was able to bestow personal care and attention. 
 That of 1834, the last year of his earthly so- 
 journing, a period when his thoughts were wholly 
 engrossed, so far as the decays of his frail out- 
 ward part left them free for intellectual pursuits 
 and speculations, by a grand scheme of Cnristian 
 Philosophy, to the enunciation of which in a long 
 projected work his chief thoughts and aspirations 
 had for many years been directed, was arranged 
 mainly, if not entirely, at the discretion of his 
 earliest Editor, H. N. Coleridge who, not to 
 mention the boon he has conferred on the public 
 in preserving so valuable a record of his Uncle's 
 conversation as is contained in the Table Talk of 
 S. T. Coleridge, performed his task in editing The 
 Friend, The Literary Remains, The Church and 
 State and Lay Sermons, and The Confessions of an 
 Inquiring Spirit, in a manner which must ever 
 procure him sentiments of gratitude from all who 
 prize the writings of Coleridge. Such alterations 
 only have been made in this final arrangement of 
 the Poetical and Dramatic Works of S. T. Cole- 
 ridge, by those into whose charge they have 
 devolved, as they feel assured, both the Author 
 himself and his earliest Editor would at this time 
 find to be either necessary or desirable. The 
 observations and experience of eighteen years, a 
 period long enough to bring about many changes 
 in literary opinion, have satisfied them that the 
 immature essays of boyhood and adolescence, not 
 
PREFACE. xvii 
 
 marked witli any such, prophetic note of genius as 
 certainly does belong to the four school-boy poems 
 they have retained, tend to injure the general 
 effect of a body of poetry. That a writer, espe- 
 cially a writer of verse, should keep out of sight 
 his third-rate performances, is now become a 
 maxim with critics ; for they are not, at the 
 worst, effectless : they have an effect, that of 
 diluting and weakening, to the reader's feelings, 
 the general power of the collection. Mr. Cole- 
 ridge himself constantly, after 1796, rejected a 
 certain portion of his earliest published Juvenilia : 
 never printed any attempts of his boyhood, except 
 those four with which the present publication com- 
 mences ; and there can be no doubt that his Editor 
 of 1834 would ere now have come to the conclusion, 
 that only such of the Author's early performances 
 as were sealed by his own approval ought to form 
 a permanent part of the body of his poetical 
 works. 
 
 The *' Allegoric Vision," as it cannot be con- 
 sidered poetry in the full sense of the word, aod 
 may be read with much more advantage in its 
 proper place — the Introduction to the Author's 
 second Lay Sermon, — the Editors have thought 
 fit to withdraw from this collection. And a piece 
 of extravagant humour, printed for the first time 
 among the Author's works in 1834, rather it 
 would appear with his acquiescence, than by his 
 desire, has been excluded for the reasons assigned 
 
xviii PKEPACE. 
 
 by the Author himself in the Apologetic Preface. 
 The " Devil's Walk," having been reproduced 
 with his full authority in the Edition of 1828, ha? 
 been retained, — restored, however, as in the 
 Edition of 1834, to its original form and com- 
 pleteness. To this extent a discretionary pri- 
 vilege has been exercised, for which, it is 
 believed, that little apology will be required by 
 the public* 
 
 It must be added, that time has robbed of their 
 charm certain sportive effusions of Mr. C.'s later 
 years, which were given to the public, in the fii-st 
 gloss and glow of novelty in 1834, and has proved 
 that, though not devoid of the quality of genius, 
 they possess, upon the whole, not more than an 
 ephemeral interest. These the Editors have not 
 scrupled to omit on the same grounds and in the 
 same confidence that has been already explained. 
 
 Eour short pieces only have been added, the 
 third and ninth Sonnets (pages 34 and 37), from 
 the edition of 1796, the <' Day-Dream" (page 
 193), from the Appendix to Coleridge's "Essays 
 on his own Times," and the ''Hymn" (page 
 278), which is now printed for the first time. 
 
 * This humorous piece first appeared in the Moi-ning Post, 
 when, according to the Editor of that Journal, it made so 
 great a sensation that several hundred sheets extra were sold 
 by them, as the paper was in request for days and weeks 
 afterwards. 
 
PREFACE. xix 
 
 The Portrait has been engraved from a picture 
 of S. T. Coleridge, at twenty-six years of age, 
 which originally belonged to the poet's admirable 
 friend, Thomas Poole, of Nether Stowey, by the 
 kind permission of R. P. King, Esq., of Brisling- 
 ton, near Bath, its present owner. It is presented 
 not as altogether satisfactory, but as the best and 
 most interesting record of the Poet's youthful face 
 that was to be obtained. 
 
 S.C. 
 
 Chester Place, Regent's Pj\rk. 
 Mxrch, 1S52, 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 Compositions resembling those of the present 
 volume are not unfrequently condemned for their 
 querulous egotism. But egotism is to be con- 
 demned then only when it offends against time 
 and place, as in a history or an epic poem. To 
 censure it in a monody or sonnet is almost as 
 absurd as to dislike a circle for being round. 
 Why then write Sonnets or Monodies ? Because 
 they give me pleasure when perhaps nothing else 
 could. After the more violent emotions of sorrow, 
 the mind demands amusement, and can find it in 
 employment alone : but full of its late sufferings, 
 it can endure no employment not in some measure 
 connected with them. Forcibly to turn away our 
 attention to general subjects is a painful and most 
 often an unavailing effort. 
 
 " But ! how grateful to a wounded heart 
 The tale of misery to impart — 
 From others' eyes bid artless sorrows flow. 
 And raise esteem upon the base of woe ! " 
 
 Shaw. 
 
xxii PREFACE. 
 
 The communicativeness of our nature leads us to 
 describe our own sorrows ; in the endeavour to 
 describe them, intellectual activity is exerted ; and 
 from intellectual activity there results a pleasure, 
 which is gradually associated, and mingles as a 
 corrective, with the painful subject of the descrip- 
 tion. " True ! " (it may be answered) " but how 
 is the Public interested in your sorrows or your 
 description ? " We are for ever attributing per- 
 sonal unities to imaginary aggregates. What is 
 the Public, but a term for a number of scattered 
 individuals ? Of whom as many will be interested 
 in these sorrows, as have experienced the same or 
 similar. 
 
 " Holy be the lay 
 ■Which mourning soothes the mourner on his way." 
 
 If I could judge of others by myself, I should 
 not hesitate to affirm, that the most interesting 
 passages in all writings are those in which the 
 author developes his own feelings ? The sweet 
 voice of Cona * never sounds so sweetly, as when 
 it speaks of itself; and I should almost suspect 
 that man of an unkindly heart, who could read 
 the opening of the third book of the Paradise 
 Lost without peculiar emotion. By a law of our 
 nature, he, who labours under a strong feeling, 
 is impelled to seek for sympathy; but a poet's 
 
 * Ossian. 
 
PREFACE. ' xsiii 
 
 feelings are all strong, duicquid amet valde 
 amat. Akenside therefore speaks with philoso- 
 phical accuracy when he classes Love and Poetry, 
 as producing the same effects : 
 
 "Love and the wish of Poets when their tongue 
 Would teach to others' bosoms, what so charms 
 Their own." pleasuees of imagination. 
 
 There is one species of egotism which is truly- 
 disgusting ; not that which leads us to communi- 
 cate our feelings to others, but that which would 
 reduce the feelings of others to an identity with 
 our own. The atheist, who exclaims, ** pshaw ! " 
 when he glances his eye on the praises of Deity, 
 is an egotist: an old man, when he speaks con- 
 temptuously of Love-verses, is an egotist : and 
 the sleek favourites of fortune are egotists, when 
 they condemn all '' melancholy , discontented " 
 verses. Surely, it would be candid not merely 
 to ask whether the poem pleases ourselves, but to 
 consider whether or no there may not be others, 
 to whom it is well calculated to give an innocent 
 pleasure. 
 
 I shall only add, that each of my readers will, 
 I hope, remember, that these poems on various 
 subjects, which he reads at one time and under 
 the influence of one set of feelings, were written 
 at different times and prompted by very differ- 
 ent feelings; and therefore that the supposed 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 inferiority of one poem to another may some- 
 times be owing to tlie temper of mind, in which 
 he happens to peruse it. 
 
 My poems have been rightly charged with a 
 profusion of double- epithets, and a general tur- 
 gidness. I have pruned the double-epithets with 
 no sparing hand ; and used my best efforts to 
 tame the swell and glitter both of thought and 
 diction.* This latter fault however had insinu- 
 ated itself into my "Religious Musings" with 
 such intricacy of union, that sometimes I have 
 omitted to disentangle the weed from the fear of 
 snapping the flower. A third and heavier accu- 
 sation has been brought against me, that of 
 obscurity ; but not, I think, with equal justice. 
 An author is obscure, when his conceptions are 
 dim and imperfect, and his language incorrect, or 
 inappropriate, or involved. A poem that abounds 
 
 * Without any feeling of anger, I may yet be allowed to 
 express some degree of sui-prise, that after having run the 
 critical gauntlet for a certain class of faults, which I had, viz. , 
 a too ornate, and elaborately poetic diction, and nothing 
 having come before the judgment-seat of the Reviewers during 
 the long interval, I should for at least seventeen years, quarter 
 after quarter, have been placed by them in the foremost rank 
 of the proscribed, and made to abide the brunt of abuse and 
 ridicule for faults directly opposite, viz., bald and prosaic 
 language, and an afFected simplicity both of matter and man- 
 ner — faults which assuredly did not enter into the character of 
 my compositions. Literary Life, i. 51 ; published 1S17. 
 
PEEFACE. 
 
 le Bard oi 
 
 impersonates high and abstract truths, likei 
 Collins's Ode on the poetical character, claims 
 not to be popular — ^but should be acquitted of 
 obscurity. The deficiency is in the reader. But 
 this is a charge which every poet, whose imagi- 
 nation is warm and rapid, must expect from his 
 contemporaries. Milton did not escape it ; and 
 it was adduced with virulence against Gray and 
 Collins. We now hear no more of it : not that 
 their poems are better understood at present, than 
 they were at their first publication; but their 
 fame is established ; and a critic would accuse 
 himself of frigidity or inattention, who should 
 profess not to understand them. But a living 
 writer is yet sub judice ; and if we cannot follow 
 his conceptions or enter into his feelings, it is 
 more consoling to our pride to consider him as lost 
 beneath, than as soaring above us. If any man 
 expect from my poems the same easiness of style 
 which he admires in a drinking-song, for him I 
 have not written. IntelligibUia, non intellectum 
 adfero. 
 
 I expect neither profit nor general fame by my 
 writings ; and I consider myself as having been 
 amply repaid without either. Poetry has been 
 to me its own '' exceeding great reward : " it 
 has soothed my afliictions ; it has multiplied and 
 
xxyi PEEFACB. 
 
 refined my enjoyments; it has endeared solitude ; 
 and it has given me the habit of wishing to 
 discover the Good and the Beautiful in all that 
 meets and surrounds me.* 
 
 S. T. C. 
 
 * The above Preface was prefixed by the author to the third 
 edition of the Juvenile Poems, in 1803, and transferred by 
 him without alteration to the collected edition of his poetical 
 works in 1828. It is made up from the Prefaces to the first 
 two editions of his Poems, and referred, in the first instance, 
 to the earlier productions of his Muse. In the Preface to the 
 Sibylline Leaves, which he did not reprint, he states that that 
 collection was "presented to the reader as perfect as the 
 author's skill and powers could render them ; " adding, that 
 " hencefoi-ward he must be occupied by studies of a very 
 difierent kind." The motto which appears on a subsequent 
 page is taken from the same place, and points to a similar 
 conclusion. D. O. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 FIRST ADVENT OF LOVE 3 
 
 GENEVIEVE 3 
 
 THE RAVEN. A CHRISTMAS TALE 4 
 
 ABSENCE. A FAREWELL ODE 5 
 
 TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY. AN ALLEGORY . . 6 
 
 EPITAPH ON AN INFANT 6 
 
 SONGS OF THE PIXIES 7 
 
 THE ROSE . . 10 
 
 KISSES 11 
 
 TO SARA 12 
 
 THE SIGH 13 
 
 LINES TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A VILLAGE . . 14 
 LINES ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENING . . . .15 
 TO A YOUNG LADY, WITH A POEM ON THE FRENCH 
 
 REVOLUTION IS 
 
 IMITATED FROM OSSL4.N 19 
 
 THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA 20 
 
 TO A YOUNG ass; ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED 
 
 NEAR IT 
 TO AN INFANT 
 
 IMITATED FROM THE WELSH /o 
 
 DOMESTIC PEACE . . ' 23 
 
xxviii CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOVTn— (Continued.) 
 
 LINES WRITTEN AT THE KINQ'S ARMS, ROSS . . 24 
 
 TO THE NIGHTINGALE 24 
 
 TO A FRIEND, TOGETHER WITH AN UNFINISHED FOE . 25 
 LINES ON A FRIEND WHO DIED OF A FREKZY FEVER 26 
 MONODY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON . . .28 
 
 SONNET I. MY HEART HAS THANKED THEE, BOWLES ! 
 
 FOR THOSE SOFT STRAINS 33 
 
 SONNET II. AS LATE I LAY IN SLUMBER'S SHADOWY 
 
 VALE 33 
 
 BONNET III. NOT ALWAYS SHOULD THE TEAR's 
 
 AMBROSIAL DEW 34 
 
 SONNET IV. THOUGH ROUSED BY THAT DARK VIZIR 
 
 RIOT RUDE 34 
 
 SONNET V. WHEN BRITISH FREEDOM FOR A HAPPIER 
 
 LAND 85 
 
 SONNET VI. IT WAS SOME SPIRIT, SHERIDAN ! THAT 
 
 BREATHED 35 
 
 SONNET VII. O WHAT A LOUD AND FEARFUL SHRIEK 
 
 WAS THERE 36 
 
 SONNET VIII. A3 WHEN FAR OFF THE WARBLED 
 
 STRAINS ARE HEARD 36 
 
 SONNET IX. NOT STANHOPE ! WITH THE PATRIOT'S 
 
 DOUBTFUL NAME 37 
 
 SONNET X, THOU GENTLE LOOK, THAT DIDST MY SOUL 
 
 BEGUILE 38 
 
 SONNET XI. PALE ROAMER THROUGH THE NIGHT ! 
 
 THOU POOR FORLORN 38 
 
 SONNET XTI. SWEET MERCY ! HOW MY VERY HEART 
 
 HAS BLED 39 
 
 SONNET XIII. TO THE AUTUMNAL MOON . . . . 39 
 
 BONNET XIV. THOU BLEEDEST, MY POOR HEART I AND 
 
 THY DISTRESS 40 
 
CONTENTS. XXIX 
 
 Fage 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH— (Continued.) 
 
 SONNET XV. TO THE AUTHOR OF " THE ROBBERS." . . 40 
 LINES COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT 
 
 OF BROOKLET COOMB, SOMERSETSHIRE' . . 41 
 
 LINES IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER 41 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS PUBLISHED ANONYMOUSLY 
 
 AT BRISTOL 43 
 
 LINES WRITTEN AT SHURTON BARS, NEAR BRIDGEWATER 45 
 LINES TO A FRIEND IN ANSWER TO A MELANCHOLY 
 
 LETTER 48 
 
 RELIGIOUS musings; a DESULTORY POEM . . . 49 
 
 THE DESTINY OF NATIONS. A VISION . . . . Gl 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN EARLY MANHOOD, AND 
 MIDDLE LIFE. 
 
 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. ... 79 
 
 CHRISTABEli 101 
 
 KUBLA KHAN ; OR, A VISION IN A ^DREAM. A 
 
 FRAGMENT 121 
 
 THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN 124 
 
 SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 I. — POEMS OCCASIONED BY POLITICAL EVENTS CR 
 FEELINGS CONNECTED WITH THEM. 
 
 ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAR 135 
 
 FRANCE. AN ODE 140 
 
 FEARS IN SOLITUDE 143 
 
 FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. A WAR ECLOGUE . 150 
 THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS .168 
 
 II. — LOYE POEMS. 
 
 LEWTI ; OR, THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-OHAUNT . .171 
 LOVE 174 
 
XXX CONTENTS. 
 
 Pa^e 
 BIBTLLINB LEAVES— (Cowfinwed.) 
 
 LINES SUGGESTED AT THEATBE .... 177 
 
 TO 178 
 
 THE PICTTTRE, OR THE LOVEK'S RESOLUTION . . 179 
 
 THE NIGHT SCENE. A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT . . 184 
 
 LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM . . . 186 
 
 ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION 188 
 
 TO A LADY-, WITH FALCONER'S "SHIPWRECK" . .188 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY, ON HER RECOVERY FROM A 
 
 FEVER 189 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE DARK LADIE . 190 
 
 THE BALLAD OP THE DARK LADIE. A FRAGMENT . . 191 
 
 THE DAY-DREAM 193 
 
 SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL . . . 194 
 
 ON REVISITING THE SEA-SHORE 195 
 
 THE KEEPSAKE 196 
 
 THE VISIONARY HOPE 197 
 
 HOME-SICK 198 
 
 THE HAPPY HUSBAND 199 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE 200 
 
 THE PANG MORE SHARP THAN ALL. AN ALLEGORY . 201 
 
 III. — MEDITATIVE POEMS. 
 REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF 
 
 RETIREMENT 203 
 
 ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST OF 
 
 FEBRUARY, 1796 205 
 
 THE EOLIAN HARP 206 
 
 TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE 208 
 
 TO A FRIEND WHO HAD DECLARED HIS INTENTION 
 
 OF WRITING NO MORE POETRY . . . .211 
 
 THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON . ' • • 212 
 
 FROST AT MIDNIGHT 215 
 
CONTENTS. xxxi 
 
 Page 
 SIBYLLINE Jj'EAyEiS— (Continued.) 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. A CONVERSATION POEM . . . 2lT 
 LINES WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGEEODE, IN 
 
 THE HARTZ FOREST 220 
 
 HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI 222 
 
 TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH 224 
 
 INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH . . 228 
 
 A TOMELESS EPITAPH 229 
 
 IV; — POEMS OP VARIED CHABACTBB. 
 TO A YOUNG FRIEND, ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTI- 
 CATE WITH THE AUTHOR 230 
 
 4.DDEESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTCTNE . . . 232 
 
 SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER 233 
 
 THE FOSTER MOTHER'S TALE. A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT 234 
 
 SONNET 236 
 
 SONNET TO A FRIEND 237 
 
 TELL'S BIRTH-PLACE. IMITATED FROM STOLBEBO . . 237 
 
 ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE . . 239 
 
 ON AN INFANT WHICH DIED BEFORE BAPTISM . . 241 
 
 EPITAPH ON AN INFANT 242 
 
 HYMN TO THE EARTH. HEXAMETERS . . . . 242 
 
 MAHOMET 244 
 
 THE virgin's CRADLE-HYMN , 245 
 
 WRITTEN during A TEMPORARY BLINDNESS . . 245 
 
 ODE TO TRANQUILLITY 246 
 
 CATULLIAN HENDECASYLLABLES 247 
 
 DEJECTION. AN ODE ....... 248 
 
 THE THREE GRAVES 252 
 
 MELANCHOLY. A FRAGMENT 265 
 
 COMPOSED DURING ILLNESS AND IN ABSENCE . . 2C6 
 
 THE VISIT OF THE GODS. IMITATED FROM SCHILLER. 266 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL . . . . , . , 267 
 
xxxii CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 SIBYLLINE HEAYBS— (Continued.) 
 
 LINES TO 17. L , .269 
 
 THE knight's tomb 270 
 
 METRICAL FEET. LESSON FOR A BOY .... 270 
 
 A child's evening prayer 271 
 
 COMPLAINT 272 
 
 REPROOF 272 
 
 PSYCHE 272 
 
 AN ODE TO THE RAIN . . . . . . . 273 
 
 A DAY DREAM * . 275 
 
 THE PAINS OF SLEEP 276 
 
 A HYMN 278 
 
 HUMAN LIFE, ON THE DENIAL OF IMMORTALITY . . 278 
 
 SEPARATION 279 
 
 ON TAKING LEAVE OF , 1817 . . . . 280 
 
 POEMS WRITTEN IN LATER LIFE. 
 
 TOXTTH AND AGE . ; 283 
 
 THE EXCHANGE 284 
 
 THE ALIENATED MISTRESS. A MADRIGAL . . . 285 
 
 THE STJICIDE'S ARGUMENT 285 
 
 TO A LADY 286 
 
 SANCTI DOMINICI PALLIUM. A DIALOGUE . . . 286 
 LINES SUGGESTED BY THE LAST "WORDS OF BEREN- 
 
 6ARIUS 288 
 
 REFLECTION ON THE ABOVE 288 
 
 MOLES 289 
 
 NOT AT HOME 290 
 
 LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP OPPOSITE 290 
 
 WORK WITHOUT HOPE 291 
 
 DUTY SURVIVING SELF-LOVE 291 
 
 SONG • . ... 292 
 
 PHANTOM OR FACT? A DIALOGUE IN VERSE . . 292 
 
CONTENTS. xxxiii 
 
 Pagg 
 POEMS WEITTEN IN LATER LlFE-(Coniinued.) 
 
 to a lady offended by a sportive observation 293 
 
 "the love that maketh not ashamed" . . . 204 
 
 constancy to an ideal object 294 
 
 fancy in nubibus, or the poet in the clouds . 295 
 the blossoming of the solitary date-tree. a 
 
 LAMENT ....*.... 296 
 
 THE TWO FOUNTS 299 
 
 LIMBO 300 
 
 COLOGNE 801 
 
 ON MY JOYFUL DEPARTURE FROM THE SAME CITY . 302 
 
 NE PLUS ULTRA 302 
 
 NAMES 303 
 
 LINES TO A COMIC AUTHOR 303 
 
 THE IMPROVISATORE ; OR, "JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, 
 
 JOHN " 304 
 
 ALICE DU CLOS : OR THE FORKED TONGUE. A BALLAD 311 
 
 FROM THE GERMAN 317 
 
 MORNING INVITATION TO A CHILD .... 317 
 
 CONSOLATION OF A MANIAC 318 
 
 A CHARACTER 320 
 
 TRANSLATED FROM SCHILLER 322 
 
 HUMILITY THE MOTHER OF CHARITY .... 323 
 
 PROFUSE KINDNESS 323 
 
 THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO 323 
 
 CHARITY IN THOUGHT 327 
 
 ON BERKELEY AND FLORENCE COLERIDGE . . . 327 
 
 IMPROVED FROM STOLBERG 328 
 
 love's APPARITION AND E VANISHMENT. AN ALLE- 
 GORIC ROMANCE 329 
 
 l'envoy 330 
 
 WHAT IS LIFE? . . * 330 
 
 INSCRIPTION FOR A TIME PIECE 330 
 
xxxiv CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 POEMS WEITTEN IN LATER LI¥'B-{Continued). 
 
 LOVE, HOPE, AND PATIENCE IN EDUCATION , . 331 
 
 "beareth all things." — 2 COE. xiii. 7 . . . 332 
 
 — "e CCELO DESCENDIT yvSOi o-eauTOy."— JUVENAL. . 332 
 
 EniTA^ION ATTOrPAnTON 333 
 
 TO THE YOUNO ARTIST, KAYSER OF KAYSERWERTH . 333 
 
 MY BAPTISMAL BIRTH-DAY 334 
 
 EPITAPH , 334 
 
 NOTES 335 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 TO NATURE 347 
 
 FAREWELL TO LOVE S47 
 
 "I YET REMAIN" 848 
 
 COUNT RUMFORD'S ESSAYS 349 
 
 " THE EARLY year's FAST-FLYING VAPOURS STRAY " . . 349 
 
 TO THE REV. W. J. H 350 
 
 TO A PRIMROSE .351 
 
 ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S CHILD . . . .351 
 
 MUTUAL PASSION 353 
 
 FROM A YOUNG LADY 354 
 
 TRANSLATION OF A PARAPHRASE OF THE OO^ELS . .356 
 
 ISRAEL'S LAMENT .357 
 
Ite Mnc, Camoense ! vos quoque ite, suaves 
 Dulces Cara:en£B I Nam (fatebimur enim) 
 Dulces fuistis. Et tamen meas chartas 
 Revisitote, sed pudenter et raro. — Virg. Catal. vii. 
 
 (From the Preface to the Sibylline Leaves.) 
 
POEMS WEITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
Felix curarum, cui non Heliconia cordi 
 Sierta, nee imbelles Pamassi e vertice laurus ! 
 Sed viget ingenium, et maguos accinctus iu usus 
 P'ert animus quascunque vices. — ^Nos tristia vitae 
 Solamur cantu. 
 
 Stat. Silv., lib. iv. 4. 
 
POEMS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 FIEST ADVENT OF LOVE * 
 
 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 shadowed waters creeping, 
 And Ceres' golden fields ; — the sultry hind 
 Meets it with brow uplift, and stays his reaping. 
 
 1788. 
 
 GENEVIEVE. 
 
 Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve ! 
 In Beauty's light you glide along : 
 Your eye is like the star of eve, 
 And sweet your Voice, as Seraph's song. 
 Yet not your heavenly Beauty gives 
 This heart with passion soft to glow : 
 Within your soul a Voice there lives ! 
 It bids you hear the tale of Woe. 
 When sinking low the Sufferer wan 
 Beholds no hand outstretched to save, 
 
 * See Note at the end of the volume. 
 
THE RAVEN. 
 
 Fair, as the bosom of tlie Swan 
 That rises graceful o'er the wave, 
 I've seen your breast with pity heave. 
 And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve ! 
 
 THE EAVEN. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS TALE, TOLD BY A SCHOOL-BOY TO HIS LITTLE 
 BROTHERS AND SISTERS. 
 
 Underneath an old oak tree 
 There was of swine a huge company, 
 That grunted as they crunched the mast : 
 For that was ripe, and fell full fast. 
 Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high : 
 One acorn they left, and no more might you spy. 
 Next came a Raven, that liked not such folly : 
 He belonged, they did say, to the witch Melancholy ! 
 Blacker was he than blackest jet. 
 Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet. 
 He picked up the acorn and buried it straight 
 By the side of a river both deep and great. 
 Where then did the Raven go 1 
 He went high and low, 
 Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go. 
 Many Autumns, many Springs 
 Travelled he with wandering wings : 
 Many Summers, many Winters — 
 I can't tell half his adventures. 
 At length he came back, and with him a She, 
 And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree. 
 They built them a nest in the topmost bough, 
 And young ones they had, and were happy enow. 
 But soon came a woodman in leathern guise. 
 His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes. 
 He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke, 
 But with many a hem ! and a sturdy stroke. 
 
ABSE^JCE. 5 
 
 At length he brought down the poor Eaven's own oak. 
 His young ones were killed; for they could not depart, 
 And their mother did die of a broken heart. 
 The boughs from the trunk the Woodman did sever ; 
 And they floated it down on the course of the river. 
 They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip. 
 And with this tree and others they made a good ship. 
 The ship, it was launched; but in sight of the land 
 Such a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand. 
 It bulged on a rock, and the waves rushed in fast : 
 Round and round flew the Raven, and cawed to the 
 
 • blast. 
 He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls — 
 See ! See ! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls ! 
 
 Right glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet, 
 And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet, 
 And he thank'd him again and again for this treab : 
 
 They had taken his all, and Revenge it was sweet ! 
 
 ABSENCE. 
 
 A FAREWELL ODE ON QUITTING SCHOOL FOR JESUS COLLEGE, 
 CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 Where graced with many a classic spoil 
 
 Cam rolls his reverend stream along, 
 
 I haste to urge the learned toil 
 
 That sternly chides my love-lorn song : 
 
 Ah me ! too mindful of the days 
 
 Illumed by Passion's orient rays. 
 
 When Peace, and Cheerfulness, and Health 
 
 Enriched me with the best of wealth. 
 
 Ah fair Delights ! that o'er my soul 
 
 On Memory's wing, like shadows, fly ! 
 
 Ah Flowers ! which Joy from Eden stole 
 
 While Innocence stood smiling by ! — 
 
 But cease, fond Heart ! this bootless moan : 
 
 Those Hours on rapid Pinions flown 
 
EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. 
 
 Shall yet return, by Absence crowned, 
 And scatter livelier roses round. 
 The Sun who ne'er remits his fires 
 On heedless eyes may pour the day : 
 The Moon, that oft from Heaven retires, 
 Endears her renovated ray. 
 What though she leave the sky unblest 
 To mourn awhile in murky vest ? 
 When she relumes her lovely Light, 
 We bless the Wanderer of the Night. 
 
 TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY. 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 On the wide level of a mountain's head, 
 (I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place) 
 Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread, 
 Two lovely children run an endless race, 
 A sister and a brother ! 
 That far outstripp'd the other ; 
 Yet ever runs she with reverted face. 
 And looks and listens for the boy behind : 
 For he, alas ! is blind ! 
 O'er rough and smooth with even step he pass'd, 
 And knows not whether he be first or last. 
 
 EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. 
 
 Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade, 
 Death came with friendly care ; 
 
 The opening bud to Heaven conveyed. 
 And bade it blossom there. 
 
SONGS OF THE PIXIES. 
 
 The Pixies, in tlie superstition of DevonsMre, are a race 
 of beings invisibly small, and harmless or friendly to man. 
 At a small distance from a village in that county, half vi^ay 
 up a wood-covered hill, is an excavation called the Pixies* 
 Parlour. The roots of old trees form its ceiling ; and on its 
 sides are innumerable cyphers, among which the Author 
 discovered his own and those of his brothers, cut by the hand 
 of their childhood. At the foot of the hill flows the river 
 Otter. 
 
 To this place the Author, during the summer months of the 
 year 1793, conducted a party of young ladies ; one of whom, 
 of stature elegantly small, and of complexion coloiuless yet 
 clear, was proclaimed the Faery Queen. On which occasion 
 the following Irregular Ode was written. 
 
 Whom tlie untaught Shepherds call 
 
 Pixies in their madrigal, 
 Fancy's children, here we dwell : 
 
 Welcome, Ladies ! to our celL 
 Hero the wren of softest note 
 
 Builds its nest and warbles well ; 
 Here the blackbird strains his throat ; 
 
 Welcome, Ladies ! to our cell. 
 
 When fades the moon to shadowy-pale, 
 And scuds the cloud before the gale, 
 Ere the Morn, all gem-bedight, 
 Hath streak' d the East with rosy light, 
 We sip the furze-flower''s fragrant dews 
 Clad in robes of rainbow hues : 
 Or sport amid the shooting gleams 
 To the tune of distant-tinkling teams, 
 While lusty Labour scouting sorrow 
 Bids the Dame a glad good-morrow, 
 
SONGS OF THE PIXIES. 
 
 Wlio jogs the accustomed road along, 
 And paces cheery to hei* cheering song. 
 
 But not our filmy pinion 
 
 We scorch amid the blaze of day, 
 When Noontide's fiery-tressed minion 
 Flashes the fervid ray. 
 Aye from the sultry heat 
 We to the cave retreat 
 O'ercanopied by huge roots intertw^ined 
 With wildest texture, blackened o'er with age : 
 Round them their mantle green the ivies bind. 
 Beneath whose foliage pale 
 Fanned by the unfrequent gale 
 We shield us from the Tyrant's mid-day rage. 
 
 Thither, while the murmuring throng 
 Of wild-bees hum their drowsy song. 
 By Indolence and Fancy brought, 
 A youthful Bard, " unknown to Fame," 
 Wooes the Queen of Solemn Thought, 
 And heaves the gentle misery of a sigh 
 Gazing with tearful eye. 
 As round our sandy grot appeal 
 Many a rudely sculptured name 
 To pensive Memory dear ! 
 Weaving gay dreams of sunny-tinctured hue 
 
 We glance before his view : 
 O'er his hush'd soul our soothing witcheries shed 
 And twine the future garland round his head. 
 
 When Evening's dusky car 
 Crowned with her dewy star 
 Steals o'er the fading sky in shadowy flight ; 
 
SONGS OF THE PIXIES. 9 
 
 On leaves of aspen trees 
 We tremble to the breeze 
 Veiled from the grosser ken of mortal sight. 
 
 Or, haply, at the visionary hour. 
 Along our wildly-bowered sequestered walk, 
 We listen to the enamoured rustic's talk; 
 Heave with the heavings of the maiden's breast, 
 Where young-eyed Loves have hid their turtle nest; 
 
 Or guide of soul-subduing power 
 The glance, that from the half-confessing eye 
 Darts the fond question or the soft reply. 
 
 Or through the mystic ringlets of the vale 
 We flash our faery feet in gamesome prank : 
 Or, silent-sandaled, pay our defter court, 
 Circling the Spirit of the Western Gale, 
 Where wearied with his flower-caressing sport, 
 Supine he slumbers on a violet bank ; 
 Then with quaint music hymn the parting gleam 
 By lonely Otter's sleep-persuading stream ; 
 Or where his wave with loud unquiet song 
 Dashed o'er the rocky channel froths along ; 
 Or where, his silver waters smoothed to rest, 
 The tall tree's shadow sleeps upon his breast. 
 
 Hence, thou lingerer, Light ! 
 Eve saddens into Night. 
 Mother of wildly-working dreams ! we view 
 The sombre hours, that round thee stand 
 With down-cast eyes (a duteous band) 
 Their dark robes dripping with the heavy dew 
 Sorceress of the ebon throne ! 
 Thy power the Pixies own. 
 When round thy raven brow 
 Heaven's lucent roses glow, 
 And clouds in watery colours drest 
 Float in light drapery o'er thy sable vest : 
 
THE ROSE. 
 
 What time the pale moon sheds a softer day 
 Mellowing the woods beneath its pensive beam ■ 
 For 'mid the quivering light 'tis ours to play, 
 Aye dancing to the cadence of the stream. 
 
 Welcome, Ladies ! to the cell 
 Where the blameless Pixies dwell : 
 But thou, sweet Nymph ! proclaimed our Faery Quee'Q, 
 With what obeisance meet 
 Thy presence shall we greet 1 
 For lo ! attendant on thy steps are seen 
 Graceful Ease in artless stole, 
 And white-robed Purity of soul. 
 With Honour's softer mien ; 
 Mirth of the loosely-flowing hair, 
 And meek-eyed Pity eloquently fair. 
 
 Whose tearful cheeks are lovely to the view. 
 As snow-drop wet with dew. 
 
 Unboastfiil Maid ! though now the Lily pale 
 
 Transparent grace thy beauties meek ; 
 Yet ere again along the impurpling vale. 
 The purpling vale and elfin-haunted grove, 
 Young Zephyr his fresh flowers profusely throws, 
 
 We'll tinge with livelier hues thy cheek; 
 
 And, haply, from the nectar-breathing Eose 
 
 Extract a Blush for Love ! 
 
 1793. 
 
 THE EOSE. 
 
 As late each flower that sweetest blows 
 I plucked, the Garden's pride ! 
 Within the petals of a Eose 
 A sleeping Love I spied. 
 
KISSES. 11 
 
 Around his brows a beamy wreath 
 Of many a lucent hue ; 
 All purple glowed his cheek, beneath, 
 Inebriate with dew. 
 
 I softly seized the unguarded Power, 
 Nor scared his balmy rest : 
 And placed him, caged within the flower, 
 On spotless Sara's breast. 
 
 But when unweeting of the guile 
 Awoke the prisoner sweet, 
 He struggled to escape awhile 
 And stamped his faery feet. 
 
 Ah ! soon the soul-entrancing sight 
 Subdued the impatient boy ! 
 He gazed ! he thrilled with deep delight ! 
 Then clapped his wings for joy. 
 
 "And ! " he cried — " of magic kind 
 What charms this Throne endear ! 
 Some other Love let Venus find — 
 I'll fix my empire here." 
 
 1793. 
 
 KISSES.* 
 
 Cupid, if storying Legends tell aright. 
 
 Once framed a rich Elixir of Delight. 
 
 A Chalice o'er love-kindled flames he fixed, 
 
 And in it Nectar and Ambrosia mixed : 
 
 With these the magic dews, which Evening brings, 
 
 Brushed from the Idalian star by faery wings : 
 
 * See Note. 
 
12 TO SARA. 
 
 Eacli tender pledge of sacred Faith he joined, 
 Each gentler Pleasure of the unspotted mind — 
 Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness glow, 
 And Hope, the blameless Parasite of Woe. 
 The eyeless Chemist heard the process rise, 
 The steamy Chalice bubbled up in sighs ; 
 Sweet sounds transpired, as when the enamoured Dove 
 Pours the soft murmuring of responsive Love. 
 The finished work might Envy vainly blame, 
 And "Kisses" was the precious Compound's name. 
 With half the God his Cyprian Mother blest, 
 And breathed on Sara's lovelier lips the rest. 
 
 July, 1793. 
 
 TO SAKA. 
 
 One kiss, dear maid ! I said and sighed— 
 Your scorn the little boon denied. 
 Ah why refuse the blameless bliss? 
 Can danger lurk within a kiss ? 
 Yon viewless Wanderer of the vale, 
 The Spirit of the Western Gale, 
 At Morning's break, at Evening's close, 
 Inhales the sweetness of the Eose, 
 And hovers o'er the uninjured Bloom 
 Sighing back the soft perfume. 
 Vigour to the Zephyr's wing 
 Her nectar-breathing Kisses fling ; 
 And He the glitter of the Dew 
 Scatters on the Eose's hue. 
 Bashful lo I she bends her head. 
 And darts a blush of deeper Eed ! 
 Too well those lovely lips disclose 
 The triumphs of the opening Eose ; 
 O fair ! graceful ! bid them prove 
 As passive to the breath of Love. 
 In tender accents, faint and low, 
 Well-pleased I hear the whispered " No ! ' 
 
THE SIGH. 13 
 
 The whispered "No" — how little meant ! 
 Sweet Falsehood that endears Consent ! 
 For on those lovely lips the while 
 Dawns the soft relenting smile, 
 And tempts with feigned dissuasion coy 
 The gentle violence of Joy. 
 
 THE SIGH. 
 
 When Youth his faery reign began 
 Ere sorrow had proclaimed me man ; 
 While Peace the present hour beguiled, 
 And all the lovely Prospect smiled ; 
 Then Mary ! 'mid my lightsome glee 
 I heaVd the painless Sigh for thee. 
 
 And when, along the waves of woe, 
 My harassed Heart was doomed to know 
 The frantic burst of Outrage keen, 
 And the slow Pang that gnaws unseen; 
 Then shipwrecked on Life's stormy sea 
 I heaved an anguished Sigh for thee ! 
 
 But soon Eeflection's power imprest 
 A stiller sadness on my breast ; 
 And sickly Hope with waning eye 
 Was well content to droop and die : 
 I yielded to the stern decree, 
 Yet heaved a languid Sigh for thee ! 
 
 And though in distant climes to roam, 
 A wanderer from my native home, 
 I fain would soothe the sense of Care, 
 And lull to sleep the Joys that were, 
 Thy Image may not banished be — 
 Still, Mary ! still I sigh for thee. 
 
 June, 1794. 
 
14 
 
 IJNES 
 
 TO A BEAUTIFUL, SPRING IN A VILLAGB. 
 
 Once more, sweet Stream ! with slow foot wandering 
 
 I bless thy milky waters cold and clear. [near, 
 
 Escaped the flashing of the noontide hours, 
 
 With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers, 
 
 (Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn,) 
 
 My languid hand shall wreathe thy mossy urn. 
 
 For not through pathless grove with murmiir rude 
 
 Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude ; 
 
 Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well, 
 
 The hermit-fountain of some dripping cell ! 
 
 Pride of the Vale ! thy useful streams supply 
 
 The scattered cots and peaceful hamlet nigh. 
 
 The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks 
 
 With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks. 
 
 Released from school, their little hearts at rest, 
 
 Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast. 
 
 The rustic here at eve with pensive look 
 
 Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook, 
 
 Or starting pauses with hope-mingled dread 
 
 To list the much-loved maid's accustomed tread : 
 
 She, vainly mindful of her dame's command, 
 
 Loiters, the long-filled pitcher in her hand. 
 
 Unboastful Stream ! thy fount with pebbled falls 
 The faded form of past delight recalls. 
 What time the morning sun of Hope arose. 
 And all was joy ; save when another's woes 
 A transient gloom upon my soul imprest. 
 Like passing clouds impictured on thy breast. 
 Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon, 
 Or silvery stole beneath the pensive Moon : 
 Ah ! now it works rude brakes and thorns among, 
 Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along ! 
 
 I 
 
LINES ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENING.* 
 
 THOU wild Fancy, check thy wing ! No more 
 Those thin white flakes, those purple clouds explore ! 
 Nor there with happy spirits speed thy flight 
 Bathed in rich amber-glowing floods of light; 
 
 Nor in yon gleam, where slow descends the day. 
 
 With western peasants hail the morning ray ! 
 
 Ah ! rather bid the perished pleasures move, 
 
 A shadowy train, across the soul of Love ! 
 
 O'er Disappointment's wintry desert fling 
 
 Each flower that wreathed the dewy locks of Spring, 
 
 When blushing, like a bride, from Hope's trim bower 
 
 She leapt, awakened by the pattering shower. 
 
 Now sheds the sinking Sun a deeper gleam, 
 
 Aid, lovely Sorceress ! aid thy Poet's dream ! 
 
 With faery wand bid the Maid arise, 
 
 Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes ; 
 
 As erst when from the Muses' calm abode 
 
 1 came, with Learning's meed not unbestowed ; 
 When as she twined a laurel round my brow. 
 And met my kiss, and half returned my vow, 
 O'er all my frame shot rapid my thrilled heart, 
 And every nerve confessed the electric dart. 
 
 dear Deceit ! I see the maiden rise. 
 Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes. 
 When first the lark high soaring swells his throat, 
 Mocks the tired eye, and scatters the loud note, 
 I trace her footsteps on the accustomed lawn, 
 I mark her glancing 'mid the gleams of dawn. 
 When the bent flower beneath the night dew weeps 
 And on the lake the silver lustre sleeps, 
 Amid the paly radiance soft and sad, 
 She meets my lonely path in moon-beams clad. 
 
 * See Note. 
 
16 LINES ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENING. 
 
 With her along the streamlet's brink I rove ; 
 "With her I list the warbliogs of the grove ; 
 And seems in each lov/ wind her voice to float, 
 Lone whispering Pity in each soothing note ! 
 
 Spirits of Love ! ye heard her name ! Obey 
 The powerful spell, and to my haunt repair. 
 AVhether on clustering pinions ye are there, 
 Where rich snows blossom on the Myrtle trees, 
 Or with fond languishment around my fair 
 Sigh in the loose luxuriance of her hair ; 
 heed the spell, and hither veing your way, 
 Like far-off music, voyaging the breeze ! 
 
 Spirits ! to you the infant Maid was given 
 Formed by the wondrous Alchemy of Heaven ! 
 No fairer Maid does Love's vdde empire know, 
 No fairer Maid e'er heaved the bosom's snow. 
 A thousand Loves around her forehead fly ; 
 A thousand Loves sit melting in her eye ; 
 Love lights her smile — in Joy's red nectar dips 
 His myrtle flower, and plants it on her lips. 
 She speaks ! and hark that passion-warbled song- 
 Still, Fancy ! still that voice, those notes prolong. 
 As sweet as when that voice with rapturous falls 
 Shall wake the softened echoes of Heaven's Halls ! 
 
 (have I sighed) were mine the wizard's rod. 
 Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful God ! 
 A flower-entangled Arbour I would seem 
 To shield my Love from Noontide's sultry beam : 
 Or bloom a Myrtle, from whose odorous boughs 
 My Love might weave gay garlands for her brows. 
 When Twilight stole across the fading vale, 
 To fan my Love Pd be the Evening Gale; 
 Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest, 
 And flutter my faint pinions on her breast ! 
 On Seraph wing I'd float a Dream by night, 
 To soothe my Love with shadows of delight : — 
 
LINES ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENING. 1 
 
 Or soar aloft to be the Spangled Skies, 
 And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes ! 
 
 As when the savage, who his drowsy frame 
 Had basked beneath the Sun's unclouded flame. 
 Awakes amid the troubles of the air, 
 The skiey deluge, and white lightning's glare — 
 Aghast he scours before the tempest's sweep, 
 And sad recalls the sunny hour of sleep : — 
 So tossed by storms along Life's wildering way, 
 Mine eye reverted views that cloudless day. 
 When by my native brook I wont to rove, 
 While Hope with kisses nursed the Infant Love, 
 Dear native brook ! like Peace, so placidly 
 Smoothing through fertile fields thy current meek ! 
 Dear native brook ! where first young Poesy 
 Stared wildly-eager in her noontide dream ! 
 Where blameless pleasures dimple Quiet's cheek. 
 As water-lilies ripple thy slow stream ! 
 Dear native haunts ! where Virtue stiU. is gay, 
 Where Friendship's fixed star sheds a mellowed ray 
 Where Love a crown of thornless Eoses wears, 
 Where softened Sorrow smiles within her tears ; 
 And Memoiy, with a Vestal's chaste employ, 
 Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of joy ! 
 No more your sky -larks melting from the sight 
 Shall thrill the attuned heart-string with delight — 
 No more shall deck your pensive Pleasures sweet 
 With wreaths of sober hue my evening seat. 
 Yet dear to Fancy's eye your varied scene 
 Of wood, Mil, dale, and sparkling brook between ! 
 Yet sweet to Fancy's ear the warbled song, 
 That soars on Morning's wing your vales among ! 
 
 Scenes of my Hope ! the aching eye ye leave 
 Like yon blight hues that paint the clouds of eve ! 
 Tearful and saddening with the saddened blaze 
 Mine eye the gleam pursues with wistful gaze : 
 Sees shades on shades with deeper tint impend. 
 Till chill and damp the moonless night descend. 
 
It 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY, 
 
 WITH A POEM ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION. 
 
 Much on my early youth I love to dwell, 
 
 Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell, 
 
 Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale, 
 
 I heard of guilt and wondered at the tale ! 
 
 Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing, 
 
 Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing. 
 
 Aye as the star of evening flung its beam 
 
 In broken radiance on the wavy stream. 
 
 My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom 
 
 Mourned with the breeze, Lee Boo ! * o'er thy tomb. 
 
 Where'er I wandered, Pity still was near. 
 
 Breathed from the heart and glistened in the tear : 
 
 No knell that tolled, but filled my anxious eye, 
 
 And suffering Nature wept that one should die ! + 
 
 Thus to sad sympathies I soothed my breast. 
 Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West : 
 When slumbering Freedom roused by high Disdain 
 With giant fury burst her triple chain ! 
 Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glowed ; 
 Her banners, like a midnight meteor, flowed ; 
 Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies 
 She came, and scattered battles from her eyes ! 
 Then Exultation waked the patriot fire 
 And swept with wild hand the Tyrtsean lyre : 
 Eed from the Tyrant's wound I shook the lance, 
 And strode in joy the reeking plains of France ! 
 
 * Lee Boo, the son of Abba Thule, Prince of the Pelew 
 Islands, came over to England with Captain "Wilson, died of 
 the small-pox, and is buried in Rotherhithe church-yard. 
 See Keate's Account. 
 
 t Southey's Retrospect. 
 
IMITATED FROM OSSIAN. 19 
 
 Fallen is the oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low. 
 And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow. 
 With wearied thought once more I seek the shade. 
 Where peaceful Virtue weaves the myi'tle braid. 
 And ! if Eyes whose holy glances roll, 
 Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul ; 
 If Smiles more winning, and a gentler Mien 
 Than the love-\vildered Maniac's brain hath seen 
 Shaping celestial forms in vacant air. 
 If these demand the impassioned Poet's care — 
 If Mirth and softened Sense and Wit refined, 
 The blameless features of a lovely mind ; 
 Then haply shall my trembling hand assign 
 No fading wreath to Beauty's saintly shrine. 
 Nor, Sara ! thou these early flowers refuse — 
 Ne'er lurked the snake beneath their simple hues ; 
 No purple bloom the Child of Nature brings 
 From Flattery's night-shade : as he feels he sings. 
 
 September, 1792. 
 
 IMITATED FEOM OSSIAN. 
 
 The stream with languid murmur creeps, 
 
 In Lumin's flowery vale : 
 Beneath the dew the Lily weeps 
 
 Slow-waving to the gale. 
 
 " Cease, restless gale ! " it seems to say, 
 " Nor wake me with thy sighing ! 
 
 The honours of my vernal day 
 On rapid wing are flying. 
 
 " To-morrow shall the Traveller come 
 Who late beheld me blooming : 
 
 His searching eye shall vainly roam 
 The dreary vale of Lumin." 
 
20 THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHOMA. 
 
 With eager gaze and wetted cheek 
 
 My wonted haunts along, 
 Thus, faithful Maiden ! thou shalt seek 
 
 The Youth of simplest song. 
 
 But I along the breeze shall roll 
 
 The voice of feeble power ; 
 And dwell, the Moon-beam of thy soul, 
 
 In Slumber's nightly hour. 
 
 1794. 
 
 THE COMPLAINT OP NINATHOMA. 
 
 How long will ye round me be swelling, 
 ye blue-tumbling waves of the sea 'i 
 
 Not always in caves was my dwelling. 
 Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree. 
 
 Through the high-sounding halls of Cathl<5ma 
 In the steps of my beauty I strayed ; 
 
 The warriors beheld Ninathoma, 
 
 And they blessed the white-bosomed Maid ! 
 
 A Ghost ! by my cavern it darted ! 
 
 In moon-beams the Spirit was drest — 
 For lovely appear the departed 
 
 When they visit the dreams of my rest ! 
 
 But disturbed by the tempest's commotion 
 Fleet the shadowy forms of delight — 
 
 Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean ! 
 To howl through my cavern by night. 
 
21 
 
 TO A YOUNG ASS. 
 
 ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED NEAR IT. 
 
 Poor little Foal of an oppressed Eace ! 
 
 I love the languid Patience of thy face : 
 
 And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread, 
 
 And clap thy ragged Coat, and pat thy head. 
 
 But what thy dulled Spirits hath dismayed, 
 
 That never thou dost sport along the glade ? 
 
 And (most unlike the nature of things young) 
 
 That earthward still thy moveless head is hung ? 
 
 Do thy prophetic Fears anticipate, 
 
 Meek Child of Misery ! thy future fate ? 
 
 The starving meal, and all the thousand aches 
 
 " Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes ]" 
 
 Or is thy sad heart thrilled with filial pain 
 
 To see thy wretched Mother's shortened Chain 1 
 
 And, truly very piteous is her Lot — 
 
 Chained to a Log within a narrow spot, 
 
 Where the close-eaten Grass is scarcely seen, 
 
 While sweet around her waves the tempting Green. 
 
 Poor Ass ! thy master should have learnt to show 
 
 Pity — best taught by fellowship of Woe ! 
 
 For much I fear me that He lives like thee. 
 
 Half famished in a land of Luxuiy ! 
 
 How askingly its footsteps hither bend. 
 
 It seems to say, "And have I then one Friend?" 
 
 Innocent Foal ! thou poor despised Forlorn ! 
 
 I hail thee Brother — spite of the fool's scorn ! 
 
 And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell 
 
 Of Peace and mild Eqviality to dwell, 
 
 Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride, 
 
 And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side ! 
 
 How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play, 
 
 And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay ! 
 
22 TO AN I^"FANT, 
 
 Yea ! and more musically sweet to me 
 Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be, 
 Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest 
 The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast ! 
 
 December, 1794. 
 
 TO AN INFANT. 
 
 Ah ! cease thy tears and sobs, my little Life ! 
 
 I did but snatch away the unclasped knife : 
 
 Some safer toy will soon arrest thine eye, 
 
 And to quick laughter change this peevish cry ! 
 
 Poor stumbler on the rocky coast of woe. 
 
 Tutored by pain each source of pain to know ! 
 
 Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire 
 
 Awake thy eager grasp and young desire ; 
 
 Alike the Good, the 111 offend thy sight, 
 
 And rouse the stormy sense of shrill affright ! 
 
 Untaught, yeb wise ! 'mid all thy brief alarms 
 
 Thou closely clingest to thy Mother's arms, 
 
 Nestling thy little face in that fond breast 
 
 Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest ! 
 
 Man's breathing Miniature ! thou mak'st me sigh — 
 
 A Babe art thou — and such a Thing am I ! 
 
 To anger rapid and as soon appeased, 
 
 For trifles mourning and by trifles pleased, 
 
 Break Friendship's mirror with a tetchy blow, 
 
 Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar glow ! 
 
 thou that rearest with celestial aim 
 The future Seraph in my mortal frame, 
 Thrice holy Faith ! whatever thorns I meet, 
 As on I totter with unpractised feet, 
 Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee. 
 Meek niirse of souls through their long infancy 1 
 
DOMESTIC PEACE. 
 
 Tell me, on what holy ground 
 May Domestic Peace be found — 
 Halcyon Daughter of the skies ! 
 Far on fearful wings she flies. 
 From the pomp of sceptered State, 
 From the Rebel's noisy hate, 
 In a cottaged vale She dwells 
 Listening to the Sabbath bells ! 
 Still around her steps are seen 
 Spotless Honour's meeker mien, 
 Love, the sire of pleasing fears. 
 Sorrow smiling through her tears, 
 And conscious of the past employ 
 Memory, bosom-spring of joy. 
 
 17D4. 
 
 IMITATED FROM THE WELSH. 
 
 If, while my passion I impart, 
 You deem my words untrue, 
 
 place your hand upon my heart — 
 Feel how it throbs for you. 
 
 Ah no ! reject the thoughtless claim 
 
 In pity to your Lover ! 
 That thrilling touch would aid the flame, 
 
 It wishes to discover. 
 
24 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN AT THE KING's AEMS, BOSS, FORMERLY THE HOUSE 
 OF THE "man of ROSS." 
 
 Richer than Miser o'er his countless hoards, 
 Nobler than Kings, or king-polluted Lords, 
 Here dwelt the Man of Ross ! Traveller, hear ! 
 Departed Merit claims a reverent tear. 
 Friend to the friendless, to the sick m/an health, 
 With generous joy he viewed his modest wealth ; 
 He heard the widow's heaven-breathed prayer of praise. 
 He marked the sheltered orphan's tearful gaze, 
 Or where the sorrow-shrivelled captive lay, 
 Poured the bright blaze of Freedom's noon-tide ray. 
 Beneath this roof if thy cheered moments pass. 
 Fill to the good man's name one grateful glass : 
 To higher zest shall Memory wake thy soul. 
 And Virtue mingle in the ennobled bowl. 
 But if, like me, through life's distressful scene 
 Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been ; 
 And if thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught, 
 Thou journey est onward tempest-tossed in thought; 
 Here cheat thy cares ! in generous visions melfc. 
 And dream of Goodness, thou hast never felt ! 
 
 TO THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philomel ! 
 
 How many Bards in city garret pent, 
 
 While at their window they with downward eye 
 
 Mark the faint Lamp-beam on the kennelled mud, 
 
 And listen to the drowsy cry of Watchmen, 
 
 (Those hoarse unfeathered Nightingales of Time I) 
 
TO A FRIEND. 25 
 
 How many wretched Bards address thy name, 
 And Her's, the full-orbed Queen, that shines above. 
 But I do hear thee, and the high bough mark, 
 Within whose mild moon-mellowed foliage hid 
 Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains. 
 
 I I have listened, till my working soul. 
 Waked by those strains to thousand phantasies. 
 Absorbed hath ceased to listen ! Therefore oft 
 
 1 hymn thy name; and with a proud delight 
 Oft will I tell thee, Minstrel of the Moon ! 
 
 " Most musical, most melancholy " Bird ! 
 That all thy soft diversities of tone, 
 Tho' sweeter far than the delicious airs 
 That vibrate from a white-armed Lady's harp, 
 What time the languishment of lonely love 
 Melts in her eye, and heaves her breast of snow, 
 Are not so sweet, as is the voice of her, 
 My Sara, — best beloved of human kind ! 
 When breathing the pure soul of Tenderness 
 She thrills me vv'ith the Husband's promised name. 
 
 1794. 
 
 TO A FRIEND, 
 
 TOGETHER WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM. 
 
 Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme 
 Elaborate and swelling ; yet the heart 
 Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers 
 I ask not now, my Friend ! the aiding verse, 
 Tedious to thee, and from thy anxious thought 
 Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know) 
 From business wandering far and local cares, 
 Thou creepest round a dear-loved Sister's bed 
 With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look, 
 Soothing each pang with fond solicitude. 
 And tenderest tones medicinal of love. 
 I too a Sister had, an only Sister — 
 
9^ LINES ON A FRIEND. 
 
 She loved iL.e dearly, and I doted on her ! 
 To her I poured forth all my puny sorrows 
 (As a sick Patient in his Nurse's arms) 
 And of the heart those hidden maladies 
 That shrink ashamed from even Friendship's eye. 
 ! I have woke at midnight, and have wept, 
 Because she was not ! — Cheerily, dear Charles ! 
 Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year ; 
 Such wai-m presages feel I of high Hope. 
 For not uninterested the dear maid 
 I've viewed — her soul affectionate yet wise, 
 Her polished wit as mild as lambent glories 
 That play around a sainted infant's head. 
 (He knows, the Spirit that in secret sees. 
 Of whose omniscient and all-spreading Love 
 Aught to implore were impotence of mind)* 
 Tliat my mute thoughts are sad before His throne, 
 Prepared, when He his healing ray vouchsafes, 
 To pour forth thanksgiving with lifted heart. 
 And praise Him Gracious with a Brother's joy ! 
 
 December, 1794. 
 
 LINES ON A FRIEND 
 
 WHO DIED OF A FRENZY FEVER INDUCED BY CALUMNIOFS 
 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 the Ithuriel lance of Truth 
 
 * I utterly recant the sentiment contained in the lines — 
 Of whose omniscient and all-spreading Love 
 Aught to implore wei-e impotence of mind, 
 
 it being written in Scripture, *'Ask, and it shall be given 
 you ; " and my human reason being, moreover, convinced 
 of the propriety of offering petitions as well as thanksgivings 
 to Deity.— S. T. C, 1797. 
 
LINES ON A FRIEND. 27 
 
 We force to start amid her feigned caress 
 
 Vice, siren-hag ! in native ugliness ; 
 
 A Brother's fate will haply rouse the tear, 
 
 And on we go in heaviness and fear ! 
 
 But if our fond hearts call to Pleasure's bower 
 
 Some pigmy Folly in a careless hour, 
 
 The faithless guest shall stamp the enchanted ground. 
 
 And mingled forms of Misery rise around : 
 
 Heart-fretting Fear, with pallid look aghast. 
 
 That courts the future woe to hide the past ; 
 
 Remorse, the poisoned arrow in his side. 
 
 And lo.ud lewd Mirth, to Anguish close allied : 
 
 Till Frenzy, fierce-eyed child of moping Pain, 
 
 Darts her hot lightning-flash athwart the brain. 
 
 Rest, injured Shade ! Shall Slander squatting near 
 
 Spit her cold venom in a dead Man's ear? 
 
 'Twas thine to feel the sympathetic glow 
 
 In Merit's joy, and Poverty's meek woe ; 
 
 Thine all, that cheer the moment as it flies, 
 
 The zoneless Cares, and smiling Courtesies. 
 
 Nursed in thy heart the firmer Virtues grew, 
 
 And in thy heart they withered ! Such chill dew 
 
 Wan Indolence on each young blossom shed ; 
 
 And Vanity her filmy net-work spread 
 
 With eye that rolled around in asking gaze, 
 
 And tongue that trafficked in the trade of praise. 
 
 Thy follies such ! the hard world marked them well ! 
 
 Were they more wise, the proud who never fell ? 
 
 Rest, injured Shade ! the poor man's grateful prayer 
 
 On heaven-ward wing thy wounded soul shall bear. 
 
 As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass, 
 
 And sit me down upon its recent grass, 
 
 With introverted eye I contemplate 
 
 Similitude of soul, perhaps of — fate. 
 
 To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assigned 
 
 Energic Reason and a shaping mind, 
 
 The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part, 
 
 And Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart. 
 
 Sloth-jaundiced all ! and from my graspless hand 
 
 Drop Friendship's precious pearls, like hour-glass sand. 
 
28 MONODY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON. 
 
 I weep, yet stoop not ! the faint anguish flows, 
 A dreamy pang in Morning's feverish doze. 
 
 Is this piled earth our Being's passless mound ? 
 Tell me, cold grave ! is death with poppies crowned 
 Tired Sentinel ! 'Mid fitful starts I nod, 
 And fain would sleep, though pillowed on a clod ! 
 
 November, 1794. 
 
 MONODY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON.* 
 
 WHAT a wonder seems the fear of death, 
 
 Seeing how gladly we all sink to sleep, 
 
 Babes, Children, Youths, and Men, 
 
 Night following night for threescore years and ten ! 
 
 But doubly strange, where life is but a breath 
 
 To sigh and pant with, up Want's rugged steep. 
 
 Away, Grim Phantom ! Scorpion King, away ! 
 
 Eeserve thy tei-roi-s and thy stings display 
 
 For coward Wealth and Guilt in robes of State ! 
 
 Lo ! by the grave I stand of one, for whom 
 
 A prodigal Nature and a niggard Doom 
 
 (That all bestowing, this withholding all,) 
 
 Made each chance knell from distant spire or dome 
 
 Sound like a seeking Mother's anxious call. 
 
 Return, poor Child ! Home, weary Truant, home ! 
 
 Thee, Chatterton ! these unblest stones protect 
 From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect. 
 Too long before the vexing Storm-blast driven 
 Here hast thou found repose ! beneath this sod ! 
 Thou ! vain word ! thou dwell' st not with the clod ! 
 Amid the shining Host of the Forgiven 
 Tliou at the throne of Mercy and thy God 
 
 • See Note. 
 
MOXODY ON THE DEATH OP CHATTERTON. 29 
 
 The triumph of redeeming Love dost liymn 
 (Believe it, my soul !) to harps of Seraphim. 
 Yet oft, perforce, ("tis suffering Nature's call) 
 I weep, that heaven-born Genius so should fall ; 
 And oft, in Fancy's saddest hour, my soul 
 Averted shudders at the poisoned bowl. 
 ISTow groans my sickening heart, as still I view 
 
 Thy corse of livid hue ; 
 Now indignation checks the feeble sigh, 
 Or flashes through the tear that glistens in mine eye ! 
 
 Is this the land of song-ennobled line 1 
 
 Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain 
 
 Poured forth his lofty sti-ain?- 
 Ah me ! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine, 
 Beneath chill Disappointment's shade, 
 His weary limbs in lonely anguish laid ; 
 
 And o'er her darling dead 
 
 Pity hopeless hung her head, 
 AYhile " mid the pelting of that merciless storm," 
 Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famished form ! 
 
 Sublime of thought, and confident of fame. 
 
 From vales where Avon winds the Minstrel * came. 
 
 Light-hearted youth ! aye, as he hastes along. 
 
 He meditates the future song. 
 How dauntless ^lla fi\ay'd the Dacyan foe ; 
 
 And while the numlDcrs flowing strong 
 
 In eddies whirl, in surges throng. 
 Exulting in the spirits' genial throe 
 In tides of power his life-blood seems to flow. 
 
 And now his cheeks with deeper ardours flame, 
 His eyes have glorious meanings, that declare 
 More than the light of outward day shines there, 
 A holier triumph and a sterner aim ! 
 AVings grow within him, and he soar's above 
 Or Bard's or Minstrel's lay of war or love. 
 
 * Avon, a river near Bristol, the birth-plaee of Cliatterton. 
 
30 MONODY ON THE DEATH OP CHATTERTON. 
 
 Friend to the friendless, to the Sufferer health, 
 He hears the widow's prayer, the good man's praise ; 
 To scenes of bliss transmutes his fancied wealth, 
 And young and old shall now see happy days. 
 On many a waste he bids trim Gardens rise, 
 Gives the blue sky to many a prisoner's eyes ; 
 And now in wrath he grasps the patriot steel, 
 And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel. 
 
 Sweet Flower of Hope ! free Nature's genial child ! 
 That didst so fair disclose thy early bloom, 
 Filling the wide air with a rich perfume ! 
 For thee in vain all heavenly aspects smiled ; 
 From the hard world brief respite could they win — 
 The frost nipped sharp without, the canker preyed 
 
 within ! 
 Ah ! where are fled the charms of vernal Grace, 
 And Joy's wild gleams that lightened o'er thy face? 
 Youth of tumultuous soul, and haggard eye ! 
 Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps I view, 
 On thy wan forehead starts the lethal dew, 
 And oh ! the anguish of that shuddering sigh ! 
 
 Such were the struggles of the gloomy hour. 
 
 When Care, of withered brow, 
 Prepared the poison's death-cold power : 
 Already to thy lips was raised the bowl, 
 When near thee stood Affection meek 
 (Her bosom bare, and wildly pale her cheek) 
 Thy sullen gaze she bade thee roll 
 On scenes that well might melt thy soul ; 
 Thy native cot she flashed upon thy view. 
 Thy native cot, where still, at close of day. 
 Peace smiling sate, and listened to thy lay ; 
 Thy Sister's shrieks she bade thee hear, 
 And mark thy Mother's thrilling tear ; 
 
 See, see her breast's convulsive throe. 
 Her silent agony of woe ! 
 Ah ! dash the poisoned chalice from thy hand ! 
 
MONODY ON THE DEiTH OP CHATTERTON. 31 
 
 And thou had'st dashed it, at her soft command, 
 
 But that Despair and Indignation rose, 
 
 And told again the story of thy woes ; 
 
 Told the keen insult of the unfeeling heart ; 
 
 The dread dependence on the low-born mind ; 
 
 Told every pang, with which thy soul must smart, 
 
 Neglect, and grinning Scorn, and Want combined ! 
 
 Eecoiling quick, thou bad'st the friend of pain 
 
 Eoll the black tide of Death through every freezing 
 vein ! 
 
 Spirit blest ! 
 Whether the Eternal's throne around, 
 Amidst the blaze of Seraphim, 
 Thou pourest forth the grateful hymn ; 
 Or soaring thro' the blest domain 
 Enrapturest Angels with thy strain, — 
 Grant me, like thee, the lyre to sound. 
 Like thee with fire divine to glow ,• — 
 But ah ! when rage the waves of woe, 
 
 Grant me with firmer breast to meet their hate. 
 
 And soar beyond the storm with upright eye elate 1 
 
 Ye woods ! that wave o'er Avon's rocky steep. 
 To Fancy's ear sweet is your murmuring deep ; 
 For here she loves the cypress wreath to weave 
 Watching, with wistful eye, the saddening tints of eve. 
 Here, far from men, amid this pathless grove. 
 In solemn thought the Minstrel wont to rove. 
 Like star-beam on the slow sequestered tide 
 Lone-glittering, thro' the high tree branching wide. 
 
 And here, in Inspiration's eager hour, 
 When most the big soul feels the mastering power. 
 These wilds, these caverns roaming o'er, 
 Round which the screaming sea-gulls soar, 
 With wild unequal steps he passed along, 
 Oft pouring on the winds a broken song : 
 Anon, upon some rough rock's fearful brow 
 Would pause abrupt — and gaze upon the waves below. 
 
32 MONODY ON THE DEATH OP CHATTERTON. 
 
 Poor Chatterton ! he sorrows for thy fate 
 
 "Who would have praised and loved thee, ere too late. 
 
 Poor Chattei-ton ! farewell ! of darkest hues 
 
 This chaplet cast I on thy unshaped tomb ; 
 
 But dare no longer on the sad theme muse, 
 
 Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom : 
 
 For oh ! big gall-drops, shook from Folly's wing, 
 
 Have blackened the fair promise of my spring; 
 
 And the stern Fate transpierced with viewless dart 
 
 The last pale Hope that shivered at my heart ! 
 
 Hence, gloomy thoughts ! no more my soul shall dwell 
 On joys that were ! No more endure to weigh. 
 The shame and anguish of the evil day, 
 Wisely forgetful ! O'er the ocean swell 
 Sublime of Hope I seek the cottaged dell 
 Where Virtue calm with careless step may stray; 
 And, dancing to the moon-light roundelay, 
 The wizard Passions weave a holy spell ! 
 
 Chatterton ! that thou wert yet alive ! 
 
 Sure thou would' st spread the canvass to the gale. 
 
 And love with us the tinkling team to drive 
 
 O'er peaceful Freedom's undivided dale ; 
 
 And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng. 
 
 Would hang, enraptured, on thy stately song, 
 
 And greet with smiles the young-eyed Poesy 
 
 All deftly masked, as hoar Antiquity. 
 
 Alas, vain Phantasies ! the fleeting brood 
 Of Woe self-solaced in her dreamy mood ! 
 Yet will I love to follow the sweet dream. 
 Where Susquehana pours his untamed stream ; 
 And on some hill, whose forest-frowning side 
 Waves o'er the murmurs of his calmer tide. 
 Will raise a solemn Cenotaph to thee, 
 Sweet Harper of time-shrouded Minstrelsy ! 
 And there, soothed sadly by the dirgeful wind, 
 Muse on the sore ills I had left behind. 
 
 1790—96. 
 
SONNET I. 
 
 "Content, as random Fancies might inspire, 
 If his weak harp at times or lonely lyre 
 He struck with desultory hand, and drew 
 Some softened tones to Nature not untrue." 
 
 Bowles. 
 
 My heart lias thanked thee, Bowles ! for those soft 
 
 strains 
 Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring 
 Of wild-bees in the sunny showers of spring ! 
 For hence not callous to the mourner's pains 
 Through Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went : 
 And when the mightier throes of mind began, 
 And drove me forth, a thought-bewildered man, 
 Their mild and manliest melancholy lent 
 A mingled charm, such as the pang consigned 
 To slumber, though the big tear it renewed; 
 Bidding a strange mysterious Pleasure brood 
 Over the wavy and tumultuous mind, 
 As the great Spirit erst with plastic sweep 
 Moved on the darkness of the unformed deep. 
 
 SONNET II. 
 
 As late I lay in slumber's shadowy vale, 
 
 With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise, 
 
 I saw the sainted form of Freedom rise : 
 
 She spake ! not sadder moans the autumnal gale 
 
 " Great Son of Genius ! sweet to me thy name, 
 
 Ere in an evil hour with altered voice 
 
 Thou bad'st Oppression's hireling crew rejoice 
 
 Blasting with wizard spell my laurelled fame. 
 
34 SONNETS. 
 
 Yet never, Burke ! thou drank' st Corruption's bowl ! 
 Thee stormy Pity and the cherished lure 
 Of Pomp, and provid Precipitance of soul 
 Wildered with meteor fires. Ah Spirit pvire ! 
 That error's mist had left thy purged eye : 
 So might I clasp thee with a Mother's joy ! " 
 
 SONNET III.-* 
 
 Not always should the tears ambrosial dew 
 Roll its soft anguish down thy farrowed cheek ! 
 Not always heaven-breathed tones of suppliance meek 
 Beseem thee, Mercy ! Yon dark Scowler view. 
 Who with proud words of dear-loved Freedom came — 
 More blasting than the mildew from the South ! 
 And kissed his country with Iscariot mouth 
 (Ah ! foul apostate from his Father's fame !) 
 Then fixed her on the cross of deep distress, 
 And at safe distance marks the thirsty lance 
 Pierce her big side ! But ! if some strange trance 
 The eyelids of thy stern-browed Sister press, 
 Seize, Mercy ! thou more terrible the brand, 
 And hurl her thunderbolts with fiercer hand ! 
 
 SONNET IV. 
 
 Though roused by that dark Vizir Riot rude 
 Have driven our Priestley o'er the ocean swell ; 
 Though Superstition and her wolfish brood 
 Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell ; 
 Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell ! 
 For lo ! Religion at his strong behest 
 
 * See Note. 
 
SONNETS. 35 
 
 Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell. 
 And flings to earth her tinsel-glittering vest. 
 Her mitred state and cumbrous pomp unholj' ; 
 And Justice wakes to bid the Oppressor wail 
 Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly : 
 And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won 
 Meek ISTature slowly lifts her matron veil 
 To smile with fondness on her gazing sou ! 
 
 SONNET V. 
 
 When British Freedom for a happier land 
 
 Spread her broad wings, that fluttered with affright, 
 
 Erskine ! thy voice she heard, and paused her flight 
 
 Sublime of hope ! For dreadless thou didst stand 
 
 (Thy censer glowing with the hallowed flame) 
 
 A hireless Priest before the insulted shrine, 
 
 And at her altar pour the stream divine 
 
 Of unmatched eloquence. Therefore thy name 
 
 Her sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast 
 
 With blessings heaven-ward breathed. And when the 
 
 doom 
 Of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb 
 Thy light shall shine : as sunk beneath the West 
 Though the great Svimmer Sun eludes our gaze, 
 Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze. 
 
 SONNET VI. 
 
 It was some Spirit, Sheridan ! that breathed 
 O'er thy young mind such wildly various power ! 
 My soul hath marked thee in her shaping hour, 
 Thy temples with Hymettian flow'rets wreathed : 
 
S6 SONNETS. 
 
 And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier 
 
 Sad music trembled through Vauclusa's glade ; 
 
 Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn Serenade 
 
 That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's listening ear. 
 
 Now patriot Eage and Indignation high 
 
 Swell the full tones ! And now thine eye-beams dance 
 
 Meanings of Scorn and Wit's quaint revehy ! 
 
 Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance 
 
 The Apostate by the brainless rout adored. 
 
 As erst that elder Fiend beneath great Michael's sword 
 
 SONNET VII. 
 
 WHAT a loud and fearful shriek was there, 
 
 As though a thousand souls one death-groan poured ! 
 
 Ah me ! they saw beneath a hireling's sword 
 
 Their Kosciusko fall ! Through the swart air 
 
 (As pauses the tired Cossac's barbarous yell 
 
 Of triumph) on the chill and midnight gale 
 
 Eises with frantic burst or sadder swell 
 
 The dirge of murdered Hope ! while Freedom pale 
 
 Bends in such anguish o'er her destined bier, 
 
 As if from eldest time some Spirit meek 
 
 Had gathered in a mystic urn each tear 
 
 That ever on a Patriot's furrowed cheek 
 
 Fit channel found, and she had drained the bowl 
 
 In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul ! 
 
 SONNET VIII. 
 
 As when far off the warbled strains are heard 
 That soar on Morning's wing the vales among, 
 Within his cage the imprisoned matin bird 
 Swells the full chorus with a generous song : 
 
SONNETS. 37 
 
 He bathes no piuion in the dewy light, 
 
 ISTo Father's joy, no Lover's bliss he shares, 
 
 Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight : 
 
 His fellows' freedom soothes the captives cares ! 
 
 Thou, Fayette ! who didst wake with startling voice 
 
 Life's better sun from that long wintry night, 
 
 Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice, 
 
 And mock with raptures high the dxmgeon s might : 
 
 For lo ! the morning struggles into day, 
 
 And Slavery's spectres shriek and vanish from the ray ! 
 
 SONNET IX. 
 
 Not Stanhope ! with the Patriot's doubtful name 
 I mock thy worth — Friend of the Human Race ! 
 Since, scorning Faction's low and partial aim, 
 Aloof thou wendest in thy stately pace. 
 Thyself redeeming from that leprous stain, 
 Nobility : and aye untei-rify'd 
 Pourest thine AlDdiel warnings on the train 
 That sit complotting with rebellious pride 
 'Gainst her,* who from the Almighty's bosom leapt 
 With whirhvind arm, fierce Minister of Love ! 
 Wherefore, ere Virtue o'er thy tomb hath wept, 
 Angels shall lead thee to the Throne above : 
 And thou from forth its clouds shalt hear the voice. 
 Champion of Freedom and her God ! rejoice ! 
 
 * Gallic Liberty 
 
38 
 
 SONNET X. 
 
 Thou gentle look, that didst my soul beguile, 
 
 Why hast thou left me 1 Still in some fond dream 
 
 Revisit my sad heart, auspicious Smile ! 
 
 As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam : 
 
 What time, in sickly mood, at parting day 
 
 I lay me down and think of happier years ; 
 
 Of Joys, that glimmered in Hope's twilight ray, 
 
 Then left me darkling in a vale of tears. 
 
 pleasant days of Hope — for ever gone ! — 
 
 Could I recall you ! — But that thought is vain. 
 
 Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone 
 
 To lure the fleet- winged Travellers back again : 
 
 Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam 
 
 Like the bright Rainbow on a willowy stream. 
 
 SONNET XL 
 
 Pale Roamer through the night ! thou poor Forlorn ! 
 
 Remorse that man on his death-bed possess, 
 
 Who in the credulous hour of tenderness 
 
 Betrayed, then cast thee forth to want and scorn ! 
 
 The world is pitiless : the chaste one's pride 
 
 Mimic of Virtue scowls on thy distress : 
 
 Thy Loves and they, that envied thee, deride : 
 
 And Vice alone will shelter wretchedness ! 
 
 ! I could weep to think, that there should be 
 
 Cold-bosomed lewd ones, who endure to place 
 
 Foul offerings on the shrine of misery, 
 
 And force from famine the caress of Love ; 
 
 May He shed healing on thy sore disgrace. 
 
 He, the great Comforter that rules above ! 
 
89 
 
 SONNET XII. 
 
 Sweet Mercy ! how my very heart has bled 
 To see thee, poor Old Man ! and thy gray hairs 
 Hoar with the snowy blast : while no one cares 
 To clothe thy shrivelled limbs and palsied head. 
 My Father ! throw away this tattered vest 
 That mpcks thy shivering ! take my garment — use 
 A young man's arm ! I'll melt these frozen dews 
 That hang from thy white beard and numb thy 
 
 breast. 
 My Sara too shall tend thee, like a Child : 
 And thou shalt talk, in our fire-side's recess, 
 Of purple pride, that scowls on wretchedness. 
 He did not so, the Galilean mild, 
 Who met the Lazars turned from rich men's doors, 
 And called them Friends, and healed their noisome 
 
 Sores ! 
 
 SONNET XIII. 
 
 TO THE AUTUMNAL MOCK', 
 
 Mild Splendour of the various-vested Night ! 
 Mother of wildly-working visions ! hail ! 
 I watch thy gliding, while with watery light 
 Thy weak eye glimmers through a fleecy veil ; 
 And when thou lovest thy pale orb to shroud 
 Behind the gathered blackness lost on high ; 
 And when thou dartest from the wind-rent cloud 
 Thy placid lightning o'er the awakened sky. 
 Ah such is Hope ! as changeful and as fair ! 
 Now dimly peering on the wistful sight ; 
 
40 SONNETS. 
 
 Now hid beliind the dragon-winged Despair : 
 But soon emerging in her radiant might 
 She o'er the sorrow-clouded breast of Care 
 Sails, like a meteor kindling in its flight. 
 
 SONNET XIV. 
 
 Thou bleedest, my poor Heart ! and thy distress 
 
 Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile, 
 
 And probe thy sore woiind sternly, though the while 
 
 Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness. 
 
 Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland ? 
 
 Or, listening, why foi'get the healing tale, 
 
 When Jealousy with feverous fancies pale 
 
 Jarred thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand ? 
 
 Faint was that Hope, and rayless ! — Yet 'twas fair, 
 
 And soothed with many a dream the hour of rest : 
 
 Thou shouldst have loved it most, when most opprest, 
 
 And nursed it with an agony of care, 
 
 Even as a Mother her sweet infant heir 
 
 That wan and sickly droops upon her breast ! 
 
 SONNET XV. 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR OF " THE 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 famished Father's cry — 
 Lest in some after moment aught more mean 
 Might stamp me moi-tal ! A triumphant shout 
 Black Horror screamed, and all her goblin rout 
 Diminished shrunk from the more withering scene ! 
 
 I 
 
LINES. 41 
 
 Ah ! Bard tremendous in sublimity ! 
 Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood 
 Wandering at eve with finely frenzied eye 
 Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood ! 
 Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood : 
 Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy ! 
 
 LINES 
 
 COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROOKLET 
 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 sti-agglers of the Flock 
 
 That on green plots o'er precipices browse : 
 
 From the deep fissures of the naked rock 
 
 The Yewtree bursts ! Beneath its dark green boughs 
 
 ('Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white) 
 
 Whex'e broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, 
 
 I rest : — and now have gained the topmost site. 
 
 Ah ! what a luxury of landscape meets 
 
 My gaze ! Proud towers, and cots more dear to me, 
 
 Elm-shadow'd fields, and prospect-bounding sea. 
 
 Deep sighs my lonely heart : I drop the tear : 
 
 Enchanting spot ! were my Sara here ! 
 
 LINES 
 
 IN THE MANNER OF SPENSEB. 
 
 Peace, that on a lilied bank dost love 
 To rest thine head beneath an olive tree, 
 
 1 would that from the pinions of thy dove 
 One qnill withouten pain yplucked might be ! 
 
I 
 
 42 LINES. 
 
 For ! I wisli my Sara's frowns to flee, 
 And fain to her some soothing song would write, 
 Lest she resent my rude discourtesy, 
 Who vowed to meet her ere the morning light, 
 But broke my plighted word — ah ! false and recreant 
 wight ! 
 
 Last night as I my weary head did pillow 
 With thoughts of my dissevered Fair engrost, 
 Chill Fancy drooped wreathing herself with willow, 
 As though my breast entombed a pining ghost. 
 "From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal 
 
 boast. 
 Rejected Slumber ! hither wing thy way ; 
 But leave me with the matin hour, at most ! 
 As night-closed floweret to the orient ftiy, 
 My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey." 
 
 But Love, who heard the silence of my thought, 
 Contrived a too successful wile, I ween : 
 And whispered to himself, with malice fraught — 
 ** Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen : 
 To-morrow shall he ken her altered mien ! " 
 He spake, and ambushed lay, till on my bed 
 The morning shot her dewy glances keen, 
 When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head — 
 "Now, Bard ! I'll work thee woe ! " the laughing Elfin 
 said. 
 
 Sleep, softly-breathing God ! his downy wing 
 Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart ; 
 When twanged an. arrow from Love's mystic string, 
 With pathless wound it pierced him to the heart. 
 Was there some magic in the Elfin's dart ? 
 Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance 1 
 For straight so fair a Form did upwards start 
 (No fairer decked the bowers of old Romance) 
 That Sleep enamoured grew, nor moved from his 
 sweet trance ! 
 
TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS. 43 
 
 My Sara came, with gentlest look divine ; 
 
 Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam : 
 
 I felt the pressure of her lip to mine ! 
 
 Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme — 
 
 Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem, 
 
 He sprang from Heaven ! Such joys with Sleep did 
 
 'bide, 
 That I the living image of my dream 
 Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd — 
 " ! how shall I behold my Love at even-tide ! " 
 
 July, 1795. 
 
 TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS 
 
 PUBLISHED ANONrMOUSLY AT BRISTOL, IN SEPTEMBER, 1795. 
 
 Unboastful Bard ! whose verse concise yet clear 
 
 Tunes to smooth melody un conquered sense. 
 
 May your fame fadeless live, as " never-sere" 
 
 The Ivy wreathes yon Oak, whose broad defence 
 
 Embowers me from Noon's sultry influence ! 
 
 For like that nameless Rivulet stealing by, 
 
 Your modest verse to musing quiet dear, 
 
 Is rich with tints heaven-borrowed ; the charmed eye 
 
 Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the softened sky. 
 
 Circling the base of the Poetic mount 
 A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow 
 Its coal-black waters from Oblivion's fount; 
 The vapour-poisoned Birds, that fly too low. 
 Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go. 
 Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet 
 Beneath the Mountain's lofty frowning brow. 
 Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet, 
 A mead of mildest charm delays the unlabouring 
 feet. 
 
44 TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS. 
 
 Not there the cloud-climbed rock, sublime and vast. 
 That like some giant king o'erglooms the hill ; 
 Nor there the Pine-grove to the midnight blast 
 Makes solemn music ! But the unceasing rill 
 To the soft Wren or Lark's descending trill 
 Murmurs sweet under-song 'mid jasmine bowers. 
 In this same pleasant meadow, at your will 
 I ween, you wandered — there collecting flowers 
 Of sober tint, and herbs of med'cinable powers ! 
 
 There for the monarch-murdered Soldier's tomb 
 You wove the unfinished wreath of saddest hues j * 
 And to that holier chaplet added bloom 
 Besprinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews.+ 
 But lo ! your Henderson awakes the Muse — J 
 His Spirit beckoned from the Mountain's height ! 
 You left the plain and soared 'mid richer views ! 
 So Nature mourned, when sunk the First Day's light, 
 With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of night. 
 
 Still soar, my Friend, those richer views among, 
 Strong, rapid, fervent, flashing Fancy's beam ! 
 Virtue and Truth shall love your gentler song, 
 But Poesy demands the impassioned theme ; 
 Waked by Heaven's silent dews at Eve's mild gleam 
 What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around ! 
 But if the vext air rush a stormy stream. 
 Or Autumn's shrill gust moan in plaintive sound, 
 With fruits and flowers she loads the tempest-honoured 
 ground. 
 
 * War, a Fragment. 
 t John the Baptist, a Poem, t Monody on John Henderson. 
 
 I 
 
45 
 
 LINES. 
 
 WRITTEN AT SHURTON BARS, NKAR BRIDGEWATER, SEPTEMBER 
 1795, IN ANSWER TO A LETTER FROM BRISTOL. 
 
 •' Good verse most good, and bad verse tlien seems better. 
 Received from abseut friend, by way of Letter, 
 For what so sweet caa laboured lays impart 
 As one rude rhyme warm from a friendly heart." 
 
 Anon, 
 
 Nor travels my meandering eye 
 The starry wilderness on high ; 
 
 Nor now with curious sight 
 I mark the glow-worm, as I pass, 
 Move with "green radiance" through the grass. 
 
 An emsrald of light. 
 
 ever present to my view ! 
 My wafted spir-it is with you, 
 
 And soothes your boding fears : 
 
 1 see you all oppressed with gloom 
 Sit lonely in that cheerless room — 
 
 Ah me ! You are in tears ! 
 
 Beloved Woman ! did you fly 
 
 Chilled Friendship's dark disliking eye, 
 
 Or Mirth's untimely din ? 
 With cruel weight these trifles press 
 A temper sore with tenderness, 
 
 When aches the Void within. 
 
 But why with sable wand unblest 
 Should Fancy rnuse within my breast 
 
 Dim-visaged shapes of Dread ? 
 Untenanting its beauteous clay 
 My Sara's soul has winged its way. 
 
 And hovers round my head ! 
 
46 LINES. 
 
 I felt it prompt tlie tender dream, 
 When slowly sank the day's last gleam ; 
 
 You roused each gentler sense, 
 As sighing o'er the blossom's bloom 
 Meek Evening wakes its soft perfume 
 
 With viewless influence. 
 
 And hark, my Love ! The sea-breeze moans 
 Through yon reft house ! O'er rolling stones 
 
 In bold ambitious sweep, 
 The onward-surging tides supply 
 The silence of the cloudless sky 
 
 With mimic thunders deep. 
 
 Dark reddening from the channelled Isle * 
 (Where stands one solitary pile 
 
 Unslated by the blast) 
 The watchfire, like a sullen star 
 Twinkles to many a dozing tar 
 
 Rude cradled on the mast. 
 
 Even there — beneath that light-house tower — 
 In the tumultuous evil hour 
 
 Ere Peace with Sara came. 
 Time was, I should have thought it sweet 
 To count the echoings of my feet. 
 
 And watch the storm-vexed flame. 
 
 And there in black soul-jaundiced fit 
 A sad gloom-pampered Man to sit, 
 
 And listen to the roar : 
 When mountain surges bellowing deep 
 With an uncouth monster leap 
 
 Plunged foaming on the shore. 
 
 Then by the lightning's blaze to mark 
 Some toiling tempest-shattered bark ; 
 
 * The Holmes, iu tlie Bristol ChanueL 
 
LINES. 47 
 
 Her vain distress-guns hear ; 
 And when a second sheet of light 
 Flashed o'er the blackness of the night — ■ 
 
 To see no vessel there ! 
 
 But Fancy now more gaily sings ; 
 Or if awhile she droop her wiugs, 
 
 As sky-larks 'mid the corn, 
 On summer fields she grounds her breast : 
 The oblivious poppy o'er her nest 
 
 Nods, till returning morn. 
 
 mark those smiling tears, that swell 
 The opened rose ! From heaven they fell. 
 
 And with the sun-beam blend. 
 Blest visitations from above, 
 Such are the tender woes of Love 
 
 Fostering the heart they bend ! 
 
 When stormy Midnight howling round 
 Beats on our roof with clattering sound, 
 
 To me your arms you'll stretch : 
 Great God I you'll say — To us so kind, 
 shelter from this loud bleak wind 
 
 The houseless, friendless wretch ! 
 
 The tears that tremble down your cheek, 
 Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek 
 
 In Pity's dew divine ; 
 And from your heart the sighs that steal 
 Shall make your rising bosom feel 
 
 The answering: swell of mine ! 
 
 How oft, my Love ! with shapings sweet 
 I paint the moment, we shall meet ! 
 
 With eager speed I dart — 
 I seize you in the vacant air, 
 And fancy, with a husband's care 
 
 I press you to my heart ! 
 
48 LINES. 
 
 'Tis said, in Summer's evening hour 
 Flashes the golden-coloured flo-wer 
 
 A fair electric flame : 
 A ud so shall flash my love-charged eye 
 When all the heart's big ecstasy 
 
 Shoots rapid through the fi ame ! 
 
 LINES 
 
 TO A FEIEND IN ANSWER TO A MELANCHOLY LETTER, 
 
 Away, those cloudy looks, that labouring sigh, 
 The peevish ofispriug of a sickly hour ! 
 Nor meanly thus complain of Fortune's power, 
 When the blind gamester throws a luckless die. 
 
 Yon setting sun flashes a mournful gleam 
 Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train : 
 To-morrow shall the many-coloured main 
 In brightness roll beneatli his orient beam ! 
 
 Wild, as the autumnal gust, the hand of Time 
 Flies o'er his mystic lyre : in shadowy dance 
 The alternate groups of Joy and Grief advance 
 Responsive to his varying strains sublime ! 
 
 Bears on its wing each hour a load of Fate ; 
 
 The swain, who, lulled by Seine's mild murmurs, led 
 
 His weary oxen to their nightly shed, 
 
 To-day may rule a tempest-troubled State. 
 
 Nor shall not Fortune with a vengeful smile 
 Survey the sanguinary despot's might, 
 And haply hurl the pageant from his height 
 Unwept to waud-r in some savage isle. 
 
RELIGIOUS MUSINGS. 49 
 
 There sliiv'ring sad beneath the tempest's frowu 
 Kound his tired limbs to wrap the purple vest ; 
 And mixed with nails and beads, an equal jest ! 
 Barter for food the jewels of his crown. 
 
 RELIGIOUS MUSINGS; 
 
 A DESULTORY POEM, WRITTEN ON THE CHRISTMAS EVE 
 OF 1794. 
 
 This is the time, when most divine to hear, 
 
 The voice of adoration rouses me, 
 
 As with a Cherub's trump : and high upborne, 
 
 Yea, mingling with the choir, I seem to view 
 
 The vision of the heavenly multitude, 
 
 Who hymned the song of peace o'er Bethlehem' :5 
 
 fields ! 
 Yet thou more bright than all the angel blaze, 
 That harbingered thy birth, Thou, Man of Woes ! 
 Despised Galilean ! For the great 
 Invisible (by symbols only seen) 
 With a peculiar and surpassing light 
 Shines from the visage of the oppressed good man. 
 When heedless of himself the scourged Saint 
 Mourns for the oppressor. Fair the vernal mead, 
 Fair the high grove, the sea, the sun, the stars 
 True impress each of their creating Sire ! 
 Yet nor high grove, nor many-coloured mead, 
 ISTor the green Ocean with his thousand isles, 
 Nor the starred azure, nor the sovran Sun, 
 E'er with such majesty of portraiture 
 Imaged the supreme beauty uncreate, 
 As thou, meek Saviour ! at the fearful hour 
 When thy insulted anguish winged the prayer 
 Harped by Archangels, when they sing of mercy ! 
 Which when the Almighty heard from forth his throno 
 Diviner light filled Heaven with ecstasy ! 
 
50 RELIGIOUS MUSINGS. 
 
 Heaven's hymnings paused : and Hell lier yawning 
 
 month 
 Closed a brief moment. 
 
 Lovely was the death 
 Of Him whose life was Love ! Holy with power 
 He on the thought-benighted Sceptic beamed 
 Manifest Godhead, melting into day 
 What floating mists of dark idolatry 
 Broke and misshaped the omnipresent Sire : 
 And first" by Fear uncharmed the drowsed Soul. 
 Till of its nobler nature it 'gan feel 
 Dim recollections ; and thence soared to Hope, 
 Strong to believe whate'er of mystic good 
 The Eternal dooms for his immortal sons. 
 From Hope and firmer Faith to perfect Love 
 Attracted and absorbed : and centred there 
 God only to behold, and know, and feel, 
 Till by exclusive consciousness of God 
 All self-annihilated it shall make 
 God its identity : God all in all ! 
 We and our Father one ! 
 
 And blest are they, 
 Who in this fleshly World, the elect of Heaven, 
 Their strong eye darting through the deeds of men. 
 Adore with steadfast unpresuming gaze 
 Him Nature's essence, mind, and energy ! 
 And gazing, trembling, patiently ascend 
 Treading beneath their feet all visible things 
 As steps, that upward to their Father's throne 
 Lead gradual — else nor glorified nor loved. 
 They nor contempt embosom nor revenge : 
 For they dare know of what may seem deform 
 The Supreme Fair sole operant : in whose sight 
 All things are pure, his strong controlling Love 
 Alike from all educing perfect good. 
 Theirs too celestial courage, inly armed — 
 Dwarfing Earth's giant brood, what time they muse 
 On their great Father, great beyond compare ! 
 
RELIGIOUS MUSINGS. 51 
 
 And marcliing onwards view high o'er their heads 
 His waving banners of Omnipotence. 
 
 "Who the Creator love, created might 
 Dread not : within their tents no terrors walk. 
 For they are holy things before the Lord 
 Aye tmprofaned, though Eai^th should league with Hell 
 God's altar gi-asping with an eager hand 
 Fear, the wild-visaged, pale, eye-starting wretch, 
 Sure-refuged hears his hot pursuing fiends 
 Yell at vain distance. Soon refreshed from Heaven 
 He calms the throb and tempest of his heart. 
 His countenance settles ; a soft solemn bliss 
 Swims in his eye — his swimming eye upraised : 
 And Faith's whole armour glitters on his limbs ! 
 And thus transfigured with a dreadless avre, 
 A solemn hush of soul, meek he beholds 
 All things of terrible seeming: yea, unmoved 
 Views e'en the inmitigable ministers 
 That shower down vengeance on these latter days. 
 For kindling with intenser Deity 
 From the celestial Mercy-seat they come, 
 And at the renovating wells of Love 
 Have filled their vials with salutaiy wrath, 
 To sickly Nature more medicinal 
 Than what soft balm the weeping good man pours 
 Into the lone despoiled traveller's wounds ! 
 
 Thus from the Elect, regenerate through faith, 
 Pass the dark Passions and what thirsty Cares 
 Drink up the Spirit, and the dim regards 
 Self-centre. Lo they vanish ! or acquire 
 New names, new features — by supernal grace 
 Enrobed with Light, and naturalised' in Heaven. 
 As when a shepherd on a vernal morn 
 Through some thick fog creeps timorous with slow foot 
 Darkling he fixes on the immediate road 
 His downward eye : all else of fairest kind 
 Hid or deformed. But lo ! the bursting Sun ! 
 Touched by the enchantment of that sudden beam 
 
52 RELIGIOUS MUSINGS. 
 
 Straight the black vapour melteth, and in globes 
 
 Of dewy glitter gems each plant and tree ; 
 
 On every leaf, on every blade it hangs ! 
 
 Dance glad the new-born intermingling rays, 
 
 And wide around the landscape streams with glory ! 
 
 There is one Mind, .me omnipresent Mind, 
 Omnific. His most holy name is Love. 
 Truth of subliming import ! with the which 
 "Who feeds and saturates his constant soul, 
 He from his small particular orbit flies, 
 With blest outstarting ! From Himself he flies. 
 Stands in the sun, and with no partial gaze 
 Views all creation ; and he loves it all, 
 And blesses it, and calls it very good ! 
 This is indeed to dwell with the most High ! 
 Cherubs and rapture-trembling Seraphim 
 Can press no nearer to the Almighty's Throne. 
 But that we roam unconscious, or with hearts 
 Unfeeling of our universal Sire, 
 And that in his vast family no Cain 
 Injures uninjured (in her best-aimed blow 
 Victorious murder a blind suicide) 
 Haply for this some younger Angel now 
 Looks down on human nature : and, behold ! 
 A sea of blood bestrewed with wrecks, where mad 
 Embattling interests on each other rush 
 With unhelmed rage ! 
 
 'Tis the sublime of man, 
 Our noontide majesty, to know ourselves 
 Parts and proportions of one wondrous whole ! 
 This fraternises man, this constitutes 
 Our charities and bearings. But 'tis God 
 Diff'used through all, that doth make all one whole ; 
 This the worst superstition, him except 
 Aught to desire, Supreme Eeality ! 
 The plenitude and permanence of bliss ! 
 O Fiends of Superstition ! not that oft 
 The erring priest hath stained with brother's bloody 
 
RELIGIOUS MUSINGS. E 
 
 Your grisly idols, not for this may wrath 
 
 Thunder against you from the Holy One ! 
 
 But o'er some plain that steameth to the sun, 
 
 Peopled with death ; or where more hideous Trade 
 
 Louddaughing packs his bales of human anguish ; 
 
 I will raise up a mourning, ye Fiends ! 
 
 And curse your spells, that film the eye of Faith, 
 
 Hiding the present God; whose presence lost, 
 
 The mox-al world's cohesion, we become 
 
 An anarchy of Spirits ! Toy-bewitched, 
 
 Made blind by lusts, disherited of soul, 
 
 jSTo common centre Man, no common sire 
 
 Knoweth ! A sordid solitaiy thing, 
 
 'Mid countless brethren with a lonely heart 
 
 Through courts and cities the smooth savage I'oams 
 
 Feeling himself, his own low self the whole ; 
 
 When he by sacred sympathy might make 
 
 The whole one self ! self, that no alien knows ! 
 
 Self, far diffused as Fancy's wing can travel ! 
 
 Self, spreading still ! Oblivious of its own, 
 
 Yet all of all possessing ! This is Faith ! 
 
 This the Messiah's destined victory ! 
 
 But first offences needs must come ! Even now * 
 
 (Black Hell laughs horrible — to hear the scoff !) 
 
 Thee to defend, meek Galilean ! Thee 
 
 And thy mild laws of Love unutterable, 
 
 * January 21st, 1794, in the debate on the address to hu 
 Majesty, on the speech from the Throne, the Earl of Guildford 
 moved an amendment to the following effect : — " That the 
 House hoped his Majesty would seize the earliest opportu- 
 nity to conclude a peace with France," &c. This motion was 
 opposed by the Duke of Portland, who "considered the war 
 to be merely grounded on one principle — the preservation 
 of the Christian Religion." May 30th, 1794, the Duke of 
 Bedford moved a number of resolutions, with a view to tlie 
 establishment of a peace with France. He was opposed 
 (among others) by Lord Abingdon, in these remarkable 
 words: "The best road to Peace, my Lords, is War! and 
 "War carried on in the same manner in whicli we are taught 
 to worship our Creator, namely, wish all our souls, and with 
 all our minds, and with all our hearts, and with all our 
 strength." 
 
54 RELIGIOUS MUSINGS. 
 
 Mistrust and enmity have burst the bands 
 
 Of social peace ; and listening treachery lurks 
 
 With pious fraud to snare a brother's life; 
 
 And childless widows o'er the groaning land 
 
 Wail numberless ; and orphans weep for bread 
 
 Thee to defend, dear Saviour of mankind ! 
 
 Thee, Lamb of God ! Thee, blameless Prince of peace ! 
 
 From all sides rush the thirsty brood of War, — 
 
 Austria, and that foul Woman of the ISTorth, 
 
 The lustful murderess of her wedded lord ! 
 
 And he, connatural mind ! (whom in their songs 
 
 So bards of elder time had haply feigned) 
 
 Some Fui^y fondled in her hate to man, 
 
 Bidding her serpent hair in mazy surge 
 
 Lick his young face, and at his mouth imbreathe 
 
 Horrible sympathy ! And leagued with these 
 
 Each petty German princeling, nursed in gore ! 
 
 Soul-hardened barterers of human blood ! 
 
 Death's prime slave-merchants ! Scorpion-whips of 
 
 Fate ! 
 Nor least in savagery of holy zeal, 
 Apt for the yoke, the race degenerate, 
 Whom Britain erst had blushed to call her sons ! 
 Thee to defend the Moloch pi'iest prefers 
 The prayer of hate, and bellows to the herd 
 That Deity, accomplice Deity 
 In the fierce jealousy of wakened wrath 
 Will go forth with our armies and our fleets 
 To scatter the red ruin on their foes ! 
 O blasphemy ! to mingle fiendish deeds 
 With blessedness ! 
 
 Lord of unsleeping Love,* 
 From everlasting Thou ! We shall not die. 
 These, even these, in mercy didst thou form. 
 Teachers of Good through Evil, by brief wrong 
 
 * Art thou not from everlasting, Lord, my God, mine 
 Holy One ? We shall not die. O Lord, thou hast ordained 
 them for judgment, &iC.—Haiaklcuk. 
 
RELIGIOUS MUSINGS. 55 
 
 Making Trutli lovely, and her future might 
 
 Magnetic o'er the fixed untrembling heart. 
 
 In the primeval age a dateless while 
 
 The vacant Shepherd wandered with his flock, 
 
 Pitching his tent where'er the green grass waved. 
 
 But soon Imagination conjured up 
 
 A host of new desires : with busy aim, 
 
 Each for himself, Earth's eager children toiled. 
 
 So Property began, twy-streaming fount, 
 
 Whence Vice and Virtue flow, honey and gall. 
 
 Hence the soft couch, and many-coloured robe, 
 
 The timbrel, and arch'd dome and costly feast, 
 
 With all the inventive arts, that nursed the soul 
 
 To forms of beauty, and by sensual wants 
 
 Unsensualised the mind, which in the m-eans 
 
 Leamt to forget the grossness of the end, 
 
 Best pleasured with its own activity. 
 
 And hence Disease that withers manhood's arm, 
 
 The daggered Envy, spirit-quenching Want, 
 
 Warriors, and Lords, and Priests — all the sore ills 
 
 That vex and desolate our mortal life. 
 
 Wide-wasting ills ! yet each the immediate source 
 
 Of mightier good. Their keen necessities 
 
 To ceaseless action goading human thought 
 
 Have made Earth's reasoning animal her Lord ; 
 
 And the pale-featured Sage's trembling hand 
 
 Strong as a host of armed Deities, 
 
 Such as the blind Ionian fabled erst. 
 
 From avarice thus, from luxury and war 
 Sprang heavenly science ; and from science freedome 
 O'er wakened realms Philosophers and Bards 
 Spread in concentric circles : they whose souls, 
 Conscious of their high dignities from God, 
 Brook not wealth's rivalry ! and they who long 
 Enamoured with the charms of order hate 
 The unseemly disproportion : and whoe'er 
 Turn with mild sorrow from the victor's car 
 And the low puppetry of thrones, to muse 
 On that blest triumph, when the patriot Sage 
 
66 RELIGIOUS MUSINGS. 
 
 Called the red lightnings from the o'er-rushing cloud 
 
 And dashed the beauteous terrors on the earth 
 
 Smiling majestic. Such a phalanx ne'er 
 
 Measured- firm paces to the calming sound 
 
 Of Spartan flute ! These on the ftited day, 
 
 When, stuDg to rage by pity, eloquent men 
 
 Have roused with pealing voice the unnumbered tribes 
 
 That toil and groan and bleed, hungry and blind, — 
 
 These hushed awhile with patient eye serene 
 
 Shall watch the mad careering of the storm ; 
 
 Then o'er the wild and wavy chaos rush 
 
 And tame the outrageous mass, with plastic might 
 
 Moulding confusion to such perfect forms, 
 
 As erst were wont, — bright visions of the day ! — 
 
 To float before them, when, the summer noon, 
 
 Beneath some arch'd romantic rock reclined 
 
 They felt the sea breeze lift their youthful locks ; 
 
 Or in the month of blossoms, at mild eve. 
 
 Wandering with desultory feet inhaled 
 
 The wafted perfumes, and the flocks and woods 
 
 And many-tinted streams and setting sun 
 
 With all his gorgeous company of clouds 
 
 Ecstatic gazed ! then homeward as they strayed 
 
 Cast the sad eye to earth, and inly mused 
 
 Why there was misery in a world so fair. 
 
 Ah ! far removed from all that glads the sense, 
 
 From all that softens or ennobles Man, 
 
 The wretched Many ! Bent beneath their loads 
 
 They gape at pageant Power, nor recognise 
 
 Their cots' transmuted plunder ! From the tree 
 
 Of Knowledge, ere the vei^nal sap had risen 
 
 Rudely disbranched ! Blest Society ! 
 
 Fitliest depictured by some sun-scorched waste, 
 
 Whex'e oft majestic through the tainted noon 
 
 The Simoom sails, before whose purple pomp 
 
 Who falls not prostrate dies ! And where by night 
 
 Fast by each precious fountain on green herbs 
 
 The lion couches ; or hygena dips 
 
 Deep in the lucid stream his bloody jaws ; 
 
 Or serpent plants his vast moon-glittering bulk. 
 
RELIGIOUS MUSINGS. 57 
 
 Cauglit in whose monstrous twine Behemoth * yells, 
 His bones loud-crashiug ! 
 
 ye numberless. 
 Whom foul oppression's ruffian gluttony 
 Drives from life's plenteous feast ! thou poor 
 
 wretch 
 Who nursed in darkness and made wild by want, 
 Roamest for prey, yea thy unuatiiral hand 
 Dost lift to deeds of blood ! pale-eyed form. 
 The victim of seduction, doomed to know 
 Polluted nights and days of blasphemy ; 
 Who in loathed orgies with lewd wassailers 
 Must gaily laugh, while thy remembered home 
 Gnaws like a viper at thy secret heart ! 
 O aged women ! ye who weekly catch 
 The morsel tossed by law-forced charity, 
 And die so slowly, that none call it murder ! 
 O loathly suppliants ! ye, that unreceived 
 Totter heart-broken from the closing gates 
 Of the full Lazar-house : or, gazing, stand 
 Sick with despair ! ye to glory's field 
 Forced or ensnared, who, as ye gasp in death, 
 Bleed with new wounds beneath the vulture's beak ! 
 thou poor widow, who in di'eams dost view 
 Thy husband's mangled corse, and from short doze 
 Start'st with a shriek ; or in thy half- thatched cot 
 Waked by the wintry night-storm, wet and cold 
 Cow'r'st o'er thy screaming baby ! Rest awhile. 
 Children of wretchedness ! More groans must rise, 
 More blood must stream, or ere your wrongs be full. 
 Yet is the day of retribution nigh : 
 The Lamb of God hath opened the fifth seal : 
 And upward rush on swiftest wing of fire 
 The innumerable multitude of Wrongs 
 
 * Behemoth, in Hebrew, signifies wild beasts in general. 
 Some believe it is the elephant, some the hippopntamns ; 
 some affirm it is the wild bull. Poetically, it designates any 
 large quadmixd. 
 
68 RELIGIOUS MUSINGS. 
 
 By man on man inflicted ! Rest awhile, 
 Children of wretchedness ! The hour is nigh ; 
 And lo ! the great, the rich, the mighty Men, 
 The Kings and the chief Captains of the World, 
 With all that fixed on high like stars of Heaven 
 Shot baleful influence, shall be cast to earth, 
 Vile and down-trodden, as the untimely fruit 
 Shook from the fig-tree by a sudden storm. 
 Even now the storm begins : * each gentle name, 
 Faith and meek Piety, with fearful joy 
 Tremble far-off — for lo ! the giant Frenzy 
 Uprooting empires with his whirlwind arm 
 Mocketh high Heaven ; burst hideous from the cell 
 Where the old Hag, unconquerable, huge, 
 Creation's eyeless drudge, black ruin, sits 
 Nursing the impatient earthquake. 
 
 return ! 
 Pure Faith ! meek Piety ! The abhorred Form 
 Whose scarlet robe was stiff with earthly pomp. 
 Who drank iniquity in cups of gold. 
 Whose names were many and all blasphemous, 
 Hath met the horrible judgment ! Whence that cry? 
 The mighty army of foul Spirits shrieked 
 Disherited of earth ! For she hath fallen 
 On whose black front was written Mystery ; 
 She that reeled heavily, whose wine was blood ; 
 She that worked whoredom with the Demon Power, 
 And from the dark embrace all evil things 
 Brought forth and nurtured : mitred atheism ! 
 And patient Folly who on bended knee 
 Gives back the steel that stabbed him ; and pale Fear 
 Haunted by ghastlier shapings than surround 
 Moon-blasted Madness when he yells at midnight ! 
 Return pure Faith ! return meek Piety ! 
 The kingdoms of the world are yours : each heai't 
 Self-governed, the vast family of Love 
 Raised from the common earth by common toil 
 
 * Alluding to the French Eevolutiou, 
 
RELIGIOUS MUSINGS. 59 
 
 Enjoy the equal produce. Such delights 
 
 As float to earth, permitted visitants ! 
 
 When in some hour of solemn jubilee 
 
 The massy gates of Paradise are thrown 
 
 Wide open, and forth come in fr-agments wild 
 
 Sweet echoes of unearthly melodies, 
 
 And odours snatched from beds of amaranth. 
 
 And they, that^from the crystal river of life 
 
 Spring up on freshened wing, ambrosial gales ! ^ 
 
 The favoured good man in his lonely walk 
 
 Perceives them, and his silent spirit drinks 
 
 Strange bliss which he shall recognise in heaven. 
 
 And such delights, such strange beatitudes 
 
 Seize on my young anticipating heart 
 
 When that blest future rushes on my view ! 
 
 For in his own and in his Father's might 
 
 The Saviour comes ! While as the Thousand Years 
 
 Lead up their mystic dance, the Desert shouts ! 
 
 Old Ocean claps his hands ! The mighty Dead 
 
 Rise to new life, whoe'er from earliest time 
 
 With conscious zeal had urged Love's wondrous plan. 
 
 Coadjutors of God. To Milton's trump 
 
 The high groves of the renovated Earth 
 
 Unbosom their glad echoes : inly hushed. 
 
 Adoring ISTevdion his serener eye 
 
 Raises to Heaven : and he of mortal kmd 
 
 Wisest, he * first who marked the ideal tribes 
 
 Up the fine fibres throligh the sentient brain. 
 
 Lo ! Priestley there, patriot, and saint, and sage, 
 
 Him, full of years, from his loved native land 
 
 Statesmen blood-stained and priests idolatrous 
 
 By dark lies maddening the blind multitude 
 
 Drove with vain hate. Calm, pitying he retired, 
 
 And mused expectant on these promised yeai^s. 
 
 Years ! the blest pre-eminence of Saints ! 
 Ye sweep athwart my gaze, so heavenly bright. 
 The wings that veil the adoring Seraphs' eyes, 
 
 * David Hai tley. 
 
60 RELIGIOUS MUSINGS. 
 
 What time they bend before the Jasper Throne * 
 
 Reflect no lovelier hues ! Yet ye depart. 
 
 And all beyond is darkness ! Heights most strange 
 
 Whence Fancy falls, fluttering her idle wing. 
 
 For who of woman born may paint the hour, 
 
 When seized in his mid course, the Sun shall wane 
 
 Making noon ghastly ! Who of woman born 
 
 May image in the workings of his thought, 
 
 How the black- visaged, red-eyed Fiend outstretched f 
 
 Beneath the unsteady feet of Nature groans. 
 
 In feverous slumbers — destined then to wake, 
 
 When fiery whirlwinds thunder his dread name 
 
 And Angels shout, Destruction ! How his arm 
 
 The last great Spirit lifting high in air 
 
 Shall swear by Him, the ever-living One, 
 
 Time is no more ! 
 
 Believe thou, my soul, 
 Life is a vision shadowy of Truth ; 
 And vice, and anguish, and the wormy grave, 
 Shapes of a dream ! The veiling clouds retiro, 
 And lo ! the Throne of the redeeming God 
 Forth flashing unimaginable day 
 Wraps in one blaze earth, heaven, and deepest hell. 
 
 Contemplant Spirits ! ye that hover o'er 
 With untired gaze the immeasurable fount 
 Ebullient with creative Deity ! 
 And ye of plastic power, that interfused 
 Roll through the grosser and material mass 
 In organising surge ! Holies of God ! 
 (And what if Monads of the infinite mind) 
 I haply journeying my immortal course 
 Shall sometime join your mystic choir. Till then 
 I discipline my young and novice thought 
 
 * Rev. chap. iv. verses 2 and 3.— And immediately I was in 
 the Spirit : and behold, a Throne was set in Heaven and one 
 sat on the Throne. And he that sat was to look upon like a 
 jasper and a sardine stone, &c. 
 
 t The final destruction impersonated. 
 
THE DESTINY OF NATIONS. CI 
 
 In ministeries of heart-stirring song, 
 
 And aye on Meditation's heaven-ward wing 
 
 Soaring aloft I breathe the empyreal air 
 
 Of Love, omnific, omnipresent Love, 
 
 Whose day-spring rises glorious in my soul 
 
 As the great Sun, when he his influence 
 
 Sheds on the frost-bound waters — The glad stream 
 
 Flows to the ray and warbles as it flows. 
 
 THE DESTINY OF NATIONS. 
 
 Auspicious Reverence ! Hush all meaner song, 
 
 Ere we the deep preluding strain have poured 
 
 To the Gi-eat Father, only Rightful King, 
 
 Eternal Father ! King Omnipotent ! 
 
 To the Will Absolute, the One, the Good ! 
 
 The I AM, the Word, the Life, the Living God ! 
 
 Such symphony requires best instrument. 
 Seize, then, my soul! from Freedom's trophied dome 
 The harp which hangeth high betw^een the shields 
 Of Brutus and Leonidas ! With that 
 Strong music, that soliciting spell, force back 
 Man's free and stirring spirit that lies entranced. 
 
 For what is freedom, but the unfettered use 
 Of all the powers which God for use had given ? 
 But chiefly this, him first, him last to view 
 Through meaner powers and secondary things 
 Eflfulgent, as through clouds that veil his blaze. 
 For all that meets the bodily sense I deem 
 Symbolical, one mighty alphabet 
 For infant minds ; and we in this low world 
 Placed with our ba-cks to bright reality 
 
62 THE DESTINY OF NATIONS. 
 
 That we may learn with young unwounded ken 
 The substance from its shadow. Infinite Love, 
 Whose latence is the plenitude of all, 
 Thou with retracted beams, and self-eclipse 
 Veiling, revealest thine eternal Sun. 
 
 But some there are who deem themselves most free 
 When they within this gross and visible sphere 
 Chain down the winged thought, scoffing asoont. 
 Proud in their n:eanness : and themselves they cheat 
 With noisy emptiness of learned phi-ase, 
 Their subtle fluids, impacts, essences, 
 Self-working tools, uncaused effects, and all 
 Those blind omniscients, those almighty slaves. 
 Untenanting creation of its God. 
 
 But properties are God : the naked mass 
 (If mass there be, fantastic guess or ghost) 
 Acts only by its inactivity. 
 Here we pause humbly. Others boldlier think 
 That as one body seems the aggregate 
 Of atoms numberless, each organised ; 
 So by a strange and dim similitude 
 Infinite myriads of self-conscious minds 
 Are one all-conscious Spirit, which informs 
 With absolute ubiquity of thought 
 (His one eternal self-affirming act !) 
 All his involved Monads, that yet seem 
 With, various province and apt agency 
 Each to pursue its own self-centring end. 
 Some nurse the infant diamond in the mine ; 
 Some roll the genial juices through the oak ; 
 Some drive the mutinous clouds to clash in air, 
 And rushing on the storm with whirlwind speed. 
 Yoke the red lightnings to their volleying car. 
 Thus these pursue their never-varying course, 
 ISTo eddy in their stream. Others, more wild, 
 With complex interests weaving human fates. 
 Duteous or proud, alike obedient all. 
 Evolve the process of eternal good. 
 
THE DESTINY OP NATIONS. 63 
 
 And what if some rebellious o'er dark realms 
 Arrogate power 1 yet these train up to God, 
 And on the rude eye, unconfirmed for day, 
 Flash meteor-lights better than total gloom. 
 As ere from Lieule-Oaive's vapoury head 
 The Laplander beholds the far-off sun 
 Dart his slant beam on unobeying snows. 
 While yet the stern and solitary night 
 Brooks no alternate sway, the Boreal Morn 
 With mimic lustre substitutes its gleam, 
 Guiding his course or by Niemi lake 
 Or Balda Zhiok,* or the mossy stone 
 Of Solfar-kapper,f while the snowy blast 
 Drifts arrowy by, or eddies I'ouud his sledge, 
 Making the poor babe at its mother's back J 
 Scream in its scanty cradle : he the while 
 Wins gentle solace as with upward eye 
 He mai'ks the streamy banners of the ISTorth, 
 Thinking -himself those happy spirits shall join 
 Who there in floating robes of rosy light 
 Dance sportively. For Fancy is the power 
 That first unsensualises the dark mind, 
 
 * Balda Zhiok ; i. e. mons altitudinis, the highest mountain 
 in Lapland. 
 
 t Solfar-kapper ; capitium Solfar, hie locus omnium quot- 
 quot veterum Lapponum superstitio sacrificiis religiosoquo 
 cultui dedicavit, celebratissimus erat, in parte sinus australis 
 situs semimilliaris spatio a mari distans. Ipse locus, quem 
 curiositatis gratia aliquando me invisisse memini, duabus 
 prealtis lapidibus, sibi invicem oppositis, quorum alter musco 
 circumdatus erat, constabat. — Leemius de Lapponibus. 
 
 t The Lapland women carry their infants at their back in a 
 piece of excavated wood, which serves them for a cradle. 
 Opposite to the infant's mouth there is a hole for it to breathe 
 through. — Mirandum prorsus est et vix credibile nisi cui 
 vidisse contigit. Lappones hyeme iter facientes per vastos 
 montes, perque horrida et invia tesqua, eo presertim tempot-e 
 quo omnia perpetuis nivibus obtecta sunt et nives ventis 
 agitantur et in gyros aguntur, viam ad destinata loca absque 
 errore invenire posse, lactautem autem infantem si quem 
 habeat, ipsa mater in dorso bajulat. in excavate ligiio(Gieed'k 
 ipsi vocant) quod pro cunis utuntur : in hoc infans pannis et 
 pellibus convolutus coUigatus jacet. — Leemius de lapponibus. 
 
64 THE DESTINY OF NATIONS. 
 
 Giving it new delights ; and bids it swell 
 
 With wild activity ; and peopling air, 
 
 By obscure fears of beings invisible, 
 
 Emancipates it from the grosser thrall 
 
 Of the present impulse, teaching self-control. 
 
 Till Superstition with unconscious hand 
 
 Seat Reason on her throne. Wherefore not vain, 
 
 Nor yet without permitted power impressed, 
 
 I deem those legends terrible, witi which 
 
 The polar ancient thrills his uncouth throng : 
 
 Whether of pitying Spirits that make their moan 
 
 O'er slaughtered infants, or that giant bird 
 
 Vuokho, of whose rushing wings the noise 
 
 Is tempest, when the unvitterable * shape 
 
 Speeds from the mother of Death, and utters once 
 
 That shriek, which never murderer heard, and lived. 
 
 Or if the Greenland Wizard in strange trance 
 Pierces the untravelled realms of Ocean's bed 
 Over the abysm, even to that uttermost cave 
 By mis-shaped prodigies beleaguered, such 
 As earth ne'er bred, nor air, nor the upper sea : 
 Where dwells the Fury Form, whose unheard name 
 With eager eye, pale cheek, suspended breath. 
 And lips half-opening with the dread of sound, 
 Unsleeping Silence guards, worn out with fear 
 Lest haply 'scaping on some treacherous blast 
 Th e fateful word let slip the elements 
 And frenzy Nature. Yet the wizard her, 
 Armed with Torngarsuck'st power, the Spirit of Good, 
 
 * Jaibme Aibmo. 
 t They call the Good Spirit Torn^arsuck. The oilier great 
 but malignant spirit is a nameless Female ; she dwello uuder 
 the sea in a great house, where she can detain hi captivity nil 
 the animals of the ocean by her magic power. When a dearth 
 befalls the Greenlanders, an Angekok or magician must 
 undertake a journey thither. He passes through the king- 
 dom of souls, over a horrible abyss into the Palace of this 
 phantom, and by his enchantments causes the captive crea- 
 tui'es to ascend directly to tlie surface of the ocean. — See 
 Crantz's History of Greerdand, voL i. 206. 
 
THE DESTINY OF NATIONS. 65 
 
 Forces to tmchaiu the foodful progeny 
 
 Of the Ocean stream ; thence thro' the realm of 
 
 Souls, 
 Where live the Innocent, as far from cares 
 As from the storms and overwhelming waves 
 That tumble on the surface of the Deep, 
 Returns with far-heard pant, hotly pursued 
 By the fierce Warders of the Sea, once more, 
 Ere by the frost foreclosed, to repossess 
 His fleshly mansion, that had staid the while 
 In the dark tent within a cow'ring group 
 Untenanted. — Wild phantasies ! yet wise. 
 On the victorious goodness of high God 
 Teaching reliance, and medicinal hope, 
 Till from Bethabra northward, heavenly Truth 
 With gradual steps, winning her difiicult way. 
 Transfer their rude Faith perfected and pure. 
 
 If there be beings of higher class than Man, 
 I deem no nobler province they possess, 
 Than by disposal of apt circumstance 
 To rear up kingdoms : and the deeds they prompt 
 Distinguishing from mortal agency, 
 They choose their human ministers from such states 
 As still the Epic song half fears to name, 
 Repelled from all the minstrelsies that strike 
 The palace-roof and soothe the monarch's pride. 
 
 And such, perhaps, the Spirit, who (if words 
 Witnessed by answering deeds may claim our faith) 
 Held commune with that warrior-maid of France 
 Who scourged the Invader. From her infant days, 
 With Wisdom, mother of retired thovights, 
 Her soul had dwelt ; and she was quick to mark 
 The good and evil thing, in human lore 
 Undisciplined. For lowly was her birth, 
 And Heaven had doomed her early years to toil 
 That pure from tyranny's least deed, herself 
 Unfeared by fellow-natures, she might wait 
 On the poor labouring man with kindly looks, 
 
(5(5 THE DESTINY OF NATIONS. 
 
 And minister refreshment to the tired 
 Way- wanderer, when along the rough hewn bench 
 The sweltry man had stretched him, and aloft 
 Vacantly watched the rudely pictured board 
 Which on the mulberry -bough with welcome creak 
 Swung to the pleasant breeze. Here, too, the Maid 
 Learnt more than schools could teach : Man's shifting 
 
 mind. 
 His vices and his sorrows ! And full oft 
 Atfc ales of cruel wrong and strange distress 
 Had wept and shivered. To the tottering eld 
 Still as a daughter would she run : she placed 
 His cold limbs at the sunny door, and loved 
 To hear him story, in his garrulous sort, 
 Of his eventful years, all come and gone. 
 
 So twenty seasons past. The Virgin's form. 
 Active and tall, nor sloth nor luxury 
 Had shrunk or paled. Her front sublime and broad, 
 Her flexile eye-brows wildly haired and low, 
 And her full eye, now bright, now unillumed, 
 Spake more than Woman's thought ; and all her face 
 Was moulded to such features as declared 
 That pity there had oft and strongly woi'ked, 
 And sometimes indignation. Bold her mien, 
 And like a haughty huntress of the woods 
 She moved : yet sure she was a gentle maid 
 And in each motion her most innocent soul 
 Beamed forth so brightly, that who saw would say 
 Guilt was a thing impossible in her ! 
 Nor idly would have said — for she had lived 
 In this bad World as in a place of tombs, 
 And touched not the pollutions of the dead. 
 
 *Twas the cold season when the rustic's eye 
 From the drear desolate whiteness of his fields 
 Rolls for relief to watch the skiey tints 
 And clouds slow varying their huge imagery ; 
 When now, as she was wont, the healthful Maid 
 Had left her pallet ere one beam of day 
 
THE DESTINY OF NATIONS. 67 
 
 Slanted the fogsmoke. She went forth alone 
 
 Ui-ged by the indwelling angel-guide^ that oft. 
 
 With dim inexplicable sympathies 
 
 Disquieting the heart, shapes out Man's course 
 
 To the predoomed adventure. Now the ascent 
 
 She climbs of that steep upland, on whose top 
 
 The Pilgrim-man, who long since eve had watched 
 
 The alien shine of unconcerning stars, 
 
 Shouts to himself, there first the Abbey-lights 
 
 Seen in Neufchatel's vale; now slopes adown 
 
 The winding sheep-track vale-ward : when, behold 
 
 In the, first entrance of the level road 
 
 An unattended team ! The foremost horse 
 
 Lay with stretched limbs ; the others, yet alive 
 
 But stifi" and cold, stood motionless, their manes 
 
 Hoar with the frozen night dews. Dismally 
 
 The dark-red dawn now glimmered ; but its gleams 
 
 Disclosed no face of man. The maiden paused. 
 
 Then hailed who might be near. No voice replied. 
 
 From the thwart wain at length there reached her ear 
 
 A sound so feeble that it almost seemed 
 
 Distant : and feebly, with slow effort pushed, 
 
 A miserable man crept forth : his limbs 
 
 The silent frost had eat, scathing like fire. 
 
 Faint on the shafts he rested. She, mean time, 
 
 Saw crowded close beneath the coverture 
 
 A mother and her children — lifeless all, 
 
 Yet lovely ! not a lineament was marred — 
 
 Death had put on so slumber-like a form ! 
 
 [t was a piteous sight; and one, a babe. 
 
 The crisp milk frozen on its innocent lips, 
 
 Lay on the woman's arm, its little hand 
 
 Stretched on her bosom. 
 
 Mutely questioning, 
 The Maid gazed wildly at the living wretch. 
 He, his head feebly turning, on the group 
 Looked with a vacant stare, and his eye spoke 
 The drowsy calm that steals on worn-out anguish. 
 She shuddered ; but, each vainer pang subdued, 
 
08 THE DESTINY OP NATIONS. 
 
 Quick disentangling from the foremost horse 
 
 The rustic bands, with difficulty and toil 
 
 The stiff cramped team foi-ced homewai'd. There 
 
 arrived, 
 Anxiously tends him she with healing herbs, 
 And weeps and prays — but the numb power of Death 
 Spreads o'er his limbs ; and ere the noontide hour, 
 The hovering spirits of his wife and babes 
 Hail him immortal ! Yet amid his pangs, 
 With interruptions long from ghastly throes, 
 His voice had faltered out this simple tale. 
 
 The village, where he dwelt a husbandman. 
 By sudden inroad had been seized and fired 
 Late on the yester-evening. With his wife 
 And little ones he hurried his escape. 
 They saw the neighbomnng hamlets flame, they heard 
 Uproar and shrieks ! and terror-struck drove on 
 Through unfrequented roads, a weary way ! 
 But saw nor house nor cottage. All had quenched 
 Their evening hearth-fire : for the alarm had spread. 
 The air clipped keen, the night was fanged with frost, 
 And they provisionless ! The weeping wife 
 111 hushed her children's moans; and still they 
 
 moaned, 
 Till fright and cold and hunger drank their life. 
 They closed their eyes in sleep, nor knew 'twas death. 
 He only, lashing his o'er-wearied team, 
 Gained a sad respite, till beside the base 
 Of the high hill his foremost horse dropped dead. 
 Then hopeless, strengthless, sick for lack of food, 
 He crept beneath the coverture, entranced, 
 Till wakened by the Maiden. — Such his tale. 
 
 Ah ! suffering to the height of what was suffered, 
 Stung with too keen a sympathy, the Maid 
 Brooded with moving lips, mute, startful, dark ! 
 And now her flushed tumultuous features shot 
 Such strange vivacity, as fires the eye 
 Of misery fancy-crazed ! and now once more 
 
THE DESTINY OP NATIONS. 69 
 
 Naked, and void, and fixed, and all within 
 
 The unquiet silence of confused thought 
 
 And shapeless feelings. For a mighty hand 
 
 Was strong upon her, till in the heat of soul 
 
 To the high hill-top tracing back her steps, 
 
 Aside the beacon, up whose smouldered stones 
 
 The tender ivy -trails crept thinly, there, 
 
 Unconscious of the driving element. 
 
 Yea, swallowed up in the ominous dream, she sate 
 
 Ghastly as broad-eyed Slumber ! a dim anguish 
 
 Breathed from her look ! and still with pant and sob, 
 
 Inly she toil'd to flee, and still subdued, 
 
 Felt an inevitable Presence near. 
 
 Thus as she toiled in troublous ecstasy, 
 A horror of great darkness wrapt her round. 
 And a voice uttered forth unearthly tones. 
 Calming her soul, — " Thou of the Most High 
 Chosen, v;hom all the perfected in Heaven 
 Behold expectant 
 
 [The following fragments were intended to form part of the 
 poem when finished.] 
 
 " Maid beloved of Heaven ! 
 (To her the tutelary Power exclaimed) 
 Of Chaos the adventurous progeny 
 Thou seest ; foul missionaries of foul sire. 
 Fierce to regain the losses of that hour 
 When Love rose glittering, and his gorgeous wings 
 Over the abyss fluttered with such glad noise, 
 As what time after long and pestful calms, 
 With slimy shapes and miscreated life 
 Poisoning the vast Pacific, the fresh breeze 
 Wakens the merchant-sail uprising. Night 
 A heavy unimaginable moan 
 Sent forth, when she the Protoplast beheld 
 Stand beauteous on confusion's charmed wave. 
 Moaning she fled, and entered the Profound 
 That leads with downward windings to the cave 
 
70 THE DESTINY OF NATIONS. 
 
 Of darkness palpable, desert of Death. 
 Sunk deep beneath Gehenna's massy roots. 
 There many a dateless age the beldam lurked 
 And trembled ; till engendered by fierce Hate, 
 Fierce Hate and gloomy Hope, a Dream arose, 
 Shaped like a black cloud marked with streaks of fire. 
 It roused the Hell-Hag : she the dew damp wiped 
 From off her brow, and through the uncouth maze 
 Eetraced her steps ; but ere she reached the mouth 
 Of that drear labyrinth, shuddering she paused, 
 !N"or dared re-enter the diminished Gulf. 
 As through the dark vaults of some mouldered tower 
 (Which, fearful to approach, the evening hind 
 Circles at distance in his homeward way) 
 The winds breathe hollow, deemed the plauiing groan 
 Of prisoned spirits ; with such fearful voice 
 Night murmured, and the sound thro' Chaos went. 
 Leaped at her call her hideous-fronted brood ! 
 A dark behest they heard, and rushed on earth ; 
 Since that sad hour, in camps and courts adored. 
 Rebels from God, and tyrants o'er Mankind ! " 
 
 1 
 
 From his obscure haunt 
 Shrieked Fear, of Cruelty the ghastly dam, 
 Feverous yet freezing, eager-paced yet slow, 
 As she that creeps from forth her swampy reeds, 
 Ague, the biform hag ! when early Spring 
 Beams on the marsh-bred vapours. 
 
 " Even so (the exulting Maiden said) 
 The sainted heralds of good tidings fell, 
 And thus they witnessed God ! But now the clouds 
 Ti'eading, and storms beneath their feet, they soar 
 Higher, and higher soar, and soaring sing 
 Loud songs of triumph ! ye spirits of God, 
 Hover around my mortal agonies ! " 
 She spake, and instantly faint melody 
 Melts on her ear, soothing and sad, and slow, 
 Such measures, as at calmest midnight heard 
 
 I 
 
THE DESTINY OF NATIONS. 71 
 
 By aged hermit in his holy dream, 
 Foretell and solace death ; and now they rise 
 Louder, as when with harp and mingled voice 
 The white-robed * multitude of slaughtered saints 
 At Heaven's wide-opened portals gratulant 
 Receive some martyr'd patriot. The harmony 
 Entranced the Maid, till each suspended sense 
 Bi'ief slumber seized, and confused ecstasy. 
 
 At length awakening slow, she gazed around ; 
 And through a mist, the relique of that trance 
 Still thinning as she gazed, an Isle appeared. 
 Its high, o'er-hanging, white, broad-breasted cliffs, 
 Glassed on the subject ocean. A vast plain 
 Stretched opposite, where ever and anon 
 The plough-man following sad his meagre team 
 Tui-ned up fresh sculls unstartled, and the bones 
 Of fierce hate-breathing combatants, who there 
 All mingled lay beneath the common earth, 
 Death's gloomy reconcilement ! O'er the fields 
 Stept a fair Form, repairing all she might. 
 Her temples olive-wreathed ; and where she trod, 
 Fresh flowerets rose, and many a foodful herb. 
 But wan her cheek, her footsteps insecure, 
 And anxious pleasure beamed in her faint eye, 
 As she had newly left a couch of pain. 
 Pale convalescent ! (yet some time to rule 
 With power exclusive o'er the willing world, 
 That blest prophetic mandate then fulfilled — 
 Peace be on Earth !) A happy while, but brief, 
 She seemed to wander with assiduous feet, 
 And healed the recent harm of chUl and blight, 
 And nursed each plant that fair and virtuous grew. 
 
 * Revelatious, vi. 9, 11. And when he had opened the 
 fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of them that were 
 slain for the word of God, and for the testimony which they 
 held. And white robes were given unto every one of them, 
 and it was said unto them, that they should rest yet for a little 
 season, until their fellow servants also and their brethren, 
 that should be killed as they were, shovdd be fulfilled. 
 
72 THE DESTINY OF NATIONS. 
 
 But soon a deep precursive sound moaned hollow 
 Black rose the clouds, and now, (as in a dream) 
 Their reddening shapes, transformed to warrior-hosts, 
 Coursed o'er the sky, and battled in mid-air. 
 Nor did not the large blood-drops fall from heaven 
 Portentous ! while aloft were seen to float, 
 Like hideous features booming on the mist, 
 Wan stains of ominous light ! Resigned, yet sad, 
 The fair Form bowed her olive-crowned brow, 
 Then o'er the plain with oft reverted eye 
 Fled till a place of tombs she reached, and there 
 Within a ruined sepulchre obscure 
 Found hiding-place. 
 
 The delegated Maid 
 Gazed through her tears, then in sad tones ex- 
 claimed ; — 
 " Thou mild-eved Form ! wherefore, ah ! wherefore 
 
 fled? 
 The power of Justice like a name all light. 
 Shone from thy brow ; but all they, who unblamed 
 Dwelt in tby dwellings, call thee Happiness. 
 Ah ! why, uninjured and unprofited, 
 Should multitudes against their brethren rush 1 
 Why sow thy guilt, still reaping misery 1 
 Lenient of care, thy songs, O Peace ! are sweet. 
 As after showers the perfumed gale of eve. 
 That flings the cool drops on a feverous cheek; 
 And gay thy grassy altar piled with fruits. 
 But boasts the shrine of demon War one charm, 
 Save that with many an orgie strange and foul, 
 Dancing around with interwoven arms. 
 The maniac Suicide and giant Murder 
 Exult in their flerce union ! I am sad, 
 And know not why the simple peasants crowd 
 Beneath the Chieftains' standard ! " Thus the Maid, 
 
 To her the tutelary Spirit said : 
 "When luxury and lust's exhausted stores 
 No more can rouse the appetites of kings; 
 
THE DESTINY OF NATIONS. 73 
 
 "When the low flattery of their reptile lords 
 Falls flat and heavy on the accustomed ear ; 
 When eunuchs sing, and fools buffoonery make, 
 And dancers writhe their harlot-limbs in vain ; 
 Then "War and all its dread vicissitudes 
 Pleasingly agitate their stagnaat hearts; 
 Its hopes, its fears, its victories, its defeats, 
 Insipid royalty's keen condiment ! 
 Therefore uninjured and unpronted, 
 (Victims at once and executioners) 
 The congi^egated husbandmen lay waste 
 The vineyard and the harvest. As along 
 The Bothnic coast, or southward of the Line, 
 Though hushed the winds and cloudless the high 
 
 noon, 
 Yet if Leviathan, weary of ease. 
 In sports unwieldy toss his island-bulk, 
 Ocean behind him billows, and before 
 A storm of waves breaks foamy on the strand. 
 And hence, for times and seasons bloody and dark, 
 Short Peace shall skin the wounds of causeless War, 
 And War, his strained sinews knit anew, 
 Still violate the imfinished works of Peace. 
 But yonder look ! for more demands thy view ! " 
 He said : and straightway from the opposite Isle 
 A vapour sailed, as when a cloud, exhaled 
 From Egypt's fields that steam hot pestilence, 
 Travels the sky for many a trackless league, 
 Till o'er some death-doomed land, distant in vain, 
 It broods incumbent. Forthwith from the plain, 
 Facing the Isle, a brighter cloud arose, 
 And steered its course which way the vapour went. 
 
 The Maiden paused, musing what this might mean. 
 But long time passed not, ere that brighter cloud 
 Returned more bright ; along the plain it swept ; 
 And soon from forth its bursting sides emerged 
 A dazzling form, broad-bosomed, bold of eye. 
 And wild her hair, save where with laurels bound. 
 K"ot more majestic stood the healing God, 
 
74 THE DESTINY OF NATIONS. 
 
 When from his bow the arrow sped that slew 
 Huge Python. Shriek'd Ambition's giant throng, 
 And with them hissed the locust-fiends that crawled 
 And glittered in Corruption's slimy track. 
 Great was their wrath, for short they knew their 
 
 reign ; 
 And such commotion made they, and uproar, 
 As when the mad tornado bellows through 
 iThe guilty islands of the western main, 
 What time departing from their native shores, 
 Eboe, or * Koromantyn's plain of palms, 
 
 * The Slaves in the "West- Indies consider death as a pass- 
 port to their native country. This sentiment is thus ex- 
 pressed in the introduction to a Greek Prize-Ode on the Slave- 
 Trade, of which the thoughts are better than the language in 
 which they are conveyed. 
 
 "^Cl (TXOTOV -XUKOLC, @IX.VCX.TI, -r^oXilTOOV 
 
 Ov ^iiii(rd'^<r'/i yiv'joitv (T'ra.oa.yiMol';, 
 OiS' oKoXvyiJi.a), 
 
 'AAA' ofiMS 'EKiuOioicc (rvvoixus 
 'SiTvyvi Tu^avyi ! 
 
 ''A ! B<x.Xa,(rtnov xaOoeavng oTSuet 
 
 AlQl^o^KocyxTOH UTO ^otr/r' ocvllo-i 
 
 DaTg/S' iv' aJccv. 
 
 Afjt.ipt cryiyyja'iv xiTqivojv v'r' aA(r<wv, 
 ' Offff iiTTO ^ooToii 'i<Ta6cv ^^otoi, roc 
 Aiivoe, XiyovTi. 
 
 Literal Translation. 
 
 Leaving the gates of dai-kness, O Death ! hasten thou to a 
 race yoked with misery ! Thou wilt not be received with 
 lacerations of cheeks, nor with funeral ululation — but with 
 circling dances and the joy of songs. Thou art terrible in- 
 deed, yet thou dwellest with Liberty, stern Genius ! Borne 
 on thy dark pinions over the swelling of Ocean, they return 
 
THE DESTINY OF NATIONS. 75 
 
 The infuriate spirits of the murdered make 
 Fierce merriment, and vengeance ask of Heaven. 
 Warmed with new influence, the unwholesome plain 
 Sent up its foulest fogs to meet the morn : 
 The Sun that rose on Freedom, rose in blood ! 
 
 '' Maiden beloved, and Delegate of Heaven ! 
 (To her the tutelary Spirit said) 
 Soon shall the morning struggle into day, 
 The stormy morning into cloudless noon. 
 Much hast thou seen, nor all canst understand — 
 But this be thy best omen — Save thy Country ! '' 
 Thus saying, from the answering Maid he passed, 
 And with him disappeared the heavenly Vision. 
 
 " Glory to Thee, Father of Earth and Heaven ! 
 All conscious presence of the Universe ! 
 ISTat Lire's vast ever-acting energy ! 
 In will, in deed, impulse of All to All ! 
 Whether thy Love with unrefracted ray 
 Beam on the Prophet's purged eye, or if 
 Diseasing realms the enthusiast, wild of thought, 
 Scatter new frenzies on the infected throng, 
 Thou both inspuing and predooming both. 
 Fit instruments and best, of perfect end : 
 Glory to Thee, Father of Earth and Heaven ! " 
 
 And first a landscape rose 
 More wild and waste and desolate than where 
 The white bear, drifting on a field of ice, 
 Howls to her sundered cubs with piteous rage 
 And savage agony. 
 
 1794. 
 
 to their native country. There, by the side of fountains 
 beneath citi-on-groves, the lovers tell to their beloved what 
 horrors, being men, they had endured from men. 
 
POEMS 
 
 WRITTEN IN EARLY MANHOOD, AND 
 MIDDLE LIFE. 
 
Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam 
 visibilos 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 humanum, nunquam attigit. Juvat, interea, 
 non difBteor, quandoque in animo, tanquam in tabulS., 
 majoris et melioris mundi imaginem contemplari : ne 
 mens assuefacta bodiernse vitse miuutiis se contrabat 
 nimis, et tota subsidat in pusillas cogitationes. Sed veri- 
 tati interea invigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut 
 certa ab incertis, diem a nocte, distinguamus.— T. bubnet. 
 
 ARCH^OL. PHIL. p. 68. 
 
THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT 
 MARINER.* 
 
 IN SEVEN PARTS. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 It is an ancient Mariner, 
 
 And he stoppeth one of three. 
 
 "■ By thy long grey beard and glittering eye, 
 
 Now wherefore stopp'st thou me ] 
 
 The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide, 
 And I am next of kin ; 
 The guests are met, the feast is set : 
 May'st hear the merry din." 
 
 He holds him with his skinny hand, 
 " There was a ship," quoth he. 
 " Hold off ! unhand me, grey-beard loon ! " 
 Eftsoons his hand dropt he. 
 
 He holds him with his glittering eye- 
 The Wedding-Guest stood still, 
 And listens like a three years' child : 
 The Mariner hath his will. 
 
 The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone ; 
 He cannot choose but hear ; 
 And thus spake on that ancient man, 
 The blight-eyed Mariner. 
 
 An ancient 
 
 Mariner 
 meetetli 
 ttiree gal- 
 lants bidden 
 to a wed- 
 ding-feast, 
 and detain- 
 eth one. 
 
 The Wed- 
 ding-Guest 
 is spell- 
 bound by 
 the eye of 
 the old sea- 
 faring man, 
 and con- 
 strained to 
 hear his tale. 
 
 Sec Note. 
 
80 THE ANCIENT MARINER, 
 
 " The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared, 
 
 Merrily did we drop 
 
 Below the kirk, below the hill, 
 
 Below the light-house top. 
 
 The Mariner The sun came up upon the left, 
 tells how the Out of the sea came he ! 
 
 soithwSd ^^^ ^® ^^°^® ^"g^*' ^^^ 0^ *^® '■'^S^^ 
 with a good Went down into the sea. 
 wind and 
 
 mi'rrS' Higlier and higher every day 
 
 ed the line. Till over the mast at noon — 
 
 The Wedding- Guest here beat his breast. 
 For he heard the loud bassoon. 
 
 The Wed- The bride hath paced into the hall, 
 
 ding-Guest Red as a rose is she ; 
 
 b?fdal mu^^ Nodding their heads before her goes 
 
 sic ; but the The merry minstrelsy. 
 
 Mariner 
 
 continueth 
 his tale. 
 
 The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast, 
 Yet he cannot choose but hear ; 
 And thus spake on that ancient man, 
 The bright-eyed Mariner. 
 
 The ship " And now the storm-blast came, and he 
 
 drawn by a Was tyrannous and strong : 
 
 ward^th^e' ^^ struck with his o'ertaking wings, 
 
 south pole. And chased us south along. 
 
 With sloping masts and dipping prow, 
 
 As who pursued with yell and blow 
 
 Still treads the shadow of his foe, 
 
 And forward bends his head, 
 
 The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast. 
 
 And. southward aye we fled. 
 
 And now there came both mist and snow, 
 And it grew wondrous cold : 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 8i 
 
 And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 
 As green as emerald. 
 
 And through the drifts the snowy clifts 
 Did send a dismal sheen : 
 Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 
 The ice was all between. 
 
 The ice was here, the ice was there, 
 
 The ice was all around : 
 
 It cracked and growled, and roared and 
 
 howled, 
 Like noises in a swound ! 
 
 The laud of 
 ice, and of 
 fearful 
 sounds 
 where no 
 living thing 
 was to be 
 seen. 
 
 At length did cross an Albatross, 
 Through the fog it came ; 
 As if it had been a Christian soul, 
 We hailed it in God's name. 
 
 It ate the food it ne'er had eat. 
 And round and round it flew. 
 The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
 The helmsman steered txs through ! 
 
 And a good south wind sprung up behind ; 
 
 The Albatross did follow, 
 
 And every day, for food or play, 
 
 Came to the mariners' hollo ! 
 
 In mist or cloud, on masi*' or shroud, 
 
 It perched for vespers nine ; 
 
 Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke 
 
 white, 
 Glimmered the white moon-shine." 
 
 Till a great 
 sea-bird, 
 called the 
 Albatross, 
 came 
 
 through the 
 snow-fog, 
 and was re- 
 ceived with 
 great joy 
 and hospi- 
 tality. 
 
 And lo ! the 
 Albatross 
 proveth a 
 bird of good 
 omen, and 
 followeth 
 the ship 
 as it re- 
 turned 
 n orthward 
 thi-ough fog 
 » and floating 
 
 ice. 
 
 " God save thee, ancient Mariner, The ancient 
 
 From the fiends, that plague thee thus!— Mariner in- 
 Why look'st thou so 1 "— " With my cross- Sth the 
 
 bow pious bird of 
 
 I shot the Albatross. good omen. 
 
82 
 
 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 
 TART 11. 
 
 
 The Sun now rose upon the right : 
 Out of the sea came he, 
 Still hid in mist, and on the left 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 
 And the good south wind still blew behind, 
 But no sweet bird did follow, 
 Nor any day for food or play 
 Came to the mariners' hollo ! 
 
 His ship- 
 mates 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 ! 
 
 But when 
 the fog 
 cleared off, 
 they justify 
 the same, 
 and thus 
 make them- 
 selves ac- 
 complices in 
 the crime. 
 
 The fair 
 breeze con- 
 tinues; the 
 ship enters 
 the Pacific 
 Ocean, and 
 sails northv 
 
 Nor dim nor red, like God's own head, 
 
 The glorious Sun uprist : 
 
 Then all averred, I had killed the bird 
 
 That brought the fog and mist, 
 
 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay. 
 
 That bring the fog and mist. 
 
 The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew. 
 
 The furrow followed free ; 
 
 We were the first that ever burst 
 
 Into that silent sea. 
 
 rard, even till it reaches the Line, 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINEE. 
 
 83 
 
 Down dropt the breeze, the sails drox^t The ship 
 
 down, suddeiT'' 
 
 'Twas sad as sad could be ; becalmed. 
 
 And we did speak only to break 
 The silence of the sea ! 
 
 All in a hot and copper sky, 
 
 The bloody Sun, at noon. 
 
 Eight up above the mast did stand, 
 
 Day after day, day after day, 
 We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 
 As idle as a painted ship 
 Upon a painted ocean. 
 
 Water, water, every where, 
 And all the boards did shrink; 
 Water, water, every wbere, 
 'Nov any drop to drink. 
 
 The very deep did rot : Christ ! 
 That ever this should be ! 
 Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
 Upon the slimy sea. 
 
 And the Al- 
 batross be- 
 gins to be 
 avenged. 
 
 About, about, in reel and rout 
 The death-fires danced at night ; 
 The water, like a witch's oils, 
 Burnt green, and blue and white. 
 
 And some in dreams assured were 
 Of the Spirit that plagued us so ; 
 Kine fathom deep he had followed us 
 From the land of mist and snow. 
 
 A Spirit had 
 followed 
 them ; one 
 of the invisi- 
 ble inhabit- 
 ants of this 
 planet, nei- 
 ther departed souls nor angels ; concerning whom the learned 
 Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael 
 Psellus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, and 
 there is no climate or element without one or more. 
 
84 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 And every tongue, through utter drought, 
 Was withered at the root ;• 
 We could not speak, no more than if 
 We had been choked with soot. 
 
 The ship- Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looks 
 
 mates, in ^ad I from old and young ! 
 
 disti-ess^^ Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
 
 would fain About my neck was hung. 
 
 throw the 
 
 whole guilt on the ancient Mariner : in sign whereof thcj- 
 
 hang the dead sea-bird round his neck. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 There passed a weary time. Each throat 
 
 Was parched, and glazed each eye. 
 
 A weary time ! a weary time ! 
 
 How glazed each weary eye, 
 The ancient When looking westward, I beheld 
 Mariner be- A something in the sky. 
 holdeth a 6 J 
 
 sign in the . „ . , . , 
 
 element afar At first it seemed a little speck, 
 off. And then it seemed a mist ; 
 
 It moved and moved, and took at last 
 
 A certain shape, I wist. 
 
 A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 
 And still it neared and neared : 
 As if it dodged a water-sprite, 
 It plunged and tacked and veered. 
 
 At its nearer With throats unslaked, with black lips 
 
 approach, it baked, 
 
 ^^^ We could nor laugh nor wail ; 
 
 and at a dear Through utter drought all dumb we stood ! 
 
 ransom he I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 
 
 ?iS.from^^d--ied,Asail!asailI 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 With throats unslaked, with 
 
 baked, 
 
 Agape they heard me call : 
 Gramercy ! they for joy did grin, 
 And all at once their breath drew in, 
 As they were drinking all. 
 
 See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more ! 
 Hither to work us weal, — 
 Without a breeze, without a tide, 
 She steadies with upright keel ! 
 
 The western wave was all a-flame. 
 
 The day was well nigh done ! 
 
 Almost upon the western wave 
 
 Rested the broad bright Sun ; 
 
 When that strange shape drove suddenly 
 
 Betwixt us and the Sun. 
 
 black lips the bonds of 
 ^ thirst. 
 
 A flash of 
 
 joy; 
 
 Aud horror 
 follows. P'or 
 cau it be a 
 shi}) that 
 comes on- 
 ward with- 
 out wiud or 
 tide? 
 
 ship. 
 
 And straight the Sun was flecked with bars, it seemeth 
 (Heaven's Mother send us grace !) him but the 
 
 As if through a dungeon-grate he peered skeleton of 
 With broad and burning face. ' 
 
 Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
 How fast she nears and nears ! 
 Are those her sails that glance in the Sun, 
 Like restless gossameres 1 
 
 Are those her ribs through which the Sun 
 Did peer, as through a grate 1 
 And is that Woman all her crew 1 
 Is that a Death ? and are there two 1 
 Is Death that woman's mate ? 
 
 Her lips were red, her looks were free, 
 Her locks were yellow as gold : 
 Her skin was as white as leprosy, 
 The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 
 Who thicks man's blood with cold. 
 
 And its ribs 
 are seen as 
 bars on the 
 face of the 
 setting Bun, 
 The Spectre- 
 Woman and 
 her Death- 
 mate, and no 
 other on 
 board the 
 skeleton- 
 ship. 
 
 Like vessel, 
 like cre^v i 
 
86 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 Death and The naked hulk alongside came, 
 
 ^^^®I^i!^l And the twain were casting dice ; 
 
 Death have . „, . , i t> i t5 • » 
 
 diced for the The game is done ! 1 ve won ! i ve won ! 
 
 ship's crew, Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 
 
 and she (the 
 
 latter) winueth the ancient Mariner. 
 
 No twihght The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out : 
 within the ^^ qj^q stride comes the dark ; 
 Sun With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 
 
 Off shot the spectre-bark. 
 
 Attherishig We listened and looked sideways up ! 
 
 of the Moon, pear at my heart, as at a cup, 
 My life-blood seemed to sip ! 
 The stars were dim, and thick the night, 
 The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed 
 
 white ; 
 From the sails the dew did drip — 
 Till clomb above the eastern bar 
 The horned Moon, with one bright star 
 Within the nether tip. 
 
 One after One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, 
 another. Too quick for groan or sigh, 
 
 Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, 
 
 And cursed me with his eye. 
 
 His ship- Four times fifty living men, 
 mates drop (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
 down dead, ^ith heavy thump, a lifeless lump. 
 They dropped down one by one. 
 
 But Life-in- The souls did from their bodies fly, — 
 Death be- They fled to bliss or woe ! 
 work oJ the ^^d every soul, it passed me by, 
 ancient Ma- Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! " 
 riner. 
 
THE AXCIENT MARINER. 
 
 8'r 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 
 ** I FEAR tlieo, ancient Mariner ! 
 
 The Wed- 
 
 I fear thy skinny hand ! 
 
 ding-Guest 
 
 And thou art long, and lank, and brown, 
 
 feareth that 
 a Spirit is 
 talking to 
 
 As is the ribbed sea-sand.* 
 
 
 him. 
 
 I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 
 
 
 And thy skinny hand, so brown." — 
 
 
 " Fear not, fear not, thou Weddiog-Guest 
 
 But the an- 
 
 This body dropt not down. 
 
 cient Ma- 
 riner assur- 
 
 
 reth him of 
 
 Alone, alone, all, all alone. 
 
 his bodily 
 
 Alone on a wide wide sea ! 
 
 life, and pro- 
 
 And never a saint took pity on 
 
 ceedeth to 
 relate his 
 
 My soul in agony. 
 
 horrible 
 
 
 penance. 
 
 The many men, so beautiful ! 
 
 He despis- 
 
 And they all dead did lie : 
 
 eth the crea- 
 
 And a thousand thousand slimy things 
 
 tures of the 
 calm. 
 
 Lived on ; and so did I. 
 
 I looked upon the rotting sea, 
 
 And cnvieth 
 
 And drew my eyes away ; 
 
 that they 
 1. 1 1 1- 
 
 I looked upon the rotting deck, 
 
 should live, 
 and so many 
 lie dead. 
 
 And there the dead men lay. 
 
 I looked to heaven, and tried to pray ; 
 
 
 But or ever a prayer had gusht, 
 
 
 A wicked whisper came, and made 
 
 
 My heart as dry as dust. 
 
 
 * For the last two lines of this stanza, I am I 
 
 indebted to Mr. Wordsworth. It was on 
 
 a 
 
 delightful walk from Nether Stowey to Dulvei 
 
 
 ton, with him and his sister, in the autumn of 
 
 1797, that this poem was planned, and in part 
 
 composed. 
 
 
86 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 I closed my lids, and kept them close, 
 
 And the balls like pulses beat ; 
 
 For the sky and the sea, and the sea and 
 
 the sky 
 Lay like a load on my weary eye. 
 And the dead were at my feet. 
 
 But the The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
 
 curse liveth JSTor rot nor reek did they : 
 
 the evTof The look with which they looked on me 
 
 the dead Had never passed away. 
 
 An orphan's curse would drag to hell 
 
 A spirit from on high ; 
 
 But oh ! more horrible than that 
 
 Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! 
 
 Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 
 
 And yet I could not die. 
 
 In his lone- The moving Moon went up the sky, 
 liness and _^^(j j^q -^here did abide : 
 fixedness he o i>j.i t. 
 yearneth to- Softly she was gomg up, 
 wards the And a star or two beside — 
 joui-n eying 
 
 Moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move onward ; 
 and every where the blue sky belongs to them, and is" their 
 appointed rest, and their native country and their own natural 
 homes, which they enter unannounced, as lords that are cer- 
 tainly expected and yet there is a silent joy at their arrival. 
 
 Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 
 Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
 But where the ship's huge shadow lay, 
 The charmed water burnt alway 
 A still and awful red. 
 
 By the light Beyond the shadow of the ship, 
 heb^holdeth ^ watched the water-snakes : 
 God's crea- They moved in tracks of shining white, 
 tures of the And when they reared, the elfish light 
 great calm, Fell off in hoary flakes. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 S9 
 
 Within the shadow of the ship 
 
 
 I watched their rich attire : 
 
 
 Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 
 
 
 They coiled and swam ; and every track 
 
 
 Was a flash of golden fire. 
 
 
 happy living things ! no tongue 
 
 ThMr beauty 
 
 Their beauty might declare : 
 
 and their 
 
 A spring of love gushed from my heart, 
 
 happiness. 
 
 And I blessed them vmaware : 
 
 He blesseth 
 
 Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
 
 them in his 
 
 And I blessed them unaware. 
 
 heart. 
 
 The selfsame moment I could pray ; 
 
 The spell 
 begins to 
 break. 
 
 And from my neck so free 
 
 The Albatross fell off, and sank 
 
 
 Like lead into the sea. 
 
 
 PART V. 
 
 
 Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 
 
 
 Beloved from pole to pole ! 
 
 
 To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 
 
 
 She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 
 
 
 That slid into my soul. 
 
 
 The silly buckets on the deck, 
 
 By grace of 
 
 That had so long remained, 
 
 the holy 
 Mother, the 
 ancient Ma- 
 
 I dreamt that they were filled with dew ; 
 
 And when I awoke, it rained. , 
 
 riner is re- 
 
 
 freshed with 
 
 My lips were wet, my throat was cold. 
 
 rain. 
 
 My garments all were dank ; 
 
 
 Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
 
 
 And still my body drank. 
 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 He heareth 
 sounds and 
 seetli 
 strange 
 siglits-and 
 commotions 
 in the sky 
 and the ele- 
 ment. 
 
 I moved, and could not feel my limbs 
 I was so light — almost 
 I thought that I had died in sleep, 
 And was a blessed ghost. 
 
 And soon I heard a roaring wind : 
 It did not come anear ; 
 But with its sound it shook the sails. 
 That were so thin and sere. 
 
 The upper air burst into life ! 
 And a hundred fire-flags sheen, 
 To and fro they were hurried about ! 
 And to and fro, and in and out, 
 The wan stars danced between. 
 
 And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
 
 And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 
 
 And the rain poured down from one black 
 
 cloud ; 
 The Moon was at its edge. 
 
 The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
 The Moon was at its side : 
 Like waters shot from some high crag, 
 The lightning fell with never a jag, 
 A river steep and wide. 
 
 The bodies The loud wind never reached the ship, 
 of the ship's Yet now the ship moved on ! 
 spired^^and^" Beneath the lightning and the Moon 
 the ship The dead men gave a groan, 
 moves on ; 
 
 They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose. 
 Nor spake, nor moved their eyes ; 
 It had been strange, even in a dream. 
 To have seen those dead men rise. 
 
 The helmsman steered, the ship moved on ; 
 Yet never a breeze up blew ; 
 
THE ANCIENT MAEINER. 91 
 
 The mariners all 'gan work the ropes, 
 Where they were wont to do ; 
 They raised their limbs like lifeless tools — 
 We were a ghastly crew. 
 
 The body of my brother's son 
 Stood by me, knee to knee : 
 The body and I pulled at one rope, 
 But he said nought to me." 
 
 " I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! " But not by 
 
 '' Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest ! JJ| men^nor 
 
 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, ^y demons ^ 
 Which to their corses came again, of earth or 
 
 But a troop of spirits blest : middle air, 
 
 but bv a 
 
 For when it dawned — they dropped their troop of an- 
 
 arnm gelic spirits, 
 
 aims, sent down 
 
 Ajid clustered I'ound the mast ,* by the invo- 
 
 Sweet sounds rose slowly through their cation of the 
 
 mouths, g;^f ^^ 
 
 And from their bodies passed. 
 
 Around, around, Hew each sweet sound, 
 Then darted to the Sun ; 
 Slowly the sounds came back again, 
 Now mixed, now one by one. 
 
 Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
 I heard the sky -lark sing ; 
 Sometimes all little birds that are, 
 How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
 With their sweet jargoning ! 
 
 And now 'twas like all instruments, 
 Now like a lonely flute ; 
 And now it is an angel's song. 
 That makes the heavens be mute. 
 
92 
 
 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 
 
 A pleasant noise till noon, 
 
 A noise like of a hidden brook 
 
 In the leafy month of June, 
 
 That to the sleeping woods all night 
 
 Singeth a quiet tune. 
 
 Till noon we quietly sailed on, 
 Yet never a breeze did breathe : 
 Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
 Moved onward from beneath. 
 
 The lone- 
 some Spirit 
 from the 
 south-pole 
 carries on 
 the ship as 
 far as the 
 Line, in obe- 
 dience to the 
 angelic 
 troop, but 
 still re- 
 quire th 
 vengeance. 
 
 Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
 From the land of mist and snow, 
 The spirit slid : and it was he 
 That made the ship to go. 
 The sails at noon left off their tune. 
 And the ship stood still also. 
 
 The Sun, right up above the mast, 
 Had fixed her to the ocean : 
 But in a minute she 'gan stir, 
 With a short uneasy motion — 
 Backwards and forwards half her length 
 With a short uneasy motion. 
 
 Then like a pawing horse let go, 
 She made a sudden bound : 
 It flung the blood into my head, 
 And I fell down in a swound. 
 
 Spirit's fel- How long in that same fit I lay, 
 
 low demons, I have not to declare ; 
 
 ^^t ^^.yi^^^^® But ere my living life returned, 
 
 S the ele ^ ^^^ard, and in my soul discerned 
 
 ment, take Two voices in the air. 
 
 part in his . 
 
 tSoof ihem 'Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man? 
 relate, one By him who died on cross, 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINEK. 
 
 93 
 
 With his cruel bow he laid full low 
 
 to the other. 
 
 The harmless Albatross. 
 
 that penance 
 long and 
 heavy for the 
 
 
 The spirit who bideth by himself 
 
 ancifint 
 
 lu the land of mist and snow, 
 
 Mariner 
 hath been 
 accorded to 
 
 He loved the bird that loved the man 
 
 "Who shot him with his bow.' 
 
 the Polar 
 
 
 Spirit, who 
 
 The other was a softer voice, 
 
 returneth 
 southward. 
 
 As soft as honey-dew : 
 
 
 Quoth he, ' The man hath penance done, 
 
 
 And pehance more will do.' 
 
 
 PART VI. 
 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 
 * But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 
 
 
 Thy soft response renewing — 
 
 
 What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
 
 
 What is the ocean doing?' 
 
 
 RECOMD VOICE. 
 
 
 ' Still as a slave before his lord. 
 
 
 The ocean hath no blast ; 
 
 
 His great bright eye most sUently 
 
 
 Up to the Moon is cast — 
 
 
 If he may know which way to go ; 
 
 
 For she guides him smooth or grim. 
 
 
 See, brother, see ! how graciously 
 
 
 She looketh down on him.' 
 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 The Mariner 
 
 * But why drives on that ship so fast, 
 
 hath been 
 cast into a 
 
 Without or wave or wind ? ' 
 
 trance; for 
 
 
 the angelic 
 
94 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 power caus- second voice. 
 
 seU?S' * The air is cut away before, 
 
 northward ^^d closes from behind. 
 
 faster than 
 
 cS en!^^ Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 
 
 dure. " ^^' ^® shall be belated : 
 
 For slow and slow that ship will go. 
 When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 
 
 The super- I woke, and we were sailing on 
 
 natural As in a gentle weather : 
 
 motion IS ,™ • 1 . 1 • T_. j.1. I' 1 
 
 retarded ; T was night, calm nigh c, the moon was high ; 
 
 the Mariner The dead men stood together. 
 awakes, and 
 
 blgESTew. All «tood together on the deck. 
 For a charnel-dungeon fitter : 
 All fixed on me their stony eyes, 
 That in the Moon did glitter. 
 
 The pang, the curse, with which they died. 
 Had never passed away : 
 I could not draw my eyes from theirs, 
 Nor turn them up to pray. 
 
 The curse And now this spell was snapt : once more 
 
 isfinaily J viewed the ocean green, 
 
 expiated. ^^^ ^^^^^^ ^^^ ^^^.^.^^^ ^.^^ ^-^.^j^ ^^^ 
 
 Of what had else been seen — 
 
 Like one, that on a lonesome road 
 
 Doth walk in fear and dread, 
 
 And having once turned round walks on. 
 
 And turns no more his head ; 
 
 Because he knows, a frightful fiend 
 
 Doth close behind him tread. 
 
 But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
 Nor sound nor motion made : 
 Its path was not upon the sea. 
 In ripple or in shade. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 95 
 
 It raised my hair, it fanned my clieek 
 Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
 It mingled strangely with ray fears, 
 Yet it felt like a welcoming. 
 
 
 Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship. 
 Yet she sailed softly too : 
 Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze— 
 On me alone it blew. 
 
 
 Oh ! dream of joy ! is this indeed 
 The light-house top I see ] 
 Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ? 
 Is this mine own countree 1 
 
 And the an- 
 cient Man- 
 ner behold- 
 eth his 
 native 
 
 "We drifted o'er the harbonr-bar, 
 And I with sobs did pray — 
 let me be awake, my God ! 
 Or let me sleep alway. 
 
 country. 
 
 The harbom'-bay was clear as glass, 
 So smoothly it was strewn ! 
 And on the bay the moonlight lay, 
 And the shadow of the Moon. 
 
 
 The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
 That stands above the rock : 
 The moonlight steeped in silentness 
 The steady weathercock. 
 
 
 And the bay was white with silent light 
 
 Till rising from the same, 
 
 Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
 
 The angelic 
 spirits leave 
 the dead 
 
 In crimson colours came. 
 
 A little distance from the prow 
 Those crimson shadows were : 
 I turned my eyes upon the deck — 
 Oh, Christ ! what saw I there ! 
 
 bodies. 
 
 And appear 
 in their own 
 forms of 
 light. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat, 
 And, by the holy rood ! 
 A man all light, a seraph-man, 
 On every corse there stood. 
 
 This seraph-band, each waved his hand : 
 It was a heavenly sight ! 
 They stood as signals to the land, 
 Each one a lovely light ; 
 
 This seraph-band, each waved his hand. 
 No voice did they impart — 
 No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank 
 Like music on my heart. 
 
 But soon I heard the dash of oars, 
 I heard the Pilot's cheer; 
 My head was turned perforce away, 
 And I saw a boat appear. 
 
 The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, 
 I heard them coming fast : 
 Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
 The dead men could not blast. 
 
 I saw a third — I heard his voice : 
 
 It is the Hermit good ! 
 
 He singeth loud his godly hymns 
 
 That he makes in the wood. 
 
 He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 
 
 The Albatross's blood. 
 
THE ANCIENT MARINER. 97 
 
 PART VII. 
 
 This Hermit good lives in that wood The Hei-mit 
 
 Which slopes down to the sea. ^^ t^^ ^"'^'*' 
 
 How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
 He loves to talk with maiineres 
 That come from a far countree. 
 
 He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — 
 He hath a cushion plump : 
 It is the moss that wholly hides 
 The rotted old oak-stump. 
 
 The skiff-boat neared : I heard them talk, 
 ' Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
 AVhere are those lights so many and fair. 
 That signal made but now 1 ' 
 
 ' Strange, by my faith ! ' the Hermit said— ^PP''^^*'^" 
 ' And they answered not our cheer ! ^^^^ wou-^ 
 
 The planks looked warped ! and see those der. 
 
 sails, 
 How thin they are and sere ! 
 I never saw aught like to them, 
 Unless perchance it were 
 
 Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
 My forest-brook along ; 
 When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 
 And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 
 That eats the she-wolf's young.' 
 
 * Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look — 
 (The Pilot made reply) 
 I am a-feared' — ' Push on, push on 1' 
 Said the Hermit cheerily. 
 
08 THE ANCIENT MARINEK. 
 
 The boat came closer to the ship, 
 But I nor spake nor sth'red ; 
 The boat came close beneath the ship, 
 And straight a sound was heard. 
 
 The sliip Under the water it rumbled on, 
 suddenly gtill loudar and more dread : 
 
 It reached the ship, it split the boy; 
 
 The shin went down like lead. 
 
 sinketh. 
 
 The ancient Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, 
 
 Mariner is Which sky and ocean smote, 
 
 pirot's^boat^ ^^^^ one that hath been seven days drowned 
 
 My body lay afloat ; 
 
 But swift as dreams, myself I found 
 
 "Within the Pilot's boat. 
 
 Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
 The boat spun round and round ; 
 And all was still, save that the hill 
 Was telling of the sound. 
 
 I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 
 And fell down in a fit ; 
 The holy hermit raised his eyes. 
 And prayed where he did sit. 
 
 I 
 I took the oars : the Pilot's boy, I 
 
 Who now doth crazy go, i 
 
 Laughed loud and long, and all the while 
 His eyes went to and fro. 
 ' Ha ! ha ! ' quoth he, ' full plain I see, 
 The Devil knows how to row.' 
 
 And now, all in my own countree, 
 
 I stood on the firm land ! 
 
 The Hermit stepped forth from the boat, 
 
 And scarcely he could stand. 
 
THE ANCIENT MAEINER. 
 
 slirieve me, shrieve me, holy man ! 
 The Hermit crossed his brow. 
 ' Say quick/ quoth he, ' I bid thee say — 
 What manner of man art thou?' 
 
 Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 
 With a woful agony, 
 Which forced me to begin my tale ; 
 And then it left m^s free. 
 
 The ancient 
 Mariner 
 earnestly 
 entreateth 
 the Hei-mit 
 to shrieve 
 him; and 
 the penance 
 of life falls 
 on him. 
 
 Since then, at an uncertain hour, 
 That agony returns : 
 And till my ghastly tale is told, 
 This heart within me burns. 
 
 I pass, like night, from land to land ; 
 I have strange power of speech ; 
 That moment that his face I see, 
 I know the man that must hear me : 
 To him my tale I teach. 
 
 What loud uproar bursts from that door ! 
 The wedding-guests are there : 
 But in the garden-bower the bride 
 And bride-maids singing are : 
 And hark the little vesper bell, 
 Which biddeth me to prayer ! 
 
 Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been 
 Alone on a wide wide sea : 
 So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
 Scarce seemed there to be. 
 
 And ever 
 and anon 
 thronghout 
 his fnture 
 life an agony 
 constraiu- 
 eth him to 
 travel from 
 land to land. 
 
 sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
 'Tis sweeter far to me, 
 To walk together to the kirk 
 With a goodly company ! — 
 
 To walk together to the kirk, 
 And all together pray, 
 
100 
 
 THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 While each to his great Father bends, 
 Old men, and babes, and loving friends 
 And youths and maidens gay ! 
 
 Audto teach Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 
 by his own To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
 foTJ^ndre- ^e prayeth well, who loveth well 
 verence to Both man and bird and beast, 
 all things 
 
 He prayeth best, who loveth best 
 All things both great and small ; 
 For the dear God who loveth us. 
 He made and loveth all." 
 
 that God 
 made and 
 loveth. 
 
 The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
 Whose beard with age is hoar, 
 Is gone : and now the Wedding-Guest 
 Turned from the bridegroom's door. 
 
 He went like one that hath been stunned, 
 And is of sense forlorn : 
 A sadder and a wiser man, 
 He rose the moi-row morn. 
 
 1797. 
 
101 
 
 CHRLSTABEL. 
 
 The first part of the following iDoem was written in the 
 year 1797, at Stowey, in the county of Somerset. The 
 second part, after my return from Germany, in the year 
 1800, at Keswick, Cumberland. It is prohable, tlxat 
 if the poem had been fi.nished at either of the former 
 periods, or if even the first and second part had been 
 published in the year 1800, the impression of its origi- 
 nality would have been much greater than I dare at 
 present expect. But for this, I have only my own indo- 
 lence to blame. The dates are mentioned for the exclu- 
 sive purpose of precluding charges of plagiarism or servile 
 imitation from myself. For there is amongst us a set 
 of critics, who seem to hold, that every possible thought 
 and image is traditional ; who have no notion that there 
 are such things as fountains in the world, small as well 
 as great ; and who would therefore charitably derive 
 every rill they behold flowing, from a perforation made 
 in some other man's tank. I am confident, however, 
 that as far as the present poem is concerned, the cele- 
 brated poets whose writings I might be suspected of 
 having imitated, either in particular passages, or in the 
 tone and the spirit of the whole, would be among the 
 first to vindicate me from the charge, and who, on any 
 striking coincidence, would permit me to addi'ess them 
 in this doggerel version of two monkish Latin hexameters. 
 
 'Tis mine and it is likewise yours ; 
 But an if this will not do ; 
 Let it be mine, good friend ! for I 
 Arn the poorer of the two. 
 
 * To the edition of 1816. 
 
102 CHRISTABEL. 
 
 I have only to add, that the metre of the Christabal 
 is not, properly speaking, irregular, though it may seem 
 so from its being founded on a new principle : namely, 
 that of counting in each line the accents, nut the sylla- 
 bles. Though the latter may vary from seven to twelve, 
 yet in each line the accents will be found to be only 
 four. Nevertheless this occasional variation in number 
 of syllables is not introduced wantonly, or for the mere 
 ends of convenience, but in correspondence with some 
 transition, in the nature of the imagery or passion. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, 
 And the owls have awakened the crowing cock j 
 
 Tu— whit ! Tu— whoo ! 
 
 And hark, again ! the crowing cock, 
 How drowsily it crew. 
 
 Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, 
 Hath a toothless mastiff bitch ; 
 From her kennel beneath the rock 
 She maketh answer to the clock. 
 Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; 
 Ever and aye, by shine and shower, 
 Sixteen short howls, not over loud ; 
 Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 
 
 Is the night chilly and dark ] 
 The night is chilly, but not dark. 
 The thin gray cloud is spread on high, 
 It covers but not. hides the sky. 
 The moon is behind, and at the full ; 
 And yet she looks both small and dull. 
 The night is chill, the cloud is gray : 
 'Tis a month before the month of May, 
 And the Spring comes slowly up this way. 
 
CHRISTABEL. 103 
 
 The lovely lady, Christabel, 
 Whom her father loves so well, 
 What makes her in the wood so late, 
 A furloDg from the castle gate 1 
 She had dreams all yesternight 
 Of her own betrothed knight ; 
 And she in the midnight wood will pray 
 For the weal of her lover that's far away. 
 
 She stole along, she nothing spoke, 
 The sighs she heaved were soft and low. 
 And" nought was green upon the oak, 
 But moss and rarest misletoe : 
 She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, 
 And in silence prayeth she. 
 
 The lady sprang up suddenly, 
 The lovely lady, Christabel ! 
 It moaned as near, as near can be, 
 But what it is, she cannot tell. — 
 On the other side it seems to be, 
 Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree. 
 
 The night is chill ; the forest bare ; 
 Is it the wind that moaneth bleak 1 
 There is not wind enough in the air 
 To move away the ringlet curl 
 From the lovely lady's cheek — 
 There is not wind enough to twirl 
 The one red leaf, the last of its clan, 
 That dances as often as dance it can, 
 Hanging so light, and hanging so high, 
 On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky. 
 
 Hush, beating heart of Christabel ! 
 Jesu, Maria, shield her well ! 
 She folded her ai-ms beneath her cloak, 
 And stole to the other side of the oak. 
 What sees she there ] 
 
104 CHRISTABEL. 
 
 There she sees a damsel bright, 
 Drest in a silken robe of white, 
 That shadowy in the moonlight shone : 
 The neck that made that white robe wan, 
 Her stately neck, and arms were bare ; 
 Her blue-veined feet unsandal'd were. 
 And wildly glittered here and there 
 The gems entangled in her hair. 
 I guess, 'twas frightful there to see 
 A lady so richly clad as she — 
 Beautiful exceedingly ! 
 
 Mary mother, save me now ! 
 (Said Christabel,) And who art thou 1 
 
 The lady strange made answer meet. 
 And her voice was faint and sweet : — 
 Have pity on my sore distress, 
 I scarce can speak for weariness : 
 Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear ! 
 Said Christabel, How earnest thou here ? 
 And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet, 
 Did thus pursue her answer meet : — 
 
 My sire is of a noble line, 
 And my name is Geraldine : 
 Five warriors seized me yestermorn. 
 Me, even me, a maid forlorn : 
 They choked my cries with force and fright. 
 And tied me on a palfrey white. 
 The palfrey was as fleet as wind, 
 And they rode furiously behind. 
 They spurred amain, their steeds were white : 
 And once we crossed the shade of night. 
 As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, 
 I have no thought what men they be ; 
 Nor do I know how long it is 
 (For I have lain entranced I wis) 
 Since one, the tallest of the five, 
 Took me from the palfrey's back, 
 A weary woman, scarce alive. 
 
CHRISTABEL. 105 
 
 Some muttered words his comrades spoke : 
 
 He placed me underneath this oak ; 
 
 He swore they would return with haste ; 
 
 Whither they went I cannot tell — 
 
 I thought I'heard, some minutes past, 
 
 Sounds as of a castle bell. 
 
 Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she), 
 
 And help a wretched maid to flee. 
 
 Then Christabel stretched forth her hand 
 And comforted fair Geraldine : 
 O well, bright dame ! may you command 
 The service of Sir Leoline ; 
 And gladly our stout chivalry 
 Will he send forth and friends withal 
 To guide and guard you safe and free 
 Home to your noble father's hall. 
 
 She rose : and forth with steps they passed 
 That strove to be, and were not, fast. 
 Her gracious stars the lady blest. 
 And thus spake on sweet Christabel : 
 All our household are at rest, 
 The hall as silent as the cell ; 
 Sir Leoline is weak in health, 
 And may not well awakened be, 
 But we will move as if in stealth, 
 And I beseech your courtesy. 
 This night, to share your couch vd.th me. 
 
 They crossed the moat, and Christabel 
 Took the key that fitted well ; 
 A little door she opened straight. 
 All in the middle of the gate ; 
 The gate that was ironed within and without, 
 Where an army in battle array had marcned out. 
 The lady sank, belike through pain, 
 And Christabel with might and main 
 Lifted her up, a weary weight, 
 Over the threshold of the gate : 
 
106 CHRISTABEL. 
 
 Then the lady rose again, 
 
 And moved, as she were not in pain. 
 
 So free from danger, free from fear, 
 They crossed the court : right glad they were. 
 And Christabel devoutly cried 
 To the Lady by her side ; 
 Praise we the Virgin all divine 
 Who hath rescued thee from thy distress ! 
 Alas, alas ! said Geraldine, 
 I cannot speak for weariness. 
 So free from danger, free from fear, 
 They crossed the court : right glad they were. 
 
 Outside her kennel the mastiflF old 
 Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 
 The mastiff old did not awake, 
 Yet she an angry moan did make ! 
 And what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 
 Never till now she uttered yell 
 Beneath the eye of Christabel. 
 Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch : 
 For what can ail the mastiff bitch 1 
 
 They passed the hall, that echoes still, 
 Pass as lightly as you will ! 
 The brands were flat, the bi*ands were dying. 
 Amid their own white ashes lying ; 
 But when the lady passed, there came 
 A tongue of light, a fit of flame ; 
 And Christabel saw the lady's eye. 
 And nothing else saw she thereby, 
 Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall, 
 "Which hung in a murky old niche ia the wall. 
 softly tread, said Christabel, 
 My father seldom sleepeth well. 
 
 Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare, 
 And, jealous of the listening air. 
 They steal their way from stair to stair. 
 
CHRISTABEL. 107 
 
 N"ow in glimmer, and now in gloom. 
 And now they pass the Baron's room, 
 As still as death with stifled breath ! 
 And now have reached her chamber door ; 
 And now doth Geraldine press down 
 The rushes of the chamber floor. 
 
 The moon shines dim in the open air, 
 And not a moonbeam enters here. 
 But they without its light can see 
 The chamber carved so curiously, 
 Carved with figures strange and sweet, 
 All made out of the carver s brain, 
 For a lady's chamber meet : 
 The lamp with twofold silver chain 
 Is fastened to an angel's feet. 
 The silver lamp burns dead and dim ; 
 But Christabel the lamp will trim. 
 She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright, 
 And left it swinging to and fro, 
 While Geraldine, in wretched plight, 
 Sank down upon the floor below. 
 
 weary lady, Geraldine, 
 I pray you, drink this cordial wine 1 
 It is a wine of virtuous powers ; 
 My mother made it of wild flowers. 
 
 And will your mother pity me, 
 Who am a maiden most forlorn 1 
 Christabel answered — Woe is me ! 
 She died the hour that I was born. 
 I have heard the grey-haired friar tell, 
 How on her death-bed she did say, 
 That she should hear the castle-bell 
 Strike twelve upon my wedding-day. 
 
 mother dear ! that thou wert here ! 
 
 1 would, said Geraldine, she were ! 
 But soon with altered voice, said she — 
 
 " Off, wandei'ing mother ! Peak and pine ! 
 I have power to bid thee flee." 
 
108 CHRISTABEL. 
 
 Alas ! what ails poor Geraldine ] 
 Why stares she with unsettled eye ? 
 Can she the bodiless dead espy 1 
 And why with hollow voice cries she, 
 ** Off, woman, off ! this hour is mine — 
 Though thou her guardian spirit be, 
 Off, woman, off ! 'tis given to me." 
 
 Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side, 
 And raised to heaven her eyes so blue — 
 Alas ! said she, this ghastly ride — 
 Dear lady ! it hath wildered you ! 
 The lady wiped her moist cold brow, 
 And faintly said, "'tis over now ! " 
 
 Again the wild-flower wine she drank, 
 Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright, 
 And from the floor whereon she sank, 
 The lofty lady stood upright ; 
 She was most beautiful to see, 
 Like a lady of a far countrde. 
 
 And thus the lofty lady spake — 
 All they, who live in the upper sky. 
 Do love you, holy Christabel ! 
 And you love them, and for their sake 
 And for the good which me befell. 
 Even I in my degree will try. 
 Fair maiden, to requite you well. 
 But now unrobe yourself ; for I 
 Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie. 
 
 Quoth Christabel, so let it be ! 
 And as the lady bade, did she. 
 Her gentle limbs did she undress. 
 And lay down in her loveliness. 
 
 But through her brain of weal and woe 
 So many thoughts moved to and fro, 
 That vain it were her lids to close ; 
 So half-way from the bed she rose 
 
 i 
 
CHRISTABEL. 109 
 
 And on her elbow did recline 
 To look at the lady Geraldine. 
 
 Beneath the lamp the lady bowed, 
 And slowly rolled her eyes around ; 
 Then drawing in her breath aloud 
 Like one that shuddered, she unbound 
 The cincture from beneath, her breast : 
 Her silken robe, and inner vest, 
 Dropt to her feet, and full in view, 
 
 Behold ! her bosom and half her side 
 
 A sight to dream of, not to tell ! 
 
 shield her ! shield sweet Christabel ! 
 
 Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs ; 
 Ah ! what a stricken look was hers ! 
 Deep from within she seems half-way 
 To lift some weight with sick assay, 
 And eyes the maid and seeks delay; 
 Then suddenly as one defied 
 Collects herself in scorn and pride. 
 And lay down by the maiden's side ! — 
 And in her arms the maid she took, 
 
 Ah well-a-day ! 
 And with low voice and doleful look 
 
 These words did say : 
 In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell, 
 Which is lord of thy uttei'ance, Christabel ! 
 Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow 
 This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow 
 But vainly thou warrest, 
 
 For this is alone in 
 Thy power to declare. 
 
 That in the dim forest 
 Thou heard'st a low moaning, 
 And fouiid'st a bright lady, surpassingly fiiir : 
 And didst bring her home with thee in love and in 
 
 charity. 
 To shield her and shelter her from the damp air. 
 
no CHRISTABEL. 
 
 THE CONCLUSION TO PART I. 
 
 It was a lovely sight to see 
 The lady Christabel, when she 
 Was praying at the old oak tree. 
 
 Amid the jagged shadows 
 
 Of mossy leafless boughs. 
 
 Kneeling in the moonlight. 
 
 To make her gentle vows ; 
 Her slender palms together prest, 
 Heaving sometimes on her breast ; 
 Her face resigned to bliss or bale — 
 Her face, oh call it fair not pale, 
 And both blue eyes more bright than clear, 
 Each about to have a tear. 
 
 With open eyes (ah woe is me !) 
 Asleep, and dreaming fearfully, 
 Fearfully dreaming, yet I wis. 
 Dreaming that alone, which is — 
 sorrow and shame ! Can this be she. 
 The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree 1 
 And lo ! the worker of these harms. 
 That holds the maiden in her arms, 
 Seems to slumber still and mild, 
 As a mother with her child. 
 
 A star hath set, a star hath risen, 
 Geraldine ! since arms of thine 
 Have been the lovely lady's prison. 
 Geraldine ; one hour was thine — 
 Thou'st had thy will ! By tairn and rill. 
 The night-birds all that hour were still. 
 But now they are jubilant auevr, 
 From cliff and tower, tu — whoo ! tu — whoo ! 
 Tu — whoo ! tu — whoo ! from wood and fell ! 
 And see ! the lady Christabel 
 
CHEISTABBL. HI 
 
 Gathers herself from out her trance ; 
 Her limbs relax, her countenance 
 Grows sad and soft ; the smooth thin lids 
 Close o'er her eyes ; and tears she sheds — 
 Large tears that leave the lashes bright ! 
 And oft the while she seems to smile 
 As infants at a sudden light ! 
 Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, 
 Like a youthful hermitess, 
 Beauteous in a wilderness, 
 Who, praying always, prays in sleep. 
 And,- if she move unquietly. 
 Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free, 
 Comes back and tingles in her feet. 
 ISTo doubt, she hath a vision sweet. 
 What if her guardian spirit 'twere ? 
 What if she knew her mother near? 
 But this she knows, in joys and woes, 
 That saints will aid if men will call : 
 For the blue sky bends over all ! 
 
 PART II. 
 
 Each matin bell, the Baron saith, 
 Knells us back to a world of death. 
 These words Sir Leoline first said, 
 When he rose and found his lady dead : 
 These words Sir Leoline will say, 
 Many a morn to his dying day ! 
 
 And hence the custom and law began, 
 That still at dawn the sacristan, 
 Who duly pulls the heavy bell. 
 Five and forty beads must tell 
 Between each stroke — a warning knell, 
 Which not a soul can choose but hear 
 From Bx-atha Head to Wyndermere. 
 
112 CHRISTABEL. 
 
 Saith Bracy the bard, So let it knell I 
 And let the drowsy sacristan 
 Still count as slowly as he can ! 
 There is no lack of such, I ween. 
 As well fill up the space between. 
 In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, 
 And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent, 
 With ropes of rock and bells of air 
 Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent, 
 Who all give back, one after t'other, 
 The death-note to their living brother ; 
 And oft too, by the knell offended. 
 Just as their one ! two ! three ! is ended. 
 The devil mocks the doleful tale 
 With a merry peal from Borodale. 
 
 The air is still ! through mist and cloud 
 That merry peal comes ringing loud ; 
 And Geraldine shades off her dread, 
 And rises lightly from the bed ; 
 Puts on her silken vestments white, 
 And ti'icks her hair in lovely plight, 
 And nothing doubting of her spell 
 Awakens the lady Christabel. 
 " Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel ] 
 I trust that you have rested well." 
 
 And Christabel awoke and spied 
 The same who lay down by her side — 
 rather say, the same whom she 
 Eaised up beneath the old oak tree ! 
 Nay, fairer yet ! and yet more fair ! 
 For she belike hath drunken deep 
 Of all the blessedness of sleep ! 
 And while she spake, her looks, her air 
 Such gentle thankfulness declare, 
 That (so it seemed) her girded vests 
 Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 
 " Sure I have sinned ! " said Christabel, 
 " Now heaven be praised if all be well ! " 
 
CHRISTABEL. US 
 
 And in low faltering tones, yet sweet, 
 Did she the lofty lady greet 
 With such perplexity of mind 
 As dreams too lively leave behind. 
 
 So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed 
 Her maiden limbs, and having prayed 
 That He, who on the cross did groan. 
 Might wash away her sins unknown, 
 She forthwith led fan' Geraldine 
 To meet her sire, Sii' Leoline. 
 
 The lovely maid and the lady tall 
 Are pacing both into the hall, 
 And pacing on through page and groom. 
 Enter the Baron's presence room. 
 
 The Baron rose, and while he prest 
 His gentle daughter to his breast. 
 With cheerful wonder in his eyes 
 The lady Geraldine espies. 
 And gave such welcome to the same. 
 As might beseem so bright a dame ! 
 
 But when he heard the lady's tale, 
 And when she told her father's name, 
 Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale, 
 Murmuring o'er the name again. 
 Lord Koland de Vaux of Tryermaine ? 
 
 Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; 
 But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
 And constancy lives in realms above ; 
 And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 
 And to be wroth with one we love. 
 Doth work like madness in the brain. 
 And thus it chanced, as I divine, 
 ^Yith Roland and Sir Leoline. 
 
4 CHRISTABEL. 
 
 Each spake words of high disdain 
 
 And insult to his heart's best brother : 
 
 They parted — ne'er to meet again ! 
 
 But never either found another 
 
 To free the hollow heart from paining — 
 
 They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 
 
 Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; 
 
 A dreary sea now jlows between ; — 
 
 But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, 
 
 Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
 
 The marks of that which once hath been. 
 
 Sir Leoline, a moment's space, 
 Stood gazing on the damsel's face : 
 And the yoiithful Lord of Tryermaine 
 Came back upon his heart again. 
 
 then the Baron forgot his age. 
 His noble heart swelled high with rage ; 
 He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side, 
 He would proclaim it far and wide 
 With trump and solemn heraldiy. 
 That they who thus had wronged the dame, 
 Were base as spotted infamy ! 
 " And if they dare deny the same, 
 My herald shall appoint a week. 
 And let the recreant traitors seek 
 My tourney court — that there and then 
 I may dislodge their reptile souls 
 From the bodies and forms of men ! " 
 He spake : his eye in lightning rolls ! 
 For the lady was ruthlessly seized ; and he kenned 
 In the beautiful lady the child of his friend ! 
 
 And now the tears were on his face, 
 And fondly in his arms he took 
 Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace, 
 Prolonging it with joyous look. 
 Which when she viewed, a vision fell 
 Upon the soul of Christabel, 
 
CHRISTABEL. 115 
 
 The vision of fear, the touch and pain ! 
 She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again— 
 (Ah, Avoe is me ! Was it for thee, 
 Thou gentle maid ! such sights to see ?) 
 Again she saw that bosom old, 
 Again she felt that bosom cold, 
 And drew in her breath with a hissiog sound : 
 "Whereat the Knight turned wildly round, 
 And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid 
 With eyes upraised, as one that prayed. 
 
 The touch, the sight, had passed away, 
 And in its stead that vision blest, 
 Which comforted her after-rest, 
 While in the lady's arms she lay 
 Had put a rapture in her breast. 
 And on her lips and o'er her eyes 
 Spread smiles like light ! 
 
 With new surprise, 
 " What ails then my beloved child ? " 
 The Baron said — His daughter mild 
 Made answer, " All will yet be well ! " 
 I ween, she had no power to tell 
 Alight eke : so mighty was the spell. 
 
 Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, 
 Had deemed her sure a thing divine. 
 Such sorrow with such grace she blended. 
 As if she feared, she had offended 
 Sweet Chi'istabel, that gentle maid ! 
 And with such lowly tones she prayed, 
 She might be sent without delay 
 Home to her father's mansion. 
 
 " Nay ! 
 Nay, by my soul ! " said Leoline. 
 " Ho ! Bracy, the bard, the charge be thine ! 
 Go thou, with music sweet and loud. 
 And take two steeds with trappings proud, 
 And take the youth whom thou lov'st best 
 To bear thy harp, and learn thy song, 
 
116 CHRISTABEL. 
 
 And clothe jon both in solemn vest, 
 
 And over the mountains haste along, 
 
 Lest wandering folk, that are abroad, 
 
 Detain you on the valley road. 
 
 And when he has crossed the Irthing flood, 
 
 My merry bard ! he hastes, he hastes 
 
 Up Knorren Mooi*, through Halegarth Wood, 
 
 And reaches soon that castle good 
 
 Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes. 
 
 " Bai'd Bracy ! bard Bracy ! your horses are fl.eet. 
 Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet. 
 More loud than your horses' echoing feet ! 
 And loud and loud to Lord Roland call, 
 Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall ! 
 Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free — 
 Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me. 
 He bids thee come without delay 
 With all thy numerous array ; 
 And take thy lovely daughter home : 
 And he will meet thee on the way 
 With all his numerous array 
 White with their panting palfreys' foam : 
 And by mine honour ! I will say, 
 That I repent me of the day 
 When I spake words of fierce disdain 
 To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ! — 
 — For since that evil hour hath flown, 
 Many a summer's sun hath shone ; 
 Yet ne'er found I a fiiend again 
 Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine." 
 
 The lady fell, and clasped his knees, 
 Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing ; 
 And Bracy replied, with falteruig voice, 
 His gracious hail on all bestowing ! — 
 " Thy words, thou sire of Christabel, 
 Are sweeter than my harp can tell ; 
 Yet might I gain a boon of thee, 
 This day my journey should not be, 
 
CHRISTABEL. 117 
 
 So strange a dream hath come to me ; 
 That I had vowed with music louvd 
 To clear yon wood from thing unblest, 
 ^Ya^led by a vision in my rest ! 
 For in my sleep I saw that dove. 
 That gentle bird, whom thou .dost love, 
 And call'st by thy own daughter's name — 
 Sir Leoline ! I saw the same 
 Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan, 
 Among the green herbs in the forest*ilone. 
 Which when I saw and when I heard, 
 I woader'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 methonght I went 
 To search out what might there be found 
 And what the sweet bird's trouble meant, 
 That thus lay fluttering on the ground. 
 I went and peered, and could desciy 
 No caiTse for her distressful cry; 
 But yet for her dear lady's sake 
 I stooped, methought, the dove to take. 
 When lo ! I saw a bright green snake 
 Coiled around its wings and neck. 
 Green as the herbs on which it couched. 
 Close by the clove's its head it crouched ; 
 And with the dove it heaves and stirs, 
 Swelling its neck as she swelled hers ! 
 I woke ; it was the midnight hour. 
 The clock was echoing in the tower ; 
 But though my slumber was gone by, 
 This dream it would not pass away — 
 It seems to live upon my eye ! 
 And thence I vowed this self-same day, 
 With music strong and saintly song 
 To wander through the forest bare, 
 Lest aught unholy loiter there." 
 
118 CHRISTABEL. 
 
 Thus Bracy said : the Baron, the while, 
 Half-listening heard him with a smile ; 
 Then turned to Lady Geraldine, 
 His eyes made up of wonder and love ; 
 And said in courtly accents fine, 
 " Sweet maid, Lord Eoland's beauteous dove, 
 "With arms more strong than harp or song, 
 Thy sire and I will crush the snake ! " 
 He kissed her forehead as he spake, 
 And Geraldine, in maiden wise. 
 Casting down her large bright eyes. 
 With blushing cheek and courtesy fine 
 She turned her from Sir Leoline ; 
 Softly gathering up her train, 
 That o'er her right arm fell again ; 
 And folded her arms across her chest. 
 And couched her head upon her breast, 
 
 And looked askance at Christabel 
 
 Jesu Maria, shield her well ! 
 
 A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy, 
 And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head. 
 Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye, 
 And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread, 
 At Christabel she looked askance ! — 
 One moment — and the sight was fled ! 
 But Christabel in dizzy trance 
 Stumbling on the unsteady ground 
 Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound ; 
 And Geraldine again turned round, 
 And like a thing, that sought relief, 
 Full of wonder and full of grief. 
 She rolled her large bright eyes divine 
 Wildly on Sir Leoline. 
 
 The maid, alas ! her thoughts are gone, 
 She nothing sees — no sight but one ! 
 The maid, devoid of guile and sin, 
 I know not how, in fearful wise 
 
CHRISTABEL. 119 
 
 So deeply had slie drunken in 
 
 That look, those shrunken serpent eyes. 
 
 That all her features were resigned 
 
 To this sole image in her mind ; 
 
 And passively did imitate 
 
 That look of dull and treacherous hate ! 
 
 And thus she stood, in dizzy trance, 
 
 Still picturing that look askance 
 
 With forced unconscious sympathy 
 
 Full before her father's view 
 
 As far as such a look could be, 
 In eyes so innoceut and blue ! 
 And when the trance was o'er, the maid 
 Paused awhile, and inly prayed : 
 Then falling at the Baron's feet, 
 " By my mother's soul do I entreat 
 That thou this woman send away ! " 
 She said : and more she could not say : 
 For what she knew she could not tell, 
 O'er-mastered by the mighty spell. 
 
 "Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, 
 Sir Leoline ? Thy only child 
 Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride. 
 So fair, so innocent, so mild ; 
 The same, for whom thy lady died ! 
 by the pangs of her dear mother 
 Think thou no evil of thy child ! 
 For her, and thee, and for no other. 
 She prayed the moment ere she died : 
 Prayed that the babe for whom she died, 
 flight prove her dear lord's joy and pride ! 
 That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled, 
 
 Sir Leoline ! 
 And wouldst thou wrong thy only child, 
 
 Her child and thine ] 
 
 Within the Baron's heart and brain 
 If thoughts, like these, had any share, 
 
120 CHRISTABEL. 
 
 They only swelled his rage and pain, 
 
 And did but work confusion there. 
 
 His heart was cleft with pain and rage, 
 
 His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild. 
 
 Dishonoured thus in his old age ; 
 
 Dishonoured by his only child. 
 
 And all his hospitality 
 
 To the wrong'd daughter of his friend 
 
 By more than woman's jealousy 
 
 Brought thus to a disgraceful end — 
 
 Be rolled his eye with stern regard 
 
 Upon the gentle minstrel bard. 
 
 And said in tones abrupt, austere — 
 
 '•' Why, Bracy ! dost thou loiter here? 
 
 I bade thee hence ! " The bard obeyed ; 
 
 And turning from his own sweet maid, 
 
 The aged knight, Sir Leoline, 
 
 Led forth the lady Geraldine ! 
 
 THE CONCLUSION TO PART II. 
 
 A LITTLE child, a limber elf. 
 Singing, dancing to itself, 
 A fairy thing with red round cheeks 
 That always finds, and never seeks, 
 Makes such a vision to the sight 
 As fills a father's eyes with light ; 
 And pleasures flow in so thick and fast 
 Upon his heart, that he at last 
 Must needs express his love's excess 
 With words of unmeant bitterness. 
 Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together 
 Thoughts so all unlike each other ; 
 To mutter and mock a broken charm. 
 To dally with wrong that does no harm. 
 Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty 
 At each wild word to feel within 
 
KUBLA KHAN. 121 
 
 A sweet recoil of love and pity. 
 
 And what, if in a world of sin 
 
 (0 sorrow and shame should this be true !) 
 
 Such giddiness of heart and brain 
 
 Comes seldom save from rage and pain, 
 
 So talks as it's most used to do. 
 
 Part I., 1797.— Part II., ISOO. 
 
 KUBLA KHAN; OR, A VISION IN A DREAM. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 In the summer of the year 1797, the Author, then 
 iu ill health, had retired to a lonely farm-house between 
 Pollock and Linton, on the Exmoor confines of Somerset 
 and Devonshire. In consequence of a slight indisposi- 
 tion, an anodyne had been prescribed, from the effect of 
 which he fell asleep in his chair at the moment he was 
 reading the following sentence, or words of the same 
 substance, in " Purchas's Pilgrimage:' — "Here the 
 Khan Kubla eommanded a palace to be built, and a 
 stately garden thereunto : and thus ten miles of fertile 
 ground were inclosed with a wall." The author con- 
 tinued for about three hours in a profound sleep, at 
 least of the external senses, during which time he has 
 the most vivid confidence that he could not have com- 
 posed less than from two to three hundred lines ; if 
 that indeed can be called composition in which all the 
 images rose up before him as things, with a parallel 
 production of the correspondent expressions, without 
 any sensation or consciousness of effort. On awaking 
 he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection of 
 the v^hole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly 
 and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. 
 At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a 
 person on business from Porlock, and detained by him 
 
122 • KUBLA KHAN. 
 
 above an hour, and on his return to Ms room, found, 
 to Ms no small surprise and mortification, that though 
 he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the 
 general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of 
 some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the 
 rest had passed away like the images on the surface of 
 a stream into which a stone had been cast, but, alas ! 
 without the after restoration of the latter. 
 
 Then all the charm 
 Is broken — all that phantom -world so fair 
 Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, 
 And each mis-shape the other. Stay awhile, 
 Poor youth ! who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes — 
 The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon 
 The visions will retm-n ! And lo ! he stays. 
 And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms 
 Come trembling back, unite, and now once more 
 The pool becomes a mirror. 
 
 Yet from the still surviving recollections in Ms mind, 
 the Author has frequently purposed to finish for himself 
 what had been originally, as it were, given to him. 
 Aijpioj/ adiov a.(r(a : but the to-morrow is yet to come. 
 
 1816. 
 
 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
 A stately pleasure-dome decree : 
 Where.Alph, the sacred river, ran 
 Through caverns measureless to man 
 Down to a sunless sea. 
 So twice five miles of fertile grpimd 
 AVith walls and towers were girdled round : 
 And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills 
 Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ; 
 And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
 Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 
 
 But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 
 Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover ! 
 A savage place ! as .holy and enchanted 
 As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 
 By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! 
 
KUBLA KHAN. 123 
 
 And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, 
 As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
 A mighty fountain momently was forced; 
 Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 
 Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
 Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail : 
 And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
 It flung up momently the sacred river. 
 Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 
 Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, 
 Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 
 And saiik in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 
 And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
 Ancestral voices prophesying war ! 
 
 The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
 
 Floated midway on the waves ; 
 
 Where was heard the mingled measure 
 
 From the fountain and the caves. 
 It was a miracle of rare device, 
 A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! 
 
 A damsel with a dulcimer 
 
 In a vision once I saw : 
 
 It was an Abyssinian maid, 
 
 And on her dulcimer she played. 
 
 Singing of Mount Abora. 
 
 Could I revive within me 
 
 Her symphony and song, 
 
 To such a deep delight 'twould win me 
 That with music loud and long, 
 I would build that dome in air, 
 That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! 
 And all who heard should see them there, 
 And all should cry, Beware ! Beware ! 
 His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! 
 Weave a circle round him thrice, 
 And close your eyes with holy dread, 
 For he on honey-dew hath fed. 
 And drunk the milk of Paradise. 
 
 1797. 
 
124 
 
 THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 
 
 PEBPATORT NOTB. 
 
 A PROSE composition, one not in metre at least, seems 
 'prima facie to require explanation or apology. It was 
 written in the year 1798, near Nether Stowey, in 
 Somersetshire, at which place {sanctum et amabile 
 nomen ! rich by so many associations and recollections) 
 the author had taken up his residence in order to enjoy 
 the society and close neighbourhood of a dear and 
 honoured friend, T. Poole, Esq. The work was to 
 have been written in concert with another, whose name 
 is too venerable within the precincts of genius to be 
 unnecessarily brought into connection with such a trifle, 
 and who was then residing at a small distance from 
 Nether Stowey. The title and subject were suggested 
 by myself, who likewise drew out the scheme and the 
 contents for each of the three books or cantos, of which 
 the work was to consist, and which, the reader is to be 
 informed, was to have been finished in one night ! My 
 partner undertook the first canjio : I the second : and 
 which ever had done first, was to set about the third. 
 Almost thirty years have passed by ; yet at this mo- 
 ment I cannot without something more than a smile 
 moot the question which of the two things was the 
 more impracticable, for a mind so eminently original 
 to compose another man's thoughts and fancies, or for 
 a taste so austerely pure and simple to imitate the 
 Death of Abel ? Methinks I see his grand and noblo 
 countenance as at the moment when having despatched 
 my own portion of the task at full finger-speed, I 
 hastened to him with my manuscript — that look of 
 humourous despondency fixed on his almost blank sheet 
 of paper, and then its silent mock-piteous admission of 
 failure struggling with the sense of the exceeding ridi- 
 
THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 125 
 
 culousness of the whole scheme — which broke up in a 
 laugh : and the Ancient Mariner was written instead. 
 
 Years afterward, however, the draft of the plan and 
 proposed incidents, and the portion executed, obtained 
 favour in the eyes of more than one person, whose judg- 
 ment on a poetic work could not but have weighed with 
 me, even though no parental partiality had been thrown 
 into the same scale, as a makeweight : and I deter- 
 mined on commencing anew, and composing the whole 
 in stanzas, and made some progress in realising this 
 intention, when adverse gales drove my bark off the 
 "Fortunate Isles" of the Muses: and then other 
 and more momentous interests prompted a different 
 voyage, to firmer anchorage and a securer port. I have 
 in vain tried to recover the lines from the palimpsest 
 tablet of my memory : and I can only offer the intro- 
 ductory stanza, which had been committed to writing 
 for the purpose of procuring a friend's judgment on the 
 iietre, as a specimen. 
 
 Eucinctured with a twine of leaves. 
 
 That leafy twine his only dress ! 
 
 A lovely Boy was plucking fruits, 
 
 By moonlight, in a wilderness. 
 
 The moon was bright, the air was free, 
 
 And fruits and flowers together grew 
 
 On many a shrub and many a tree : 
 
 And all put on a gentle hue, 
 
 H.'mging in the shadowy air 
 
 Like a picture rich and rare. 
 
 It was a climate where, they say. 
 
 The night is more belov'd than day. 
 
 But who that beauteous Boy beguil'd, 
 
 That beauteous Boy to linger here? 
 
 Alone, by night, a little child. 
 
 In place so sUent and so wild — 
 
 Has he no friend, no loving mother near ? 
 
THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 " A LITTLE further, my father, yet a little further, 
 and we shall come into the open moonlight." Their 
 road was through a forest of fir-trees ; at its entrance 
 the trees stood at distances from each other, and the 
 path was broad, and the moonlight and the moonlight 
 shadows reposed upon it, and appeared quietly to 
 inhabit that solitude. But soon the path winded and 
 became narrow; the sun at high noon sometimes 
 speckled, but never illumined it, and now it was dark 
 as a cavern. 
 
 " It is dark, my father ! " said Enos, " but the 
 path under our feet is smooth and soft, and we shall 
 soon come out into the open moonlight." 
 
 " Lead on, my child ! " said Cain : " guide me, little 
 child ! " And the innocent little child clasped a finger 
 of the hand which had murdered the righteous Abel, 
 and he guided his father. " The fir branches drip 
 upon thee, my son." *' Yea, pleasantly, father, for I 
 ran fast and eagerly to bring thee the pitcher and the 
 cake, and my body is not yet cool. How happy the 
 squirrels are that feed on these fir-trees ! they leap 
 from bough to bough, and the old squirrels play round 
 their young ones in the nest. I clomb a tree yester- 
 day at noon, O my father, that I might play with 
 them, but they leaped away from the branches, even 
 to the slender twigs did they leap, and in a moment 
 I beheld them on another tree. Why, my father, 
 would they not play with me 1 I would be good to 
 them as thou art good to me : and I groaned to them 
 even as thou groanest when thou givest me to eat, and 
 when thou coverest me at evening, and as often as I 
 stand at thy knee and thine eyes look at me ? " Then 
 Cain stopped, and stifling his groans he sank to the 
 earth, and the child Enos stood in the darkness 
 beside him. 
 
THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 127 
 
 And Cain lifted up his voice and cried bitterly, and 
 eaid, " The Mighty One that persecuteth me is on this 
 side and on that ; he pursueth my soul like the wind, 
 like the sand-blast he passeth through me ; he is around 
 me even as the air ! that I might be utterly no 
 more ! I desire to die — yea, the things that never 
 had life, neither move they upon the earth — behold ! 
 they seem precious to mine eyes. that a man might 
 live without the breath of his nostrils. So I might 
 abide in darkness, and blackness, and an empty space ! 
 Yea, I would lie down, I would not rise, neither would 
 I stir my limbs till I became as the rock in the den 
 of the lion, on which the young lion resteth his head 
 whilst he sleepeth. For the torrent that roareth far 
 off hath a voice: and the clouds in heaven look ter- 
 ribly on me ; the Mighty One who is against me 
 speaketh in the wind of the cedar grove ; and in 
 silence am I dried up." Then Enos spake to his 
 father, ** Arise, my father, arise, we are but a little 
 way from the place where I found the cake and the 
 pitcher." And Cain said, " How knowest thou ? " and 
 the child answered — " Behold the bare rocks are a few 
 of thy strides distant from the forest; and while 
 even now thou wert lifting up thy voice, I heard the 
 echo." Then the child took hold of his father, as if 
 he would raise him : and Cain being faint and feeble 
 rose slowly on his knees and pressed himself against 
 the trunk of a fir, and stood upright and followed 
 the child. 
 
 The path was daik till within three strides' length 
 of its termination, when it turned suddenly; the thick 
 black trees formed a low arch, and the moonlight 
 appeared for a moment like a dazzling portal. Enos 
 ran before and stood in the open air ; and when Cain, 
 his father, emerged from the darkness, the child was 
 aflfrighted. For the mighty limbs of Cain were wasted 
 as by fire ; his hair was as the matted curls on the 
 bison's forehead, and so glared his fierce and sullen 
 eye beneath : and the black abundant locks on either 
 side, a rank and tangled mass, were stained and 
 
128 THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 
 
 scorched, as though the grasp of a burning iron 
 hand had striven to rend them ; and his countenance 
 told in a strange and terrible language of agonies 
 that had been, and were, and were still to continue 
 to be. 
 
 The scene around was desolate ; as far as the eye 
 could reach it was desolate : the bare rocks faced each 
 other, and left a long and wide interval of thin white 
 sand. You might wander on and look round and 
 round, and peep into the crevices of the rocks and 
 discover nothing that acknowledged the influence of 
 the seasons. There was no spring, no summer, no 
 autumn : and the winter's snow, that would have 
 been lovely, fell not on these hot rocks and scorching 
 sands. Never morning lark had poised himself over 
 this desert; but the huge serpent often hissed there 
 beneath the talons of the vulture, and the vulture 
 screamed, his wings imprisoned within the coils of 
 the serpent. The pointed and shattered summits of 
 the ridges of the rocks made a rude mimicry of 
 human concerns, and seemed to prophesy mutely of 
 things that then were not ; steeples, and battlements, 
 and ships with naked masts. As far from the wood 
 as a boy might sling a pebble of the brook, there was 
 one rock by itself at a small distance from the main 
 ridge. It had been precipitated there perhaps by tbe 
 groan which the Earth uttered when our first father 
 fell. Before you approached, it appeared to lie flat 
 on the ground, but its base slanted from its point, 
 and between its point and the sands a tall man might 
 stand upright. It was here that Enos liad found the 
 pitcher and cake, and to this place he led his father. 
 But ere they had reached the rock they beheld a 
 human shape : his back was towards them, and they 
 were advancing unperceiverl, when they heard him 
 smite his breast and cry aloud, " Woe is me ! woe is 
 me ! I must never die again, and yet I am perishing 
 with thirst and hunger." 
 
 Pallid, as the reflection of the sheeted lightning on 
 the heavy-sailing night-cloud, became the face of Cain; 
 
THE WANDERi:s"GS OF CAIN. 129 
 
 but the child Euos took hold of the shaggy skin, his 
 father's robe, and raised his eyes to his father, and 
 listening whispered, *■ Ere yet I could speak, I am 
 sure, my father, that I heard that voice. Have 
 not I often said that I remembered a sweet voice ? 
 my fiither ! this is it : " and Cain trembled ex- 
 ceedingly. The voice was sweet indeed, but it was 
 thin and querulous, like that of a feeble slave in 
 misery, who despairs altogether, yet can not refrain 
 himself from weeping and lamentation. And, behold! 
 Enos glided forwax'd, and creeping softly round the 
 base of the rock, stood before the stranger, and 
 looked up into his face. And the Shape shrieked, 
 and turned round, and Cain beheld him, that his 
 limbs and his face were those of his brother Abel 
 whom he had killed ! And Cain stood like one 
 who struggles in his sleep because of the exceeding 
 terribleness of a dream. 
 
 Thus as he stood in silence and darkness of uoul, 
 the Shape fell at his feet, and embraced his knees, 
 and cried out with a bitter outcry, " Thou eldest bom 
 of Adam, whom Eve, my mother, brought forth, cease 
 to torment me ! I was feeding my flocks in green 
 pastures by the side of quiet rivers, and thou killedst 
 me ; and now I am in misery." Then Cain closed 
 his eye?, and hid them with his hands ; and again he 
 opened his eyes, and looked around him, and said to 
 Enos, '■' What beholdest thou ] Didst thou hear a 
 vuice, my son 1 " " Yes, my father, I beheld a man 
 in unclean garments, and he uttered a sweet voice, 
 full of lamentation." Then Cain raised up the Shape 
 that was like Abel, and said : — " The Creator of our 
 father, who had respect unto thee, and unto thy 
 offeiing, wherefore hath he forsaken thee?" Then 
 the Shape shrieked a second time, and rent his gar- 
 ment, and his naked skin was like the white sands 
 beneath their feet ; and he shxieked yet a third time, 
 and threw himself on his face upon the sand that was 
 black with the shadow of the rock, and Cain and Enos 
 Bate beside him;, the child by his right hand, and 
 
130 THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 
 
 Cain by his left. They were all three under the 
 rock, and within the shadow. The Shape that was 
 like Abel raised himself up, and spake to the child : 
 *' I know where the cold waters are, but I may not 
 drink, wherefore didst thou then take away my 
 pitcher ? " But Cain said, " Didst thou not find 
 favour in the sight of the Lord thy God?" The 
 Shape answered, " The Lord is God of the living 
 only, the dead have another God." Then the child 
 Enos lifted up his eyes and prayed ; but Cain rejoiced 
 secretly in his heart, " Wretched shall they be. all 
 the days of their mortal life," exclaimed the Shape, 
 " who sacrifice worthy and acceptable sacrifices to the 
 God of the dead ; but after death their toil ceaseth. 
 Woe is me, for I was well beloved by the God of the 
 living, and cruel wert thou, my brother, who didst 
 snatch me away from his power and his dominion." 
 Having uttered these words, he rose suddenly, and 
 fled over the sands : and Cain said in his heart, " The 
 curse of the Lord is on me ; but who is the God of 
 the dead ? and he ran after the Shape, and the Shape 
 fled shrieking over the sands, and the sands rose like 
 white mists behind the steps of Cain, but the feet of 
 him that was like Abel disturbed not the sands. He 
 greatly outrun Cain, and turning short, he wheeled 
 round, and came again to the rock where they had 
 been sitting, and where Enos still stood ; and the 
 child caught hold of his garment as he passed by, 
 and he fell upon the ground. And Cain stopped, and 
 beholding him not, said, " he has passed into the dark 
 woods," and he walked slowly back to the rocks; 
 and when he reached it the child told him that he 
 had caught hold of his garment as he passed by, and 
 that the man had fallen upon the ground : and Cain 
 once more sate beside him, and said, "Abel, my 
 brother, I would lament for thee, but that the spirit 
 within me is withered, and burnt up with extreme 
 agony. Now, I pray thee, by thy flocks, and by thy 
 pastures, and by the quiet rivers which thou lovedst, 
 that thou tell me all that thou knowest. Who is the 
 
THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 131 
 
 Gfod of the dead ? where doth he make his dwelling ? 
 what sacrifices are acceptable unto him ? for I have 
 offered, but have not been received; I have prayed, 
 and have not been heard ; and how can I be afflicted 
 more than I already am ? " The Shape arose and 
 answered, " that thou hadst had pity on me as I 
 will have pity on thee. Follow me, Son of Adam ! 
 and bring thy child with thee ! " 
 
 And they three passed over the white sands 
 between the rocks, silent as the shadows. 
 
SIBYLLINE LEAVES. 
 
 -POEMS OCCASIONED BY POLITICAL EVENTS OR 
 FEELINGS CONNECTED WITH THEM. 
 
When I have borne in memory what has tamed 
 
 Great nations, how ennobling thoughts depart 
 
 When men change swords for ledgers, and desert 
 
 The student's bower for gold, some fears unnamed 
 
 I had, my country ! Am I to be blamed ? 
 
 Now, when I think of thee, and what thou art. 
 
 Verily, in the bottom of my heart. 
 
 Of those unfilial fears I am ashamed. 
 
 For dearly must we prize thee ; we who find 
 
 In thee a bulwark for the cause of men ; 
 
 And I by my affection was beguiled. 
 
 What wonder if a poet now and then. 
 
 Among the many movements of his mind, 
 
 Felt for thee as a Lover or a Child ! 
 
 WORDS WORTH. 
 
ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAR* 
 
 ^ 'Icb, loll, u iS xctxa,. 
 
 2r«a,3£[, Tx^x<r(roiiv (p^ot/jciots {(fYi/jt^ioi; 
 
 To ptAXXr.v Vf^il. Ka; ir'j fji \v ra^S/ ira^aiv 
 ""Ayctv y a.Xvi^o(x,a.vTi)i olxTU^ag iftt?. 
 
 JEschyl. Again. 1225. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 The Ode commences with an address to the Divine Provi- 
 dence, that regulates into one vast harmony all the events of 
 time, however calamitous some of them may appear to moi-- 
 tals. The second Strophe calls on men to suspend their private 
 joys and sorrows, and devote them for a while to the cause of 
 human nature in general. The first Epode speaks of the 
 Empress ol Russia, who died of an apoplexy on the 17th of 
 November, 1796 ; ha\dng just concluded a subsidiary treaty 
 with the Kings combined against France. The first and 
 second Antistrophe describe the image of the Departing 
 Year, &g. as in a vision. The second Epode prophesies, in 
 anguish of spirit, the downfall of this countiy. 
 
 Spirit who sweepest the wild harp of Time ! 
 
 It is mcst hard, with an untroubled ear 
 
 Thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear ! 
 Yet, mine eye fixed on Heaven's unchanging clime, 
 Long had I listened, free from mortal fear, 
 
 With inward stillness, and a bowed mind ; 
 
 When lo ! its folds far waving on the wind, 
 I saw the train of the departing Year 
 
 Starting from my silent sadness 
 
 Then with no unholy madness 
 
 * This Ode was composed on the 24th, 25th, and 26th days 
 of December, 1796 ; and was first published on the last day of 
 that year. 
 
ISO ODE TO THE DEPARTIXG TEAR. 
 
 Ere yet the entered cloud foi'eclosed my sight, 
 
 I raised the impetuous soDg, and solemnised his flight. 
 
 II. 
 
 Hither, from the recent tomb, 
 
 From the prison's direr gloom. 
 From distemper's midnight anguish ; 
 And thence, where poverty doth waste and lauguish! 
 Or where, his two bright torches blending, 
 
 Love illumines manhood's maze ; 
 Or Avhere o'er cradled infants bending 
 
 Hope has fixed her wishful gaze ; 
 
 Hither, in perplexed dance, 
 Ye Woes ! ye young-eyed Joys ! advance ! 
 
 By Time's wild hai-p, and by the hand 
 Whose indefatigable sweep 
 Raises its fateful strings from sleep, 
 I bid you haste, a mixed tumultuous band ! 
 From every private bower, 
 
 And each domestic hearth, 
 Haste for one solemn hour ; 
 And with a loud and yet a louder voice. 
 O'er Nature struggling in portentous birth. 
 
 Weep and rejoice ! 
 Still echoes the dread name that o'er the earth 
 Let slip the storm, and woke the brood of hell : 
 
 And now advance in saintly jubilee 
 Justice and Truth ! They too have heard thy spell ! 
 They too obey thy name, divinest Liberty ! 
 
 I marked Ambition in his war-array ! 
 
 I heard the mailed Monarch's troublous cry — 
 " Ah ! wherefore does the Northern Conqueress stay ! 
 Groans not her chariot on its onward way ? " 
 Fly, mailed Monarch, fly ! 
 
 Stunned by Death's twice mortal mace, 
 
 No more on murder's lurid face 
 The insatiate hag shall gloat with drunken eye ! 
 
ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAR. 137 
 
 Manes of the unnumbered slain ! 
 
 Ye that gasped on Warsaw's plain ! 
 Ye that erst at Ismail's tower, 
 When human iiiin choked the streams, 
 
 Fell in conquest's glutted hour, 
 'Mid women's shrieks and infants' screams ! 
 Spirits of the uncoffined slain, 
 
 Sudden blasts of triumph swelling, 
 Oft, at night, in misty train, 
 
 Rush around her narrow dwelling ! 
 The exterminating fiend is fled — 
 
 (Foul her life, and dark her doom) 
 Mighty armies of the dead 
 
 Dance, like death-fires, round her tomb I 
 Then with prophetic song relate, 
 Each some tyrant-murderer's fate ! 
 
 Departing Year ! 'twas on no earthly shore 
 My soul beheld thy vision ! Where alone, 
 Voiceless and stern, before the cloudy throne, 
 A.ye Memory sits : thy robe inscribed with gore, 
 With many an unimaginable groan 
 Thou storied'st thy sad hours ! Silence ensued, 
 Deep silence o'er the ethereal multitude. 
 Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with 
 glories shone. 
 Then, his eye wild ardours glancing. 
 From the choired gods advancing. 
 The Spirit of the Earth made reverence meet, 
 And stood ur>, beautiful, before the cloudy seat. 
 
 Throughout the blissful throng, 
 
 Hushed were harp and song : 
 Till wheeling round the throne the Lampads seven, 
 
 (The mystic Words of Heaven) 
 
 Permissive signal make : 
 The fervent Spirit bowed, then spread his wings and 
 
138 ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAR. 
 
 " Thou in stormy blackness throning 
 
 Love and uncreated Light, 
 By the Earth's unsolaced groaning, 
 Seize thy terrors, Arm of might ! 
 By peace with proffered insult scared, 
 Masked hate and envying scorn ! 
 By years of havoc yet unborn ! 
 And hunger's bosom to the frost-winds bared ! 
 But chief by Afrie's wrongs, 
 
 Strange, horrible, and foul ! 
 By what deep guilt belongs 
 To the deaf Synod, * full of gifts and lies ! ' 
 By wealth's insensate laugh ! by torture's howl ! 
 Avenger, rise ! 
 For ever shall the thankless Island scowl, 
 Her quiver full, and with unbroken bow 1 
 Speak ! from thy storm-black Heaven speak aloud ! 
 
 And on the darkling foe 
 Open thine eye of fire from some uncertain cloud ! 
 
 dart the flash ! O rise and deal the blow ! 
 The Past to thee, to thee the Future cries ! 
 
 Hark ! how wide Nature joins her groans below ! 
 Else, God of Nature ! rise." 
 
 The voice had ceased, the vision fled; 
 Yet still I gasped and reeled with dread. 
 And ever, when the dream of night 
 Eenews the phantom to my sight. 
 Cold sweat-drops gather on my limbs ; 
 
 My ears throb hot ; my eye-balls start ; 
 My brain with horrid tumult swims ; 
 
 Wild is the tempest of my heart ; 
 And my thick and struggling breath 
 Imitates the toil of death ! 
 No stranger agony confounds 
 
 The soldier on the war-field spread, 
 When all foredone with toil and wounds, 
 
 Death-like he dozes among heaps of dead 1 
 
ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAR. 139 
 
 (The strife is o'er, the day-light fled, 
 And the night-wiud clamours hoarse ! 
 
 See ! the starting wretch's head 
 Lies pillowed on a brother's corse !) 
 
 Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile, 
 Albion ! my mother Isle ! 
 Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers. 
 Glitter green with sunny showers ; 
 Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells 
 
 Echo to the bleat of flocks ; 
 (Those grassy hills, those glittering dells 
 
 Proudly ramparted with rocks) 
 And Ocean mid his uproar wild 
 Speaks safety to his island-child. 
 
 Hence for many a fearless age 
 
 Has social Quiet loved thy shore ; 
 
 Nor ever proud invader's rage 
 Or sacked thy towers, or stained thy fields with gore. 
 
 Abandoned of Heaven ! mad avarice thy guide. 
 At cowardly distance, yet kindling with pride — 
 Mid thy herds and thy corn-fields secure thou hast 
 
 stood. 
 And joined the wild yelling of famine and blood ! 
 The nations curse thee ! They with eager wondering 
 
 Shall hear Destruction, like a vulture, scream ! 
 
 Strange-eyed Destruction ! who with many a dream 
 Of central fires through nether seas upthundering 
 
 Soothes her fierce solitude ; yet as she lies 
 
 By livid fount, or red volcanic stream, 
 
 If ever to her lidless dragon-eyes, 
 
 Albion ! thy predestined ruins rise, 
 The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap, 
 Muttering distempered triumph in her charmed sleep. 
 
110 FRANCE. AN ODE. 
 
 IX. 
 
 Away, my soul, away ! 
 In ;7ain, in vain the birds of warning sing — 
 And hark ! I hear the famished brood of prey 
 Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind ! 
 Away, my soul, away ! 
 I unpartaking of the evil thing. 
 With daily prayer and daily toil 
 Soliciting for food my scanty soil. 
 Have wailed my coxmtry with a loud Lament. 
 Now I recentre my immortal mind 
 
 In the deep sabbath of meek self-content ; 
 Cleansed from the vaporous passions that bedim 
 God's Image, sister of the Seraphim. 
 
 FRANCE. AN ODE. 
 
 Ye Clouds ! that far above me float and pause, 
 Whose pathless march no mortal may control \ 
 Ye Ocean-Waves ! that, wheresoe'er ye roll. 
 
 Yield homage only to eternal laws ! 
 
 Ye Woods ! that listen to the night-birds singing, 
 Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined. 
 
 Save when your own imperious branches swinging, 
 Have made a solemn music of the wind ! 
 
 Where, like a man beloved of God, 
 
 Through glooms, which never woodman trod, 
 How oft, pursuing fancies holy, 
 
 My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound, 
 Inspired, beyond the guess of folly, 
 
 By each rude shape and. wild unconquerable sound ! 
 
 O ye loud Waves ! and ye Forests high ! 
 And ye clouds that far above me soared ! 
 
 Thou rising Sun ! thou blue rejoicing Sky , 
 
FHANCE. AN ODE. 141 
 
 Yea, every thing that is and will be free ! 
 Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be, 
 With what deep worship I have still adored 
 The spirit of divinest Liberty. 
 
 When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared, 
 
 And with that oath, which smote air, earth and sea. 
 
 Stamped her strong foot and said she would be free, 
 Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared ! 
 With what a joy my lofty gratulation 
 
 Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band : 
 And when to whelm the disenchanted nation, 
 
 Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand, 
 The Monarchs marched in evil day, 
 And Britain joined the dire array ; 
 
 Though dear her shores and circling ocean, ' 
 Though many friendships, many youthful loves 
 
 Had swol'n the patriot emotion 
 And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and gi'oves ; 
 Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat 
 
 To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance. 
 And shame too long delayed and vain retreat ! 
 For ne'er, Liberty ! with partial aim 
 I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame ; 
 
 But blessed the pseans of delivered France, 
 And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. 
 
 "And what," I said, "though Blasphemy's loud scream 
 
 With that sweeb music of deliverance stro-ve ! 
 
 Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove 
 A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream ! 
 
 Ye storms, that round the dawning east assembled. 
 The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light ! " 
 
 And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and 
 trembled;- 
 The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and 
 bright ; 
 
142 FRANCE. AN ODE. 
 
 When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory 
 Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory ; 
 
 When, insupportably advancing, 
 Her arm made mockery of the warrior's tramp ; 
 
 While timid looks of fury glancing, 
 Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp, 
 Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore ; 
 
 Then I reproached my fears that would not jS.ee ; 
 " And soon," I said, " shall Wisdom teach her lore 
 In the low huts of them that toil and groan ! 
 And, conquering by her happiness alone, 
 
 Shall France compel the nations to be free. 
 Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Earth 
 their own." 
 
 Forgive me. Freedom ! forgive those dreams ! 
 I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament. 
 From bleak Helvetia's icy cavern sent — 
 
 I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams ! 
 Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished, 
 
 And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountiun-snows 
 
 With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I cherished 
 
 One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes ! 
 To scatter rage, and traitoroias guilt, 
 Where Peace her jealous home had built ; 
 A patriot-race to disinherit 
 
 Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear ; 
 And with inexpiable spirit 
 
 To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer — 
 
 France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, bUnd, 
 And patriot only in pernicious toils, 
 
 Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind ] 
 To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway. 
 Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey; 
 To insult the shrine of Libei'ty with spoils 
 From freemen torn ; to tempt and to betray ] 
 
FEAES IN SOLITUDE. Ii3 
 
 The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, 
 Slaves by their own compulsion ! In mad game 
 They burst their manacles and wear the name 
 
 Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain ! 
 Liberty ! with profitless endeavour 
 Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour ; 
 
 But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nnr ever 
 Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. 
 Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee, 
 (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays tliee) 
 
 Alike from Priestcraft's barpy minions, 
 And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves, 
 Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, 
 The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the 
 
 waves ! 
 And there I felt tbee ! — on that sea-cliff's verge, 
 
 Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above. 
 
 Had made one murmur with the distant surge ! 
 
 Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare, 
 
 And shot my being through earth, sea and air, 
 
 Possessing all things with intensest love, 
 
 Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there. 
 
 Fthraary, 1797. 
 
 FEARS IN SOLITUDE, 
 
 WPJTTEN IN AVEIL, 1793, DURING THE ALARM OF AN INVASION. 
 
 A GKEEN and silent spot, amid the hills, 
 
 A small and silent dell ! O'er stiller place 
 
 No singling sky-lark ever poised himself. 
 
 The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope. 
 
 Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on. 
 
 All golden with the never-bloomlcss furze. 
 
 Which now blooms most profusely : but the dell, 
 
144 FEARS IN SOLITUDE. 
 
 Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate 
 As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax, 
 When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve, 
 The level sunshine glimmers with green light. 
 Oh ! 'tis a quiet spirit-healiug nook ! 
 Which all, methinks, would love ; but chiefly he. 
 The humble man, who, in his youthful years, 
 Knew just so much of folly, as had made 
 His early manhood more securely wise ! 
 Here he might lie on fern or withered heath, 
 While from the singing-lark (that sings unseen 
 The minstrelsy that solitude loves best,) 
 And from the sun, and from the breezy air, 
 Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame ; 
 And he, with many feelings, many' thoughts, 
 Made up a meditative joy, and found 
 Religious meanings in the forms of nature ! 
 And so, his senses gradually wrapt 
 In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds. 
 And dreaming hears thee still, singing-lark ; 
 That singest like an angel in the clouds ! 
 
 My God ! it is a melancholy thing 
 For such a man, who would full fain preserve 
 His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel 
 For all his human brethren — my God ! 
 It weighs upon the heart, that he must think 
 What iiproar and what strife may now be stirrihg 
 This way or that way o'er these silent hills — 
 Invasion, and the thunder and the shout. 
 And all the ci*ash of onset ; fear and rage, 
 And undetermined conflict — even now, 
 Even now, perchance, and in his native isle : 
 Carnage and groans beneath this blessed sun ! 
 We have ofiended, Oh ! my countrymen ! 
 We have ofi'ended very grievously, 
 And been most tyrannous. From east to west 
 A groan of accusation pierces Heaven ! 
 The wretched plead against us ; multitudes 
 Countless and vehement, the sons of God, 
 
FEARS IN SOLITUDE. 145 
 
 Our brethren ! Like a cloud that travels on, 
 
 Steamed up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence. 
 
 Even so, my coimtrymen ! have we gone forth 
 
 And borne to distant tribes slaveiy and pangs, 
 
 And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint 
 
 With slow perdition murders the whole man. 
 
 His body and his soul ! Meanwhile, at home, 
 
 All individual dignity and power 
 
 Engulfed in courts, committees, institutions. 
 
 Associations and societies, 
 
 A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting guild, 
 
 One benefit-club for mutual flattery, 
 
 "We have drunk up, demure as at a grace, 
 
 Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth ; 
 
 Contemptuous of all honourable rule, 
 
 Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life 
 
 For gold, as at a market ! The sweet words 
 
 Of Christian promise, words that even yet 
 
 Might stem destruction, were they wisely preached, 
 
 Are muttered o'er by men, whose tones proclaim 
 
 How flat and wearisome they fael their trade : 
 
 Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent 
 
 To deem them falsehoods or to know their truth. 
 
 Oh ! blasphemous ! the book of life is made 
 
 A superstitious instrument, on which 
 
 We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break ; 
 
 For all must swear — all and in every place, 
 
 College and wharf, council and justice-court ; 
 
 All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed, 
 
 Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest. 
 
 The rich, the poor, the old man and the young ; 
 
 AH, all make up one scheme of perjury. 
 
 That faith doth reel ; the very name of God 
 
 Sounds like a juggler's charm ; and, bold with joy, 
 
 Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place, 
 
 (Portentous sight !) the owlet Atheism, 
 
 Sailing on obscene wings athwart the nooD, 
 
 Drops his blue-fj;inged lids, and holds them close, 
 
 And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven, 
 
 Cries out, " Where is it ? " 
 
116 FEARS IN SOLITUDE. 
 
 Thankless too for peace, 
 (Peace loug preserved by fleets and pei-ilous seas) 
 Secure from actual warfare, we have loved 
 To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war ! 
 Alas ! for ages ignorant of all 
 Its ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague, 
 Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows,) 
 "We, this whole people, have been clamorous 
 For war and bloodshed ; animating sportf^, 
 The which we pay for as a thing to talk of. 
 Spectators and not combatants ! ISTo guess 
 Anticipative of a wrong unfelt, 
 No speculation or contingency, 
 However dim and vague, too vague and dim 
 To yield a justifying cause; and forth, 
 (Stufi'ed out with big preamble, holy names. 
 And adjui-ations of the God in Heaven,) 
 We send our mandates for the certain death 
 Of thousands, and ten thousands ! Boys and girls, 
 And women, that would groan to see a child 
 Pull ofi" an insect's leg, all read of war. 
 The best amusement for our morning-meal ! 
 The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers 
 From curses, who knows scarcely words enough 
 To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father, 
 Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute 
 And technical in victories and defeats, 
 And all our dainty terms for fratricide ; 
 Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues 
 Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which 
 We join no feeling and attach no form ! 
 As if the soldier died without a wound ; 
 As if the fibres of this godlike frame 
 Were gored without a pang; as if the wretch, 
 Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds, 
 Passed off to Heaven, translated and not killed ; 
 As though he had no wife to pine for him, 
 No God to judge him ! Therefore, evil days 
 Are coming on us, my countrymen ! 
 And what if all-avenging Providence, 
 
 I 
 I 
 
FEARS IN SOLITUDE. 147 
 
 Strong and retributive, should make us know 
 The meaning of our words, force us to feel 
 The desolation and the agony 
 Of our fierce doings ! 
 
 Spare us yet awhile, 
 Father and God ! ! spare us yet awhile ! 
 Oh ! let not English women drag their flight 
 Fainting beneath the burthen of theh' babes, 
 Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday 
 Laughed at the breast ! Sons, brothers, husbands, all 
 Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms 
 "Which grew up with you round the same fire-side, 
 And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells 
 Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves pure ! 
 Stand forth ! be men ! repel an impious foe, 
 Impious and false, a light yet cruel race. 
 Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth 
 With deeds of murder; and still promising 
 Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free 
 Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart 
 Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes 
 And all that lifts the spirit ! Stand we forth ; 
 Render them back upon the insulted ocean, 
 Ajid let them toss as idly on its waves 
 As the vile sea- weed, which some mountain-blast 
 Swept from our shores ! And oh ! may we return 
 Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear. 
 Repenting of the wrongs with which we stung 
 So fierce a foe to frenzy ! 
 
 I have told, 
 Britons ! my brethren ! I hare told 
 Most bitter truth, but without bitterness. 
 Nor deem my zeal or factious or mis-timed ; 
 For never can true conrage dwell with them, 
 Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look 
 At their own vices. We have been too long 
 Dupes of a deep delusion ! Some, belike, 
 Groaning with restless enmity, expect 
 
14S FEARS IN SOLITUDE. 
 
 All change from change of constituted power 
 
 As if a Government had been a robe, 
 
 On which our vice and wretchedness were tagged 
 
 Like fancy -points and fringes, with the robe 
 
 Pulled off at pleasure. Fondly these attach 
 
 A radical causation to a few 
 
 Poor drudges of chastising Providence, 
 
 Who borrow all their hues and qualities 
 
 From our own folly and rank wickedness. 
 
 Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others, 
 
 meanwhile, 
 Dote with a mad idolatry ; and all 
 Who will not fall before their images, 
 And yield them worship, they are enemies 
 Even of their country ! 
 
 Such have I been deemed — 
 But, dear Britain ! my Mother Isle ! 
 Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy 
 To me, a son, a brother, and a friend, 
 A husband, and a father ! who revere 
 All bonds of natural love, and find them all 
 Within the limits of thy rocky shores. 
 
 native Britain ! 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 Hfe, 
 
 All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts, 
 
 All adoration of the God in nature. 
 
 All lovely and all honourable things, 
 
 Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel 
 
 The joy and greatness of its future being] 
 
 There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul 
 
 Utiborrowed from my country. divine 
 
 And beauteous island ! thou hast been my sole 
 
 And most magnificent temple, in the which 
 
 1 walk with awe, and sing my stately songs. 
 Loving the God that made me ! 
 
FEARS IN SOLITUDE. 149 
 
 May my fears, 
 My filial fears, be vain ! and may the vaunts 
 And menace of the vengeful enemy 
 Pass like tlie gust, that roared and died away 
 In the distant tree : which heard, and only heard 
 In this low dell, bowed not the delicate grass. 
 
 But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad 
 The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze : 
 The light has left the summit of the hill, 
 Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful, 
 Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell. 
 Farewell, awhile, soft and silent spot ! 
 On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill, 
 Homeward I wind my way ; and lo ! recalled 
 From bodingg that have well nigh wearied me 
 I find myself upon the brow, and pause 
 Startled ! And after lonely sojourning 
 In such a quiet and surrounded nook. 
 This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main, 
 Dim tinted, there the mighty majesty 
 Of that huge amphitheatre of rich 
 And elmy fields, seems like society — 
 Conversing with the mind, and giving it 
 A livelier impulse and a dance of thought ! 
 And now, beloved Stowey ! I behold 
 Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms 
 Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend ; 
 And close behind them, hidden from my view, 
 Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe 
 And my babe's mother dwell in peace ! With light 
 And quickened footsteps thitherward I tend, 
 Eemembering thee, green and silent dell ! 
 And grateful, that by nature's quietness 
 And solitary musings, all my heart 
 Is softened, and made worthy to indulge 
 Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind. 
 
 Nether Stowey, 
 Apnl 2Sth, 1798. 
 
150 
 
 FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. 
 
 APOLOGETIC PREPAC3. 
 
 At the house of a gentleman, who, by the principles 
 and corresponding virtues of a sincere Christian, con- 
 secrates a cultivated genius and the favourable accidents 
 of birth, opulence, and splendid connexions, it was my 
 good fortune to meet, in a dinner-party, with more men 
 of celebrity in science or polite literature, than are com- 
 monly found collected round the same table. In the 
 course of conversation, one of the party reminded an 
 illustrious poet, then present, of some verses which he 
 had recited that morning, and which had appeared in a 
 newspaper under the name of a War-Eclogue, in which 
 Fire, Famine, and Slaughter were introduced as the 
 speakers. The gentleman so addressed replied, that he 
 was rather surprised that none of us should have noticed 
 or heard of the poem, as it had been, at the time, a good 
 deal talked of in Scotland. It may be easily supposed, 
 that my feelings were at this moment not of the most 
 comfortable kind. Of all present, one only knew, or 
 suspected me to be the author ; a man who would have 
 established himself in the first rank of England's living 
 poets, if the Genius of our country had not decreed that 
 he should rather be the first in the first rank of its phi- 
 losophers and scientific benefactors. It appeared the 
 general wish to hear the lines. As my friend chose 
 to remain silent, I chose to follow his example, and 
 Mr, ***** recited the poem. This he could do with 
 the better grace, being known to have ever been not only 
 a firm and active Anti-Jacobin and Anti-Gallican, but 
 likewise a zealous admirer of Mr. Pitt, both as a good 
 man and a great statesman. As a poet exclusively, 
 he had been amused with the Eclogue ; as a poet he 
 recited it ; and in a spirit, which made it evident, that 
 
FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. l-.l 
 
 he would have read and repeated it with the sarae plea- 
 sure, had his own name been attached to the imaginary 
 object or agent. 
 
 After the recitation, our amiable host observed, that in 
 his opinion ]\Ir. ***** had over-rated the merits of the 
 poetry ; but had they been tenfold greater, they could 
 not have compensated for that malignity of heart, which 
 could alone have prompted sentiments so atrocious. I 
 perceived that my illustrious friend became greatly dis- 
 tressed on my account ; but fortunately I was able to 
 preserve fortitude and presence of mind enough to take 
 up the subject without exciting even a suspicion how 
 nearly and painfully it interested me. 
 
 What follows, is the substance of what I then replied, 
 but dilated and in language less colloquial. It was not 
 my intention, I said, to justify the publication, what- 
 ever its author's feelings might have been at-the time of 
 composing it. That they are calculated to call forth 
 so severe a reprobation from a good man, is not the 
 worst feature of such poems. Their moral deformity is 
 aggravated in proportion to the pleasure which they are 
 capable of affording to vindictive, turbulent, and un- 
 principled readers. Could it be supposed, though for a 
 moment, that the author seriously wished what he had 
 thus wildly imagined, even the attempt to palliate an 
 inhumanity so monstrous would be an insult to the 
 hearers. But it seemed to me worthy of consideration, 
 whether the mood of mind, and the general state of sen- 
 sations, in which a poet produces such vivid and fantastic 
 images, is likely to co-exist, or is even compatible with, 
 that gloomy and deliberate ferocity which a serious wish 
 to realise them would pre-suppose. It had been often 
 observed, and all my experience tended to confirm the 
 observation, that prospects of pain and evil to others, 
 and in general, all deep feelings of revenge, are com- 
 monly expressed in a few words, ironically tame, and 
 mild. The mind under so direful and fiend-like an in- 
 fluence seems to take a morbid pleasure in contrasticg 
 the intensity of its wishes and feelings, with the sliglit- 
 ness or levity of the expressions by which they are 
 
152 FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. 
 
 hinted ; and indeed feelings so intense and solitary, if 
 they "were not precluded (as in almost all cases they 
 would be) by a constitutional activity of fancy and asso- 
 ciation, and by the specific joyousness combined with 
 it, would assuredly themselves preclude such activity. 
 Passion, in its own quality, is the antagonist of action ; 
 though in an ordinary and natural degree the former 
 alternates with the latter, and thereby revives and 
 strengthens it. But the more intense and insane the 
 passion is, the fewer and the more fixed are the cor- 
 respondent forms and notions. A rooted hatred, an 
 inveterate thirst of revenge, is a sort of madness, and 
 still eddies round its favourite object, and exercises as 
 it were a perpetual tautology of mind in thoughts and 
 words, which admit of no adequate substitutes. Like a 
 fish in a globe of glass, it moves restlessly round and 
 round the scanty circumference, which it cannot leave 
 without losing its vital element. 
 
 There is a second character of such imaginary repre- 
 sentations as spring from a real and earnest desire of evil 
 to another, which we often see in real life, and might 
 even anticipate from the nature of the mind. The 
 images, I mean, that a vindictive man places before his 
 imagination, will most often be taken from the realities 
 of life : they will be images of pain and suffering which 
 he has himself seen inflicted on other men, and which 
 he can fancy himself as inflicting on the object of his 
 hatred. I will suppose that we had heard at different 
 times two common sailors, each speaking of some one 
 who had wronged or offended him : that the first with 
 apparent violence had devoted every part of his adver- 
 sary's body and soul to all the horrid ■ phantoms and 
 fantastic places that ever Quevedo dreamt of, and this 
 in a rapid flow of those outrageous and wildly combined 
 execrations, which too often with our lower classes sen'-e 
 for escape-valves to carry off the excess of their passions, 
 as so much superfluous steam that would endanger the 
 vessel if it were retained. The other, on the contrary, 
 with that sort of calmness of tone which is to the ear 
 what the paleness of anger is to the eye, shall simply 
 
FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. 153 
 
 say, " If I chance to be made boatswain, as I bope I 
 soon sball, and can but once get that fellow under my 
 hand (and I shall be upon the watch for him), I'll tickle 
 his pretty skin ! I won't hurt him ! oh no ! I'll only 
 
 cut the to the liver ! " I dare appeal to all present, 
 
 which of the two they would regard as the least decep- 
 tive symptom of deliberate malignity ? nay, whether it 
 would surprise them to see the first feUow, an hour or 
 two afterwards, cordially shaking hands with the very 
 man, the fractional parts of whose body and soul he had 
 been so charitably disposing of ; or even perhaps risking 
 his life" for him. "What language Shakespeare considered 
 characteristic of malignant disposition, we see in the 
 speech of the good-natured Gratiano, who spoke "an 
 infinite deal of nothing more than any man in all 
 Venice ; " 
 
 — " Too wild, too rude and bold of voica !" 
 
 the skipping spirit, whose thoughts and words recipro- 
 cally ran away with each other ; 
 
 " be thou damn'd, inexorable dog ! 
 
 And for thy life let justice be accused ! " 
 
 and the wild fancies that follow, contrasted with Shy- 
 lock's tranquil "I stand here for Law." 
 
 Or, to take a case more analogous to the present 
 subject, should we hold it either fair or charitable to 
 believe it to have been Dante's serious msh, that all the 
 persons mentioned by him (many recently departed, and 
 some even alive at the time), should actually sufi"er the 
 fantastic and horrible punishments, to which he has 
 sentenced them in his Hell and Purgatory ? Or what 
 shall we say of the passages in which Bishop Jeremy 
 Taylor anticipates the state of those who, vicious them- 
 selves, have been the cause of vice and misery to their 
 fellow-creatures. Could we endure for a moment to 
 think that a spirit, like Bishop Taylor's, burning with 
 Christian love ; that a man constitutionally overflowing 
 with pleasurable kindliness ; who scarcely even in a 
 
154 FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. 
 
 casual illustration introduces tlie image of woman, child, 
 or bird, but lie embalms the thought with so rich a 
 tenderness, as makes the very words seem beauties and 
 fragments of poetry from Euripides or Simonides ; — can 
 we endure to think, that a man so natured and so 
 disciplined, did at the time of composing this horrible 
 picture, attach a sober feeling of reality to the phrases ? 
 or that he would have described in the same tone of 
 justification, in the same luxuriant flow of phrases, the 
 tortures about to be inflicted on a living individual by a 
 verdict of the Star-Chamber ? or the still more atrocious 
 sentences executed on the Scotch anti-prelatists and 
 schismatics, at the command, and in some instances 
 under the very eye of the Diike of Lauderdale, and of 
 that wretched bigot who afterwards dishonoured and 
 forfeited the throne of Great Britain ? Or do we not 
 rather feel and understand, that these violent words were 
 mere bubbles, flashes and electrical apparitions, from 
 the magic cauldron of a fervid and ebullient fancy, con- 
 stantly fuelled by an unexampled opulence of language. 
 
 Were I now to have read by myself for the first time 
 the poem in question, my conclusion, I fully believe, 
 \\'Ould be, that the writer must have been some man of 
 warm feelings and active fancy ; that he had painted to 
 himself the circumstances that accompany war in so 
 many vivid and yet fantastic forms, as proved that 
 neither the images nor the feelings were the result of 
 observation, or in any way derived from realities. I 
 shoiild judge, that they were the product of his own 
 seething imagination, and therefore impregnated 'with. 
 that pleasurable exultation which is experienced in all 
 energetic exertion of intellectual power ; that in the 
 same mood he had generalised the causes of the war, and 
 then personified the abstract and christened it by the 
 name which he had been accustomed to hear most often 
 associated with its management and measures. I should 
 guess that the minister v»^as in the author's mind at 
 the moment of composition, as completely airadrjs, avai- 
 uoaapKos, as Anacreon's grasshopper, and that he had as 
 little notion of a real person of flesh and blood, 
 
FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTEE. 155 
 
 " Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb," 
 
 as Milton had in the grim and terrible phantoms (half 
 person, half allegory) which he has placed at the gates 
 of Hell. I concluded by observing, that the poem was 
 not calculated to excite passion in any mind, or to make 
 any impression except on poetic readers ; and that from 
 the culpable levity, betrayed at the close of the eclogue 
 by the grotesque union of epigrammatic wit with allegoric 
 personification, in the allusion to the most fearful of 
 thoughts, I should conjecture that the "rantin' Bardie," 
 instead of really believing, much less wishing, the fate 
 spoken of in the last line, in application to any human 
 individual, would shrink from passing the verdict even 
 on the Devil himself, and exclaim with poor Burns, 
 
 But fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben ! 
 Oh ! wad ye tak a thought an' men ! 
 Ye aiblius might — I dinna ken — 
 
 Still hae a stake — ■ - 
 I'm wae to thmk upon you den, 
 
 Ev'n for your sake. 
 
 I need not say that these thoughts, which are here 
 dilated, were in such a company only rapidly suggested. 
 Our kind host smiled, and with a courteous compliment 
 observed, that the defence was too good for the cause. 
 Jly voice faltered a little, for I was somewhat agitated ; 
 though not so much on my own account as for the 
 uneasiness that so kind a.nd friendly a man would feel 
 from the thought that he had been the occasion of dis- 
 tressing me. At length I brought out these words : 
 "I must now confess, Sir! that I am author of that 
 poem. It was written some years ago, I do not attempt 
 to justify my past self, young as I then was ; but as 
 little as I would now write a similar poem, so far was 
 I even then from imagining, that the lines would be 
 taken as more or less than a sport of fancy. At all 
 events, if I know my own heart, there was never a 
 moment in my existence in which I should have been 
 more ready, had J\lr. Pitt's person been in hazard, to 
 interpose my own body, and defend his life at the ri^k 
 of my own." 
 
158 FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER, 
 
 I have prefaced the poem with this anecdote, because 
 to have printed it without any remark might well have 
 been understood as implying an unconditional approba- 
 tion on my part, and this after many years' consideration. 
 But if it be asked why I re-published it at all, I answer, 
 that the poem had been attributed at diiferent times to 
 different other persons ; and what I had dared beget, I 
 thought it neither manly nor honourable not to dare 
 father. From the same motives I should have published 
 perfect copies of two poems, the one entitled The Devil's 
 Thoughts, and the other. The Two Round Spaces on the 
 Tomb-Stone,* but that the first three stanzas of the 
 former, which were worth all the rest of the poem, and 
 the best stanza of the remainder, were written by a 
 friend of deserved celebrity ; and because there are 
 passages in both, which might have given offence to the 
 religious feelings of certain readers. I myself indeed 
 see no reason why vulgar superstitions, and absurd con- 
 ceptions that deform the pure faith of a Christian, should 
 possess a greater immunity from ridicule than stories of 
 witches, or the fables of Grreece and Rome. But there 
 are those who deem it profaneness and irreverence to 
 call an ape an ape, if it but wear a monk's cowl on its 
 head ; and I would rather reason with this weakness 
 than offend it. 
 
 The passage from Jeremy Taylor to which I referred, 
 is found in his second Sermon on Christ's Advent to 
 Judgment ; which is likewise the second in his year's 
 
 * Both these poems were subsequently admitted by the 
 author into the general collection of his poetical works ; " The 
 Devil's Thoughts," in 1828, with the omission of several stan- 
 zas, afterwards restored ; the "Two Round Spaces on a Tomb- 
 stone," in 1834, with a statement prefixed, in which he 
 expressed a regret that this sportive production of his yoiith, 
 then for the first time published by himself, had not been 
 allowed to perish. In the pi-esent edition the former piece is 
 retained, the latter omitted, as the course which appears to 
 the, Editors most agreeable to the implied wish and judgment 
 of the author. "The Devil's Thoughts," under the name of 
 " The Devil's Walk," has also been published with large addi- 
 tions by Mr. Southcy, Poetical Works, vol. iii., p. 83. — Edd. 
 
FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. 157 
 
 course of sermons. Among many remarkable passages 
 of the same character in those discourses, I have selected 
 this as the most so. ' ' But when this Lion of the tribe 
 of Judah shall appear, then Justice shall strike, and 
 Mercy shall not hold her hands ; she shall strike sore 
 strokes, and Pity shall not break the blow. As there 
 are treasui'es of good things, so hath God a treasure of 
 wrath and fury, and scoiu-ges and scorpions ; and then 
 shall be produced the shame of lust and the malice of 
 envy, and the groans of the oppressed and the perse- 
 cutions of the saints, and the cares of covetousness and 
 the troubles of ambition, and the indolence of traitors 
 and the violence of rebels, and the rage of anger and 
 the uneasiness of impatience, and the restlessness of 
 unlawful desires ; and by this time the monsters and 
 diseases will be numerous and intolerable, when God's 
 heavy hand shall press the sanies and the intolerableness, 
 the obliquity and the unreasonableness, the amazement 
 and the disorder, the smart and the sorrow, the guilt 
 and the punishment, out from all our sins, and pour 
 them into one chalice, and mingle them with an infinite 
 wrath, and make the wicked drink off all the vengeance, 
 and force it do^vn their unwilliog throats with the 
 violence of devils and accursed spirits. 
 
 That this Tartarean drench displays the imagination 
 rather than the discretion of the compounder ; that, in 
 short, this passage and others of the same kind are in a 
 bad taste, few will deny at the present day. It would, 
 doubtless, have more behoved the good bishop not to 
 be wise beyond what is written on a subject in which 
 Eternity is opposed to Time, and a death threatened, 
 not the negative, but the positive Opposite of Life ; a 
 subject, therefore, which must of necessity be inde- 
 scribable to the human understanding in our present 
 state. But I can neither find nor believe, that it ever 
 occurred to any reader to ground on such passages a 
 charge against Bishop Taylor's humanity, or goodness of 
 heart. I was not a little surprised therefore to find, in 
 the Pursuits of Literature and other works, so horrible 
 a sentence passed on Milton's moral character, for a 
 
158 FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTEB. 
 
 passage in his prose writings, as nearly parallel to this 
 of Taylor's as two passages can well be conceived to be. 
 All his merits, as a poet, forsooth — all the glory of 
 having written the Paradise Lost, are light in the scale, 
 nay, kick the beam, compared with the atrocious 
 malignity of heart, expressed in the offensive paragraph. 
 I remembered, in general, that Milton had concluded 
 one of his works on Reformation, written in the fervour 
 of his youthful imagination, in a high poetic strain, that 
 wanted metre only to become a lyrical poem. I remem- 
 bered that in the former part he had formed to himself 
 a perfect ideal of human virtue, a character of heroic, 
 disinterested zeal and devotion for Truth, Religion, and 
 public Liberty, in act and in suffering, in the day of 
 triumph and in the hour of martyrdom. Such spirits, 
 as more excellent than others, he describes as having a 
 more excellent reward, and as distinguished by a trans- 
 cendant glory : and this reward and this glory he 
 displays and particularises with an energy and brilliance 
 that announced the Paradise Lost as plainly, as ever 
 the bright purple clouds in the east announced the 
 coming of the Sun. Milton then passes to the gloomy 
 contrast, to such men as from motives of selfish ambition 
 and the lust of personal aggrandisement should, 
 against their own light, .persecute truth and the true 
 religion, and wilfully abuse the powers and gifts entrusted 
 to them, to bring vice, blindness, misery and sla-^ery, 
 on their native country, on the very country that had 
 trusted, enriched and honoured them. Such beings, 
 after that. speedy and appropriate removal from their 
 sphere of mischief which all good and humane men must 
 of course desire, will, he takes for granted by parity of 
 reason, meet with a punishment, an ignominy, and a 
 retaliation, as much severer than other wicked men, as 
 their guilt and its consequences were more enormous. 
 His description of this imaginary punishment presents 
 more distinct pictures to the fancy than the extract from 
 Jeremy Taylor ; but the thoughts in the latter are 
 incomparably more exaggerated and horrific. All this 
 I knew ; but I neither remembered, nor by reference 
 
FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. 159 
 
 and careful re-perusal could discover, any other meaning, 
 either in Milton or Taylor, but that good men will be 
 rewarded, and the impenitent wicked punished, in pro- 
 portion to their dispositions and intentional acts in this 
 life ; and that if the punishment of the least wicked be 
 fearful beyond conception, all words and descriptions 
 must be so far true, that they must fall short of the 
 punishment that awaits the transcendantly wicked. 
 Had Milton stated either his ideal of virtue, or of depra- 
 vity, as an individual or individuals actually existing ? 
 Certainly not. Is this representation worded historically, 
 or only hypothetically ? Assuredly the latter. Does he 
 express it as his own wish, that after death they should 
 suffer these tortures ? or as a general consequence, 
 deduced from reason and revelation, that such will be 
 their fate ? Again, the latter only. His wish is ex- 
 pressly confined to a speedy stop being put by Providence 
 to their power of inflicting misery on others. But did 
 he name or refer to any persons living or dead ? No. 
 But the calumniators of Milton dare say (for what will 
 calumny not dare say ?) that he had Laud and Strafford 
 in his mind, while writing of remorseless persecution, 
 and the enslavement of a free country, from motives of 
 selfish ambition, lifow, what if a stern anti-prelatist 
 should dare say, that in speaking of the insolencies of 
 traitors and the violences of rebels. Bishop Taylor must 
 have individualised in his mind, Hampden, Hollis, Pym, 
 Fairfax, Ireton, and Milton ? And what if he should 
 take the liberty of concluding, that, in the after descrip- 
 tion, the Bishop was feeding and feasting his party- 
 hatred, and with those individuals before the eyes of his 
 imagination enjoying, trait by trait, horror after horror, 
 the picture of their intolerable agonies ? Yet this bigot 
 would have an equal right thus to eliminate the one 
 good and gi-eat man, as these men have to criminate the 
 other. Milton has said, and I doubt not but that' Taylor 
 with equal truth could have said it, ' ' that in his whole 
 life he never spake against a man even that his skin 
 should be grazed." He asserted this when one of his 
 opponents (either Bishop Hall or his nephew) had called 
 
160 FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. 
 
 upon tlie'woinen and cMldren in the streets to take up 
 stones and stone him (Milton), It is known that Milton 
 repeatedly used his interest to protect the royalists ; but 
 even at a time when all lies would have been meritorious 
 against him, no charge was made, no story pretended, 
 that he had ever directly or indirectly engaged or assisted 
 in their persecution. Oh ! methinks there are other 
 and far better feelings, which should be acquired by the 
 perusal of our great elder writers. When I have before 
 me on the same table, the works of Hammond and 
 Baxter : when I reflect "v^ith what joy and deamess their 
 blessed spirits are now loving each other : it seems a 
 mournful thing that their names should be perverted to 
 an occasion of bitterness among us, who are enjoying 
 that happy mean which the human too-much on both 
 sides was perhaps necessary to produce. ' * The tangle of 
 delusions which stifled and distorted the growing tree of 
 our well-being has been torn away ; the parasite-weeds 
 that fed on its very roots have been plucked up with a 
 salutary violence. To us there remain only quiet duties, 
 the constant care, the gradual improvement, the cautious 
 unhazardous labours of the industrious though contented 
 gardener — to prune, to strengthen, to engraft, and one 
 by one to remove from its leaves and fresh shoots the 
 slug and the caterpillar. But far be it from us to 
 undervalue with light and senseless detraction the con- 
 scientious hardihood of our predecessors, or even to 
 condemn in them that vehemence, to which the blessings 
 it won for us leave us now neither temptation nor pre- 
 text. We ante-date the feelings, in order to criminate 
 the authors, of our present liberty, light and toleration." * 
 If ever two great men might seem, during their whole 
 lives, to have moved in direct opposition, though neither 
 ■of them has at any time introduced the name of the 
 other, Milton and Jeremy Taylor were they. The former 
 commenced his career by attacking the Chiu'ch- Liturgy 
 and all set forms of prayer. The latter, but far more 
 successfully, by defending both. Milton's next work 
 
 * The Friend, vol. i., p. 81. 
 
FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. IGl 
 
 was tlien against tlie Prelacy and tlie tlien existing 
 Churcli- Government — Taylor's in vindication and sup- 
 port of them. Milton became more and more a stern 
 republican, or rather an advocate for that religious and 
 moral aristocracy which, in his day, wa-s called republi- 
 canism, and which, even more than royalism itself, is 
 the direct antipode of modern jacobinism. Taylor, as 
 more and more sceptical concerning the fitness of men in 
 general for power, became more and more attached to 
 the prerogatives of monarchy. From Calvinism with a 
 still decreasing respect for Fathers, Councils, and for 
 Church-antiquity in general, Milton seems to have ended 
 in an indifference, if not a dislike, to all forms of 
 ecclesiastic government, and to have retreated wholly 
 into the inward and spiritual church -communion of his 
 own spirit with the Light, that lighteth every man that 
 Cometh into the world. Taylor, with a growing reve- 
 rence for authority, an increasing sense of the insuffi- 
 ciency of the Scriptures without the aids of tradition 
 and the consent of authorised interpreters, advanced as 
 far in his approaches (not indeed to Popery, but) to 
 Roman-Catholicism, as a conscientious minister of the 
 English Church could well venture. Milton would be, 
 and would utter the same, to all, on all occasions : he 
 would tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but 
 the truth. Taylor would become all things to all men, 
 if by any means he might benefit any ; hence he availed 
 himself, in his popular writings, of opinions and repre- 
 sentations which stand often in striking contrast with 
 the doubts and convictions expressed in his more pliilo- 
 sophical works. He appears, indeed, not too severely 
 to have blamed that management of truth (istam 
 falsitatem dispensativam) authorised and exemplified by 
 almost all the fathers : Integrum omnino doctoribus et 
 ccetus Christiani antistitibus esse, ut doles versent, falsa 
 veris intermisceant et imprimis religionis hostes fallant, 
 dummodo veritatis commodis et utilitati inserviant. * 
 
 * Such is the unwillincr coufessiou of Ribof {Program, de 
 (Economid Patrum) quoted iu the Frieud, vol. i., p. 41. 
 
162 FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. 
 
 The same antithesis miglit be carried on witli tlie 
 elements of their several intellectual powers. Milton, 
 austere, condensed, imaginative, supporting his truth by 
 direct enunciation of lofty moral sentiment and by 
 distinct visual representations, and in the same spirit 
 overwhelming what he deemed falsehood by moral 
 denunciation and a succession of pictures appalling or 
 repulsive. In his prose, so many metaphors, so many 
 allegorical miniatures. Taylor, eminently discursive, 
 accumulative, and (to use one of his own words) agglo- 
 merative ; still more rich in images than Milton himself, 
 but images of fancy, and presented to the common and 
 passive eye, rather than to the eye of the imagination. 
 Whether supporting or assailing, he makes his way 
 either by argument or by appeals to the affections, 
 unsurpassed even by the schoolmen in subtlety, agility, 
 and logic wit, and unrivalled by the most rhetorical of 
 the fathers in the copiousness and vividness of his 
 expressions and illustrations. Here words that convey 
 feelings, and words that flash images, and words of 
 abstract notion, flow together, and whirl and rush 
 onward like a stream, at once rapid and full of eddies ; 
 and yet still interfused here and there, we see a tongue 
 or islet of smooth water, with some picture in it of earth 
 or sky, landscape or living group of quiet beauty. 
 
 Differing, then, so widely, and almost contrariantly, 
 wherein did these great men agree ? wherein did they 
 resemble each other ? In genius, in learning, in unfeigned 
 piety, in blameless purity of life, and in benevolent 
 aspirations and purposes for the moral and temporal 
 improvement of their fellow-creatures ! Both of them 
 wrote a Latin Accidence, to render education less painful 
 to children ; both of them composed hymns and psalms 
 proportioned to the capacity of common congregations ; 
 both, nearly at the same time, set the glorious example 
 of publicly recommending and supporting general tolera- 
 tion, and the liberty both of the pulpit and the press ! 
 In the writings of neither shall we find a single sentence, 
 like those meek deliverances to God's mercy, with 
 which Laud accompanied his votes for the mutilations 
 
FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. 163 
 
 and loatlisome dungeoning of Lelghton and otliers ! — 
 no where such a pious prayer as we find in Bishop 
 Hall's memoranda of his own life, concerning the subtle 
 and witty atheist that so grievously perplexed and 
 gravelled him at Sir Robert Drury's till he prayed to 
 the Lord to remove him, and behold ! his prayers were 
 heard : for shortly afterwards this Philistine -combatant 
 went to London, and there perished of the plagueia 
 great misery ! In short, no where shall we find the 
 least approach, in the lives and writings of John Milton 
 or Jeremy Taylor, to that guarded gentleness, to that 
 sighiiig reluctance, with which the holy brethren of the 
 Inquisition deliver over a condemned heretic to the civil 
 magistrate, recommending him to mercy, and hoping 
 that the magistrate will treat the erring brother with 
 all possible mildness ! — the magistrate, who too well 
 knows what would be his own fate, if he dared ofiend 
 them by acting on their recommendation. 
 
 The opportunity of diverting the reader from myself 
 to characters more worthy of his attention, Las led me 
 far beyond my first intention ; but it is not unimportant 
 to expose the false zeal which has occasioned these 
 attacks on our elder patriots. It has been too much the 
 fashion, first to personify the Church of England, and 
 then to speak of different individuals, who in different 
 ages have been rulers in that Church, as if in some 
 strange way they constituted its personal identity. Why 
 should a clergyman of the present day feel interested in 
 the defence of Laud or Sheldon ? Surely it is sufficient 
 for the warmest partisan of our establishment, that he 
 can assert with truth, — when our Church persecuted, it 
 was on mistaken j)rinciples held in common by all 
 Christendom ; and at all events, far less culpable was 
 this intolerance in the Bishops, who were maintaining 
 the existing laws, than the persecuting spirit afterwards 
 shown by their successful opponents, who had no such 
 excuse, and who should have been taught mercy by their 
 own sufferings, and wisdom by the utter failure of the 
 experiment in their own case. We can say, that our 
 Church, apostolical in its faith, primitive in its cere- 
 
104 FIEE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. 
 
 monies, tmequalled in its liturgical forms ; that our 
 Church, which has kindled and displayed more bright 
 and burning lights of genius and learning, than all 
 other protestant churches since the reformation, was 
 (with the single exception of the times of Laud and 
 Sheldon) least intolerant, when all Christians vmhappily 
 deemed a species of intolerance their religious duty ; 
 that Bishops of our Church were among the first that 
 contended against tliis error ; and finally, that since the 
 Reformation, when tolerance became a fashion, the 
 Church of England in a tolerating age, has shown her- 
 self eminently tolerant, and far more so, both in spirit 
 and in fact, than many of her most bitter opponents, 
 who profess to deem toleration itself an insult on the 
 rights of mankind ! As to myself, who not only know 
 the Church-Establishment to be tolerant, but who see in 
 it the greatest, if not the sole safe bulwark of toleration, 
 I feel no necessity of defending or palliating oppressions 
 under the two Charleses, in order to exclaim with a full 
 and fervent heart, Esto perpetua ! 
 
 FIEE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. 
 
 A WAR ECLOGUE. 
 
 TJie Scene a desolated Tract in La Vendue. Famine is discovered 
 lying on the ground ; to her enter Fiee and Slaughter. 
 
 FAMINE. 
 
 Sisters! sisters! who sent you here? 
 
 SLAUGHTER, [to FIRE.] 
 
 I will whisper it in her ear. 
 
 FIRE. 
 
 No ! no ! no ! 
 Spirits hear what spirits tell : 
 'Twill make a holiday in Hell. 
 
 No ! no I no ! 
 
FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. IC: 
 
 Myself, I named him once below, 
 
 And all the souls, that damned be, 
 
 Leaped tip at once in anarchy, 
 
 Clapped their hands and danced for glee. 
 
 They no longer heeded me ; 
 
 Eut laughed to hear Hell's burning rafters 
 
 Unwillingly re-echo laughters ! 
 
 ISTo ! no ! no ! 
 Spirits hear what spirits tell : 
 'Twill make a holiday in Hell ! 
 
 Whisper it, sister ! so and so ! 
 In a dark hint, soft and slow. 
 
 SLAUGHTER. 
 
 Letters four do form his name — 
 And who sent you ? 
 
 BOTH. 
 
 The same ! the same ! 
 
 SLAUGHTER. 
 
 He came by stealth, and unlocked my den, 
 And I have drunk the blood since then 
 Of thrice three hundred thousand men. 
 
 BOTH. 
 
 Who bade you do it ] 
 
 SLAUGHTER. 
 
 The same ! the same ! 
 Letters four do form his name. 
 He let me loose, and cried. Halloo ! 
 To him alone the praise is due. 
 
 Thanks, sister, thanks ! the men have bled, 
 Their wives and their children faint forbrearl. 
 
16C FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. 
 
 I stood iu a swampy field of battle ; 
 
 "With bones and skulls I made a rattle, 
 
 To frighten the wolf and carrion-crow 
 
 And the homeless-dog — but they would not go. 
 
 So off I flew : for how could I bear 
 
 To see them gorge their dainty fare ] 
 
 I heard a groan and a peevish squall. 
 
 And through the chink of a cottage- wall — 
 
 Can you guess what I saw there ] 
 
 BOTH. 
 
 Whisper it, sister ! iu our ear. 
 
 A baby beat its dying mother : 
 
 I had starved the one and was starving the other ! 
 
 BOTH, 
 
 Who bade you do't 1 
 
 The same ! the same ! 
 Letters four do form his name. 
 He let me loose, and cried, Halloo ! 
 To him alone the praise is due. 
 
 Sisters ! I from Ireland came ! 
 
 Hedge and corn-fields all on flame, 
 
 I triumphed o'er the setting sun ! 
 
 And all the while the work was done, 
 
 On as I strode with my huge strides, 
 
 I flung back my head and I held my sides, 
 
 It was so rare a piece of fun 
 
 To see the sweltered cattle run 
 
 With uncouth gallop through the night, 
 
 Scared by the red and noisy light ! 
 
 By the light of his own blazing cot 
 
 Was many a naked rebel shot : 
 
FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTEE. 167 
 
 The house-stream met the flame and hissed, 
 While crash ! fell in the roof, I wist. 
 On some of those old bed-rid nm-ses, 
 That deal in discontent and curses. 
 
 BOTH. 
 
 Who bade you do't ? 
 
 The same ! the same ! 
 Ijetters four do foi-m his name. 
 He let me loose, and ci-ied Halloo ! 
 To him alone the praise is due. 
 
 He let us loose, and cried Halloo ! 
 How shall we yield him honour due? 
 
 Wisdom comes with lack of food. 
 I'll gnaw, I'll gnaw the multitude, 
 Till the cup of rage o'erbrim : 
 They shall seize him and his brood — 
 
 SLAUGHTER, 
 
 They shall tear him limb from limb ! 
 
 FIRE. 
 
 thankless beldames and untrue ! 
 And is this all that you can do 
 For him, who did so much for you ? 
 Ninety months he, by my troth ! 
 Hath richly catered for you both; 
 And in an hour would you repay 
 
 An eight years' work 1 — Away ! away ! 
 
 1 alone am faithful ! I 
 Cling to him everlastingly. 
 
 1796 
 
168 
 
 THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS. 
 
 From his brimstone bed at break of day 
 
 A walking the Devil is gone, 
 To visit his snug little farm the Earth, 
 
 And see how his stock goes on. 
 
 II. 
 Over the hill and over the dale, 
 
 And he went over the plain, 
 And backward and forward he switched his long tail 
 
 As a gentleman switches his cane. 
 
 And how then was the Devil drest ? 
 
 Oh ! he was in his Smiday's best : 
 
 His jacket was red and his breeches were blue, 
 
 And there was a hole where the tail came through. 
 
 He saw a Lawyer killing a viper 
 
 On a dunghill hard by his own stable ; 
 
 And the Devil smiled, for it put him in mind. 
 Of Cain and his brother Abel. 
 
 He saw an Apothecaiy on a white horse 
 
 Kide by on his vocations ; 
 And the Devil thought of his old friend 
 
 Death in the Revelations, 
 
 VI. 
 
 He saw a cottage with a double coach-house, 
 
 A cottage of gentility ; 
 And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin 
 
 Is pride that apes humility. 
 
THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS. 
 
 VII. 
 
 He peeped into a rich, bookseller's shop, 
 Quoth he, " "We are both of one college ! 
 
 For I sate myself, like a cormorant, once 
 " Hard by tlie tree of knowledge." * 
 
 Down the river did glide, with wind and with tide, 
 
 A pig with vast celerity ; 
 And the Devil look'd wise as he saw how the while, 
 It cut "its own throat. " There ! " quoth he with a 
 smile, 
 
 " Goes England's commercial prosperity." 
 
 * And all amid them stood the tree of life 
 High eminent, bloomiug ambrosial fruit 
 Of vegetable gold (query paper money :) and next to life 
 Our Death, the tree of knowledge, grew fast by. — 
 
 So clomb this first grand thief 
 
 Thence up he flew, and on the tree of life 
 
 Sat like a cormorant. Far. Lost, iv. 
 
 The allegory here is so apt, that in a catalogue of various 
 readings obtained from collating the MSS. one might expect 
 to find it noted, tiiat for "life" Cod. quid, habent "trade." 
 Though indeed the trade, i.e. the bibliopolic, so called xar* 
 ^i^X'^v, may be regarded as Life sensu eminentiori ; a sug- 
 gestion, which I owe to a your g retailer in the hosiery line, 
 who on heariug a description of the net profits, dinner parties, 
 country houses, <tc. of the trade, exclaimed, "Ay! that's 
 what I call hfe now!" — This "Life, our Death," is thus 
 happily contrasted v, ith the fruits of authorship — Sic nos non 
 nobis mellificamus apes. 
 
 Of this poem, which with the Fire, Famine, and Slaughter, 
 first appeared in the Morning Post, the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 9th, and 
 16th stanzas were dictated by Mr. Southey. See Apologetic 
 Preface. 
 
 If any one should ask who General meant, the Author 
 
 begs leave to inform him, that he did once see a red-faced 
 person in a dream whom by the dress he took for a General ; 
 but he might have been mistaken, a.nd most certainly he did 
 not hear any names mentioned. In simple verity, the author 
 never meant any one, or indeed any thing but to put a con- 
 cluding stanza to his doggerel. 
 
170 THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS. 
 
 As he went through Cold-Bath Fields he saw 
 
 A solitary cell ; 
 And the Devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint 
 
 For improving his prisons in Hell. 
 
 He saw a Turnkey in a trice 
 
 Fetter a troublesome blade ; 
 " Nimbly," quoth he, " do the fingers move 
 
 If a man be but used to his trade." 
 
 He saw the same Turnkey unfetter a man 
 
 With but little expedition, 
 Which put him in mind of the long debate 
 
 On the Slave-trade abolition. 
 
 He saw an old acquaintance 
 
 As he passed by a Methodist meeting , 
 She holds a consecrated key, 
 
 And the Devil nods her a greeting. 
 
 She turned up her nose, and said, 
 " Avaunt ! my name's Eeligion," 
 
 And she looked to Mr. 
 
 And leered like a love-sick pigeon. 
 
 He saw a certain minister 
 (A minister to his mind) 
 
 Go up into a certain House, 
 With a majority behind. 
 
 The Devil quoted Genesis, 
 Like a very learned clerk, 
 
 How " Noah and his creeping things 
 Went up into the Ark." 
 
LEWTT. 171 
 
 He took from the poor, 
 
 And he gave to the rich, 
 And he shook hands with a Scotchman, 
 
 For he was not afraid of the 
 
 General ■ burning face 
 
 He saw with consternation, 
 And back to hell his way did he take, 
 For the Devil thought by a slight mistake 
 
 It was general conflagr-ation. 
 
 Sep. 6, 1709. 
 
 II.—LOYE POEMS. 
 
 Quas humilis teuero stylus olim effudit in asvo, 
 
 Perlegis hie lacrymas, et quod pharetratus acuta 
 
 Ille piier puero fecit mihi cuspide vulnus. 
 
 Omnia paulatim consumit longior a^tas, 
 
 Vivendoqiie simul morimur, rapimurque manendo. 
 
 Ipse mihi collatus enim non ille videbor : 
 
 Frons alia est, moresque alii, nova mentis imago, 
 
 Voxque aliud sonat — 
 
 Pectore nunc gelido calidos miscrenaur amantes, 
 
 Jamque arsisse pudet. Veteres tranquilla tumultus 
 
 Mens horret, relegensque alium putat ista locutum. 
 
 PETBARCH. 
 
 LEWTI, 
 
 OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHAUNT. 
 
 At midnight by the stream I roved, 
 To forget the form I loved. 
 Image of Lewti ! from my miud 
 Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 
 
1?2 LEWTI. 
 
 The Moon was high, the moonlight gleam 
 
 And the shadow of a star 
 Heaved upon Tamaha's stream ; 
 
 But the rock shone brighter far, 
 The rock half sheltered from my view ■ 
 By pendant boughs of tressy yew — 
 So shines my Lewti's forehead fair, 
 Gleaming through her sable hair. 
 Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
 Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 
 
 I saw a cloud of palest hue, 
 
 Onward to the moon it passed ; 
 Still brighter and more bright it grew, 
 With floating colours not a few. 
 
 Till it reached the moon at last : 
 Then the cloud was wholly bright. 
 With a rich and amber light ! 
 And so with many a hope I seek, 
 
 And with such joy I find my Lewti; 
 And even so my pale wan cheek 
 
 Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty ! 
 Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind. 
 If Lewti never will be kind. 
 
 The little cloud — it floats away. 
 
 Away it goes ; away so soon ? 
 Alas ! it has no power to stay : 
 Its hues are dim, its hues are grey — 
 
 Away it passes from the moon ! 
 How mournfully it seems to fly, 
 
 Ever fading more and more, 
 To joyless regions of the sky — 
 
 And now 'tis whiter than before ! 
 As white as my poor cheek will be. 
 
 When, Lewti ! on my couch I lie, 
 A dying man for love of thee. 
 Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind— 
 And yet, thou didst not look unkind. 
 
LEWTi. irs 
 
 I saw a vapour in the sky, 
 
 Thin, and white, and very high ; 
 I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud : 
 
 Perhaps the breezes that can fly 
 
 Now below and now above, 
 Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud 
 
 Of Lady fair — that died for love. 
 For maids, as well as youths, have perished 
 From fruitless love too fondly cherished. 
 Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind — 
 For Lewti never will be kind. 
 
 Hush ! my heedless feet from under 
 Slip the crumbling banks for ever : 
 
 Like echoes to a distant thunder, 
 They plunge into the gentle river. 
 
 The river-swans have heard my tread, 
 
 And startle from their reedy bed. 
 
 beauteous birds ! methinks ye measure 
 Your movements to some heavenly tune ! 
 
 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, 
 When silent night has closed her eyes : 
 
 It is a breezy jasmine-bower. 
 The nightingale sings o'er her head : 
 
 Voice of the night ! had I the power 
 That leafy labyrinth to thread. 
 And creep, like thee, with soundless tread, 
 I then might view her bosom white 
 Heaving lovely to my sight, 
 As these two swans together heave 
 On the gently swelling wave. 
 
 Oh ! that she saw me in a dream, 
 And dreamt that I had died for care ; 
 
 All pale and wasted I would seem, 
 Yet fair withal, as spirits are ! 
 
174 LOVE. 
 
 I'd die indeed, if I might see 
 Her bosom heave, and heave for me ! 
 Soothe, gentle image ! soothe my mind ! 
 To-morrow Lewti may be kind. 
 
 1795. 
 
 LOVE, 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
 All are but ministers of Love, 
 And feed his sacred flame. 
 
 Oft in my waking dreams do I 
 Live o'er again that happy hour, 
 When midway on the mount I lay, 
 Eeside the ruined tower. 
 
 The moonshine. Stealing o'er the scene, 
 Had blended with the lights of eve ; 
 And she was there, my hope, my joy. 
 My own dear Genevieve ! 
 
 She leaned against the armed man ; 
 The statue of the armed knight ; 
 She stood and listened to my lay, 
 Amid the lingering light. 
 
 Few sorrows hath she of her own. 
 My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 
 She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
 The songs that make her grieve, 
 
 I played a soft and doleful air, 
 I sang an old and moving story — 
 An old rude song, that suited well 
 That ruin wild and hoary. 
 
LOVE. 175 
 
 She listened with a flitting blush, 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
 For well she knew, I could not choose 
 But gaze upon her face. 
 
 I told her of the Knight that wore 
 Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
 And that for ten long years he wooed 
 The Lady of the Land. 
 
 I told her how he pined : and ah 
 ■ The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
 With which I sang another's love, 
 Interpreted my own. 
 
 She listened with a flitting blush, 
 With downcast eyes, and modest grace ; 
 And she forgave me, that I gazed 
 Too fondly on her face ! 
 
 But when I told the cruel scorn 
 That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
 And that he crossed the mountain-woods, 
 ITor rested day nor night ; 
 
 That sometimes from the savage den. 
 And sometimes from the darksome shade. 
 And sometimes starting up at once 
 In green and sunny glade, — 
 
 There came and looked him in the face 
 An angel beautiful and bright ; 
 And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
 This miserable Knight ! 
 
 And that unknowing what he did. 
 He leaped amid a murderous band. 
 And saved from outrage worse than death 
 The Lady of the Land; — 
 
LOVE. 
 
 And how she wept, and clasped his knee 
 And how she tended him in vain — 
 And ever strove to expiate 
 
 The scorn that crazed his brain; — 
 
 And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
 And how his madness went away, 
 When on the yellow forest-leaves 
 A dying man he lay ; 
 
 His dying words — but when I reached 
 That tenderest strain of all the ditty 
 My faltering voice and pausing harp 
 Disturbed her soul with pity ! 
 
 All impulses of soul and sense 
 Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve ; 
 The music and the doleful tale, 
 The rich and balmy eve ; 
 
 And hopes, and fears that kindle hope, 
 An undistinguishable throng, 
 And gentle wishes long subdued, 
 Subdued and cherished long ! 
 
 She wept with pity and delight. 
 She blushed with love, and virgin shame 
 And like the murmur of a dream, 
 I heard her breathe my name. 
 
 Her bosom heaved — she stepped aside, 
 As conscious of my look she stept — 
 Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
 She fled to me and wept. 
 
 She half enclosed me with her arms. 
 She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
 And bending back her head, looked up. 
 And gazed upon my face. 
 
LINES SUGGESTED AT THEATRE. 177 
 
 'Tvvas partly love, and partly fear, 
 And partly 'twas a bashful art, 
 That I might rather feel, than see, 
 The swelling of her heart. 
 
 I calmed her fears, and she was calm, 
 And told her love with virgin pride ; 
 And so I won my Genevieve, 
 
 My bright and beauteous Bride. 
 
 LINES SUGGESTED AT THEATRE. 
 
 Maiden, that with sullen brow 
 Sitt'st behind those virgins gay. 
 
 Like a scorched and mildewed bough, 
 Leafless 'mid the blooms of May ! 
 
 Him who lured thee and forsook, 
 
 Oft I watched A^ith angry gaze, 
 Fearful saw his pleading look. 
 
 Anxious heard his fervid phrase. 
 
 Soft the glances of the youth. 
 
 Soft his speech, and soft his sigh ; 
 
 But no sound like simple truth. 
 But no true love in his eye. 
 
 Loathing thy polluted lot, 
 
 Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence ! 
 
 Seek thy weeping Mother's cot, 
 With a wiser innocence. 
 
 Thou hast known deceit and folly, 
 Thou hast felt that vice is woe ; 
 
 "With a musing melancholy 
 Inly armed, go, Maiden ! go. 
 
178 TO — -. 
 
 Mother sage of self-dominion, 
 Firm thy steps, Melancholy ! 
 
 The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion 
 Is the memory of past folly. 
 
 Mute the sky-lark and forlorn, 
 
 "While she moults the firstling plumes, 
 
 That had. skimmed the tender corn. 
 Or the bean-field's odorous blooms. 
 
 Soon with renovated wing 
 Shall she dare a loftier flight, 
 
 Upward to the day-star spi'ing, 
 And embathe in heavenly light. 
 
 TO . 
 
 Mtrtle-leaf that, ill besped, 
 Finest in the gladsome ray, 
 
 Soiled beneath the common tread, 
 Far from thy protecting spray ! 
 
 When the partridge o'er the sheaf 
 Whirred along the yellow vale. 
 
 Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf ! 
 Love the dalliance of the gale. 
 
 Lightly didst thou, foolish thing 
 Heave and flutter to his sighs, 
 
 While the flatterer, on his wing. 
 Wooed and whispered thee to rise. 
 
 Gaily from thy mother-stalk 
 
 Wert thou danced and wafted high- 
 Soon on this unsheltered walk 
 
 Flung to fade, to rot and die. 
 
179 
 
 THE PICTURE, 
 
 OR THE LOVEK'S RESOLUTION. 
 
 Through weeds and tliorns, and matted underwood 
 I force my way; now climb, and now descend 
 O'er-rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot 
 Ci'ushing the purple whorts ; while oft unseen, 
 Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves, 
 The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil 
 I know not, ask not whither ! A new joy, 
 Lovely as light, sudden as summer gust, 
 And gladsome as the first-born of the spring. 
 Beckons me on, or follows from behind, 
 Playmate, or guide ! The master-passion quelled, 
 I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark 
 The fir-trees, and the unfrequent slender oak, 
 Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake 
 Soar up, and form a melancholy vault 
 High o'er me, murmuring like a distant sea. 
 
 Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remorse ; 
 Here too the love-lorn man, who, sick in soul, 
 And of this busy human heart aweary, 
 Worships the spirit of unconscious life 
 In tree or wild-flowei\ — Gentle lunatic ! 
 If so he might not wholly cease to be, 
 He would far rather not be that, he is ; 
 But would be something, that he knows not of, 
 In winds or waters, or among the rocks ! 
 
 But hence, fond wretch ! breathe not contagion here ! 
 "No myrtle-walks are these : these are no groves 
 Where Love dare loiter ! If in sullen mood 
 He should stray hither, the low stumps shall gore 
 
180 THE PICTUEB. 
 
 His dainty feet, the brier and the thorn 
 
 Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird 
 
 Easily caught, ensnare him, ye Nymphs, 
 
 Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades ! 
 
 And you, ye Earth-winds ! you that make at morn 
 
 The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs ! 
 
 You, ye wingless Airs ! that creep between 
 
 The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze. 
 
 Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon. 
 
 The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bed — 
 
 Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless damp, 
 
 Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb. 
 
 Chase, chase him, all ye Fays, and elfin Gnomes ! 
 
 With prickles sharper than his darts bemock 
 
 His little Godship, making him perforce 
 
 Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's back. 
 
 This is my hour of triumph ! I can now 
 With my own fancies play the merry fool, 
 And laugh away worse folly, being free. 
 Here will I seat myself, beside this old, 
 Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy -twine 
 Clothes as with net-work : here will I couch my limbs, 
 Close by this river, in this silent shade. 
 As safe and sacred from the step of man 
 As an invisible world — unheard, unseen, 
 And listening only to the pebbly brook 
 That murmurs with a dead, yet tinkling sound ; 
 Or to the bees, that in the neighbouring trunk 
 Make honey-hoards. The breeze, that visits me 
 Was never Love's accomplice, never raised 
 The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow. 
 And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek ; 
 Ne'er played the wanton — never half disclosed 
 The maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thence 
 Eye-poisons for some love-distempered youth. 
 Who ne'er henceforth may see an aspen-grove 
 Shiver in sunshine, but his feeble heart 
 Shall flow away like a dissolving thing. 
 
THE PICTURE. 181 
 
 Sweet breeze ! thou only, if I guess aright, 
 Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast, 
 That swells its little breast, so full of song. 
 Singing above me, on the mountain-ash. 
 And thou too, desert stream ! no pool of thiue, 
 Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve. 
 Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe. 
 The face, the form divine, the downcast look 
 Contemplative ! Behold ! her open palm 
 Presses her cheek and brow ! her elbow rests 
 On the bare branch of half-uprooted tree, 
 That. leans towards its mirror ! "Who erewhile 
 Had from her countenance turned, or looked by 
 
 stealth, 
 (For fear is true love's cruel nurse,) he now 
 With steadfast gaze and unoffending eye, 
 "Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes 
 Delicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain, 
 E'en as that phantom-world on which he gazed. 
 But not unheeded gazed: for see, ah ! see. 
 The sportive tyrant with her left hand plucks 
 The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow. 
 Lychnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells : 
 And suddenly, as one that toys with time, 
 Scatters them on the pool ! Then all the charm 
 Is broken — all that phantom-world so fair 
 Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, 
 And each mis-shape the other. Stay awhile. 
 Poor youth, who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eye? 
 The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon 
 The visions will return ! And lo ! he stays : 
 And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms 
 Come trembling back, unite, and now once more 
 The pool becomes a mkror ; and behold 
 Each wild-flower on the marge inverted there. 
 And there the half-uprooted tree — but where, 
 where the virgin's snowy arm, that leaned 
 On its bai'e branch'? He turns, and she is gone ! 
 Homeward she steals through many a woodland maze 
 Which he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth ! 
 
182 THE PICTURE. 
 
 Go, day by day, aud waste thy manly prime 
 In mad love-yearning by the vacant brook, 
 Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou 
 Behold'st her shadow still abiding there, 
 The Naiad of the mirror ! 
 
 Not to thee, 
 
 wild and desert stream ! belongs this tale : 
 Gloomy and dark art thou — the crowded firs 
 Si^ire from thy shores, and stretch across thy bed, 
 Making thee doleful as a caveni-well : 
 
 Save when the shy king -fishers build their nest 
 
 On thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild stream ! 
 
 This be my chosen haunt — emancipate 
 From passion's dreams, a freeman, and alone, 
 
 1 rise and trace its devious course, lead, 
 Lead me to deeper shades aud lonelier glooms. 
 Lo ! stealicg through the canopy of firs. 
 How fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock, 
 Isle of the river, whose disparted waves 
 
 Dart off asunder with an angry sound, 
 
 How soon to re-unite ! And see ! they meet. 
 
 Each in the other lost and found : and see 
 
 Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun 
 
 Throbbing within them, heart at once and eye ! 
 
 With its soft neighbourhood of filmy clouds. 
 
 The stains and shapings of forgotten tears. 
 
 Dimness o'erswum \/ith lustre ! Such the hour 
 
 Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds; 
 
 And hark, the noise of a near waterfall ! 
 
 I pass forth into light — I find myself 
 
 Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful 
 
 Of forest-trees, the lady of the woods,) 
 
 Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock 
 
 That overbrows the cataract. How bursts 
 
 The landscape on my sight ! Two crescent hills 
 
 Fold in behind each other, and so make 
 
 A circular vale, and land-locked, as might seem, 
 
 With brook and bridge, and grey stone cottages, 
 
THE flCTURB. 1S3 
 
 Half hid by rocks aud fruit-trees. At my feet. 
 
 The whortle-berries are bedewed with spray, 
 
 Dashed upwards by the furious waterfall. 
 
 How solemnly the pendant -ivy -mass 
 
 Swings in its winnow ; all the air is calm. 
 
 The smoke from cottage chimneys, tinged with light, 
 
 Eises in columns ; from this house alone, 
 
 Close by the waterfall, the column slants, 
 
 And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this ? 
 
 That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke, 
 
 And close beside its porch a sleeping child, 
 
 His dear head pillowed on a sleeping dog — 
 
 One arm between its fore legs, and the hand 
 
 Holds loosely its small handful of wild-flowers, 
 
 Unfilletted, and of unequal lengths. 
 
 A curious picture, with a master's haste 
 
 Sketched on a strip of pinky-silver skin, 
 
 Peeled from the birchen bark ! Divinest maid ! 
 
 Yon bark her canvass, and those purple berries 
 
 Her pencil ! See, the juice is scarcely dried 
 
 On the fine skin ! She has been newly here ; 
 
 And lo ! yon patch of heath has been her couch — 
 
 The pressure still remains ! blessed couch ! 
 
 For this mayst thou flower early, and the sun, 
 
 Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long 
 
 Upon thy purple bells ! Isabel ! 
 
 Daughter of genius ! stateliest of our maids ! 
 
 More beautiful than whom Alcseus wooed 
 
 The Lesbian woman of immortal song ! 
 
 child of genius ! stately, beautiful, 
 
 And full of love to all, save only me, 
 
 And not ungentle e'en to me ! My heart, 
 
 Why beats it thus? Through yonder coppice-wood 
 
 Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straightway 
 
 On to her father's house. She is alone ! 
 
 The night draws on — such ways are hard to hit — • 
 
 And fit it is I should restore this sketch, 
 
 Dropt unawares no doubt. Why should I yearn 
 
 To keep the relique ] 'twill but idly feed 
 
 The passion that consumes me. Let me haste ! 
 
184 THE NIGHT-SCENE. 
 
 The picture in my hand which she has left ; 
 
 She cannot blame me that I followed her : 
 
 And I may be her guide the long wood through. 
 
 THE NIGHT-SCENE. 
 
 A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT, 
 
 Sandoval. You loved the daughter of Don Manrique] 
 
 Earl Henry. Loved ? 
 
 Sandoval. Did you not say you wooed her? 
 
 Earl Henry. " Once I loved 
 
 Her whom I dared not woo ! 
 
 Sandoval. And wooed, perchance, 
 
 One whom you loved not ! 
 
 Earl Henry, Oh! I were most base, 
 
 Not loving Oropeza. True, I wooed her. 
 Hoping to heal a deeper wound ; but she 
 Met my advances with impassioned pride, 
 That kindled love with love. And when her sire, 
 Who in his dream of hope already grasped 
 The golden circlet in his hand, rejected 
 My suit with insult, and in memory 
 Of ancient feuds poured curses on my head, 
 Her blessings overtook and baffled them ! 
 But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance 
 Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me. 
 
 Sandoval. Anxiously, Henry ! reasoning anxiously. 
 But Oropeza — 
 
 Earl Henry. Blessings gather round her ! 
 Within this wood there winds a secret passage, 
 Beneath the walls, which opens out at length 
 Into the gloomiest covert of the garden. — 
 The night ere my departure to the army. 
 She, nothing trembling, led me through that gloom, 
 And to that covert by a silent stream, 
 
THE NIGHT-SCENE. 185 
 
 Which, with one star reflected near its marge, 
 
 Was the sole object visible around me. 
 
 No leaflet stirred; the air was almost sultry ; 
 
 So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us ! 
 
 No leaflet stirred; — yet pleasure hung upon 
 
 The gloom and stillness of the balmy night-air. 
 
 A little further on an arbour stood, 
 
 Fragrant with flowering trees — I well remember 
 
 What an uncertain glimmer in the darkness 
 
 Their snow-white blossoms made — thither she led me, 
 
 To that sweet bower ! Then Oropeza ti-embled — 
 
 I heaixi her heart beat — if 'twere not my own. 
 
 Sandoval. A rude and scaring note, my friend. 
 
 Earl Henry. Oh ! no ! 
 
 I have small memory of aught but pleasure. 
 The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams 
 Still flowing, still were lost in those of love : 
 So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature, 
 Fleeing from pain, sheltered herself in joy. 
 The stars above our heads were dim and steady, 
 Like eyes suffused with rapture. — Life was in us : 
 We were all life, each atom of our frames 
 A living soul — I vowed to die for her : 
 With the faint voice of one who, having spoken, 
 Eelapses into blessedness, I vowed it : 
 That solemn vow, a whisper scarcely heard, 
 A murmur breathed against a lady's ear. 
 Oh ! there is joy above the name of pleasure, 
 Deep self-possession, an intense repose. 
 
 Sandoval {with a sarcastic smile). No other than aa 
 eastern sages paint. 
 The God, who floats upon a lotos leaf, 
 Dreams for a thousand ages ; then awaking, 
 Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble, 
 Relapses into bliss. 
 
 Earl Henry. Ah ! was that bliss 
 Feared as an alien, and too vast for man ? 
 For suddenly, impatient of its silence, 
 Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead. 
 I caught her arms ; the veins were swelling on them. 
 
186 LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCEKT-ROOM. 
 
 Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice ; — 
 
 " Oh ! what if all betray me ? what if thou 1 " 
 
 I swore, and with an inward thought that seemed 
 
 The purpose and the substance of my being, 
 
 I swore to her, that were she red with guilt, 
 
 I would exchange my unblenched state with hers. — 
 
 Friend ! by that winding passage, to that bower 
 
 I now will go — all objects there will teach me 
 
 Unwavering love, and singleness of heart. 
 
 Go, Sandoval ! I am prepared to meet her — 
 
 Say nothing of me — I myself will seek her — 
 
 Nay leave me, friend ! I cannot bear the torment 
 
 And keen inqmry of that scanning eye. — 
 
 [Eael Henry retires into the wood. 
 
 Sandoval (alone). Henry ! always striv'st thou to 
 
 be great 
 By thine own act — yet art thou never great 
 But by the inspiration of great passion. 
 The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up 
 And shape themselves : from earth to heaven they 
 
 stand, 
 As though they were the pillars of a temple, 
 Built by Omnipotence in its own honour! 
 But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit 
 Is fled : the mighty columns were but sand, 
 And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins ! 
 
 LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-EOOM. 
 
 Nor cold, nor stern, my soul ! yet I detest 
 
 These scented rooms, where, to a gaudy throng, 
 
 Heaves the proud harlot her distended breast 
 In intricacies of laborious song. 
 
LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM. 1S7 
 
 These feel not Miisic's genuine power, nor deign 
 To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint ; 
 
 But when the long-breathed singer's uptrilled strain 
 Bursts in a squall — they gape for wonderment. 
 
 Hark ! the deep buzz of vanity and hate ! 
 
 Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer 
 My lady eyes some maid of humbler state, 
 
 While the pert captain, or the primmer priest, 
 
 Prattles accordant scandal in her ear. 
 
 give me, from this heartless scene released, 
 To Tiear our old musician, blind and gray, 
 
 (Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kissed,) 
 His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play, 
 
 By moonshine, on the balmy sximmer-night. 
 The while I dance amid the tedded hay 
 
 With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light. 
 
 Or lies the purple evening on the bay 
 Of the calm glossy lake, let me hide 
 
 Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees. 
 For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied. 
 
 On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, 
 And while the lazy boat sways to and fro. 
 
 Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow, 
 That his own eheek is wet with quiet tears. 
 
 But 0, dear Anne ! when midnight wind careers. 
 And the gust pelting on the out-house shed 
 
 Makes the cock shrilly on the rain storm crow, 
 
 To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe, 
 Ballad of ship-wrecked sailor floating dead. 
 
 Whom his o-wn true-love buried in the sands ! 
 Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice re-measures 
 Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures 
 
 The things of Nature utter ; birds or trees 
 Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves, 
 Or where the stiff grass 'mid the heath-plant waves. 
 
 Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. 
 
 1799. 
 
188 
 
 ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. 
 
 Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove, 
 The linnet and thrush say, "I love and I love !" 
 In the winter they're. silent — the wind-is so strong; 
 What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. 
 But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm. 
 
 weather, 
 And singing, and loving — all come back together. 
 But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love, 
 The green fields below him, the blue sky above, 
 That he sings, and he sings ; and for ever sings he — 
 "I love my Love, and my Love loves me !" 
 
 1798-9. 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 WITH falconer's "SHIPWRECK." 
 
 A.H ! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams 
 In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice; 
 
 Nor while half-listening, 'mid delicious dreams. 
 To harp and song from lady's hand and voice ; 
 
 Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood 
 
 On clifiF, or cataract, in Alpine dell ; 
 Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strewed, 
 
 Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell; 
 
 Our sea-bard sang this song ! which still he sings, 
 And sings for thee, sweet friend ! Hark, Pity, hark 1 
 
 Now mounts, now totters on the tempest's wings, 
 Now groans, and shivers, the replunging bark 1 
 
TO A YOUNG LADY, 189 
 
 " Cling to the shrouds ! " In vain ! The breakers roar — 
 Death shrieks ! With two alone of all his clan 
 
 Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore, 
 No classic roamer, but a ship-wrecked man ! 
 
 Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains 
 And lit his spirit to so bright a flame ? 
 
 The elevating thought of suffered pains, 
 "Which gentle hearts shall mourn ; but chief, the name 
 
 Of gratitude ! remembrances of friend, 
 Or absent or no more ! shades of the Past, 
 
 Which Love makes substance ! Hence to thee I send, 
 dear as long as life and memory last ! 
 
 I send with deep regards of heart and head. 
 
 Sweet maid, for friendship formed ! this work to thee : 
 
 And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed 
 A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me. 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER, 
 
 Why need I say, Louisa dear ! 
 How glad I am to see you here, 
 
 A lovely convalescent ; 
 Risen from the bed of pain and feai'. 
 
 And feverish heat incessant. 
 
 The sunny showers, the dappled sky. 
 The little birds that warble high. 
 
 Their vernal loves commencing, 
 Will better welcome you than I 
 
 With their sweet influencing. 
 
190 INTRODUCTION TO TALE OF THE DARK LADIE. 
 
 Believe me, -while in bed you lay, 
 Your danger taught us all to pray : 
 
 You made us grow devouter ! 
 Each eye looked up and seemed to say, 
 
 How can we do without her ? 
 
 Besides, what vexed us worse, we knew, 
 They have no need of such as you 
 
 In the place where you were going : 
 This world has angels all too few. 
 
 And Heaven is overflowing ! 
 
 1799. 
 
 INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE 
 DARK LADIE. 
 
 LEAVE the lily on its stem ; 
 leave the rose upon the spray ; 
 leave the elder bloom, fair maids ! 
 And listen to my lay. 
 
 A cypress and a myrtle bough 
 This morn around my harp you twined, 
 Because it fashioned mournfully 
 Its murmurs in the wind. 
 
 And now a tale of love and woe, 
 A woeful tale of love I sing ; 
 Hark, gentle maidens ! hark, it sighs 
 And trembles on the string. 
 
 But most, my own dear Genevieve, 
 It sighs and trembles most for thee ! 
 come and hear the cruel wrongs, 
 Befell the Dark Ladie ! * 
 
 Here followed the Stanzas, afterwards published separately 
 
THE BAIJAD OF THS DAEK LADIE. 19] 
 
 And now, once more a tale of woe, 
 A woeful tale of love I sing; 
 For thee, my Genevieve, it sighs, 
 And trembles on the string. 
 
 When last I sang the cruel scorn, 
 That crazed this bold and lovely knight, 
 And how he roamed the mountain woods, 
 Nor rested day nor night ; 
 
 I promised thee a sister tale. 
 Of man's perfidious cruelty ; 
 Come then, and hear what cruel wrong 
 Befell the Dark Ladie. 
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE DARK LADIE. 
 
 A FRAGMENT, 
 
 Beneath yon birch with silver bark, 
 And boughs so pendulous and fail', 
 The brook falls scatter'd down the rock : 
 And all is mossy there ! 
 
 And there upon the moss she sits, 
 The Dark Ladie in silent pain ; 
 • The heavy tear is in her eye. 
 
 And drops and swells again. 
 
 Three times she sends her little page 
 Up the castled mountain's breast, 
 If he might find the Knight that wears 
 The Grif&n for his crest. 
 
 under the title "Love" (see p. 174), and after them came tho 
 other three stanzas printed above ; the whole forming the 
 introduction to the intended Dark Ladie, of which all that 
 exists is subjoined. 
 
192 THE BALLAD OF THE DARK LADIE. 
 
 The sun was sloping down the sky, 
 And she had lingered there all day, 
 Counting moments, dreaming fears — 
 wherefore can he stay 1 
 
 She hears a rustling o'er the brook, 
 She sees far off a swinging bough ! 
 " 'Tis He ! 'Tis my betrothed Knight ! 
 Lord Falkland, is it Thou ! " 
 
 She springs, she clasps him round the neck. 
 She sobs a thousand hopes and fears, 
 Her kisses glowing on his cheeks 
 She quenches with her tears. 
 
 " My friends with rude ungentle words 
 They scoff and bid me fly to thee ! 
 
 give me shelter in thy breast ! 
 
 shield and shelter me ! 
 
 " My Henry, I have given thee much, 
 
 1 gave what I can ne'er recall, 
 
 I gave my heart, I gave my peace, 
 Heaven ! I gave thee all." 
 
 The Knight made answer to the Maid, 
 While to his heart he held her hand, 
 " Nine castles hath my noble sire. 
 None statelier in the land. 
 
 " The fairest one shall be my love's, 
 The fairest castle of the nine ! 
 Wait only till the stars peep out. 
 The fairest shall be thine : 
 
 " Wait only till the hand of eve 
 Hath wholly closed yon western bars, 
 And through the dark we two will steal 
 Beneath the twinklinsr stars ! " — 
 
THE DAY-DREAM. 193 
 
 " The dark? the dark ? No ! not the dark ? 
 The twinkling stars ? How, Heni^y ] How ? 
 God ! 'twas in the eye of noon 
 He pledged his sacred vow ! 
 
 " And in the eye of noon, my love, 
 Shall lead me fi-om my mother's door. 
 Sweet boys and girls all clothed in white 
 Strewing fiow'rs before : 
 
 " But first the nodding minstrels go 
 .With music meet for lordly bow'rs, 
 The children next in snow-white vests, 
 Strewing buds and flow'rs ! 
 
 " And then my love and I shall pace, 
 My jet black hair in pearly braids. 
 Between our comely bachelors 
 And blushing bridal maids." 
 »«♦**« 
 
 1799. 
 
 THE DAY-DREAM. 
 
 FROM AN EMIGRANT TO HIS ABSENT WIFE 
 
 If thou wert here, these tears were tears of light ! 
 
 But from as sweet a vision did I start 
 As ever made these eyes grow idly bright ! 
 
 And though I weep, yet still around my heart 
 A sweet and playful tenderness doth linger. 
 Touching my heart as with an infant's finger. 
 
 My mouth half open, like a witless man, 
 I saw our couch, I saw our quiet room, 
 Its shadows heaviag by the fire-light gloom; 
 
 And o'er my lips a subtle feeling ran, 
 
194 SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL. 
 
 All o'er my lips a soft and breeze-like feeling — 
 I know not what — but had the same been stealing 
 
 Upon a sleeping mother's lips, I guess 
 
 It would have made the loving mother dream 
 
 That she was softly bending down to kiss 
 
 Her babe, that something more than babe did seem, 
 
 A floating presence of its darling father, 
 
 And yet its own dear baby self far rather ! 
 
 Across my chest there lay a weight, so warm ! 
 
 As if some bird had taken shelter there ; 
 And lo ! I seemed to see a woman's form — 
 
 Thine, Sara, thine ? joy, if thine it were ! 
 I gazed with stifled breath, and feared to stir it. 
 No deeper trance e'er wrapt a yearning spirit ! 
 
 And now, when 1 seemed sure thy face to see, 
 Thy own dear self in our own quiet home ; 
 
 There came an elflsh laugh, and wakened me : 
 'Twas Frederic, who behind my chair had clomb, 
 
 And with his bright eyes at my face was peeping. 
 
 I blessed him, tried to laugh, and fell a weeping ! * 
 
 1798-9. 
 
 NATUEAL. 
 
 WKITTEN IN GERMANY. 
 
 If I had but two little wings, 
 And were a little feathery bird, 
 To you I'd fly, my dear ! 
 But thoughts like these are idle things, 
 And I stay here. 
 
 * See note. 
 
 I 
 
ON REVISITING THE SEA-SHORE. 195 
 
 But in my sleep to you I fly : 
 
 I'm always with you in my sleep ! 
 The world is all one's own. 
 But then one wakes, and where am I ? 
 All, all alone. 
 
 Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids : 
 
 So I love to wake ere break of day : 
 
 For though my sleep be gone, 
 
 Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids, 
 
 And still dreams on. 
 
 1798-9. 
 
 ON REVISITING THE SEA-SHORE. 
 
 AFTER LONG ABSENCE, UNDER STRONQ MEDICAL 
 RECOMMENDATION NOT TO BATHE. 
 
 God be with thee, gladsome Ocean ! 
 
 How gladly greet I thee once more ! 
 Ships and waves, and ceaseless motion, 
 
 And men rejoicing on thy shore. 
 
 Dissuading spake the mild physician, 
 " Those briny waves for thee are death ! 
 
 But my soul fulfilled her mission, 
 
 And lo ! I breathe untroubled breath ! 
 
 Fashion's pining sons and daughters. 
 That seek the growd they seem to fly, 
 
 Trembling they approach thy waters ; 
 And what cares Nature, if they die 1 
 
 Me a thousand hopes and pleasures, 
 A thousand recollections bland. 
 
 Thoughts sublime, and stately measures, 
 Revisit on thy echoing strand : 
 
196 THE KEEPSAKE. 
 
 Dreams, (the soul herself forsaking,) 
 Tearful raptures, boyish mirth ; 
 
 Silent adorations, making 
 
 A blessed shadow of this Earth ! 
 
 ye hopes, that stir within ine, 
 
 Health comes with you from above ! 
 
 God is with me, God is in me ! 
 I cannot die, if Life be Love. 
 
 18C1. 
 
 THE KEEPSAKE. 
 
 The tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil. 
 
 The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field. 
 
 Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall 
 
 Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust. 
 
 Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark, 
 
 Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose 
 
 (In vain the darling of successful love) 
 
 Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years, 
 
 The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone. 
 
 Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk 
 
 By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side, 
 
 That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook, 
 
 Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not ! * 
 
 So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline 
 
 With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk 
 
 Has worked, (the flowers which most she knew I 
 
 loved,) 
 And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair. 
 
 * One of the names ("and meritingr to be the only one) of the 
 Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris, a flower from six to twelve 
 inches high, with blue blossom and bright ytllow eye. It 
 has the same name over the whole Empire of Germany (Ver- 
 gissmein nicht) and, I believe, in Denmark and Sweden. 
 
THE VISIONARY HOPE. 197 
 
 In tlie cool morning twilight, early waked 
 By her full bosom's joyous restlessness, 
 Softly she rose, and lightly stole along, 
 Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower^ 
 Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze, 
 Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung. 
 Making a quiet image of disquiet 
 In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool. 
 There, in that bower where first she owned her love, 
 And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy 
 From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretched 
 The silk upon the frame, and worked her name 
 Between the Moss-Rose and Forget-me-not — 
 Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair ! 
 That forced to wander till sweet spring return, 
 I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look. 
 Her voice, (that even in her mirthful mood 
 Has made me wish to steal away and weep,) 
 Nor yet the entrancement of that maiden kiss 
 With which she promised, that when spring returned, 
 She would resign one half of that dear name, 
 And own thenceforth no other name but mine ! 
 
 1801. 
 
 THE VISIONARY HOPE. 
 
 Sa.d lot, to have no hope ! Though lowly kneeling 
 He fain would frame a prayer within his breast, 
 Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing, 
 That his sick body might have ease and rest ; 
 He strove in vain ! the dull sighs from his chest 
 Against his will the stifling load revealing, 
 Though Nature forced; though like some captive guest, 
 Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast, 
 An alien's restless mood but half concealing, 
 The sternness on his gentle brow confessed, 
 Sickness within and miserable feeling : 
 
198 HOME-SICK. 
 
 Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams, 
 And dreaded sleep, each night repelled in vain, 
 Each night was scattered by its own loud screams : 
 Yet never could his heart command, though fain. 
 One deep full wish to be no more in pain. 
 
 That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast, 
 Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood, 
 Though changed in nature, wander where he would — 
 For Love's despair is but Hope's pining ghost ! 
 For this one hope he makes his hourly moan, 
 He wishes and can wish for this alone ! 
 Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams 
 (So the love-stricken visionary deems) 
 Disease would vanish, like a summer shower, 
 Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower ! 
 Or let it stay ! yet this one Hope should give 
 Such strength that he would bless his pains and live. 
 
 HOME-SICK. 
 
 WRITTEN IN GERMANY. 
 
 'Tis sweet to him, who all the week 
 
 Through city-crowds must push his way, 
 
 To stroll alone through fields and woods. 
 And hallow thus the Sabbath-day. 
 
 And sweet it is, in summer bower, 
 
 Sincere, affectionate and gay, 
 One's own dear children feasting round, 
 
 To celebrate one's marriage-day. 
 
 But what is all, to his delight, 
 
 Who having long been doomed to roam, 
 Throws off the bundle from his back, 
 
 Before the door of his own home 1 
 
 I 
 
THE HAPPY HUSBAND. 199 
 
 Hoine-sickness is a wasting pang ; 
 
 This feel I hourly more and more : 
 There's healing only in thy wings, 
 
 Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore ! 
 
 179S-9. 
 
 THE HAPPY HUSBAND. 
 
 Oft, oft methinks, the while with Thee 
 I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear 
 And dedicated name, I hear 
 
 A promise and a mystery, 
 
 A pledge of more than passing life, 
 Yea, in that very name of Wife ! 
 
 A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep ! 
 
 A feeling that upbraids the heart 
 
 With happiness beyond desert, 
 That gladness half requests to weep ! 
 
 Nor bless I not the keener sense 
 
 And vmalarming turbulence 
 
 Of transient joys, that ask no sting 
 From jealous fears, or coy denying ; 
 But born beneath Love's brooding wing, 
 
 And into tenderness soon dying, 
 
 Wheel out their giddy moment, then 
 Kesign the soul to love again ; — 
 
 A more precipitated vein 
 
 Of notes, that eddy in the flow 
 
 Of smoothest song, they come, they go. 
 
 And leave their sweeter understrain 
 Its own sweet self — a love of Thee 
 That seems, yet cannot greater be ! 
 
 1S06. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE. 
 
 How warm this woodland wild Eecess ! 
 
 Love surely hath been breathing here ; 
 
 And this sweet bed of heath, my dear ! 
 Swells up, then sinks with faint caress, 
 
 As if to have you yet more near. 
 
 II. 
 
 Eight springs have flown, since last I lay 
 On sea-ward Quantock's heathy hills. 
 Where quiet sounds from hidden rills 
 
 Float here and there, like things astray, 
 And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills. 
 
 III. 
 
 No voice as yet had made the air 
 Be music with your name ; yet why 
 That asking look 1 that yearning sigh ] 
 
 That sense of promise every where] 
 Beloved ! flew your spirit by ? 
 
 As when a mother doth explore 
 
 The rose-mark on her long lost child, 
 I met, I loved you, maiden mild ! 
 
 As whom I long had loved before — 
 So deeply, had I been beguiled. 
 
 You stood before me like a thought, 
 A dream remembered in a dream. 
 But when those meek eyes first did seem 
 
 To tell me, Love within you wrought — 
 O Greta, dear domestic stream ! 
 
THE PANG MORE SHARP THAN ALL. 201 
 
 Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep, 
 Has not Love's whisper evermore 
 Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar ] 
 
 Sole voice, when other voices sleep, 
 Dear under-song in clamor's hour. 
 
 1806. 
 
 THE PANG MOEE SHARP THAN ALL. 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 He too has flitted from his secret nest, 
 Hope's last and dearest Child without a name !— 
 Has flitted from me, like the warmthless flame, 
 That makes false promise of a place of rest 
 To the tir'd Pilgrim's still believing mind ; — 
 Or like some Elfin Knight in kingly court, 
 Who having won all guerdons in his sport. 
 Glides out of view, and whither none can find ! 
 
 Yes ! He hath flitted from me — with what aim, 
 Or why, I know not ! 'Twas a home of bliss. 
 And He was innocent, as the pretty shame 
 Of babe, that tempts and shuns the menaced kiss. 
 From its twy-cluster'd hiding place of snow ! 
 Pure as the babe, I ween, and all aglow 
 As the dear hopes, that swell the mother's breast — 
 Her eyes down gazing o'er her clasped charge; — 
 Yet gay as that twice happy father's kiss. 
 That well might glance aside, yet never miss. 
 Where the sweet mark emboss'd so sweet a targe— 
 Twice wretched he who hath been doubly blest ! 
 
202 THE PANG MORE SHARP THAN ALL. 
 
 Like a loose blossom on a gusty night 
 He flitted from me — and has left behind 
 (As if to them his faith he ne'er did plight) 
 Of either sex and answerable mind 
 Two playmates, twin-births of his foster-dame ;- 
 The one a steady lad (Esteem he hight) 
 And Kindness is the gentler sister's name. 
 Dim likeness now, tho' fair she be and good 
 Of that bright Boy who hath us all forsook ; — 
 But in his full-eyed aspect when she stood. 
 And while her face reflected every look, 
 And in reflection kindled — she became 
 So like Him, that almost she seem'd the same! 
 
 Ah ! He is gone, and yet will not depart ! — 
 Is with me still, yet I from Him exil'd ! 
 For still there lives within my secret heart 
 The magic image of the magic Child, 
 Which there He made up-grow by his strong art 
 As in that crystal* orb — wise Merlin's feat, — 
 The wondrous " World of Glass," wherein inisl'd 
 All long'd for things their beings did repeat ; — 
 And there He left it, like a Sylph beguiled. 
 To live and yearn and languish incomplete ! 
 
 Can wit of man a heavier grief reveal 1 
 
 Can sharper pang from hate or scorn arise ? — 
 
 Yes ! one more sharp there is that deeper lies. 
 
 Which fond Esteem but mocks when he would heal. 
 
 Yet neither scorn nor hate did it devise. 
 
 But sad compassion and atoning zeal ! 
 
 One pang more blighting-keen than hope betray'd ! 
 
 And this it is my woful hap to feel. 
 
 When at her Brother's hest, the twin-born Maid 
 
 * Faerie Qiieene, b, hi. c. 2. s. 19. 
 
 I 
 
EEFLECTIONS. 203 
 
 With, face averted and unsteady eyes, 
 Her truant playmate's faded robe puts on ; 
 And inly shrinking from her own disguise 
 Enacts the faery Boy that's lost and gone. 
 worse than all ! pang all pangs above 
 Is Kindness counterfeiting absent Love ! 
 
 III. MEDITATIVE POEMS. 
 
 IN BLANK VERSE. 
 
 Tea, he deserves to find himself deceived, 
 Who seeks a Heart in the unthinking Man. 
 Like shadows on a stream, the foiTQs of life 
 Impress their characters on the smooth forehead 
 Nought sinks into the bosom's silent depth. 
 Quick sensibility of pain and pleasure 
 Moves the light fluids lightly ; but no soul 
 Wanneth the inner frame. — schiller. 
 
 REFLECTIONS 
 
 ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF RETIREMENT. 
 
 SeiTuoni propriora. — hor. 
 
 Low was our pretty Cot : our tallest rose 
 Peeped at the chamber-window. We could hear 
 At silent noon, and eve, and early morn. 
 The sea's faint murmur. In the open air 
 Our myrtles blossomed ; and across the porch. 
 Thick jasmins twined : the little landscape round 
 Was green and woody, and refreshed the eye. 
 It was a spot which you might aptly call 
 The Yalley of Seclusion ! Once I saw 
 (Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness) 
 A wealthy son of commerce saunter by, 
 Bristowa's citizen : methought, it calmed 
 
20i REFLECTIONS. 
 
 His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse 
 With wiser feelings : for he paused, and looked 
 With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around, 
 Then eyed our Cottage, and gazed round, again, 
 And sighed, and said, it was a Blessed Place. 
 And we were blessed. Oft with patient ear 
 Long-hstening to the viewless sky-lark's note 
 (Viewless, or haply for a moment seen 
 Gleaming on sunny wings) in whispered tones 
 I've said to my beloved, " Such, sweet girl ! 
 The inobtrusive song of happiness, 
 Unearthly minstrelsy ! then only heard 
 When the soul seeks to hear ; when all is hushed, 
 And the heart listens ! " 
 
 But the time, when first 
 From that low dell, steep up the stony mount 
 I climbed with perilous toil and reached the top. 
 Oh ! what a goodly scene ! Here the bleak mount. 
 The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep ; 
 Gray clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields ; 
 And river, now with bushy rocks o'erbrowed, 
 Now winding bright and full, with naked banks ; 
 And seats, and lawns, the Abbey and the wood, 
 And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-spire ; 
 The Channel there, the Islands and white sails, 
 Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless Ocean- 
 It seemed like Omnipresence ! God, methought. 
 Had built him there a temple : the whole World 
 Seemed imaged in its vast circumference, 
 No wish profaned my overwhelmed heart. 
 Blest hour ! It was a luxury, — to be ! 
 
 Ah ! quiet dell ! dear Cot, and mount sublime ! 
 I was constrained to -quit you. Was it right. 
 While my unnumbered brethren toiled and bled. 
 That I should dream away the entrusted hours 
 On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart 
 With feelings all too delicate for use ] 
 Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye 
 
ON AN EARLY BLOSSOM. 2C 
 
 Drops on the cheek of one lie lifts from earth : 
 
 And he that works me good with unmoved face, 
 
 Does it but half : he chills me while he aids, 
 
 My benefactor, not my brother man ! 
 
 Yet even this, this cold beneficence 
 
 Praise, praise it, my soul ! oft as thou scann'st 
 
 The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe ! 
 
 Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched, 
 
 Nursing in some delicious solitude 
 
 Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies ! 
 
 I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand, 
 
 Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight 
 
 Of science, freedom, and the truth in Christ. 
 
 Yet oft when after honourable toil 
 Eests the tired mind, and waking loves to dream. 
 My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot ! 
 Thy jasmin and thy window-peeping rose 
 And myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air. 
 And I shall sigh fond wishes — sweet abode ! 
 Ah ! — had none greater ! And that all had such ! 
 It might be so — but the time is not yet. 
 Speed it, Father ! Let thy kingdom come ! 
 
 1796. 
 
 ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST 
 OF FEBRUARY, 1796. 
 
 Sweet Flower ! that peeping from thy russet stem 
 
 Unfoldest timidly, (for in strange sort 
 
 This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering 
 
 Month 
 Hath borrowed Zephyr's voice, and gazed upon thee 
 With blue voluptuous eye) alas, poor Flower ! 
 These are but flatteries of the faithless year. 
 Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave. 
 E'en now the keen North-East is on its way. 
 
206 THE EOLIAN HARP. 
 
 Flower that must perish ! shall I liken thee 
 To some sweet girl of too too rapid growth 
 Nipped by consumption 'mid untimely charms? 
 Or to Bristowa's bard,* the wondrous boy ! 
 An amaranth, which Earth scarce seemed to own. 
 Till disappointment came, and pelting wrong 
 Beat it to Earth ] or with indignant grief 
 Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's hope, 
 Bright flower of Hope killed in the opening bud 1 
 Farewell, sweet blossom ! better fate be thine 
 And mock my boding ! Dim similitudes 
 Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour 
 From anxious self, Life's cruel task-master! 
 And the warm wooings of this sunny day 
 Tremble along my frame, and harmonise 
 The attempered organ, that even saddest thoughts 
 Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes 
 Played deftly on a soft-toned instrument. 
 
 THE EOLIAN HARP. 
 
 COMPOSED ATCLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE. 
 
 My pensive Sara ! thy soft cheek reclined 
 
 Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is 
 
 To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown 
 
 With white-flowered jasmin, and the broad-leaved 
 
 myrtle, 
 (Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love !) 
 And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light, 
 Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve 
 Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be) 
 Shine opposite ! How exquisite the scents 
 Snatched from yon bean-field! and the world so 
 
 hushed : 
 
 Chatterton. 
 
THE EOLIAN HARP. 207 
 
 The stil]y murmur of the distant sea 
 Tells us of silence. 
 
 And that simplest lute, 
 Placed length -ways in the clasping casement, hark ! 
 How by the desultory breeze caressed. 
 Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover, 
 It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs 
 Tempt to repeat the wrong ! And now, its strings 
 Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes 
 Over delicious surges sink and rise, 
 Such a soft floating witchery of sound 
 As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve 
 Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land, 
 Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers. 
 Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise, 
 Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing ! 
 the one life within us and abroad, 
 Which meets all motion and becomes its soul, 
 A light in sound, a sound-like power in light, 
 Ehythm in all thought, and joyancc every where — 
 Methinks, it should have been impossible 
 Not to love all things in a world so filled ; 
 Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air 
 Is Music slumbering on her instrument. 
 
 And thus, my love ! as on the midway slope 
 Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon, 
 AVhilst through my half-closed eye-lids I behold 
 The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main, 
 And tranquil muse upon tranquillity ; 
 Fixll many a thought uncalled and undetained, 
 And many idle flitting phantasies, 
 Traverse my indolent and passive brain. 
 As wild and various as the random gales 
 That swell and flutter on this subject lute ! 
 
 And what if all of animated nature 
 Be but organic harps diversely framed. 
 That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps 
 
208 TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE. 
 
 Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze, 
 At once the Soul of each, and God of All 1 
 
 But thy more serious eye a mild reproof 
 Darts, beloved woman ! nor such thoughts 
 Dim and unhallowed dost thou not reject, 
 And biddest me walk humbly with my God. 
 Meek daughter in the family of Christ ! 
 Well hast thou said and holily dispraised 
 These shapings of the unregenerate mind ; 
 Bubbles that glitter as they lise and break 
 On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring. 
 For never guiltless may I speak of Him, 
 The Incomprehensible ! save when with awe 
 I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels ; 
 Who with his saving mercies healed me, 
 A sinful and most miserable man, 
 Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess 
 Peace, and this cot, and thee, heart-honoured Maid I 
 
 1796-1828. 
 
 TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE 
 
 OF OTTERY ST. MABY, DEVON. WITH SOME POEMS. 
 
 Notus in fratres aiiimi paterni. 
 
 HOR. Carm. lib. 1. 2. 
 
 A BLESSED lot hath he, who having passed 
 
 His youth and early manhood in the stir 
 
 And turmoil of the world, retreats at length, 
 
 With cares that move, not agitate the heart. 
 
 To the same dwelling where his father dwelt; 
 
 And haply views his tottering little ones 
 
 Embrace those aged knees and climb that lap, • 
 
 On which first kneeling his own infancy 
 
 Lisped its brief prayer. Such, my earliest Friend ! 
 
 Thy lot, and such thy brothers too enjoy. 
 
 I 
 
TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE. 209 
 
 At distance did ye climb life's upland road, 
 Yet cheered and clieering : now fraternal love 
 Hath drawn you to one centre. Be your days 
 Holy, and blest and blessing may ye live. 
 
 To me the Eternal Wisdom hath dispensed 
 A different fortune and more different mind — 
 Me from the spot where first I sprang to light 
 Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fixed 
 Its first domestic loves ; and hence through life 
 Chasing chance-started friendships. A brief while 
 Some have preserved me from life's pelting ills ; 
 But, like a tree with leaves of feeble stem. 
 If the clouds lasted, and a sudden breeze 
 Ruffled the boughs, they on my head at once 
 Dropped the collected shower ; and some most false, 
 False and fair-foliage d as the Manchineel, 
 Have tempted me to slumber in then' shade 
 E'en 'mid the storm ; then breathing subtlest damps, 
 Mixed their own venom with the rain from Heaven, 
 That I woke poisoned ! But, all praise to Him 
 Who gives us all things, more have yielded me 
 Permanent shelter ; and beside one friend. 
 Beneath the impervious covert of one oak, 
 I've raised a lowly shed, and know the names 
 Of husband and of father ; not unhearing 
 Of that divine and nightly-whispering voice, 
 Which from my childhood to maturer years 
 Spake to me of predestinated wreaths, 
 Bright with no fading colours ! 
 
 Yet at times 
 My soul is sad, that I have roamed through life 
 Still most a stranger, most with naked heart 
 At mine own home and birth-place : chiefly then. 
 When I remember thee, my earliest friend ! 
 Thee, who didst watch my boyhood and my youth ; 
 Didst trace my wanderings with a father's eye • 
 And boding evil yet still hoping good. 
 Rebuked each fault, and over all my woes 
 
210 TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE. 
 
 Sorrowed in silence ! He who counts alone 
 
 The beatings of the solitary heart. 
 
 That Being knows, how I have loved thee ever, 
 
 Loved as a brother, as a son revered thee ! 
 
 Oh ! 'tis to me an ever new delight. 
 
 To talk of thee and thine : or when the blast 
 
 Of the shrill winter, rattling our rude sash, 
 
 Endears the cleanly hearth and social bowl ; 
 
 Or when as now, on some delicious eve, 
 
 We in our sweet sequestered orchard-plot 
 
 Sit on the tree crooked earth- ward; whose old boughs, 
 
 That hang above us in an arborous roof. 
 
 Stirred by the faint gale of departing May, 
 
 Send their loose blossoms slanting o'er our heads ! 
 
 Nor dost not thou sometimes recall those hours, 
 When with the joy of hope thou gav'st thine ear 
 To my wild firstUng-lays. Since then my soug 
 Hath sounded deeper notes, such as beseem 
 Or that sad wisdom folly leaves behind. 
 Or such as, tuned to these tumultuous times, 
 Cope with the tempest's swell ! 
 
 These various strains, 
 Which I have framed in many a various mood. 
 Accept, my brother ! and (for some perchance 
 Will strike discordant on thy milder mind) 
 If aught of error or intemperate truth 
 Should meet thine ear, think thou that riper age 
 Will calm it down, and let thy love forgive it ! 
 
 1797 
 
211 
 
 TO A FRIEND 
 
 WHO HAD DECLARED HIS INTENTION OF WKITING NO 
 MOKE POETKT. 
 
 Dear Charles ! whilst yet thou wert a babe, I ween 
 
 That Genius plunged thee in that wizard fount 
 
 Hight Castalie : and (sureties of thy faith) 
 
 That Pity and Simplicity stood by, 
 
 And promised for thee, that thou shouldst renovmce 
 
 The world's low cares and lying vanities. 
 
 Steadfast and rooted in the heavenly Muse, 
 
 And washed and sanctified to Poesy. 
 
 Yes — thou wert plunged, but with forgetful hand 
 
 Held, as by Thetis erst her warrior son : 
 
 And with those recreant unbaptised heels 
 
 Thou'rt flying from thy botmden minist'ries — 
 
 So sore it Reems and burthensome a task 
 
 To weave imwithering flowers ! But take thou heed : 
 
 For thou art vulnerable, wild-eyed boy, 
 
 And I have arrows * mystically dipt, 
 
 Such as may stop thy speed. Is thy Burns dead ] 
 
 And shall he die unwept, and sink to earth 
 
 " Without the meed of one melodious tear"? " 
 
 Thy Burns, and ISTature's o\vn beloved bard, 
 
 Who to the " Illustrious^ of his native Land 
 
 So properly did look for patronage." 
 
 Ghost of Mgecenas ! hide thy blushing face ! 
 
 They snatched him from the sickle and the plough — 
 
 To gauge ale-firkins. 
 
 Oh ! for shame return ! 
 On a bleak rock, midway the Aonian mount, 
 
 * Find. Olymp. ii. 1. 150. 
 t Verbatim from Biu-ns' dedication of his Poem to the 
 Nobility and Genti-y of the Caledonian Hunt. 
 
212 THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MT PRISON. 
 
 There stands a lone and melanclioly tree, 
 Whose aged branches to the midnight blast 
 Make solemn music : pluck its darkest bough, 
 Ere yet the unwholesome night-dew be exhaled, 
 And weeping wreathe it round thy Poet's tomb. 
 Then in the outskirts, where pollutions grow, 
 Pick the rank henbane and the dusky flowers 
 Of night-shade, or its red and tempting fruit, 
 These with stopped nostril and glove-guarded hand 
 Knit in nice intertexture, so to twine, 
 The illustrious brow of Scotch Nobility. 
 
 1796. 
 
 THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISOK 
 
 In the June of 1797, some long-expected Friends paid a 
 visit to the author's cottage ; and on the morning of their 
 arrival, he met with an accident, which disabled him from 
 walking during the whole time of their stay. One evening, 
 when they had left him for a few hoiirs, he composed the 
 following lines in the garden-bower. 
 
 Well, they are gone, and here must I remain, 
 This lime-tree bower my prison ! I have lost 
 Beauties and feelings, such as would have been 
 Most sweet to my remembrance even when age 
 Had dimmed mine eyes to blindness ! They, mean- 
 while, 
 Friends, whom I never more may meet again. 
 On springy heath, along the hill-top edge. 
 Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance, 
 To that still roaring dell, of which I told ; 
 The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep, 
 And only speckled by the mid-day sun ; 
 Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock 
 Flings arching like a bridge ; — that branchless ash, 
 Unsunned and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves 
 Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still. 
 Fanned by the water-fall ! and there my friends 
 
THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON. 213 
 
 Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds,* 
 That all at once (a most fantastic sight !) 
 Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge 
 Of the blue clay-stone. 
 
 Now, my friends emerge 
 Beneath the wide wide Heaven — and view again 
 The many-steepled tract magnificent 
 Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea, 
 With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up 
 The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles 
 Of purple shadow ! Yes ! they wander on 
 In gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad, 
 My gentle-hearted Charles ! for thou hast pined 
 And hungered after N'ature, many a year, 
 In the great City pent, winning thy way 
 With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain 
 And strange calamity ! Ah ! slowly sink 
 Behind the western ridge, thou glorious sun ! 
 Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb, 
 Ye purple heath-flowers ! richlier burn, ye clouds ! 
 Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves ! 
 And kindle, thou blue ocean ! So my Friend 
 Struck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood, 
 Silent with swimming sense ; yea, gazing round 
 On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth aeem 
 Less gross than bodily; and of such hues 
 As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet ho makes 
 Spirits perceive his presence. 
 
 A delight; 
 Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad 
 As I myself were there ! Nor in this bower, 
 This little lime-tree bower, have I not marked 
 Much that has soothed me. Pale beneath the blaze 
 Hung the transparent foliage ; and I watched 
 
 * Of long lank weeds. 1 The asplenium scolopendrium, called 
 in some countries tlie Adder's Tongue, in others the Hart's 
 Tongue : but "Withering gives the Adder's Tongue as the 
 trivial name of the ophioglossum only. 
 
214 THIS LIME-TREE EOWEE MY PraSON. 
 
 Some broad and sunny leaf, and loved to see 
 The shadow of the leaf and stem above 
 Dappling its sunshine ! And that walnut-tree 
 Was richly tinged, and a deep radiance lay 
 Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps 
 Those fronting elms, and now, with blackest mass 
 Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue 
 Through the late twilight : and though now the bat 
 Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters. 
 Yet still the solitary humble bee 
 Sings in the bean-flower ! Henceforth I shall know 
 That !N"ature ne'er deserts the wise and pure ; 
 No plot so narrow, be but Nature there, 
 No waste so vacant, but may well employ 
 Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart 
 Awake to Love and Beauty ! and sometimes 
 'Tis well to be bereft of promised good, 
 That we may lift the Soul, and contemplate 
 With lively joy the joys we cannot share. 
 My gentle-hearted Charles ! when the last rook 
 Beat its straight path along the dusky air 
 Homewards, I blest it ! deeming, its black wing 
 (Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light) 
 Had crossed the mighty orb's dilated glory, 
 While thou stood'st gazing; or when all was still, 
 * Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a charm 
 For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom 
 No sound is dissonant which tells of Life. 
 
 1797. 
 
 * Flew creeking.'] Some months after I had written this 
 line, it gave me pleasure to find that Bartram had observed 
 the same circumstance of the Savanna Crane. "When these 
 Birds move their wings in flight, their strokes are slow, 
 moderate and regular; and even when at a considerable 
 distance or high above us, we plainly hear the quill-feathers ; 
 their shafts and webs upon one another creek as the joints c 
 working of a vessel in a tempestuous sea." 
 
215 
 
 FROST AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 The fi'ost performs its secret ministry, 
 Unlielped by any wind. The owlet's cry 
 Came loud — and hark, again ! loud as before. 
 The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, 
 Have left me to that solitude, which suits 
 Abstruser musings : save that at my side 
 My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 
 'Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs 
 And vexes meditation with its strange 
 And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood. 
 This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood, 
 With all the numberless goings on of life 
 Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame 
 Lies on my low burnt fire, and quivers not ; 
 Only that film, which fluttered on the grate. 
 Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. 
 Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature 
 Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, 
 Making it a companionable form, 
 Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit 
 By its own moods interprets, every where 
 Echo or mirror seeking of itself, 
 And makes a toy of Thought. 
 
 But ! how oft, • 
 How oft, at school, with most believing mind, 
 Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars. 
 To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft 
 With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt 
 Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower, 
 Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang 
 From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, 
 So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me 
 
216 FKOST AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear 
 
 Most like articulate sounds of things to come ! 
 
 So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt 
 
 Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams ! 
 
 And so I brooded all the following morn, 
 
 Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye 
 
 Fixed with mock study on my swimming book : 
 
 Save if the door half opened, and I snatched 
 
 A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, 
 
 For still I hoped to see the stranger's face, 
 
 Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, 
 
 My play-mate when we both were clothed alike ! 
 
 Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my side. 
 Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, 
 Fill up the interspersed vacancies 
 And momentary pauses of the thought ! 
 My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart 
 With tender gladness, thus to look at thee. 
 And think that thou shalt learn far other lore 
 And in far other scenes ! For I was reared 
 In the great city, pent 'mid cloistei-s dim, 
 And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. 
 But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze 
 By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 
 Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds, 
 Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores 
 And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear 
 The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 
 Of that eternal language, which thy God 
 Utters, who from eternity doth teach 
 Himself in all, and all things in himself. 
 Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould 
 Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 
 
 Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, 
 Whether the summer clothe the general earth 
 With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing 
 Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch 
 Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch 
 
THE NIGHTINGALE. 21? 
 
 Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the eve-drops fall 
 Heard only in the trances of the blast, 
 Or if the secret ministry of frost 
 Shall hang them up in silent icicles, 
 Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. 
 
 1798. 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE; 
 
 A CONVERSATIOlSr POEM. APRIL, 1798. 
 
 No cloud, no relique of the sunken day 
 
 Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip 
 
 Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. 
 
 Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge ! 
 
 You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, 
 
 But hear no murmuring : it flows silently, 
 
 O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, 
 
 A balmy night ! and though the stars be dim, 
 
 Yet let us think upon the vernal showei^s 
 
 That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 
 
 A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 
 
 And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song, 
 
 " Most musical, most melancholy " bird ! * 
 
 A melancholy bird ! Oh ! idle thought ! 
 
 In nature there is nothing melancholy. 
 
 But some night-wandering man whose heart was pierced 
 
 With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, 
 
 Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 
 
 (And so, poor wretch ! filled all things with himself, 
 
 And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 
 
 Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he, 
 
 First named these notes a melancholy strain. 
 
 * " 3Iost musical, most melancholy."'] This passage in Milton 
 possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere descrip- 
 tion. It is spoken in tlie character of the melancholy man, 
 and has therefore a dramatic propriety. The author makes 
 this remark, to rescue himself from the charge of having 
 alluded with levity, to a line in Miltoii. 
 
218 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 And many a poet echoes the conceit ; 
 
 Poet who hath been building up the rhyme 
 
 When he had better far have stretched his limbs 
 
 Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, 
 
 By sun or moon-light, to the influxes 
 
 Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements 
 
 Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 
 
 And of his fame forgetful*! so bis fame 
 
 Should share in Nature's immortality, 
 
 A venerable thing ! and so his song 
 
 Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself 
 
 Be loved like Nature ! But 'twill not be so ; 
 
 And youths and maidens most poetical, 
 
 Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring 
 
 In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still 
 
 Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs 
 
 O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains. 
 
 My Friend, and thou, our Sister ! we have learnt 
 A different lore : we may not thus profane 
 Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 
 And joyance ! 'Tis the merry Nightingale 
 That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
 With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 
 As he were fearful that an April night 
 Would be too short for him to utter forth 
 His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul 
 Of all its music ! 
 
 And I know a grove 
 Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 
 Which the great lord inhabits not ; and so 
 This grove is wild with tangling underwood, 
 And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, 
 Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. 
 But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
 So many nightingales ; and far and near. 
 In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, 
 They answer and provoke each other's song, 
 With skirmish and capricious passagings, 
 
THE NIGHTINGALE. 219 
 
 And murmurs musical and swift jug-jug, 
 
 And one low piping sound more sweet than all — 
 
 Stirring the air with such a harmony, 
 
 That should you close your eyes, you might almost 
 
 Forget it was not day ! On moon-lit bushes, 
 
 ■Whose dewy leaflets are but half disclosed, 
 
 'You may jDerchance behold them on the twigs. 
 
 Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and 
 
 full, 
 Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade 
 Lights up her love-torch. 
 
 A most gentle Maid, 
 Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 
 Hard by the castle, and at latest eve 
 (Even like a Lady vowed and dedicate 
 To something more than Nature in the grove) 
 Glides through the pathways ; she knows all their 
 
 notes, 
 That gentle Maid ! and oft a moment's space, 
 What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, 
 Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moon 
 Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky 
 With one sensation, and these wakeful birds 
 Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, 
 As if some sudden gale had swept at once 
 A hundred airy harps ! And she hath watched 
 Many a nightingale perched giddily 
 On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze, 
 And to that motion tune his wanton song 
 Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. 
 
 Farewell, Warbler ! till to-morrow eve, 
 And you, my friends ! farewell, a short farewell ! 
 We have been loitering long and pleasantly. 
 And now for our dear homes. — That strain again! 
 Full fain it would delay me ! My dear babe, 
 Who, capable of no articulate sound. 
 Mars all things with his imitative lisp, 
 How he would place his hand beside his ear. 
 
220 LINES. 
 
 His little hand, tlie small forefinger up, 
 
 And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise 
 
 To make him Nature's play-mate. He knows well 
 
 The evening-star ; and once, when he awoke 
 
 In most distressful mood (some inward pain 
 
 Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream) 
 
 I hurried with him to our orchard-plot. 
 
 And he beheld the moon, and, hushed at once, 
 
 Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, 
 
 While his fair eyes, that swam with undropped tears. 
 
 Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam ! Well ! — 
 
 It is a father's tale : But if that Heaven 
 
 Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up 
 
 Familiar with these songs, that with the night 
 
 He may associate joy. — Once more, farewell, 
 
 Sweet Nightingale ! Once more, my friends ! farewell. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE, IN THE 
 HARTZ FOREST. 
 
 I STOOD on Brocken's* sovran height, and saw 
 Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills, 
 A surging scene, and only limited 
 By the blue distance. Heavily my way 
 Downward I dragged through fir groves evermore, 
 Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms 
 Speckled with sunshine ; and, but seldom heard. 
 The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound ; 
 And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly. 
 Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct 
 From many a note of many a waterfall, 
 And the brook's chatter ; 'mid whose islet stones 
 
 * The highest mountain in the Hartz, and indeed in NortU 
 Germany. 
 
LINES. 22X 
 
 The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell 
 
 Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat 
 
 Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on 
 
 In low and languid mood : * for I had found 
 
 That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive 
 
 Their finer influence from the Life within ; — 
 
 Fair cyphers else : fair, but of import vague 
 
 Or unconcerning, where the heart not finds 
 
 History or prophecy of friend, or child, 
 
 Or gentle maid, our first and early love, 
 
 Or father, or the venerable name 
 
 Of our adored country ! thou Queen, 
 
 Thou delegated Deity of Earth, 
 
 dear, dear England ! how my longing eye 
 
 Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds 
 
 Thy sands and high white clifis ! 
 
 My native Land ! 
 Filled with the thought of thee this heart was proud, 
 Yea, mine eye swam with tears : that all the view 
 From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills, 
 Floated away, like a departing dream. 
 Feeble and dim ! Stranger, these impulses 
 Blame thou not lightly ; nor will I profane. 
 With hasty judgment or injurious doubt, 
 That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel 
 That God is everywhere ! the God who framed 
 Mankind to be one mighty family. 
 Himself our Father, and the World our Home. 
 
 1798- 
 
 Wlien I have gazed 
 
 From some high eminence on goodly vales. 
 And cots and villages embowered below. 
 The thought would rise that all to me was strange 
 Amid the scenes so fair, nor one small spot 
 Where my tia-ed mind might rest, and call it home. 
 
 Southey's Hymn to the Ptnatet. 
 
222 
 
 HYMN 
 
 BEFORE SUN-EISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI. 
 
 Besides the Rivers, Arve and Arveiron, which have their 
 Eources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents 
 rush down its sides ; and within a few paces of the Glaciers, 
 the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers with its 
 of loveliest blue." 
 
 Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 
 In his steep course 1 So long he seems to pause 
 On thy bald awful head, sovran Blanc ! 
 The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
 Eave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form ! 
 Hisest from forth thy silent sea of pines, 
 How silently ! Around thee and above 
 Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black, 
 An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it. 
 As with a wedge ! But when I look again, 
 It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine, 
 Thy habitation from eternity ! 
 
 dread and silent Mount ! I gazed upon thee, 
 Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, 
 
 Didst vanish from my thought : entranced in prayer 
 
 1 worshipped the Invisible alone. 
 
 Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, 
 So sweet, we know not we are listening to it. 
 Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought. 
 Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy : 
 Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused, 
 Into the mighty vision passing — there 
 As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven I 
 
HYMN. 223 
 
 Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
 Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, 
 Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
 Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my Heart, awake ! 
 Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn. 
 
 Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Yale ! 
 struggling vnth. the darkness all the night, 
 And visited all night by troops of stars. 
 Or when they climb the sky or when they sink : 
 Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
 Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
 Co-herald : wake, wake, and utter praise ! 
 "Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth? 
 Who filled thy countenance with rosy light ? 
 Who made thee parent of perpetual streams 1 
 
 And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
 Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
 From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
 Down those precipitous, black, jagged Rocks, 
 For ever shattered and the same for ever 1 
 Who gave you your invulnerable life, 
 Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy. 
 Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
 And who commanded (and the silence came,) 
 Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 
 
 Ye ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
 Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
 Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice. 
 And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
 Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
 Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven 
 Beneath the keen full moon 1 Who bade the sun 
 Clothe you with rainbows ? Who, with living flowers 
 Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet 1 — 
 God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
 Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
 God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice ! 
 
224 TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 
 And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
 And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 
 
 Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
 Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
 Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm ! 
 Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
 Ye signs and wonders of the element ! 
 Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 
 
 Thou too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky-pointing 
 peaks, 
 Oft fi-om whose feet the avalanche, unheard, 
 Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene 
 Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast — 
 Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
 That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
 In adoration, upward from thy base 
 Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
 Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud. 
 To rise before me — Rise, ever rise, 
 Else like a cloud of incense, from the Earth ! 
 Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills. 
 Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, 
 Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky. 
 And tell the stars, and tell yon lising sun. 
 Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 
 
 TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 
 
 COMPOSED ON THE NIGHT AFTER HIS KECITATION OF A POEM 
 ON THE GROWTH OF AN INDlYlDUAIi MIND. 
 
 Fkiend of the wise ! and teacher of the good ! 
 Into my heart have I received that lay 
 More than historic, that prophetic lay 
 Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright) 
 
TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. 225 
 
 Of the foundations and tlie building up 
 
 Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell 
 
 What may be told, to the understanding mind 
 
 Revealable ; and what within the mind 
 
 By vital breathings secret as the soul 
 
 Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart 
 
 Thoughts all too deep for words ! — 
 
 Theme hard as high 
 Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears, 
 (The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth) 
 Of tides obedient to extei^nal force, 
 And currents self-determined, as might seem, 
 Or by some inner power ; of moments awful, 
 Now in thy inner life, and now abroad, 
 When power streamed from thee, and thy soul received 
 The light reflected, as a light bestowed — 
 Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth, 
 Hyblean murmiu-s of poetic thought 
 Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens 
 ISTative or outland, lakes and famous hills]! 
 Or on the lonely high-road, when the stai's 
 Were rising ; or by secret mountain-streams 
 The guides and the companions of thy way I 
 
 Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense 
 Distending wide, and man beloved as man, 
 Where France in all her towns lay vibrating 
 Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst 
 Of Heaven's inimediate thunder, when no cloud 
 Is visible, or shadow on the main. 
 For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded. 
 Amid the tremor of a realm aglow, 
 Amid a mighty nation jubilant, 
 When from the general heart of human kind 
 Hope sprang forth like a full-bom Deity ! 
 
 Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down, 
 
 So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and sure 
 From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute self, 
 With light unwaning on her eyes, to look 
 
22G TO WILLIAM WOEDSWOBTH. 
 
 Far on — herself a ^lorj to behold, 
 The Angel of the vision ! Then (last strain) 
 Of Duty, chosen laws controlling choice, 
 Action and joy ! — An Orphic song indeed, 
 A song divine of high and passionate thoughts 
 To their own music chanted ! 
 
 great Bard 
 Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air, 
 With steadfast eye I viewed thee in the choir 
 Of ever-enduring men. The truly great 
 Have all one age, and from one visible space 
 Shed influence ! They, both in power and act, 
 Are permanent, and Time is not with them. 
 Save as it worketh for them, they in it. 
 Nor less a sacred roll, than those of old, 
 And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame 
 Among the archives of mankind, thy work 
 Makes audible a linked lay of Truth, 
 Of Ti'uth profound a sweet continuous lay, 
 Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes ! 
 Ah ! as I listened with a heart forlorn, 
 The pulses of my being beat anew : 
 And even as life returns upon the drowned. 
 Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains — 
 Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a babe 
 Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart ; 
 And fears self-willed, that shunned the eye of hope ; 
 And hope that scarce would know itself from fear ; 
 Sense of past youth, and manhood" come in vain, 
 And genius given, and knowledge won in vain ; 
 And all which I had culled in wood-walks wild, 
 And all which patient toil had reared, and all. 
 Commune with thee had opened out — but flowers 
 Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier, 
 In the same coflBn, for the self-same grave ! 
 
 That way no more ! and ill beseems it me, 
 Who came a welcomer in herald's guise, 
 Singing of glory, and futurity. 
 
TO WlIiLIAM WORDSWOETH. 227 
 
 To wander back on such unhealtliful road, 
 Plucking the poisons of self -harm ! And ill 
 Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths 
 Strewed before thy advancing ! 
 
 Nor do thou, 
 Sage Bard ! impair the memory of that hour 
 Of thy communion with my nobler mind 
 By pity or grief, already felt too long ! 
 Nor let my words import more blame than needs. 
 The tumult rose and ceased : for peace is nigh 
 Where- wisdom's voice has found a listening heart. 
 Amid the howl of more than wintry storms. 
 The halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours 
 Already on the wing. ^^ 
 
 Eve following eve, 
 Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home 
 Is sweetest ! moments for their own sake hailed 
 And more desired, more precious for thy song, 
 In silence listening, like a devout child. 
 My soul lay passive, by thy various strain 
 Driven as in surges now beneath the stars, 
 With momentary stars of my own birth, 
 Fair constellated foam,* still darting off 
 Into the darkness ; now a tranquil sea. 
 Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the moon. 
 
 And when — Friend ! my comforter and guide ! 
 Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength ! — 
 Thy long sustained Song finally closed, 
 And thy deep voice had ceased — yet thou thyself 
 Wert still before my eyes, and round us both 
 That happy vision of beloved faces — 
 
 * " A beautiful white cloud of foam at momentary intervals 
 coursed by the side of the vessel with a roar, and little stars 
 of flame danced and sparkled and went out in it : and every 
 now and then light detachments of this white cloud-like foam 
 darted off from the vessel's side, each with its own small con- 
 stellation, over the sea, and scoured out of sight like a Tartar 
 troop over a wilderness," — The Friend, p. 220. 
 
228 INSCRIPTION. 
 
 Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close 
 I sate, my being blended in one thought 
 (Thought was it 1 or aspiration? or resolve?) 
 Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound — 
 And when I rose, I found myself in prayer. 
 
 INSCRIPTION 
 
 FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH. 
 
 This Sycamore, oft musical with bees, — 
 
 Such tents the Patriarchs loved ! long unharmed 
 
 May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy 
 
 The small round basin, which this jutting stone 
 
 Keeps pure from falling leaves ! Long may the Spring, 
 
 Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath. 
 
 Send up cold waters to the traveller 
 
 With soft and even pulse ! Nor ever cease 
 
 Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance, 
 
 Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's page, 
 
 As merry and no taller, dances still. 
 
 Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount. 
 
 Here twilight is and coolness : here is moss, 
 
 A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade. 
 
 Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree. 
 
 Drink, Pilgrim, here ; Here rest ! and if thy heart 
 
 Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh 
 
 Thy Spirit, listening to some gentle sound, 
 
 Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees ! 
 
A TOMBLESS EPITAPH. 
 
 "Tis true, Idoloclastes Satyrane ! 
 
 (So call him, for so mingling blame with praise, 
 
 And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends, 
 
 Masking his birth-name, wont to character 
 
 His wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal,) 
 
 'Tis true that, passionate for ancient truths, 
 
 And honouring with religious love the great 
 
 Of elder times, he hated to excess. 
 
 With an unquiet and intolerant scorn, 
 
 The hollow puppets of a hollow age. 
 
 Ever idolatrous, and changing ever 
 
 Its worthless idols ! learning, power, and time, 
 
 (Too much of all) thus wasting in vain war 
 
 Of fervid colloquy. Sickness, 'tis true, 
 
 Whole years of weary days, besieged him close, 
 
 Even to the gates and inlets of his life ! 
 
 But it is true, no less, that strenuous, firm, 
 
 And with a natural gladness, he maintained 
 
 The citadel unconquered, and in joy 
 
 Was strong to follow the delightful Muse, 
 
 For not a hidden path, that to the shades 
 
 Of the beloved Parnassian forest leads, 
 
 Lurked undiscovered by him ; not a rill 
 
 There issues from the fount of Hippocrene, 
 
 But he had traced it upward to its source. 
 
 Through open glade, dark glen, and secret dell. 
 
 Knew the gay wild flowers on its banks, and culled 
 
 Its med'cinable herbs. Yea, oft alone. 
 
 Piercing the long-neglected holy cave, 
 
 The haunt obscure of old Philosophy, 
 
 He bade with lifted torch its starry walls 
 
 Sparkle, as erst they sparkled to the flame 
 
 Of odorous lamps tended by Saint and Sage. 
 
230 TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 
 
 framed for calmer times and nobler hearts ! 
 studious Poet, eloquent for truth ! 
 Philosopher ! contemning wealth and death, 
 Yet docile, childlike, full of Life and Love ! 
 Here, rather than on monumental stone, 
 This record of thy worth thy Friend inscribes, 
 Thoughtful, with quiet tears upon his cheek. 
 
 IV. 
 POEMS O'F YAEIED CHAEACTEE. 
 
 TO A YOUNG FRIEND, 
 
 ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE AUTHOK. 
 COMPOSED IN 1T96. 
 
 A MOUNT, not wearisome and bare and steep. 
 But a green mountain variously up-piled, 
 
 Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep, 
 
 Or coloured lichens with slow oozing weep ; 
 Where cypress and the darker yew start wild ; 
 
 And 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash 
 
 Dance brightened the red clusters of the ash ; 
 
 Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds beguiled. 
 
 Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep ; 
 Till haply startled by some fleecy dam, 
 
 That rustling on the bushy cliflP above, 
 
 With melancholy bleat of anxious love. 
 
 Made meek enquiry for her wandering lamb : 
 Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to climb, 
 
 E'en while the bosom ached with loneliness — 
 
 How more than sweet, if some dear friend should bless 
 
TO A YOUNG FEIEND. 2?,1 
 
 The adventurous toil, and up the path sublime 
 Now lead, now follow : the glad landscape round 
 Wide and more vvdde, increasing without bound ! 
 
 then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark 
 The berries of the half-uprooted ash 
 Dripping and bright ; and list the torrent's dash, — 
 
 Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark, 
 Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock ; 
 In social silence now, and now to unlock 
 The treasured heart ; arm linked in friendly arm, 
 Save if the one, his muse's witching charm 
 Muttering brow-bent, at unwatched distance lag ; 
 
 Till high o'er head his beckoning friend appears 
 And from the forehead of the topmost crag 
 
 Shouts eagerly : for haply there uprears 
 That shadowing pine its old romantic limbs, 
 
 Which latest shall detain the enamoured sight 
 Seen from below, when eve the valley dims, 
 
 Tinged yellow with the rich departing light ; 
 
 And haply, basoned in some unsunned cleft, 
 A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears, 
 Sleeps sheltered there, scarce wrinkled by the gale ! 
 
 Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left. 
 Stretched on the crag, and shadowed by the pine. 
 
 And bending o'er the clear delicious fount, 
 Ah ! dearest youth ! it were a lot divine 
 To cheat our noons in moralising mood, 
 While west-winds fanned our temples toil-bedewed : 
 
 Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the 
 mount, 
 To some lone mansion, in some woody dale. 
 Where smiling with blue eye, domestic bliss 
 Gives this the husband's, that the brother's kiss 
 
 Thus rudely versed in allegoric lore, 
 The Hill of Knowledge I essayed to trace ; 
 That verdurous hill with many a resting-place, 
 
 And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour 
 
 To glad and fertilize the subj ect plains ; 
 That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod, 
 And many a fancy-blest and holy sod 
 
1 
 
 232 ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE 
 
 Where Inspiration, his diviner strains 
 Low mui-muring, lay ; and starting from the rocks 
 Stiff evergreens, whose spreading foliage mocks 
 Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age, 
 And bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage ! 
 meek retiring spirit ! we will climb, 
 Cheering and cheered, this lovely hill sublime ; 
 
 And from the stirring world up-lifted high, 
 (Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind, 
 To quiet musings shall attune the mind. 
 
 And oft the melancholy theme supply) 
 
 There, while the prospect through the gazing eye 
 
 Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul, 
 We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame, 
 Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same. 
 
 As neighbouring fountains image, each the whole : 
 Then when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth 
 
 We'll discipline the heart to pure delight, 
 Rekindling sober joy's domestic flame. 
 They whom I love shall love thee, honoured youth ! 
 
 Now may Heaven realize this vision bright ! 
 
 ADDEESSED TO A YOUI^G MAN OF FORTUNE 
 
 WHO ABANDONED HIMSELF TO AN INDOLENT AND 
 CAUSELESS MELANCHOLY. 
 
 Hence that fantastic wantonness of woe, 
 
 Touth to partial Fortune vainly dear ! 
 To plundered want's half-sheltered hovel go, 
 Go, and some hunger-bitten infant hear 
 Moan haply in a dying mother's ear: 
 Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood 
 O'er the rank church-yard with sear elm-leaves strewed, 
 Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part 
 
SONNET TO THE EIVER OTTER. 233 
 
 Was slaughtered, where o'er his uncoffined limbs 
 The flocking flesh- birds screamed ! Then, while thy 
 heart 
 
 Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims, 
 Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind) 
 What nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal ! 
 
 O abject ! if, to sickly dreams resigned, 
 All effortless thou leave life's common-weal 
 
 A prey to tyrants, murderers of mankind. 
 
 SONNET TO THE RIVER OTTER. 
 
 Dear native brook ! wild streamlet of the West ! 
 
 How many various-fated years have past, 
 
 What happy, and what mournful hours, since last 
 I skimmed the smooth thin stone along thy breast, 
 Numbering its light leaps ! yet so deep imprest 
 Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes 
 
 I never shut amid the sunny ray. 
 But straight with all their tints thy waters rise, 
 
 Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey, 
 And bedded sand that, veined with various dyes, 
 Gleamed through thy bright transparence ! On my way, 
 
 Visions of childhood ! oft have ye beguiled 
 Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs : 
 
 Ah ! that once more I were a careless child ! 
 
234 
 
 THE FOSTER MOTHEE'S TALE. 
 
 A DEAMATIC FRAGMENT. 
 
 The following Scene, as unfit for the stage, was taken from 
 the tragedy in the year 1797, and published in the Lyrical 
 Ballads. 
 
 Enter teresa and selma. 
 
 Ter. 'Tis said, he spake of you familiarly, 
 As mine and Alvar's common foster-mother. 
 
 Sel. Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be, 
 That joined yournames with mine ! my sweet Lady, 
 As often as I think of those dear times. 
 When you two little ones would stand, at eve, 
 On each side of my chair, and make me learn 
 All you had learnt in the day; and how to talk 
 
 In gentle phrase ; then bid me sing to you 
 
 'Tis more like heaven to come, than what has been ! 
 
 Ter. But that entrance, Selma ? 
 
 Sel. Can no one hear ] It is a perilous tale ! 
 
 Ter. No one. 
 
 Sel, My husband's father told it me, 
 
 Poor old Sesina — angels rest his soul ; 
 He was a woodman, and could fell and saw 
 With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam 
 Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel ? 
 Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree, 
 He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined 
 With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool 
 As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home. 
 And reared him at the then Lord Valdez' cost, 
 And so the babe grew up a pretty boy, 
 A pretty boy, but most unteachable — 
 And never learn'd a prayer, nor told a bead. 
 But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes. 
 
THE FOSTER MOTHER'S TALE. 235 
 
 And whistled, as he were a bird himself. 
 And all the autumn 'twas his only play- 
 To gather seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them 
 With earth and water on the stumps of trees. 
 A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood, 
 A grey-haired man, he loved this little boy : 
 The boy loved him, and, when the friar taught him, 
 He soon could wi-ite with the pen ; and from that time 
 Lived chiefly at the convent or the castle. 
 So he became a rare and learned youth ; 
 But ! poor wretch ! he read, and read, and read, 
 Till his brain turned ; and ere his twentieth year 
 He had unlawful thoughts of many things : 
 And though he prayed, he never loved to pr ay 
 With holy men, nor in a holy place. 
 But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet, 
 The late Lord Valdez ne'er was wearied with him. 
 And once, as by the north side of the chapel 
 They stood together chained in deep discourse. 
 The earth heaved under them with such a groan, 
 That the wall tottei-ed, and had well nigh fallen 
 Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened: 
 A fever seized him, and he made confession 
 Of all the heretical and lawless talk 
 Which brought this judgment; so the youth was seized, 
 And cast into that hole. My husband's father 
 Sobbed like a child — it almost broke his heai-t : 
 And once as he was working near this dungeon. 
 He heard a voice distinctly ; 'twas the youth's. 
 Who sung a doleful song about green fields. 
 How sweet it were on lake or wide savanna 
 To hunt for food, and be a naked man, 
 And wander up and down at liberty. 
 He always doted on the youth, and now 
 His love grew desperate ; and defying death. 
 He made that cunning entrance I described. 
 And the young man escaped. 
 
 Ter. 'Tis a sweet tale : 
 
 Such as would lull a listening child to sleep, 
 His rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears. 
 
236 SONNET. 
 
 And what became of him ? 
 
 Sel. He went on shipboard 
 
 With those bold voyagers who made discovery 
 Of golden lands. Sesina's younger brother 
 "Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain, 
 He told Sesina, that the poor mad youth, 
 Soon after they arrived in that new world, 
 In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat, 
 And all alone set sail by silent moonlight 
 Up a great river, great as any sea, 
 And ne'er was heard of more : but 'tis supposed. 
 He lived and died among the savage men. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR HAVIWO 
 RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OP THE BIRTH OF A SON, 
 
 Sept. 20, 1796. 
 
 Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll 
 
 "Which makes the present (while the flash doth last) 
 Seem a mei-e semblance of some unknown past 
 
 Mixed with such feelings as perplex the soul 
 
 Self-questioned in her sleep ; and some have said 
 "We lived, ere yet this robe of flesh we wore.* 
 my sweet baby ! when I reach my door, 
 
 If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead, 
 
 (As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear) 
 
 I think that I should struggle to believe 
 Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere 
 
 Sentenced for some more venial crime to grieve ; 
 
 Did'st scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick 
 reprieve, 
 "While we wept idly o'er thy little bier ! 
 
 ' — Plat, in Phcedon. 
 
23T 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE NUKBB 
 FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME. 
 
 Charles ! my slow heart was only sad, when first 
 I scanned that face of feeble infancy : 
 
 For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst 
 All I had been, and all my child might be ! 
 
 But when I saw it on its mother's arm, 
 And hanging at her bosom (she the while 
 Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile) 
 
 Then I was thrilled and melted, and most warm 
 
 Impressed a father's kiss : and all beguiled 
 Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, 
 I seemed to see an angel-form appear — 
 
 'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild ! 
 
 So for the mother's sake the child was dear, i 
 
 And dearer was the mother for the child. 
 
 TELL'S BIRTH-PLACE. 
 
 IMITATED FROM STOLBERO. 
 I. 
 
 Mark this holy chapel well ! , 
 The birth-place, this, of William Tell. 
 Here, where stands God's altar dread 
 Stood his parents' marriage-bed. 
 
238 TELL'S BIRTH-PLACE, 
 
 Here, first, an infant to her breast, 
 Him his loving mother prest ; 
 And kissed the babe, and blessed the day, 
 And prayed as mothers use to pray. 
 
 " Vouchsafe him health, God ! and give 
 The child thy servant still to live ! " 
 But God had destined to do more 
 Through him, than through an armed power. 
 
 God gave him reverence of laws, 
 
 Yet stirring blood in Freedom's cause — 
 
 A spirit to his rocks akin. 
 
 The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein ! 
 
 To Nature and to Holy Writ 
 Alone did God the boy commit : 
 Where flashed and roared the torrent, oft 
 His soul found wings, and soared aloft ! 
 
 The straining oar and chamois chase 
 Had formed his limbs to strength and grace 
 On wave and wind the boy would toss. 
 Was great, nor knew how great he was ! 
 
 He knew not that his chosen hand, 
 Made strong by God, his native land 
 Would rescue from the shameful yoke 
 Of Slavery — the which he broke ! 
 
239 
 
 ODE TO GEORGIANA, 
 
 DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE, OS THE TWENTY-FOURTH STANZA 
 IN HER "passage over MOUNT GOTHARD." 
 
 "And liail the cliapel ! hail the platform wild 
 
 "Where Tell directed the avenging dart, 
 With well strung arm, that first preserved his child. 
 
 Then aimed the arrow at the tyrant's heart." 
 
 Splendour's fondly fostered child ! 
 And did you hail the platform wild, 
 
 Where once the Austrian fell 
 
 Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
 Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure ! 
 Whence learn'd you that heroic measure? 
 
 Light as a dream your days their circlets ran, 
 From all that teaches brotherhood to Man 
 Far, far removed ! from want, from hope, from fear ! 
 Enchanting music lulled your infant ear, 
 Obeisance, praises soothed your infant heart : 
 
 Emblazonments and old ancestral crests, 
 With many a bright obtrusive form of art, 
 
 Detained your eye from nature : stately vests. 
 That veiling strove to deck your charms divine, 
 Eich viands and the pleasurable wine, 
 Were yours unearned by toil ; nor could you see 
 The unenjoying toiler's misery. ' 
 And yet, free Nature's uncorrupted child, 
 You hailed the chapel and the platform wild. 
 Where once the Austrian fell 
 Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
 
 Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure ! 
 
 "VMience learn'd you that heroic measure ? 
 
210 ODE TO GEOEGIANA. 
 
 There crowd your finely-fibred frame, 
 
 All living faculties of bliss; 
 And Genius to your cradle came, 
 His forehead wreathed with lambent flame, 
 And bending low, with godlike kiss 
 Breath'd in a more celestial life ; 
 But boasts not many a fair compeer, 
 
 A heart as sensitive to joy and fear? 
 And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife. 
 Some few, to nobler being wrought, 
 Corrivals in the nobler gift of thought. 
 Yet these delight to celebrate 
 Laurelled war and plumy state ; 
 Or in verse and music dress ' 
 Tales of rustic happiness — 
 Pernicious tales ! insidious strains ! 
 That steel the rich man's breast, 
 And mock the lot unblest. 
 The sordid vices and the abject pains, 
 Which evermore must be 
 The doom of ignorance and penury ! 
 But you, free N"ature's uncorrupted child. 
 You hailed the chapel and the platform wild, 
 Where once the Austrian fell 
 Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
 Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure ! 
 Whence learn'd you that heroic measure ? 
 
 You were a mother ! That most holy name. 
 Which Heaven and Nature bless, 
 I may not vilely prostitute to those 
 
 Whose infants owe them less 
 Than the poor caterpillar owes 
 Its gaudy parent fly. 
 You were a mother ! at your bosom fed 
 The babes that loved you. You, with laughing 
 eye, 
 Each twilight-thought, each nascent feeling read, 
 Which you yourself created. Oh ! delight ! 
 
ON AN INFANT. 
 
 A second time to be a mother, 
 
 Without the mother's bitter groans : 
 Another thought, and yet another, 
 By touch, or taste, by looks or tones 
 O'er the growing sense to roll, 
 The mother of your infant's soul ! 
 The Angel of the Earth, who, while he gviides 
 
 His chariot-planet round the goal of day, 
 All trembling gazes on the eye of God, 
 
 A moment turned his awful face away ; 
 And as he viewed you, from his aspect sweet 
 
 New influences in your being rose. 
 Blest intuitions and communions fleet 
 
 With living Nature, in her joys and woes ! 
 Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see 
 The shrine of social Liberty ! 
 beautiful ! Nature's child ! 
 'Twas thence you hailed the platform wild, 
 Where once the Austrian fell 
 Beneath the shaft of Tell ! 
 Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure ! 
 Thence learn'd you that heroic measure. 
 
 ON AN INFANT 
 
 WHICH DIED BEFORE BAPTISM, 
 
 " Be, rather than be called, a child of God,' 
 Death whispered ! — with assenting nod, 
 Its head upon its mother's breast. 
 
 The Baby bowed, without demur — 
 Of the kingdom of the Blest 
 
 Possessor, not inheritor. 
 
EPITAPH ON AN INFANT. 
 
 Its balmy lips the infant blest 
 Relaxing from its mother's breast, 
 How sweet it heaves the happy sigh 
 Of innocent satiety ! 
 
 And such my infant's latest sigh ! 
 tell, rude stone ! the passer by, 
 That here the pretty babe doth lie, 
 Death sang to sleep with Lullaby. 
 
 HYMN TO THE EARTH. 
 
 HEXAMETERS. 
 
 Earth ! thou mother of numberless children, the 
 
 nurse and the mother. 
 Hail ! Goddess, thrice hail ! Blest be thou ! and, 
 
 blessing, I hymn thee ! 
 Forth, ye sweet sounds ! from my harp, and my voice 
 
 shall float on your surges — 
 Soar thou aloft, my soul ! and bear up my song on 
 
 thy pinions. 
 
 Travelling the vale with mine eyes — green meadows 
 
 and lake with green island, 
 Dark in its basin of rock, and the bare stream flowing 
 
 in brightness, 
 Thrilled with thy beauty and love in the wooded slope 
 
 of the mountain, 
 
HYMN TO THE EAETH. 243 
 
 Here, great mother, I lie, thy child, with his head on 
 
 thy bosom ! 
 Playful the spirits of noon, that rushing soft through 
 
 thy tresses, 
 Green-haired goddess ! refresh me; and hark ! as they 
 
 hurry or linger, 
 Fill the pause of my harp, or sustain it with musical 
 
 murmurs. 
 Into my being thou murmurest joy, and tenderest 
 
 sadness 
 Shedd'st thou, like dew, on my heart, till the joy and 
 
 the heavenly sadness 
 Pour themselves forth from my heart in tears, and the 
 
 hymn of thanksgiving. 
 Earth ! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse 
 
 and the mother, 
 Sister thou of the stars, and beloved by the sun, the 
 
 rejoicer ! 
 Guardian and friend of the moon, Earth, whom the 
 
 comets forget not, 
 Yea, in the measureless distance wheel round and 
 
 again they behold thee ! 
 Fadeless and young (and what if the latest birth of 
 
 creation ? ) 
 Bride and consort of Heaven, that looks down upon 
 
 thee enamoured ! 
 Say, mysterious Earth ! say, great mother and 
 
 goddess, 
 Was it not well with thee then, when first thy lap 
 
 was ungirdled, 
 Thy lap to the genial Heaven, the day that he wooed 
 
 thee and won thee ! 
 Fair was thy blush, the fairest and first of the blushes 
 
 of morning ! 
 Deep was the shudder, Earth ! the throe of thy self- 
 retention : 
 Inly thou strovest to flee, and didst seek thyself at 
 
 thy centre ! 
 Mightier far was the joy of thy sudden resilience; and 
 
 forthwith 
 
244 MAHOMET. 
 
 Myriad myriads of lives teemed forth from the mighty 
 embracement. 
 
 Thousand-fold tribes of dwellers, impelled by thousand- 
 fold instincts, 
 
 Filled, as a dream, the wide waters ; the rivers sang 
 on their channels ; 
 
 Laughed on their shores the hoax'se seas; the yearning 
 ocean swelled upward ; 
 
 Young life lowed through the meadows, the woods, 
 and the echoing mountains. 
 
 Wandered bleating in valleys, and warbled on blos- 
 soming branches. 
 
 MAHOMET. 
 
 Utter the song, my soul ! the flight and return of 
 
 Mohammed, 
 Prophet and priest, who scatter'd abroad both evil 
 
 and blessing. 
 Huge wasteful empires founded and hallow'd slow 
 
 persecution, 
 Soul-withering, but crush'd the blasphemous rites of 
 
 the Pagan 
 And idolatrous Christians. — ^For veiling the Gospel of 
 
 Jesus, ' 
 
 They, the best corrupting, had made it worse than 
 
 the vilest. 
 "Wherefore Heaven decreed th' enthusiast warrior of 
 
 Mecca, 
 Choosing good from iniquity rather than evil from 
 
 goodness. 
 Loud the tumult in Mecca surrounding the fane of 
 
 the idol ; — 
 Naked and prostrate the priesthood were laid — the 
 
 people with mad shouts 
 Thundering now, and now with saddest ululatiou 
 
WRITTEN DURING A BLINDNESS. 245 
 
 Flew, as over the channel of rock-stone the ruinous 
 
 river 
 Shatters its waters abreast, and in mazy uproar 
 
 bewilder'd, 
 Eushes dividuous all — all rushing impetuous onward. 
 
 THE VIRGO'S CRADLE-HYMN. 
 
 COPIED FROM A PRINT OF THE VIRGIN, IN A ROMAN 
 CATHOLIC VILLAGE IN GERMANY. 
 
 DoRMi, Jesu ! Mater ridet 
 
 Quae tam dulcem somnum videt, 
 
 Dormi, Jesu ! blandule ! 
 Si non dermis, Mater plorat, 
 Inter fila cantans orat, 
 
 Blande, veni, somnule. 
 
 Sleep, sweet babe ! my cares beguiling ; 
 Mother sits beside thee smiling ; 
 
 Sleep, my darling, tenderly ! 
 If thou sleep not, mother mourneth, 
 Singing as her wheel she turneth : 
 
 Come, soft slumber, balmily ! 
 
 WRITTEN DURING A TEMPORARY BLIND- 
 NESS, IN THE YEAR 1799. 
 
 0, WHAT a life is the eye ! what a strange and inscrut- 
 able essence ! 
 
 Him, that is utterly blind, nor glimpses the fire that 
 warms him ; 
 
246 ODE TO TRANQUILLITY. 
 
 Him tliat never beheld the swelling breast of his 
 
 mother ; 
 Him that smiled in his gladness as a babe that smiles 
 
 in its slumber ; 
 Even for him it exists ! It moves and stirs in its 
 
 prison ! 
 Lives with a separate life : and — " Is it a spirit ? " he 
 
 murmurs : 
 " Sure, it has thoughts of its own, and to see is only a 
 
 ODE TO TKANQUILLITY. 
 
 Tranquillity ! thou better name 
 
 Than all the family of Fame ! 
 
 Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age 
 
 To low intrigue, or factious rage ; 
 
 For oh ! dear child of thoughtful Truth, 
 
 To thee I gave my early youth. 
 And left the bark, and blest the stedfast shore, 
 Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with its roar. 
 
 Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, 
 On him but seldom, Power divine 
 Thy spirit rests ! Satiety 
 And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, 
 Mock the tired worldling. Idle hope 
 And dire i-emembrance interlope. 
 To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind : 
 The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. 
 
 But me thy gentle hand will lead 
 
 At morning through the accustomed mead; 
 
 And in the sultry summer's heat 
 
 Will build me up a mossy seat ; 
 
CATULLIAN HENDEGASYLLABLES. 247 
 
 And when the gust of Autumn crowds, 
 And breaks the busy moonlight clouds, 
 Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune, 
 Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon. 
 
 The feeling heart, the searching soul, 
 
 To thee I dedicate the whole ! 
 
 And while within myself I trace 
 
 The greatness of some future race, 
 
 Aloof with hermit-eye I scan 
 
 The present works of present man — 
 A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, 
 Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile ! 
 
 CATULLIAN HENDEGASYLLABLES. 
 
 Hear, my beloved, an old Milesian story ! — 
 HJigh, and embosom'd in congregated laurels, 
 Ghmmer d a temple upon a breezy headland ; 
 In the dim distance amid the skiey billows 
 Eose a fair island ; the god of flocks had placed it. 
 From the far shores of the bleak resounding island 
 Oft by the moonlight a little boat came floating, 
 Came to the sea cave beneath the breezy headland, 
 Where amid myrtles a pathway stole in mazes 
 Up to the groves of the high embosom'd temple. 
 There in a thicket of dedicated roses, 
 Oft did a priestess, as lovely as a vision. 
 Pouring her soul to the son of Cytherea, 
 Pray him to hover around the slight canoe-boat. 
 And with invisible pilotage to guide it 
 Over the dusk wave, until the nightly sailor 
 Shivering with ecstasy sank upon her bosom. 
 
DEJECTION: AN ODE. 
 
 Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, 
 With the old Moon in her arms ; 
 And I fear, I fear, my Master dear ! 
 We shall have a deadly storm, 
 
 BALLAD OF SIK PATRICK SPENCB. 
 
 Well ! If the Bard was weather- wise, who made 
 The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence, 
 This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence 
 Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade 
 Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes, 
 Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes 
 Upon the strings of this Eolian lute, . 
 Which better fer were mute. 
 For lo ! the New-moon winter-bright ! 
 And overspread with phantom light, 
 (With swimming phantom light o'erspread 
 But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) 
 I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling 
 
 The coming on of rain and squally blast. 
 And oh ! that even now the gust were swelling, 
 
 And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast ! 
 Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they 
 awed. 
 And sent my soul abroad, 
 Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give, 
 Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and 
 live ! 
 
 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 — 
 
DEJECTION: AN ODE. 249 
 
 Lady ! in this wan and heartless mood, 
 To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd, 
 
 All this long eve, so balmy and serene, 
 Have I been gazing on the western sky, 
 
 And its peculiar tint of yellow green : 
 And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye ! 
 And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, 
 That give away their motion to the stars ; 
 Those stars, that glide behind them or between, 
 Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen : 
 Yon crescent Moon as fixed as if it grew 
 In its OAvn cloudless, stainless lake of blue ; 
 
 1 see them all so excellently fair, 
 
 I see, not feel how beautiful they are ! 
 
 My genial spirits fail ; 
 
 And what can these avail 
 To lift the smothering weight from oflf my breast ? 
 
 It were a vain endeavour, 
 
 Though I should gaze for ever 
 On that green light that lingers in the west : 
 I may not hope from outward forms to win 
 The passion and the life, whose fountains are within. 
 
 Lady! we receive but what we give. 
 And in our life alone does nature live : 
 Ours is her wedding-garment, oux's her shroud ! 
 
 And would we aught behold, of higher worth, 
 Than that inanimate cold world allowed 
 To the poor loveless evex'-anxious crowd. 
 
 Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth, 
 A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 
 
 Enveloping the Earth — 
 And from the soul itself must there be sent 
 
 A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth, 
 Of all sweet sounds the life and element ! 
 
250 DEJECTION: AN ODE. 
 
 O pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me 
 What this strong music in the soul may be ! 
 What, and wherein it doth exist, 
 This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, 
 This beautiful and beauty-making power. 
 
 Joy, virtuous Lady ! Joy that ne'er was given, 
 Save to the pure, and in their purest hour. 
 Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower 
 Joy, Lady ! is the spirit and the power, 
 Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower, 
 
 A new Earth and new Heaven, 
 Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud- 
 Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud — 
 
 We in ourselves rejoice ! 
 And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, 
 
 All melodies the echoes of that voice, 
 All colours a suffusion from that light. 
 
 There was a time when, though my path was rough. 
 This joy within me dallied with distress, 
 
 And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 
 
 Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness : 
 
 For Hope grew round me, like the twining vine, 
 
 And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine. 
 
 But now afflictions bow me down to earth : 
 
 Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth, 
 But oh ! each visitation 
 
 Suspends what nature gave me at my birth. 
 My shaping spirit of Imagination. 
 
 For not to think of what I needs must feel, 
 But to be still and patient, all I can ; 
 
 And haply by abstruse research to steal 
 
 From my own nature all the natural man — 
 This was my sole resource, my only plan : 
 
 Till that which suits a part infects the whole, 
 
 And now is almost grown the habit of my soul. 
 
DEJECTION: AN ODE. 251 
 
 Hence, viper thouglits, that coil around my mind, 
 
 Eeality's dark dream ! 
 I turn from you, and listen to tlie wind, 
 
 Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream 
 Of agony by torture lengthened out 
 That lute sent forth ! Thou Wind, that ravest with- 
 out, 
 Bare craig, or mountain-tairn,* or blasted tree, 
 Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb, 
 Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, 
 
 Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, 
 Mad Lutanist ! who in this month of showers, 
 Of dark brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, 
 Mak'st Devils' yule, with 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 ] 
 'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout. 
 With groans of trampled men, with smarting 
 wounds — 
 At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the 
 
 cold! 
 But hush ! there is a pause of deepest silence ! 
 
 And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd, 
 With groans, and tremulous shudderings — all is 
 over — 
 It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and 
 loud! 
 
 A tale of less affright, 
 And tempered with delight. 
 As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, 
 'Tis of a little child 
 Upon a lonesome wild, 
 
 * Taim is a small lake, generally if not always applied to 
 the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of 
 those in the valleys. This address to the Storm- wind will 
 not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, 
 and in a mountainous country. 
 
252 THE THREE GRAVES. 
 
 Not far from home, but slie hath, lost her way : 
 And now moans low in bitter grief and fear, 
 And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother 
 hear. 
 
 *Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep : 
 Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep ! 
 Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of healing, 
 
 And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, 
 May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling, 
 
 Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth 1 
 With light heart may she rise, 
 Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, 
 
 Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice; 
 To her may all things live, from pole to pole. 
 Their life the eddying of her living soul ! 
 
 simple spirit, guided from above. 
 Dear Lady ! friend devoutest of my choice. 
 Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice. 
 
 THE THREE GRAVES. 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF A SEXTOn'S TALE. 
 
 [The Author has published the following humble 
 fragment, encouraged by the decisive recommendation 
 of more than one of our most celebrated living Poets. 
 The language was intended to be dramatic ; that is 
 suited to the narrator; and the metre corresponds to 
 the homeliness of the diction. It is therefore pre- 
 sented as the fragment, not of a Poem, but of a 
 common Ballad-tale. Whether this is sufficient' to 
 justify the adoption of such a style, in any metrical 
 composition not professedly ludicrous, the Author is 
 himself in some doubt. At all events, it is not pre- 
 
THE THREE GRAVES, 253 
 
 sented as poetry, and it is in no way connected with 
 the Author's judgment concerning poetic diction. 
 Its merits, if any, are exclusively psychological. The 
 story which must be supposed to have been narrated 
 in the first and second parts is as follows. 
 
 Edward, a young farmer, meets at the house of 
 Ellen her bosom-friend Mary, and commences an 
 acquaintance, which ends in a mutual attachment. 
 With her consent, and by the advice of their common 
 friend Ellen, he announces his hopes and intentions 
 to Mary's mother, a widow-woman bordering on her 
 fortieth year, and from constant health, the posses- 
 sion of a competent property, and from having had 
 no other children but Mary and another daughter 
 (the father died in their infancy), retaining for the 
 greater part, her personal attractions and comeliness 
 of appearance; but a woman of low education and 
 violent temper. The answer which she at once 
 returned to Edward's application was remarkable — 
 •' Well, Edward ! you are a handsome young fellow, 
 and you shall have my daughter." From this time 
 all their wooing passed under the mother's eye ; and, 
 in fine, she became herself enamoured of her future 
 son-in-law, and practised every art, both of endear- 
 ment and of calumny, to transfer his affections from 
 her daughter to herself. (The outlines of the Tale 
 are positive facts, and of no very distant date, though 
 the author has purposely altered the names and the 
 scene of action, as well as invented the characters of 
 the parties and the detail of the incidents.) Edward, 
 however, though perplexed by her strange detractions 
 from her daughter's good qualities, yet in the inno- 
 cence of his own heart still mistaking her increasing 
 fondness for motherly afiection ; she at length, over- 
 come by her miserable passion, after much abuse of 
 Mary's temper and moral tendencies, exclaimed with 
 violent emotion — "0 Edward ! indeed, indeed, she is 
 not fit for you — she has not a heart to love you as 
 you deserve. It is I that love you ! Marry me, 
 Edward ! and I will this very day settle all my 
 
254 THE THREE GRAVES. 
 
 property on you." The Lover's eyes were now 
 opened ; and thus taken by surprise, whether from 
 the effect of the horror which he felt, acting as it 
 were hysterically on his nervous system, or that at 
 the first moment he lost the sense of the guilt of 
 the proposal in the feeling of its strangeness and 
 absurdity, he flung her from him and burst into a fit 
 of laughter. Irritated by this almost to frenzy, 
 the woman fell on her knees, and in a loud voice 
 that approached to a scream, she prayed for a curse 
 both on him and on her own child. Mary happened 
 to be in the room directly above them, heard Ed- 
 ward's laugh, and her mother's blasphemous prayer, 
 and fainted away. He, hearing the fall, ran up stairs, 
 and taking her in his arms, carried her off to Ellen's 
 home ; and after some fruitless attempts on her part 
 toward a reconciliation with her mother, she was 
 married to him. — And here the third part of the Tale 
 begins. 
 
 I was not led to choose this story from any par- 
 tiality to tragic, much less to monstrous events 
 (though at the time that I composed the verses, 
 somewhat more than twelve years ago, I was less 
 averse to such subjects than at present), but from 
 finding in it a striking proof of the possible effect 
 on the imagination, from an Idea violently and sud- 
 denly impressed on it. I had been reading Bryan 
 Edwards's account of the effect of the Oby witchcraft 
 on the negroes in the West Indies, and Hearne's 
 deeply interesting anecdotes of similar workings on 
 the imagination of the Copper Indians (those of my 
 readers who have it in their power will be well repaid 
 for the trouble of referring to those works for the 
 passages alluded to) and I conceived the design of 
 showing that instances of this kind are not peculiar 
 to savage or barbarous tribes, and of illustrating the 
 mode in which the mind is affected in these cases, 
 and the progress and symptoms of the morbid action 
 on the fancy from the beginning. 
 
 The Tale is supposed to be narrated by an old 
 
THE THEEE GRAVES. 255 
 
 Sexton, in a country church-yard, to a traveller whose 
 curiosity had been awakened by the appearance of 
 three graves, close by each other, to two only of 
 which there were grave-stones. On the first of these 
 was the name, and dates, as usual : on the second, no 
 name, but only a date, and the words, "The Mercy of 
 God is infinite."] 
 
 1818. 
 
 The grapes upon the Vicar's wall 
 
 Were ripe as ripe could be ; 
 And yellow leaves in sun and wind 
 
 Were falling from the tree. 
 
 On the hedge-elms in the narrow lane 
 Still swung the spikes of corn : 
 
 Dear Lord ! it seems but yesterday — 
 Young Edward's marriage-morn. 
 
 Up through that wood behind the church, 
 There leads from Edward's door 
 
 A mossy track, all over boughed. 
 For half a mile or more. 
 
 And from their house-door by that track 
 The bride and bridegroom went ; 
 
 Sweet Mary, though she was not gay. 
 Seemed cheerful and content. 
 
 But when they to the church- yard came, 
 
 I've heard poor Mary say, 
 As soon as she stepped into the sun, 
 
 Her heart it died away. 
 
 And when the Vicar joined their hands, 
 Her limbs did creep and freeze ; 
 
 But when they prayed, she thought she saw 
 Her mother on her knees. 
 
256 THE THREE GRAVES, 
 
 And o'er the church-path they returned — 
 
 I saw poor Mary's back, 
 Just as she stepped beneath the boughs 
 
 Into the mossy track. 
 
 Her feet upon the mossy track 
 
 The married maiden set : 
 That moment— I have heard her say — 
 
 She wished she could forget. 
 
 The shade o'er-flushed her limbs with heat- 
 Then came a chill like death : 
 
 And when the merry bells rang out, 
 They seemed to stop her bi-eath. 
 
 Beneath the foulest mother's curse 
 
 No child could ever thrive : 
 A mother is a mother still, 
 
 The holiest thing alive. 
 
 So five months passed : the mother still 
 
 Would never heal the strife ; 
 But Edward was a loving man, 
 
 And Mary a fond wife. 
 
 " My sister may not visit us, 
 My mother says her nay : 
 
 Edward ! you are all to me, 
 
 1 wish for your sake I could be 
 More lifesome and more gay. 
 
 *' I'm dull and sad ! indeed, indeed 
 
 I know I have no reason ! 
 Perhaps I am not well in health, 
 
 And 'tis a gloomy season." 
 
 'Twas a drizzly time — no ice, no snow ! 
 
 And on the few fine days 
 She stirred not out, lest she might meet 
 
 Her mother in the ways. 
 
THE THREE GRAVES. 257 
 
 But Ellen, spite of miry ways 
 
 And weather dark and dreary, 
 Trudged every day to Edward's house, 
 
 And made them all more cheery. 
 
 Oh ! Ellen was a faithful friend, 
 
 More dear than any sister ! 
 As cheerful too as singing lark ; 
 And she ne'er left them till 'twas dark, 
 
 And then they always missed her. 
 
 And now Ash- Wednesday came — that day 
 
 But few to church repair : 
 For on that day you know we read 
 
 The Comminatjon prayer. 
 
 Our late old Vicar, a kind man, 
 
 Once, Sir, he said to me, 
 He wished that service was clean out 
 
 Of our good liturgy. 
 
 The mother walked into the church — 
 
 To Ellen's seat she went: 
 Though Ellen always kept her church 
 
 All church-days during Lent. 
 
 And gentle Ellen welcomed her 
 
 With courteous looks and mild : 
 Thought she " what if her heart should melt. 
 
 And all be reconciled ! " 
 
 The day was scarcely like a day — 
 
 The clouds were black outright : 
 And many a night, with half a moon, 
 
 I've seen the church more light. 
 
 The wind was wild ; against the glass 
 
 The rain did beat and bicker ; 
 The church-tower swinging over head, 
 
 You scarce could hear the Vicar ! 
 
258 THE THREE GRAVES. 
 
 And then and there the mother knelt. 
 
 And audibly she cried — 
 " Oh ! may a clinging curse consume 
 
 This woman by my side ! 
 
 hear me, hear me, Lord in Heaven, 
 Although you take my life — 
 
 curse this woman, at whose house 
 Young Edward woo'd his wife. 
 
 By night and day, in bed and bower, 
 
 let her cursed be ! " 
 So having prayed, steady and slow, 
 
 She rose up from her knee, 
 And left the church, nor e'er again 
 
 The church door entered she. 
 
 1 saw poor Ellen kneeling still, 
 
 So pale, I guess-ed not why : 
 When she stood up, there plainly was 
 A trouble in her eye. 
 
 And when the prayers were done, we all 
 Came round and asked her why : 
 
 Giddy she seemed, and sure, there was 
 A trouble in her eye. 
 
 But ere she from the church-door stepped 
 She smiled and told us why : 
 
 " It was a wicked woman's curse," 
 Quoth she, " and what care I ] " 
 
 She smiled, and smiled, and passed it off 
 Ere from the door she stept — 
 
 But all agree it would have been 
 Much better had she wept. 
 
 And if her heart was not at ease. 
 This was her constant cry — 
 
 *' It was a wicked woman's curse- 
 God's good, and what care I J" 
 
THE THEEE GRAVES. 259 
 
 There was a hurry in her looks, 
 
 Her struggles she redoubled : 
 " It was a wicked woman's curse, 
 
 And why should I be troubled ] " 
 
 These tears will come — I dandled her 
 
 When 'twas the merest fairy — 
 Good creature ! and she hid it all : 
 
 She told it not to Mary. 
 
 But Maiy heard the tale : her arms 
 
 Eound Ellen's neck she threw ; 
 " Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me, 
 
 And now she hath cursed you ! " 
 
 I saw young Edward by himself 
 
 Stalk fast adown the lee, 
 He snatched a stick from every fence, 
 
 A twig from every tree. 
 
 He snapped them still with hand or knee, 
 
 And then away they flew ! 
 As if with his uneasy limbs 
 
 He knew not what to do ! 
 
 You see, good sir ! that single hill 1 
 
 His farm lies undei-neath : 
 He heard it there, he heard it all, 
 
 And only gnashed his teeth. 
 
 Now Ellen was a darling love 
 
 In all his joys and cares : 
 And Ellen's name and Mary's name 
 Fast-linked they both together came, 
 
 Whene'er he said his prayers. 
 
 And in the moment of his prayers 
 
 He loved them both alike : 
 Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy 
 
 Upon his heart did strike ! 
 
260 THE THREE GRAVES. 
 
 He reach' d his home, and by his looks 
 
 They saw his inward strife : 
 And they clung round him with their arms, 
 
 Both Ellen and his wife. 
 
 And Mary could not check her tears, 
 
 So on his breast she bowed ; 
 Then frenzy melted into grief, 
 
 And Edward wept aloud. 
 
 Dear Ellen did not weep at all. 
 
 But closelier did she cling, 
 And turned her face and looked as if 
 
 She saw some frightful thing. 
 
 THE THREE GRAVES. 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 To see a man tread over graves 
 
 I hold it no good mark ; 
 'Tis wicked in the sun and moon, 
 
 And bad luck in the dark ! 
 
 You see that grave 1 The Lord he gives, 
 
 The Lord he takes away : 
 Sir ! the child of my old age 
 
 Lies there as cold as clay. 
 
 Except that grave, you scarce see one 
 
 That was not dug by me ; 
 I'd rather dance upon 'em all 
 
 Than tread upon these three ! 
 
THE THREE GRAVES. 261 
 
 " Ay, Sexton ! 'tis a touching tale." 
 
 You, Sir ! are but a lad ; 
 This month I'm in my seventieth year, 
 
 And still it makes me sad. 
 
 And Mary's sister told it me, 
 
 For three good hours and more ; 
 Though I had heard it, in the main, 
 
 From Edward's self before. 
 
 Well ! it passed off ! the gentle Ellen 
 
 Did well nigh dote on Mary; 
 And she went oftener than before. 
 And Mary loved her more and more 
 
 She managed all the dairy. 
 
 To market she on market-days, 
 
 To church on Sundays came ; 
 All seemed the same : all seemed so, Sir ! 
 
 But all was not the same ! 
 
 Had Ellen lost her mirth ? Oh ! no ! 
 
 But she was seldom cheerful ; 
 And Edward looked as if he thought 
 
 That Ellen's mirth was fearful. 
 
 When by herself, she to herself 
 
 Must sing some merry rhyme ; 
 She could not now be glad for hours. 
 
 Yet silent all the time. 
 
 And when she soothed her friend, through all 
 
 Her soothing words 'twas plain 
 She had a sore grief of her own, 
 
 A haunting in her brain. 
 
 And oft she said, I'm not grown thin 1 
 
 And then her wrist she spanned ; 
 And once when Mary was down-cast, 
 
 She took her by the hand, 
 
262 THE THREE GRAVES. 
 
 And gazed upon her, and at first 
 She gently pressed her hand ; 
 
 Then harder, till her grasp at length 
 Did gripe like a convulsion ! 
 
 Alas ! said she, we ne'er can be 
 Made happy by compulsion ! 
 
 And once her both arms suddenly 
 Round Mary's neck she flung, 
 
 And her heart panted, and she felt 
 The words upon her tongue. 
 
 She felt them coming, but no power 
 Had she the words to smother ; 
 
 And with a kind of shriek she cried, 
 *' Oh Christ ! you're like your mother !' 
 
 So gentle Ellen now no more 
 
 Could make this sad house cheery ; 
 
 And Mary's melancholy ways 
 Drove Edward wild and weary. 
 
 Lingering he raised his latch at eve, 
 Though tired in heart and limb : 
 
 He loved no other place, and yet 
 Home was no home to him. 
 
 One evening he took up a book. 
 
 And nothing in it read ; 
 Then flung it down, and groaning cried, 
 
 " Oh ! Heaven ! that I were dead." 
 
 Mary looked up into his face, 
 
 And nothing to him said ; 
 She tried to smile, and on his arm 
 
 Mournfully leaned her head. 
 
 And he burst into tears, and fell 
 
 Upon his knees in prayer : 
 " Her heart is broke ! God ! my grief, 
 
 It is too great to bear ! " 
 
THE THREE GRAVES. 
 
 *Twas such a foggy time as makes 
 
 Old sextons, Sir ! like me, 
 Rest on their spades to cough ; the spring 
 
 Was late imcommonly. 
 
 And then the hot days, all at once, 
 
 They came, we knew not how : 
 You looked about for shade, when scarce 
 
 A leaf was on a bough. 
 
 It happened then ('twas in the bower 
 
 A furlong up the wood : 
 Perhaps you know the place, and yet 
 
 I scarce know how you should, — ) 
 
 No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh 
 
 To any pasture-plot ; 
 But clustered near the chattering brook, 
 
 Lone hollies marked the spot. 
 
 Those hollies of themselves a shape 
 
 As of an arbour took, 
 A close, round arbour ; and it stands 
 
 Not three strides from a brook. 
 
 Within this arbour, which was still 
 
 With scarlet berries hung, 
 Were these three friends, one Sunday mom 
 
 Just as the first bell rung. 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet 
 
 To hear the Sabbath-bell, 
 Tis sweet to hear them both at once. 
 Deep in a woody dell. 
 
 His limbs along the moss, his head 
 
 Upon a mossy heap, 
 With shut-up senses, Edward lay : 
 That brook e'en on a working day 
 
 Might chatter one to sleep. 
 
264 THE THREE GRAVES, 
 
 And he had. passed a restless night, 
 
 And was not well in health ; 
 The women sat down by his side. 
 
 And talked as 'twere by stealth. 
 
 "The sun peeps through the close thick leaves, 
 
 See, dearest Ellen ! see ! 
 'Tis in the leaves, a little sun, 
 
 No bigger than your ee ; 
 
 ** A tiny sun, and it has got 
 
 A perfect glory too ; 
 Ten thousand threads and hairs of light, 
 Make up a glory, gay and bright, 
 
 Eound that small orb, so blue." 
 
 And then they argued of those rays, 
 
 What colour they might be; 
 Says this, "they're mostly green;" says that, 
 
 " They're amber-like to me." 
 
 So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts 
 
 Were troubling Edward's rest ; 
 But soon they heard his hard quick pants, 
 
 And the thumping in his breast. 
 
 " A mother too !" these self-same words 
 
 Did Edward mutter plain ; 
 His face was drawn back on itself. 
 
 With horror and huge pain. 
 
 Both groaned at once, for both knew well 
 What thoughts were in his mind ; 
 
 When he waked up, and stared like one 
 That hath been just struck blind. 
 
 He sat upright ; and ere the dream 
 
 Had had time to depart, 
 *' God, forgive me ! (he exclaimed) 
 
 I have torn out her heart." 
 
MELANCHOLY. 265 
 
 Then Ellen shrieked, and forthwith burst 
 
 Into ungentle laughter ; 
 And Mary shivered, where she sat, 
 
 And never she smiled after. 
 
 1805-6. 
 
 Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To- 
 morrow! and To-morrow ! and To-morrow ! 
 
 MELANCHOLY.* 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 Steetch'd on a mouldered Abbey's broadest wall, 
 Where ruining ivies propped the ruins steep — 
 
 Her folded arms wrapping her tattered pall, 
 Had Melancholy mus'd herself to sleep. 
 
 The fern was press'd beneath her hair, 
 The dark green adder's tongue f was there ; 
 And still as past the flagging sea-gale weak, 
 The long lank leaf bowed flutteriag o'er her cheek. 
 
 That pallid cheek was flushed : her eager look 
 
 Beamed eloquent in slumber ! Inly wrought, 
 Imperfect sounds her moving lips forsook. 
 And her bent forehead worked with troubled 
 thought. 
 
 Strange was the dream 
 
 1794. 
 
 * See Note. 
 t A botanical mistake. The plant which the poet here 
 describes is called the Hart's Tongue. 
 
COMPOSED DURING ILLNESS AND IN 
 ABSENCE.* 
 
 Dim Hour ! that sleep'st on pillowing clouds afar, 
 rise, and yoke the turtles to thy car ! 
 Bend o'er the traces, blame each lingering dove. 
 And give me to the bosom of my Love ! 
 My gentle Love ! caressing and carest, 
 With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest ; 
 Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes, 
 Lull with fond woe, and med'cine me with sighs ; 
 While finely-flushing float her kisses meek, 
 Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid cheek. 
 Chill'd by the night, the drooping rose of May 
 Mourns the long absence of the lovely Day : 
 Young Day, returning at her promised hour, 
 Weeps o'er the sorrows of the fav'rite flower, — 
 Weeps the soft dew, the balmy gale she sighs. 
 And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes. 
 New life and joy th' expanding flow'ret feels : 
 His pitying mistress mourns, and mourning heals ! 
 
 1796. 
 
 THE VISIT OF THE GODS. 
 
 IMITATED FROM SCHILLER. 
 
 Never, believe me. 
 Appear the Inamortals, 
 Never alone : 
 Scarce had I welcomed the sorrow-beguiler, 
 lacchus ! but in came boy Cupid the smiler ; 
 
 * See Note. 
 
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 267 
 
 Lo ! Phoebus the glorious descends from his throne I 
 They advance, they float in, the Olympians all ! 
 With divinities fills my 
 Terrestrial hall ! 
 
 How shall I yield you 
 Due entertainment, 
 Celestial quire ? 
 Me rather, bright guests ! with your wings of up- 
 
 buoyance, 
 Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of joyance. 
 That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre ! 
 Hah ! we mount ! on their pinions they waft up my 
 soul! 
 
 give me the nectar ! 
 fill me the bowl ! 
 
 Give him the nectar ! 
 Pour out for the poet, 
 Hebe ! pour free ! 
 Quicken his eyes with celestial dew. 
 That Styx he detested no more he may view, 
 And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be f 
 Thanks, Hebe ! I quaff it ! lo Psean, I cry ! 
 The wine of the Immortals 
 Forbids me to die ! 
 
 1798. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAEOL. 
 
 The shepherds went their hasty way, 
 
 And found the lowly stable-shed 
 Where the Virgin-Mother lay : 
 
 And now they checked their eager tread, 
 For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung, 
 A mothei-'s song the Virgin-Mother sung. 
 
A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 They told her how a glorious light, 
 
 Streaming from a heavenly throng, 
 
 Around them shone, suspending night ! 
 
 While sweeter than a mother's song, 
 
 Blest Angels heralded the Saviour's birth. 
 
 Glory to God on high ! and Peace on Earth. 
 
 She listened to the tale divine, 
 
 And closer still the Babe she prest ; 
 And while she cried, the Babe is mine ! 
 The milk rushed faster to her breast : 
 Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn ; 
 Peace, Peace on Earth ! the Prince of Peace is born. 
 
 Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace, 
 
 Poor, simple, and of low estate ! 
 
 That strife should vanish, battle cease, 
 
 why should this thy soul elate ? 
 
 Sweet music's loudest note, the poet's story, 
 
 Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory? 
 
 And is not War a youthful king, 
 
 A stately hero clad in mail ] 
 Beneath his footsteps laurels spring ; 
 Him Earth's majestic monarchs hail 
 Their friend, their playmate ! and his bold bright eye 
 Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh. 
 
 " Tell this in some more courtly scene, 
 
 To maids and youths in robes of state ! 
 I am a woman poor and mean, 
 And therefore is my soul elate. 
 War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled. 
 That from the aged father tears his child 1 
 
LINES TO W. L. 2( 
 
 vir. 
 *' A murderous fiend, by fiends adored, 
 He kills the sire and starves the son ; 
 The husband kills, and from her board 
 Steals all his widow's toil had won ; 
 Plunders God's world of beauty ; rends away 
 All safety from the night, all comfort from the day. 
 
 " Then wisely is my soul elate, 
 
 That strife should vanish, battle cease : 
 I'm ppor and of a low estate. 
 
 The Mother of the Prince of Peace. 
 Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn : 
 Peace, Peace on Earth ! the Prince of Peace is born." 
 
 1799. 
 
 LINES TO W. L. 
 
 WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PUECELL'S MUSIC. 
 
 While my young cheek retains its healthful hues, 
 
 And I have many friends who hold me dear ; 
 
 L ! methinks, I would not often hear 
 
 Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose 
 All memory of the wrongs and sore distress, 
 
 For which my miserable brethren weep ! 
 
 But should uncomforted misfortunes steep 
 My daily bread in tears and bitterness ; 
 And if at death's dread moment I should lie 
 
 With no beloved face at my bed-side, 
 To fix the last glance of my closing eye, 
 
 Methinks, such strains, breathed by my angel-guide, 
 Would make me pass the cup of anguish by, 
 
 Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died ! 
 
 1800. 
 
270 
 
 THE KNIGHT'S TOMB. 
 
 Wheee is tlie grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellynl 
 
 Where may the grave of that good man be 1 — 
 
 By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, 
 
 Under the twigs of a young birch tree ! 
 
 The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, 
 
 And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year, 
 
 And whistled and roared in the winter alone, 
 
 Is gone, — and the birch in its stead is grown. — 
 
 The Knight's bones are dust, 
 
 And his good sword rust ; — 
 
 His soul is with the saints, I trust. 
 
 1802. 
 
 METEICAL FEET. LESSON FOR A BOY. 
 
 Trochee trips frSm long to short ; 
 
 From long to long in solemn sort 
 
 Slow Spondee stalks ; strong foot ! yet ill able 
 
 Ever to come tip with Dactyl trisyllablS. 
 
 Iambics march fr5m short to long ;— 
 
 With a leap and a bound the swift Anapaests throng ; 
 
 One syllable long, with one short at each side, 
 
 Amphibrachys hastes with a stately stride ; — 
 
 First and last being I5ng, middle short, Amphlmacer 
 
 Strikes his thundering hoofs like a prdiid high brSd 
 
 Racer. 
 If Derwent be innocent, steady, and wise. 
 And delight in the things of earth, water, and skies ; 
 Tender warmth at his heart, with these metres to 
 
 show it. 
 
 I 
 
A CHILD'S EVENING PRAYER. 271 
 
 With sound sense in his brains, may make Derweut a 
 
 poet, — 
 May crown him with fame, and must win him the love 
 Of his father on earth and his Father above. 
 
 My dear, dear child ! 
 Could you stand upon Skiddaw, you would not from 
 
 its whole ridge 
 See a man who so loves you as your fond S. T. Cole- 
 
 EIDGE. 
 
 1807. 
 
 A CHILD'S EVENING PRAYER. 
 
 Eee on my bed my limbs I lay, 
 God grant me grace my prayers to say : 
 God ! preserve my mother dear 
 In strength and health for many a year; 
 And, ! preserve my father too, 
 And may I pay him reverence due ; 
 And may I my best thoughts employ 
 To be my parents' hope and joy; 
 And, ! preserve my brothers both 
 From evil doings and from sloth, 
 And may we always love each other, 
 Our friends, our father, and our mother: 
 And still, Lord, to me impart 
 An innocent and grateful heart, 
 That after my great sleep I may 
 Awake to thy eternal day ! 
 
 Amen. 
 
 1808. 
 
272 
 
 COMPLAINT. 
 
 How seldom, Friend ! a good great man inherits 
 Honour or wealth, with all his worth and pains ! 
 It sounds like stories from the land of spirits, 
 If any man obtain that which he merits, 
 Or any merit that which he obtains. 
 
 For shame, dear Friend ! renounce this canting strain 
 
 What wouldst thou have a good great man obtain ? 
 
 Place — titles — salary — a gilded chain — 
 
 Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain ? — 
 
 Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends ! 
 
 Hath he not always treasures, always friends. 
 
 The good great man? — three treasures, love and light. 
 
 And calm thoughts, regular as infant's breath ; — 
 
 And three firm friends, more sure than day and night — 
 
 Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death. 
 
 1809. 
 
 PSYCHE. 
 
 The butterfly the ancient Grecians made 
 The soul's fair emblem, and its only name- 
 But of the soul, escaped the slavish trade 
 Of mortal life ! — For in this earthly frame 
 Our's is the reptile's lot, much toil, much blame, 
 Manifold motions making little speed. 
 And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed. 
 
AN ODE TO THE RAIN 273 
 
 AN ODE TO THE RAIN. 
 
 COMPOSED BEFORE DAYLIGHT, ON THE MORNING APPOINTED 
 FOR THE DEPARTURE OF A VERT WORTHY, BUT NOT VERY 
 PLEASANT VISITOR, WHOM IT WAS FEARED THE RAIN 
 MIGHT DETAIN. 
 
 I KNOW it is dark ; and though. I have lain, 
 Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain, 
 I have not once opened the lids of my eyes, 
 But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies. 
 
 Eain ! that I lie listening to, 
 You're but a doleful sound at best : 
 
 1 owe you little thanks, 'tis true, 
 For breaking thus my needful rest ! 
 Yet if, as soon as it is light, 
 
 Rain ! you will but take your flight, 
 I'll neither rail, nor malice keep, 
 Though sick and sore for want of sleep. 
 
 But only now, for this one day, 
 Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! 
 Rain ! with your dull two-fold sound, 
 The clash hard by, and the murmur all round ! 
 You know, if you know aught, that we. 
 Both night and day, but ill agree : 
 For days and months, and almost years, 
 Have limped on through this vale of tears, 
 Since body of mine, and rainy weather, 
 Have lived on easy terms together. 
 Yet if, as soon as it is light, 
 Rain ! you will but take your flight. 
 Though you should come again to-morrow, 
 And bring with you both pain and sorrow ; 
 Though stomach should sicken and knees should 
 swell — 
 
274 AN ODE TO THE RAIN. 
 
 I'll notMng speak of yoti but well. 
 But only now for this one day, 
 Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! 
 
 Dear Rain ! I ne'er refused to say 
 You're a good creature in your way ; 
 Nay, I could write a book myself, 
 Would fit a parson's lower shelf, 
 Showing how very good you are. — 
 What then 1 sometimes it must be fair ! 
 And if sometimes, why not to-day ] 
 Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! 
 
 Dear Rain ! if I've been cold and shy. 
 Take no offence ! I'll tell you why. 
 A dear old Friend e'en now is here, 
 And with him came my sister dear ; 
 After long absence now first met, 
 Long months by pain and grief beset — 
 With three dear friends ! in truth, we groan- 
 Impatiently to be alone. 
 We three, you mark ! and not one more ! 
 The strong wish makes my spirit sore. 
 We have so much to talk about. 
 So many sad things to let out ; 
 So many tears in our eye-corners, 
 Sitting like little Jacky Homers — 
 In short, as soon as it is day, 
 Do go, dear Rain ! do go away. 
 
 And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain ! 
 Whenever you shall come again, 
 Be you as dull as e'er you could, 
 (And by the bye 'tis understood, 
 You're not so pleasant as you're good) 
 Yet, knowing well your worth and place, 
 I'll welcome you with cheerful face ; 
 And though you stayed a week or more. 
 Were ten times duller than before ; 
 
A DAY DREAM. 275 
 
 Yet with kind heart, and right good will, 
 
 I'll sit and listen to you still ; 
 
 Nor should you go away, dear Eain ! 
 
 Uninvited to remain. 
 
 But only now, for this one day, 
 
 Do go, dear Rain ! do go away. 
 
 A DAY DREAM. 
 
 My eyes make pictures, when they are shut : — 
 
 I see a fountain, large and fair, 
 A willow and a ruined hut, 
 
 And thee, and me, and Mary there. 
 Mary ! make thy gentle lap our pillow ! 
 Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow ! 
 
 A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed, 
 
 And that and summer well agree : 
 And lo ! where Mary leans her head. 
 Two dear names carved upon the tree ! 
 And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow : 
 Our sister and our friend will both be here to-morrow 
 
 'Twas day ! But now few, large, and bright 
 
 The. stars are round the crescent moon ! 
 And now it is a dark warm night, 
 The balmiest of the month of June ! 
 A glow-worm fallen, and on the marge remounting 
 Shines and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet 
 fountain. 
 
 ever — ever be thou blest ! 
 
 For dearly, Asra, love I thee ! 
 This brooding warmth across my breast. 
 
 This depth of tranquil bliss — ah me! 
 
276 THE PAINS OF SLEEP. 
 
 Fount, tree, and shed are gone, I know not whither. 
 But in one quiet room we three are still together. 
 
 The shadows dance upon the wall, 
 
 By the still dancing fire-flames made ; 
 And now they slumber, moveless all ! 
 And now they melt to one deep shade ! 
 But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee : 
 I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel 
 thee! 
 
 Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play — 
 
 'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow ! 
 But let me check this tender lay 
 
 Which none may hear but she and thou ! 
 Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming, 
 Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women ! 
 
 1814-16. 
 
 THE PAINS OF SLEEP.* 
 
 Ere on my bed my limbs I lay, 
 
 It hath not been my use to pray 
 
 With moving lips or bended knees ; 
 
 But silently, by slow degrees. 
 
 My spirit I to Love compose, 
 
 In humble trust mine eye-lids close, 
 
 With reverential resignation, 
 
 No wish conceived, no thought exprest, 
 
 Only a sense of supplication ; 
 
 A sense o'er all my soul imprest 
 
 That I am weak, yet not unblest, 
 
 Since in me, round me, every where 
 
 Eternal strength and wisdom are. 
 
 * See Note, 
 
THE PAINS OP SLEEP. 277 
 
 But yester-niglit I prayed aloud 
 In anguish and in agony, 
 Up-starting from the fiendish crowd 
 Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me : 
 A lurid light, a trampling throng, 
 Sense of intolerable wrong, 
 And whom I scorned, those only strong ! 
 Thirst of revenge, the powerless will 
 Still baffled, and yet burning still ! 
 Desire with loathing strangely mixed 
 On wild or hateful objects fixed. 
 Fantastic passions ! maddening brawl ! 
 And shame and terror over all ! 
 Deeds to be hid which were not hid, 
 Which all confused I could not know, 
 Whether I sufiered, or I did : 
 For all seemed guilt, remorse or woe, 
 My own or others still the same 
 Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame. 
 
 So two nights passed : the night's dismay 
 Saddened and stunned the coming day. 
 Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me 
 Distemper's worst calamity. 
 The third night, when my own loud scream 
 Had waked me from the fiendish dream, 
 O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild, 
 I wept as I had been a child ; 
 And having thus by tears subdued 
 My anguish to a milder mood. 
 Such punishments, I said, were due 
 To natures deepliest stained with sin, — 
 For aye entempesting anew 
 The unfathomable hell within 
 The horror of their deeds to view, 
 To know and loathe, yet wish and do I 
 Such .griefs with such men well agree, 
 But wherefore, wherefore fall on me 1 
 To be beloved is all I need. 
 And whom I love, I love indeed. 
 
278 
 
 A HYMN.* 
 
 Mt Maker ! of thy power tlie trace 
 In every creature's form and face 
 
 The wond'ring soul surveys : 
 Thy wisdom, infinite above 
 Seraphic thought, a Father's love 
 
 As infinite displays ! 
 
 From all that meets or eye or ear, 
 There falls a genial holy fear 
 Which, like the heavy dew of morn, 
 Refreshes while it bows the heart forlorn ! 
 
 Great God ! thy works how wondrous fair ! 
 Yet sinful man didst thou declare 
 
 The whole Earth's voice and mind ! 
 Lord, ev'n as Thou all-present art, 
 may we still with heedful heart 
 
 Thy presence know and find ! 
 Then, come, what will, of weal or woe, 
 Joy's bosom-spring shall steady flow ; 
 For though 'tis Heaven Thyself to see, 
 Where but thy Shadow falls, Grief cannot be !^ 
 
 1814. 
 
 HUMAN LIFE, 
 
 ON THE DENIAL OF IMMORTALITT. 
 
 If dead, we cease to be ; if total gloom 
 
 Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare 
 
 As summer-gusts, of sudden birth and doom, 
 Whose sound and motion not alone declare, 
 
 * See Note. 
 
SEPAEATION. 279 
 
 But are their whole of being ! If the breath 
 
 Be life itself, and not its task and tent, 
 If even a soul like Milton's can know death ; 
 
 Man ! thou vessel purposeless, unmeant, 
 Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes ! 
 
 Surplus of nature's dread activity, 
 Which, as she gazed on some nigh-finished vase. 
 Retreating slow, with meditative pause. 
 
 She formed with restless hands unconsciously ! 
 
 Blank accident ! nothing's anomaly ! 
 
 If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state, 
 Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy hopes, thy fears, 
 The counter-weights ! — Thy laughter and thy tears 
 
 Mean but themselves, each fittest to create. 
 And to repay the other ! Why rejoices 
 
 Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good 1 
 
 Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's hood. 
 Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices, 
 
 Image of image, ghost of ghostly elf. 
 That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold 1 
 Yet what and whence thy gain, if thou withhold 
 
 These costless shadows of thy shadowy self? 
 Be sad ! be glad ! be neither ! seek, or shun ! 
 Thou hast no reason why ! Thou can'st have none ; 
 Thy being's being is a contradiction. 
 
 1816. 
 
 SEPARATION.* 
 
 A SWORDED man whose trade is blood, 
 In grief, in anger, and in fear, 
 
 Thro' jungle, swamp, and torrent flood, 
 I seek the wealth you hold so dear ! 
 
 The dazzling charm of outward form, 
 The power of gold, the pride of birth. 
 
 Have taken Woman's heart by storm — 
 Usurp'd the place of inward worth. 
 
 * See Note. 
 
280 ON TAKING LEAVE OF , 1S17. 
 
 Is not trae Love of higher price 
 
 Than outward Form, the' fair to see, 
 
 Wealth's glittering fairy-dome of ice. 
 Or echo of proud ancestry ? — 
 
 ! Asra, Asra ! couldst thou see 
 
 Into the bottom of my heart, 
 There's such a mine of Love for thee. 
 
 As almost might supply desert ! 
 
 (This separation is, alas ! 
 
 Too great a punishment to bear ; 
 ! take my life, or let me pass 
 
 That life, that happy life, with her !) 
 
 The perils, erst with steadfast eye 
 Encounter'd, now I shrink to see — 
 
 Oh ! I have heart enough to die — 
 Not half enough to part from Thee ! 
 
 1816. 
 
 ON TAKING LEAVE OF , 1817.* 
 
 To know, to esteem, to love — and then to part, 
 
 Makes up life's tale to many a feeling heart ! 
 
 for some dear abiding-place of Love, 
 
 O'er which my spirit, like the mother dove. 
 
 Might brood with warming wings ! — fair as kind. 
 
 Were but one sisterhood with you combined, 
 
 (Your very image they in shape and mind) 
 
 Far rather would I sit in solitude, 
 
 The forms of memory all my mental food, 
 
 And dream of you, sweet sisters, (ah, not mine !) 
 
 And only dream of you (ah dream and pine !) 
 
 Than have the presence, and partake the pride, 
 
 And shine in the eye of all the world beside ! 
 
 * See Note. 
 
POEMS WEITTEN IN LATEE LIEE, 
 
 In many ways doth the full heart reveal 
 
 The presence of the love it would conceal ; 
 
 But in far more th' estranged heart lets know 
 
 The absence of the love, which yet it fain would show. 
 
To be a Prodigal's favourite— then, worse truth, 
 A Miser's Pensioner— behold our lot 1 
 O Man ! that from tliy fair and shining youth 
 Age might but take the things Youth needed not. 
 
 Wordsworth, 27te SmaU Celandine. 
 
YOUTH AND AGE.* 
 
 Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying. 
 Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — 
 Both were mine ! Life went a maying 
 With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
 When I was young ! 
 When I was young 1 — Ah, woful when ! 
 Ah ! for the change 'twist Now and Then ! 
 This breathing house not built with hands, 
 This body that does me grievous wrong. 
 O'er aery clifis and glittering sands, 
 How lightly then it flashed along : — 
 Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore. 
 On winding lakes and rivers wide, 
 That ask no aid of sail or oar. 
 That fear no spite of wind or tide ! 
 Nought cared this body for wind or weather 
 When Youth and I liv'd in't together. 
 
 Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ; 
 Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 
 ! the joys, that came down shower-like, 
 Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 
 
 Ere I was old. 
 Ere I was old 1 Ah woful Ere, 
 Which tells me. Youth's no longer here ! 
 Youth ! for years so many and sweet, 
 'Tis known, that Thou and I were one, 
 I'll think it but a fond conceit — 
 It cannot be, that Thou art gone ! 
 Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toU'd : — 
 And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 
 
 * See Note. 
 
284 THE EXCHANGE. 
 
 What strange disguise hast now put on, 
 To make believe, that Thou art gone ] 
 I see these locks in silvery slips, 
 This drooping gait, this altered size : 
 But springtide blossoms on thy lips, 
 And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! 
 Life is but thought : so think I will 
 That Youth and I are house-mates still. 
 
 Dew-drops are the gems of morning, 
 But the tears of mournful eve ! 
 Where no hope is, life's a warning 
 That only serves to make us grieve. 
 
 When we are old : 
 That only serves to make us grieve 
 With oft and tedious taking-leave. 
 Like some poor nigh-related guest. 
 That may not rudely be dismist. 
 Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while, 
 And tells the jest without the smile. 
 
 THE EXCHANGE. 
 
 We pledged our hearts, my love and I,— 
 I in my arms the maiden clasping ; 
 
 I could not tell the reason why, 
 But, oh ! I trembled like an aspen. 
 
 Her father's love she bade me gain ; 
 
 I went, and shook like any reed ! 
 I strove to act the man — in vain ! 
 
 We had exchanged our hearts indeed. 
 
285 
 
 THE ALIENATED MISTRESS : 
 
 A MADRIGAL. 
 (from an tTNFINISHED MELODRAMA.) 
 
 Lady. If Love be dead, (and you aver it !) 
 Tell me, Bard ! where Love lies buried. 
 
 Poet. Love lies buried where 'twas born : 
 Ah, faithless Nymph ! think it no scorn 
 If in my fancy I presume 
 To name thy bosom poor Love's Tomb. 
 And on that Tomb to read the line, — 
 " Here lies a Love -that once was mine, 
 But took a chill, as I divine. 
 And died at length of a decline." 
 
 THE SUICIDE'S ARGUMENT. 
 
 Eee the birth of my life, if I wish'd it or no. 
 No question was ask'd me — it could not be so ! 
 If the life was the question, a thing sent to try, 
 And to live on be Yes ; what can No be ? to die. 
 
 nature's answer, 
 Is't returned, as 'twas sent? Is't no worse for the wear ? 
 Think first, what you are ! Call to mind what you were! 
 I gave you innocence, I gave you hope, 
 Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope. 
 Return you me guilt, lethargy, despair ] 
 Make out the invent'ry ; inspect, compare ! 
 Then die — if die you dare J 
 
286 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 'Tis not the lily brow I prize, 
 Nor roseate cheeks nor sunny eyes, 
 
 Enough of lilies and of roses ! 
 A thousand fold more dear to me 
 The look that gentle Love discloses, — 
 
 That Look which Love alone can see. 
 
 SANCTI DOMINICI PALLIUM; 
 
 A DIALOGUE BETWEEH POET AND FRIEND, 
 
 FOUND WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF AT THE BEGINNING OF 
 butler's BOOK OF THE CHURCH. 
 
 I NOTE the moods and feelings men betray, 
 And heed them more than aught they do or say ; 
 The lingering ghosts of many a secret deed 
 Still-born or haply strangled in its birth ; 
 These best reveal the smooth man's inward creed ! 
 These mark the spot where lies the treasure Worth 
 
 made up of impudence and trick, 
 
 With cloven tongue prepared to hiss and lick, 
 Rome's brazen serpent — boldly dares discuss 
 The roasting of thy heart, brave John Huss ! 
 And with grim triumph and a truculent glee 
 Absolves anew the Pope-wrought perfidy, 
 That made an empire's plighted faith a lie, 
 And fix'd a broad stare on the Devil's eye — 
 
SANCTI DOJIINICI PALLIUM. ! 
 
 (Pleased with the guilt, yet envy-stung at heart 
 To stand outmaster'd in his own black art !) 
 Yet 
 
 FRIEND. 
 
 Enough of ! we're agreed, 
 
 Who now defends would then have done the deed. 
 But who not feels persuasion's gentle sway, 
 Who but must meet the proflfer'd hand half way 
 When courteous 
 
 POET, (aside) 
 (Rome's smooth go-between !) 
 
 Laments the advice that sour'd a milky queen — 
 (For "■ bloody " all enlighten'd men confess 
 An antiquated error of the press :) 
 Who rapt by zeal beyond her sex's bounds, 
 With actual cautery staunch'd the Church's wounds ! 
 And tho' he deems, that with too broad a blur 
 We damn the French and Irish massacre, 
 Yet blames them both — and thinks the Pope might 
 
 err ! 
 What think you now ? Boots it with spear and 
 
 shield 
 Against such gentle foes to take the field 
 Whose beck'ning hands the mild Caduceus wield ] 
 
 What think I now 1 Ev'n what I thought before ; — 
 
 What boasts tho' may deplore. 
 
 Still I repeat, words lead me not astray 
 When the shown feeling points a different way. 
 
 Smooth can say grace at slander's feast, 
 
 And bless each haut-gout cook'd by monk or priest ; 
 
 Leaves the full lie on 's gong to swell, 
 
 Content with half-truths that do just as well ; 
 But duly decks his mitred comrade's flanks, 
 And with him shares the Irish nation's thanks ! 
 
288 LINES. 
 
 So much for you, my Friend ! who own a Church, 
 And would not leave your mother in the lurch ! 
 But when a Liberal asks me what I think — 
 Scared by the blood and soot of Cobbett's ink, 
 And Jeffrey's glairy phlegm and Connor's foam, 
 In search of some safe parable I roam — 
 An emblem sometimes may comprise a tome ! 
 
 Disclaimant of his uncaught grandsire's mood, 
 I see a tiger lapping kitten's food : 
 And who shall blame him that he purs applause. 
 When brother Brindle pleads the good old cause ; 
 And frisks his pretty tail, and half unsheathes hia 
 
 claws ! 
 Yet not the less, for modern lights unapt, 
 I trust the bolts and cross-bars of the laws 
 More than the Protestant milk all newly lapt, 
 Impearling a tame wild-cat's whiskered jaws ! 
 
 LINES 
 
 SUGGESTED BY THE LAST WOBBS OF BERENGARIUS, 
 OB. ANNO DOM, 1088. 
 
 No more 'twixt conscience staggering and the Pope 
 Soon shall I now before my God appear, 
 By him to be acquitted, as I hope ; 
 By him to be condemned, as I fear. — 
 
 EEFLECTION ON THE ABOVE. 
 
 Lynx amid moles ! had I stood by thy bed, 
 
 Be of good cheer, meek soul ! I would have said : 
 
 I see a hope spring from that humble fear. 
 
 All are not strong alike through storms to steer 
 
 Right onward. What ? though dread of threaten'd 
 
 death 
 And dungeon torture made thy hand and breath 
 
MOLES. 289 
 
 Inconstant to the truth within thy heart ? 
 
 That truth, from which, through fear, thou twice 
 
 didst start, 
 Fear haply told thee, was a learned strife, 
 Or not so vital as to claim thy life : 
 And myriads had reached Heaven, who never knew 
 Where lay the difference 'twixt the false and true ! 
 
 Te, who secure 'mid trophies not your own. 
 Judge him who won them when he stood alone, 
 And proudly talk of recreant Berengare — 
 first the age,, and then the man compare ! 
 That age how dark ! congenial minds how rare ! 
 No host of friends with kindred zeal did burn ! 
 No throbbing hearts awaited his return ! 
 Prostrate alike when prince and peasant fell, 
 He only disenchanted from the spell, 
 Like the weak worm that gems the starless night, 
 Moved in the scanty circlet of his Ught : 
 And was it strange if he withdrew the ray 
 That did but guide the night-birds to their prey 1 
 
 The ascending day-star with a bolder eye 
 Hath lit each dew-drop on our trimmer lawn ! 
 Yet not for this, if wise, shall we decry 
 The spots and struggles of the timid dawn ; 
 Lest so we tempt th' approaching noon to scorn 
 The mists and painted vapours of our morn. 
 
 MOLES. 
 
 — Thet shrink in, as Moles 
 (Nature's mute monks, live mandrakes of the ground) 
 Creep back from Light — then listen for its sound ;— 
 See but to dread, and dread they know not why — 
 The natural alien of their negative eye. 
 
290 
 
 NOT AT HOME. 
 
 That Jealousy may rule a mind 
 Where Love could never be 
 
 I know ; but ne'er expect to find 
 Love without Jealousy. 
 
 She has a strange cast in her ee, 
 A swart sour-visaged maid — 
 
 But yet Love's own twin-sister she 
 His house-mate and his shade. 
 
 Ask for her and she'll be denied : — 
 What then 1 they only mean 
 
 Their mistress has lain down to sleep, 
 And can't just then be seen. 
 
 LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP OPPOSITE. 
 
 Her attachment may differ from yours in degree, 
 
 Provided they are both of one kind ; 
 But Friendship how tender so ever it be 
 
 Gives no accord to Love, however refined. 
 
 Love, that meets not with Love, its true nature 
 revealing, 
 
 Grows ashamed of itself, and demurs : 
 If you cannot lift hers up to your state of feeling, 
 
 You must lower down your state to hers. 
 
^91 
 
 WOEK WITHOUT HOPE. 
 
 LIXES COMPOSED 21ST FEBEUARY, 1827. 
 
 All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair — 
 The bees are stirring — birds are on the wing — 
 And Winter slumbering in the open air, 
 Wears, on his smiling face a dream of Spring ! 
 And I, the while, the sole unbusy thing, 
 Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing. 
 
 Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow, 
 Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow 
 Bloom, ye amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may. 
 For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away ! 
 With lips unbrighten'd, 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. 
 
 DUTY SURVIVma SELF-LOVE. 
 
 THE ONLY SURE FRIEND OP DECLINING LIFE. A SOLILOQfY. 
 
 Unchanged within to see all changed without 
 
 Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt. 
 
 Yet why at others' wanings should'st thou fret ] 
 
 Then only might' st thou feel a just regret, 
 
 Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy light 
 
 In selfish forethought of neglect and slight. 
 
 wiselier then, from feeble yearnings freed. 
 
 While, and on whom, thou may'st — shine on! nor heed 
 
292 PHANTOM OE FACT? 
 
 Whether the object by reflected light 
 Return thy radiance or absorb it quite : 
 And though thou notest from thy safe 'recess 
 Old friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome air, 
 Love them for what they are ; nor love them less, 
 Because to thee they are not what they were. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Though veiled in spires of myrtle wreath. 
 Love is a sword that cuts its sheath, 
 And thro' the clefts itself has made 
 We spy the flashes of the Blade ! 
 
 But thro' the clefts itself has made 
 We likewise see Love's flashing blade, 
 By rust consumed or snapt in twain 
 And only Hilt and Stump remain. 
 
 PHANTOM OR FACT? 
 
 A DIALOGUE IN VEESE. 
 ATJTHOR. 
 
 A LOVELY form there sate beside my bed, 
 And such a feeding calm its presence shed, 
 A tender love so pure from earthly leaven 
 That I unnethe the fancy might control, 
 'Twas my own spirit newly come from heaven, 
 Wooing its gentle way into my soul ! 
 But ah ! the change — It had not stirr'd, and yet— 
 Alas ! that change how fain would I forget ! 
 That shrinking back, like one that had mistook 
 That weary, wandering, disavowing look ! 
 
TO A:LA.DT. 293 
 
 'Twas all another, featm-e, look, and frame, 
 And still, methought, I knew, it was the same ! 
 
 This riddling tale, to what does it belong ? 
 Is't history 1 vision ] or an idle song ? 
 Or gather say at once, within what space 
 Of time this wild disastrous change took place. 
 
 AUTHOR. 
 
 Call it a moment's work (and such it seems) 
 This tale's a fragment from the life of dreams 
 But say, that years matured the silent strife. 
 And 'tis a record from the dream of life. 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 OFFENDED BY A SPORTIVE OBSERVATION THAT WOMEN HAVB 
 NO SOULS. 
 
 Nat, dearest Anna ! why so grave ? 
 
 I said, you had no soul, 'tis true ! 
 For what you are, you cannot have : 
 
 'Tis I, that have one since I first had you ! 
 
 I iiAVE heard of reasons manifold 
 Why Love must needs be blind, 
 
 But this the best of all I hold — 
 His eyes are in his mind. 
 
 What outward form and feature aro 
 He guesseth but in part ; 
 
 But what within is good and fair 
 He seeth with the heart. 
 
294 
 
 "THE LOVE THAT MAKETH NOT ASHAMED.' 
 
 Wheee true Love burns Desire is Love's pure flame : 
 
 It is the reflex of our earthly frame, 
 
 That takes its meaning from the nobler part, 
 
 And but translates the language of the heart. 
 
 CONSTANCY TO AN IDEAL OBJECT. 
 
 Since all that beat about in Nature's range, 
 Or veer or vanish ; why shouldst thou remain 
 The only constant in a world of change, 
 
 yearning thought ! that liv'st but in the brain? 
 Call to the hours, that in the distance play, 
 The faery people of the future day — 
 
 Fond thought ! not one of all that shining swarm 
 Will breathe on thee with life-enkindUug breath, 
 Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm, 
 Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death! 
 Yet still thou haunt'st me; and though well I see, 
 She is not thou, and only thou art she, 
 Still, still as though some dear embodied good. 
 Some living love before my eyes there stood 
 With answering look a ready ear to lend, 
 
 1 mourn to thee and say — " Ah ! loveliest friend ! 
 That this the meed of all my toils might be, 
 
 To have a home, an English home, and thee ! " 
 Vain repetition ! Home and Thou are one, 
 The peacefulest cot, the moon shall shine upon, 
 Lull'd by the thrush and waken'd by the lark, 
 Without thee were but a becalmed bark. 
 Whose helmsman on an ocean waste and wide 
 Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside. 
 
FANCY IN NUBIBUS. 295 
 
 And art thou nothing ? Such thou art, as wlien 
 The woodman winding westward up the gleu 
 At wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's maze 
 The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist'ning haze, 
 Sees full before him, gliding without tread, 
 An image * with a glory round its head ; 
 The enamoured rustic worships its fair hues, 
 Nor knows he makes the shadow he pursues ! 
 
 FANCY IN NUBIBUS. 
 
 OR THK POET IN THE CLOUDS. 
 
 ! IT is pleasant, with a heart at ease, 
 
 Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies, 
 To make the shifting clouds be what you please. 
 
 Or let the easily persuaded eyes 
 Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould 
 
 Of a friend's fancy ; or with head bent low 
 And cheek aslant see rivers flow of gold 
 
 'Twixt crimson banks ; and then, a traveller, go 
 From mount to mount through Cloudland, goi-geous 
 land ! 
 
 Or list'ning to the tide, with closed sight, 
 Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand 
 
 By those deep sounds possessed with inward light. 
 Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee 
 
 Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea. 
 
 * This phenomenon, which the author has himself expe- 
 rienced, and of which the reader may find a description in 
 one of the earlier volumes of the Manchester Philosophical 
 Transactions, is applied figuratively in the followiDg passage 
 of the Aids to Reflection. 
 
 * ' Pindar's fine remark respecting the different effects of 
 music, on different characters, holds equally true of Genius ; 
 as many as are not delighted by it are disturbed, perplexed, 
 irritated. The beholder either recognises it as a projected 
 form of his own being, that moves before him with a glory 
 roand his head, or recoils from it as a spectre." — Aids to Re- 
 flection, p. 220. 
 
206 
 
 THE BLOSSOMING OF THE SOLITAEY 
 DATE-TREE. 
 
 A LAMENT. 
 
 I SEEM to have an indistinct recollection of having 
 read either in one of the ponderous tomes of George 
 of Venice, or in some other compilation from the un- 
 inspired Hebrew writers, an apologue or Rabbinical 
 tradition to the following purpose : 
 
 While our first pai-ents stood before their offended 
 Maker, and the last words of the sentence were yet 
 sounding in Adam's ear, the guileful false serpent, a 
 counterfeit and a usurper from the beginning, pre- 
 sumptuously took on himself the character of advocate 
 or mediator, and pretending to intercede for Adam, 
 exclaimed : " Nay, Lord, in thy justice, not so ! for 
 the man was the least in fault. Rather let the 
 Woman return at once to the dust, and let Adam 
 remain in this thy Paradise." And the word of the 
 Most High answered Satan : ''The tender mercies of 
 the wicked are cruel. Treacherous Fiend! if with 
 guilt like thine, it had been possible for thee to have 
 the heart of a Man, and to feel the yearning of a 
 human soul for its counterpart, the sentence, which 
 thou now counsellest, should have been inflicted on 
 thyself." 
 
 The title of the following poem was suggested by a 
 fact mentioned by Linnseus, of a date-tree in a noble- 
 man's garden which year after year had put forth a 
 full show of blossoms, but never produced fruit, till a 
 branch from another date-tree had been conveyed from 
 a distance of some hundred leagues. The first leaf of 
 the MS. from which the poem has been transcribed, 
 and which contained the two or three introductory 
 
BLOSSOMING OF THE SOLITARY DATE-TREE. 297 
 
 stanzas, is wanting ; and the author has in vain taxed 
 his memory to repair the loss. But a rude draught 
 of the poem contains the substance of the stanzas, 
 and the reader is requested to receive it as the sub- 
 stitute. It is not impossible, that some congenial 
 spirit, whose years do not exceed those of the author, 
 at the time the poem was written, may find a pleasure 
 in restoring the Lament to its original integrity by a 
 reduction of the thoughts to the requisite metre. 
 
 Beneath the blaze of a tropical sun the mountain 
 peaks are the thrones of frost, through the absence of 
 objects to reflect the rays. " What no one with us 
 shares, seems scarce our own." The presence of a one, 
 
 The best beloved, who loveth me the best, 
 
 is for the heart, what the supporting air from within 
 is for the hollow globe with its suspended car. 
 Deprive it of this, and all without, that would have 
 buoyed it aloft even to the seat of the gods, becomes 
 a burthen and crushes it into flatness. 
 
 The finer the sense for the beautiful and the lovely, 
 and the fairer and lovelier the object presented to 
 the sense ; the more exquisite the individual's capa- 
 city of joy, and the more ample his means and 
 opportunities of enjoyment, the more heavily will he 
 feel the ache of solitariness, the more unsubstantial 
 becomes the feast spread around him. What matters 
 it, whether in fact the viands and the ministering 
 graces are shadowy or real, to him who has not hand 
 to grasp nor arms to embrace them ? 
 
 Imagination ; honourable aims ; 
 
 Free commune with the choir that cannot die ; 
 
 Science and song ; delight in little things. 
 
298 BLOSSOMING OF THE SOLITARY DATE-TEEE. 
 
 The buoyant child surviving in the man; 
 Fields, forests, ancient mountains, ocean, sky, 
 With all their voices — dare I accuse 
 My earthly lot as guilty of my spleen. 
 Or call my destiny niggard ! no ! no ! 
 It is her largeness, and her overflow, 
 Which being incomplete, disquieteth me so ! 
 
 For never touch of gladness stirs my heart, 
 
 But tim'rously beginning to rejoice 
 
 Like a blind Arab, that from sleep doth start 
 
 In lonesome tent, I listen for thy voice. 
 
 Beloved ! 'tis not thine ; thou art not there ! 
 
 Then melts the bubble into idle air. 
 
 And wishing without hope I restlessly despair. 
 
 The mother with anticipated glee 
 
 Smiles o'er the child, that, standing by her chair 
 
 And flatt'ning its round cheek upon her knee. 
 
 Looks up, and doth its rosy lips prepare 
 
 To mock the coming sounds. At that sweet sight 
 
 She hears her own voice with a new delight ; 
 
 And if the babe perchance should lisp the notes aright, 
 
 Then is she tenfold gladder than before ! 
 But should disease or chance the darling take. 
 What then avail those songs, which sweet of yore 
 Were only sweet for their sweet echo's sake 1 
 Dear maid ! no prattler at a mother's knee 
 Was e'er so dearly prized as I prize thee : 
 Why was I made for Love and Love denied to me? 
 
THE TWO FOUNTS, 
 
 STANZAS ADB -JESSED TO A LADY ON HER RECOVERY WITH 
 UNBLEMISHED LOOKS, FROM A SEVERE ATTACK OF PAIN. 
 
 'TwAS my last waking thought, how it could be 
 That thou, sweet friend, such anguish shouldst endure ; 
 When straight from Dreamland came a Dwarf, and he 
 Could tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure. 
 
 Methought he fronted me with peering look 
 Fix'd on my heart ; and read aloud iu game 
 The loves and griefs therein, as from a book ; 
 And utter'd praise like one who wish'd to* blame. 
 
 In every heart (quoth he) since Adam's sin 
 Two Founts there are, of suffering and of cheer ! 
 That to let forth, and this to keep within ! 
 But she, whose aspect I find imaged here, 
 
 Of Pleasure only will to all dispense, 
 That Fount alone unlock, by no distress 
 Choked or turn'd inward, but still issue thence 
 Unconquer'd cheer, persistent loveliness. 
 
 As on the driving cloud the shiny bow, 
 That gracious thing made up of tears and light. 
 Mid the wild rack and rain that slants below 
 Stands smiling forth, unmoved and freshly bright ; — 
 
 As though the spirits of all lovely flowers. 
 Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown, 
 Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers. 
 Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down. 
 
800 LIMBO. 
 
 Ev'n so, Eliza ! on that face of thine, 
 On that benignant face, whose look alone 
 (The soul's translucence thro' her crystal shrine !) 
 Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own, 
 
 A beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing, 
 But with a silent charm compels the stern 
 And tort'ring Genius of the bitter spring, 
 To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn. 
 
 Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet found 
 In passion, spleen, or strife,) the fount of pain 
 O'erfllowing beats against its lovely mound, 
 And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain ? 
 
 Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam 
 On his raised lip, that aped a critic smile. 
 Had passed : yet I, my sad thoughts to beguile. 
 Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream ; 
 
 Till audibly at length I cried, as though 
 Thou had'st indeed been present to my eyes, 
 
 sweet, sweet sufferer ; if the case be so, 
 
 1 pray thee, be less good, less sweet, less wise ! 
 
 In every look a barbed arrow send. 
 On those soft lips let scorn and anger live ! 
 Do any thing, rather than thus, sweet friend ! 
 Hoard for thyself the pain, thou wilt not give ! 
 
 LIMBO. 
 
 'Tis a strange place, this Limbo ! — not a Place, 
 Yet' name it so ; — where Time and weary Space 
 Fettered from flight, with night-mare sense of fleeing 
 Strive for their last crepuscular half-being ; — 
 
COLOGNE. SOI 
 
 Lank Space, and scytheless Time with branny hands, 
 
 Barren and soundless as the measuring sands, 
 
 Not mark'd by flit of Shades, — unmeaning they 
 
 As moonlight on the dial of the day ! 
 
 But that is lovely — looks like human Time, — 
 
 An old man with a steady look sublime. 
 
 That stops his earthly task to watch the skies ; 
 
 But he is blind — a statue hath such eyes ; — 
 
 Yet having moonward turn'd his face by chance, 
 
 Gazes the orb with moon-like countenance, 
 
 "With scant white hairs, with foretop bald and high, 
 
 He gazes still, — his eyeless face all eye ; — 
 
 As 'twere an organ full of silent sight, 
 
 His whole face seemeth to rejoice in light ! — 
 
 Lip touching lip, all moveless, bust and limb — 
 
 He seems to gaze at that which seems to gaze on him 1 
 
 No such sweet sights doth Limbo den immure, 
 Wall'd round, and made a spirit-jail secure, 
 By the mere horror of blank Naught-at-all, 
 Whose circumambience doth these ghosts enthral. 
 A lurid thought is growthless, dull Privation, 
 Yet that is but a Purgatory curse ; 
 Hell knows a fear far worse, 
 A fear- — a future state ; — 'tis positive Negation ! 
 
 COLOGNE. 
 
 In Kohln, a town of monks and bones, 
 
 And pavements fang'd with murderous stones, 
 
 And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches ; 
 
 I counted two and seventy stenches, 
 
 All well defined, and several stinks ! 
 
 Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks, 
 
 The river Rhine, it is well known, 
 
 Doth wash your city of Cologne ; 
 
 But tell me, Nymphs ! what power divine 
 
 Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine } 
 
ON MY JOYFUL DEPAETURE FROM THE 
 SAME CITY. 
 
 As I am rhymer, 
 And now at least a merry one, 
 
 Mr. Mum's Rudesheimer 
 
 And the church of St. Geryon 
 
 Are the two things alone 
 
 That deserve to be known 
 In the body and soul-stinkmg town of Cologne. 
 
 NE PLUS ULTRA. 
 
 Sole Positive of Night ! 
 Antipathist of Light ! 
 Fate's only essence ! primal scorpion rod — 
 The one permitted opposite of God ! — 
 Condensed blackness and abysmal storm 
 Compacted to one sceptre 
 Arms the Grasp enorm — 
 The Intercepter — 
 The Substance that still casts the shadow Death !- 
 The Dragon foul and fell — 
 The unrevealable, 
 And hidden one, whose breath 
 Gives wind and fuel to the fires of Hell ! — 
 Ah ! sole despair 
 Of both th' eternities in Heaven t 
 Sole interdict of all-bedewing prayer, 
 The all-compassionate ! 
 Save to the Lampads Seven, 
 Reveal'd to none of all th' Angelic State, 
 Save to the Lampads Seven, 
 That watch the throne of Heaven ! 
 
NAMES. 
 
 I ASKED my fair one happy day, 
 What I should call her in my lay ; 
 
 By what sweet name from Eome or Greece , 
 Lalage, Nesera, Chloris, 
 Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, 
 
 Arethusa or Lucrece. 
 *' Ah ! " replied my gentle fair, 
 " Beloved, what are names but air ? 
 
 Choose thou whatever suits the line ; 
 Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, 
 Call me Lalage or Doris, 
 
 Only, only call me Thine." 
 
 LINES 
 
 TO A COMIC AUTHOR, ON AN ABUSIVE REVIEW. 
 
 What though the chilly wide-mouth' d quacking 
 
 chorus 
 From the rank swamps of murk Review-land croak : 
 So was it, neighbour, in the times before us, 
 When Momus, throwing on his Attic cloak, 
 Romped with the Graces ; and each tickled Muse 
 (That Turk, Dan Phoebus, whom bards call divine, 
 Was married to — at least, he kept — all nine) 
 Fled, but still with reverted faces ran ; 
 Yet, somewhat the broad freedoms to excuse, 
 They had allur'd the audacious Greek to use, 
 Swore they mistook him for their own good man. 
 This Momus — Aristoplianes on earth 
 Men called him — maugre all his wit and worth 
 
THE IMPKOVISATORE. 
 
 Was croaked and gabbled at. How, then, should ycu, 
 Or I, friend, hope to 'scape the skulking crew 1 
 No ! laugh, and say aloud, in tones of glee, 
 " I hate the quacking tribe, and they hate me ! " 
 
 THE IMPROVISATOEE; 
 
 OE, "JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, JOHN." 
 
 Scene — A spacious drawing-room, with music-room adjoining. 
 
 Katharine. What are the words ? 
 
 Eliza. Ask our friend, the Improvisatore ; here he 
 comes. Kate has a favor to ask of you, Sir; it is 
 
 that you will repeat the ballad that Mr. sang 
 
 so sweetly. 
 
 Iiriend. It is in Moore's Irish Melodies ; but I do 
 not recollect the words distinctly. The moral of 
 them, however, I take to be this : — 
 
 Love would remain the same if true, 
 "When we were neither young nor new ; 
 Tea, and in all within the will that came, 
 By the same proofs would show itself the same. 
 
 Eliz. What are the lines you repeated from Beau- 
 mont and Fletcher, which my mother admired so 
 much ? It begins with something about two vines so 
 close that their tendrils intermingle. 
 
 Fri. You mean Charles' speech to Angelina, in 
 " The Elder Brother." 
 
 We'll live together, like two neighbour vines. 
 Circling our souls and loves in one another ! 
 We'll spring together, and we'll bear one fruit ; 
 One joy shall make us smile, and one grief mourn ; 
 One age go with us, and one hour of death 
 Shall close our eyes, and one grave make us happy. 
 
 Kath. A precious boon, that would go far to recon- 
 
THE IMPROVISATORE. 305 
 
 cile one to old age — this love — if true ! But is there 
 any such true love ? 
 
 Fri. I hope so. 
 
 Kath. But do you believe it ? 
 
 Uliz. (eagerly). I am sure he does. 
 
 Fri. From a man turned of fifty, Katharine, I 
 imagine, expects a less confident answer. 
 
 Xath. A more sincere one, perhaps. 
 
 Fri. Even though he should have obtained the 
 nick-name of Improvisatore, by perpetrating charades 
 and extempore verses at Christmas times ? 
 
 Fliz. -Nay, but be serious. 
 
 F?^. Serious ! Doubtless. A grave personage of 
 my years giving a love-lecture to two young ladies, 
 cannot well be otherwise. The difficulty, I suspect, 
 would be for them to remain so. It will be asked 
 whether I am not the ''eldei^ly gentleman" who sate 
 " despairing beside a clear stream," with a willow for 
 his wig-block. 
 
 Miz. Say another word, and we will call it down- 
 right affectation. 
 
 Kath. No ! we will be affronted, drop a courtesy, 
 and ask pardon for our presumption in expecting that 
 
 Mr. would waste his sense on two insignificant 
 
 girls. 
 
 Fri. "Well, well, I will be serious. Hem ! Now 
 then commences the discourse ; Mr, Moore's song 
 being the text. Love, as distinguished from Friend- 
 ship, on the one hand, and from the passion that too 
 often usurps its name, on the other — 
 
 Lucius [Eliza's brother, who had just joined the trio, 
 in a whisper to the Friend). But is not Love the union 
 of both? 
 
 Fri. {aside to Lucius). He never loved who thinks 
 so. 
 
 Eliz. Brother, we don't want you, There ! Mrs. H. 
 cannot arrange the flower vase without you. Thank 
 you, Mrs. Hartman. 
 
 Luc. I'll have my revenge ! I know what I will 
 say! 
 
30G THE IMPROVISATORE. 
 
 Eliz. Oflf ! OIF ! Now, dear Sir, — Love, you were 
 saying— 
 
 Fri. Hush i Preacliing, you mean, Eliza, 
 
 Eliz. {impatiently). Pshaw ! 
 
 Fri. Well, then, I was saying that love, truly such, 
 is itself not the most common thing in the world : and 
 mutual love still less so. But that enduring personal 
 attachment, so beautifully delineated by Erin's sweet 
 melodist, and still more touchingly, perhaps, in the 
 well-known ballad, "John Anderson, my Jo, John," in 
 addition to a depth and constancy of character of no 
 every-day occurrence, supposes a peculiar sensibility 
 and tenderness of nature ; a constitutional communi- 
 cativeness and utterancy of heart and soul ; a delight 
 in the detail of sympathy, in the outward and visible 
 signs of the sacrament within — to count, as it were, 
 the pulses of the life of love. But above all, it sup- 
 poses a soul which, even in the pride and sxxmmer-tide 
 of life — even in the lustihood of health and strength, 
 had felt oftenest and prized highest that which age 
 cannot take away, and which, in all our lovings, is the 
 Love ; 
 
 Eliz. There is something here {pointing to her heart) 
 that seems to understand you, but wants the word 
 that would make it understand itself. 
 
 Kath. I, too, seem to feel what you mean. Inter- 
 pret the feeling for us. 
 
 Fri. 1 mean that willing sense of the unsufificing- 
 
 ness of the self for itself, which predisposes a generous 
 nature to see, in the total being of another, the 
 supplement and completion of its own ; — that quiet 
 perpetual seeking which the presence of the beloved 
 object modulates, not suspends, where the heart 
 momently finds, and, finding, again seeks on ; — lastly, 
 when " life's changeful orb has pass'd the full," a 
 confirmed faith in the nobleness of humanity, thus 
 brought home and pressed, as it were, to the very 
 bosom of hourly experience ; it sui^poses, I say, a 
 heartfelt reverence for worth, not the less deep 
 because divested of its solemnity by habit, by famili- 
 
THE IMPROVISATORE. 307 
 
 arity, by mutual infirmities, and even by a feeling of 
 modesty which will arise in delicate minds, when 
 they are conscious of possessing the sam.e or the cor- 
 respondent excellence in their own characters. In 
 short, there must be a mind, which, while it feels the 
 beautiful and the excellent in the beloved as its own, 
 and by right of love appropriates it, can call Good- 
 ness its playfellow; and dares make sport of time 
 and infirmity, while, in the person of a thousand- 
 foldly endeared partner, we feel for aged virtue the 
 caressing fondness that belongs to the innocence of 
 childhood, and repeat the same attentions and tender 
 courtesies which had been dictated by the same 
 affection to the same object when attired in feminine 
 loveliness or in manly beauty. 
 
 Eliz. What a soothing — what an elevating thought ! 
 
 Kath. If it be not only a mere fancy. 
 
 Fri. At all events, these qualities which I have 
 enumerated, are rarely found united in a single indi- 
 vidual. How much more rare must it be, that tvpo 
 such individuals should meet together in this wide 
 world under circumstances that admit of their union 
 as Husband and "Wife. A person may be highly 
 estimable on the whole, nay, amiable as neighbour, 
 friend, housemate — in short, in all the concentric 
 circles of attachment save only the last and inmost ; 
 and yet from how many causes be estranged from the 
 highest perfection in this ! Pride, coldness, or fasti- 
 diousness of nature, worldly cares, an anxious or 
 ambitious disposition, a passion for display, a sullen 
 temper, — one or the other — too often proves "the 
 dead fly in the compost of spices," and any one is 
 enough to unfit it for the precious balm of unction. 
 For some mighty good sort of people, too, thei-e is 
 not seldom a sort of solemn saturnine, or, if you will, 
 ursine vanity, that keeps itself alive by sucking the 
 paws of its own self-importance. And as this high 
 sense, or rather sensation of their own value is, for 
 the most part, grounded on negative qualities, so 
 they have no better means of preserving the same 
 
308 THE IMPROVISATORE. 
 
 but by negatives — that is, by not doing or saying any 
 tbing that might be put down for fond, silly, or 
 nonsensical ; — or (to use their own phrase) by never 
 forgetting themselves, which some of their acquaint- 
 ance are uncharitable enough to think the most 
 worthless object they could be employed in remem- 
 bering. 
 
 Eliz. {in answer to a whisper from Katharine). To 
 a hair ! He must have sate for it himself. Save me 
 fi'om such folks ! But they are out of the question. 
 
 Fri. True ! but the same effect is produced in 
 thousands by the too general insensibility to a very 
 important truth ; this, namely, that the misery of 
 human life is made up of large masses, each separated 
 from the other by certain intervals. One year, the 
 death of a child ; years after, a failure in trade ; after 
 another longer or shorter interval, a daughter may 
 have married unhappily; — in all but the singularly 
 unfortunate, the integral parts that compose the sum 
 total of the unhappiness of a man's life, are easily 
 counted, and distinctly remembered. The happiness 
 of life, on the contrary, is made up of minute fractions 
 — the little, soon-forgotten charities of a kiss, a smile, 
 a kind look, a heartfelt compliment in the disguise of 
 playful raillery, and the countless other infinitesimals 
 of pleasurable thought and genial feeling. 
 
 Kath. Well, Sir; you have said quite enough to 
 make me despair of finding a "John Anderson, my 
 Jo, John," with whom to totter down the hill of 
 life. _ 
 
 Fri. Not so ! Good men are not, I trust, so much 
 scarcer than good women, but that what another would 
 find in you, you may hope to find in another. But 
 well, however, may that boon be rare, the possession 
 of which would be more than aii adequate reward for 
 the rarest virtue. 
 
 Eliz. Surely, he, who has described it so well, must 
 have possessed it ? 
 
 Fri. If he were worthy to have possessed it, and 
 had believingly anticipated and not found it, how 
 
THE IMPROVISATOEE. 309 
 
 bitter the disappointment ! (Then, after a pause of a 
 few minutes), 
 
 Answer, ex improviso. 
 
 Yes, yes ! that boon, life's richest treat 
 He had, or fancied that he had; 
 Say, 'twas but in his own conceit — 
 
 The fancy made him glad ! 
 Crown of his cup, and garnish of his dish. 
 The boon, prefigured in his earliest wish. 
 The fair fulfilment of his poesy. 
 When his young heart first yearn'd for sympathy ! 
 But e'en the meteor offspring of the brain 
 
 Unnourished wane ; 
 Faith asks her daily bread. 
 And Fancy must be fed. 
 Now so it chanced — from wet or dry, 
 It boots not how — I know not why — 
 She missed her wonted food ; and quickly 
 Poor Fancy stagger'd and grew sickly. 
 Then came a restless state, 'twixt yea and nay, 
 His faith was fix'd, his heart all ebb and flow ; 
 Or like a bark, in some half-shelter'd bay. 
 Above its anchor driving to and fro. 
 
 That boon, which but to have possest 
 In a belief, gave life a zest — 
 Uncertain both what it had been. 
 And if by error lost, or luck ; 
 And what it was ; — an evergreen 
 Which some insidious blight had struck, 
 Or annual flower, which, past its blow, 
 N'o vernal spell shall e'er revive ; 
 Uncertain, and afraid to know, 
 
 Doubts toss'd him to and fro : 
 Hope keeping Love, Love Hope alive. 
 Like babes bewildered in the snow. 
 That cling and huddle from the cold 
 In hollow tree or ruin'd fold. 
 
310 THE IMPROVISATORE. 
 
 Those sparkling colours, once Lis boast, 
 
 Fading, one by one away, 
 Thin and hueless as a ghost, 
 
 Poor Fancy on her sick bed lay; 
 111 at distance, worse when near, 
 Telling her dreams to jealous Fear ! 
 Where was it then, the sociable sprite 
 That crown'd the Poet's cup and deck'd his dish ! 
 Poor shadow cast from an unsteady wish, 
 Itself a substance by no other right 
 But that it intercepted Reason's light ; 
 It dimm'd his eye, it darken'd on his brow, 
 A peevish mood, a tedious time, I trow ! 
 
 Thank Heaven ! 'tis not so now. 
 
 bliss of blissful hours ! 
 The boon of Heaven's decreeing, 
 While yet in Eden's bowei-s 
 Dwelt the first husband and his sinless mate ! 
 The one sweet plant, which, piteous Heaven agreeing; 
 They bore with them thro' Eden's closing gate, 
 Of life's gay summer tide the sovran rose ! 
 Late autumn's amaranth, that more fragrant blows 
 When passion's flowers all fall or fade ; 
 If this were ever his, in outward being, 
 Or but his own true love's projected shade, 
 Now that at length by certain proof he knows. 
 That whether real or a magic show, 
 Whate'er it was, it is no longer so ; 
 Though heart be lonesome, hope laid low, 
 Yet, Lady ! deem him not unblest : 
 The certainty that stnick hope dead, 
 Hath left contentment in her stead : 
 And that is next to best ! 
 
811 
 
 ALICE DU CLOS : 
 
 OR THE FOKKED TOXGUE. A BALLAD. 
 
 " One word with, two meaBings is the traitor's shield and 
 ehaft : and a slit tongue be his blazon ! " — Cav/:oMan Prov-rh. 
 
 '^ Thf Sun is not yet risen, 
 
 But the dawn lies red on tlie dew : 
 
 Lord Julian has stolen from the hunters away. 
 
 Is seeking, Lady, for you. 
 
 Put on your dress of green, 
 
 Your buskins and your quiver ; 
 Lord Julian is a hasty man, 
 
 Long waiting brook'd he never. 
 I dare not doubt him, that he means 
 
 To wed you on a day, 
 YoTir lord and master for to be. 
 
 And you his lady gay. 
 Lady ! throw your book aside ! 
 
 I would not that my Lord shoiild chide." 
 
 Thus spake Sir Hugh the vassal knight 
 
 To Alice, child of old Du Clos, 
 As spotless fair, as airy light 
 
 As that moon-shiuy doe. 
 The gold star on its brow, her sire's ancestral crest 1 
 For ere the lark had left his nest, 
 
 She in the garden bower below 
 Sate loosely wrapt in maiden white, 
 Her face half drooping from the sight, 
 
 A snow-drop on a tuft of snow ! 
 
 close your eyes, and strive to see 
 The studious maid, with book on knee, — 
 Ah ! earliest-open'd flower; 
 
312 ALICE DU CLOS. 
 
 While yet with keen unblunted light 
 The morning star shone opposite 
 
 The lattice of her bower — 
 Alone of all the starry host, 
 
 As if in prideful scorn 
 Of flight and fear he stay'd behind, 
 
 To brave th' advancing morn. 
 
 ! Alice could read passing well, 
 And she was conning then 
 
 Dan Ovid's mazy tale of loves, 
 And gods, and beasts, and men. 
 
 The vassal's speech, his taunting vein. 
 It thrill'd like venom thro' her brain ; 
 
 Yet never fr-om the book 
 She rais'd her head, nor did she deign 
 
 The knight a single look. 
 
 '* Off, traitor friend ! how dar'st thou fix 
 
 Thy wanton gaze on me ? 
 And why, against my earnest suit, 
 
 Does Juhan send by thee ? 
 
 " Go, tell thy Lord, that slow is sure : 
 Fair speed his shafts to-day ! 
 
 1 follow here a stronger lure, 
 And chase a gentler prey." 
 
 She said : and with a baleful smile 
 
 The vassal knight reel'd off — 
 Like a huge billow from a bark 
 
 Toil'd in the deep sea-trough. 
 That shouldering sideways in mid plunge, 
 
 Is travers'd by a flash, 
 And staggering ouwai'd, leaves the ear 
 
 With dull and distant crash. 
 
 And Alice sate with troubled mien 
 A moment ; for the scoff was keen. 
 
ALICE DU CLOS. 313 
 
 And thro' her veins did shiver ! 
 Then rose and donn'd her dress of green, 
 Her buskins and her quiver. 
 
 There stands the flow'ring may-thorn tree ! 
 From thro' the veiling mist you see 
 
 The black and shadowy stem ; — 
 Smit by the sun the mist in glee 
 Dissolves to lightsome jewelry — 
 
 Each blossom hath its gem ! 
 
 With tear-drop glittering to a smile, 
 The gay maid on the garden-stile 
 
 Mimics the hunter's shout — 
 *' Hip ! Florian, hip ! To horse, to horse 1 
 
 Go, bring the palfrey out. 
 
 "My Julian's out with all his clan, 
 
 And, bonny boy, you wis, 
 Lord Julian is a hasty man, 
 
 Who comes late, comes amiss." 
 
 Now Florian was a stripling squire, 
 
 A gallant boy of Spain, 
 That toss'd his head in joy and pride, 
 Behind his Lady fair to ride, 
 
 But blush'd to hold her train. 
 
 The huntress is in her dress of green,^ 
 And forth they go ; she with her bow, 
 
 Her buskins and her quiver ! — 
 The squire — no younger e'er was seen — 
 With restless arm and laughing een. 
 
 He makes his javelin quiver. 
 
 And had not Ellen stay'd the race, 
 And stopp'd to see, a moment's space. 
 
 The whole great globe of light 
 Give the last parting kiss-like touch 
 To the eastern ridge, it lack'd not much, 
 
 They had o'erta'en the knight. 
 
314 ALICE DU CLOS. 
 
 It chanced that up the covert lane, 
 
 Where Julian waiting stood, 
 A neighbour knight prick'd on to join 
 
 The huntsmen in the wood. 
 
 And with him must Lord Julian go, 
 
 Tho' with an anger'd mind : 
 Betroth'd not wedded to his bride, 
 In vain he sought, 'twixt shame and pride, 
 
 Excuse to stay behind. 
 
 He bit his lip, he wrung his glove, 
 He look'd around, he look'd above, 
 
 But pretext none could find or frame ! 
 Alas ! alas ! ■ and well-a-day ! 
 It grieves me sore to think, to say, 
 That names so seldom meet with Love, 
 
 Yet Love wants courage without a name ! 
 
 Straight from the forest's skirt the trees 
 O'er-branching, made an aisle. 
 
 Where hermit old might pace and chaunt 
 As in a minster's pile. 
 
 From underneath its leafy screen, 
 
 And from the twilight shade, 
 You pass at once into a green, 
 
 A green and lightsome glade. 
 
 And there Lord Julian sate on steed ; 
 
 Behind him, in a round, 
 Stood knight and squire, and menial train; 
 Against the leash the greyhounds strain ; 
 
 The horses paw'd the ground. 
 
 When up the alley green. Sir Hugh 
 
 Spurr'd in upon the sward, 
 And mute, without a word, did he 
 
 Fall in behind his lord. 
 
ALICE DU CLOS. S15 
 
 Lord Julian turn'd his steed half round, — 
 
 " What ! doth not Alice deign 
 To accept your loving convoy, knight] 
 Or doth she fear our woodland sleight, 
 
 And joins us on the plain ?" 
 
 With stifled tones the knight replied, 
 And look'd askance on either side, — 
 
 " Nay, let the hunt proceed ! — 
 The Lady's message that I bear, 
 I guess would scantly please your ear, 
 
 And less deserves your heed. 
 
 " You sent betimes. ISTot yet unbarr'd 
 
 I found the middle door ; — 
 Two stirrers only met my eyes, 
 
 Fair Alice^ and one more. 
 
 " I came unlook'd for : and, it seem'd, 
 
 In an unwelcome hour ; 
 And found the daughter of Du Clos 
 
 Within the lattic'd bower. 
 
 " But hush ! the rest may wait. If lost, 
 
 No great loss, I divine ; 
 And idle words will better suit 
 
 A fair maid's lips than mine." 
 
 " God's wrath ! speak out, man," Julian cried, 
 
 O'ermaster'd by the sudden smart ; — 
 And feigning wrath, sharp, blunt, and rude, 
 The knight his subtle shift pursued, — 
 " Scowl not at me ; command my skill, 
 To lure your hawk back, if you will, 
 But not a woman's heart. 
 
 " ' Go ! ' (said she) ' tell him, — slow is sure ; 
 
 Fair speed his shafts to-day ! 
 I follow here a stronger lure. 
 
 And chase a gentler prey.' 
 
316 ALICE DU CLOS. 
 
 " The game, pardie, was full in sight. 
 That then did, if I saw aright, 
 
 The fair dame's eyes engage ; 
 For turning, as I took my ways, 
 I saw them fix'd with steadfast gaze 
 
 Full on her wanton page. ' 
 
 The last word of the traitor knight 
 It had but entered Julian's ear, — 
 From two o'erarching oaks between. 
 With glist'ning helm-like cap is seen. 
 Borne on in giddy cheer, 
 
 A youth, that ill his steed can guide ; 
 Yet with reverted face doth ride, 
 
 As answering to a voice, 
 That seems at once to laugh and chide— 
 " Not mine, dear mistress," still he cried, 
 
 " 'Tis this mad filly's choice." 
 
 With sudden bound, beyond the boy. 
 See ! see ! that face of hope and joy. 
 
 That regal front ! those cheeks aglow ! 
 Thou needed'st but the crescent sheen, 
 A quiver'd Dian to have been, 
 
 Thou lovely child of old Du Clos ! 
 
 Dark as a dream Lord Julian stood. 
 Swift as a dream, from forth the wood. 
 
 Sprang on the plighted Maid ! 
 With fatal aim, and frantic force. 
 The shaft was hurl'd ! — a lifeless corse, 
 Fair Alice from her vaulting horse. 
 
 Lies bleeding on the glade. 
 
317 
 
 FEOM THE GERMAK 
 
 Know'st thou the land where the pale citrons grow, 
 The golden fruits in darker foliage glow 1 
 Soft blows the wind that breathes from that blue sky ! 
 Still stands the myrtle and the laurel high ! 
 Know'st thou it well that land, beloved Friend ] 
 Thither with thee, 0, thither would I wend ! 
 
 Anxious to associate the name of a most dear and honoured 
 friend witli my own, I solicited and obtained tlie permission 
 of Professor J. H. Green to permit the insertion of the two 
 following poems, by him composed. — S. T. Coleridge. 
 
 MORNING INVITATION TO A CHILD. 
 
 The house is a prison, the school-room's a cell ; 
 
 Leave study and books for the upland and dell ; 
 
 Lay aside the dull poring, quit home and quit care ; 
 
 Sally forth ! Sally forth ! Let us breathe the fresh air ! 
 
 The sky dons its holiday mantle of blue ; 
 
 The sun sips his morning refreshment of dew ; 
 
 Shakes joyously laughing his tresses of light, 
 
 And here and there turns his eye piercing and bright ; 
 
 Then jocund mounts up on his glorious car, 
 
 With smiles to the morn, — for he means to go far ; — 
 
 While the clouds, that had newly paid court at his 
 
 levee. 
 Spread sail to the breeze, and glide off in a bevy. 
 Tree, and tree-tufted hedge-row, and sparkling between 
 Dewy meadows enamelled in gold and in green. 
 With king-cups and daisies, that all the year please, 
 Sprays, petals and leaflets, that nod in the breeze. 
 
318 CONSOLATION OP A MANIAC. 
 
 With carpets, and garlands, and wreaths deck the way, 
 And tempt the blithe spirit still onward to stray, 
 Itself its own home ; — far away ! far away ! 
 
 The butterflies flutter in pairs round the bower ; 
 The humble-bee sings in each bell of each flower ; 
 The bee hums of heather and breeze-wooing hill, 
 And forgets in the sunshine his toil and his skill ; 
 The birds carol gladly ! — the lark mounts on high ; 
 The swallows on wing make their tune to the eye, 
 And as birds of good omen, that summer loves well, 
 Ever wheeling weave ever some magical spell. 
 The hunt is abroad : — hark ! the horn sounds its note, 
 And seems to invite us to regions remote. 
 The horse in the meadow is stirred by the sound, 
 And neighing impatient o'erleaps the low mound ; 
 Then proud in his speed o'er the champaign he bounds, 
 To the whoop of the huntsman and tongue of the 
 
 hounds. 
 Then stay not within, for on such a blest day 
 We can never quit home, while with Nature we stray ; 
 — far away ! far away ! 
 
 CONSOLATION OF A MANIAC. 
 
 The feverous dream is past ! and I awake, 
 
 Alone and joyless in my prison-cell. 
 
 Again to ply the never ending toil. 
 
 And bid the task-worn memory weave again 
 
 The tangled threads, and ravell'd skein of thought. 
 
 Disjointed fragments of my care-worn life ! 
 
 The mirror of my soul, — ah ! when again 
 
 To welcome and reflect calm joy and hope ! — 
 
 Again subsides, and smooths its turbid swell, 
 
 Late surging in the sweep of frenzy's blast, — 
 
CONSOLATION OF A MANIAC. 81 & 
 
 And the sad forms of scenes and deeds long past 
 Blend into spectral shapes and deathlike life, 
 And pass in silent, stern procession I — 
 The storm is past ; — but in the pause and hush, 
 Nor calm nor tranquil joy, nor peace are mine ; 
 My spirit is rebuk'd ! — and Hke a mist, 
 Despondency, in grey cold mantle clad. 
 In phantom form gigantic floats ! — 
 
 That dream, 
 That dream, that dreadful dream, the potent spell. 
 That calls to life the phantoms of the past, — 
 Makes e'en oblivion memory's register, — 
 Still swells and vibrates in my throbbing brain ! 
 Again I wildly quaff'd the maddening bowl, 
 Again I stak'd my all, — again the die 
 Prov'd traitor to my hopes ; — and 'twas for her, 
 Whose love more madden'd than the bowl,whose h^ve, 
 More dear than all, was treacherous as the die : — 
 Again I saw her with her paramour. 
 Again I aim'd the deadly blow, again 
 I senseless fell, and knew not whom I struck. 
 Myself, or her, or him : — I heard the shriek. 
 And mingled laugh, and cry of agony : 
 I felt the whirl of rapid motion, — 
 And hosts of fiendish shapes, uncertain seen 
 In murky air, glared fiercely as I pass'd ; — 
 They welcom'd me with bitter laughs of scorn, 
 They pledged me in the brimming cup of hate. — 
 But stay your wild career, unbridled thoughts, 
 Or frenzy must unseat my reason's sway, — 
 Again give license to my lawless will ! — 
 And yet I know not, if that demon rout 
 Be fancy stirred by passion's power, or true; — 
 Or life itself be but a shadowy dream. 
 The act and working of an evil will ! — 
 Dread scope of fantasy and passion's power ! 
 Oh God ! take back the boon, the precious gift 
 Of will mysterious. — Give me, give again. 
 The infliction dire, fell opiate of my griefs ; 
 Sharp wound, but in the smart the panoply 
 
320 A CHARACTER. 
 
 And shield against temptations, that assail 
 My weak and yielding spirit ! — Madness come ! 
 The balm to guilt, the safeguard from remorse, 
 Make me forget, and save me from myself ! 
 
 A CHARACTER. 
 
 A BIRD, who for his other sins 
 
 Had liv'd amongst the Jacobins; 
 
 Tho' like a kitten amid rats, 
 
 Or callow tit in nest of bats, 
 
 He much abhorr'd all democrats ; 
 
 Yet nathless stood in ill report 
 
 Of wishing ill to Church and Court, 
 
 Tho' he'd nor claw, nor tooth, nor sting. 
 
 And learnt to pipe God Bave the King ; 
 
 Tho' each day did new feathers bring, 
 
 All swore he had a leathern wing ; 
 
 Nor polish'd wing, nor feather'd tail, 
 
 Nor down-clad thigh would aught avail ; 
 
 And tho' — his tongue devoid of gall — 
 
 He civilly assur'd them all : — 
 
 "A bird am I of Phoebus' breed, 
 
 And on the sunflower cling and feed ; 
 
 My name, good Sirs, is Thomas Tit ! " 
 
 The bats would hail him bi'other cit. 
 
 Or, at the furthest, cousin-german. 
 
 At length the matter to determine. 
 
 He publicly denounced the vermin ; 
 
 He spared the mouse, he prais'd the owl; 
 
 But bats were neither flesh nor fowL 
 
 Blood-sucker, vampire, harpy, goul. 
 
 Came in full clatter from his throat, 
 
 Till his old nest-mates chang'd their note 
 
 To hireling, traitor, and turncoat, — 
 
 A base apostate who had sold 
 
 His very teeth and claws for gold ; — 
 
A CHARACTER. 321 
 
 And then his feathers ! — sharp the jest — 
 No doubt he feather'u well his nest ! 
 A Tit indeed ! aye, tit for tat — 
 With place and title, brother Bat, 
 We soon shall see how well he'll play- 
 Count Goldfinch, or Sir Joseph Jay ! 
 
 Alas, poor Bird ! and ill-bestarred — 
 Or rather let us say, poor Bard ! 
 And henceforth quit the allegoric 
 
 With metaphor and simile, 
 For simple facts and style historic : — 
 Alas, poor Bard ! no gold had he 
 Behind another's team he stept. 
 And plough'd and sow'd, while others reapt ; 
 The work was his, but theirs the glory, 
 Sic vos noil vohis, his whole story. 
 Besides, whate'er he wrote or said 
 Came from his heart as well as head ; 
 And tho' he never left in lurch 
 His king, his country, or his churchy 
 'Twas but to humour his own cynical 
 Contempt of doctrines Jacobinical ; 
 To his own conscience only hearty, 
 'Twas but by chance he serv'd the party; — 
 The self-same things had said and writ, 
 Had Pitt been Fox, and Fox been Pitt ; 
 Content his own applause to win 
 Would never dash thro' thick and thin, 
 And he can make, so say the wise, 
 !N"o claim who makes no sacrifice ; — 
 And bard still less : — what claim had he, 
 Who swore it vex'd his soul to see 
 So grand a cause, so proud a realm 
 With Goose and Goody at the helm ; 
 Who long ago had fall'n asunder 
 But for their rivals, baser blunder. 
 The coward whine and Frenchified 
 Slaver and slang of the other side ? — 
 
 Thus, his own whim his only bribe, 
 Our bard pursued his old A. B. C. 
 
322 TRANSLATED FROM SCHILLER. 
 
 Contented if he could subscribe 
 In fullest sense his name "Eo-TTjae ; 
 ('Tis Punic Greek, for 'he hath stood ! ') 
 Whate'er the men, the cause was good ; 
 And therefore with a right good will, 
 Poor fool, he fights their battles still. 
 Tush ! squeak'd the Bats ; — a mere bravado 
 To whitewash that base renegado ; 
 'Tis plain unless you're blind or mad. 
 His conscience for the bays he barters ; — 
 And true it is — as true as sad — 
 These circlets of green baize he had — 
 But then, alas ! they were his garters ! 
 
 Ah ! silly Bard, unfed, untended. 
 His lamp but ghmmer'd in its socket ; 
 He liv'd unhonor'd and unfriended 
 With scarce a penny in his pocket ; — 
 Nay — tho' he hid it from the many — 
 With scarce a pocket for his penny ! 
 
 TEANSLATED FEOM SCHILLER.* 
 I. 
 
 THE HOMERIC HEXAMETER DESCRIBED AND EXEMPI.IFIED. 
 
 Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless 
 
 billows, 
 Nothing before and nothing behind but the sky and 
 
 the Ocean. 
 
 II. 
 
 THE OVIDIAN ELEGIAC METRE DESCRIBED AND EXEMPLIFIED. 
 
 In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column ; 
 In the pentameter aye falling in melody back. 
 
 * See Note. 
 
HUMILITY THE MOTHER OF CHAEITY. 
 
 Fbail creatures are we all ! To be the best. 
 Is but the fewest faults to have : — 
 
 Look thou then to thyself, and leave the rest 
 To God, thy conscience, and the grave. 
 
 PROFUSE KINDNESS. 
 
 J^Yi'Tioi, ova 't(rx(rtv ea-ca tKiov ri/u,t(ru ^ot.tri'i. — Hesiod. 
 
 What a spring-tide of Love to dear friends in a shoal ! 
 Half of it to one were worth double the whole ! 
 
 THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO. 
 
 Of late, in one of those most weary hours, 
 When life seems emptied of all genial powers, 
 A dreary mood, which he who ne'er has known 
 May bless his happy lot, I sate alone ; 
 And, from the numbing spell to win relief, " 
 Call'd on the past for thought of glee or grief. 
 In vain ! bereft alike of grief and glee, 
 I sate and cow'r'd o'er my own vacancy ! 
 And as I watch'd the dull continuous ache. 
 Which, all else slumb'ring, seem'd alone to wake 
 Friend ! long wont to notice, yet conceal, 
 And soothe by silence what words cannot heal. 
 
324 THE GARDEN OP BOCCACCIO. 
 
 I but half saw that quiet hand of thine 
 Place on my desk this exquisite design, 
 Boccaccio's Garden and its faery, 
 The love, the joyaunce, and the gallantry ! 
 An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm. 
 Framed in the silent poesy of form. 
 Like flocks adown a newly-bathed steep 
 
 Emerging from a mist ; or like a stream 
 Of music soft that not dispels the sleep, 
 
 But casts in happier moulds the slumberer's dream, 
 Gazed by an idle eye with silent might 
 The pictui-e stole upon my inward sight. 
 A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest. 
 As though an infant's finger touch'd my breast. 
 And one by one (I know not whence) were brought 
 All spirits of power that most had stirr'd my thought 
 In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost 
 Of wondei", and in its own fancies lost ; 
 Or charm'd my youth, that, kindled from above, 
 Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love ; 
 Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan 
 Of manhood, musing what and whence is man ! 
 Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea-worn caves 
 Rehearsed their war-spell to the winds and waves ; 
 Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids. 
 That call'd on Hertha in deep forest glades ; 
 Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's feast ; 
 Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest. 
 Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array, 
 To high-church pacing on the great saint's day. 
 And many a verse which to myself I sang, 
 That woke the tear yet stole away the pang, 
 Of hopes which in lamenting I renew'd. 
 And last, a matron now, of sober mien. 
 Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen. 
 Whom as a faery child my childhood woo'd 
 Even in my dawn of thought — Philosophy ; 
 Though then unconscious of herself, pardie, 
 She bore no other name than Poesy; 
 And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee, 
 
THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO. 325 
 
 That had but newly left a mother's knee, 
 
 Prattled and play'd with bird and flower, and stone 
 
 As if with elfin playfellows well known. 
 
 And life reveal'd to innocence alone. 
 
 Thanks, gentle artist ! now I can descry 
 
 Thy fair creation with a mastering eye, 
 
 And all awake ! And now in fix'd gaze stand, 
 
 K'ow wander through the Eden of thy hand ; 
 
 Praise the green arches, on the fountain clear 
 
 See fragment shadows of the crossing deer ; 
 
 And with that serviceable nymph I stoop 
 
 The crystal from its restless pool to scoop. 
 
 I see no longer ! I myself am there, 
 
 Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share. 
 
 'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings. 
 
 And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings : 
 
 Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells 
 
 From the high tower, and think that there she dwells. 
 
 With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest, 
 
 And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest. 
 
 The brightness of the world, thou once free, 
 And always fair, rare land of courtesy ! 
 Florence ! with the Tuscan fields and hills, 
 And famous Arno, fed with all their rills; 
 Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy ! 
 Eich, ornate, populous, all treasures thine, 
 The golden corn, the olive, and the vine. 
 Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old 
 And forests, where beside his leafy hold 
 The sullen boar hath heard the distant horn, 
 And whets his tusks against the gnai-led thorn ; 
 Palladian palace with its storied halls ; 
 Fountains, where Love lies listening to their falls; 
 Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy span, 
 And Nature makes her happy home with man; 
 Where many a gorgeous flower is duly fed 
 With its own rill, on its own spangled bed. 
 And wreathes the marble urn, or leans its head, 
 A mimic mourner, that with veil withdrawn 
 
326 THE GARDEN OP BOCCACCIO. 
 
 Weeps liquid gems, the presents of the dawn, — 
 Thine all delights, and every muse is thine ; 
 And more than all, the embrace and intertwine 
 Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance ! 
 'Mid gods of Greece and warriors of romance, 
 See ! Boccace sits, unfolding on his knees 
 The new-found roll of old Mseonides ; * 
 But from his mantle's fold, and near the heart. 
 Peers Ovid's holy book of Love's sweet smart ! f 
 
 all-enjoying and all-blending sage, 
 Long be it mine to con thy mazy page, 
 Where, half-conceal' d, the eye of fancy views 
 Fauns, nymphs, and winged saints, all gracious to thy 
 
 Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks, 
 And see in Dian's vest between the ranks 
 Of the trim vines, some maid that half believes 
 The vestal fires, of which her lover grieves, 
 With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves ! 
 
 1S29. 
 
 * Boccaccio claimed for himself the glory of having first 
 introduced the works of Homer to his countrymen. 
 
 j I know few more striking or more interesting proofs of the 
 overwhelming influence which the study of the Greek and 
 Roman classics exercised on the judgments, feelings, and 
 imaginations of the literati of Europe at the commencement 
 of the restoration of literature, than the passage in the 
 Filocopo of Boccaccio : where the sage instructor, Racheo, as 
 soon as the young prince and the beautiful girl Biancofiore 
 had learned their letters, sets them to study the Holy Book, 
 Ovid's Art of Love. " Incomincib Racheo a mettere il sue 
 officio in esecuzione con inteia sollecitudine. E loro, in breve 
 tempo, insegnato a conoscer le lettere, fece leggere il saiito 
 libro d'Owidio, nel quale il sommo poeta mostra, come i santi 
 fuochi di Veuere si debbano ne' freddi cuori accendere." 
 
327 
 
 CHARITY IN THOUGHT. 
 
 To praise men as good, and to take them for siicb, 
 Is a grace, wMch no soul can mete out to a tittle; — 
 
 Of which he who has not a little too much, 
 
 Will by Charity's gage surely have much too little. 
 
 ON BERKELEY AND FLORENCE COLERIDGE, 
 
 WHO DIED ON THE 16TH OP JANUARY, 1834.* 
 
 FBAiL as sweet ! twin buds, too rathe to bear 
 
 The Winter's unkind air ; 
 gifts beyond all price, no sooner given 
 
 Than straight required by Heaven ; 
 Match'd jewels, vainly for a moment lent 
 
 To deck my brow, or sent 
 Untainted from the earth, as Christ's, to soar. 
 
 And add two spirits more 
 To that dread band seraphic, that doth lie 
 
 Beneath the Almighty's eye ; — 
 Glorious the thought — yet ah ! my babes, ah ! still 
 
 A father's heart ye fill ; 
 Though cold ye lie in earth — though gentle death 
 
 Hath suck'd your balmy breath. 
 And the last kiss which your fair cheeks I gave 
 
 Is buried in yon grave. 
 No tears — no tears — I wish them not again ; 
 
 To die for them was gain, 
 Ere Doubt, or Fear, or Woe, or act of Sin 
 
 Had marr'd God's light within. 
 
 * By a friend. 
 
323 
 
 IMPEOVED FROM STOLBERG. 
 
 ON A CATARACT FROM A CAVERN NEAR THE SUMMIT OF 
 A MOUNTAIN PRECIPICE. 
 
 Unperishing youth ! 
 
 Thou leapest from forth 
 
 The cell of thy hidden nativity ; 
 
 Never mortal saw 
 
 The cradle of the strong one ; 
 
 Never mortal heard 
 
 The gathering of his voices ; 
 
 The deep-murmured charm of the son of the rock, 
 
 That is lisp'd evermore at his slumberless fountain. 
 
 There's a cloud at the portal, a spray-woven veil 
 
 At the shrine of his ceaseless renewing ; 
 
 It embosoms the roses of dawn, 
 
 It entangles the shafts of the noon, 
 
 And into the bed of its stillness 
 
 The moonshine sinks down as in slumber, 
 
 That the son of the rock, that the nursling of heaven 
 
 May be born in a holy twilight ! 
 
 ANTISTROPHE, 
 
 The wild goat in awe 
 
 Looks up and beholds 
 
 Above thee the cliff inaccessible ; — 
 
 Thou at once full-born 
 
 Madd'nest in thy joyance, 
 
 Whirlest, shatter'st, splitt'st, 
 
 Life invulnerable. 
 
LOVE'S APPAEITION" AND EVANISHMENT. 
 
 AN ALLEGOEIC ROMANCE. 
 
 Like a lone Arab, old and blind 
 
 Some caravan had left behind 
 
 AVho sits beside a ruin'd well, 
 
 Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell ; 
 And now he hangs his aged head aslant, 
 And listens for a human sound — hi vain ! 
 And now the aid, vrhich Heaven alone can grant, 
 Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to gain ; — 
 Even thus, in vacant mood, one sultry hour, 
 Resting my eye upon a drooping plant, 
 With brow low bent, within my garden bower, 
 I sate upon the couch of camomile ; 
 And — whether 'twas a transient sleep, perchance, 
 FUtted across the idle brain, the while 
 I watched the sickly calm with aimless scope. 
 In my own heart ; or that, indeed a trance, 
 Turn'd my eye inward — thee, genial Hope, 
 Love's elder sister ! thee did I behold, 
 Drest as a bridesmaid, but all pale and cold, 
 With roseless cheek, all pale and cold and dim 
 
 Lie lifeless at my feet ! 
 And then came Love, a sylph in bridal trim, 
 
 And stood beside my seat ; 
 She bent, and kiss'd her sister's lips, 
 
 As she was wont to do ; — 
 Alas ! 'twas but a chilling breath 
 Woke just enough of life in death 
 
 To make Hope die anew. 
 
830 
 
 L'ENVOY. 
 
 In vain we supplicate the Powers above ; . 
 There is no resurrection for the Love 
 That, nurst in tenderest care, yet fades 
 In the chilled heart by gradual self-decay. 
 
 WHAT IS LIFE] 
 
 Eesembles life what once was deemed of light, 
 Too ample in itself for human sight ? 
 An absolute self — an element ungrounded — 
 All that we see, all colours of all shade 
 By encroach of darkness made? — 
 Is very life by consciousness unbounded ? 
 And all the thoughts, pains, joys of mortal breath, 
 A war-embrace of wrestling life and death ? 
 
 1S29. 
 
 INSCRIPTION FOR A TIME-PIECE. 
 
 Now ! it is gone. — Our brief hours travel post, 
 Each with its thought or deed, its Why or How : — 
 But know, each parting hour gives up a ghost 
 To dwell within thee — an eternal Now ! 
 
 1830. 
 
8S1 
 
 LOVE, HOPE, AND PATIENCE IN EDUCATION. 
 
 O'er wayward childhood would'st thou hold firm rule, 
 And sun thee in the light of happy faces; 
 Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces. 
 And in thine own heart let them first keep school. 
 For as old Atlas on his broad neck places 
 Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it, — so 
 Do these upbear the little world below 
 Of Education, — Patience, Love, and Hope. 
 Methinks, I see them grouped, in seemly show. 
 The straightened arms upraised, the palms aslope. 
 And robes that, touching as adown they flow. 
 Distinctly blend, like snow embossed in snow. 
 part them never ! If Hope prostrate lie. 
 
 Love too will sink and die. 
 But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive 
 From her own life that Hope is yet alive ; 
 And bending o'er with soul-transfusing eyes, 
 And the soft murmurs of the mother dove, 
 Woos back the fleeting spirit and half-supplies ; — 
 Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to 
 
 Love. 
 Yet haply there will come a weary day, 
 
 When overtasked at length 
 Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way. 
 Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength, 
 Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loth. 
 And both supporting does the work of both. 
 
Beareth all things. — 2 Cor. xiii., 7. 
 
 Gently I took that wliicli ungently came,* 
 
 And without scorn forgave : — Do thou the same. 
 
 A wrong done to thee think a cat's eye spark 
 
 Thou wouldst not see, were not thine own heart dark. 
 
 Thine own keen sense of wrong that thirsts for sin. 
 
 Fear that — the spark self-kindled from within, 
 
 Which blown upon will blind thee with its glare, 
 
 Or smother'd stifle thee with noisome air. 
 
 Clap on the extinguisher, pull up the blinds, 
 
 And soon the ventilated spirit finds 
 
 Its natural daylight. If a foe have kenn'd. 
 
 Or worse than foe, an alienated friend, 
 
 A rib of dry rot in thy ship's stout side. 
 
 Think it God's message, and in humble pride 
 
 With heart of oak replace it ; — thine the gains — 
 
 Give him the rotten timber for his pains ! 
 
 — E ccelo desceudit yvadi tnaurov. — Juvenal. 
 
 rvwOi aeavTov ! — and is this the prime 
 
 And heaven-sprung adage of the olden time ! 
 
 Say, canst thou make thyself? — Learn first that trade;- 
 
 Haply thou mayst know what thyself had made. 
 
 What hast thou, Man, that thou dar'st call thine ownl- 
 
 What is there in thee, Man, that can be known ] — 
 
 Dark fluxion, all unfixable by thought, 
 
 A phantom dim of past and future wrought, 
 
 Vain sister of the worm, — life, death, soul, clod — 
 
 Ignore thyself, and strive to know thy God ! 
 
 * See Note. 
 
EniTA*ION ATTOrPAnTON. 
 
 QuiE linquam, aut nihil, aut nihili, aut vix sunt meaf— 
 sordes 
 Do morti : — reddo csetera, Christe ! tibi. 
 
 TO THE YOU^-G ARTIST, KAYSER OF 
 KAYSERWERTH. 
 
 Katser ! to whom, as to a second self, 
 Nature, or Nature's next-of-kin, the Elf, 
 Hight Genius, hath dispensed the happy skill 
 To cheer or soothe the parting friend's, alas ! 
 Turning the blank scroll to a magic glass, 
 That makes the absent present at our will ; 
 And to the shadowing of thy pencil gives 
 Such seeming substance, that it almost lives. 
 
 Well hast thou given the thoughtful Poet's face ! 
 Yet hast thou on the tablet of his mind 
 A more delightful portrait left behind — 
 Ev'n thy own youthful beauty, and artless grace, 
 Thy natural gladness and eyes bright with glee ! 
 
 Kayser farewell ! 
 Be wise ! be happy ! and forget not me. 
 
 1833. 
 
334 
 
 MY BAPTISMAL BIRTH-DAY. 
 
 God's child in Christ adopted, — Christ my all, — 
 What that earth boasts were not lost cheaply, rather 
 Than forfeit that blest name, by which I call 
 The Holy One, the Almighty God, my Father?— 
 Father ! in Christ we live, and Christ iu Thee — 
 Eternal Thou, and everlasting we. 
 The heir of heaven, henceforth I fear not death : 
 In Christ I live ! in Christ I draw the breath 
 Of the true life ! — Let then earth, sea, and sky 
 Make war against me ! On my front I show 
 Their mighty master's seal. In vain they try 
 To end my life, that can but end its woe. — 
 Is that a death-bed where a Christian lies? — 
 Yes ! but not his — 'tis Death itself there dies. 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 Stop, Christian Passer-by ! — Stop, child of God, 
 And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod 
 A poet lies, or that which once seem'd he. — 
 O, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C; 
 That he who many a year with toil of breath 
 Found death in life, may here find life in death ! 
 Mercy for praise — to be forgiven for fame 
 He ask'd, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou tho 
 
 9th November^ 1833 
 
NOTES. 
 
 Page 3.— FIEST ADVENT OF LOVE. 
 
 The- early date assigned to these exquisite lines is 
 derived from a memorandum of the author. * ' Relics 
 of my School-boy Muse ; i. e. fragments of poems com- 
 posed before my fifteenth year. 
 
 Love's First Hope — 
 
 ' fair is Love's first hope,' &c. 
 
 The concluding stanza of an Elegy on a Lady, who 
 died in early youth : — 
 
 O'er the raised earth the gales of evening sigh ; 
 And see a Daisy peeps upon its slope ! 
 wipe the dimming waters from mine eye ; 
 Even on the cold Grave lights the Cherub Hope ! 
 
 Age. — A stanza written forty years later than the 
 preceding : — 
 
 Dew-drops are the Gems of Morning, 
 
 But the Tears of dewy Eve ! 
 Where no Hope is. Life's a warning, 
 That only serves to make us grieve, 
 "When we are old. 
 
 S. T. C. Sept. 1827." 
 
 GENEVIEVE. 
 
 ' ' This little poem was written when the author was 
 a boy." Note to the edition of 1796. 
 
336 NOTES. 
 
 The Raven and Time, real and imaginary, are 
 mentioned as "School-boy Poems" in tlie Preface to the 
 "Sibylline Leaves," published in 1817. 
 
 Page 11.— KISSES. 
 
 This "Effusion" and "The Eose" were originally 
 addressed to a Miss F. Nesbitt, at Plymouth, whither 
 the author accompanied his eldest brother, to whom he 
 was paying a visit, when he was twenty-one years of 
 age. Both poems are written in pencil on the blank 
 pages of a copy of Langhome's Collins. "Kisses" is 
 entitled ' ' Cupid turned Chymist ; " is signed S. T. 
 Coleridge, and dated Friday evening, 1793. 
 
 " The Rose" has this heading : — "On presenting a 
 Moss Rose to Miss F. Nesbitt." In both poems the 
 name of Nesbitt appears instead of Sara, afterwards 
 substituted. 
 
 "Kisses " has this note in the edition of 1796 : — 
 
 " Effinxit quondam blandum meditata laborem, 
 
 Basia lascivS, Cypria Diva manu. 
 Ambrosiee succos occulta temperat arte, 
 
 Fragransque infuso uectare tingit opus. 
 Sufl&cit et partem mellis, quod subdolus olim 
 
 Non impune favis surripuisset Amor. 
 Decussos violse foliis admiscet odores, 
 
 Et spolia sestivis plurima rapta rosis : 
 Addit et illecebras, et mille et mille lepores 
 
 Et quot Acidalius gaudia Cestus babet. 
 Ex Ms composuit Dea basia ; et omnia libans 
 
 Invenias nitidse sparsa per ora Cloes." 
 
 Carm,. Quad., vol. ii. 
 
 Page 15.— LINES ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENING. 
 
 In the edition of 1796 this poem is stated to have 
 been written in early youth ; and in a note to the line 
 "0 (have I sighed) were mine the wizard's rod," the 
 author "entreats the Public's pardon for having care- 
 lessly suffered to be printed such intolerable stuff as 
 
NOTES. 337 
 
 this and tlie tliirteen following lines ; " adding, ' ' that 
 they have not even the merit of originality, as every 
 thought is to he found in the Greek epigrams." In the 
 edition brought out the follo'sving year, the whole poem 
 was first omitted, but eventually "reprieved" and 
 printed in an Appendix, at the request of some intel- 
 ligent friends, who observed, that "what most delighted 
 the author when he was young in loriting would probably 
 best please those who are young in reading poetry," and 
 that " a man must learn to be pleased with a subject 
 before he can yield that attention to it which is necessary 
 in order to acquire a just taste." In the edition of 
 1803 the poem appears in its proper place, without any 
 remark. Few readers will have regretted that this 
 bright and popular strain was thus rescued from the 
 hasty condenmation of its youthful author. In the note, 
 the author repels an imputation of plagiarism from 
 Mx. Eogers's "Pleasures of Memory," and brings a 
 similar charge against his distinguished cotemporary. 
 He finds the original of the tale of "Florio," "in 
 'Lochleven,' a poem of great merit by Michael Bruce." 
 This assertion he afterwards withdrew, apologising (in 
 the Appendix above referred to) for his rashness, in very 
 handsome terms. This occurred fifty-six years ago. 
 Mr. Eogers still lives to wear his unwithering laurels. 
 He has seen two generations of his poetic brethren pass 
 away, — ij-^to. 5e rpLTdroKTiu dmccet. 
 
 The following note, in the edition of 1796, may be 
 cited as a proof how early, and how decidedly, the 
 genius of Wordsworth was detected and proclaimed by 
 Coleridge: — "The expression, ' green radiance, ' " he 
 says, (referring to the ' ' Lines written at Shurton Bars, " 
 p. 45 of the present edition,) "is borrowed from Mr. 
 Wordsworth, a poet whose versification is occasionally 
 harsh, and his diction too frequently obscure," (the 
 "Descriptive Sketches," and "Evening Walk," pub- 
 lished 1793, since republished, with numerous correc- 
 tions, as juvenile pieces, were the poems thus charac- 
 terised) j "but whom I deem imrivalled among the 
 
338 NOTES. 
 
 writers of the present day in manly sentiment, novel 
 imagery, and vivid colouring." D. 0. 
 
 Page 28.— MONODY ON THE DEATH OP CHATTEETON. 
 
 This monody was sketched at Christ's Hospital ; but 
 meagre indeed is the boyish schema, with scarce any of 
 the fire and felicity of the finished composition. October, 
 1794, is the date affixed by the author. It appears 
 from a passage in one of Mr. Southey's letters, that 
 seven lines and a half, toward the end of the poem, 
 were borrowed from a young friend and fellow-poet. 
 
 ** Everything is in the fairest trim. Favell and Le 
 Grrice" (a younger brother of Charles Lamb's Valentine 
 Le Grice), "two young Pantisocrats of nineteen, join us. 
 They possess great genius. You may perhaps like the 
 sonnet on the subject of our emigration, by FaveU : — 
 
 " No more my visionary soul shall dwell 
 
 On joys that were : no more endure to weigh 
 The shame and anguish of the evil day. 
 
 Wisely forgetful ! O'er the ocean swell 
 
 Sublime of Hope, I seek the cottaged dell, 
 
 Where Virtue calm with careUss step may stray. 
 And dancing to the moonlight roundelay, 
 
 The wizard Passion wears (sic) a holy spell. 
 
 Eyes that have aclied with anguish ! ye shall weep 
 Tears of doubt-mingled joy, as those who start 
 
 From precipices of distempered sleep, 
 
 On which the fierce-eyed fiends their revels keep, 
 And see the rising sun, and find it dart 
 New rays of pleasure trembling to the heart." 
 
 Southey's Life and Correspondence, vol. i., p. 224. 
 
 At the end of the Preface to the edition of 1796, 
 Mr. Coleridge acknowledges himself indebted to Mr. 
 Favell for the "rough sketch" of Effusion XVI., — 
 
 " Sweet Mercy ! how my weary heart has bled ; " 
 
 and to the author of "Joan of Arc" for the first half of 
 Effusion XV.,— 
 
 "Pale Reamer through the night," &c. 
 
NOTES. 330 
 
 It is remarkable that when these obligations were 
 particularised, the passage borrowed from the Monody 
 should not have been referred to its author. But this 
 is but one of a thousand instances that could be given 
 of IVIr. Coleridge's partial and uncertain (though in 
 some respects powerful) memory. In 1803 he published, 
 without signature, among his own productions, Mr. 
 Lamb's Sonnet to Mrs. Siddons, which had appeared 
 in the edition of 1796, signed C. L., and in 1797 in 
 Lamb's portion of the joint volume. 
 
 Page 34.— SONNET III. 
 
 This Sonnet, and the ninth, to "Stanhope," were 
 among the pieces withdrawn from the second edition of 
 1797. They reappeared in the edition of 1803, and 
 were again withdrawn in 1828, solely, it may be pre- 
 sumed, on account of their political vehemence. They 
 will excite no angry feelings, and lead to no misappre- 
 hensions now ; and as they are fully equal to their com- 
 panions in poetical merit, the Editors have not scrupled 
 to reproduce them. These Sonnets were originally en- 
 titled "Effusions." 
 
 Page 79.— THE RIME OP THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 The following interesting notices concerning ' ' The 
 Ancient Mariner" are contained in a letter of the Eev. 
 Alexander Dyce, the well-known admirable Editor of 
 old Plays, to the la,te H. N. Coleridge : — 
 
 "When my truly honoured friend Mr. Wordsworth 
 was last in London, soon after the appearance of De 
 Quincy's papers in ' Tait's Magazine,' he dined with me 
 in Gray's Inn, and made the following statement, which, 
 I am quite sure, I give you correctly : ' " The Ancient 
 Mariner " was founded on a strange dream, which a friend 
 of Coleridge had, who fancied he saw a skeleton ship, 
 with figures in it. We had both determined to write 
 some poetry for a monthly magazine, the profits of which 
 were to defray the expenses of a little excursion we were 
 
340 NOTES. 
 
 to make together. "The Ancient Mariner" was in- 
 tended for this periodical, but was too long. I had very- 
 little share in the composition of it, for I soon found that 
 the. style of Coleridge and myself would not assimilate. 
 Besides the lines (in the fourth part), 
 
 " And thou art long, and lank, and brown. 
 As is the ribbed sea-sand," 
 
 1 wrote the stanza (in the first part), 
 
 " He holds him with his glittering eye — 
 The Wedding-Guest stood still, 
 And listens like a three-years' chUd : 
 The Mariner hath his will," 
 
 and four or fire lines more in different parts of the poem, 
 which I could not now point out. The idea of " shooting 
 an albatross'''' was mine; for I had been reading 
 ShelvocJce^s Voyages, which probably Coleridge never saw. 
 I also suggested the reanimation of the dead bodies, to 
 work the ship.' " See also *' Memoii-s of William Words- 
 worth," by Dr. Christopher Wordsworth, vol. i., chap. 
 xi., p. 107—8. 
 
 Page 193.— THE DAY-DEEAM. 
 
 This little poem first appeared in the ' ' Morning Post," 
 in 1802, but was doubtless composed in Grermany. It 
 seems to have been forgotten by its author, for this was 
 the only occasion on which it saw the light tlirough him. 
 The Editors think that it will plead against parental 
 neglect'in the mind of most readers. 
 
 Page 265.— MELANCHOLY. 
 
 First published in the "Morning Chronicle," 1794. 
 The original conclusion, which appears in the edition of 
 1817, was as follows : — 
 
 . . . . "that filled her soul, 
 
 Nor did not whispering spirits roll 
 
 A mystic tumult, and a fateful chime 
 
 Mixt with wild shapings of the unborn time." 
 
NOTES. 
 
 Page 266.— COMPOSED IN SICKNESS AND IN ABSENCE. 
 
 This little poem, wMcl] first appeared nncler the above 
 title in the " "Watchman," was written in half-mockery 
 of Darwin's style, with its dulcia vitia, but was so 
 seriously admired by some of the Author's friends that 
 he admitted it into the Appendix of his joint publication 
 with Lloyd and Lamb, and afterwards into the edition 
 of 1803. It was withdrawn from the edition of 1828, 
 but re-admitted by his last Editor under the sportive 
 title of " Darwiniana." 
 
 Page 276.— THE PAINS OF SLEEP. 
 
 This poem was first published, with the ' ' Kubla 
 Khan," in 1816, with the following notice; — "As a 
 contrast to this vision I have annexed a fragment of a 
 very different character, describing with equal fidelity 
 the dream of pain and disease." It has been recently 
 ascertained to have been written in 1803. 
 
 Page 278.— A HYMN. 
 
 The manuscript of this poem, which is now printed 
 for the first time, was communicated to the Editors by 
 J. W. Wilkins, Esq., of Trinity Hall, Cambridge, 
 with the following memorandum : — 
 
 "The accompanying autograph, dated 1814, and 
 addressed to ]\Irs. Hood, of Brunswick- square, was 
 given not later than the year 1817, to a relative of my 
 own, who was then residing at Clifton (and was, at the 
 time at which it passed into his hands, an attendant on 
 Mr. Coleridge's lectui'es, which were in coiirse of delivery 
 at that place), either by the lady to whom it is 
 addressed, or by some other friend of Mr. Coleridge. 
 It was subsequently placed among other papers, and its 
 existence was partially forgotten, until last year, when 
 it finally passed into my hands. 
 
 " J. W. Wilkins." 
 
342 NOTES. 
 
 Page 279.— SEPAEATION. 
 
 The fourth and last stanzas are from Cotton's 
 Chlorinda, with very slight alteration. 
 
 Page 280.— ON TAKING LEAVE OF , 18ir. 
 
 * * To Mary Morgan and Charlotte Brent. Nov. ,1817, 
 St, James's Square, Bristol."— S. T. C. 
 
 Page 283.— YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 There has been more difficulty in the chronological 
 arrangement of this last section than in either of the 
 preceding. It has been found impossible to ascertain 
 the date of " Alice du Clos," and of some of the others ; 
 but it was thought best to include them in the last 
 division, as they were so placed in the edition of 1834. 
 As a whole, they possess a distinct character which 
 certainly belongs to the Poet's "later life." With 
 respect to the date of the admired composition " Youth 
 and Age," memories and opinions differ. It is the im- 
 pression of the writer of this note that the first stanza, 
 from "Verse, a breeze," to "liv'd in't together," was 
 produced as late as 1824, and that it was subsequently 
 prefixed to the second stanza, "Flowers are lovely," 
 which is said to have been composed many years before. 
 It appears, from the Author's own statement, already 
 quoted, that the last verse was not added till 1827, to 
 which period the poem, considered as a whole, may very 
 well be assigned. 
 
 Page 322.— TRANSLATED FROM SCHILLER. 
 
 The originals of Count Stolberg's poem, of which the 
 lines on a Cataract are an expansion, of Schiller's 
 Homeric and Ovidian couplets, of Mathisson's Hende- 
 casyllables, freely translated in the same metre, page 
 247, and of the poem of Frederica Brunn, which is 
 supposed to have suggested the Hymn in the Vale of 
 Chamouni, are here given as follows : — 
 
^'OTES. 
 
 Unsterbliclier JiingUng I 
 
 Der stromest hervor 
 
 Aus der Felsenklufc. 
 
 Kein sterblicher sah 
 
 Die Wiege des Starken ; 
 
 Es horte kein Ohr 
 
 Das Lallen des Edlen im sprudelnden Quell 
 
 Dich kleidet die Sonne 
 
 In Strahleu des Kuhmes ! 
 
 Sie mahlet mit Farben des Mmmlischeu Bogens 
 
 Die schwebenden Wolken der staubendeu Fluth. 
 
 DEB EPISCHE HEXAMETER. 
 
 Scbwindelnd tragt er dich fort auf rastlos stromenden "Wogen ; 
 Hinter dir siehst du, du siebst vor dir nur Himmel und Meer. 
 
 DAS DISTICHON. 
 
 Im Hexameter steigt des Spring-quells fltissige Satile , 
 Im Pentameter drauf fallt sie melodisch berab. 
 
 MILKSISCHES MAHEOHEN. 
 
 Ein milesiscbes Mabrchen, Adonide ! 
 
 Unter heiligen Lorbeerwipfeln glanzte 
 
 Hocb auf lauscbendem Verge birg ein Tempel. 
 
 Aus den Flutben erbub, von Pan gesegnet, 
 
 Im Gedlifte der Feme sicb ein Eiland. 
 
 Oft, in mondlicber Dammrung, scbwebt' ein Nacbeii, 
 
 Vom Gestade des beerdenreicben Eilands, 
 
 Zur umwaldeten Bucbt, wo sicb ein Steinpfad 
 
 Zwiscben Mirten zum Tempelbaio emporwand. 
 
 Dort im Eosengebiiscb, der HuldgOltinnen 
 
 Marmorgruppe gebeiligt, flebt' oft einsam 
 
 Einc J'riesterinn, reizend wie Apelles 
 
 Seine Grazien mablt, zum Sobn Cytberens, 
 
 Ihren Kallias freundlicb zu umscbweben 
 
 Und durcb Wogel und Dunkel ibn zu leiten. 
 
 Bis der nacbtlicbe Scbiffer, wonnescbauernd. 
 
 An den Busen ibr sank. 
 
 Aus tiefem Scbatten des scbweigenden Tannenbains 
 Erblick' icb bebend dich, Scheitel der Ewigkeit, 
 Blendender Gipfel, von dessen Hobe 
 Abndend mein Geist ins unendlicbe scbwebet I 
 
14 NOTES. 
 
 Wev senkte den Pfeiler tief in der Erde Scliooss, 
 Der, seit Jahrtausenden, fest deine Masse stiitzt ? 
 Wer thiirmte hoch in des Aethers Wolbung 
 Machtig und kiihn dein umstrahltes Autlitz ? 
 
 Wer goss Euch. hocli aus der ewigeu Winter's Reich, 
 O Zackeustrome, mit Donnergetos herab ? 
 Und wer gebietet laut mit der AUmacht Stimme ; 
 " Hier soUen ruhen die starrenden Wogen?" 
 
 Wer zeichnet dort dem Morgensterne die Bahn ? 
 Wer kranzt mit Bliithen des ewigen Frostes Saum? 
 Wem tont in schrecklichen Harmonieen, 
 Wilder Arveiron deiu Wogentummel ? 
 
 Jehovah ! Jehovah ! kracht's im berstenden Eis ; 
 Lavinendonner roUen's die Kluft hinab : 
 Jehovah rauscht's in den helleu Wipfeki, 
 Fltistert's an reiselnden Silberbachen. 
 
 Page 332. 
 " Gently I took that which ungently came" 
 
 Spenser's Slieplierd's Calendar. February 3rd, 
 Stanza 80. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 TO NATURE. 
 
 It may indeed be phantasy, when I 
 Essay to draw from all created things 
 Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings; 
 
 And trace in leaves and flowers that round me lie 
 
 Lessons of love and earnest piety. 
 
 So let it be ; and if the wide world rings 
 In mock of this belief, it brings 
 
 ISTor fear, nor grief, nor vain perplexity. 
 
 So will I buUd my altar in the fields. 
 
 And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be, 
 
 And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields 
 Shall be the incense I will yield to thee, 
 
 Thee only God ! and thou shalt not despise 
 
 Even me, the priest of this poor sacrifice. 
 
 FAREWELL TO LOVE. 
 
 Farewell, sweet Love ! yet blame you not my truth 
 More fondly ne'er did mother eye her child 
 
 Than I your form ; yours were my hopes of youth, 
 And as you shaped my thoughts I sigh'd or smiled. 
 
348 APPENDIX. 
 
 Wliile most were wooing wealth, or gaily swerving 
 To pleasure's secret haunt, and some apart 
 
 Stood strong in pride, self-conscious of deserving, 
 To you I gave my whole weak wishing heart. 
 
 And when I met the maid that realized 
 
 Your fair creations, and had won her kindness, 
 
 Say but for her if aught in earth I prized ! 
 
 Your dreams alone I dreamt, and caught your 
 blindness. 
 
 grief! but farewell Love ! I will go play me 
 With thoughts that please me less, and less betray 
 
 1 YET remain 
 
 To mourn the hours of youth (yet mourn in vain) 
 That fled neglected : wisely thou hast trod 
 
 The better path and that high meed which God 
 
 Assign'd to virtue, tow'ring from the dust, 
 Shall wait thy rising, spirit pure and just ! 
 
 God ! how sweet it were to think, that all 
 Who silent mourn around this gloomy hall 
 Might hear the voice of joy; — ^but 'tia the will 
 Of man's great author, that, through good and ill. 
 Calm he should hold his course, and so sustain 
 His varied lot of pleasure, toil and pain ! 
 
 1793. 
 
 » From "Letters," &c., of S. T. Coleridge. 
 
APPENDIX. 349 
 
 COUNT EUMFORD'S ESSAYS. 
 
 These^ Virtue, are thy triumphs, that adorn 
 FitUest our nature, and bespeak us born 
 For loftiest action; — not to gaze and run 
 From clime to clime; or batten in the sun, 
 Dragging a drony flight from flower to flower, 
 Like summer insects in a gaudy hour; 
 Nor yet o'er lovesick tales with fancy range, 
 And cry "'Tis pitiful, 'tis passing strange! " 
 But- on life's varied views to look around, 
 And raise expiring sorrow from the ground : — 
 And he who thus hath borne his part assign'd 
 For the sad fellowship of human kind. 
 Or for a moment soothed the bitter pain 
 Of a poor brother — has not lived in vain. 
 
 1796. 
 
 In my calmer moments I have the firmest faith that all 
 things work together for good. But alas ! it seems a long and 
 a dark process. 
 
 The early year's fast-flying vapours stray 
 In shadowing trains across the orb of day; 
 And we, poor insects of a few short hours. 
 Deem it a world of gloom. 
 Were it not better hope, a nobler doom, 
 Proud to believe, that with more active powers, 
 On rapid many-coloured wing, 
 We thro' one bright perpetual spring 
 Shall hover round the fruits and flowers, 
 Screen' d by those clouds, and cherish'd by those 
 showers ? 
 
 1796. 
 
350 APPENDIX. 
 
 TO THE EEV. W. J. H., 
 
 WHILE TEACHING A YOUNG LADY SOME SONG-TUNES ON HIS 
 FLUTE, 
 
 Hush, ye clamorous Cares ! be mute ! 
 
 Again, dear Harmonist ! again 
 Thro' the hollow of thy flute 
 
 Breathe that passion-warbled strain : 
 Till Memory each form shall bring 
 
 The loveliest of her shadowy throng; 
 And Hope, that soars on skylark wing, 
 
 Carol wild her gladdest song. 
 
 skill'd with magic spell to roll 
 
 The thrilling tones, that concentrate the soul ! 
 
 Breathe thro' thy flute those tender notes again. 
 While near thee sits the chaste-eyed Maiden mild ; 
 
 And bid her raise the Poet's kindred strain 
 In soft impassion'd voice, correctly wild. 
 
 III. 
 
 In Freedom's Undivided dell, 
 
 Where Toil and Health with mellow'd Love shall dwell, 
 
 Far from Folly, far from men, 
 
 In the rude romantic glen, 
 
 Up the clifP, and thro' the glade, 
 
 Wand'ring with the dear, loved maid, 
 
 I shall listen to the lay 
 
 And ponder on thee far away ! 
 
 Still, as she bids those thrilling notes aspire 
 
 *' Making my fond attuned heart his lyre" 
 
 Thy honor'd form, my Friend, shall re-appear, 
 
 And I will thank thee with a raptur'd tear. 
 
 1796. 
 
APPENDIX. 351 
 
 TO A PRIMROSE. 
 
 IHE FIRST SEEN IN THE SEASON, 
 
 "nitens et roboris expers 
 Turget ot insolida 'est : at spe delectat." — Ovid. 
 
 Thy smiles I note, sweet early flower, 
 That, peeping from thy rustic bower, 
 The festive news to earth dost bring, 
 A fragrant messenger of Spring ! 
 
 But, tender blossom ! why so pale? 
 Dost hear stern Winter in the gale 1 
 And didst thou tempt the ungentle sky 
 To catch one vernal glance and die ] 
 
 Such the wan lustre sickness wears, 
 When health's first feeble beam appears; 
 So languid are the smiles that seek 
 To settle on the careworn cheek, 
 
 When timorous hope the head uprears, 
 Still drooping and still moist with tears. 
 If through dispersing grief be seen 
 Of bliss the heavenly spark serene. 
 
 ]796. 
 
 ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S 
 CHILD. 
 
 This day among the faithful placed, 
 
 And fed with fontal manna, 
 with maternal title graced. 
 
 Dear Anna's dearest Anna ! 
 
352 APPENDIX. 
 
 "While others wish thee wise and fair, 
 
 A maid of spotless fame, 
 I'll breathe this more compendious prayer,— 
 
 May'st thou deserve thy name ! 
 
 Thy mother's name — a potent spell, — 
 
 That bids the virtues hie 
 From mystic grove and living cell, 
 
 Confess'd to Fancy's eye ; — 
 
 Meek quietness without offence ; 
 
 Content in homespun kirtle ; 
 True love ; and true love's innocence. 
 
 White blossom of the myrtle ! 
 
 Associates of thy name, sweet child ! 
 
 These virtues may'st thou win ; 
 With face as eloquently mild 
 
 To say, they lodge within. 
 
 So, when, her tale of days all flown, 
 Thy mother shall be mist here ; 
 
 When Heaven at length shall claim its own. 
 And angels snatch their sister. 
 
 Some hoary-headed friend perchance 
 
 May gaze with stifled breath, 
 And oft, in momentary trance, 
 
 Forget the waste of death. 
 
 Even thus a lovely rose I view'd. 
 
 In summer-swelling pride ; 
 Nor mark'd the bud, that, green and rude, 
 
 Peep'd at the rose's side. 
 
 It chanc'd I pass'd again that way 
 
 In autumn's latest hour, 
 And wond'ring saw the self-same spray 
 
 Rich with the self-same flower. 
 
APPENDIX. 353 
 
 Ah ! fond deceit ! the rude, green bud, 
 
 Alike in shape, place, name, 
 Had bloom'd where bloom'd the parent stud. 
 
 Another, and the same ! 
 
 1796. 
 
 MUTUAL PASSIOK 
 
 ALTERED AiO) MODERNIZED FROM AN OLD POET. 
 
 [ LOVE and he loves me again. 
 
 Yet dare I not tell who : 
 For if the nymphs should know my swain, 
 I fear they'd love him too. 
 Yet while my joy's unknown, 
 Its rosy buds are but half blown ; 
 What no one with me shares, seems scarce my own. 
 
 I'll tell, that if they be not glad. 
 
 They yet may envy me ; 
 But then, if I grow jealous mad. 
 And of them pitied be, 
 
 'Twould vex me worse than scorn ! 
 And yet it cannot be forborne, 
 Unless my heart would like my thoughts be torn. 
 
 He is, if they can find him, fair 
 And fresh, and fragrant too ; 
 As after rain the summer air. 
 And looks as lilies do, 
 
 That are this morning blown ! 
 Yet, yet I doubt, he is not known. 
 Yet, yet I fear to have him fully shown. 
 
 But he hath eyes so large and bright, 
 
 Which none can see and doubt 
 That Love might thence his torches light 
 
 Tho' Hate had put them out 1 
 
354 APPENDIX. 
 
 But then to raise my fears, 
 His voice — what maid so ever hears 
 Will be my rival, the' she have but ears. 
 
 I'll tell no more ! yet I love him, 
 
 And he loves me ; yet so, 
 That never one low wish did dim 
 Our love's pure light, I know — 
 In each so free from blame 
 That both of us would gain new fame 
 If love's strong fears would let me tell his name. 
 
 From the edition of 1817. 
 
 FROM A YOUNa LADY. 
 
 She had lost her silver thimble, and her complaiat being 
 accidentally overheard by him, her friend, he immedi- 
 ately sent her four others to take her choice of. 
 
 As oft mine eye with careless glance 
 
 Has gallop' d through some old romance. 
 
 Of speaking Birds, and Steeds with wings. 
 
 Giants and Dwarfs and Fiends and Kings ; 
 
 Beyond the rest with more attentive care 
 
 I've lov'd to read of elfin-favor'd Fair — 
 
 How if she long'd for aught beneath the sky 
 
 And suffer'd to escape one votive sigh. 
 
 Wafted along on viewless pinions aery 
 
 It la/d itself obsequious at her Feet ! 
 
 Such things, I thought, one might not hope to meet 
 
 Save in the dear delicious land of Faery ! 
 
 But now (by proof I know it well) 
 
 There's still some peril in free wishing — 
 
 Politeness is a licensed spell, 
 
 And you, dear Sir ! the arch-magician. 
 
APPENDIX. 355 
 
 You much perplex'd me by the various set, 
 
 They were indeed an elegant quartette ! 
 
 My mind went to and fro, and waver'd long ; 
 
 At length I've chosen (Samuel thinks me wrong) 
 
 That, around whose azure rim 
 
 Silver figiu'es seem to swim, 
 
 Like fleece-white clouds, that on the skiey Blue, 
 
 "Waked by no breeze, the self-same shapes retain ; 
 
 Or Ocean Nymphs, with limbs of snowy hue, 
 
 Slow-floating o'er the calm cerulean plain. 
 
 Just such a one, mon cher ami, 
 
 (The finger-shield of industry) 
 
 Th' inventive Gods, I deem, to Pallas gave 
 
 What time the vain Arachne, madly brave, 
 
 Challeng'd the blue-eyed Virgin of the sky 
 
 A duel in embroider'd work to try. 
 
 And hence the thimbled finger of grave Pallas 
 
 To th' erring needle's point was more than callous. 
 
 But ah the poor Arachne ! She unarm'd, 
 
 Blundering thro' hasty eagerness, alarm'd 
 
 With all a Rival's hopes, a Mortal's fears, 
 
 Still miss'd the stitch, and stain'd the web with tears. 
 
 Unnumber'd punctures small yet sore 
 
 Full fretfully the maiden bore. 
 
 Till she her lily finger found 
 
 Crimson'd with many a tiny wound ; 
 
 And to her eyes, suffus'd with watery woe, 
 
 Her fiower-embroider'd web danced dim, I wist. 
 
 Like blossom'd shrubs, in a quick-moving mist ; 
 
 Till vanquish'd the despairing maid sunk low. 
 
 Bard ! whom sure no common Muse inspires, 
 
 1 heard your Verse that glows with vestal fires : 
 And I from unwatch'd needle's ex-ring point 
 Had surely suffer'd on each finger-joint 
 
 Those wounds which erst did poor Arachne meet 
 While he, the much-loved object of my choice, 
 (My bosom thrilling with enthusiast heat) 
 Pour'd on mine ear with deep impressive voice 
 
356 APPENDIX. 
 
 How the great Prophet of the Desart stood, 
 
 And preach'd of Penitence by Jordan's Flood : 
 
 On War ; or else the legendary lays 
 
 In simplest measures hymn'd to Alla's praise ; 
 
 Or what the Bard from his heart's inmost stores 
 
 O'er his Friend's grave in loftier numbers pours ; 
 
 Yes, Bard Polite ! you but obey'd the laws 
 
 Of Justice, when the thimble you had sent; 
 
 What wounds your thought-bewildering Muse might 
 
 cause, 
 'Tis well your finger-shielding gifts prevent. 
 
 Saba.* 
 1796. 
 
 TRANSLATION^ OF A PASSAGE IN OTTFRIED'S 
 METRICAL PARAPHRASE OF THE GOSPELS. 
 
 " This paraplirase, written about the time of Charlemagne, 
 is by no means deficient in occasional passages of consider- 
 able poetic merit. There is a flow and a tender enthusiasm 
 in the following lines (at the conclusion of chap, v.), which, 
 even in the translation, will not, I flatter myself, fail to 
 interest the reader. Ottfried is describing the cii-cumstances 
 i mm ediately following the birth of our Lord." — Biog. Lit, 
 vol. i., p. 203, 
 
 She gave with joy her virgin breast ; 
 She hid it not, she bared the breast, 
 Which suckled that divinest babe ! 
 Blessed, blessed were the breasts 
 Which the infant Saviour kiss'd ; 
 And blessed, blessed was the mother 
 Who wrapp'd his limbs in swaddling clothes, 
 Singing placed him in her lap, 
 
 * There can be little doubt that this jeu d'esjprit, notwith- 
 standing its title and signature, was in whole or in part the 
 production of the youthful poet to whom it was addressed. 
 Arachne's thimble is represented as protecting the finger 
 from the point, not the head of the needle. This at least is 
 Burely a masculine conception. — D. C. 
 
APPENDIX. 357 
 
 Hung o'er him with her looks of love, 
 And soothed him with a lulling motion : 
 Blessed ! for she shelter'd him 
 From the damp and chilling air; — 
 Blessed, blessed ! for she lay 
 With such a babe in one blest bed, 
 Close as babes and mothers lie ! 
 Blessed, blessed evermore, 
 With her virgin lips she kiss'd, 
 With her arms, and to her breast. 
 She embraced the babe divine, 
 Her babe divine the virgin mother ! 
 There lives not on this ring of earth 
 A mortal that can sing her praise, 
 Mighty mother, virgin pure, 
 In the darkness and the night 
 For us she bore the heavenly Lord. 
 
 1810. 
 
 " Most interesting is it to consider the effect, when the 
 feelings are wrought above the natural pitch by the belief 
 of something mysterious, while all the images are ptirely 
 natural ; then it is that religion and poetry strike deepest." — 
 B. L., vol. i., p. 204. 
 
 ISRAEL'S LAMENT. 
 
 ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OP WALES. 
 FROM THE HEBBEW OF HYMAN HURWITZ. 
 
 MouEK, Israel ! sons of Israel, mourn ! 
 
 Give utterance to the inward throe, 
 As wails, of her first love forlorn. 
 
 The virgin clad in robes of woe ! 
 
 Mourn the young mother snatch'd away 
 From light and life's ascending sun ! 
 
 Mourn for the babe, death's voiceless prey, 
 Earn'd by long pangs, and lost ere won ! 
 
858 APPENDIX. 
 
 Mourn the bright rose that bloora'd and went, 
 
 Ere half disclos'd its vernal hue ! 
 Mourn the green bud, so rudely rent, 
 
 It brake the stem on which it grew ! 
 
 Mourn for the universal woe, 
 
 With solemn dirge, and falt'ring tongue; 
 For England's Lady is laid low, 
 
 So dear, so lovely, and so young ! 
 
 The blossoms on her tree of 'life 
 
 Shone with the dews of recent bliss ! 
 
 Translated in that deadly strife 
 She plucks its fruit in Paradise. 
 
 Mourn for the prince, who rose at morn 
 To seek and bless the firstling bud 
 
 Of his own rose, and found the thorn, 
 Its point bedew'd with tears of blood. 
 
 Mourn for Britannia's hopes decay'd ! 
 
 Her daughters wail their dear defence. 
 Their fair example, prostrate laid, 
 
 Chaste love, and fervid innocence ! 
 
 Thou ! who mark'st the monarch's path. 
 
 To sad Jeshurun's sons attend ! 
 Amid the lightnings of thy wrath 
 
 The showers of' consolation send ! 
 
 Jehovah frowns ! — The Islands bow, 
 And prince and people kiss the rod ! 
 
 Their dread chastising judge wert thou — 
 Be thou their comforter God ! 
 
 1817. 
 
APPENDIX. , 859 
 
 THE EIME OF THE ANCYENT MAEINEEE * 
 
 IN SEVEN PAETS. 
 
 AEGUMENT. 
 
 How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by Storms to 
 the cold Country towards the South Pole ; and how from thence 
 she made her course to the Tropical Latitude of the Great 
 Pacific -Ocean ; and of the strange things that befell; and in 
 what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to his own 
 Country. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 It is an ancyent Marinere, 
 
 And he stoppeth one of three : 
 " By thy long grey beard and thy glittering eye, 
 
 Now wherefore stoppest me ? 
 
 " The Bridegroom's doors are open'd wide, 
 
 And I am next of kin ; 
 The guests are met, the feast is set, — 
 
 May'st hear the merry din." 
 
 But still he holds the wedding-guest — 
 
 " There was a Ship," quoth he ; 
 *'Nay, if thou'st got a laughsome tale, 
 
 Marinere ! come with me." 
 
 He holds him with his skinny hand, 
 Quoth he, " There was a Ship ;" — 
 
 " Now get thee hence, thou grey-beard Loon ! 
 Or my staff shall make thee skip." 
 
 * Eeprinted verbatim from the original as it appeared in 179^ 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 He holds Mm with his glittering eye- 
 The wedding-guest stood still, 
 
 And listens like a three-year's child ; 
 The Marinere hath his will. 
 
 The wedding-guest sate on a stone, 
 He cannot chuse but hear ; 
 
 And thus spake on that ancyent man, 
 The bright-eyed Marinere. 
 
 " The ship was cheer'd, the harbour clear' d, 
 
 Merrily did we drop 
 Below the Kirk, below the Hill, 
 
 Below the Lighthouse top. 
 
 The Sun came up upon the left, 
 
 Out of the Sea came he : 
 And he shone bright, and on the right 
 
 Went down into the Sea. 
 
 Higher and higher every day, 
 Till over the mast at noon — 
 
 The wedding-guest here beat his breast, 
 Por he heard the loud bassoon. 
 
 The Bride hath pac'd into the Hall, 
 
 Red as a rose is she ; 
 Nodding their heads before her goes 
 
 The merry Minstralsy. 
 
 The wedding-guest he beat his breast, 
 Yet he cannot chuse but hear : 
 
 And thus spake on that ancyent Man, 
 The I bright-eyed Marinere. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 "Listen, Stranger ! Storm and Wind, 
 A Wind and Tempest strong ! 
 
 For days and weeks it play'd us freaks- 
 Like Chaff we drove along. 
 
 Listen, Stranger ! Mist and Snow, 
 And it grew wondrous cauld ; 
 
 And Ice mast-high came floating by 
 ■ As green as Emerauld. 
 
 And through the drifts the snowy clifts 
 
 Did send a dismal sheen ; 
 No shapes of men ne beasts we ken — 
 
 The Ice was all between. 
 
 The Ice was here, the Ice was there, 
 
 The Ice was all around ; 
 It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and howl'd, 
 
 Like noises of a swound. 
 
 At length did cross an AlbatrosSj 
 Thorough the fog it came ; 
 
 And an it were a Christian soul, 
 We hail'd it in God's name. 
 
 The Marineres gave it biscuit-worms, 
 And round and round it flew : 
 
 The Ice did split with a Thunder-fit, 
 The helmsman steer'd us thro'. 
 
 And a good south-wind sprung up behind, 
 
 The Albatross did follow ; 
 And every day for food or play, 
 
 Came to the Marinere's hollo ! 
 
APPEIS-DIX. 
 
 In mist or cloud, on mast or sliroud, 
 
 It perch' d for vespers nine, 
 Whiles all the night, thro' fog smoke-white, 
 
 Glimmer'd the white moonshine," 
 
 " God save thee, ancyent Marinere ! 
 
 " From the fiends that plague thee thus — 
 "Why look'st thou so ?" — With my cross-bow 
 
 I shot the Albatross. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 "The Sun came up upon the right, 
 Out of the Sea came he ; 
 
 And broad as a weft upon the left, 
 Went down into the Sea. 
 
 And the good south-wind still blew behind, 
 
 But no sweet bird did follow; 
 Ne any day for food or play, 
 
 Came to the Marinere's hollo ! 
 
 And I had done an hellish thing, 
 And it would work 'em woe : 
 
 For all averr'd I had kill'd the Bird 
 That made the Breeze to blow. 
 
 Ne dim ne red, like God's own head. 
 
 The glorious Sun uprist ; 
 They all averr'd I had kiU'd the Bird 
 
 That brought the fog and mist. 
 'Twas right, said they, such birds toVay 
 
 That bring the fog and mist. 
 
APPENDIX, 
 
 The breezes blew, the white foam flew, 
 
 The furrow follow' d free : 
 We were the first that ever burst 
 
 Into that silent Sea. 
 
 Down dropt the breeze, the Sails dropt down, 
 
 'Twas sad as sad could be, 
 And we did speak only to break 
 
 The silence of the Sea. 
 
 . All in a hot and copper sky, 
 The bloody sun at noon, 
 
 Kight up above the mast did stand, 
 No bigger than the moon. 
 
 Day after day, day after day. 
 We stuck, ne breath ne motion, 
 
 As idle as a painted Ship 
 Upon a painted Ocean. 
 
 Water, water, everywhere. 
 And all the boards did shrink 
 
 Water, water, everywhere, 
 Ne any drop to driok. 
 
 The very deeps did rot : O Christ ! 
 
 That ever this should be ! 
 Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
 
 Upon the slimy Sea. 
 
 About, about, in reel and rout, 
 The Death-fires danc'd at night ; 
 
 The water, like a witch's oils, 
 
 Burnt green and blue, and white. 
 
804 APPENDIX. 
 
 And some in dreams assured were 
 Of the Spirit that plagued us so : 
 
 Nine fathom deep he had follow' d us 
 From the Land of Mist and Snow. 
 
 And every tongue thro' utter drouth 
 Was wither'd at the root ; 
 
 We could not speak, no more than if 
 We had been choked with soot. 
 
 Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looks 
 Had I from old and young ! 
 
 Instead of the Cross the Albatross 
 About my neck was hung. 
 
 " I SAW a something in the Sky, 
 
 No bigger than my fist ; 
 At first it seem'd a little speck, 
 
 And then it seem'd a mist : 
 It mov'd and mov'd, and took at last 
 
 A certain shape I wist. 
 
 A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 
 
 ^d still it ner'd and nor'd ; 
 And, an it dodg'd a water-sprite, 
 
 It plimg'd, and tack'd, and veered. 
 
 With throats imslack'd, with black lips bak'd, 
 
 Ne could we laugh, ne wail ; 
 Then while thro' drouth, all dumb they stood, 
 I bit my arm and suck'd the blood, 
 
 And cry'd, A sail ! a sail / 
 
APPENDIX. 365 
 
 With tkroats unslack'd, with black lips bak'd, 
 
 Agape they hear'd me call ; 
 Gramercy ! they for joy did grin, 
 And all at once their breath drew in, 
 
 As they were drinking all. 
 
 She doth not tack from side to side, — 
 
 Hither to work us weal — 
 Withouten wiad, withouten tide, 
 
 She steddies with upright keel. 
 
 The western wave was all aflame, 
 
 The day was well-nigh done ! 
 Almost upon the western wave 
 
 Rested the broad bright Sun ; 
 When that strange shape drove suddenly 
 
 Betwixt us and the Sun. 
 
 And strait the Sun was fleck'd with bars 
 
 (Heaven's mother send us grace) 
 As if thro' a dungeon grate he peer'd 
 
 With broad and burning face. 
 
 Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) 
 
 How fast she neres and neres ! 
 Are those her Sails that glance in the Sun 
 
 Like restless gossameres 1 
 
 Are those her naked ribs, which fleck'd 
 The sun that did behind them peer ? 
 
 And are those two all, all the crew. 
 That woman and her fleshless Pheere ? 
 
 Jlis bones were black with many a crack, 
 
 All black and bare I ween ; 
 Jet black and bare, save where with rust 
 Of mouldy damps and charnel crust. 
 
 They're patch' d T\ath purple and green. 
 
 2 c 
 
id APPENDIX. 
 
 Her lips are red, her looks are free. 
 
 Her locks are yellow as gold ; 
 Her skin is as white as leprosy, 
 And she is far liker Death than he ; 
 Her flesh makes the still air cold. 
 
 The naked Hulk alongside came, 
 An.d the Twain were playing dice ; 
 
 " The Game is done ! 'I've won, I've won !"* 
 Quoth she, and whistled thrice. 
 
 A. gust of wind sterte up behind, 
 
 And whistled thro' his bones ; 
 Thro' the holes of his eyes, and the hole of his mouth 
 
 Half-whistles and half -groans. 
 
 With never a whisper in the Sea 
 
 Off darts the Spectre-ship ; 
 While clombe above the Eastern bar, 
 The horned Moon with one bright Star 
 
 Almost atween the tips. 
 
 One after one, by the horned moon 
 
 (Listen, O stranger to me) 
 Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang, 
 
 And curs'd me with his ee. 
 
 Four times fifty living men, 
 With never a sigh or groan, 
 
 With heavy thump, a lifeless lump. 
 They dropp'd down one by one. 
 
 Their souls did from their bodies fly- 
 They fled to bliss or woe ; 
 
 And every soul it pass'd me by, 
 Like the whiz of my cross-bow." 
 
APPENDIX. 367 
 
 PART IV. 
 
 " I FEAR thee, ancyent Marinere ! 
 
 " I fear thy skinny hand ; 
 " And thou art long, and lank, and brown, 
 
 " As is the ribb'd sea-sand. 
 
 " I fear thee and thy glittering eye, 
 "And thy skinny hand so brown — " 
 
 Fear not, fear not, thon wedding-guest ! 
 This body dropt not down. 
 
 Alone, alone, all all alone, 
 
 Alone on the wide wide Sea ; 
 And Christ would take no pity on 
 
 My soul in agony. 
 
 The many men so beautiful, 
 
 And they all dead did lie ! 
 And a million million slimy things 
 
 Liv'd on — and so did I. 
 
 I look'd upon the rotting Sea, 
 
 And drew my eyes away ; 
 I look'd upon the eldritch deck, 
 
 And there the dead men lay. 
 
 I look'd to Heav'n, and try'd to pray ; 
 
 But or ever a prayer had gusht, 
 A wicked whisper came and made 
 
 My heart as dry as dust. 
 
 I clos'd my lids and kept them close, 
 
 Till the balls like j)ulses beat ; 
 For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky, 
 Lay like a load on my weary eye 
 
 And the dead were at my feet. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 The cold sweat melted from their limbs, 
 
 Ne rot, ne reek did they, 
 The look with which they look'd on me, 
 
 Had never passed away. 
 
 An orphan's curse would drag to Hell 
 
 A spirit from on high : 
 But O ! more horrible than that, 
 
 Is the curse in a dead man's eye ! 
 Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 
 
 And yet I could not die. 
 
 The moving Moon went up the sky, 
 And no where did abide ; 
 
 Softly she was going up, 
 And a star or two beside. 
 
 Her beams bemock'd the sultry main, 
 
 Like morning frosts yspread ; 
 But where the ship's huge shadow lay, 
 The charmed water burnt alway 
 A still and awful red. 
 
 Beyond the shadow of the ship 
 I watch'd the water-snakes : 
 They mov'd in tracks of shining white 
 And when they rear'd the elfish light 
 Tell off in hoary flakes. 
 
 Within the shadow of the ship 
 
 I watch'd their rich attire : 
 Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 
 They coil'd and swam ; and every track 
 
 Was a flash of golden fire. 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 O happy living things ! no tongue 
 Their beauty might declare : 
 
 A spring of love gusht from my heart, 
 And I blessed them unaware ! 
 
 Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
 And I bless'd them unaware. 
 
 The self -same moment I could pray ; 
 
 And from my neck so free, 
 The albatross fell off, and sank 
 
 Like lead into the sea. 
 
 PAET V. 
 
 ** SLEEP, it is a gentle thing, 
 
 Belov'd from pole to pole ! 
 To Mary queen the praise be yeven ; 
 She sent the gentle sleep from heaven 
 
 That slid into my soul. 
 
 The silly buckets on the deck, 
 That had so long remained ; 
 
 I dreamt that they were fill'd with dew^ 
 And when I awoke it rain'd. 
 
 My lips were wet, my throat was cold, 
 My garments all were dank ; 
 
 Sure I had drunken in my dreams 
 And still my body drank. 
 
 I mov'd, and could not feel my limbs, 
 
 I was so light, almost 
 I thought that I had died in sleep, 
 
 And was a blessed Ghost. 
 
370 APPENDIX. 
 
 '^The roaring wind ! it roar'd far off, 
 
 It did not come anear ; 
 But with its sound it shook the sails 
 
 That were so thin and sere. 
 
 The upper air bursts into life, 
 And a hundred fire-flags sheen 
 
 To and fro, they are hurried about ; 
 
 And to and fro, and in and out, 
 The stars dance on between. . 
 
 The coming wind doth roar more loud, 
 
 The sails do sigh, like sedge ; 
 The rain pours down from one black cloud. 
 
 And the Moon is at its edge. 
 
 Hark ! hark ! the thick black cloud is cleft, 
 
 And the Moon is at its side ; 
 Like waters shot from some high crag. 
 The lightning falls with never a jag, 
 
 A river steep and wide. 
 
 The strong wind reach'd the ship : it roar'd 
 And dropp'd down, like a stone ! 
 
 Beneath the lightning and the moon 
 The dead men gave a groan. 
 
 They groan' d, they stirr'd, they all uprose, 
 Ne spake, ne mov'd their eyes : 
 
 It had been strange, even in a dream. 
 To have seen those dead men rise. 
 
 The helmsman steer' d, the ship mov'd on ; 
 
 Yet never a breeze up-blew ; 
 The Mariaeres all 'gan work the ropes. 
 
 Where they were wont to do : 
 
APPENDIX. 371 
 
 They rais'd their limbs like lifeless tools — 
 We were a ghastly crew. 
 
 The body of my brother's son 
 
 Stood by me knee to knee : 
 The body and I pull'd at one rope, 
 
 But he said nought to me — 
 And I quak'd to think of my own voice 
 
 How frightful it would be ! 
 
 The daylight dawn'd — they dropp'd their arms, 
 
 And cluster'd round the mast ; 
 Sweet sounds rose slowly thro' their mouths 
 
 And from their bodies pass'd. 
 
 Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 
 
 Then darted to the sun : 
 Slowly the soimds came back again. 
 
 Now mixed, now one by one. 
 
 Sometimes a dropping from the sky, 
 
 I heard the Lavrock sing ; 
 Sometimes all little birds that are, 
 How they seem'd to fill the sea and air 
 
 With their sweet jargoniag. 
 
 And now 'twas like all iastruments, 
 
 Now like a lonely flute ; 
 And now it is an angel's song 
 
 That makes the heavens be mute. 
 
 It ceas'd : yet still the sails made on 
 
 A pleasant noise till noon, 
 A noise like of a hidden brook 
 
 In the leafy month of June, 
 That to the sleeping woods all night 
 
 Singeth a quiet time. 
 
372 APPENDIX, 
 
 Listen, O listen, thou Wedding-guest ! 
 
 " Marinere ! thou hast thy will : 
 For that, which comes out of thine eye, doth make 
 
 My body and soul to be stiU." 
 
 " Never sadder tale was told 
 
 To a man of woman born ; 
 Sadder and wiser, thou wedding-guest ! 
 
 Thou 'It rise to-morrow morn. 
 
 Never sadder tale was heard 
 
 By a man of woman bom ; 
 The Marineres all retum'd to work 
 
 As silent as beforne. 
 
 The Marineres all 'gan pull the ropes, 
 
 But look at me they n' old ; 
 Thought I, I am as thin as air — ■ 
 
 They cannot me behold. 
 
 Till noon we sUently sail'd on, 
 Yet never a breeze did breathe : 
 
 Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
 Mov'd onward from beneath. 
 
 Under the keel, nine fathom deep. 
 From the land of mist and snow 
 
 The spirit slid : and it was He 
 That made the Ship to go. 
 
 The sails at noon left off their tune, 
 And the Ship stood still also. 
 
 The sun right up above the mast 
 
 Had fix'd her to the ocean ; 
 But in a minute she 'gan stir 
 
 With a short uneasy motion : — 
 Backwards and forwards half her length 
 
 With a short uneasy motion. 
 
APPENDIX. 373 
 
 Then, Kke a pawing lior?e let go, 
 She made a sudden bound : 
 
 It flung the blood into my head, 
 And I fell into a swound. 
 
 How long in that same fit I lay, 
 
 I have not to declare ; 
 But ere my living life return'd, 
 I heard, and in my soul discern'd 
 
 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 lay'd full low 
 
 The harmless Albatross, 
 
 The spirit who 'bideth by himself, 
 In the land of mist and snow, 
 
 He lov'd the bird that lov'd the man 
 Who shot him with his bow.' 
 
 The other was a softer voice, 
 
 As soft as honey-dew ; 
 Quoth he. The man hath penance done, 
 
 And penance more will do. 
 
 PAET 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 ?" 
 
374 APPENDIX. 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 " Still as a Slave before his Lord, 
 The Ocean hath no blast : 
 
 His great bright eye most silently 
 Up to the moon is cast.— 
 
 " If he may know which way to go, 
 Tor she guides him smooth or grim. 
 
 See, brother, see ! how graciously 
 She looketh down on him." 
 
 FIRST VOICE, 
 
 *' But why drives on that ship so fast 
 Withouten wave or wiad ? " 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 ■ The air is cut away before, 
 And closes from behind." 
 
 " Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high, 
 
 Or we shall be belated ; 
 For slow and slow that ship wiU go, 
 
 When the Marinere's trance is abated." 
 
 I woke, and we were sailing on 
 
 As in a gentle weather : 
 'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high ; 
 
 The dead men stood together. 
 
 AU stood together on the deck, 
 For a charnel-dungeon fitter : 
 
 All fix'd on me their stony eyes 
 That in the moon did glitter. 
 
APPEISTDIX. 375 
 
 The pang, the curse, with which they died, 
 
 Had never passVI away : 
 I could not draw my een from theirs 
 
 Ne turn them up to pray. 
 
 And in its time the spell was snapt, 
 
 And I could move my een : 
 I look'd far -forth, but little saw 
 
 Of what might else be seen. 
 
 Like one, that on a lonely road 
 
 Doth walk in fear and dread. 
 And having once turn'd round, walks on 
 
 And turns no more his head : 
 Because he knows, a frightful fiend 
 
 Doth close behind him tread. 
 
 But soon there breath'd a wind on ne, 
 
 Ne soimd ne motion made : 
 Its path was not upon the sea, 
 
 In ripple or in shade. 
 
 It rais'd my hair, it fann'd my cheek, 
 
 Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
 It mingled strangely with my fears, 
 
 Yet it felt like a welcoming. 
 
 Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 
 
 Yet she sailed softly too : 
 Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
 
 On me alone it blew. 
 
 O dream of joy ! is this indeed 
 
 The light-house top I see ? 
 Is this the HiU ? Is this the Kirk ? 
 
 Is this mine own countree ? 
 
376 APPENDIX. 
 
 We drifted o'er tlie Harbour-bar, 
 And I witli sobs did pray — 
 
 ' let me be awake, my God ! 
 Or let me sleep alway ! ' 
 
 The harbour bay was clear as glass, 
 So smoothly it was strewn ! 
 
 And on the bay the moonlight lay. 
 And the shadow of the moon. 
 
 The moonlight bay was white all o'er, 
 
 Till rising from the same, 
 Full many shapes, that shadows were, 
 
 Like as of torches came. 
 
 A little distance from the prow, 
 Those dark red shadows were ; 
 
 But soon I saw that my own flesh 
 Was red as in a glare. 
 
 I turn'd my head in fear and dread, 
 
 And by the holy rood, 
 The bodies had advanc'd, and now 
 
 Before the mast they stood. 
 
 They lifted up their stiff right arms, 
 They held them strait and tight ; 
 
 And each right arm burnt like a torch, 
 A torch that's borne upright. 
 
 Their stony eye-balls glittered on 
 In the red and smoky Hght. 
 
 I pray'd and turn'd my head away, 
 
 Forth looking as before ; 
 There was no breeze upon the bay. 
 
 No wave against the shore. 
 
APPENDIX. 377 
 
 The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
 
 That stands above the rock ; 
 The moonlight steep' d in silentness 
 
 The steady weathercock. 
 
 And the bay was white with silent light, 
 
 Till rising from the same 
 FuU many shapes, that shadows were, 
 
 In crimson colom-s came. 
 
 A little distance from the prow 
 > Those crimson shadows were : 
 I tum'd my eyes upon the deck — 
 
 Christ ! what saw I there ? 
 
 Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat j 
 
 And by the Holy rood, 
 A man all light, a seraph-man, 
 
 On every corse there stood. 
 
 This seraph-band, each wav'd his hand, 
 
 It was a heavenly sight : 
 They stood as signals to the land, 
 
 Each one a lovely light : 
 
 This seraph-band, each wav'd his hand, 
 No voice did they impart — 
 
 No voice ; but ! the silence sank. 
 Like music on my heart. 
 
 Eftsones I heard the dash of oars, 
 
 1 heard the pilot's cheer : 
 
 My head was tum'd perforce away, 
 And I saw a boat appear. 
 
 Then vanish' d aU the lovely lights ; 
 The bodies rose anew : 
 
378 APPENDIX. 
 
 With silent pace, each to his place 
 Came back the ghastly crew. 
 
 The wind, that shade nor motion made, 
 On me alone it blew. 
 
 The pilot, and the pilot's boy, 
 I heard them coming fast : 
 
 Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy, 
 The dead men could not blast. 
 
 I saw a third — I heard his voice : 
 
 It is the Hermit good ! 
 He singeth loud his godly hymns 
 
 That he makes in the wood. 
 He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 
 
 The Albatross's blood. 
 
 " This Hermit good lives in that wood 
 Which slopes down to the Sea. 
 
 How loudly his sweet voice he rears ! 
 
 He loves to talk with Marineres 
 That come from a far Contr^e. 
 
 He kneels at morn and noon and eve — 
 
 He hath a cushion plump : 
 It is the moss, that wholly hides 
 
 The rotted old Oak-stump. 
 
 The Skiff-boat ne'rd : I heard them talk, 
 ' Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
 
 Where are those lights so many and fair 
 That signal made but now ? ' 
 
APPENDIX. 379 
 
 * Strange, by my faith ! ' the Hermit said — 
 ' And they answer' d not oiir cheer. 
 
 The planks look warp'd, and see those sails 
 How thin they are and sere ! 
 
 I never saw aught like to them 
 Unless perchance it were 
 
 ' The skeletons of leaves that lag 
 
 My forest-brook along : 
 When the Ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 
 And the Owlet whoops to the wolf below 
 
 That eats the she-wolf's young.' 
 
 ' Dear Lord ! it has a fiendish look ' — 
 
 (The Pilot made rejjly) 
 'I am afear'd' — Push on, push on !' 
 
 Said the Hermit cheerily. 
 
 The Boat came closer to the Ship, 
 
 But I ne spake ne stirr'd ! 
 The Boat came close beneath the Ship, 
 
 And strait a sound was heard ! 
 
 Under the water it rumbled on, 
 
 Still louder and more dread : 
 It reach'd the Ship, it split the bay ; 
 
 The Ship went down Hke lead. 
 
 Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful sound. 
 
 Which sky and ocean smote : 
 Like one that hath been seven days drown'd 
 
 My body lay afloat : 
 But swift as dreams, myseK I found 
 
 Within the PHot's boat. 
 
 Upon the whirl where sank the Ship, 
 The boat spun round and round : 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 And all was still, save that the hiU 
 Was telling of the sound. 
 
 I mov'd my lips : the Pilot shriek'd 
 
 And fell down in a fit, 
 The Holy Hermit rais'd his eyes 
 
 And pray'd where he did sit. 
 
 I took the oars : the Pilot's boy, 
 
 Who now doth crazy go, 
 Laugh' d loud and long, and all the while 
 
 His eyes went to and fro. 
 ' Ha ! ha ! ' quoth he — ' full plain I see, 
 
 The devil knows how to row.' 
 
 And now all in mine own Countrde 
 
 I stood on the firm land ! 
 The Hermit stepp'd forth from the boat, 
 
 And scarcely he could stand. 
 
 ' shrieve me, shrieve me, holy Man ! ' 
 The Hermit cross'd his brow — 
 
 *Say quick,' quoth he, ' I bid thee say 
 What manner man art thou ? ' 
 
 Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd 
 
 With a woeful agony, 
 Which forced me to begin my tale 
 
 i^.nd then it left me free. 
 
 Since then at an uncertain hour, 
 Now oftimes and now fewer, 
 
 That anguish comes and makes me tell 
 My ghastly aventure. 
 
APPENDIX. 381 
 
 I pass, like night, from land to land ; 
 
 I have strange power of speech ; 
 The moment that his face I see 
 I know the man that must hear me ; 
 
 To him my tale I teach. 
 
 What loud uproar bursts from that door ! 
 
 The Wedding-guests are there ; 
 But in the Garden-bower the Bride 
 
 And Bride-maids singing are : 
 And hark the little Vesper bell 
 
 Which biddeth me to prayer. 
 
 Wedding-guest ! this soul hath been 
 
 Alone on a wide wide sea : 
 So lonely 'twas, that God himseK 
 
 Scarce seemed there to be. 
 
 sweeter than the Marriage-feast, 
 
 'Tis sweeter far to me 
 To walk together to the Kirk 
 
 With a goodly company. 
 
 To walk together to the Kirk 
 
 And all together pray, 
 While each to his great father bends, 
 Old men, and babes, and loving friends, 
 
 And Youths, and Maidens gay. 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 
 To thee thou wedding-guest ! 
 
 He prayeth well who loveth well, 
 Both man and bird and beast. 
 
 He prayeth best who loveth best. 
 All things both great and small 
 
APPENDIX. 
 
 For tlie dear God, who loveth us, 
 He made and loveth all. 
 
 The Marinere, whose eye is bright, 
 Whose beard with age is hoar, 
 
 Is gone ; and now the wedding-guest 
 Turn'd from the Bridegroom's door. 
 
 He went, like one that hath been stunn'd 
 
 And is of sense forlorn : 
 A sadder and a wiser man 
 
 He rose the morrow morn. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 SANSON AND CO., PBINTEBS, EDINBtJKGH. 
 
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