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 THE GOLDEN BOOK OF COLERIDGE 
 
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 %y. ^, 6o''<^^^>^t^«-X^.x^--^
 
 SRIF 
 YRL 
 
 PREFACE 
 
 I HAD originally intended to place in this book 
 of Selections only the very best poems of 
 Coleridge, those which make his position 
 among English poets unique. The Imagina- 
 tion puts on in them a garment different from 
 that worn by her in the heart of other poets, 
 many coloured, and of strange device. But 
 these are so very few that the book, I was 
 warned, would be too small, and moreover 
 would not represent enough of the mind of 
 Coleridge. A good number also of poems 
 would be left out which are delightful to 
 read, and though of the second class, of high 
 excellence in that class. I have therefore in- 
 cluded these poems, and a few more not so 
 good, which have not only a strong personal 
 interest, but also illustrate his desultory and 
 wandering verse — drifting phantasies of song.
 
 vi The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 like The Picture ; original in form, unshaped by 
 art, yet shaped enough to make us regret that 
 he did not pursue the new veins he opened, 
 and mould their metal into a finished sculpture. 
 However, the best poems have, as it were of 
 their own accord, got together in this book. 
 
 I have also, as I think lawful in Selections, left 
 out, in a few poems, stanzas and lines which 
 seemed to me to injure the impression of the 
 whole. Anyone can read the omissions in the 
 many complete editions of Coleridge, and can 
 agree or disagree with my boldness, as they 
 please. I have done this in the case of Rejlections 
 on leavittg a place of Retirement : Fears in Solitude : 
 Lines composed in a Concert Room : A Christmas 
 Carol : The Snoiv-Drop : and A Day Dream. The 
 rest of the poems are printed as they stand. 
 
 I have to express my thanks to Messrs Mac- 
 millan, to Mr E. Coleridge, and to Mr Dykes 
 Campbell, for permission to insert a few poems 
 which, until Mr Dykes Campbell's late Edition 
 of Coleridge, had remained in MS. That 
 Edition, which every one who cares for 
 Coleridge ought to consult, has notes attached 
 to it, so careful and so complete, that they
 
 Preface vii 
 
 do away with any necessity of notes of mine. 
 All possible information has been given in 
 them, not only with regard to the poems 
 themselves, but with regard to all that has 
 been written about them by Lamb, by Words- 
 worth and by others. Every lover of Coleridge 
 is grateful to Mr Dykes Campbell for this 
 Edition and for the admirable Life which 
 accompanies it. 
 
 STOPFORD A. BROOKE.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 I.— MEDITATIVE POEMS. 
 
 Coleridge, To the Rev. George 
 
 Constancy to an Ideal Object 
 
 Elbingerode, Lines written at 
 
 EouAN Harp, The 
 
 Fears in Solitude 
 
 Frost at Midnight . , 
 
 Garden of BoccAcao, The 
 
 Lime Tree Bovver my Prison, This 
 
 Nightingale, The ; A Conversation Poem 
 
 Quiet Place, A ..... 
 
 II.— ODES AND HYMNS. 
 
 Cataract, On a 
 
 Dejection; An ode ...... 
 
 Departing Year, Ode on . 
 
 France ; An ode 
 
 Hymn before Sunrise, in the Vale of Ciiamouni 
 
 Page 
 
 88 
 86 
 
 67 
 80 
 
 77 
 89 
 
 74 
 83 
 69 
 
 114 
 105 
 95 
 
 lOI 
 
 116
 
 Contents 
 
 Page 
 1 1 1 
 
 Hymn to the Earth 
 
 Tr-INquillity, Ode To . • . . .no 
 
 Visit of the Gods, The . . . . . ,115 
 
 III— THE ANCIENT MARINER, AND OTHER POEMS. 
 
 Ancient Mariner, The Rime of the 
 
 Catullian Hendecasyllables 
 
 Christabel 
 
 Encinctured \wth a T\vine of Leaves 
 
 Fable is Love's World 
 
 Fancy in nubibus 
 
 Glyone's Song in " Zapolya " 
 
 Hunting Song in " Zapolya " 
 
 Knight's Tomb, The . 
 
 KuBLA Khan 
 
 Raven, The 
 
 Time, Real and Imaginary 
 
 Youth and Age 
 
 IZI 
 
 176 
 147 
 169 
 172 
 «7S 
 '73 
 174 
 
 •75 
 
 170 
 
 >4S 
 177 
 178 
 
 IV.— LOVE POEMS. 
 
 Day-Dream, a ....... . 193 
 
 Keepsake, The . . . . . . . .199 
 
 Lesbla, To ........ 207 
 
 Lewti, or the Circassian Love-Chaunt . . .187 
 Love . , . . . , . .183
 
 Contents xi 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Love's First Hope . . . . , . ,196 
 
 moriens superstiti . . . . . . .198 
 
 morienti superstes . . . . . . . 198 
 
 Mutual Passion . . . . . . .194 
 
 Names ......... 208 
 
 Picture, The; or, the Lover's Resolution . . 201 
 Recollections of Love . . , . , .192 
 
 Snovvt-drop, The . . . . . . .190 
 
 Thekla's Song . ....... 196 
 
 Water Ballad . . . . . . . .197 
 
 Westphallan Song . . . . . . .186 
 
 V NARRATIVE AND OCCASIONAL POEMS. 
 
 Ad Vilmum AxiOLOGUM ...... 239 
 
 Alice du Clos ........ 226 
 
 Barbour, Lines to Miss ...... 264 
 
 Blossoming of the Solitary Date-Tree, The . . 246 
 
 Blossom, On Observing a . . . . . . 239 
 
 Child's Question, Answer to a . . . . 267 
 
 Christmas Carol, A ...... 265 
 
 ^ONCERT Room, Lines Composed in a . . . 254 
 
 Dark Ladie, The Ballad of the .... 223 
 
 Domestic Peace ....... 238 
 
 Duty Surviving Self-Love . . . . . .271 
 
 Epitaph ......... 274
 
 XI 1 
 
 Contents 
 
 Fire, Famine, and Slaughter 
 Gentleman, To a . . . . 
 
 Hexameters ..... 
 
 [nscriptjon for a Fountain on a Heath 
 
 Life ? '\^''hat is . 
 
 Linley, Esq ; Lines to W. 
 
 Love, Hope, and Patience in Education 
 
 Love's Apparition and Evanishment . 
 
 Nature, To ..... 
 
 Ottfried, Translation from 
 
 Pains of Sleep. The .... 
 
 Phantom ...... 
 
 Phantom or Fact .... 
 
 Portrait of Sir George Be^vumont , 
 
 Rain, An Ode to the 
 
 Self Knowledge .... 
 
 Something Childish, but very Natural 
 Spell, The ..... 
 
 Stranger Minstrel, A . . . 
 
 Sunset, A . 
 
 Thought Suggested by a View, A 
 
 Three Graves, The . 
 
 Tombless Epitaph, A . . . 
 
 Work without Hope .... 
 
 Young Lady, To a . . . .
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 Samuel Taylor Coleridge was born in 1772, and 
 died in 183 4. His early poems were published in 
 1 796, and the earliest of them was written about ten 
 years before, when he was fourteen years of age. 
 The Ode on the Departing Tear appeared in 1796. 
 In the next two years he wrote The Ancient Mariner, 
 Kuhla Khan, the first part of Christ abel, The Ode to 
 France, and a few other poems of singular beauty. 
 His translation of IVal/ensfein was published in 1800, 
 and there are passages in it in which the golden fire 
 of 1797 flames and glows. He said that he hated this 
 translating work ; but when he tried original drama, he 
 did not succeed. Osorio, first written in 1797, and re- 
 cast afterwards as Remorse, is only patched with poetry. 
 The Ancient Mariner was the first of The Lyrical 
 Ballads in 1 798 ; and the second part of Christahel 
 was written in 1 800-1 801. Sixteen years afterwards, 
 in the preface to the publication of Christahel ( 1 816) he 
 writes: "Since the latter date (that is, since 1800-1) 
 my poetic powers have been, till very lately, in a 
 state of suspended animation. But as, in my very 
 first conception of the tale, I had the whole present 
 to my mind, with the wholeness, no less than the 
 A
 
 2 The Goldoi Book of Coleridge 
 
 liveliness of a vision, I trust that I shall be able to 
 embody in verse the three parts yet to come in the 
 course of the present year." It was a vain hope. 
 But it cannot be said that his poetic power during 
 all these years was as half-dead as he seemed to think. 
 The noble ode Dejection, written in 1802, declares 
 the glory of his handiwork. In 1807 the melan- 
 choly splendour of the poem To a Gentleman, 
 William Wordsivorth, shines clear ; and the lovely 
 songs in Zapolya, in which he recaptured " the first 
 fine careless rapture," seem to have been written as 
 late as 1 8 1 5. There are other fine poems, but it is 
 plain that after 1802, his hand struck his lyre less and 
 less frequently, and with a feebler and feebler touch. 
 Some beautiful things were composed, at long intervals, 
 after 1819, ^"'^' ^^ ^" Touth and Age, with a perfect 
 sweetness and sadness. But what he had been of old 
 he was no more. 
 
 We may then say that his actual poetic life is in- 
 cluded within five years, and of these, two only — 
 1797-98 — were productive of his best work. He 
 was then twenty-five years old. About the age of 
 thirty he was lost to art in philosophic theology, in 
 political and critical metaphysics. Literature claims 
 him thus in Prose, and the prose-work has its distinct 
 place in the progress of English wisdom and sentiment. 
 It is full of kindling thought, and of thought gorgeously 
 enriched by emotion ; but some of us would willingly 
 give away the greater part of it for one more poem 
 as enchanting as The Ancient Mariner.
 
 Introduction 
 
 The cause of this decline and fall was opium-eating, 
 and more than enough has been said about it from the 
 moral point of view. The mass of right and gentle- 
 thinking folk are thoroughly sick of the Pharisaic habit 
 in which so many writers indulge, of making the great 
 poets as well as other men of genius the moral object- 
 lessons of mankind, or of using their errors, especially 
 in matters relating to women, as the ground for endless 
 discussions in biographies, reviews, sermons, and the daily 
 press. These discussions minister to the ugliest of all 
 the cravings of Society. It is a loathsome ofhce, and 
 the purveyors are more to blame than the consumers. 
 The faults of men who have glorified their country and 
 the human race are used to gratify the lowest desires of 
 mankind ; and this is done, with special vileness, in the 
 name of morality. But there is no morality without love, 
 and none which is not founded on the forgiveness of 
 sins. These writers, on the contrary, continue the re- 
 membrance of sins from year to year, establish the pagan 
 conception of retribution, and make punishment eternal. 
 Those whom God and Man have long since forgiven 
 they haul up again for judgment. It is the worst of 
 immoralities. 
 
 The long discussion about Shelley and his wife and 
 Mary Godwin is intolerable, and as uninteresting, 
 except to those whose nectar is scandal and whose 
 ambrosia is gossip. And how wicked it has been ! 
 It has turned men's eyes away from the permanent 
 and noble in him to the transient and the common- 
 place. The reverence due to his work has been
 
 4 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 lowered, and this is an injury to mankind. Even 
 Matthew Arnold was carried away into a ludicrous 
 attempt to make Shelley vulgar. He might as well 
 have tried to vulgarise the star Arcturus. A host of 
 grubbing persons spent their time and our patience in 
 penetrating into the remotest recesses of the business of 
 Harriet Westbrook, as if it were a lovely landscape. 
 All that needed telling of the story could have been 
 told in a page, and ten lines more would have sufficed 
 to say that it was a most unhappy affair ; that Shelley 
 thought that he was right at the time ; that the world 
 thought he was wrong ; that he was punished by the 
 world, and that he took his punishment quietly. The 
 rest belongs to silence. 
 
 The last attack on Byron was even more revolting. 
 Only evil was done by it ; to dwell on evil multiplies 
 evil. When time has veiled, like charity, what is 
 wrong or ugly, we might be left alone to love what a 
 poet has written with truth and passion. When those 
 who preach about Byron can write as well as he wrote, 
 they may perhaps venture to speak of his sins, but they 
 are not likely to fulfil that condition. And. the thing to 
 say to those who have some right to speak, is — " Let 
 him who is without sin among you first cast a stone." 
 
 As to Coleridge, the moralizers have been even more 
 offensive about him than about Byron or Shelley. The 
 life of every famous man is a lesson to the world, but 
 the lesson is spoilt when it is made, as Thackeray did 
 in his distressing fashion, the text of moral blame. Of 
 course, there should be no concealment of the facts
 
 Introduction 
 
 of a great man's life. But these should be stated, 
 when they are bad, without note or comment. Then 
 every man can apply their lesson to himself, and with 
 a great deal more force than when they are loaded 
 with preachments, and lectured on as if they were 
 anatomical preparations. The sins of the dead past 
 should not be discussed, but forgotten. But the 
 good, the things that are well done, what is beautiful 
 and loving, should be brought into clearer and clearer 
 light. This is the practical matter — that is, the matter 
 which helps and kindles mankind towards the things 
 that are worthy of worship — which is the proper 
 definition of the practical. Moreover, evil can never 
 be clearly understood by us ; we are wholly incompetent 
 to moralise on the ill-doings of men. But good can 
 always be understood, and its praise is possible on the 
 lips of a child. 
 
 In the case of the poets, we may well be content, 
 if we are hungry for moral lessons, with what they 
 say about themselves. They are, for the most part, 
 exceedingly personal, their own best commentary, 
 and being self-sensitive to a great degree, are likely 
 to censure themselves too much for justice. We 
 should subtract rather than add to the blame they be- 
 stow on themselves. Coleridge is, for example, the 
 severest critic of his own faults, yet, when we have read 
 all that he says, nothing remains in our hearts but pity, 
 not the pity which is akin to self-congratulation or con- 
 tempt, but that which is akin to love. For surely few 
 men have ever loved mankind more than this large-
 
 6 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 hearted creature of the sunny mist. And inasmuch as 
 he loved much, his faults are forgiven. Nay more, he 
 has done more good to mankind, with all his failings, 
 than those unloving persons, with all their righteousness, 
 who are fond of hissing or roaring at their fellows, and 
 who have a special bitterness against the gentle people 
 whose lovingness silently rebukes them. It is hard to 
 understand why Carlyle, in whom there was a turbulent 
 spring of loving-kindness, should have been so brutal to 
 two of the gentlest of human beings, to Lamb and to 
 Coleridge. I suppose his own cleverness in slashing 
 intoxicated him ; but that is a worse intoxication than 
 one caused by opium or by alcohol. Moreover, he 
 had no sense of beauty, and was wholly incapable of 
 feeling Poetry. Had he known himself, he ought 
 never to have written a line about the poets. When 
 he attempted to write about Lamb or Coleridge, he 
 became more and more untrue to the men the more 
 blazingly clever he was. It may be said of him, in 
 excuse — though there is no excuse for his odious snarl- 
 ing at Lamb — that he saw Coleridge when he was old, 
 when the poet was almost worn out of him. Never- 
 theless, a just man, or a man who had any sense of 
 beauty, and who was the master and not the servant of 
 his own word-painting, would have remembered the 
 young poet in the old mystic, and thought of what 
 had been. Then reverence and pity would have stolen 
 into the sketch he made. However, Carlyle was 
 terribly punished. The Gods are just. They left 
 Carlyle to prefer the poems of Schiller to those of
 
 Introduction 
 
 Coleridge, and Jean Paul Richter to Charles 
 Lamb. 
 
 There is one thing more to say in this connection, 
 and it may be found in Mr Dykes Campbell's Life of 
 Coleridge. It is a pleasure to read a biography of 
 Coleridge which, while it conceals nothing, neither 
 bemoans the poet as a wreck, nor uses his weakness 
 to display the moral patronage of a sermon. Mr 
 Campbell loves his subject, and the result is that 
 we have a truer picture of Coleridge than we ever 
 had before. And it is quite plain that if Coleridge 
 had been a victim of opium, he ended by almost a 
 victory over his failing. From the time that he 
 voluntarily placed himself under medical care, he 
 lived in constant self-command. The strife to over- 
 come the craving for opium is an awful strife, and few 
 there be that find power to live after it with intellectual 
 and spiritual excellence. Coleridge did both for many 
 years, and if the moralists must handle him, it is on this 
 that they should dwell, for in this is the true lesson to 
 mankind. 
 
 At the beginning, however, of this Essay we need 
 not look at the old man, worn with many ills, but at the 
 eloquent and fiery youth, radiant with joy, who, with 
 the unconscious prophecy of genius, dreamt, like Joseph, 
 that the sun and the moon and the eleven stars made 
 obeisance to him. The preface to the Juvenile Poems 
 opens a part of his mind to us when he was twenty- 
 four years old. The defence of the necessary egotism 
 of a poet is there made with an agreeable subtlety, with
 
 8 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 a winding in and out of his thinking among the out- 
 skirts of his subject, and then with a sudden emotional 
 dash into its centre which is characteristic of all 
 Coleridge's writing to the end of his life. His 
 matter changed, but his manner is always the same. 
 The languid meditativeness of his character, combined 
 with hours of ardent delight in all things ; his child- 
 like pity for himself; the imaginative dreaminess, which 
 he had not enough physical animation to continuously 
 meet in battle, to which we owe part of his special charm, 
 and which was never ungraceful, for it was mixed with 
 so much love ; the self-thinking, in which he was 
 more pleased with the thinking than with the self — are 
 already contained in this preface, and are still more 
 vividly present in the poems that follow it. Then he 
 reveals himself also in his haughty acceptance of the 
 public blame at two points, in his haughtier promise to 
 amend, save when to reduce glitter of diction would 
 in his artist opinion spoil the impression of the whole ; 
 in his scornful rejection of the public blame for his 
 obscurity, and in his quiet assertion that he was not 
 obscure but that the public were deficient in intelligence. 
 " Intelligibilia, non intellectum adfero." These things 
 are the very man, and he preserved to the close this 
 steady fliith in the artist's immeasurable distance from 
 his critics. 
 
 " No ! laugh, and say aloud in tones of glee, 
 ' I hate the quacking tribe, and they hate me.' " 
 
 But while Coleridge allows that his Juvenile Poems are
 
 Introduction 9 
 
 self-descriptive, he also claims that for this very reason 
 they help mankind. They were written, he says, to 
 relieve his own soul of the burden of emotion and 
 thought ; and the good of them would be found by 
 those, who, feeling as he felt, could not shape their 
 feeling into thought or words. He did this work for 
 them, and it is an artist's work. I hope, however, 
 that not many persons, save in self- dramatising fancy, 
 as I think it was now with him,* are often as sad as 
 Coleridge is in these poems. It seems to be " high 
 fantastical" when he declares that his pilgrimage 
 through life has been sorrowful and solitary, or recalls 
 an earlier time when he lived in the sunrise of hope, 
 and contrasts it with the storm-tossed life of twenty- 
 two ! 
 
 " 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." 
 
 Yet it may be that this was true for the moment. He 
 was even in youth a " thought-bewildered man." He 
 was always conscious of power ; but also conscious of 
 want of will to use his power ; and these two conscious- 
 nesses strove within him, and weakened him into despair. 
 Only at high moments he flashed beyond the painful 
 struggle into the upper world of creation. 
 
 * His disappointment in love was perhaps the main cause 
 of all this youthful sorrow.
 
 lO The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 " To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assigned 
 Energic Reason and a sliaping mind, 
 The daring lien of Truth, the Patriot's part, 
 And Pity's sigh that breathes the gentle heart. 
 Sloth-jaundiced all ! and from my graspless hand 
 Drop Friendship's precious pearls, like hour-glass sand. 
 I weep, yet stoop not ! the faint anguish flows 
 A dreamy pang in Morning's feverish doze." 
 
 Tired sentinel over himself, who never calls the soldiers 
 of the soul to arms ! 
 
 Beyond this revelation of himself there are many 
 other matters of interest in these early poems. First, 
 their poetry belongs to that time of transition in 
 England which intervened between the work of Gray 
 or of Collins, and the outburst of a new flood of song 
 in The Lyrical Ballads. Wordsworth's E'vening Walk 
 belongs to that time, but is more coloured with the dawn 
 of the future than with the sunset of the past poetry. 
 Wordsworth was original from the beginning. But the 
 earlier poems of Coleridge are full of the transition. 
 They sometimes imitate Gray, and sometimes Collins ; 
 but they do not even touch the excellences of either 
 poet. The impersonations of the passions the virtues 
 and vices in which Gray indulged, his reflective morality, 
 his mannerisms of the scholar, and his hermit-like 
 generalisations of human life — excellent in form, ex- 
 ceedingly limited in range — are carried to their 
 extremes by Coleridge, and made absurd. The past 
 poetry existed in the imitation ; the new life of the 
 future poetry appeared in the youthful exaggeration of 
 the imitation. The coming spirit worked in Coleridge
 
 Introduction 1 1 
 
 like puffing leaven, and sonorous and six-footed words 
 and big - bellied images and metaphors separated 
 Coleridge from Gray, still more from his more poetic 
 brother, neither of whom could have read a line of 
 The Religious Musings without a shudder. 
 
 The reticent grace of Collins, his literary gentle- 
 ness, his subdued and sunset note, the dusky veil he 
 drew over his expression — even in a description like 
 that of joy in the Ode to the Passions — these, though 
 he tried to grasp them, were overwhelmed in the 
 " ebullient " phrasing of Coleridge. And the medi- 
 tative and retired wisdom of the pleasant senior of 
 Pembroke, elaborated day by day with the patient 
 travail of middle-age ; his refined and fireless art ; his 
 exquisite finish, thinned out by artifice into a loss of 
 nature ; his careful effects, in which the value of each 
 word was calculated to a grain ; his eighteenth-century 
 criticism of humanity as it was contained in his little 
 pool of cultivated people, who were the whole world 
 to Gray, but whom one puff of the Revolution blew 
 into a cloudlet of spray ; the soft trumpet blowing of 
 his odes, in which long reflection is artificially wrought 
 into an academic picture of actual human things — what 
 comparison is there between work of that kind with 
 this which follows, but which is built throughout 
 on Gray ? 
 
 " Elate of heart and confident of fame, 
 From vales where Avon sports the minstrel came, 
 Gay as the Poet hastes along 
 He meditates the future song,
 
 12 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 How ^lla battled with his country's foes : 
 
 And whilst Fancy in the air 
 
 Paints him many a vision fair, 
 His eyes dance rapture, and his bosom glows." 
 
 The whole of this piece on Chattcrton, written In 
 1790, illustrates his imitation of Gray. The recast 
 of it, published in 1829, but done, I think, some three 
 years later than 1790, shows him still imitating the odes 
 of Gray. A little further on, in i 796, the Ode to the 
 Departing Tear, is still built on memories of Gray's 
 manner, but the whole way of thinking is changed. 
 Weight and reality and force, a close gaze upon the 
 present, and a prayerful cry for the future, have replaced 
 altogether Gray's contemplative and unimpassioned 
 vision of the past. The old manner of Poetry is con- 
 joined with the intensity of the new Poetry. The 
 clothes are old, but the man in them is young. That 
 ode holds a place exactly between the imitative and 
 the original work of Coleridge, between the Monody 
 on the Death of Chatterton and the Ode to France. 
 
 The " turgidity " and violence of phrase of which 
 Coleridge was accused do not, however, appear so much 
 in his work modelled on Gray, as in the more original 
 poems, in the sonnets, and in such half-metaphysical 
 and half-political poems as the Religious Musings and The 
 Destiny of Nations. These often out-herod Herod in 
 roaring ; and I think that this is at its worst when 
 Coleridge has some special moral or religious end in 
 view. He had been a preacher, and in some of these 
 early pieces there is a disagreeable note of pulpit ex-
 
 Introduction 
 
 hortation. When a poet exhorts, with a preacher's end 
 in view, his imagination retires disgusted into an inner- 
 most room, and leaves the poet's work, as it left that of 
 Coleridge, to become formless, full of effort, screaming 
 and feeble. Genius meets this fate when it is harnessed 
 to any aim save an imaginative aim. Tt dwindles into 
 mere talent. But the moment Coleridge, under Words- 
 worth's influence, began to express himself only for the 
 pleasure he had in his emotion, or to shape the beauty 
 he saw for the love of it alone, he ceased to be the man 
 of talent and rose into the man of genius. I quote 
 some lines from Religious Musings to illustrate into what 
 a sad state he was betrayed — 
 
 " From all sides rush the thirsty brood of war ! — 
 Austria and that foul woman of the North 
 The lustful murderess of her wedded lord ! 
 And he, connatural Mind ! whom (in their songs 
 So bards of elder time had haply feigned) 
 Some Fury fondled in her hate to man, 
 Bidding her serpent hair in mazy surge 
 Lick his young face, and at his mouth inbreathe 
 Horrible sympathy ! and leagued with these 
 Each petty German princeling, nursed in gore ! 
 Soul-hardened barterers of human blood ! " 
 
 As we read these terrible verses, we can scarcely 
 believe that in a few years the same man would write 
 the lovely simplicities of Kubia Khan or The Ancient 
 Mariner. 
 
 However, nothing is stranger in literary history — and 
 to say this is a truism — than the sudden leap which 
 some of the great poets take from absurdity to power.
 
 14 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 It is only when they have proved their greatness that 
 we know that the bellowing puffs of their youth are the 
 unregulated outbursts of a force which is only beginning 
 to act, and not, as in small men, the explosions of a 
 force on the point of exhaustion. It is a young lion 
 who is roaring in Coleridge and not a calf, but at 
 present the sound both make is much the same. Yet, 
 when we look back on these early poems, with the proof 
 of the greatness of Coleridge in our hands, we find 
 prophecies of his nobler verse in single passages, which 
 have his special note of faery beauty, or of his imagina- 
 tive quietude, or of his meditative love of nature, even 
 of his marvellous melodies. Sometimes also, even in 
 the midst of an explosive blast of words which in vain 
 attempt sublimity, extraordinary lines occur ; and though 
 Imagination acts like a geyser in them, still it is Imagin- 
 ation. It is interesting to compare such passages in, 
 for example. The Destiny of Nations, with the high and 
 supported level of sublimity Coleridge reaches in the 
 0^1? to France. There is, however, beyond liis growtli 
 in power, a reason in nature for the difference. In 
 these earlier poems, such as, to instance another. 
 The Religious Musings, he is speaking of abstract 
 ideas ; in the Ode to France of ideas embodied in 
 actual events which rent and tore at his very life- 
 strings. And the emotions stirred by the latter are 
 always more powerful than those stirred by the 
 former. 
 
 Nevertheless, Coleridge, all his life long, had the 
 power — in a far greater degree than other poets, save
 
 Introduction 1 5 
 
 perhaps Shelley — of impassionating himself about in- 
 tellectual conceptions. He could have written, had 
 not his poetic power broken down, a magnificent poem 
 on metaphysical ideas, nor would he, like Words- 
 worth, have become prosaic on such subjects. The 
 most poetic passages in his prose-writings con- 
 cern such ideas — swelling, rolling, and sonorous sen- 
 tences, rising into an extraordinary passion of pure 
 thought. It is as if he beat his own mind like 
 a great gong into volume after volume of redundant 
 sound, and that the striker was his emotion and the 
 thunderous sound his thought. And the further away 
 from the material was his conception, the more it 
 belonged to the immeasurable, the more impassioned 
 he became. There is a superb instance of this power 
 in Dejection, toned down by selective art, working 
 unconsciously, into lovely harmonies of rhythm and 
 clearness of expression. In the early poems the same 
 kind of power is shown, but with an unsubdued wild- 
 ness in the ideas and their form. The sound is harsh, 
 like the gong beaten by a Corybant. But this intel- 
 lectual passion gathering warmth around metaphysical 
 abstractions is already there. I quote two of these 
 passages. Both have to do with a favourite theory of 
 his. 
 
 " O ! the one life within us and abroad, 
 Which meets all motion and becomes its soul. 
 A light in sound, a soundlike power in light, 
 Rhythm in all thought, and joyance everywhere —
 
 1 6 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 And what if all of animated nature 
 
 Be but organic harps diversely framed 
 
 That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps 
 
 Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze, 
 
 At once the Soul of each, and God of all." 
 
 The first four lines are poetry, the last five are not. 
 Nor are these that follow better, until they become 
 personal. " Ebullient " is dreadful, but it well charac- 
 terizes the verse. 
 
 " 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 ! 
 
 I haply journeying my immortal course 
 
 Shall sometimes join your mystic choir ! Till then 
 
 I discipline my young novitiate thought 
 
 In ministeries of heart stirring song. 
 
 And aye on Meditation's heavenward 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." 
 
 At one point, however, in these early poems Coleridge 
 is quite clear and simple in expression. It is when he 
 speaks of the affections of life. Here are four lines of 
 natural love as sweet and vivid as if Burns had written 
 them —
 
 Introduction 1 7 
 
 " 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." 
 
 The lines are not unworthy of him who afterwards 
 told in Love the story of romantic passion to Genevieve, 
 but the same feeble tenderness, mixed with too pathetic 
 a langour, which makes the questionable charm of the 
 later poem, breathes in the rest of this early poem. There 
 are other verses of even a greater simplicity, addressed to 
 his domestic peace, inserted among contemplative poems 
 like The JEolian Harp. But the simplicity has little 
 intensity and no depth, and fails in natural grace. It 
 is the want of passion in any kind of love which leaves 
 them so unefFective ; and this is a want which pervades 
 the whole of the poetry of Coleridge. His imagination 
 seems to leave him when his subject is the affections. 
 He is feeble, through dreaminess, in personal love. 
 
 In fact, his Imagination was only at its height when 
 he was away from human reality, and in the world, 
 either of his own personality, or of the mystic realm in 
 which The Ancient Mariner and Christahel were con- 
 ceived and wrought. There are two examples among 
 these early poems which prophesy his coming power in 
 this sphere. One is the Allegory of Real and Imaginary 
 Time. None but Coleridge could have written this ; 
 and the curious thing is, that the same note which this 
 poem strikes in thought is heard in certain poems 
 composed long after his singing time was past — so 
 consistent was this subtle-woven, fine-vapoured part 
 B
 
 1 8 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 of his individuality, so much the child in him was 
 father of the man.* This little poem is his meta- 
 physic in fairy-land. 
 
 The other poem is The Raven, also first published in 
 1817 as a boyish poem. It is the story of the bird 
 whose home in an old oak tree, and whose children, 
 were destroyed by those who sacrificed the tree to build 
 a ship. The raven lives to fly, shrieking doom and 
 rejoicing in vengeance, over the ship as it sinks in the 
 seas. It is the same motive, but brought out in another 
 temper, as that of The Ancient Mariner — compassion 
 and love for animals secures in the heart compassion 
 and love for man and God. But the moral in the 
 motive is not allowed to be dominant. The im- 
 aginative presentment of the raven is the main thing. 
 Written when he was young, for children, he did not 
 care, apparently, to take pains about its form, and in 
 consequence the metrical movement is not at his highest 
 level. The elements of any poem are so bound to- 
 gether that, where its conception is unfinished, the 
 harmonies of the verse are likely to be also un- 
 equal. If we need an illustration of this we have only 
 to think of The Revolt of Islam. The form of its idea 
 is disjointed, and its melody varies as its form. And 
 
 * Coleridge says that this poem, first published in 181 7, w^as 
 composed when he was a schoolboy, and it is included by him- 
 self among his Ju-uenile Poems. Mr Campbell, however, dates it 
 (? 1815). 1 suppose he means that it was recast at that time, 
 and this would certainly explain its elder air and its finer note. 
 It is beautiful with the beauty of the poems of 1797.
 
 Introduction 1 9 
 
 the illustration is the more effective, because Shelley, 
 like Coleridge, was a master of poetic harmony. 
 Nevertheless, even in its poverty, this rattling poem. 
 The Raven, is an example of that unique music of 
 verse of which none but Coleridge knew the spell. 
 His metrical movement at its best is like a dance of the 
 elemental beings of Nature, now as of Satyrs wild round 
 Pan ; now as of Nymphs, graceful, gay, and light 
 as summer leaves in the wind ; now as of embodied 
 rivers and brooks in full and rushing joy ; and now 
 as of Ariel and his spirits footing it featly to and 
 fro on the printless sands. He sang often as the 
 winds go, and the clouds sail, and when he sang 
 thus, he was at one with the life of nature, and 
 not with the life of man. Kuhla Khan does not 
 belong to human life, and it stands alone for melody 
 in English poetry. Whenever Coleridge rises into 
 this exquisite melody in its perfection, he also rises 
 into that subtilised imaginative world of thought, half- 
 supernatural, half-natural, which was special to him, 
 and which pervades The Ancient Mariner and 
 Christabel and a few other poems. The music and 
 the sphere of the poem are partly beyond this world 
 of ours. Yet in part they touch it. They belong 
 to the nature of Titania and Oberon, of the mysterious 
 night, but also of the dawn. But we, cries Oberon, 
 are spirits of another sort than the ghosts whom Aurora 
 frights — 
 
 " I with the morning's love hath oft made sport," 
 and sometimes the sound of them is even more un-
 
 20 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 human, like that of the ^olian harp of which he was 
 so fond — 
 
 " 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 — " 
 
 sound, wild and warbling, even disordered, yet falling 
 into a delightsome harmony in the end, 
 
 "Till it becomes all Music murmurs of." 
 
 When the music and the imagination are perfectly 
 married, as in Chr'istabel, that music is a lovely, lonely, 
 sweet and noticeable sound, like the singing of a bird, 
 heard far away in the wood when all otlier birds are 
 still. Or perhaps it may be better described in words 
 from The Ancient Mariner, words which, in telling of 
 the harmonies of air and earth, and then of the forest 
 brook, image also the " sounds which delight and hurt 
 not" in the poetry of Coleridge. 
 
 " Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
 
 I heard the skylark 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.
 
 Introduction 2 1 
 
 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." 
 
 A prophecy of this music — to try and express the 
 beauty of which I have wearied comparison — is to be 
 found in these early poems, in the song called Leiuti, 
 written in the year 1794, but inserted into the volume 
 published in 1816. I have placed it in the following 
 collection — though I do not care for it as a whole — 
 because of the metrical charm and beauty of parts of it, 
 and because these parts, even verbally, suggest not only 
 the music but the manner of The Ancient Mariner when 
 it speaks of Nature. I print here these portions of 
 the poem — 
 
 " 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 ! 
 
 The little cloud — it floats away, 
 
 Away it goes ; away so soon ? 
 Alas I 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 1
 
 2 2 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 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 ffy 
 
 Now below and now above, 
 Have snatched away the lawny shroud 
 
 Of lady fair — that died for love. 
 
 The river swans have heard my tread 
 And startle from their reedy bed. 
 O beauteous Birds ! methinks ye measure 
 Your movements to some heavenly tune ! 
 
 beauteous Birds 1 '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." 
 
 Two Other poems, also prophetic of a future manner, 
 appear in the early volumes — Lines on an Autumnal 
 Evening, and on The JEolian Harp ; and I have in- 
 cluded the latter in these selections. The first is not good, 
 but it is interesting. It is full of touches which belong to 
 the poetry of the eighteenth century, and of other touches 
 which strike chords of the New Poetry. Both poems 
 are the first examples of the short meditative pieces 
 in blank verse in which Nature and the human affec- 
 tions are gently wrought together — a special kind of 
 poetry Coleridge may be said to have invented — and 
 which no one has done so well. 
 
 The last thing I have to say of these early poems 
 is that they express Coleridge's first passion for the 
 ideas which took so intense a social and political 
 form in the French Revolution. That great event,
 
 Introduction 23 
 
 at its first rising, fell in disturbing and exalting power 
 on the young poets of England. They felt France 
 thrilling from north to south with ideas of the re- 
 demption of the human race, and they thought the ideas 
 came from God — 
 
 " Amid the tremor of a realm aglow, 
 Amid a mighty nation jubilant, 
 When from the general heart of human-kind 
 Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity ! 
 
 When France in all her towns lay vibrating 
 Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst 
 Of Heaven's immediate thunder." 
 
 They felt this thrill in themselves. Unutterable hope 
 and excitement set Coleridge on fire, but the fire fell 
 as fast as it had risen. With youthful violence, with 
 unmeasured word-painting which in a strife for sub- 
 limity becomes ridiculous, he rejoiced in the overthrow 
 of kings, the destruction of Feudalism, the proclamation 
 of the Rights of Man, and even, like Wordsworth, 
 went so far as to despise and despair of England be- 
 cause she joined in the war against the young Re- 
 public. In what amazing English, and in what 
 ferocious verse, he expressed this joy may be read 
 in the one example I quote here — 
 
 "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 Dogstar glowed, 
 Her banners, like a midnight meteor, flowed ;
 
 24 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies 
 She came, and scattered battles from her eyes I 
 Then exultation waked the patriot's fire 
 And swept with wild hand the I'yrtean lyre ; 
 Red from the tyrant's wound I shook the lance 
 And strode in joy the reeking plains of France." 
 
 It is to be hoped that the young lady to whom the 
 whole of this effusion was sent, was gay enough to smile 
 at the image of Coleridge striding with his bloody lance 
 over the reeking plains. But Coleridge had probably 
 been reading The Rohlers of Schiller and sympathised 
 with that Sturm und Drang period, when the German 
 poetry puts one in mind of an orchestra made up of 
 trombones. Coleridge soon got rid of this gigantic 
 manner of versing. We may well imagine how Words- 
 worth laughed when he heard his friend declaiming in 
 this swollen fashion. Yet beneath it there was the force 
 of the stormy wind of genius. Only a little temperance 
 was necessary to make it superb, and so it becomes in 
 the Ode to France. The loud, uplifted trumpet note of 
 the first stanzas of that poem shows us what Coleridge 
 could have done in this Michael Angelo manner had 
 his enthusiasms lasted, had not his energy been so 
 short-lived. Who can say what the ode might not 
 have become in his hands ! 
 
 But this is a digression. The point is that the Ode 
 to France records the passing away of the excited joy 
 in the French Revolution which his early poems ex- 
 pressed. He was always, as I said, impassioned by 
 ideas ; but when they were stained and violated in action,
 
 Introduction 1 5 
 
 he had not the heart to cling to them. In a mind 
 like Coleridge's they were delicate things, and, chilled, 
 did not recover. It was not, however, the conduct of 
 the young Republic which made him sick of humanity. 
 It was the conduct of England. It was not the Terror 
 which killed his enthusiasm for France. He had 
 strength enough to see that after long oppression the 
 sun of freedom rises in crimson clouds. But when 
 France enslaved Switzerland, and established an 
 Empire, he lost in this disenchantment the ideas which 
 had enraptured him. Nor could he sever the ideas 
 from the evil forms into which they were hurried, as 
 a strong and steady soul would have done, as Words- 
 worth indeed came afterwards to do. He retreated in 
 despair from his hopes and aims for humanity. Even 
 humanity itself lost his interests and his thoughts. All 
 that he had given to the outward now collected round 
 the workings of his own soul, the metaphysical and 
 theological problems which produce nothing but wind, 
 and the love of quiet Nature. 
 
 The workings of his own soul supplied material for 
 poems like the ode to Dejectio?i and many others, both 
 when he was young and in his old age. But this 
 is not a material that endures, unless power is added to 
 it from the emotion of the soul of the World. With 
 it, it is true, he produced some high poetry, but lost, in 
 losing the impassionating ideas of humanity, the capacity 
 of continuing to produce it. The over-personal kills 
 the power of song. I need not say that the love of 
 metaphysical, scientific, political, and theological prob-
 
 26 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 lems produces no poetry at all, and dries up its source. 
 And Coleridge, knowing now what poetry was and 
 what it was not, ceased to write verse on these problems. 
 When then, in the absence of any large human interests, 
 he pursued the Muse, he wrote of the world of his own 
 soul ; and when he was tired of that, of the love of quiet 
 Nature. Before, but chiefly after, this time of disen- 
 chantment, he composed the pensive poems in blank 
 verse, such as Frost at Midnight, which see Nature as 
 in a waking sleep and a sleeping dream, and over which 
 Quiet herself folds her wing. We hear from himself 
 that it was in this summer stillness of Nature, which 
 answered to the warm but slumbrous love which filled 
 him, that he now bade his heart take refuge. And 
 there he again found Liberty. 
 
 " And there I felt thee I — on that sea-clifTs verge, 
 Where pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above. 
 Had made one murmur with the distant surge 1 
 Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare. 
 And shot my being through earth, sea and air, 
 Possessing all things in intensest love, 
 O Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there." 
 
 Thus perished in a communion with the soul of Nature 
 the wild excitement of the early poems for the ideas 
 contained in the words Liberty, Equality, and Fra- 
 ternity ; and though he continued to be in his prose 
 the warrior for spiritual freedom, he ceased to be the 
 poet of human hopes. 
 
 The second period of Coleridge's poetic life is bound 
 up with his meeting and friendship with Wordsworth.
 
 Introduction 2 7 
 
 His influence on Wordsworth was great, and what it 
 was is recorded in The Prelude. But the influence of 
 Wordsworth on him was still greater. It was not the 
 influence of a higher poetic imagination, for Wordsworth 
 scarcely ever reached the imaginative beauty of which 
 Coleridge has given us so few examples. But it was 
 the influence of a more original, of a simpler and steadier 
 soul on another, of one who had better principles of 
 art rooted in him than Coleridge had found as yet, 
 and of one who had already re-conceived and re- 
 opened the deep sources of Poetry. Coleridge in 
 his early poems had been like an impetuous stream 
 forced, through artificial channels, to move through 
 the ordered garden of the past, rushing and roaring 
 against formal obstacles, angry with its slavery, yet 
 unable to win freedom. At last it breaks out into 
 the open moor. There it is itself, and runs of its own 
 sweet will, in simple pleasure ; natural itself, and living 
 with Nature. It makes less noise than before, but it 
 enjoys its life, plays with the flowers and stones, loves 
 the birds and wild animals that drink its waters, and 
 reflects the changing sky. This was the deliverance 
 which came to Coleridge from his intercourse with 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 Wordsworth and he had then a lot divine. They 
 lived together in a beautiful part of Somerset, where 
 the soft orchard and cottage scenery ran up into the 
 slopes of blue hills, with meadowy hollows and remote 
 dells and lucent streams and wind-entangled woods. 
 They walked all day, chanting their runes in gay or
 
 28 The Golde?! Book of Coleridge 
 
 moralising mood, cheering each other and cheered ; 
 their hopes, their aspirations, and their joys the same. 
 Their minds in difference chimed together ; each 
 awoke the best in each ; and both were rapt by the 
 inefFable joy of healthy youth. Then, when the power 
 of shaping imagination came upon them, all the world 
 of Nature and her beauty, and all the world of humanity 
 and its tenderness, took up abode in their souls, and 
 desired to be upon their lips. 
 
 "That summer, under whose indulgent skies, 
 Upon smooth Quantock's airy ridge we stood 
 Unchecked, or loitered 'mid her sylvan combs, 
 Thou in bewitching words, with happy heart, 
 Didsi chaunt the vision of that Ancient Man, 
 The bright-eyed Mariner, and rueful woes 
 Didst utter of the Lady Christabel ; 
 And I associate with such labour steeped 
 In soft forgetfulness the livelong hours." 
 
 Out of this The Lyrical Ballads were born. In the 
 first of them, The Ancteni Mariner, Coleridge sprang 
 for the first time into pure originality. We see that 
 Wordsworth had not only kindled, but tempered his 
 genius. His imitative work died, he lost his extrava- 
 gance, and he descended into as much reality as his 
 cloud-capped character would permit him to attain. 
 Indeed, it was impossible not to draw closer to the 
 simple truth of things when he lived with one who, 
 like Wordsworth, considered the lilies of the field as 
 Christ considered them, and whose joy and ardour 
 were like the morning. For this brief time then
 
 Introduction 29 
 
 Coleridge felt that rapture of life which inevitably 
 creates. He recovered also his youthful hopes, his 
 brightness of aspiration, his careless happiness, and his 
 belief in his genius moving the world. It is true 
 he fell back into depressions, but on the whole it was 
 May-time with him : then, 
 
 " Life went a maying 
 
 With Nature, hope and poesy." 
 
 " Not unhearing " did he live then 
 
 " Of that divine and nightly-whispering voice, 
 Which from my childhood to maturer years, 
 Spake to me of predestinated wreaths, 
 Bright with unfading colours ! " 
 
 All his poems display his delight in little things — the 
 buoyant child, — the man who felt as a child, playing 
 without a care in the great hall of the Universe. 
 
 But it did not last. He had already begun his 
 opium-eating, and he was too weakened by it in will 
 to knit himself together for the pursuit and conquest 
 of joy. 
 
 " The joy within me dallied with distress." 
 
 Soon too the power of work departed, though he had 
 had mighty plans — "Alas! " he cries (looking back 
 on this period), " for the proud time when I planned, 
 when I had present to my mind, the materials as well 
 as the scheme of the hymns entitled Spirit, Sun, Earth, 
 Air, Water, Fire and Man, and the epic poem on — 
 what still appears to me the one only lit subject remain-
 
 30 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 ing for an epic poem — Jerusalem besieged and destroyed 
 by Titus." Nor was his conception of what a poet 
 ought to be, and of a poet's work, less exalted than his 
 plans. He wrote to Matilda Betham, in 1802, a poem 
 which Mr Campbell has rescued for us, in which the 
 only good lines are the following. They, in advice to 
 this minor poetess, describe with careful truth what 
 makes and keeps a poet : — 
 
 ''Tho' sweet thy measures stern must be thy thoughts, 
 Patient thy study, watchful thy mild eye ; 
 Poetic feelings, like the stretching boughs 
 Of mighty oaks, pay homage to the gales. 
 Toss in the strong winds, drive before the gust, 
 Themselves one giddy storm of fluttering leaves ; 
 Yet, all the while, self-limited, remain 
 Equally near the fix'd and solid trunk 
 Of Truth and Nature in the howling storm. 
 As in the calm that stills the aspen grove. 
 Be bold, meek Woman ! but be wisely bold ! 
 Fly, ostrich-like, firm land beneath thy feet, 
 Yet hurried onward by thy wings of fancy 
 Swift as the whirlwind, singing in their quills. 
 Look round thee! look within thee! think and feel!" 
 
 The needs of poetry — great matter, lovely manner ; 
 thought and feeling ; observation of the outward, con- 
 templation of the inward, world ; passion knit fast to 
 truth ; peace — all are there ! 
 
 Of the poems of this time The Ancient Mariner and 
 the first part of Christahel and Kuhla Khan are the most 
 unique. Kuhla Khan is even beyond them in melody, 
 but it is a fragment. They stand alone, and all lovers
 
 Introduction 3 1 
 
 of Poetry keep them in their heart. They are as lovely 
 as they are love-begetting, and while the world lasts 
 they will ravish the imagination of men. Their music 
 is perfect, and the spirit in them is as akin to child- 
 hood as to age. The lover loves them though they 
 do not speak of love. The lover of wisdom loves 
 them though they do not speak of philosophy. The 
 lover of Nature loves them, though they speak, only 
 incidentally, of Nature ; and all the lovers of folklore, 
 from those wild men who peopled the Universe with 
 beings who were not themselves, to us who collect their 
 tales that we may live in that alluring world, love them 
 or would have loved them dearly. 
 
 In The Ancient Mariner the events are natural, but 
 behind them lies a supernatural world. The thoughts 
 which Nature's powers awake in a sensitive soul are 
 believed by Coleridge to have corresponding existences 
 which derive their being from Nature. These bodiless 
 beings may be felt by us as enemies or friends ; and in 
 circumstances made emotional by loneliness, they might 
 make themselves felt as actual presences by man. But 
 this could only be in primeval solitudes where dwell 
 things to dream of, not to tell, or in the midst of un- 
 travelled seas, or in the deep forests of romance. In 
 these remote mysterious seas and woods Coleridge lays 
 the scenery of The Ancient Mariner and of Christabel. 
 It is supernatural, but of the ancient, common, simple 
 kind which belongs to all mankind. We feel the same 
 thrill he desired to convey in Christabel if at night we 
 are lost in a forest.
 
 32 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 " 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." 
 
 The same expectation of the possibiUty of marvel and 
 horror, of mysterious sins and their forgiveness, and of 
 the chance of meeting some forgotten spiritual life which 
 was before man came on earth, which creeps over us 
 as we read The Ancient Mariner^ belongs to seamen 
 who have been lost in unvisited spaces of ocean, vext 
 with everlasting calm. I never met a sailor whose ship 
 had been among the lonely places of the sea, who did 
 not know of their hauntings, who would be surprised 
 to see the phantom ship, who did not hear in the 
 air that sighed in the rigging the voices of the 
 creatures that are half of the waters and half of the air 
 above them. With wonderful but unconscious skill 
 Coleridge has kept this sea-poem within the limits of 
 this subjective feeling. The supernatural in it is the 
 translation into form of the unconscious emotions of 
 the lonely Mariner ; but all the time, in order to 
 actualise the poem, the scenery is kept extraordinarily 
 true to Nature. The single motive, — " He prayeth 
 well who loveth well. Both man and bird and beast," 
 — is so slight that it does not take the whole out of 
 the world of dreaming phantasy, out of the mystery 
 of the great and solitary sea ; and yet, when it comes in 
 at the end, it throws back its single impression on the 
 whole and gives it lyric unity.
 
 Introduction 
 
 ZZ 
 
 I believe this motive grew out of the poem as it went 
 along, and that it did not form the previous basis of the 
 poem. The only known grounds of The Ancient Mariner 
 were the story of the man who in Shelvocke's Voyages 
 shot the albatross, and a dream one of his friends told 
 Coleridge of a ship manned by skeletons. But when the 
 man had shot the bird of good omen, Coleridge, who 
 hated the type of men who have no natural pity or love 
 for the animal world, but kill from pure carelessness like 
 a savage, imagined that the whole spiritual world of 
 Nature would be angry with such a man because he 
 had broken the law of love w hich pervaded Creation 
 He would then suffer many woes, but the woes would 
 make him the apostle of pity. 
 
 So the poem is a revelation made by Coleridge or 
 what he believed to be always the case in the spiritual 
 world. That world is on the side of pity and love, 
 and men who violate these are punished by hardness of 
 heart. They cannot pray, they cannot be wise, they 
 cannot bless the living creatures of the land and sea and 
 sky. Nature to them is dead ; and if there be powers 
 bound up with Nature, these are their enemies till they 
 change their hearts. And Coleridge imagined the 
 lonesome Spirit of the South Pole who loved the 
 Albatross, and his fellow-demons, the invisible inhabit- 
 ants of the element, and the great Ocean that always 
 looks at the moon, and the Sun and the Moon, who 
 act with the Polar Spirit, and Death, and Life in Death, 
 — the spiritual powers which execute the sanctions of 
 the Law of Pity. 
 
 C
 
 34 '^^^^ Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 To support this atmosphere, in which the laws of 
 the spiritual world take form as living beings, all the 
 things of Nature mentioned in the poem are imperson- 
 ated, have a life and will. The Storm Blast which 
 drives the ship southward is as alive as the North Wind 
 is in the Teuton's tale. Even the " Dark " itself 
 comes like a giant with one stride over the sea. The 
 water-snakes, the creatures of the calm, are full of 
 happiness in their own beauty. The Ocean breathes 
 and moves and acts like one vast spirit. The Moon 
 and the Stars have their own being, and, as if to 
 make this plainer, Coleridge puts the thought into his 
 prose commentary — and no lovelier little piece of imag- 
 inative prose belongs to the language — " In his lone- 
 liness and fixedness, he yeameth towards the journeying 
 moon and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move 
 onward ; and everywhere the blue sky belongs to them, 
 and is their appointed rest, and their native country, and 
 their own natural homes, which they enter unannounced 
 as lords that are certainly expected, and yet there is a 
 silent joy at their arrival." 
 
 We are in a living world, yet as this part of the 
 poem verges too near to the allegorical, it is so far 
 forth removed from the mysterious in which it is con- 
 ceived. To avoid this fault, the basis of the poem 
 has a psychological mystery in it, such as Coleridge 
 loved. The Ancient Mariner himself has a spiritual 
 power which enables him to know the man to whom 
 he must tell his tale, and who must listen to him. 
 On this mission he wanders, with strange power of
 
 Introduction 35 
 
 speech, from land to land. This is the actual super- 
 natural, the spiritual Power in the poem; not allegorical, 
 not subjective. And this it is which after all gives to 
 the poem its deepest strangeness. All the wonders are 
 made truly spiritual by it. 
 
 As to its poetry, it is like that of Christabel, not 
 to be analysed or explained. The spirit herself of 
 Poetry is everywhere in these two poems, felt, but never 
 obtruding, touching spiritual life and earthly loveliness 
 with equal light, and so charming sense and soul with 
 music, that what is spiritual seems sensible, and what 
 is of the senses seems spiritual. And this inability to 
 define the poetic beauty of these poems is more felt 
 when we read Christabel than when we read The 
 Ancient Mariner. It is in a critic's power to analyse 
 the unearthly music of Kuhla Khan, but I defy the 
 whole body of critics to analyse the music of the first 
 part of Christabel. It belongs to the imagination as 
 much as the vision of the poem itself. It is almost a 
 pity — save for a few passages — that the second part was 
 ever written afterwards. The ineffable element has fled 
 from it. The subject presented itself, when first con- 
 ceived, to Coleridge as a whole. He saw it from 
 beginning to end. It was then he should have written 
 it all, while he still lived in the dim country of the 
 creatures who are neither of earth nor of heaven, while 
 he still possessed the faery music. Short was that 
 time ; and so fine and rare were the sound and the 
 thought of the examples we have of its arch-faery poetry, 
 that he never seems to have been able to finish them.
 
 36 The Golde?! Book of Coleridge 
 
 He, with his ear, and with his imagination, (which 
 lasted in feeHng, but had lost its shaping power), knew 
 better than any one that he could not recover the im- 
 measurable hour when he wrote these things, or when 
 they wrote themselves, when 
 
 " he on honey-dew had fed, 
 And drank the milk of Paradise." 
 
 The projected poem on The Wanderings of Cain is 
 also a fragment, and, if we may trust the lovely prose 
 of its projection, would have been a master-piece. 
 Scarcely a dozen lines, which have some of the quality 
 and melody of Chrislabel, represent it. 
 
 " Encinctured with a twine of leaves, 
 That leafy twine his only dress, 
 A lovely boy was plucking fruits 
 By moonlight in a wilderness. — 
 The moon was bright, the air was free. 
 And fruits and flowers together grew 
 On many a shrub and many a tree : 
 And all put on a gentle hue. 
 Hanging in the shadowy air 
 Like a picture rich and rare. 
 It was a climate where they say 
 The night is more belov'd than day. 
 But who that beauteous boy beguil'd 
 That beauteous boy to linger here i* 
 Alone by night, a little child. 
 In place so silent and so wild — 
 Has he no friend, no loving mother near ? " * 
 
 * The prose of what he was to do in poetry I have put into 
 a note on the poem at the end of this book. It is a curious 
 piece, and it would have been of his most special imaginative
 
 Introduction 
 
 Quite different from these mystic poems are certain 
 quiet, simple, meditative poems of which, as I said, 
 The JEolian Harp in the early poetry is the ante- 
 type. He calls one of them — The Nightingale — a 
 " Conversation-poem," and they are conversations with 
 himself about Nature and humanity. They are written 
 in a feeble, wandering blank-verse, a metre which 
 Coleridge never mastered ; but the verse seems to 
 suit their dreamy sauntering. They are all born 
 and nursed in solitude ; when he is left alone in the 
 
 quality had he put it into verse. It also hovers in the world 
 between the liuman and daemonic, in the sense in which 
 Goethe used that word. Whether Abel is, in Coleridge's 
 mind, really Abel, or a false image of him which is to lead 
 Cain into deeper sorrow, I cannot tell; but the motive towards 
 the end of the fragment, in which Abel in misery proclaims 
 a God of the dead different from the God of the living, and 
 sets Cain into wonder and question, is full mysticism. The 
 fragment is like a piece out of Blake, and might have been 
 written by him. It adds another story to the story in the 
 Bible, and adds it in contradiction of the New Testament 
 conception of Abel. 
 
 Another curious thing is that here, and in another place — 
 The Blossoming of the Solitary Date Tree — Coleridge writes a 
 prose analysis of the poem he is about to make, a process so 
 unlike a poet's way that it confounds us with its strangeness. 
 A poet thinks his poem in metre, or rather in poetry. 'I'o 
 translate it from prose into poetry, to conceive a subject in 
 prose and then to reconceive it in poetry, and to do this 
 deliberately, prophesies that Coleridge would soon cease to 
 write poetry, so radically apart, both in origin and method, 
 are Prose and Poetry. All marriage between them is com- 
 pletely detestable.
 
 38 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Lime-tree Bofwer, or in a green and silent spot among 
 the hills, or by his fireside on a frosty night, or in a 
 walk from vale to vale, or under the stars in a quiet 
 hour when he recalls how Wordsworth, he, and 
 Dorothy listened to the nightingale. They are full 
 of contemplative painting of Nature in her pensive 
 moods, full of the " harvest of a quiet eye," which 
 sees the smallest thing that has charm, and loves it, 
 but sees all under a low, soft, moonlit light, in a 
 veiled music. Nature does not occupy them altogether. 
 Memory floats into the poem, and Coleridge thinks of his 
 own past, and then from himself glides to his friends, 
 to his child, and to the Master of the soul. The 
 prevalent note of quiet is never violated ; the tempera- 
 ture of feeling is always the same. It is curious to 
 contrast them with the fire and the loud sea-noise 
 of poems like the Ode to France, and their slow, 
 humming blank-verse with the wildering dulcimers of 
 Christabel. 
 
 One thing is especially remarkable in these meditative 
 poems. It is their frequent use of phrases and thoughts 
 which we might say belong to Wordsworth. I quote 
 a few of these. 
 
 " Henceforth I shall know 
 That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure 
 No plot so narrow, be but Nature there, 
 No waste so vacant, but may well employ 
 Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart 
 Awake to Love and Beauty I
 
 Introduction 39 
 
 Sea and hill and wood 
 With all the numberless goings on of life 
 Inaudible as dreams. 
 
 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. 
 
 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. 
 
 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 moonlight, to the influxes 
 
 Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements 
 
 Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 
 
 And of his fame forgetful 1 So his fame 
 
 Should share in Nature's immortality 
 
 A venerable thing 1 and so his song 
 
 Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself 
 
 Be loved like Nature. 
 
 If so he might not wholly cease to be, 
 
 He would far rather not be that he is ; 
 
 But would be some thing that he knows not of, 
 
 In winds or waters or among the rocks ! " 
 
 These are thoughts phrased by the communion those 
 two wondrous creatures had when they walked together 
 
 " On seaward Quantock's heathy hills,"
 
 40 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 and Dorothy encompassed them with her love and 
 ardour, — " three people with one soul." 
 
 The last of these poems in date — The Nightingale 
 with the poem of Love — both of them in 1798-99 — 
 mark the close of the vivid and productive time of 
 Coleridge as a poet. His southern association with the 
 Wordsworths was broken up. He separated from them 
 in Germany, and when he rejoined them, in that con- 
 tinuous intercourse of which Dorothy Wordsworth tells 
 so much in her diary kept at Dove Cottage, he had lost 
 his poetic energy, had, indeed, in 1 800 " abandoned 
 poetry," he says, " being convinced that I never had 
 the essentials of a poet's genius." But this conviction 
 arose out of the confusion and disgust of life caused by 
 opium, of which drug he now began to make a con- 
 tinuous use. That his poetical power was only in 
 abeyance, and could be summoned when he wished, is 
 proved by Dejection — an Ode, written in 1 802, a 
 storehouse of splendid poetry, set to wild and change- 
 ful music. It is at once the proof that he could write 
 poems as well as ever, and the image of a soul which 
 had lost the power to write it continuously. There 
 is no need to speak of it ; it is in itself the closest 
 self-revelation almost ever written. Only one other 
 poem of his is more sorrowful, more like despair, 
 more self-revealing — the poem addressed in 1807 to 
 Wordsworth after reading The Prelude. Neverthe- 
 less, during this time, and especially when he was 
 with the Wordsworths, he was not all dejection. 
 There were times when he felt enough to command
 
 Introduction 4 1 
 
 the whole of poetry. In 1 803 he writes — "I 
 never find myself alone within the embracement of 
 rocks and hills, ... but my spirit careers, drives, 
 and eddies, like a leaf in autumn, a wild activity of 
 thoughts, imaginations, feelings, and impulses of motion 
 rises up within me. . . . The further I ascend from 
 animated nature , . . the greater in me becomes the 
 intensity of the feeling of life. Life seems to me then 
 a universal spirit, that neither has nor can have an 
 opposite ! God is everywhere, and where is there 
 room for death ? " 
 
 This is the picture of a poet, but his emotion was 
 rarely strong enough to stir his imagination into shaping 
 with joy and power what he felt. The Hymn before 
 Sunrise in the Valley of Chamouni belongs to this 
 time, but, fine as it is, it is over-wrought and over- 
 worded. That it was an enlargement of German 
 stanzas by Frederike Brun, shows how little now 
 he cared to find subjects out of his own soul. In- 
 deed, he was never at Chamouni in his life, and the 
 poem is really lifeless. The Inscription for a Fountain 
 on a Heath is lovely, but the other fine things of this 
 time are almost all records of distress and hopelessness 
 and bitter misery. No one has written better, as 
 The Pains of Sleep will prove, of personal and tortured 
 wretchedness. In the midst of this it is wonderful to 
 come, in 1 8 1 5, upon the two songs in Zapolya, so 
 beautiful that I think they must belong to the earlier 
 time, and been introduced into this Drama. In 1816- 
 1 7, a wish to write poetry again seems to have glided
 
 42 The Goldeji Book of Coleridge 
 
 into his will, but it died away, and after that only a 
 few things (among which is that perfect flower of 
 poetry, Touth and Age), mark, at long intervals that 
 he was once a poet, and might have endured a poet. 
 What he had been, seemed to float sometimes before 
 his eyes. He once saw in vision the spiritual being of 
 his youth, long since gone away to heaven, come 
 down to visit him in 1830. But when it had wooed 
 its way into his soul, it did not recognise its surround- 
 ings, and "shrank back, like one that had mistook," 
 and in its ej'es 
 
 " That weary, wandering, disavowing look." 
 
 And he himself, though he knew it was his own spirit, 
 saw that it was also " All another " than himself, 
 " feature, look, and frame." " O to what," cries his 
 friend to whom he told the vision, "does this riddling 
 tale belong ? " 
 
 " Is't history ? vision ? or an idle song ? 
 Or rather say at once, within what space 
 Of time this wild disastrous change took place? " 
 
 And Coleridge answers — 
 
 " 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 ! " 
 
 This is the little poem Phantom and Fact, written 
 three years before his death ; and it is the piteous 
 quintessence of years of brooding regret.
 
 Introduction 
 
 The poem that follows, Lovers Apparition and 
 Banishment, is equally sorrowful, and its first two lines 
 paint Coleridge in these hours of retrospection and old 
 age under a comparison he has used before. 
 
 " Like a lone Arab, old and blind. 
 Some caravan had left behind — " 
 
 But it would be to picture him untruly to say that 
 these hours or their temper were continuous. He was 
 not without pleasure, manliness, faith or hope, and 
 love was always his. 'Twas a mixed close. Though 
 earth, sea and sky should make war against him, and 
 try to end his life, the breath of the true life he still 
 drew, he vows, in Christ. Death dies, he says, at the 
 death-bed. Nor is it without a memory, sad but not 
 now despairing, of the short and sunny time when he 
 was a great singer that he speaks his last verses in his 
 epitaph — 
 
 " Beneath this sod 
 A poet lies, or that which once seemed he. — " 
 
 When the close of life drew near, he thus forgot his 
 prose, and remembered his poetry ; and in the years 
 to come, when all the controversies on which he 
 wrote have lost their worth and interest in a greater and 
 simpler light, it will be thus with the world of men. 
 They will forget his prose ; they never will forget him 
 as a poet. 
 
 The position of Coleridge with regard to the two 
 great subjects which awaken the imagination of poets —
 
 44 T^he Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 human nature and outward nature — was a curious 
 position. He does not seem to have felt the affairs 
 of either one or the other with the intensity of. the 
 other poets of this century. Indeed, as long as he 
 worked on the actual, he had no passion in his work. 
 His imagination was only wrought into high activities 
 in that world where Man and Nature are of the stuff 
 which dreams are made of. 
 
 As to human affairs, it may be said that his enthus- 
 iasm for the Revolution shared in passion. But it had 
 not the enduringness of true emotion. It was easily 
 chilled, and its voice came in gusty and violent 
 squalls that carried with them the doom of their 
 own transiency. No one was ever more like Hamlet 
 than Coleridge in his mingling of philosophy with 
 poetry, in his sudden outbreaks of energy, and in 
 their conclusion of words, only words ; and like 
 Hamlet he knew well that these transient energies 
 were not the children of steady passion. No one 
 might have repeated with more fitness, with regard to 
 his excitement for humanity, the speech of Hamlet's, 
 beginning — 
 
 " Why, what a rogue and peasant slave am I! " 
 
 And no one has recorded this more clearly. Like 
 Hamlet then, he lost his imaginary passion for men, first 
 in violent words, and then in meandering thought on 
 side issues, until many idle, flitting phantasies had like 
 clouds veiled and then obscured the original thought 
 and its original emotion.
 
 Introduction 45 
 
 The same want of all that we call passion affects 
 his treatment of the ordinary affections of humanity. 
 He is tender in them, quiet, pensive, gentle, but 
 never intense. The poem entitled Love, in which 
 he sings the wooing of a maid by a man, illustrates 
 what I say. It is soft, pathetic, even warm, but 
 it has no fire ; and this is the reason why. among his 
 finer poems it takes only a second place. The few 
 poems addressed to Mary Evans, the subject of his 
 only romantic love, try to express a great deal, but do 
 not succeed. He drifts away from love into phantasies 
 of thought, as Hamlet from Ophelia. The poems to 
 Sara, his wife, are commonplace ; but then he had not 
 much care for her. Indeed, I do not think he ever 
 truly loved a woman. His paternal love seems to 
 reach a greater fulness of feeling in the meditative 
 poems, but it was not deep or strong. It also floats 
 away into a musing contemplation. Friendship, that 
 quiet, still- voiced thing, did most with him, and was most 
 felt, but even it was subject to vicissitude. Even the 
 friendship which breathes so deeply through his poems 
 to Wordsworth, even the egotistic sentiment he felt 
 for Dorothy, rose and fell in jets, and once at least 
 disappeared. But while he had no intensity in any of 
 these aflTections, the pensive, gentle lovingness of his 
 nature was always steady, always full, always grateful 
 for love. He did not then love passionately, but he 
 loved far and wide, and tenderly. 
 
 Something of the same wants and tlie same softness
 
 46 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 prevails in his love of Nature, as shown in his poetry. 
 In his philosophy of Nature, at the time in his life when 
 Philosophy bore no other name but Poesy, he felt a 
 living spirit in Nature, but it was the human soul of 
 the watcher of Nature which filled the world with life. 
 
 " O lady, we receive but what we give, 
 And in our life alone doth Nature live." 
 
 Even the influence of Nature on us drew its main 
 power over us from the spirit that contemplated it. He 
 thought 
 
 "That outward forms, the loftiest still receive 
 Their finer influence from the life within." 
 
 But this half-philosophy, which is fully expanded in 
 the Ode to Dejection, did not always master his per- 
 ception of Nature. He was often sufficiently influenced 
 by Wordsworth to adopt, or to seem to adopt, his view 
 of Nature as something separate from us whose soul 
 might be thought to communicate with ours. To him 
 then, as to Wordsworth, Nature brought healing and 
 sweet changes — 
 
 " With other ministrations thou, O Nature ! 
 Healest thy wandering and distempered child : 
 Thou pourest on him thy soft influences, 
 Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathings sweet, 
 Thy melodies of woods, and winds and waters, 
 Till he relent, and can no more endure 
 To be a jarring and a dissonant thing 
 Amid this general dance and minstrelsy ; 
 But, bursting into tears, wins back his way. 
 His angry spirit healed and harmonized 
 By the benignant touch of love and beauty."
 
 Introduction 47 
 
 This is pure Wordsworth, and many otlier verses tell 
 the same story. Nature "awakes the sense to love 
 and beauty." She " softens the heart till it is worthy 
 to love man." She " never deserts the wise and pure." 
 She " converses with the mind and gives it 
 
 ' A livelier impulse and a dance of thought.' " 
 
 She charms men into union with herself, till those 
 who love her share in her immortality and their work 
 becomes a part of Nature, and is loved like Nature. 
 Man and Nature pass into one another in ceaseless 
 interchange. Nature educates the child ; the boy is 
 her playmate, and all her education is God's eternal 
 language — 
 
 " But thou, my babe, shalt wander like a breeze 
 By lake and sandy shore, beneath the crags 
 Of ancient mountains, 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 things intelligible 
 Of that eternal language which thy God 
 Utters, who from eternity doth teach 
 Himself in all, and all things in himself." 
 
 These views of Nature, as I have said in another 
 connection, are Wordsworth in Coleridge ; but for 
 the most part Nature in the poetry of Coleridge is 
 mingled with his moods, takes the note of his tran- 
 sient feeling ; or, to put it otherwise, he chooses such 
 things in Nature as are in tune with his soul, and then 
 fuses himself and Nature both together into one im-
 
 4 8 The Golden Book of Cohi'idge 
 
 agination. Some of the best lyrics in the world, and 
 notably Shelley's Ode to the West JVind, are done in 
 this fashion. 
 
 Except for a short period, these moods in which 
 Coleridge saw Nature were those of saddened thought, 
 the thought of failure, and of knowledge that he was 
 too languid to overcome failure — a " wan and heartless 
 mood." Sometimes the mood was more dreamy than 
 sad, with drifting thought into which " the one life 
 within us and abroad " flowed and flowed out again, 
 creating joy as it passed, and melancholy as it passed 
 away, but not creating thought, only an idle tangle of 
 phantasy. He loved to lie, high on the hills, sur- 
 rendering his spirit to the shifting elements of Nature's 
 movement, of song and fame forgetful, his eyes half- 
 closed with pleasure, floating in a dream which was 
 half of opium and half of the delight which comes of 
 hushing the will to sleep. 
 
 But always there was, even in the profoundest 
 dejection, a subtle though slumbrous sense and love 
 of the beauty of the world, a capacity for enjoying it 
 in little things as well as great, and an equal capacity 
 for selecting remote and fine specialities of beauty, such 
 as pleased his soul in super-subtle hours. This deep 
 love of the beauty of the universe never failed him, nor 
 his sense of joy in it. The little poem To Nature, 
 speaks of the deep and inward joy in created things 
 which closely clings to his heart. The immortal spirit 
 of Love in nature dwelt in him, and touches, to the end, 
 his Nature-poetry. Nor did there ever fail in him that
 
 Introduction 49 
 
 feeling of Beauty which is the source of love, nor the 
 divine results which flow into the soul from both. What 
 his Ancient Mariner felt, he felt all his life long for Man 
 and beast, for all the Universe — 
 
 O happy living things ! no tongue 
 
 Their beauty might declare: 
 
 A spring of love gushed from my heart. 
 
 And I blessed them unaware : 
 
 Sure my kind saint took pity on me 
 
 And I blessed them unaware. 
 
 Even in old age beauty awoke his ardour, and there is 
 no more delightful proof of this than his poem written 
 in 1828, The Garden of Boccaccio, where the love, the 
 joyaunce and the gallantry of the Decameron, brings 
 back to him all spirits of power that most had stirred 
 his thought in boyhood, and charmed his youth ; and 
 where the verse flows light and gay and rejoicing from 
 the momentary hour, in which, age forgotten, loveliness 
 has made the philosopher again the poet. 
 
 The Natural Description which partly grew out of 
 this poetic philosophy of Nature, and partly out of this 
 dreamy perception of beauty, passed, I may say, through 
 three phases ; only the last of which was characterized 
 by intensity of imagination. In the first of these phases, 
 which belongs chiefly to his earlier poetry, his natural 
 description is quite uncomposed. It resembles a 
 catalogue of the different things he sees as he takes 
 his walk. The lines composed while climbing Brockley 
 Coomb, and those addressed to Charles Lloyd, are of 
 this kind ; describing step by step what strikes the eye
 
 50 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 as he climbs the steep moors — isolated images touched 
 with fancy, but bound together by no imagination into 
 a whole, and uninfluenced by any creative passion — until 
 he reaches the top of the hill, when the vision of the 
 great landscape below opens his heart to strong emotion 
 and opens his verse : 
 
 " Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless ocean — 
 It seemed like omnipresence I God, methought. 
 Had built him there a temple : the whole world 
 Seemed imaged in its vast circumference: 
 No ivish profaned my overwhelmed heart." 
 
 But for the most part all the verses of this earlier 
 time which describe Nature, are devoid of any strong 
 emotion. Stranger still, they want any of those sur- 
 prising or intimate touches of Nature, those happy 
 words, even that melody which is like the melody 
 of Nature itself, in which he afterwards excelled. A 
 few phrases like the music of — 
 
 " By lonely Otter's sleep-persuading stream," 
 
 or " the night was fanged with frost," awake our 
 pleasure, but they are astonishingly few. The one ex- 
 ception are the lovely lines I have already quoted from 
 the Circassian Love-Chant, about the clouds and the 
 moon and the swans on the river. 
 
 The second phase appears in those poems which con- 
 template and describe Nature in a resting and meditative 
 temper. There is no passionate feeling in their delight. 
 The joy he has in the beauty of the world is the joy 
 of dreaming, often only a recollected joy in what he
 
 Introduction 5 1 
 
 has seen. He found in poems of this class one of the 
 natural paths of his imagination, and in the earliest of 
 them he for the first time becomes an artist. Their 
 pensiveness, their dying fall, their self-loving melancholy 
 are harmonized by him with Nature. He chiefly chooses 
 for their scenery some delightful evening, pale and calm, 
 or the swimming vision of the earth in moonlight. 
 The moon indeed belongs to Coleridge's soul. No 
 one has ever described moonshine so well. Their 
 quietude is increased by most of them being written, 
 not direct from Nature, but from pictures made when 
 he sits alone at home — " My eyes," he says, " make 
 pictures when they're shut." In Frost at Midnight 
 he watches while he sits by the fire all the secret ministry 
 of Frost weaving its web outside, while he weaves his 
 own web of memory within. In The Lime-tree Bower 
 my Prison, he follows the landscape in which his friends 
 are walking, and describes it from memory while he 
 lies quiet, and then with an unusual turn records with 
 delightful minuteness exactly what he sees as he looks 
 up through the sun-besprinkled leaves — 
 
 " and I watched 
 Some broad and sunny leaf, and loved to see 
 The shadow of the leaf and stem above, 
 Dappling its sunshine! " — 
 
 a piece of delicate description as fine as Wordsworth's 
 " The daisy's shadow on the naked stone." And it 
 would be hard to match in this kind of poetry, where 
 contemplation watches the world through Slumber's
 
 52 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 half-closed eyes, the beginning of Fears in Solitude ; 
 or the lyric image of the same moorland, seen as he 
 lay on the couch of dreamy memory, and yet alive to 
 the travelling of the most delicate sounds in Nature — 
 
 " Eight springs have flown, since last I lay 
 On seaward Quantock's heathy hills. 
 Where quiet sounds from hidden rills 
 Float here and there, like things astray, 
 And high o'erhead the sky-lark shrills." 
 
 These minute and delicate sights and sounds are com- 
 mon in Coleridge. The scent of the bean field : the 
 peculiar tint of yellow green which rarely occurs at 
 sunset, the solitary red leaf dancing in the wind on the 
 top of the oak, the slip of smooth clear blue betwixt 
 two isles of purple shadow, the constellated stars of the 
 foam darting off into the darkness, the tiny cone of 
 sand which soundless dances at the bottom of the spring, 
 the twofold sound of the rain, the sunny islands on the 
 dark mountain side, the imagined star within the nether 
 tip of the moon, and many other fine-seen things, were 
 impulses that like wafts of wind made the whole surface 
 of his sense of beauty ripple with pleasant and tiny waves. 
 In truth, contemplative hours, in which imagination only 
 simmers, lend themselves to these minute observances 
 of Nature. But they cannot produce those higher 
 generalizations of the beauty of earth or sky or sea in 
 which the soul plays so great a part, which flash forth 
 a whole scene or a whole element in a few lines, and 
 in which the imagination works like a swift-dealing 
 smith on white-hot material — generalizations such as
 
 Introduction 
 
 Coleridge makes in another class of poems. Here is 
 one of them, of the coming of a phantom hurricane, 
 every line true to Nature, yet greater than Nature 
 herself — 
 
 The upper air burst into life I 
 
 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. 
 
 This is the third phase of his natural description, and 
 he works there in his world of dreams, among 
 
 " The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty 
 That had their haunts in dale or piny mountain, 
 Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring. 
 Or chasms or watery depths." 
 
 In this world he does reach passionate description of 
 Nature, but in it the natural scenery is never alone. It 
 is thrilled through and through with that subtle wanderer, 
 Coleridge. In it his imagination rises to its highest 
 peak, and commands humanity and Nature, and the most
 
 54 T^f^^ Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 delicate music of both. This is the world in which 
 arises Alph the sacred river, and the jjardens and forests 
 of Kubla Khan, and the deep romantic chasm, holy and 
 enchanted, and the dome of pleasure, and the Abyssinian 
 maid, singing of Mount Abora. This is the world in 
 which the upper air bursts into life, in which the sky 
 is full of the sweet jargoning of birds, in which the 
 hidden brook sings its quiet tune all night to the woods. 
 This is the world of The Ancient Mariner, and of those 
 descriptions of sky and sea in storm and calm and mist, 
 of the rising moon and setting sun, of moonlight on the 
 charmed sea, of moonlight in the harbour of home, which 
 are each complete wholes, true to Nature, yet alive with 
 being above Nature, and which Imagination herself can 
 never forget. They are chosen for their strangeness ; 
 and a certain spiritual mystery, as if they were com- 
 manded from another world for a puq^ose, is just 
 touched into them. Above all, they are felt with a 
 passion extraordinary in Coleridge, and which, in the 
 desire of passion to get to the simplest expression of 
 the essential fact, has rejected all that is superfluous. 
 
 Nor in this class of poem is human feeling less 
 strongly felt. The extremity of fear was never better 
 pictured than in these lines — 
 
 " We listened and looked sideways up ; 
 Fear at my heart, as at a cup 
 My life-blood seemed to sip ! " 
 
 The joy of sleep cannot be more simply, yet intensely 
 given than in these lovely lines —
 
 Introduction 
 
 55 
 
 " O sleep ! it is a gentle thing 
 Beloved from pole to pole ! 
 To Mary Queen the praise be given I 
 She sent the gentle sleep from heaven, 
 Which stole into my soul." 
 
 And loneliness, the solitude of the soul of man in 
 sorrow, has chosen as its best expression the cry of this 
 restless Mariner — 
 
 " O Wedding Guest 1 this soul hath been 
 Alone on a wide wide sea. 
 So lonely 'twas that God himself 
 Scarce seemed there to be." 
 
 Nor is the exquisite joy of his return to home less 
 close to the heart of man. But, as usual when Cole- 
 ridge is writing at this high level, we are content with 
 the pleasure of it. The natural scenery in Christahely 
 the oaks, the red leaves, the moonlight, the forest, 
 are only indicated, but they fill the imagination. Of the 
 same class, but at a lower level, is the little bit of sun 
 and shade in The Three Grn'ves. The suppressed 
 supernaturalism, the outside-the-world psychology of 
 Coleridge has entered into Nature, and the scene is 
 thrilled with imaginative elements. The extreme sim- 
 plicity of the description, as of those descriptions in The 
 Ancient Mariner, heighten this effect of mystery, nor can 
 anyone mistake its intensity. 
 
 " No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh 
 To any pasture plot ; 
 But clustered near the chattering brook 
 Some hollies marked the spot.
 
 56 The Goldc7i Book of Coleridge 
 
 Those hollies of themselves a shape 
 
 As of an arbour took, 
 A close, round arbour; and it stands 
 
 Not three strides from a brook. 
 Within this arbour, which was still 
 
 With scarlet berries hung. 
 Were these three friends, one Sunday morn 
 
 Just as the first bell rung. 
 'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet 
 
 To hear the Sabbath bell, 
 'Tis sweet to hear them both at once 
 
 Deep in a woody dell. 
 
 The sun peeps through the close thick leaves, 
 
 See, dearest Ellen, see I 
 'Tis in the leaves, a little sun. 
 
 No bigger than your ee ; 
 A tiny sun, and it has got 
 
 A perfect glory too : 
 Ten thousand threads and hairs of light 
 Make up a glory gay and bright 
 
 Round that small orb, so blue." 
 
 But it was not only in this mystic outer world that 
 he reached passion and his highest level of imaginative 
 power. There was another world more mystic still, 
 the dim, supernatural world of his own soul. In this 
 world. The Ode to Dejection, The Pains of Sleep, 7 outh 
 and Age^ and other poems were written. Every 
 description of Nature in the Ode to Dejection is 
 penetrated with the mystic temper of his inner life, 
 and the natural things he speaks of have become part 
 of the landscape of his heart. The crescent moon 
 with the old moon in her arms, the sunset bars, the
 
 Introduction 57 
 
 clouds that give away their motion to the stars, the 
 rising gale, the outburst of the storm raving over crags 
 and pines and gardens, are all in his own thought- 
 entangled heart, and derive their passionate expression 
 from the restless world within him. He is the mad 
 Lutanist whose name he gives to the wind, as Shelley 
 himself changes into the west wind at the end of that 
 poem. 
 
 To what powers of natural description of the more 
 real world, unaffected by psychology, he might also 
 have won his way, I cannot tell ; but the extraordinary 
 excellence of the drawing of Nature in these Other- world 
 poems predicts what he could have done, had he cared 
 to bestow travail upon his art. And there are a few 
 verses, not contemplative and not mixed up with human 
 or faery mystery, which describe Nature directly and 
 with loss of self in her. The poem adapted from the 
 German, and which he calls Catulllan Hendecasyllables, 
 is one of the most brilliant descriptions in the language. 
 The Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath is done with 
 crystal clearness of sight and words, and touches the edge 
 of Fairyland. The little translation from Stolberg, On a 
 Cataract, has lines in it, not in the German, which are 
 so like Shelley's work on pure Nature that we say — 
 if Coleridge could have let himself loose, he might 
 have anticipated Shelley whose music he even excelled. 
 
 " 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,
 
 58 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 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 ! " 
 
 These several poems are outside of the phases of 
 which I have spoken, and each of them stands alone, 
 is of a separate kind in poetry. 
 
 What a regret it is that he was so wrangled by the 
 fate which made him bewildered in life that he could 
 not pursue these separate kinds of poetry, and instead of 
 one example of each bestow upon us fifty ! He tried 
 others also, and succeeded when he tried. The 
 political denunciation of Pitt is fiercer and more 
 vigorous than anything of Byron's. The translation of 
 Wallenste'in stands alone among translations. Such an 
 adaptation of a heavy German poem as The Hymn in the 
 Valley of Chamouny only makes us regret that he wasted 
 on adaptations, better however than anyone else could 
 have done, powers which might have been employed in 
 original work. But it suited his laziness to have a 
 subject given to him rather than to create a subject. 
 His epigrams are good, but they cannot compare with 
 Landor's ; and lastly, it is curious that the delicate and 
 pensive poet of the contemplative poems, the poet 
 of Christabel and The Jlncient Mariner, of imagination 
 all compact, should be able to write with so much 
 force verses of rough, slashing, and even coarse 
 humour — such verses as the sonnet on the House that 
 Jack built, and the Tivo round spaces on the Tombstone. 
 In many forms of poetry he could work better than
 
 Introduction 59 
 
 others— in none did he grant to us more than three or 
 four examples. But let us say grace for those we have 
 received, enjoy them, love them, and honour the Poet. 
 
 Lastly, when we wish to see Coleridge kindly — and 
 the sight of kindness is the truest — there is no judge- 
 ment on him better than that made by the friend who 
 knew him in his brilliant youth, and in his broken 
 years ; who spent day after day with him on the hills 
 of Somerset : who walked and sat with him for hours at 
 Dove Cottage ; who wandered with him in the trying 
 companionship of summer tours ; who, though there was 
 once a disagreement, cherished with him an unbroken 
 friendship till death parted them from one another ; 
 and who, in lines which touch the notes of his ancient 
 power, records in 1835 how undiminished by age and 
 weakness was the impression of Coleridge on Words- 
 worth — 
 
 Nor has the rolling year twice measured, 
 From sign to sign, its steadfast course, 
 When every mortal pow^er of Coleridge 
 Was frozen at its marvellous source ; 
 
 The rapt one with the godlike forehead, 
 The Heaven-eyed creature sleeps in earth : 
 
 Many books, letters, and diaries speak of this long 
 admiration and love between these two, and Coleridge 
 expresses it fully in his poem made after reading The 
 Prelude. As to Wordsworth's love of his friend, 
 it is more beautifully disclosed in the Stanzas written 
 in his copy of the Castle of Indolence than in any book,
 
 6o The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 letter, or journal It was delighted and delightful happi- 
 ness with one another.* " He," that is Coleridge — 
 
 He would entice that other Man to hear 
 His music, and to view his imagery ; 
 And, sooth, these two were to each other dear ; 
 No hveHer love in such a place could be : 
 There did they dwell f — from earthly labour free, 
 As happy spirits as were ever seen ; 
 If but a bird, to keep them company, 
 Or butterfly sate down, they were, I ween, 
 As pleased as if the same had been a Maiden Queen. 
 
 In the same poem, written in 1802, Wordsworth 
 describes the figure and ways of Coleridge — 
 
 With him there often walked in friendly guise, 
 Or lay upon the moss by brook or tree, 
 A noticeable Man with large grey eyes. 
 And a pale face that seemed undoubtedly 
 As if a blooming face it ought to be ; 
 
 * When Wordsworth writes about his wanderings before 
 he met Coleridge, he loves him so much that he places him 
 among them — 
 
 O Friend ! we had not seen thee at that time. 
 
 And yet a power is on me, and a strong 
 
 Confusion, and I seem to plant thee there. 
 
 Far art thou wandered now in search of health 
 
 And milder breezes — melancholy lot ! 
 
 But thou art with us, with us in the past. 
 
 The present, with us in the days to come, 
 
 There is no grief, no sorrow, no despair. 
 
 No languor, no dejection, no dismay. 
 
 No absence scarcely can there be, for those 
 
 Who love as we do. 
 
 t In Dove Cottage, Grasmere.
 
 Introduction 6 1 
 
 Heavy his low-hung lip did oft appear, 
 
 Deprest by weight of musing Phantasy ; 
 
 Profound his forehead was, yet not severe ; 
 
 Yet some did think that he had little business here 
 
 Sweet heaven forefend ! his was a lawful right ; 
 
 Noisy he was, and gamesome as a boy : 
 
 His limbs would toss about him with delight 
 
 Like branches when strong winds the trees annoy. 
 
 Nor lacked his calmer hours device or toy 
 
 To banish listlessness and irksome care ; 
 
 He would have taught you how you might employ 
 
 Yourself; and many did to him repair, — 
 
 And cartes not in vain, he had inventions rare. 
 
 expedients, too, of simplest sort he tried : 
 
 Long blades of grass, plucked round him as he lay. 
 
 Made, to his ear attentively applied, 
 
 A pipe in which the wind would deftly play ; 
 
 Glasses he had, that little things display. 
 
 The beetle panoplied in gems and gold, 
 
 A mailed angel on a battle-day ; 
 
 The mysteries that cups of flowers enfold. 
 
 And all the gorgeous sights that fairies do behold. 
 
 This is a very different image of Coleridge from that 
 described by Carlyle. That indeed was drawn of him 
 in his old age when Philosophy had made him older 
 than he ought to have been, and by the hand of cynicism. 
 Wordsworth's is the image of his youth when Poetry 
 had made him as young as he is in Heaven ; and it 
 was drawn by the hand of love. We will keep the 
 one and ignore the other, or if we wish to contrast the 
 age of Coleridge with his youth, we will do it as he
 
 62 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 has done it himself in his poem of Touth and Age, 
 There we shall feel the poet still, and there 
 remember 
 
 The wizard song, the Charmer and his charms. 
 
 With this deep-set joy of heart, and gaiety of body, 
 Wordsworth harmonizes, in The Prelude, the still 
 rapture of Coleridge in beauty seen, and then imagined 
 from the seen into its unseen ideal, and his lovingness 
 of nature, gentler than that of all other men. This 
 lovingness made his sympathy unfailing, his judgements 
 never harsh. "O capacious soul," cries Wordsworth — 
 
 Placed on this earth to love and understand, 
 And from thy presence shed the light of love ! 
 
 It was this rejoicing love of all things, in which 
 Wordsworth also shared, this tender gentleness of 
 which Wordsworth had but little, rather than Cole- 
 ridge's intellect, which made him the special power he 
 was in the history of Thought, which made Words- 
 worth class him with himself, with all poets who loved 
 much, as a Prophet of Nature, that is, of the Nature 
 of Man and of the Universe. — " What we have loved," 
 he says — 
 
 Others will love and we will teach them how, 
 Instruct them how the mind of man becomes 
 A thousand times more beautiful than the earth 
 On which he dwells — 
 
 Nor does Wordsworth speak less strongly of the 
 intellectual power of his friend. It was Coleridge, he
 
 Introduction 6 
 
 o 
 
 said, who brought the thoughts and things of the self- 
 haunting spirit of his youth into rational proportions, 
 and the mysteries of life and death time and eternity 
 into close connection with humanity ; balancing the 
 supersensuous imaginations, which belong to them, by 
 pathetic truth, by trust in hopeful reason, and by rever- 
 ence for duty. It is a work which Coleridge, more by 
 the spirit of his nature than by his reasonings, has done 
 for many others. No praise seems too great for Words- 
 worth to use of Coleridge's intellectual power when he 
 knew him in those early days. 
 
 I have thought 
 Of thee, thy learning, gorgeous eloquence. 
 And all the strength and plumage of thy youth ; 
 Thy subtle speculations, toils abstruse 
 Among the schoolmen, and Platonic forms 
 Of wild ideal pageantiy, shaped out 
 From things well-matched or ill, and words for things; 
 The self-created sustenance of a mind 
 Debarred from Nature's living images, 
 Compelled to be a life unto herself. 
 And unrelentingly possessed by thirst 
 Of greatness, love, and beauty. 
 
 With these came " rigorous study," till he could say 
 that Coleridge had " trod a march of glory." But 
 science and intellectual power were not, Wordswortli 
 thought, all in all to Coleridge. They were but hand- 
 maids in his mind to that higher power by which we 
 are finally made free to love that spiritual Love which 
 acts through imagination
 
 64 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Which, in truth 
 Is but another name for absolute power 
 And clearest insight, amplitude of mind, 
 And Reason in her most exalted mood. 
 
 Hence, though Coleridge loved to analyse, his friend 
 declared he was no slave of analysis, " that secondary 
 power by which we multiply distinctions " and deem 
 that they are truths, and not things which we ourselves 
 have made, in and for the transitory. 
 
 This was Wordsworth's view of the intellectual 
 power of his friend ; and how, combined with essential 
 love, it emerged in the poetry of Coleridge, is best 
 described in the magnificent lines in The Prelude where 
 Wordsworth speaks of the great Nature which exists in 
 the works of " mighty poets " — 
 
 Visionary power 
 Attends the motives of the viewless winds, 
 Embodied in the mystery of words : 
 There darkness makes abode, and all the host 
 Of shadowy things work endless changes, — there, 
 As in a mansion like their proper home. 
 Even forms and substances are circumfused 
 By that transparent veil with light divine, 
 And, through the turnings intricate of verse, 
 Present themselves as objects recognized. 
 In flashes, and with glory not their own.
 
 I. 
 
 MEDITATIVE POEMS.
 
 THE EOLIAN HARP. 
 
 COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE. 
 
 My pensive Sara ! thy soft cheek reclined 
 
 Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is 
 
 To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown 
 
 With white-flowered Jasmin, and the broad-leaved 
 
 Myrtle, 
 (Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love !), 
 And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light, 
 Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve 
 Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be) 
 Shine opposite ! How exquisite the scents 
 Snatched from yon bean-field! and the world so hushed! 
 The stilly murmur of the distant sea 
 Tells us of silence. 
 
 And that simplest lute, 
 Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark ! 
 How by the desultory breeze caressed. 
 Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover, 
 It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs 
 Tempt to repeat the wrong ! And now, its strings 
 Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes 
 Over delicious surges sink and rise. 
 Such a soft floating witchery of sound 
 As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve 
 Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land, 
 
 67
 
 68 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers, 
 Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise, 
 Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing ! 
 O ! the one life within us and abroad. 
 Which meets all motion and becomes its soul, 
 A light in sound, a sound-like power in light 
 Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every where — 
 Methinks, it should have been impossible 
 Not to love all things in a world so filled ; 
 Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air 
 Is Music slumbering on her instrument. 
 
 And thus, my love ! as on the mid-way slope 
 Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon. 
 Whilst through my half-closed eye-lids 1 behold 
 The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main. 
 And tranquil muse upon tranquillity ; 
 Full many a thought uncalled and undetained, 
 And many idle flitting phantasies. 
 Traverse my indolent and passive brain. 
 As wild and various as the random gales 
 That swell and flutter on this subject lute ! 
 
 And what if all of animated nature 
 Be but organic harps diversely framed, 
 That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps 
 Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze. 
 At once the Soul of each, and God of all ? 
 
 But thy more serious eye a mild reproof 
 Darts, O beloved woman ! nor such thoughts 
 Dim and unhallowed dost thou not reject. 
 And biddest me walk humbly with my God. 
 Meek daughter in the family of Christ !
 
 j A Quiet Place 69 
 
 il 
 
 Well hast thou said and holily dispraised 
 
 These shapings of the unregenerate mind ; 
 
 Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break. 
 
 On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring. 
 
 For never guiltless may I speak of him, 
 
 The Incomprehensible ! save when with awe 
 
 1 praise him, and with Faith that inly feels ; 
 
 Who with his saving mercies healed me, 
 
 A sinful and most miserable man, 
 
 Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess 
 
 Peace, and this cot, and thee, dear honoured Maid ! 
 
 '795- 
 
 A QUIET PLACE. 
 
 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 blossom'd ; 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 Valley of Seclusion ! 
 
 Oft with patient ear 
 Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note 
 (Viewless, or haply for a moment seen 
 Gleaming on sunny wings) in whispered tones 
 I've said to my beloved, ' Such, sweet girl !
 
 JO The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 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 ; 
 Grey 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-Hke hills, and shoreless Ocean — 
 It seem'd like Omnipresence ! God, methought. 
 Had built him there a Temple : the whole World 
 Seemed imaged in its vast circumference : 
 No ivish profaned my overwhelmed heart. 
 Blest hour ! It was a luxury, — to be ! 
 
 1795-
 
 To the Rev, George Coleridge 7 1 
 
 To THE 
 
 Rev. GEORGE COLERIDGE, 
 
 OF OTTERY ST. MARY, DEVON, 
 
 With some poems. 
 " Notus in fratres animi paterni." — Hor. Carm. lib. i, 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, O my earliest friend ! 
 
 Thy lot, and such thy brothers too enjoy. 
 
 At distance did ye climb life's upland road. 
 
 Yet cheered and cheering : now fraternal love 
 
 Hath drawn you to one centre. Be your days 
 
 Holy, and blest and blessing may ye live ! 
 
 To me the Eternal Wisdom hath dispensed 
 A different fortune and more different mind — 
 Me from the spot where first I sprang to light 
 Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fixed 
 Its first domestic loves ; and hence through life
 
 72 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Chasing chance-started friendships. A brief while 
 Some have preserved me from life's pelting ills ; 
 But, like a tree with leaves of feeble stem, 
 If the clouds lasted, and a sudden breeze 
 Ruffled the boughs, they on my head at once 
 Dropped the collected shower ; and some most false. 
 False and fair-foliaged as the Manchineel, 
 Have tempted me to slumber in their shade 
 E'en 'mid the storm ; then breathing subtlest damps. 
 Mixed their own venom with the rain from heaven. 
 That I woke poisoned ! But, all praise to Him 
 Who gives us all things, more have yielded me 
 Permanent shelter ; and beside one friend. 
 Beneath the impervious covert of one oak, 
 I've raised a lowly shed, and know the names 
 Of Husband and of Father ; not unhearing 
 Of that divine and nightly-whispering voice. 
 Which from my childhood to maturer years 
 Spake to me of predestinated wreaths. 
 Bright with no fading colours ! 
 
 Yet at times 
 My soul is sad, that I have roamed through life 
 Still most a stranger, most with naked heart 
 At mine own home and birthplace : 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 
 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 the Rev. George Coleridge 73 
 
 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 these hours. 
 When with the joy of hope thou gavest thine ear 
 To my wild firstling-lays. Since then my song 
 Hath sounded deeper notes, such as beseem 
 Or that sad wisdom folly leaves behind. 
 Or such as, tuned to these tumultuous times, 
 Cope with the tempest's swell ! 
 
 These various strains, 
 Which I have framed in many a various mood. 
 Accept, my Brother ! and (for some perchance 
 Will strike discordant on thy milder mind) 
 If aught of error or intemperate truth 
 Should meet thine ear, think thou that riper age 
 Will calm it down, and let thy love forgive it ! 
 
 Nether-Stowey, Somerset, 
 May 26th, ijgj.
 
 74 '^f^^ Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON. 
 
 ADDRESSED TO CHARLES LAMB, OF THE INDIA HOUSE, 
 LONDON. 
 
 Well, they are gone, and here must I remain, 
 This lime-tree bower my prison ! I have lost 
 Beauties and feelings, such as would have been 
 Most sweet to my remembrance even when age 
 Had dimmed mine eyes to blindness ! They, meanwhile. 
 Friends, whom I never more may meet again, 
 On springy heath, along the hill-top edge. 
 Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance. 
 To that still roaring dell, of which I told ; 
 The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep. 
 And only speckled by the mid-day sun ; 
 Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock 
 Flings arching like a bridge ; — that branchless ash. 
 Unsunned and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves 
 Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still. 
 Fanned by the water-fall ! and there my friends 
 Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds. 
 That all at once (a most fantastic sight ! ) 
 Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge 
 Of the blue clay-stone. 
 
 Now, my friends emerge 
 Beneath the wide wide Heaven — and view again 
 The many-steepled tract magnificent 
 Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea.
 
 This Lime-Tree Bower my Prison 75 
 
 With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up 
 The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles 
 Of pui'ple shadow ! Yes ! they wander on 
 In gladness all ; but thou, methinks, most glad. 
 My gentle-hearted Charles ! for thou hast pined 
 And hungered after Nature, many a year, 
 In the great City pent, winning thy way 
 With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain 
 And strange calamity ! Ah ! slowly sink 
 Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun ! 
 Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb, 
 Ye purple heath-flowers ! richlier burn, ye clouds ! 
 Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves ! 
 And kindle, thou blue Ocean ! So my Friend 
 Struck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood, 
 Silent with swimming sense ; yea, gazing round 
 On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem 
 Less gross than bodily ; and of such hues 
 As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makes 
 Spirits perceive his presence. 
 
 A delight 
 Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad 
 As I myself were there ! Nor in this bower, 
 This little lime-tree bower, have I not marked 
 Much that has soothed me. Pale beneath the blaze 
 Hung the transparent foliage ; and I watched 
 Some broad and sunny leaf, and loved to see 
 The shadow of the leaf and stem above. 
 Dappling its sunshine ! And that walnut-tree 
 Was richly tinged, and a deep radiance lay 
 Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps 
 Those fronting elms, and now, with blackest mass 
 Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue 
 Through the late twilight : and though now the bat
 
 76 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters, 
 
 Yet still the solitary humble-bee 
 
 Sings in the bean-flower ! Henceforth I shall know 
 
 That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure ; 
 
 No plot so narrow, be but Nature there, 
 
 No waste so vacant, but may well employ 
 
 Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart 
 
 Awake to Love and Beauty ! and sometimes 
 
 'Tis well to be bereft of promised good. 
 
 That we may Hft the soul, and contemplate ^ 
 
 With lively joy the joys we cannot share. 
 
 My gentle-hearted Charles ! when the last rook 
 
 Beat its straight path along the dusky air 
 
 Homewards, I blest it ! deeming, its black wing 
 
 (Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light) 
 
 Had cross'd the mighty orb's dilated glory. 
 
 While thou stood'st gazing ; or when all was still, 
 
 Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a charm 
 
 For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom 
 
 No sound is dissonant which tells of Life. 
 
 1797.
 
 Frost at Midnight 77 
 
 FROST AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 The Frost performs its secret ministry, 
 Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry 
 Came loud — and hark, again ! loud as before. 
 The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, 
 Have left me to that solitude, which suits 
 Abstruser musings : save that at my side 
 My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 
 'Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs 
 And vexes meditation with its strange 
 And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, 
 This populous village ! Sea, and hill, and wood, 
 With all the numberless goings-on of life. 
 Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame 
 Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not ; 
 Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, 
 Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. 
 Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature 
 Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, 
 Making it a companionable form. 
 Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit 
 By its own moods interprets, every where 
 Echo or mirror seeking of itself, 
 And makes a toy of Thought. 
 
 But O ! how oft. 
 How oft, at school, with most believing mind, 
 Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars.
 
 78 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 To watch that fluttering stranger ! and as oft 
 With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt 
 Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower. 
 Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang 
 From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, 
 So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me 
 With a wild pleasure, fallimg on mine ear 
 Most like articulate sounds of things to come ! 
 So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt 
 Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams ! 
 And so I brooded all the following morn, 
 Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye 
 Fixed with mock study on my swimming book : 
 Save if the door half opened, and I snatched 
 A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, 
 For still I hoped to see the stranger s face. 
 Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, 
 My play-mate when we both were clothed alike ! 
 
 Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, 
 Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, 
 Fill up the interspersed vacancies 
 And momentary pauses of the thought ! 
 My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart 
 With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, 
 And think that thou shalt learn far other lore. 
 And in far other scenes ! For I was reared 
 In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim. 
 And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. 
 But thou, my babe ! shalt wander like a breeze 
 By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 
 Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds. 
 Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores 
 And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear
 
 Frost at Midnight 79 
 
 The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 
 Of that eternal language, which thy God 
 Utters, who from eternity doth teach 
 Himself in all, and all things in himself. 
 Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould 
 Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 
 
 Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, 
 Whether the summer clothe the general earth 
 With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing 
 Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch 
 Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch 
 Smokes in the sun-thaw ; whether the eave-drops fall 
 Heard only in the trances of the blast. 
 Or if the secret ministry of frost 
 Shall hang them up in silent icicles. 
 Quietly shining to the quiet Moon. 
 
 February 1798.
 
 8o The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 FEARS IN SOLITUDE. 
 
 WRITTEN AT NETHER STOWEY IN APRIL 1 798, DURING 
 THE ALARM OF AN INVASION. 
 
 A GREEN and silent spot, amid the hills, 
 
 A small and silent dell ! O'er stiller place 
 
 No singing sky-lark ever poised himself. 
 
 The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope, 
 
 Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on. 
 
 All golden with the never-bloomless furze, 
 
 Which now blooms most profusely : but the dell. 
 
 Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate 
 
 As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax, 
 
 When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve. 
 
 The level sunshine glimmers with green light. 
 
 Oh ! 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook ! 
 
 Which all, methinks, would love ; but chiefly he. 
 
 The humble man, who, in his youthful years. 
 
 Knew just so much of folly, as had made 
 
 His early manhood more securely wise ! 
 
 Here he might lie on fern or withered heath. 
 
 While from the singing lark (that sings unseen 
 
 The minstrelsy that solitude loves best). 
 
 And from the sun, and from the breezy air. 
 
 Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame ; 
 
 And he, with many feelings, many thoughts. 
 
 Made up a meditative joy, and found 
 
 Religious meanings in the forms of nature ! 
 
 And so, his senses gradually wrapt 
 
 In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds.
 
 Fears in Solitude 8i 
 
 And dreaming hears thee still, O singing lark ; 
 ; That singest like an angel in the clouds ! 
 
 My God ! it is a melancholy thing 
 
 I For such a man, who would full fain preserve 
 
 I His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel 
 
 ; For all his human brethren — O my God ! 
 
 It weighs upon the heart, that he must think 
 
 What uproar and what strife may now be stirring 
 
 This way or that way o'er these silent hills — 
 
 Invasion, and the thunder and the shout. 
 
 And all the crash of onset ; fear and rage. 
 
 And undetermined conflict — even now. 
 
 Even now, perchance, and in his native isle : 
 
 Carnage and groans beneath this blessed sun ! 
 -X- * * * * 
 
 native Britain ! O my Mother Isle ! 
 
 How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holy 
 To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills. 
 Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas. 
 Have drunk in all my intellectual life. 
 All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts. 
 All adoration of the God in nature. 
 All lovely and all honourable things, 
 ■:. Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel 
 
 The joy and greatness of its future being ? 
 There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul 
 Unborrowed from my country ! O divine 
 And beauteous island ! thou hast been my sole 
 And most magnificent temple, in the which 
 
 1 walk with awe, and sing my stately songs. 
 Loving the God that made me ! — 
 
 May my fears. 
 My filial fears, be vain ! and may the vaunts
 
 82 The Golde?! Book of Coleridge 
 
 And menace of the vengeful enemy 
 Pass like the gust, that roared and died away 
 In the distant tree : which heard, and only heard 
 In this low dell, bow'd not the delicate grass. 
 
 But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad 
 The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze : 
 The light has left the summit of the hill, 
 Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful. 
 Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell, 
 Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot ! 
 On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill, 
 Homeward I wind my way ; and lo ! recalled 
 From bodings that have well-nigh wearied me, 
 I find myself upon the brow, and pause 
 Startled ! And after lonely sojourning 
 In such a quiet and surrounded nook. 
 This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main, 
 Dim-tinted, there the mighty majesty 
 Of that huge amphitheatre of rich 
 And elmy fields, seems like society — 
 Conversing with the mind, and giving it 
 A livelier impulse and a dance of thought ! 
 And now, beloved Stowey ! I behold 
 Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms 
 Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend ; 
 And close behind them, hidden from my view. 
 Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe 
 And my babe's mother dwell in peace ! With light 
 And quickened footsteps thitherward I tend, 
 Remembering thee, O green and silent dell ! 
 And grateful, that by nature's quietness 
 And solitary musings, all my heart 
 Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge 
 Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind.
 
 The Nightingale 83 
 
 THE NIGHTINGALE. 
 
 A CONVERSATION POEM, WRITTEN IN APRIL 1 798. 
 
 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 showers 
 
 That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 
 
 A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. 
 
 And hark ! the Nightingale begins its song, 
 
 ' Most musical, most melancholy ' bird ! 
 
 A melancholy bird ? Oh ! idle thought ! 
 
 In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 
 
 But some night-wandering man whose heart was pierced 
 
 With the remembrance of a grievous wrong. 
 
 Or slow distemper, or neglected love, 
 
 (And so, poor wretch ! fill'd all things with himself. 
 
 And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 
 
 Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he, 
 
 First named these notes a melancholy strain. 
 
 And many a poet echoes the conceit ; 
 
 Poet who hath been building up the rhyme 
 
 When he had better far have stretched his limbs 
 
 Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell.
 
 84 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 By sun or moon-light, to the influxes 
 Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements 
 Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song 
 And of his fame forgetful ! so his fame 
 Should share in Nature's immortality, 
 A venerable thing ! and so his song 
 Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself 
 Be loved like Nature ! 
 
 My Friend, and thou, our Sister ! we have learnt 
 A different lore : we may not thus profane 
 Nature's sweet voices, always full of love 
 And joyance ! 'Tis the merry Nightingale 
 That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates 
 With fast thick warble his delicious notes. 
 As he were fearful that an April night 
 Would be too short for him to utter forth 
 His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul 
 Of all its music ! 
 
 And I know a grove 
 Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 
 Which the great lord inhabits not ; and so 
 This grove is wild with tangling underwood. 
 And the trim walks are broken up, and grass. 
 Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. 
 But never elsewhere in one place I knew 
 So many nightingales ; and far and near, 
 In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, 
 They answer and provoke each other's songs. 
 With skirmish and capricious passagings. 
 And murmurs musical and swift jug-jug. 
 And one low piping sound more sweet than all — 
 Stirring the air with such an harmony,
 
 The Nightingale 85 
 
 That should you close your eyes, you might almost 
 Forget it was not day ! On moonlight bushes, 
 Whose dewy leaflets are but half-disclosed, 
 You may perchance behold them on the twigs. 
 Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright andTull, 
 Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade 
 Lights up her love-torch. 
 
 A most gentle Maid, 
 Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 
 Hard by the castle, and at latest eve 
 (Even like a Lady vowed and dedicate 
 To something more than Nature in the grove) 
 Glides through the pathways ; she knows all their notes, 
 That gentle Maid ! and oft, a moment's space. 
 What time the moon was lost behind a cloud. 
 Hath heard a pause of silence ; till the moon 
 Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky 
 With one sensation, and those wakeful birds 
 Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, 
 As if some sudden gale had swept at once 
 A hundred airy harps ! And she hath watched 
 Many a nightingale perch giddily 
 On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze, 
 And to that motion tune his wanton song 
 Like tipsy joy that reels with tossing head. 
 
 Farewell, O Warbler ! till to-morrow eve. 
 And you, my friends ! farewell, a short farewell ! 
 We have been loitering long and pleasantly. 
 And now for our dear homes. — That strain again ! 
 Full fain it would delay me ! My dear babe, 
 Who, capable of no articulate sound. 
 Mars all things with his imitative lisp.
 
 86 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 How he would place his hand beside his ear, 
 
 His little hand, the small forefinger up, 
 
 And bid us listen ! And I deem it wise 
 
 To make him Nature's play-mate. He knows well 
 
 The evening-star ; and once, when he awoke 
 
 In most distressful mood (some inward pain 
 
 Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream), 
 
 I hurried with him to our orchard-plot. 
 
 And he beheld the moon, and, hushed at once, 
 
 Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, 
 
 While his fair eyes, that swam with undropped tears, 
 
 Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam ! Well ! — 
 
 It is a father's tale : But if that Heaven 
 
 Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up 
 
 Familiar with these songs, that with the night 
 
 He may associate joy. — Once more, farewell, 
 
 Sweet Nightingale ! once more, my friends ! farewell. 
 
 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 an hollow sound ; 
 And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly. 
 Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct
 
 Lines Written in the Album at Elbingerode 87 
 
 From many a note of many a waterfall, 
 
 And the brook's chatter ; 'mid whose islet-stones 
 
 The dingy kidhng 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 ! O thou Queen, 
 
 Thou delegated Deity of Earth, 
 
 O dear, dear England ! how my longing eye 
 
 Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds 
 
 Thy sands and high white cliffs ! 
 
 My native Land ! 
 Filled with the thought of thee this heart was proud. 
 Yea, mine eye swam with tears : that all the view 
 From 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. 
 
 May 17, 1799.
 
 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 CONSTANCY TO AN IDEAL OBJECT. 
 
 Since all that beat about in Nature's range, 
 Or veer or vanish ; why should'st thou remain 
 The only constant in a world of change, 
 
 yearning Thought ! that liv'st but in the brain ? 
 Call to the Hours, that in the distance play. 
 
 The faery people of the future day — 
 
 Fond Thought ! not one of all that shining swarm 
 
 Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath. 
 
 Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm, 
 
 Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death ! 
 
 Yet still thou haunt'st me ; and though well I see, 
 
 She is not thou, and only thou art she. 
 
 Still, still as though some dear embodied Good, 
 
 Some living Love before my eyes there stood 
 
 With answering look a ready ear to lend, 
 
 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 peacefullest cot, the moon shall shine upon. 
 Lulled by the thmsh and wakened by the lark. 
 Without thee were but a becalmed bark. 
 Whose helmsman on an ocean waste and wide 
 Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside. 
 
 And art thou nothing ? Such thou art, as when 
 The woodman winding westward up the glen
 
 The Garden of Boccaccio 89 
 
 At wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's maze 
 The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist'ning haze, 
 Sees full before him, gliding without tread. 
 An image with a glory round its head ; 
 The enamoured rustic worships its fair hues. 
 Nor knows he makes the shadow he pursues ! 
 
 ? 1805. 
 
 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, 
 
 1 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.
 
 90 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Gazed by an idle eye with silent might 
 
 The picture stole upon my inward sight. 
 
 A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest, 
 
 As though an infant's finger touch'd my breast. 
 
 And one by one (I know not whence) were brought 
 
 All spirits of power that most had stirr'd my thought 
 
 In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost 
 
 Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost ; 
 
 Or charm'd my youth, that, kindled from above. 
 
 Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love ; 
 
 Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan 
 
 Of manhood, musing what and whence is man ! 
 
 Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea-worn caves 
 
 Rehearsed their war-spell to the winds and waves ; 
 
 Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids. 
 
 That call'd on Hertha in deep forest glades ; 
 
 Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's feast ; 
 
 Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest. 
 
 Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array, 
 
 To high-church pacing on the great saint's day. 
 
 And many a verse which to myself I sang. 
 
 That woke the tear yet stole away the pang, 
 
 Of hopes which in lamenting I renew'd. 
 
 And last, a matron now, of sober mien, 
 
 Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen, 
 
 Whom as a faery child my childhood woo'd 
 
 Even in my dawn of thought — Philosophy ; 
 
 Though then unconscious of herself, pardie, 
 
 She bore no other name than Poesy ; 
 
 And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee, 
 
 That had but newly left a mother's knee. 
 
 Prattled and play'd with bird and flower, and stone. 
 
 As if with elfin playfellows well known. 
 
 And life reveal'd to innocence alone.
 
 The Garden of Boccaccio 91 
 
 Thanks, gentle artist ! now I can descry 
 Thy fair creation with a mastering eye, 
 And all awake ! And now in fix'd gaze stand, 
 Now wander through the Eden of thy hand ; 
 Praise the green arches, on the fountain clear 
 See fragment shadows of the crossing deer ; 
 And with that serviceable nymph I stoop 
 The crystal from its restless pool to scoop. 
 I see no longer ! I myself am there. 
 Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share. 
 'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings. 
 And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings ; 
 Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells 
 From the high tower, and think that there she dwells. 
 With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest, 
 And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest. 
 The brightness of the world, O thou once free, 
 And always fair, rare land of courtesy ! 
 O Florence ! with the Tuscan fields and hills 
 And famous Arno, fed with all their rills ; 
 Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy ! 
 Rich, ornate, populous, all treasures thine. 
 The golden corn, the olive, and the vine. 
 Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old. 
 And forests, where beside his leafy hold 
 The sullen boar hath heard the distant horn. 
 And whets his tusks against the gnarled thorn ; 
 Palladian palace with its storied halls ; 
 Fountains, where Love lies listening to their falls ; 
 Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy span. 
 And Nature makes her happy home with man ; 
 Where many a gorgeous flower is duly fed 
 With its own rill, on its own spangled bed, 
 And wreathes the marble urn, or leans its head.
 
 g2 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 A mimic mourner, that with veil withdrawn 
 Weeps liquid gems, the presents of the dawn ; — 
 Thine all delights, and every muse is thine ; 
 And more than all, the embrace and intertwine 
 Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance ! 
 'Mid gods of Greece and warriors of romance, 
 See ! Boccace sits, unfolding on his knees 
 The new-found roll of old Masonides ; 
 But from his mande's fold, and near the heart, 
 Peers Ovid's Holy Book of Love's sweet smart ! ^ 
 O all-enjoying and all-blending sage. 
 Long be it mine to con thy mazy page. 
 Where, half conceal'd, the eye of fancy views 
 Fauns, nymphs, and winged saints, all gracious to thy 
 muse ! 
 
 Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks. 
 And see in Dian's vest between the ranks 
 Of the trim vines, some maid that half believes 
 The "vestal fires, of which her lover grieves. 
 With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves ! 
 
 1828. 
 
 1 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 Filo- 
 copo 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. " Incomincio Racheo a mettere il suo officio 
 in esecuzione con intera soUecitudine. E loro, in breve tempo, 
 insegnato a conoscer le lettere, fece leggere il santo libro 
 d'Ovvidio, nel quale il sommo poeta mostra, come i santi 
 fuochi di Venere si debbano ne freddi cuori accendere."
 
 II. 
 ODES AND HYMNS.
 
 ODE ON THE DEPARTING YEAR. 
 
 'loi) lo{l, U) ib Ka/cct. 
 ' Ttt ' a5 iJ.e Setvbs 6p0ofiavTeias ttoi'O's 
 "ZiTpo^el, rapaccuiv <ppOLfiloLS ecprjfiiois 
 
 T6 /jLiWov rj?«. Kai fftj /x' ip rctxet irapwv 
 " Ayav aXrjOofiavTip o'CKreipas ipels. 
 
 JEschy\, Agam. I zi^-li ; 1240-41. 
 
 Argument.— The Ode commences with an address to the Divine Pro- 
 vidence, that regulates into one vast harmony all the events of time, 
 however calamitous some of them may appear to mortals. 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 of Russia, who died of an apoplexy 
 on the 17th of November 1796; having just concluded a subsidiary 
 treaty with the Kings combined against France. The first and second 
 Antistrophe describe the Image of the Departing Year, etc., as in a 
 vision. The second Epode prophesies, io anguish of spirit, the down- 
 fall of this country. 
 
 Spirit who sweepest the wild harp of Time ! 
 
 It is most hard, with an untroubled ear 
 
 Thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear ! 
 Yet, mine eye fixed on Heaven's unchanging clime 
 Long had I listened, free from mortal fear, 
 
 With inward stillness, and submitted 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 
 Ere yet the entered cloud foreclosed my sight, 
 I raised the impetuous song, and solemnized his flight. 
 
 95
 
 96 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Hither, from the recent tomb, 
 From the prison's direr gloom, 
 From distemper's midnight anguish ; 
 And thence, where poverty doth waste and languish ; 
 Or where, his two bright torches blending, 
 
 Love illumines Manhood's maze ; 
 Or where o'er cradled infants blending, 
 Hope has fixed her wishful gaze ; 
 Hither, in perplexed dance. 
 Ye woes ! ye young-eyed Joys ! advance ! 
 By Time's wild harp, and by the hand 
 Whose indefatigable sweep 
 Raises its fateful strings from sleep, 
 1 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 !
 
 Ode on the Departing Tear 97 
 
 Stunned by Death's twice mortal mace, 
 
 No more on Murder's lurid face 
 The insatiate hag shall gloat with drunken eye ! 
 
 Manes of the unnumbered slain ! 
 
 Ye that gasped on Warsaw's plain ! 
 Ye that erst at Ismail's tower, 
 When human ruin choked the streams. 
 
 Fell in conquest's glutted hour, 
 'Mid women's shrieks and infants' screams ! 
 Spirits of the 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 ! 
 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. 
 Aye Memory sits : thy robe inscribed with gore, 
 With many an unimaginable groan 
 
 Thou storied'st thy sad hours ! Silence ensued. 
 Deep silence o'er the ethereal multitude. 
 Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with glories 
 shone. 
 Then, his eye wild ardours glancing. 
 From the choired gods advancing, 
 The Spirit of the Earth made reverence meet. 
 And stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy seat. 
 G
 
 98 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 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 
 spake ! 
 ' Thou in stormy blackness throning 
 Love and uncreated Light, 
 By the Earth's unsolaced groaning. 
 
 Seize thy terrors, Arm of might ! 
 By Peace with profFer'd insult scared, 
 Masked hate and envying scorn ! 
 By years of havoc yet unborn 1 
 And Hunger's bosom to the frost-winds bared ! 
 But chief by Afric's wrongs, 
 Strange, horrible, and foul ! 
 By what deep guilt belongs 
 To the deaf Synod, ' full of gifts and lies ! ' 
 By Wealth's insensate laugh ! by Torture's howl ! 
 Avenger, rise ! 
 For ever shall the thankless Island scowl, 
 Her cjuiver full, and with unbroken bow ? 
 Speak ! from thy storm-black Heaven O speak aloud ! 
 
 And on the darkling foe 
 Open thine eye of fire from some uncertain cloud ! 
 
 O 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 ! 
 Rise, God of Nature ! rise.' 
 
 VI. 
 
 The voice had ceased, the vision fled ; 
 Yet still I gasped and reeled with dread.
 
 Ode on the Departing Tear 99 
 
 And ever, when the dream of night 
 Renews the phantom to my sight, 
 Cold sweat-drops gather on my limbs ; 
 
 My ears throb hot ; my eye-balls start ; 
 My brain with horrid tumult swims ; 
 
 Wild is the tempest of my heart ; 
 And my thick, and 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 I 
 (The strife is o'er, the day-light fled. 
 
 And the night-wind clamours hoarse ! 
 See ! the starting wretch's head 
 
 Lies pillowed on a brother's corse ! ) 
 
 Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile, 
 O Albion ! O 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.
 
 lOO The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Abandon'd 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 join'd 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, 
 
 O Albion ! thy predestined ruins rise. 
 The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap. 
 Muttering distempered triumph in her charmed sleep. 
 
 Away, my soul, away ! 
 In vain, 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 country 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 loi 
 
 FRANCE: AN ODE. 
 
 Ye Clouds ! that far above me float and pause, 
 
 Whose pathless march no mortal may controul ! 
 
 Ye Ocean-Waves ! that, whereso'er ye roll, 
 Yield homage only to eternal laws ! 
 Ye Woods ! that listen to the night-birds' singing, 
 
 Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined, 
 Save when your own imperious branches swinging. 
 
 Have made a solemn music of the wind ! 
 Where, like a man beloved of God, 
 Through glooms, which never woodman trod, 
 
 How oft, pursuing fancies holy. 
 My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound, 
 
 Inspired, beyond the guess of folly. 
 By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound ! 
 O ye loud Waves ! and O ye Forests high ! 
 
 And O ye Clouds that far above me soared ! 
 Thou rising Sun ! thou blue rejoicing Sky ! 
 
 Yea, every thing that is and will be free ! 
 
 Bear witness for me, whereso'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 !
 
 I02 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 With what a joy my lofty gratulation 
 
 Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band : 
 And when to whelm the disenchanted nation, 
 
 Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand. 
 The Monarchs marched in evil day, 
 And Britain join'd the dire array ; 
 
 Though dear her shores and circling ocean. 
 Though many friendships, many youthful loves 
 
 Had swoln the patriot emotion 
 And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves ; 
 Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat 
 
 To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance. 
 And shame too long delay'd and vain retreat ! 
 For ne'er, O Liberty ! vvdth partial aim 
 I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame ; 
 
 But blessed the pasans of delivered France, 
 And hung my head and wept at Britain's name. 
 
 * And what,' I said, ' though Blasphemy's loud scream 
 
 With that sweet music of deliverance strove ! 
 
 Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove 
 A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream ! 
 
 Ye storms, that round the dawning east assembled, 
 The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light ! ' 
 
 And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and 
 trembled. 
 The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright ; 
 
 When France her front deep-warr'd and gory 
 
 Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory ; 
 When, insupportably advancing, 
 
 Her arm made mockery of the warrior's ramp ; 
 While timid looks of fury glancing. 
 
 Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp,
 
 Frmice : An Ode 1 02, 
 
 Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore ; 
 
 Then I reproached my fears that would not flee ; 
 ' And soon,' I said, ' shall Wisdom teach her lore 
 In the low huts of them that toil and groan ! 
 And, conquering by her happiness alone, 
 
 Shall France compel the nations to be free, 
 Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Earth their 
 own.' 
 
 Forgive me. Freedom ! O forgive those dreams ! 
 
 I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament. 
 
 From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent — 
 I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams ! 
 
 Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished, 
 And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows 
 
 With bleeding wounds ; forgive me, that 
 cherished 
 One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes ! 
 
 To scatter rage and traitorous guilt 
 
 Where Peace her jealous home had built ; 
 A patriot-race to disinherit 
 Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear ; 
 
 And with inexpiable spirit 
 To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer — 
 O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind, 
 
 And patriot only in pernicious toils ! 
 Are these thy boasts. Champion of human kind ? 
 
 To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway. 
 Yell. in the hunt, and share the murderous prey ; 
 To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils 
 
 From freemen torn ; to tempt and to betray ?
 
 I04 T^f^e Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, 
 Slaves by their own compulsion ! In mad game 
 They burst their manacles and wear the name 
 
 Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain ! 
 O Liberty ! with profitless endeavour 
 Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour ; 
 
 But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever 
 Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. 
 Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee, 
 (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee) 
 
 Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions. 
 And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves. 
 Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, 
 The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the 
 
 waves 
 
 And there I felt thee ! — on that sea-cliff's verge, 
 
 Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above. 
 
 Had made one murmur with the distant surge ! 
 
 Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare, 
 
 And shot my being through earth, sea and air. 
 
 Possessing all things with intensest love, 
 
 O Liberty ! my spirit felt thee there. 
 
 February i 798.
 
 Dejection : An Ode 1 05 
 
 DEJECTION : AN ODE. 
 
 WRITTEN APRIL 4, l802. 
 
 Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon, 
 With the old Moon in her arms ; 
 And I fear, I fear, my Master dear ! 
 We shall have a deadly storm. 
 
 Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence. 
 
 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 ^olian lute. 
 Which better far were mute. 
 For lo ! the New-moon winter-bright ! 
 And overspread with phantom light, 
 (With swimming phantom light o'erspread 
 But rimmed and circled by a silver thread) 
 I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling 
 
 The coming-on of rain and squally blast. 
 And oh ! that even now the gust were swelling, 
 
 And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast ! 
 Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed, 
 
 And sent my soul abroad, 
 Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give. 
 Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live !
 
 io6 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear, 
 A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief, 
 Which finds no natural outlet, no relief. 
 In word, or sigh, or tear — 
 
 Lady ! in this wan and heartless mood, 
 To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd. 
 
 All this long eve, so balmy and serene, 
 Have I been gazing on the western sky, 
 
 And its peculiar tint of yellow green : 
 And still I gaze — and with how blank an eye ! 
 And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars, 
 That give away their motion to the stars ; 
 Those stars, that glide behind them or between, 
 Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen : 
 Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew 
 In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue ; 
 
 1 see them all so excellently fair, 
 
 I see, not feel, how beautiful they are ! 
 
 My genial spirits fail ; 
 
 And what can these avail 
 To lift the smothering weight from off my breast ? 
 
 It were a vain endeavour. 
 
 Though I should gaze for ever 
 On that green light that lingers in the west : 
 I may not hope from outward forms to win 
 The passion and the life, whose fountains are within. 
 
 O Lady ! we receive but what we give, 
 And in our life alone does Nature live :
 
 Dejection : An Ode 107 
 
 Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud ! 
 
 And would we aught behold, of higher worth, 
 Than that inanimate cold world allowed 
 To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd. 
 
 Ah ! from the soul itself must issue forth 
 A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud 
 
 Enveloping the Earth — 
 And from the soul itself must there be sent 
 
 A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth. 
 Of all sweet sounds the life and element ! 
 
 O pure of heart ! thou need'st not ask of me 
 What this strong music in the soul may be ! 
 What, and wherein it doth exist, 
 This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist, 
 This beautiful and beauty-making power. 
 
 Joy, virtuous Lady ! Joy that ne'er was given, 
 Save to the pure, and in their purest hour. 
 Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower, 
 Joy, Lady ! is the spirit and the power. 
 Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower, 
 
 A new Earth and new Heaven, 
 Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud — 
 Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud — 
 
 We in ourselves rejoice ! 
 And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight, 
 
 All melodies the echoes of that voice, 
 All colours a suffusion from that light. 
 
 VI. 
 
 There was a time when, though my path was rough, 
 This joy within me dallied with distress, 
 
 And all misfortunes were but as the stuff 
 
 Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness :
 
 io8 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 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 byabstmse 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. 
 
 Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind. 
 
 Reality's dark dream ! 
 I turn from you, and listen to the wind. 
 
 Which long has raved unnoticed. 
 What a scream 
 Of agony by torture lengthened out 
 That lute sent forth ! Thou Wind, that rav'st without, 
 
 Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree, 
 Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb. 
 Or lonely house, long held the witches' home, 
 
 Methinks were fitter instruments for thee, 
 Mad Lutanlst ! who in this month of showers. 
 Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers, 
 Mak'st Devil's yule, with worse than wintry song. 
 The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among. 
 
 Thou actor, perfect in all tragic sounds ! 
 Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold !
 
 Dejection : An Ode 109 
 
 What tell'st thou now about ? 
 
 'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout, 
 With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds — 
 At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold ! 
 But hush ! there is a pause of deepest silence ! 
 
 And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd. 
 With groans, and tremulous shudderings — all is over — 
 It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud ! 
 
 A tale of less affright. 
 
 And tempered with delight, 
 As Otway's self had framed the tender lay, 
 
 'Tis of a little child 
 
 Upon a lonesome wild. 
 Not far from home, but she hath lost her way : 
 And now moans low in bitter grief and fear. 
 And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear. 
 
 'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep : 
 Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep ! 
 Visit her, gentle Sleep ! with wings of healing, 
 
 And may this storm be but a mountain-birth, 
 May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling. 
 
 Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth ! 
 With light heart may she rise. 
 Gay fancy, cheerful eyes, 
 
 Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice ; 
 To her may all things live, from pole to pole, 
 Their life the eddying of her living soul ! 
 
 O simple spirit, guided from above. 
 Dear Lady ! friend devoutest of my choice, 
 Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice. 

 
 I lO The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 ODE TO TRANQ^UILLITY. 
 
 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 steadfast shore. 
 Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with its roar. 
 
 Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine, 
 On him but seldom. Power divine, 
 Thy spirit rests ! Satiety 
 And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee, 
 Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope 
 And dire Remembrance interlope, 
 To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind : 
 The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind. 
 
 But me thy gentle hand will lead 
 At morning through the accustomed mead ; 
 And in the sultry summer's heat 
 Will build me up a mossy seat ; 
 And when the gust of Autumn crowds. 
 And breaks the busy moonlight clouds. 
 Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune. 
 Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon.
 
 Hy7nn to the Earth 1 1 1 
 
 The feeling heart, the searching soul, 
 To thee I dedicate the whole ! 
 And while within myself I trace 
 The greatness of some future race, 
 Aloof with hermit-eye I scan 
 The present works of present man — 
 A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile, 
 Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile ! 
 
 1801. 
 
 HYMN TO THE EARTH. 
 
 [^IMITATED FROM STOLBERg's HYMNE AN DIE ERDe7\ 
 HEXAMETERS. 
 
 Earth ! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse 
 
 and the mother. 
 Hail ! O Goddess, thrice hail ! Blest be thou ! and, 
 
 blessing, I hymn thee ! 
 Forth, ye sweet sounds ! from my harp, and my voice 
 
 shall float on your surges — 
 Soar thou aloft, O my soul ! and bear up my song on 
 
 thy pinions. 
 
 Travelling the vale with mine eyes — green meadows 
 
 and lake with green island. 
 Dark in its basin of rock, and the bare stream flowing 
 
 in brightness, 
 Thrill'd with thy beauty and love in the wooded slope 
 
 of the mountain, 
 Here, great mother, I lie, thy child, with his head on 
 
 thy bosom !
 
 1 1 2 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Playful the spirits of noon, that rushing soft through thy 
 
 tresses, 
 Green-hair'd goddess! refresh me; and hark! as they 
 
 hurry or linger, 
 Fill the pause of my harp, or sustain it with musical 
 
 murmurs. 
 Into my being thou murmurest joy, and tenderest sadness 
 Shedd'st thou, like dew, on my heart, till the joy and 
 
 the heavenly sadness 
 Pour themselves forth from my heart in tears, and the 
 
 hymn of thanksgiving. 
 
 Earth ! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse 
 
 and the mother. 
 Sister thou of the stars, and beloved by the Sun, the 
 
 rejoicer ! 
 Guardian and friend of the moon, O Earth, whom the 
 
 comets forget not, 
 Yea, in the measureless distance wheel round and again 
 
 they behold thee ! 
 Fadeless and young (and what if the latest birth ot 
 
 creation ?) 
 Bride and consort of Heaven, that looks down upon 
 
 thee enamour'd ! 
 Say, mysterious Earth ! O say, great mother and 
 
 goddess. 
 Was it not well with thee then, when first thy lap was 
 
 ungirdled. 
 Thy lap to the genial Heaven, the day that he woo'd 
 
 thee and won thee ! 
 
 Fair was thy blush, the fairest and first of the blushes of 
 morning ! 
 
 Deep was the shudder, O Earth ! the throe of thy self- 
 retention :
 
 Hy?nn to the Earth 113 
 
 Inly thou strovest to flee, and didst seek thyself at thy 
 centre ! 
 
 Mightier far was the joy of thy sudden resilience ; and 
 forthwith 
 
 Myriad myriads of lives teem'd forth from the mighty 
 embracement. 
 
 Thousand-fold tribes of dwellers, impell'd by thousand- 
 fold instincts, 
 
 Fill'd, as a dream, the wide waters ; the rivers sang on 
 their channels ; 
 
 Laugh'd on their shores the hoarse seas ; the yearning 
 ocean swell'd upward ; 
 
 Young life low'd through the meadows, the woods, and 
 the echoing mountains, 
 
 Wander'd bleating in valleys, and warbled on blossom- 
 ing branches. 
 
 ? 1799.
 
 1 1 4 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 ON A CATARACT 
 
 FROM A CAVERN NEAR THE SUMMIT OF A MOUNTAIN 
 PRECIPICE. 
 
 [after STOLBERg's UNSTERBLICHER yUNGLING7\ 
 
 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-mnrmur'd charm of the son of the rock, 
 
 That is lisp'd evermore at his slumberless fountain. 
 
 There's a cloud at the portal, a spray-woven veil 
 
 At the shrine of his ceaseless renewing ; 
 
 It embosoms the roses of dawn. 
 
 It entangles the shafts of the noon, 
 
 And into the bed of its stillness 
 
 The moonshine sinks down as in slumber. 
 
 That the son of the rock, that the nursling of heaven 
 
 May be born in a holy twilight ! 
 
 1799.
 
 The Visit of the Gods 115 
 
 THE VISIT OF THE GODS. 
 
 IMITATED FROM SCHILLER. 
 
 Never, believe me, 
 Appear the Immortals, 
 Never alone : 
 Scarce had I welcomed the Sorrow-beguiler, 
 lacchus ! but in came Boy Cupid the Smiler ; 
 Lo ! Phoebus the Glorious descends from his throne ! 
 They advance, they float in, the Olympians all ! 
 With Divinities fills my 
 Terrestrial hall ! 
 
 How shall I yield you 
 Due entertainment. 
 Celestial quire ? 
 Me rather, bright guests ! with your wings of upbuoyance 
 Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of joyance. 
 That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre ! 
 Hah ! we mount ! on their pinions they waft up my soul ! 
 O give me the nectar ! 
 O fill me the bowl ! 
 
 Give him the nectar ! 
 Pour out for the poet, 
 Hebe ! pour free ! 
 Quicken his eyes with celestial dew, 
 That Styx the detested no more he may view, 
 And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be ! 
 Thanks, Hebe ! I quaff it ! lo Ptean, I cry ! 
 The wine of the Immortals 
 
 Forbids me to die ! 1 799.
 
 1 1 6 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE IN THE 
 VALE OF CHAMOUNI. 
 
 Besides the Rivers, Arve and Arveiron, which have their 
 sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents 
 rush down its sides ; and within a few paces of the Glaciers, 
 the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its 
 " flowers of loveliest blue." 
 
 Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star 
 In his steep course ? So long he seems to pause 
 On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc ! 
 The Arve and Arveiron at thy base 
 Rave ceaselessly ; but thou, most awful Form ! 
 Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines. 
 How silently ! Around thee and above 
 Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black. 
 An ebon mass : methinks thou piercest it. 
 As with a wedge ! But when I look again. 
 It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine. 
 Thy habitation from eternity ! 
 
 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 !
 
 Hynm before Sun-rise in Vale of Chamouni 1 1 7 
 
 Awake, my soul ! not only passive praise 
 Thou owest ! not alone these swelling tears, 
 Mute thanks and secret ecstasy ! Awake, 
 Voice of sweet song ! Awake, my heart, awake ! 
 Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my hymn. 
 
 Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale ! 
 O stiMggling with the darkness all the night, 
 And visited all night by troops of stars. 
 Or when they climb the sky or when they sink : 
 Companion of the morning-star at dawn, 
 Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn 
 Co-hcrald : wake, O wake, and utter praise ! 
 Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth ? 
 Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light ? 
 Who made thee parent of perpetual streams ? 
 
 And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad ! 
 Who called you forth from night and utter death, 
 From dark and icy caverns called you forth, 
 Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks, 
 For ever shattered and the same for ever ? 
 Who gave you your invulnerable life. 
 Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy. 
 Unceasing thunder and eternal foam ? 
 And who commanded (and the silence came). 
 Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest ? 
 
 Ye Ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow 
 Adown enormous ravines slope amain — 
 Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice. 
 And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge ! 
 Motionless torrents ! silent cataracts ! 
 Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven 
 Beneath the keen full moon ? Who bade the sun
 
 1 1 8 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Clothe you with rainbows I Who, with living flowers 
 Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet I — 
 God ! let the torrents, like a shout of nations, 
 Answer ! and let the ice-plains echo, God ! 
 God ! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice ! 
 Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds ! 
 And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow, 
 And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God ! 
 
 Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost ! 
 Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! 
 Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm ! 
 Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! 
 Ye signs and wonders of the element ! 
 Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! 
 
 Thou too, hoar Mount ! with thy sky-pointing peaks, 
 Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard. 
 Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene 
 Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast — 
 Thou too again, stupendous Mountain ! thou 
 That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low 
 In adoration, upward from thy base 
 Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears, 
 Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud, 
 To rise before me — Rise, O ever rise. 
 Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth ! 
 Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills, 
 Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven, 
 Great hierarch ! tell thou the silent sky, 
 And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun 
 Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. 
 
 1802.
 
 III. 
 
 THE ANCIENT MARINER, 
 AND OTHER POEMS.
 
 THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. 
 
 IN SEVEN PARTS. 
 
 ARGUMENT. 
 
 How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to 
 the cold Country towards the South Pole ; and how from thence 
 she made her course to the tropical Latitude of the Great 
 Pacific Ocean ; and of the strange things that befell ; and in 
 what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to his own 
 Country. [1798.] 
 
 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. 
 
 An ancient 
 Mariner 
 meeteth 
 three 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 talc.
 
 122 
 
 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 The Mariner 
 tells how the 
 ship sailed 
 southward 
 with a good 
 wind and fair 
 weather, till 
 it reached 
 the line. 
 
 The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone : 
 He cannot choose but hear ; 
 And thus spake on that ancient man, 
 The bright-eyed Mariner. 
 
 ' The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared. 
 
 Merrily did we drop 
 
 Below the kirk, below the hill, 
 
 Below the lighthouse top. 
 
 The sun came up upon the left. 
 Out of the sea came he ! 
 And he shone bright, and on the right 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 Higher and higher every day, 
 
 Till over the mast at noon — ' 
 
 The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast. 
 
 For he heard the loud bassoon. 
 
 The Wed- 
 ding-Guest 
 heareth the 
 bridal music; 
 but the Mar- 
 iner con- 
 tinueth his 
 tale. 
 
 The ship 
 driven by a 
 storm toward 
 the south 
 pole. 
 
 The bride had paced into the hall. 
 Red as a rose is she ; 
 Nodding their heads before her goes 
 The merry minstrelsy. 
 
 The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast. 
 Yet he cannot choose but hear ; 
 And thus spake on that ancient man. 
 The bright-eyed Mariner. 
 
 ' And now the Storm-blast came, and he 
 Was tyrannous and strong : 
 He struck with his o'ertaking wings, 
 And chased us south along.
 
 The Ri?ne of the Ancient Mariner 
 
 12 
 
 With sloping masts and dipping prow, 
 As who pursued with yell and blow 
 Still treads the shadow of his foe, 
 And forward bends his head. 
 The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast, 
 And southward aye we fled. 
 
 And now there came both mist and snow. 
 And it grew wondrous cold : 
 And ice, mast-high, came floating by, 
 As green as emerald. 
 
 And through the drifts the snowy clifts 
 Did send a dismal sheen : 
 Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken — 
 The ice was all between. 
 
 The ice was here, the ice was there. 
 
 The ice was all around : 
 
 It cracked and growled, and roared and howled. 
 
 Like noises in a swound ! 
 
 At length did cross an Albatross, 
 Thorough the fog it came ; 
 As if it had been a Christian soul. 
 We hailed it in God's name. 
 
 It ate the food it ne'er had eat. 
 And round and round it flew. 
 The ice did split with a thunder-fit ; 
 The helmsman steered us through ! 
 
 And a good south wind sprung up behind ; 
 The Albatross did follow. 
 And every day, for food or play. 
 Came to the mariner's hollo ! 
 
 The land of 
 ice, and of 
 fearful 
 
 sounds where 
 no living 
 thing was to 
 be seen. 
 
 Till a great 
 sea-bird, 
 called the 
 Albatross, 
 came 
 
 through the 
 snow-fog, 
 and was re- 
 ceived with 
 great joy and 
 hospitality. 
 
 And lo ! the 
 Albatross 
 proveth a 
 bird of good 
 omen, and 
 foUowcth the 
 ship as it re- 
 turned north- 
 ward 
 
 through fog 
 and floating
 
 124 ^^^ Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, 
 
 It perched for vespers nine ; 
 
 Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white. 
 
 Glimmered the white moon-shine.' 
 
 ' God save thee, ancient Mariner ! 
 From the fiends, that plague thee thus ! — 
 Why look'st thou so ? ' — With my cross-bow 
 I shot the Albatross. 
 
 Part II. 
 
 The Sun now rose upon the right : 
 Out of the sea came he. 
 Still hid in mist, and on the left " 
 Went down into the sea. 
 
 And the good south wind still blew behind. 
 But no sweet bird did follow, 
 Nor any day for food or play 
 Came to the mariner's hollo ! 
 
 And I had done a hellish thing, 
 
 And it would work 'em woe : 
 
 For all averred, I had killed the bird 
 
 That made the breeze to blow. 
 
 Ah wretch ! said they, the bird to slay. 
 
 That made the breeze to blow ! 
 
 Nor dim nor red, like God's own head. 
 
 The glorious Sun uprist : 
 
 Then all averred, I had killed the bird 
 
 That brought the fog and mist. 
 
 'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay. 
 
 That bring the fog and mist.
 
 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 
 
 125 
 
 The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew, 
 The furrow followed free ; 
 We were the first that ever burst 
 Into that silent sea. 
 
 Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down, 
 'Twas sad as sad could be ; 
 And we did speak only to break 
 The silence of the sea ! 
 
 All in a hot and copper sky. 
 The bloody Sun, at noon. 
 Right up above the mast did stand, 
 No bigger than the Moon. 
 
 Day after day, day after day, 
 We stuck, nor breath nor motion ; 
 As idle as a painted ship 
 Upon a painted ocean. 
 
 Water, water, every where. 
 And all the boards did shrink ; 
 Water, water, every where 
 Nor any drop to drink. 
 
 The very deep did rot : O Christ ! 
 That ever this should be ! 
 Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs 
 Upon the slimy sea. 
 
 About, about, in reel and rout 
 The death-fires danced at night ; 
 The water, like a witch's oils, 
 Burnt green, and blue and white. 
 
 The fair 
 breeze con- 
 tinues ; the 
 ship enters 
 the Pacific 
 Ocean, and 
 sails north- 
 ward, even 
 till it reaches 
 the Line. 
 The ship 
 hath been 
 suddenly be- 
 calmed. 
 
 And the Al- 
 batross be- 
 gins to be 
 avenged.
 
 126 
 
 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 A Spirit had followed 
 them ; one of the invisible 
 inhabitants of this planet, 
 neither departed souls 
 nor angels ; concerning 
 whom the learned Jew, 
 Josephus, and the Pla- 
 tonic Constantinopolitan, 
 Michael Psellus, may be 
 consulted. They are very 
 numerous, and there is 
 no climate or element 
 without one or more. 
 
 The ship-mates, in their 
 sore distress, would fain 
 throw the whole guilt on 
 the ancient Mariner: in 
 sign whereof they hang 
 the dead sea-bird round 
 his neck. 
 
 And some in dreams assured were 
 Of the Spirit that plagued us so 
 Nine fathom deep he had followed us 
 From the land of mist and snow. 
 
 And every tongue, through utter drought, 
 Was withered at the root ; 
 We could not speak, no more than if 
 We had been choked with soot. 
 
 Ah ! well a-day ! what evil looks 
 Had I from old and young ! 
 Instead of the cross, the Albatross 
 About my neck was hung. 
 
 The Ancient 
 Mariner be- 
 holdeth a 
 sign in the 
 element afar 
 off. 
 
 Part III. 
 
 There passed a weary time. Each throat 
 
 Was parched, and glazed each eye. 
 
 A weary time ! a weary time ! 
 
 How glazed each weary eye, 
 
 When looking westward, I beheld 
 
 A something in the sky. 
 
 At first it seemed a little speck, 
 And then it seemed a mist ; 
 It moved and moved, and took at last 
 A certain shape, I wist. 
 
 A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist ! 
 And still it neared and neared : 
 As if it dodged a water-sprite, 
 It plunged and tacked and veered.
 
 The Rime of the Anciejit Mariner 
 
 127 
 
 With throats unslaked, with black, lips baked, 
 
 We could nor laugh nor wail ; 
 
 Through utter drought all dumb we stood ! 
 
 I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, 
 
 And cried, A sail ! a sail ! 
 
 With throats unslaked, with black lips baked. 
 Agape they heard me call : 
 Gramercy ! they for joy did grin, 
 And all at once their breath drew in. 
 As they were drinking all. 
 
 At its nearer 
 approach, it 
 seemeth 
 him to be a 
 ship ; and at 
 a dear ran- 
 som he 
 freeth his 
 speech from 
 the bonds of 
 thirst. 
 
 A flash of 
 
 joy ; 
 
 See ! see ! (I cried) she tacks no more ! 
 Hither to work us weal ; 
 Without a breeze, without a tide, 
 She steadies with upright keel ! 
 
 The western wave was all a-flame. 
 The day was well nigh done ! 
 Almost upon the western wave 
 Rested the broad bright Sun ; 
 When that strange shape drove suddenly 
 Betwixt us and the Sun. 
 
 And horror 
 follows. 
 For can it be 
 a ship that 
 comes on- 
 ward with- 
 out wind or 
 tide? 
 
 And Straight the Sun was flecked with bars, 
 (Heaven's Mother send us grace!) 
 As if through a dungeon-grate he peered 
 With broad and burning face. 
 
 It seemeth 
 him but the 
 skeleton of a 
 ship. 
 
 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 ?
 
 12; 
 
 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 And its ribs 
 are seen as 
 bars on the 
 face of the 
 setting Sun. 
 The Spectre- 
 Woman and 
 her Death- 
 mate, and no 
 other on 
 board the 
 skeleton- 
 ship. 
 
 Like vessel, 
 like crew 1 
 
 Death and 
 Life-in- 
 Death have 
 diced for the 
 ship's crew, 
 and she (the 
 latter) 
 winneth the 
 ancient 
 Mariner. 
 
 No twilight 
 within the 
 courts of the 
 Sun. 
 
 Are those her ribs through which the Sun 
 Did peer, as through a grate ? 
 And is that Woman all her crew ? 
 Is that a Death ? and are there two ? 
 Is Death that woman's mate ? 
 
 Her lips were red, her looks were free, 
 Her locks were yellow as gold : 
 Her skin was as white as leprosy. 
 The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she, 
 Who thicks man's blood with cold. 
 
 The naked hulk alongside came, 
 
 And the twain were casting dice ; 
 
 ' The game is done ! I've won ! I've won ! 
 
 Quoth she, and whistles thrice. 
 
 The Sun's rim dips ; the stars rush out : 
 At one stride comes the dark ; 
 With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea, 
 Off shot the spectre-bark. 
 
 At the rising 
 of the Moon, 
 
 We listened and looked sideways up ! 
 
 Fear at my heart, as at a cup. 
 
 My life-blood seemed to sip ! 
 
 The stars were dim, and thick the night. 
 
 The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white ; 
 
 From the sails the dew did drip — 
 
 Till clomb above the eastern bar 
 
 The horned Moon, with one bright star 
 
 Within the nether tip.
 
 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 
 
 129 
 
 One after one, by the star-dogged Moon, 
 Too quick for groan or sigh. 
 Each turned his face with a ghastly pang, 
 And cursed me with his eye. 
 
 One after 
 another, 
 
 Four times fifty living men, 
 (And I heard nor sigh nor groan) 
 With heavy thump, a lifeless lump. 
 They dropped down one by one. 
 
 His ship- 
 mates drop 
 down dead. 
 
 The souls did from their bodies fly,- 
 They fled to bliss or woe ! 
 And every soul, it passed me by, 
 Like the whizz of my cross-bow ! 
 
 But Life-in- 
 Death 
 begins her 
 work on the 
 ancient 
 Mariner. 
 
 Part IV. 
 
 ' I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! 
 
 I fear thy skinny hand ! 
 
 And thou art long, and lank, and brown. 
 
 As is the ribbed sea-sand. 
 
 I fear thee and thy glittering eye. 
 And thy skinny hand, so brown.' — 
 Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! 
 This body dropt not down. 
 
 Alone, alone, all, all alone, 
 Alone on a wide wide sea ! 
 And never a saint took pity on 
 My soul in agony. 
 
 The Wed- 
 ding-Guest 
 feareth that 
 a Spirit is 
 talking to 
 him ; 
 
 But the 
 ancient 
 Mariner as- 
 sureth him 
 of his bodily 
 life, and pro- 
 ceedeth to 
 relate his 
 horrible pen- 
 ance.
 
 i^^o 
 
 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Hedespiseth 
 the creatures 
 of the calm. 
 
 The many men, so beautiful ! 
 
 And they all dead did lie : 
 
 And a thousand thousand slimy things 
 
 Lived on ; and so did I. 
 
 And envieth 
 that they 
 should live, 
 and so many 
 lie dead. 
 
 I looked upon the rotting sea, 
 And drew my eyes away ; 
 I looked upon the rotting deck, 
 And there the dead men lay. 
 
 I looked to heaven, and tried to pray ; 
 But or ever a prayer had gusht, 
 A wicked whisper came, and made 
 My heart as dry as dust. 
 
 I closed my lids, and kept them close. 
 
 And the balls like pulses beat ; 
 
 For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky 
 
 Lay like a load on my weary eye. 
 
 And the dead were at my feet. 
 
 But the 
 curse liveth 
 for him in 
 the eye of 
 the dead 
 men. 
 
 The cold sweat melted from their limbs. 
 Nor rot nor reek did they : 
 The look with which they looked on me 
 Had never passed away. 
 
 An orphan's curse would drag to hell 
 
 A spirit from on high ; 
 
 But oh ! more horrible than that 
 
 Is the curse in a dead's man's eye ! 
 
 Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse, 
 
 And yet I could not die.
 
 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 
 
 131 
 
 The moving Moon went up the sky, 
 And no where did abide : 
 Softly she was going up, 
 And a star or two beside — 
 
 Her beams bemocked the sultry main, 
 Like April hoar-frost spread ; 
 But where the ship's huge shadow lay, 
 The charmed water burnt alway 
 A still and awful red. 
 
 In his loneliness and 
 fixedness he yearneth 
 towards the journeying 
 Moon, and the stars that 
 still sojourn, yet still 
 move onward ; and every 
 where the blue sky be- 
 longs to them, and is their 
 appointed rest, and their 
 native country and their 
 own natural homes, which 
 they enter unannounced, 
 as lords that are certainly 
 expected and yet there is 
 a silent joy at their arrival. 
 
 Beyond the shadow of the ship, 
 
 I watched the water-snakes : 
 
 They moved in tracks of shining white, 
 
 And when they reared, the elfish light 
 
 Fell off in hoary flakes. 
 
 By the light 
 of the Moon 
 he beholdeth 
 God's crea- 
 tures of the 
 great calm. 
 
 Within the shadow of the ship 
 
 I watched their rich attire : 
 
 Blue, glossy green, and velvet black, 
 
 They coiled and swam ; and every track 
 
 Was a flash of golden fire. 
 
 O happy living things ! no tongue 
 
 Their beauty might declare : 
 
 A spring of love gushed from my Iieart, 
 
 And I blessed them unaware : 
 
 Sure my kind saint took pity on me, 
 
 And I blessed them unaware. 
 
 Their beauty 
 and their 
 happiness. 
 
 He blesseth 
 them in his 
 heart. 
 
 The selfsame moment I could pray ; 
 And from my neck so free 
 The Albatross fell off, and sank 
 Like lead into the sea. 
 
 The spell 
 begins to 
 break.
 
 132 
 
 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 By grace of 
 the holy 
 Mother, the 
 ancient 
 Mariner is 
 refreshed 
 with rain. 
 
 Part V. 
 
 Oh sleep ! it is a gentle thing, 
 Beloved from pole to pole ! 
 To Mary Queen the praise be given ! 
 She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 
 That slid into my soul. 
 
 The silly buckets on the deck, 
 
 That had so long remained, 
 
 I dreamt that they were filled with dew ; 
 
 And when I awoke, it rained. 
 
 My lips were wet, my throat was cold. 
 My garments all were dank ; 
 Sure I had drunken in my dreams, 
 And still my body drank. 
 
 I moved, and could not feel my limbs : 
 I was so light — almost 
 I thought that I had died in sleep. 
 And was a blessed ghost. 
 
 He heareth 
 sounds and 
 seeth strange 
 sights and 
 commotions 
 in the sky 
 and the 
 element. 
 
 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.
 
 The Rune of the Ancient Mariner 133 
 
 And the coming wind did roar more loud, 
 And the sails did sigh like sedge ; 
 And the rain poured down from one black, cloud ; 
 The Moon was at its edge. 
 
 The thick black cloud was cleft, and still 
 The Moon was at its side : 
 Like waters shot from some high crag, 
 The lightning fell with never a jag, 
 A river steep and wide. 
 
 The loud wind never reached the ship. 
 Yet now the ship moved on ! 
 Beneath the lightning and the Moon 
 The dead men gave a groan. 
 
 The bodies 
 of the ship's 
 crew are in- 
 spired, and 
 the ship 
 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 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.
 
 134 
 
 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 But not by 
 the souls of 
 the men, nor 
 by dsemons 
 of earth or 
 middle air, 
 but by a 
 blessed troop 
 of angelic 
 spirits, sent 
 down by the 
 invocation of 
 the guardian 
 saint. 
 
 ' I fear thee, ancient Mariner ! ' 
 Be calm, thou Wedding- Guest ! 
 'Twas not those souls that fled in pain, 
 Which to their corses came again, 
 But a troop of spirits blest ; 
 
 For when it dawned — they dropped their arms. 
 And clustered round the mast ; 
 Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths, 
 And from their bodies passed. 
 
 Around, around, flew each sweet sound, 
 Then darted to the Sun ; 
 Slowly the sounds came back again, 
 Now mixed, now one by one. 
 
 Sometimes a-dropping from the sky 
 I heard the sky-lark sing ; 
 Sometimes all little birds that are. 
 How they seemed to fill the sea and air 
 With their sweet jargoning ! 
 
 And now 'twas like all instruments, 
 Now like a lonely flute ; 
 And now it is an angel's song, 
 That makes the heavens be mute- 
 
 It ceased ; yet still the sails made on 
 
 A pleasant noise till noon, 
 
 A noise like of a hidden brook 
 
 In the leafy month of June, 
 
 That to the sleeping woods all night 
 
 Singeth a quiet tune.
 
 The R'nne of the Ancient Mariner 
 
 135 
 
 Till noon we quietly sailed on, 
 Yet never a breeze did breathe : 
 Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 
 Moved onward from beneath. 
 
 Under the keel nine fathom deep, 
 From the land of mist and snow, 
 The spirit slid : and it was he 
 That made the ship to go. 
 The sails at noon left off their tune. 
 And the ship stood still also. 
 
 The Sun, right up above the mast, 
 Had fixed her to the ocean : 
 But in a minute she 'gan stir, 
 With a short uneasy motion — 
 Backwards and forwards half her length 
 With a short uneasy motion. 
 
 Then like a pawing horse let go, 
 She made a sudden bound : 
 It flung the blood into my head. 
 And I fell down in a swound. 
 
 The lone- 
 some Spirit 
 from the 
 south-pole 
 carries on the 
 ship as far as 
 the Line, in 
 obedience to 
 the angelic 
 troop, but 
 still requir- 
 eth venge- 
 ance. 
 
 How long in that same fit I lay, 
 I have not to declare ; 
 But ere my living life returned, 
 I heard and in my soul discerned 
 Two voices in the air. 
 
 ' Is it he ? ' quoth one, ' Is this the man ? 
 By him who died on cross, 
 With his cruel bow he laid full low 
 The harmless Albatross. 
 
 The Polar Spirit's fellow 
 daimons, the invisible in- 
 habitants of the element, 
 take part in his wrong ; 
 and two of them relate, 
 one to the other, that 
 penance long and heavy 
 for the ancient Mariner 
 hath been accorded to th 
 Polar Spirit, who return 
 eth southward.
 
 136 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 The spirit who bideth by himself 
 In the land of mist and snow. 
 He loved the bird that loved the man 
 Who shot him with his" bow.' 
 
 The other was a softer voice, 
 
 As soft as honey-dew : 
 
 Quoth he, ' The man hath penance done. 
 
 And penance more will do.' 
 
 Part VI. 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 ' But tell me, tell me ! speak again, 
 Thy soft response renewing — 
 What makes that ship drive on so fast ? 
 What is the ocean doing ? ' 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 ' Still as a slave before his lord, 
 The ocean hath no blast ; 
 His great bright eye most silently 
 Up to the moon is cast — 
 
 If he may know which way to go ; 
 For she guides him smooth or grim. 
 See, brother, see ! how graciously 
 She looketh down on him.'
 
 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 
 
 ^37 
 
 FIRST VOICE. 
 
 ' But why drives on that ship so fast, 
 Without or wave or wind ? ' 
 
 SECOND VOICE. 
 
 ' The air is cut away before, 
 And closes from behind. 
 
 Fly, brother, fly ! more high, more high ! 
 Or we shall be belated : 
 For slow and slow that ship will go, 
 When the Mariner's trance is abated.' 
 
 The Mariner 
 hath been 
 cast into a 
 trance ; for 
 the angelic 
 power caus- 
 eth the vessel 
 to drive 
 northward 
 faster than 
 human life 
 could en- 
 dure. 
 
 I woke, and we were sailing on 
 
 As in a gentle weather : 
 
 'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high. 
 
 The dead men stood together. 
 
 All stood together on the deck, 
 For a charnel-dungeon fitter : 
 All fixed on me their stony eyes. 
 That in the Moon did glitter. 
 
 The pang, the curse, with which they died, 
 Had never passed away : 
 I could not draw my eyes from theirs. 
 Nor turn them up to pray. 
 
 The super- 
 natural 
 motion is 
 retarded ; 
 the Mariner 
 awakes, and 
 his penance 
 begins anew. 
 
 And now this spell was snapt : once more 
 I viewed the ocean green. 
 And looked far forth, yet little saw 
 Of what had else been seen — 
 
 The curse is 
 finally ex- 
 piated.
 
 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 And the 
 ancient Ma- 
 riner be- 
 holdeth his 
 native 
 country. 
 
 Like one, that on a lonesome road 
 Doth walk in fear and dread, 
 And having once turned round walks on, 
 And turns no more his head ; 
 Because he knows, a frightful fiend 
 Doth close behind him tread. 
 
 But soon there breathed a wind on me, 
 Nor sound nor motion made : 
 Its path was not upon the sea, 
 In ripple or in shade. 
 
 It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek 
 Like a meadow-gale of spring — 
 It mingled strangely with my fears. 
 Yet it felt like a welcoming. 
 
 Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, 
 Yet she sailed softly too : 
 Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze — 
 On me alone it blew. 
 
 Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed 
 The light-house top I see ? 
 Is this the hill ? is this the kirk ? 
 Is this mine own countree ? 
 
 We drifted o'er the harbour-bar. 
 And I with sobs did pray — 
 O let me be awake, my God ! 
 Or let me sleep alway. 
 
 The harbour-bay was clear as glass, 
 So smoothly it was strewn ! 
 And on the bay the moonlight lay. 
 And the shadow of the Moon.
 
 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 
 
 The rock shone bright, the kirk no less, 
 That stands above the rock : 
 The moonlight steeped in silentness 
 The steady weathercock. 
 
 And the bay was white with silent light 
 Till rising from the same, 
 Full many shapes, that shadows were. 
 In crimson colours came. 
 
 A little distance from the prow 
 Those crimson shadows were : 
 I turned my eyes upon the deck — 
 Oh, Christ ! what saw I there ! 
 
 Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat. 
 And, by the holy rood ! 
 A man all light, a seraph-man, 
 On every corse there stood. 
 
 This seraph-band, each waved his hand : 
 It was a heavenly sight ! 
 They stood as signals to the land, 
 Each one a lovely light ; 
 
 This seraph-band, each waved his hand, 
 No voice did they impart — 
 No voice ; but oh ! the silence sank 
 Like music on my heart. 
 
 But soon I heard the dash of oars, 
 I heard the Pilot's cheer ; 
 My head was turned perforce away. 
 And I saw a boat appear. 
 
 139 
 
 The Angelic 
 spirits leave 
 the dead 
 bodies,
 
 140 The Golde?! Book of Coleridge 
 
 The Pilot and the Pilot's boy, 
 
 I heard them coming fast : 
 
 Dear Lord in Heaven ! it was a joy 
 
 The dead men could not blast. 
 
 I saw a third- — I heard his voice : 
 
 It is the Hermit good ! 
 
 He singeth loud his godly hymns 
 
 That he makes in the wood. 
 
 He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away 
 
 The Albatross's blood. 
 
 Part VH. 
 
 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 countrec. 
 
 He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve — 
 
 He hath a cushion plump : 
 
 It is the moss that wholly hides 
 
 The rotted old oak-stump. 
 
 The skiff-boat neared : I heard them talk, 
 ' Why, this is strange, I trow ! 
 Where are those lights so many and fair, 
 That signal made but now I '
 
 The Ritiie of the Ancient Mariner 
 
 141 
 
 ' Strange, by my faith ! ' the Hermit said — 
 
 ' And they answered not our cheer ! 
 
 The planks looked warped ! and see those sails, 
 
 How thin they are and sere ! 
 
 I never saw aught like to them. 
 
 Unless perchance it were 
 
 Brown skeletons of leaves that lag 
 
 My forest-brook along ; 
 
 When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow. 
 
 And the owlet whoops to the wolf below, 
 
 That eats the she-wolf's young.' 
 
 ' Dear Lord ! it hath a fiendish look — 
 (The Pilot made reply) 
 I am a-feared ' — ' Push on, push on ! ' 
 Said the Hermit cheerily. 
 
 The boat came closer to the ship, 
 But I nor spake nor stirred ; 
 The boat came close beneath the ship, 
 And straight a sound was heard. 
 
 Approacheth 
 the ship with 
 wonder. 
 
 Under the water it rumbled on, 
 Still louder and more dread : 
 It reached the ship, it split the bay ; 
 The ship went down like lead. 
 
 Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound. 
 
 Which sky and ocean smote, 
 
 Like one that hath been seven days drowned 
 
 My body lay afloat ; 
 
 But swift as dreams, myself I found 
 
 Within the Pilot's boat. 
 
 The ship 
 suddenly sink- 
 eth. 
 
 The ancient 
 Mariner is 
 saved in the 
 Pilot's boat.
 
 142 
 
 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Upon the whirl, where sank the ship, 
 The boat spun round and round ; 
 And all was still, save that the hill 
 Was telling of the sound. 
 
 I moved my lips — the Pilot shrieked 
 And fell down in a fit ; 
 The holy Hermit raised his eyes, 
 And prayed where he did sit. 
 
 I took the oars : the Pilot's boy. 
 
 Who now doth crazy go, 
 
 Laughed loud and long, and all the while 
 
 His eyes went to and fro. 
 
 ' Ha ! ha ! ' quoth he, ' full plain I see, 
 
 The Devil knows how to row.' 
 
 And now, all in my own countree, 
 I stood on the firm land ! 
 The Hermit stepped forth from the boat. 
 And scarcely he could stand. 
 
 ' O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man ! ' 
 The Hermit crossed his brow. 
 ' Say quick,' quoth he, ' I bid thee say — 
 What manner of man art thou ? ' 
 
 Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched 
 With a woful agony. 
 Which forced me to begin my tale ; 
 And then it left me free.
 
 The Rime of the Ancient Mariner 
 
 143 
 
 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. 
 
 And ever 
 and anon 
 throughout 
 his future life 
 an agony 
 constraineth 
 him to travel 
 from land to 
 land, 
 
 What loud uproar bursts from that door ! 
 The wedding-guests are there : 
 But in the garden-bower the bride 
 And bride-maids singing are : 
 And hark the little vesper bell 
 Which biddeth me to prayer ! 
 
 O Wedding-Guest ! this soul hath been 
 Alone on a wide wide sea : 
 So lonely 'twas, that God himself 
 Scarce seemed there to be. 
 
 O sweeter than the marriage-feast, 
 'Tis sweeter far to me. 
 To walk together to the kirk 
 With a goodly company ! — 
 
 To walk together to the kirk. 
 
 And all together pray. 
 
 While each to his great Father bends. 
 
 Old men, and babes, and loving friends 
 
 And youths and maidens gay !
 
 144 
 
 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 And to teach, 
 by his own 
 example, 
 love and re- 
 verence to all 
 things that 
 God made 
 and loveth. 
 
 Farewell, farewell ! but this I tell 
 To thee, thou Wedding-Guest ! 
 He praycth well, who loveth well 
 Both man and bird and beast. 
 
 He prayeth best, who loveth best 
 All things both great and small ; 
 For the dear God who loveth us. 
 He made and loveth all. 
 
 The Mariner, whose eye is bright, 
 Whose beard with age is hoar. 
 Is gone : and now the Wedding-Guest 
 Turned from the bridegroom's door. 
 
 He went like one that hath been stunned, 
 And is of sense forlorn : 
 A sadder and a wiser man, 
 He rose the morrow morn. 
 
 1797-1798.
 
 ?£• Raven 
 
 145 
 
 THE RAVEN. 
 
 A CHRISTMAS TALE, TOLD BY A SCHOOL-BOY TO HIS 
 LITTLE BROTHERS AND SISTERS. 
 
 Underneath a huge 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 ? 
 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.
 
 146 The Golde?! Book of Coleridge 
 
 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. 
 
 At length he brought down the poor Raven's own oak. 
 
 His young ones were killed ; for they could not depart. 
 
 And their mother did die of a broken heart. 
 
 The boughs from the trunk the woodman did sever ; 
 And they floated it down on the course of the river. 
 They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip, 
 And with this tree and others they made a good ship. 
 The ship, it was launched ; but in sight of the land 
 Such a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand. 
 It bulged on a rock, and the waves rush'd in fast : 
 The old Raven flew round and round, and cawed to the 
 blast. 
 
 He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls — 
 See ! see ! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls ! 
 
 Right glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet, 
 And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet, 
 And he thank'd him again and again for this treat : 
 
 They had taken his all, and Revenge was sweet ! 
 
 ? 1791.
 
 Christabel 
 
 147 
 
 CHRISTABEL. 
 
 PART THE FIRST. 
 
 'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, 
 And the owls have awakened the crowing cock, 
 
 Tu — whit ! Tu — whoo ! 
 
 And hark, again ! the crowing cock. 
 How drowsily it crew. 
 
 Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, 
 
 Hath a toothless mastiff, which 
 
 From her kennel beneath the rock 
 
 Maketh answer to the clock. 
 
 Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour ; 
 
 Ever and aye, by shine and shower. 
 
 Sixteen short howls, not over loud ; 
 
 Some say, she sees my lady's shroud. 
 
 Is the night chilly and dark ? 
 The night is chilly, but not dark. 
 The thin gray cloud is spread on high. 
 It covers but not hides the sky. 
 The moon is behind, and at the full ; 
 And yet she looks both small and dull. 
 The night is chill, the cloud is gray : 
 'Tis a month before the month of May, 
 And the Spring comes slowly up this way.
 
 148 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 The lovely lady, Christabel, 
 
 Whom her father loves so well, 
 
 What makes her in the wood so late, 
 
 A furlong from the castle gate ? 
 
 She had dreams all yesternight 
 
 Of her own betrothed knight ; 
 
 And she in the midnight wood will pray 
 
 For the weal of her lover that's far away. 
 
 She stole along, she nothing spoke. 
 The sighs she heaved were soft and low, 
 And 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 ? 
 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.
 
 Christabel 
 
 149 
 
 Hush, beating heart of Christabel ! 
 Jesu, Maria, shield her well ! 
 She folded her arms beneath her cloak, 
 And stole to the other side of the oak. 
 What sees she there ? 
 
 There she sees a damsel bright, 
 
 Drest in a silken robe of white, 
 
 That shadowy in the moonlight shone : 
 
 The neck that made that white robe wan, 
 
 Her stately neck, and arms were bare ; 
 
 Her blue-veined feet unsandai'd were, 
 
 And wildly glittered here and there 
 
 The gems entangled in her hair. 
 
 I guess, 'twas frightful there to see 
 
 A lady so richly clad as she — 
 
 Beautiful exceedingly ! 
 
 Mary mother, save me now ! 
 
 (Said Christabel,) And who art thou? 
 
 The lady strange made answer meet, 
 And her voice was faint and sweet : — 
 Have pity on my sore distress, 
 I scarce can speak for weariness : 
 Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear ! 
 Said Christabel, How earnest thou here? 
 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 :
 
 150 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 They choked my cries with force and fright, 
 
 And tied nic 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 T wis) 
 
 Since one, the tallest of the five, 
 
 Took me from the palfrey's back, 
 
 A weary woman, scarce alive. 
 
 Some muttered words his comrades spoke : 
 
 He placed me underneath this oak ; 
 
 He swore they would return with haste ; 
 
 Whither they went I cannot tell — 
 
 I thought I heard, some minutes past, 
 
 Sounds as of a castle bell. 
 
 Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she), 
 
 And help a wretched maid to flee. 
 
 Then Christabel stretched forth her hand, 
 
 And comforted fair Geraldine : 
 
 O well, bright dame ! may you command 
 
 The service of Sir Leoline ; 
 
 And gladly our stout chivalry 
 
 Will he send forth and friends withal 
 
 To guide and guard you safe and free 
 
 Home to your noble father's hall. 
 
 She rose : and forth with steps they passed 
 That strove to be, and were not, fast.
 
 Christabel 1 5 1 
 
 Her gracious stars the lady blest, 
 
 And thus spake on sweet Christabel : 
 
 All our household are at rest, 
 
 The hall as silent as the cell ; 
 
 Sir Leoline is weak in health, 
 
 And may not well awakened be. 
 
 But we will move as if in stealth, 
 
 And I beseech your courtesy. 
 
 This night, to share your couch with me. 
 
 They crossed the moat, and Christabel 
 
 Took the key that fitted well ; 
 
 A little door she opened straight, 
 
 All in the middle of the gate ; 
 
 The gate that was ironed within and without. 
 
 Where an army in battle array had marched out. 
 
 The lady sank, belike through pain, 
 
 And Christabel with might and main 
 
 Lifted her up, a weary weight. 
 
 Over the threshold of the gate : 
 
 Then the lady rose again. 
 
 And moved, as she were not in pain. 
 
 So free from danger, free from fear. 
 
 They crossed the court : right glad they were. 
 
 And Christabel devoutly cried 
 
 To the lady by her side. 
 
 Praise we the Virgin all divine 
 
 Who hath rescued thee from thy distress ! 
 
 Alas, alas ! said Geraldine, 
 
 I cannot speak for weariness. 
 
 So free from dangei-, free from fear. 
 
 They crossed the court : right glad they were.
 
 152 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Outside her kennel, the mastiff old 
 Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. 
 The mastiff old did not awake, 
 Yet she an angry moan did make ! 
 And what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 
 Never till now she uttered yell 
 Beneath the eye of Christabel. 
 Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch : 
 For what can ail the mastiff bitch ? 
 
 They passed the hall, that echoes still. 
 
 Pass as lightly a3 you will ! 
 
 The brands were flat, the brands were dying, 
 
 Amid their own white ashes lying ; 
 
 But when the lady passed, there came 
 
 A tongue of light, a fit of flame ; 
 
 And Christabel saw the lady's eye. 
 
 And nothing else saw she thereby, 
 
 Save the boss of the shield of Sir Lcoline tall, 
 
 Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall. 
 
 O softly tread, said Christabel, 
 
 My father seldom sleepeth well. 
 
 Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare, 
 And jealous of the listening air 
 They steal their way from stair to stair. 
 Now in glimmer, and now in gloom. 
 And now they pass the Baron's room, 
 As still as death, with stifled breath ! 
 And now have reached her chamber door ; 
 And now doth Geraldine press down 
 The rushes of the chamber floor.
 
 Christabel 15, 
 
 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, 
 
 1 pray you, drink this cordial wine ! 
 It is a wine of virtuous powers ; 
 My mother made it of wild flowers. 
 
 And will your m.other pity me, 
 Who am a maiden most forlorn ? 
 Christabel answered — Woe is me ! 
 She died the hour that I was born. 
 I have heard the grey-haired friar tell 
 How on her death-bed she did say. 
 That she should hear the castle-bell 
 Strike twelve upon my wedding-day, 
 
 mother dear ! that thou wert here! 
 
 1 would, said Geraldine, she were !
 
 154 ^^-'^ Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 But soon with altered voice, said she — 
 ' Off, wandering mother ! Peak and pine ! 
 I have power to bid thee flee.' 
 Alas ! what ails poor Geraldine ? 
 Why stares she with unsettled eye ? 
 Can she the bodiless dead espy ? 
 And why with hollow voice cries she, 
 ' Off, woman, off! this hour is mine — 
 Though thou her guardian spirit be. 
 Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me.' 
 
 Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side, 
 And raised to heaven her eyes so blue — 
 Alas ! said she, this ghastly ride — 
 Dear lady ! it hath wildered you ! 
 The lady wiped her moist cold brow, 
 And faintly said, ' 'tis over now ! ' 
 
 Again the wild-flower wine she drank : 
 Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright. 
 And from the floor whereon she sank, 
 The lofty lady stood upright : 
 She was most beautiful to see, 
 Like a lady of a far countree. 
 
 And thus the lofty lady spake — 
 
 ' All they who live in the upper sky, 
 
 Do love you, holy Christabel ! 
 
 And you love them, and for their sake 
 
 And for the good which me befel. 
 
 Even I in my degree will try. 
 
 Fair maiden, to requite you well. 
 
 But now unrobe yourself; for I 
 
 Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.'
 
 Ihristabel 155 
 
 Quoth Christabel, So let it be ! 
 And as the lady bade, did she. 
 Her gentle limbs did she undress, 
 And lay down in her loveliness. 
 
 But through her brain of weal and woe 
 So many thoughts moved to and fro, 
 That vain it were her lids to close ; 
 So half-way from the bed she rose, 
 And on her elbow did recline 
 To look at the lady Geraldine. 
 
 Beneath the lamp the lady bowed. 
 And slowly rolled her eyes around ; 
 Then drawing in her breath aloud, 
 Like one that shuddered, she unbound 
 The cincture from beneath her breast : 
 Her silken robe, and inner vest, 
 Dropt to her feet, and full in view. 
 
 Behold ! her bosom and half her side 
 
 A sight to dream of, not to tell ! 
 
 O shield her ! shield sweet Christabel ! 
 
 Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs ; 
 Ah ! what a stricken look was hers ! 
 Deep from within she seems half-way 
 To lift some weight with sick assay. 
 And eyes the maid and seeks delay ; 
 Then suddenly, as one defied. 
 Collects herself in scorn and pride. 
 And lay down by the Maiden's side ! — 
 And in her arms the maid slie took. 
 
 Ah well-a-day ! 
 And with low voice and doleful look 
 These words did say :
 
 156 The Golden Book of Coleridgi 
 
 ' In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell, 
 Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel ! 
 Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow, 
 This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow ; 
 But vainly thou warrest, 
 
 For this is alone in 
 Thy power to declare. 
 
 That in the dim forest 
 Thou heard'st a low moaning, 
 And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair ; 
 And didst bring her home with thee in love and 
 
 in charity. 
 To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.' 
 
 THE CONCLUSION TO PART THE FIRST. 
 
 It was a lovely sight to see 
 The lady Christabel, when she 
 Was praying at the old oak tree. 
 Amid the jagged shadows 
 Of mossy leafless boughs. 
 Kneeling in the moonlight, 
 To make her gentle vows ; 
 Her slender palms together prest, 
 Heaving sometimes on her breast ; 
 Her face resigned to bliss or bale — 
 Her face, oh call it fair not pale, 
 And both blue eyes more bright than clear, 
 Each about to have a tear. 
 
 With open eyes (ah woe is me ! ) 
 Asleep, and dreaming fearfully. 
 Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis. 
 Dreaming that alone, which is —
 
 Chrisiabel 
 
 »57 
 
 O sorrow and shame ! Can this be she, 
 The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree ? 
 And lo ! the worker of these harms, 
 That holds the maiden in her arms, 
 Seems to slumber still and mild. 
 As a mother with her child. 
 
 A star hath set, a star hath risen, 
 
 O Geraldine ! since arms of thine 
 
 Have been the lovely lady's prison. 
 
 O Geraldine ! one hour was thine — 
 
 Thou'st had thy will ! By tairn and rill, 
 
 The night-birds all that hour were still. 
 
 But now they are jubilant anew. 
 
 From clifF and tower, tu — whoo ! tu — whoo ! 
 
 Tu — whoo ! tu — whoo ! from wood and fell ! 
 
 And see ! the lady Christabel 
 Gathers herself from out her trance ; 
 Her limbs relax, her countenance 
 Grows sad and soft ; the smooth thin lids 
 Close o'er her eyes ; and tears she sheds — 
 Large tears that leave the lashes bright ! 
 And oft the while she seems to smile 
 As infants at a sudden light ! 
 
 Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, 
 Like a youthful hermitess, 
 Beauteous in a wilderness, 
 Who, praying always, prays in sleep. 
 And, if she move unquietly, 
 Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free 
 Conies back and tingles in her feet. 
 No doubt, she hath a vision sweet.
 
 158 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 What if her guardian spirit 'twere, 
 What if she knew her mother near ? 
 But this she knows, in joys and woes, 
 That saints will aid if men will call : 
 For the blue sky bends over all ! 
 
 1797. 
 
 PART THE SECOND. 
 
 Each matin bell, the Baron saith. 
 Knells us back to a world of death. 
 These words Sir Leoline first said. 
 When he rose and found his lady dead ; 
 These words Sir Leoline will say 
 Many a morn to his dying day ! 
 
 And hence the custom and law began 
 That still at dawn the sacristan, 
 Who duly pulls the heavy bell. 
 Five and forty beads must tell 
 Between each stroke — a warning knell, 
 Which not a soul can choose but hear 
 From Bratha Head to Wyndermere. 
 
 Saith Bracy the bard. So let it knell ! 
 And let the drowsy sacristan 
 Still count as slowly as he can ! 
 There is no lack of such, I ween, 
 As well fill up the space between. 
 In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, 
 And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent. 
 With ropes of rock and bells of air 
 Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent.
 
 Christ ah el 159 
 
 Who all give back, one after t'other, 
 The death-note to their living brother ; 
 And oft too, by the knell offended, 
 Just as their one ! two ! three ! is ended. 
 The devil mocks the doleful tale 
 With a merry peal from Borrowdale. 
 
 The air is still 1 through mist and cloud 
 That merry peal comes ringing loud ; 
 And Geraldine shakes off her dread, 
 And rises lightly from the bed ; 
 Puts on her silken vestments white, 
 And tricks her hair in lovely plight, 
 And nothing doubting of her spell 
 Awakens the lady Christabel. 
 ' Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel ? 
 I trust that you have rested well.' 
 
 And Christabel awoke and spied 
 I The same who lay down by her side — 
 
 O rather say, the same whom she 
 Raised up beneath the old oak tree ! 
 Nay, fairer yet ! and yet more fair ! 
 For she belike hath drunken deep 
 Of all the blessedness of sleep ! 
 And while she spake, her looks, her air. 
 Such gentle thankfulness declare, 
 That (so it seemed) her girded vests 
 Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 
 ' Sure I have sinn'd ! ' said Christabel, 
 * Now heaven be praised if all be well ! ' 
 And in low faltering tones, yet sweet. 
 Did she the lofty lady greet 
 With such perplexity of mind 
 As dreams too lively leave behind.
 
 i6o The Golden Book of Coleridgi 
 
 So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed 
 Her maiden limbs, and having prayed 
 That He, who on the cross did groan, 
 Might wash away her sins unknown. 
 She forthwith led fair Geraldine 
 To meet her sire, Sir Leoline. 
 
 The lovely maid and the lady tall 
 Are pacing both into the hall. 
 And pacing on through page and groom. 
 Enter the Baron's presence-room. 
 
 The Baron rose, and while he prest 
 His gentle daughter to his breast, 
 With cheerful wonder in his eyes 
 The lady Geraldine espies. 
 And gave such welcome to the same. 
 As might beseem so bright a dame ! 
 
 But when he heard the lady's tale, 
 And when she told her father's name. 
 Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale, 
 Murmuring o'er the name again. 
 Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ? 
 
 Alas ! they had been friends in youth ; 
 But whispering tongues can poison truth ; 
 And constancy lives in realms above ; 
 And life is thorny ; and youth is vain ; 
 And to be wroth with one we love 
 Doth work like madness in the brain. 
 And thus it chanced, as I divine. 
 With Roland and Sir Leoline.
 
 Christabel 1 6 1 
 
 Each spake words of high disdain 
 
 And insult to his heart's best brother : 
 
 They parted — ne'er to meet again ! 
 
 But never either found another 
 
 To free the hollow heart from paining — 
 
 They stood aloof, the scars remaining, 
 
 Like cliffs which had been rent asunder ; 
 
 A dreary sea now flows between. 
 
 But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder. 
 
 Shall wholly do away, I ween, 
 
 The marks of that which once hath been. 
 
 Sir Leoline, a moment's space. 
 Stood gazing on the damsel's face : 
 And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine 
 Came back upon his heart again. 
 
 then the Baron forgot his age, 
 
 His noble heart swelled high with rage ; 
 
 He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side 
 
 He would proclaim it far and wide. 
 
 With trump and solemn heraldry. 
 
 That they, who thus had wronged the dame 
 
 Were base as spotted infamy ! 
 
 ' And if they dare deny the same. 
 
 My herald shall appoint a week, 
 
 And let the recreant traitors seek 
 
 My tourney court — that there and then 
 
 1 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 !
 
 1 62 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 And now the tears were on his face, 
 
 And fondly in his arms he took 
 
 Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace, 
 
 Prolonging it with joyous look. 
 
 Which when she viewed, a vision fell 
 
 Upon the soul of Christabel, 
 
 The vision of fear, the touch and pain ! 
 
 She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again — 
 
 (Ah, woe is me ! Was it for thee. 
 
 Thou gentle maid ! such sights to see ?) 
 
 Again she saw that bosom old, 
 
 Again she felt that bosom cold. 
 
 And drew in her breath with a hissing sound : 
 
 Whereat the Knight turned wildly round, 
 
 And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid 
 
 With eyes upraised, as one that prayed. 
 
 The touch, the sight, had passed away, 
 And in its stead that vision blest. 
 Which comforted her after-rest, 
 While in the lady's arms she lay. 
 Had put a rapture in her breast, 
 And on her lips and o'er her eyes 
 Spread smiles like light ! 
 
 With new surprise, 
 ' What ails then my beloved child ? ' 
 The Baron said — His daughter mild 
 Made answer, ' All will yet be well ! ' 
 I ween, she had no power to tell 
 Aught else : so mighty was the spell. 
 Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, 
 flad deemed her sure a thing divine. 
 Such sonow with such grace she blended, 
 As if she feared she had offended
 
 Christ ahel 163 
 
 Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid ! 
 And with such lowly tones she prayed 
 She might be sent without delay 
 Home to her father's mansion. 
 
 'Nay! 
 Nay, by my soul ! ' said Lcoline. 
 ' Ho ! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine ! 
 Go thou, with music sweet and loud, 
 And take two steeds with trappings proud, 
 And take the youth whom thou lov'st best 
 To bear thy harp, and learn thy song, 
 And clothe you both in solemn vest, 
 And over the mountains haste along, 
 Lest wandering folk, that are abroad, 
 Detain you on the valley road. 
 
 ' And when he has crossed the Irthing flood. 
 
 My merry bard ! he hastes, he hastes 
 
 Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood, 
 
 And reaches soon that castle good 
 
 Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes. 
 
 ' Bard Bracy ! bard Bracy ! your horses are fleet, 
 
 Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet, 
 
 More loud than your horses' echoing feet ! 
 
 And loud and loud to Lord Roland call. 
 
 Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall ! 
 
 Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free — 
 
 Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me. 
 
 He bids thee come without delay 
 
 With all thy numerous array ; 
 
 And take thy lovely daughter home : 
 
 And he will meet thee on the way 
 
 With all his numerous array 
 
 White with their panting palfrrys' foam :
 
 164 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 And, by mine honour ! I will say, 
 That I repent me of the day 
 When I spake words of fierce disdain 
 To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine ! — 
 — For since that evil hour hath flown, 
 Many a summer's sun hath shone ; 
 Yet ne'er found I a friend again 
 Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine.' 
 
 The lady fell, and clasped his knees, 
 Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing ; 
 And Bracy replied, with faltering voice, 
 His gracious hail on all bestowing ; 
 'Thy words, thou sire of Christabel, 
 Are sweeter than my harp can tell ; 
 Yet might I gain a boon of thee. 
 This day my journey should not be, 
 So strange a dream hath come to me ; 
 That I had vowed with music loud 
 To clear yon wood from thing unblest, 
 Warn'd by a vision in my rest ! 
 For in my sleep I saw that dove, 
 That gentle bird, whom thou dost love. 
 And call'st by thy own daughter's name — 
 Sir Leoline ! I saw the same. 
 Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan. 
 Among the green herbs in the forest alone. 
 Which when I saw and when 1 heard, 
 I wonder'd what might ail the bird ; 
 For nothing near it could I see. 
 Save the grass and green herbs underneath the old 
 tree.
 
 Christabel 165 
 
 ' And in my dream, methought, I went 
 To search out what miglit there be found ; 
 And what the sweet bird's trouble meant, 
 That thus lay fluttering on the ground. 
 I went and peered, and could descry 
 No cause for her distressful cry ; 
 But yet for her dear lady's sake 
 I stooped, methought, the dove to take. 
 When lo ! I saw a bright green snake 
 Coiled around its wings and neck, 
 Green as the herbs on which it couched, 
 Close by the dove's its head it crouched ; 
 And with the dove it heaves and stirs, 
 Swelling its neck as she swelled hers ! 
 I woke ; it was the midnight hour, 
 The clock was echoing in the tower ; 
 But though my slumber was gone by. 
 This dream it would not pass away — ■ 
 It seems to live upon my eye ! 
 And thence I vowed this self-same day 
 With music strong and saintly song 
 To wander through the forest bare, 
 Lest aught unholy loiter there.' 
 
 Thus Bracy said : the Baron, the while, 
 
 Half-listening heard him with a smile ; 
 
 Then turned to Lady Geraldine, 
 
 His eyes made up of wonder and love ; 
 
 And said in courdy accents fine, 
 
 ' Sweet maid. Lord Roland's beauteous dove, 
 
 With arms more strong than harp or song. 
 
 Thy sire and I will crush the snake ! 
 
 He kissed her forehead as he spake.
 
 1 66 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 And Geraldine in maiden wise 
 Casting down her large bright eyes, 
 With blushing cheek and courtesy fine 
 She turned her from Sir Leoline ; 
 Softly gathering up her train, 
 That o'er her right arm fell again ; 
 And folded her arms across her chest. 
 And couched her head upon her breast, 
 
 And looked askance at Christabel 
 
 Jesu, Maria, shield her well ! 
 
 A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy, 
 
 And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head, 
 
 Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye. 
 
 And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread, 
 
 At Christabel she look'd askance ! — 
 
 One moment — and the sight was fled ! 
 
 But Christabel in dizzy trance 
 
 Stumbling on the unsteady ground 
 
 Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound ; 
 
 And Geraldine again turned round. 
 
 And like a thing, that sought relief. 
 
 Full of wonder and full of grief. 
 
 She rolled her large bright eyes divine 
 
 Wildly on Sir Leoline. 
 
 The maid, alas ! her thoughts are gone, 
 She nothing sees — no sight but one ! 
 The maid, devoid of guile and sin, 
 I know not how, in fearful wise. 
 So deeply had she drunken in 
 That look, those shrunken sequent eyes. 
 That all her features were resigned 
 To this sole image in her mind :
 
 Cbristabel s 167 
 
 And passively did imitate 
 Tiiat look of dull and treacherous hate ! 
 And thus she stood, in dizzy trance, 
 Still picturing that look, askance 
 With forced unconscious sympathy 
 
 Full before her father's view 
 
 As far as such a look could be 
 In eyes so innocent and blue ! 
 
 And when the trance was o'er, the maid 
 Paused awhile, and inly prayed : 
 Then falling at the Baron's feet, 
 ' By my mother's soul do I entreat 
 That thou this woman send away ! ' 
 She said : and more she could not say : 
 For what she knew she could not tell, 
 O'er-mastered by the mighty spell. 
 
 Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, 
 
 Sir Leoline ? Thy only child 
 
 Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride, 
 
 So fair, so innocent, so mild ; 
 
 The same, for whom thy lady died ! 
 
 O, by the pangs of her dear mother 
 
 Think thou no evil of thy child ! 
 
 For her, and thee, and for no other. 
 
 She prayed the moment ere she died : 
 
 Prayed that the babe for whom she died. 
 
 Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride ! 
 
 That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled. 
 Sir Leoline ! 
 
 And wouldst thou wrong thy only child, 
 Her child and thine I
 
 1 68 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Within the Baron's heart and brain 
 
 If thoughts, like these, had any share, 
 
 They only swelled his rage and pain. 
 
 And did but work confusion there. 
 
 His heart was cleft with pain and rage, 
 
 His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild, 
 
 Dishonour'd thus in his old age ; 
 
 Dishonour'd by his only child. 
 
 And all his hospitality 
 
 To the insulted daughter of his friend 
 
 By more than woman's jealousy 
 
 Brought thus to a disgraceful end — 
 
 He rolled his eye with stern regard 
 
 Upon the gentle minstrel bard. 
 
 And said in tones abrupt, austere — 
 
 ' Why, Bracy ! dost thou loiter here ? 
 
 I bade thee hence ! ' The bard obeyed ; 
 
 And turning from his own sweet maid. 
 
 The aged knight, Sir Leoline, 
 
 Led forth the lady Geraldine ! 
 
 1801. 
 
 THE CONCLUSION TO PART THE SECOND. 
 
 A little child, a limber elf. 
 Singing, dancing to itself, 
 A fairy thing with red round cheeks. 
 That always finds, and never seeks. 
 Makes such a vision to the sight 
 As fills a father's eyes with light ; 
 And pleasures flow in so thick and fast 
 Upon his heart, that he at last 
 Must needs express his love's excess 
 With words of unmeant bitterness.
 
 Encinctiired with a Twine of Leaves 169 
 
 Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together 
 Thoughts so all unlike each other ; 
 To mutter and mock a broken charm, 
 To dally with wrong that does no harm. 
 Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty 
 At each wild word to feel within 
 A sweet recoil of love and pity. 
 And what, if in a world of sin 
 (O sorrow and shame should this be true !) 
 Such giddiness of heart and brain 
 Comes seldom save from rage and pain, 
 1 So talks as it's most used to do. 
 
 ? 1801. 
 
 ENCINCTURED WITH A TWINE OF 
 
 LEAVES. 
 
 Encinctured with a twine of leaves, 
 
 That leafy twine his only dress ! 
 
 A lovely Boy was plucking fruits, 
 
 By moonlight, in a wilderness. 
 
 The moon was bright, the air was free. 
 
 And fruits and flowers together grew 
 
 On many a shrub and many a tree : 
 
 And all put on a gentle hue. 
 
 Hanging in the shadowy air 
 
 Like a picture rich and rare. 
 
 It was a climate where, they say, 
 
 The night is more belov'd than day. 
 
 But who that beauteous Boy beguil'd, 
 
 That beauteous Boy to linger here ? 
 
 Alone, by night, a litde child, 
 
 In place so silent and so wild — 
 
 Has he no friend, no loving mother near ?
 
 170 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 KUBLA KHAN. 
 
 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
 
 A stately pleasure-dome decree : 
 Where Alph, the sacred river, ran 
 Through caverns measureless to man 
 
 Down to a sunless sea. 
 So twice five miles of fertile ground 
 With walls and towers were girdled round : 
 And iiere were gardens bright with sinuous rills, 
 Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree ; 
 And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
 Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 
 
 But oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 
 
 Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover ! 
 
 A savage place ! as holy and enchanted 
 
 As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 
 
 By woman wailing for her demon-lover ! 
 
 And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, 
 
 As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
 
 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 liver. 
 
 Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 
 
 Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, 
 
 Then reached the caverns measureless to man. 
 
 And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean :
 
 ubla Khan 171 
 
 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.
 
 1^2 The Golden Book of Coleridgt 
 
 FABLE IS LOVE'S WORLD. 
 
 O NEVER rudely will I blame his faith 
 
 In the might of stars and angels ! 'Tis not merely 
 
 The human being's Pride that peoples space 
 
 With life and mystical predominance ; 
 
 Since likewise for the stricken heart of Love 
 
 This visible nature, and this common world, 
 
 Is all too narrow : yea, a deeper import 
 
 Lurks in the legend told my infant years 
 
 Than lies upon that truth, we live to learn. 
 
 For fable is Love's world, his home, his birth-place : 
 
 Delightedly dwells he 'mong fays and talismans. 
 
 And spirits ; and delightedly believes 
 
 Divinities, being himself divine. 
 
 The intelligible forms of ancient poets, 
 
 The fair humanities of old religion. 
 
 The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty, 
 
 That had her haunts in dale, or piny mountain. 
 
 Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring, 
 
 Or chasms and wat'ry depths ; all these have vanished. 
 
 They live no longer in the faith of reason ! 
 
 But still the heart doth need a language, still 
 
 Doth the old instinct bring back the old names. 
 
 And to yon starry world they now are gone. 
 
 Spirits or gods, that used to share this earth 
 
 With man as with their friend ; and to the lover 
 
 Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky 
 
 Shoot influence down : and even at this day 
 
 'Tis Jupiter who brings whate'er is great, 
 
 And Venus who brings every thing that's fair. 
 
 From The Piccolom'tni, Schiller,
 
 76 
 
 SONG 
 
 SUNG BY GLYCINE IN ZAPOLYA. ACT II. SCENE 2. 
 
 A. SUNNY shaft did I behold, 
 From sky to earth it slanted : 
 
 And poised therein a bird so bold — 
 Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted ! 
 
 He sunk, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled 
 Within that shaft of sunny mist ; 
 
 His eyes of fire, his beak of gold. 
 All else of amethyst ! 
 
 And thus he sang : ' Adieu ! adieu ! 
 Love's dreams prove seldom true. 
 The blossoms they make no delay : 
 The sparkling dew-drops will not stay. 
 Sweet month of May, 
 We must away ; 
 Far, far away ! 
 To-day ! to-day ! 
 
 1815
 
 174 ^^^^ Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 HUNTING SONG. 
 
 \_ZAPOLYyl, ACT IV. SCENE 2.~\ 
 
 Up, up ! ye dames, and lasses gay ! 
 To the meadows trip away. 
 'Tis you must tend the flocks this mom, 
 And scare the small birds from the corn. 
 Not a soul at home may stay : 
 For the shepherds must go 
 With lance and bow 
 To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. 
 
 Leave the hearth and leave the house 
 To the cricket and the mouse : 
 Find grannam out a sunny seat. 
 With babe and lambkin at her feet. 
 Not a soul at home may stay : 
 For the shepherds must go 
 With lance and bow 
 To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day. 
 
 I 815.
 
 The Knighfs Tomb 175 
 
 THE KNIGHT'S TOMB. 
 
 Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn ? 
 Where may the grave of that good man be ? — 
 By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn, 
 Under the twigs of a young birch tree ! 
 The oak that in summer was sweet to hear, 
 And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year. 
 And whistled and roar'd in the winter alone, 
 Is gone, — and the birch in its stead is grown. — 
 The Knight's bones are dust, 
 And his good sword rust ; — 
 His soul is with the saints, I trust. 
 
 ? 
 
 :8i7. 
 
 FANCY IN NUBIBUS ; 
 
 OR, THE POET IN THE CLOUDS. 
 
 O ! IT is pleasant, with a heart at ease, 
 
 Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies. 
 To make the shifting clouds be what you please, 
 
 Or let the easily persuaded eyes 
 Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould 
 
 Of a friend's fancy ; or with head bent low 
 And cheek aslant see rivers flow of gold 
 
 'Twixt crimson banks ; and then, a traveller, go 
 From mount to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous land ! 
 
 Or list'ning to the tide, with closed sight. 
 Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand 
 
 By those deep sounds possessed with inward light. 
 Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee 
 
 Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea. 
 
 1819.
 
 176 The Golden Book of Co/eridg 
 
 CATULLIAN HENDECASYLLABLES. 
 
 Hear, my beloved, an old Milesian story ! — 
 High, and embosom'd in congi-egated laurels, 
 Glimmer'd a temple upon a breezy headland ; 
 In the dim distance amid the skiey billows 
 Rose a fair island ; the god of flocks had blest it. 
 From the far shores of the bleat-resounding island 
 Oft by the moonlight a little boat came floating, 
 Came to the sea-cave beneath the breezy headland, 
 Where amid myrtles a pathway stole in mazes 
 Up to the groves of the high embosom'd temple. 
 There in a thicket of dedicated roses, 
 Oft did a priestess, as lovely as a vision, 
 Pouring her soul to the son of Cytherea, 
 Pray him to hover around the slight canoe-boat, 
 And with invisible pilotage to guide it 
 Over the dusk wave, until the nightly sailor 
 Shivering with ecstacy sank upon her bosom. 
 
 ■ '799-
 
 7w^, Real and Imaginary ijy 
 
 TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY. 
 
 AN ALLEGORY. 
 
 On the wide level of a mountain's head, 
 (I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place) 
 Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread, 
 Two lovely children run an endless race, 
 
 A sister and a brother ! 
 
 This far outstrip! the other ; 
 Yet ever runs she with reverted face, 
 And looks and listens for the boy behind : 
 
 For he, alas ! is blind ! 
 O'er rough and smooth with even step he passed. 
 And knows not whether he be first or last.
 
 178 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 YOUTH AND AGE. 
 
 Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying, 
 Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee — 
 Both were mine ! Life went a-maying 
 
 With Nature, Hope, and Poesy, 
 When I was young ! 
 
 When I was young ? — Ah, woful When ! 
 Ah ! for the change 'twixt Now and Then ! 
 This breathing house not built with hands, 
 This body that does me grievous wrong, 
 O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands, 
 How lightly then it flashed along : — 
 Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore. 
 On winding lakes and rivers wide. 
 That ask no aid of sail or oar. 
 That fear no spite of wind or tide ! 
 Nought cared this body for wind or weather 
 When Youth and I lived in't together. 
 
 Flowers are lovely ; Love is flower-like ; 
 Friendship is a sheltering tree ; 
 O ! the joys, that came down shower-like. 
 Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty, 
 
 Ere I was old ! 
 
 Ere I was old ? Ah woful Ere, 
 Which tells me. Youth's no longer here ! 
 O Youth ! for years so many and sweet, 
 'Tis known, that Thou and I were one,
 
 Toitth and Age 179 
 
 I'll think it but a fond conceit — 
 It cannot be that Thou art gone ! 
 Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toli'd ; — 
 And thou wert aye a masker bold ! 
 What strange disguise hast now put on, 
 To make believe, that thou art gone ? 
 I see these locks in silvery slips, 
 This drooping gait, this altered size : 
 But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips, 
 And tears take sunshine from thine eyes ! 
 Life is but thought ; so think I will 
 That Youth and I are house-mates still. 
 
 Dew-drops are the gems of morning, 
 But the tears of mournful eve ! 
 Where no hope is, life's a warning 
 That only serves to make us grieve, 
 
 When wc 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. 
 
 1822-1832.
 
 IV. 
 LOVE POEMS.
 
 LOVE. 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all delights, 
 Whatever stirs this mortal frame, 
 All are but ministers of Love, 
 And feed his sacred flame. 
 
 Oft in my waking dreams do I 
 Live o'er again that happy hour, 
 When midway on the mount I lay. 
 Beside the ruined tower. 
 
 The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene 
 Had blended with the lights c^ eve ; 
 And she was there, my hope, my joy, 
 My own dear Genevieve ! 
 
 She leant against the armed man. 
 The statue of the armed knight ; 
 She stood and listened to my lay, 
 Amid the lingering light. 
 
 Few sorrows hath she of her own. 
 My hope ! my joy ! my Genevieve ! 
 She loves me best, whene'er I sing 
 The songs that make her grieve. 
 
 I played a soft and doleful air, 
 I sang an old and moving story — 
 An old rude song, that suited well 
 That ruin wild and hoary. 
 
 183
 
 184 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 She listened with a flitting blush, 
 With downcast eyes and modest grace ; 
 For well she knew, I could not choose 
 But gaze upon her face. 
 
 I told her of the knight that wore 
 Upon his shield a burning brand ; 
 And that for ten long years he wooed 
 The Lady of the Land. 
 
 I told her how he pined : and ah ! 
 The deep, the low, the pleading tone 
 With which I sang another's love, 
 Interpreted my own. 
 
 She listened with a flitting blush. 
 With downcast eyes, and modest grace 
 And she forgave me, that I gazed 
 Too fondly on her face ! 
 
 But when I told the cruel scorn 
 That crazed that bold and lovely Knight, 
 And that he crossed the mountain-woods, 
 Nor rested day nor night ; 
 
 That sometimes from the savage den. 
 And sometimes from the darksome shade 
 And sometimes starting up at once 
 In green and sunny glade, — 
 
 There came and looked him in the face 
 An angel beautiful and bright ; 
 And that he knew it was a Fiend, 
 This miserable Knight !
 
 i85 
 
 And that unknowing what he did, 
 He leaped amid a murderous band, 
 And saved from outrage worse than death 
 The Lady of the Land ! 
 
 And how she wept, and clasped his knees ; 
 And how she tended him in vain — 
 And ever strove to expiate 
 
 The scorn that crazed his brain ; — 
 
 And that she nursed him in a cave ; 
 And how his madness went away, 
 When on the yellow forest-leaves 
 A dying man he lay ; — 
 
 His dying words — but when I reached 
 That tcnderest 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-shamo ; 
 And like the murmur of a dream, 
 I heard her breathe my name.
 
 1 86 The Golden Book of Coleridg 
 
 Her bosom heaved — she steeped aside, 
 As conscious of my look she stepped — 
 Then suddenly, with timorous eye 
 She fled to me and wept. 
 
 She half enclosed me with her arms, 
 She pressed me with a meek embrace ; 
 And bending back her head, looked up, 
 And gazed upon my face. 
 
 'Twas partly love, and partly fear, 
 And partly 'twas a bashful art. 
 That I might rather feel, than see. 
 The swelling of her heart. 
 
 I calmed her fears, and she was calm. 
 And told her love with virgin pride ; 
 And so I won my Genevieve, 
 
 My bright and beauteous Bride. 
 
 1798-1799. 
 
 WESTPHALIAN SONG. 
 
 When thou to my true-love com'st 
 Greet her from me kindly ; 
 
 When she asks thee how I fare ? 
 Say, folks in Heaven fare finely. 
 
 When she asks, ' What ! Is he sick I ' 
 Say, dead ! — and when for sorrow 
 
 She begins to sob and cry, 
 Say, I come to-morrow. 
 
 [799.
 
 or the Circassiayi Love-Chaunt 187 
 
 LEWTI; 
 
 OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHAUNT. 
 
 At midnight by the stream I roved, 
 To forget the form I loved. 
 Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
 Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 
 
 The Moon was high, the moon-light gleam 
 
 And the shadow of a star 
 Heaved upon Tamaha's stream ; 
 
 But the rock shone brighter far, 
 The rock half sheltered from my view 
 By pendent boughs of tressy yew. — 
 So shines my Lewti's forehead fair, 
 Gleaming through her sable hair, 
 Image of Lewti ! from my mind 
 Depart ; for Lewti is not kind. 
 
 I saw a cloud of palest hue. 
 
 Onward to the moon it passed ; 
 
 Still brighter and more bright it grew, 
 
 With floating colours not a few. 
 Till it reach'd the moon at last : 
 
 Then the cloud was wholly bright. 
 
 With a rich and amber light !
 
 The Golden Book of Colerl 
 
 And so with many a hope I seek 
 
 And with such joy I find my Lewti ; 
 
 And even so my pale wan cheek 
 Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty ! 
 
 Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind, 
 
 If Lewti never will be kind. 
 
 The little cloud — it floats away, 
 
 Away it goes ; away so soon ? 
 Alas ! it has no power to stay : 
 Its hues are dim, its hues are grey 
 
 Away it passes from the moon ! 
 How mournfully it seems to fly. 
 
 Ever fading more and more. 
 To joyless regions of the sky — 
 
 And now 'tis whiter than before ! 
 As white as my poor cheek will be. 
 
 When, Lewti ! on my couch I lie, 
 A dying man for love of thee. 
 Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind — 
 And yet, thou didst not look unkind. 
 
 I saw a vapour in the sky. 
 
 Thin, and white, and very high ; 
 I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud : 
 
 Perhaps the breezes that can fly 
 
 Now below and now above. 
 Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud 
 
 Of Lady fair — that died for love. 
 For maids, as well as youths, have perished 
 From fruitless love too fondly cherished. 
 Nay, treacherous image ! leave my mind — 
 For Lewti never will be kind.
 
 or the Circassian Love-Chaunt 189 
 
 Hush ! my heedless feet from under 
 
 Slip the crumbling banks for ever : 
 Like echoes to a distant thunder, 
 
 They plunge into the gentle river. 
 The river-swans have heard my tread, 
 And startle from their reedy bed. 
 O beauteous birds! methinks ye measure 
 
 Your movements to some heavenly tune ! 
 
 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, 
 1 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 arc ! 
 
 I'd die indeed, if I might see 
 
 Her bosom heave, and heave for me ! 
 
 Soothe, gentle image ! soothe my mind ! 
 
 To-morrow Lewti may be kind. 
 
 1794.
 
 IQO The Golden Book of Coleridg 
 
 THE SNOW-DROP. 
 
 [a fragment.] 
 
 Fear thou no more, thou timid Flower ! 
 Fear thou no more the winter's might, 
 The whelming thaw, the ponderous shower, 
 The silence of the freezing night ! 
 Since Laura murmur'd o'er thy leaves 
 The potent sorceries of song. 
 To thee, meek Flowret ! gentler gales 
 And cloudless skies belong. 
 
 She droop'd her head, she stretch'd her arm, 
 She whisper'd low her witching rhymes, 
 Fame unreluctant heard the charm. 
 And bore thee to Pierian climes ! 
 Fear thou no more the Matin Frost 
 That sparkled on thy bed of snow : 
 For there, mid larurels ever green. 
 Immortal thou shalt blow. 
 
 Thy petals boast a white more soft. 
 The spell hath so perfumed thee, 
 That careless Love shall deem thee oft 
 A blossom from his Myrtle tree.
 
 'he Snow-drop 191 
 
 Then laughing o'er the fair deceit 
 Shall race with some Etesian wind 
 To seek the woven arboret 
 
 Where Laura lies reclin'd. 
 
 All them whom Love and Fancy grace, 
 When grosser eyes are clos'd in sleep, 
 The gentle spirits of the place 
 Waft up the insuperable steep, 
 On whose vast summit broad and smooth 
 Her nest the Phoenix Bird conceals, 
 And where by cypresses o'erhung 
 The heavenly Lethe steals. 
 
 A sea-like sound the branches breathe, 
 Stirr'd by the Breeze that loiters there ; 
 And all that stretch their limbs beneath, 
 Forget the coil of mortal care. 
 Strange mists along the margins rise, 
 To heal the guests who thither come. 
 And lit the soul to re-endure 
 Its earthly martyrdom. 
 
 MS. ?i8oo.
 
 192 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE. 
 
 How warm this woodland wild recess ! 
 Love surely hath been breathing here : 
 And this sweet bed of heath, my dear ! 
 
 Swells up, then sinks with fair caress, 
 As if to have you yet more near. 
 
 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. 
 
 No voice as yet had made the air 
 Be music with your name ; yet why 
 That asking look ? that yearning sigh ? 
 
 That sense of promise every where ? 
 Beloved ! flew your spirit by ? 
 
 1803-1807.
 
 A Day -Dream 19; 
 
 A DAY-DREAM. 
 
 My eyes make pictures, when they are shut : 
 
 I see a fountain, large and fair, 
 A willow and a ruined hut, 
 
 And thee, and me and Mary there. 
 O Mary ! make thy gentle lap our pillow ! 
 Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow ! 
 
 A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed. 
 
 And that and summer well agree : 
 And lo ! where Mary leans her head. 
 Two dear names carved upon the tree ! 
 And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow : 
 Our sister and our friend will both be here 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 fall'n, and on the marge remounting 
 Shines, and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet 
 fountain. 
 
 O ever — ever be thou blest ! 
 
 For dearly, Asra ! love I thee ! 
 This brooding warmth across my breast, 
 This depth of tranquil bliss — ah, me ! 
 Fount, tree and shed are gone, I know not whither. 
 But in one quiet room we three are still together.
 
 194 '^f^^ Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 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 ! 
 
 ? 1807. 
 
 MUTUAL PASSION. 
 
 ALTERED AND MODERNIZED FROM AN OLD POET. 
 
 I 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.
 
 Mutual Passion 195 
 
 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 ! 
 But then to raise my fears. 
 
 His voice what maid so ever hears 
 
 Will be my rival, though 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, 1 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 ! 
 
 ? I 799.
 
 196 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 THEKLA'S SONG. 
 
 FROM SCHILLER. 
 
 The cloud doth gather, the greenwood roar, 
 The damsel paces along the shore ; 
 The billows they tumble with might, with might ; 
 And she flings out her voice to the darksome night ; 
 
 Her bosom is swelling with sorrow ; 
 The world it is empty, the heart will die, 
 There's nothing to wish for beneath the sky : 
 Thou Holy One, call Thy child away ! 
 I've lived and loved, and that was to-day — 
 
 Make ready my grave-clothes to-morrow. 
 
 LOVE'S FIRST HOPE. 
 
 O FAIR is Love's first hope to gentle mind ! 
 As Eve's first star thro' fleecy cloudlet peeping ; 
 And sweeter than the gentle south-west wind. 
 O'er willowy meads, and shadow'd waters creeping, 
 And Ceres' golden fields ; the sultry hind 
 Meets it with brow uplift, and stays his reaping.
 
 Water Ballad 1 97 
 
 WATER BALLAD. 
 
 ' Come hither, gently rowing, 
 
 Come, bear me quickly o'er 
 This stream so brightly flowing 
 
 To yonder woodland shore. 
 But vain were my endeavour 
 
 To pay thee, courteous guide ; 
 Row on, row on, for ever 
 
 I'd have thee by my side. 
 
 * Good boatman, prithee haste thee, 
 
 I seek my father-land.' — 
 
 * Say, when I there have placed thee, 
 
 Dare I demand thy hand ? ' 
 ' A maiden's head can never 
 
 So hard a point decide ; 
 Row on, row on, for ever 
 
 I'd have thee by my side.' 
 
 The happy bridal over 
 
 The wanderer ceased to roam. 
 For, seated by her lover, 
 
 The boat became her home. 
 And still they sang together 
 
 As steering o'er the tide : 
 ' Row on through wind and weather 
 
 For ever by my side.' 
 
 1799.
 
 198 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 MORTENS SUPERSTITI. 
 
 The hour-bell sounds, and I must go ; 
 Death waits — again I hear him calling ; — 
 No cowardly desires have I, 
 Nor will I shun his face appalling. 
 I die in faith and honour rich — 
 But ah ! I leave behind my treasure 
 In widowhood and lonely pain ; — 
 To live were surely then a pleasure! 
 
 My lifeless eyes upon thy face 
 Shall never open more to-morrow ; 
 To-morrow shall thy beauteous eyes 
 Be closed to love, and drown'd in sorrow ; 
 To-morrow death shall freeze this hand, 
 And on thy breast, my wedded treasure, 
 I never, never more shall live ; — 
 Alas ! I quit a life of pleasure. 
 
 Morning Post, May lO, 1798. 
 
 MORIENTl SUPERSTES. 
 
 Yet art thou happier far than she 
 Who feels the widow's love for thee ! 
 For while her days are days of weeping, 
 Thou, in peace, in silence sleeping, 
 In some still world, unknown, remote, 
 
 The mighty parent's care hast found, 
 Without whose tender guardian thought 
 
 No sparrow falleth to the ground.
 
 The Keepsake 199 
 
 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. 
 
 In the cool morning twilight, early waked 
 By her full bosom's joyous restlessness, 
 Softly she rose, and lightly stole along, 
 Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower. 
 Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze, 
 Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung. 
 Making a quiet image of disquiet 
 In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool.
 
 200 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 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 ! 
 
 1800.
 
 The Picture ' 201 
 
 THE PICTURE 
 
 OR THE LOVER S RESOLUTION. 
 
 Through weeds and thorns, and matted underwood 
 I force my way ; now climb, and now descend 
 O'er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot 
 Crushing the purple whorts ; while oft unseen, 
 Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves, 
 The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil, 
 I know not, ask not whither ! A new joy, 
 Lovely as light, sudden as summer gust. 
 And gladsome as the first-born of the spring. 
 Beckons me on, or follows from behind, 
 Playmate, or guide ! The master-passion quelled, 
 I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark 
 The fir-trees, and the unfrequent slender oak. 
 Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake 
 Soar up, and form a melancholy vault 
 High o'er me, murmuring like a distant sea. 
 
 Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remorse ; 
 Here too the love-lorn man, who, sick in soul, 
 And of this busy human heart aweary. 
 Worships the spirit of unconscious life 
 In tree or wild-flower. — Gentle lunatic ! 
 If so he might not wholly cease to be.
 
 202 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 He would far rather not be that he is ; 
 
 But would be something that he knows not of, 
 
 In winds or waters, or among the rocks ! 
 
 But hence, fond wretch ! breathe not contagion 
 
 here ! 
 No myrtle-walks are these : these are no groves 
 Where Love dare loiter! If in sullen mood 
 He should stray hither, the low stumps shall gore 
 His dainty feet, the briar and the thorn 
 Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird 
 Easily caught, ensnare him, O ye Nymphs, 
 Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades ! 
 And you, ye Earth-winds ! you that make at morn 
 The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs ! 
 You, O ye wingless Airs ! that creep between 
 The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze. 
 Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon, 
 The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bed — 
 Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless damp. 
 Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb. 
 Chase, chase him, all ye Fays, and elfin Gnomes ! 
 With prickles sharper than his darts bemock 
 His little Godship, making him perforce 
 Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's 
 
 back. 
 
 This is my hour of triumph ! I can now 
 With my own fancies play the merry fool. 
 And laugh away worse folly, being free. 
 Here will I seat myself, beside this old, 
 Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy twine 
 Clothes as with net-work : here will couch my 
 limbs,
 
 The Picture 20; 
 
 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 
 £ye-poisons for some love-distempered youth. 
 Who ne'er henceforth may see an aspen-grove 
 Shiver in sunshine, but his feeble heart 
 Shall flow away like a dissolving thing. 
 
 Sweet breeze ! thou only, if I guess aright, 
 Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast. 
 That swells its little breast, so full of song. 
 Singing above me, on the mountain-ash. 
 And thou too, desert stream ! no pool of thine, 
 Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve. 
 Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe, 
 The face, the form divine, the downcast look 
 Contemplative ! Behold ! her open palm 
 Presses her cheek and brow ! her elbow rests 
 On the bare branch of half-uprooted tree. 
 That leans towards its mirror ! Who erewhile 
 Had from her countenance turned, or looked by 
 
 stealth 
 (For fear is true-love's cruel nurse), he now 
 With steadfast gaze and unoffending eye. 
 Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes
 
 204 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Delicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain, 
 E'en as that phantom world on which he gazed, 
 But not unheeded gazed : for see, ah ! see, 
 The sportive tyrant with her left hand plucks 
 The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow, 
 Lychnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells : 
 And suddenly, as one that toys with time, 
 Scatters them on the pool ! Then all the charm 
 Is broken — all that phantom world so fair 
 Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, 
 And each mis-shapes the other. Stay awhile. 
 Poor youth, who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes ! 
 The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon 
 The visions will return ! And lo ! he stays : 
 And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms 
 Come trembling back, unite, and now once more 
 The pool becomes a mirror ; and behold 
 Each wildflower on the marge inverted there, 
 And there the half-uprooted tree — but where, 
 O where the virgin's snowy arm, that leaned 
 On its bare branch ? He turns, and she is gone ! 
 Homeward she steals through many a woodland 
 
 maze 
 Which he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth ! 
 Go, day by day, and waste thy manly prime 
 In mad love-yearning by the vacant brook. 
 Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou 
 Behold'st her shadow still abiding there. 
 The Naiad of the mirror ! 
 
 Not to thee, 
 O wild and desert stream ! belongs this tale : 
 Gloomy and dark art thou — the crowded firs 
 Spire from thy shores, and stretch across thy bed, 
 Making thee doleful as a cavern-well :
 
 The Picture 205 
 
 Save when the shy king-fishers build their nest 
 On thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild 
 stream ! 
 
 This be my chosen haunt — emancipate 
 From passion's dreams, a freeman, and alone, 
 I rise and trace its devious course. O lead. 
 Lead me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms. 
 Lo ! stealing through the canopy of firs. 
 How fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock, 
 Isle of the river, whose disparted waves 
 Dart off asunder with an angry sound. 
 How soon to re-unite ! And see ! they meet, 
 Each in the other lost and found : and see 
 Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun 
 Throbbing within them, heart at once and eye ! 
 With its soft neighbourhood of filmy clouds. 
 The stains and shadings of forgotten tears, 
 Dimness o'erswum with lustre ! Such the hour 
 Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds ; 
 And hark, the noise of a near waterfall ! 
 I pass forth into light — I find myself 
 Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful 
 Of forest trees, the Lady of the Woods), 
 Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock 
 That overbrows the cataract. How 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, 
 Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet. 
 The whortle-berries are bedewed with spray, 
 Dashed upwards by the furious waterfall. 
 How solemnly the pendent ivy-mass
 
 2o6 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Swings in its winnow : All the air is calm. 
 
 The smoke from cottage-chimneys, tinged with 
 
 light, 
 Rises in columns ; from this house alone. 
 Close by the waterfall, the column slants, 
 And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this ? 
 That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke, 
 And close beside its porch a sleeping child. 
 His dear head pillow'd on a sleeping dog — 
 One arm between its fore-legs, and the hand 
 Holds loosely its small handful of 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 canvas, and those purple berries 
 Her pencil ! See, the juice is scarcely dried 
 On the fine skin ! She has been newly here ; 
 And lo ! yon patch of heath has been her couch — 
 The pressure still remains ! O blessed couch ! 
 For this may'st thou flower early, and the sun, 
 Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long 
 Upon thy purple bells ! O Isabel ! 
 Daughter of genius ! stateliest of our maids ! 
 More beautiful than whom Alcasus wooed. 
 The Lesbian woman of immortal song ! 
 O child of genius ! stately, beautiful, 
 And full of love to all, save only me. 
 And not ungentle e'en to me ! My heart, 
 Why beats it thus ? Through yonder 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 —
 
 To Lesbia 207 
 
 And fit it is I should restore this sketch, 
 
 Dropt unawares no doubt. Why should I yearn 
 
 To keep the relique ? 'twill but idly feed 
 
 The passion that consumes me. Let me haste ! 
 
 The picture in my hand which she has left ; 
 
 She cannot blame me that I follow'd her : 
 
 And I may be her guide the long wood through. 
 
 1802. 
 
 TO LESBIA. 
 
 " Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus." 
 
 Catullus. 
 
 My Lesbia, let us love and live. 
 And to the winds, my Lesbia, give 
 Each cold restraint, each boding fear 
 Of age and all her saws severe. 
 Yon sun now posting to the main 
 Will set, — but 'tis to rise again ; — 
 But we, when once our mortal light 
 Is set, must sleep in endless night. 
 Then come, with whom alone I'll live, 
 A thousand kisses take and give ! 
 Another thousand ! — to the store 
 Add hundreds — then a thousand more ! 
 And when they to a million mount, 
 Let confusion take the account, — 
 That you, the number never knowing. 
 May continue still bestowing — 
 That I for joys may never pine. 
 Which never can again be mine ! 
 
 Morning Post, April I i, 1 798.
 
 2o8 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 NAMES. 
 
 []from lessing.]] 
 
 I ask'd my fair one happy day, 
 What I should call her in my lay ; 
 
 By what sweet name from Rome or Greece ; 
 Lalage, Nesera, Chloris, 
 Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, 
 
 Arethusa or Lucrece. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' replied my gentle fair, 
 
 * Beloved, what are names but air ? 
 
 Choose thou whatever suits the line ; 
 Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, 
 Call me Lalage or Doris, 
 
 Only, only call me Thine.' 
 
 Morning Post, August 27, 1799.
 
 V. 
 
 NARRATIVE AND OCCASIONAL 
 POEMS.
 
 THE THREE GRAVES. 
 
 A FRAGMENT OF A SEXTOn's TALE. 
 
 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.
 
 212 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 And when the Vicar join'd their hands, 
 
 Her Hmbs did creep and freeze ; 
 But when they prayed, she thought she saw 
 
 Her mother on her knees. 
 
 And o'er the church-path they returned — 
 
 r saw poor Mary's back, 
 Just as she stepped beneath the boughs 
 
 Into the mossy track. 
 
 Her feet upon the mossy track 
 
 The married maiden set : 
 That moment — I have heard her say — 
 
 She wished she could forget. 
 
 The shade o'er-flushed her limbs with heat — 
 
 Then came a chill like death : 
 And when the merry bells rang out. 
 
 They seemed to stop her breath. 
 
 Beneath the foulest mother's curse 
 
 No child could ever thrive : 
 A mother is a mother still. 
 
 The holiest thing alive. 
 
 So five months passed : the mother still 
 
 Would never heal the strife ; 
 But Edward was a loving man. 
 
 And Mary a fond wife. 
 
 ' My sister may not visit us. 
 My mother says her nay : 
 
 Edward ! you are all to me, 
 
 1 wish for your sake I could be 
 More lifesome and more gay.
 
 The Three Graves 213 
 
 ' I'm dull and sad ! Indeed, indeed 
 I know I have no reason ! 
 Perhaps I am not well in health, 
 And 'tis a gloomy season.' 
 
 'Twas a drizzly time — no ice, no snow ! 
 
 And on the few fine days 
 She stirred not out, lest she might meet 
 
 Her mother in the ways. 
 
 But Ellen, spite of miry ways 
 
 And weather dark and dreary, 
 Trudged every day to Edward's house, 
 
 And made them all more cheery. 
 
 Oh ! Ellen was a faithful friend, 
 
 More dear than any sister ! 
 As cheerful too as singing lark ; 
 And she ne'er left them till 'twas dark, 
 
 And then they always missed her. 
 
 And now Ash-Wednesday came — that day 
 
 But few to church repair : 
 For on that day you know we read 
 
 The Commination prayer. 
 
 Our late old Vicar, a kind man. 
 
 Once, Sir, he said to me. 
 He wished that service was clean out 
 
 Of our good Liturgy. 
 
 The mother walked into the church — 
 
 To Ellen's scat she went : 
 Though Ellen always kept her church 
 
 All church-days during Lent.
 
 214 '^f^^ Goldeji Book of Coleridge 
 
 And gentle Ellen welcomed her 
 
 With courteous looks and mild : 
 Thought she, ' What if her heart should melt, 
 
 And all be reconciled ! ' 
 
 The day was scarcely like a day — 
 
 The clouds were black outright : 
 And many a night, with half a moon 
 
 I've seen the church more light. 
 
 The wind was wild ; against the glass 
 
 The rain did beat and bicker ; 
 The church-tower swinging over head, 
 
 You scarce could hear the Vicar ! 
 
 " And then and there the mother knelt. 
 
 And audibly she cried — 
 ' Ohj! may a clinging curse consume 
 
 This woman by my side ! 
 
 * O 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, 
 
 O let her cursed be ! ! ! ' 
 So having prayed, steady and slow. 
 
 She rose up from her knee ! 
 And left the church, nor e'er again 
 
 The church-door entered she. 
 
 1 saw poor Ellen kneeling still, 
 
 So pale ! I guessed not why : 
 When she stood up, there plainly was 
 A trouble in her eye.
 
 The Three Graves 2 1 5 
 
 And when the prayers were done, we all 
 Came round and asked her why : 
 
 Giddy she seemed, and sure, there was 
 A trouble in her eye. 
 
 But ere she from the church-door stepped 
 She smiled and told us why : 
 ' It was a wicked woman's curse,' 
 Quoth she, ' and what care I ? ' 
 
 She smiled, and smiled, and passed it off 
 
 Ere from the door she stept — 
 But all agree it would have been 
 
 Much better had she wept. 
 
 And if her heart was not at ease. 
 This was her constant cry — 
 ' It was a wicked woman's curse — 
 God's good, and what care I ? ' 
 
 There was a hurry in her looks, 
 Her struggles she redoubled : 
 ' It was a wicked woman's curse. 
 And why should I be troubled ? ' 
 
 These tears will come — I dandled her 
 
 When 'twas the merest fairy — 
 Good creature ! and she hid it all : 
 
 She told it not to Mary. 
 
 But Mary heard the tale : her arms 
 Round Ellen's neck she threw ; 
 ' O Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me. 
 And now she hath cursed you ! '
 
 2 1 6 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 I saw young Edward by himself 
 
 Stalk fast adown the lee, 
 He snatched a stick, from every fence, 
 
 A twig from every tree. 
 
 He snapped them still with hand or knee, 
 
 And then away they flew ! 
 As if with his uneasy limbs 
 
 He knew not what to do ! 
 
 You see, good sir ! that single hill ? 
 
 His farm lies underneath : 
 He heard it there, he heard it all. 
 
 And only gnashed his teeth. 
 
 Now Ellen was a darling love 
 
 In all his joys and cares : 
 And Ellen's name and Mary's name 
 Fast-linked they both together came. 
 
 Whene'er he said his praj^ers. 
 
 And in the moment of his prayers 
 
 He loved them both alike : 
 Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy 
 
 Upon his heart did strike ! 
 
 He reach'd his home, and by his looks 
 
 They saw his inward strife : 
 And they clung round him with their arms. 
 
 Both Ellen and his wife. 
 
 And Mary could not check her tears, 
 'V'-'. So on his breast she bowed ; 
 Then frenzy melted into grief. 
 And Edward wept aloud.
 
 The Three Graves 217 
 
 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. 
 
 To see a man tread over graves 
 
 I hold it no good mark ; 
 'Tis wicked in the sun and moon, 
 
 And bad luck in the dark ! 
 
 You see that grave ? The Lord he gives, 
 
 The Lord, he takes away : 
 O Sir ! the child of my old age 
 
 Lies there as cold as clay. 
 
 Except that grave, you scarce see one 
 
 That was not dug by me ; 
 I'd rather dance upon 'em all 
 
 Than tread upon these three ! 
 
 ' Aye, Sexton ! 'tis a touching tale.' 
 You, Sir ! are but a lad ; 
 This month I'm in my seventieth year. 
 And still it makes me sad. 
 
 And Mary's sister told it me. 
 
 For three good hours and more ; 
 
 Though I had heard it, in the main. 
 From Edward's self, before.
 
 2i8 The Golden Book of Coleridg 
 
 Well ! it passed ofF! the gentle Ellen 
 
 Did well nigh dote on Mary ; 
 And she went oftener than before. 
 And Mary loved her more and more : 
 
 She managed all the dairy. 
 
 To market she on market-days, 
 
 To church on Sundays came ; 
 All seemed the same : all seemed so, Sir ! 
 
 But all was not the same ! 
 
 Had Ellen lost her mirth ? Oh ! no ! 
 
 But she was seldom cheerful ; 
 And Edward look'd as if he thought 
 
 That Ellen's mirth was fearful. 
 
 When by herself, she to herself 
 
 Must sing some merry rhyme ; 
 She could not now be glad for hours, 
 
 Yet silent all the time. 
 
 And when she soothed her friend, through all 
 
 Her soothing words 'twas plain 
 She had a sore grief of her own, 
 
 A haunting in her brain. 
 
 And oft she said, I'm not grown thin ! 
 
 And then her wrist she spanned ; 
 And once when Mary was down-cast, 
 
 She took her by the hand, 
 And gazed upon her, and at first 
 
 She gently pressed her hand ;
 
 The Three Graves 219 
 
 Then harder, till her grasp at length 
 Did gripe like a convulsion ! 
 * Alas ! ' said she, ' we ne'er can be 
 Made happy by compulsion ! ' 
 
 And once her both arms suddenly 
 
 Round Mary's neck she flung, 
 And her heart panted, and she felt 
 
 The words upon her tongue. 
 
 She felt them coming, but no power 
 
 Had she the words to smother ; 
 And with a kind of shriek she cried, 
 
 ' Oh Christ ! you're like your mother ! ' 
 
 So gentle Ellen now no more 
 
 Could make this sad house cheery ; 
 
 And Mary's melancholy ways 
 Drove Edward wild and weary. 
 
 Lingering he raised his latch at eve, 
 Though tired in heart and limb : 
 
 He loved no other place, and yet 
 Home was no home to him. 
 
 One evening he took up a book, 
 
 And nothing in it read ; 
 Then flung it down, and groaning cried, 
 
 ' O ! Heaven ! that I were dead.' 
 
 Mary looked up into his face, 
 
 And nothing to him said ; 
 She tried to smile, and on his arm 
 
 Mournfully leaned her head.
 
 220 The Golden Book of Coleridg< 
 
 And he burst into tears, and fell 
 Upon his knees in prayer : 
 * Her heart is broke ! O God ! my grief, 
 It is too great to bear ! ' 
 
 'Twas such a foggy time as makes 
 
 Old sextons. Sir ! like me, 
 Rest on their spades to cough ; the spring 
 
 Was late uncommonly. 
 
 And then the hot days, all at once, 
 
 They came, we knew not how : 
 You looked about for shade, when scarce 
 
 A leaf was on a bough. 
 
 It happened then ('twas in the bower, 
 
 A furlong up the wood : 
 Perhaps you know the place, and yet 
 
 I scarce know how you should,) 
 
 No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh 
 
 To any pasture-plot ; 
 But clustered near the chattering brook. 
 
 Lone lioUies marked the spot. 
 
 Those hollies of themselves a shape 
 
 As of an arbour took, 
 A close, round arbour ; and it stands 
 
 Not three strides from a brook. 
 
 Within this arbour, which was still 
 
 With scarlet berries hung. 
 Were these three friends, one Sunday morn. 
 
 Just as the first bell rung.
 
 The Three Graves 221 
 
 'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet 
 
 To hear the Sabbath-bell, 
 'Tis sweet to hear them both at once, 
 
 Deep in a woody dell. 
 
 His limbs along the moss, his head 
 
 Upon a mossy heap, 
 With shut-up senses, Edward lay : 
 That brook e'en on a working day 
 
 Might chatter one to sleep. 
 
 And he had passed a restless night. 
 
 And was not well in health ; 
 The women sat down by his side. 
 
 And talked as 'twere by stealth. 
 
 * The Sun peeps through the close thick leaves, 
 
 See, dearest Ellen ! see ! 
 
 'Tis in the leaves, a little sun. 
 
 No bigger than your ee ; 
 
 * A tiny sun, and it has got 
 
 A perfect glory too ; 
 Ten thousand threads and hairs of light, 
 Make up a glory gay and bright 
 
 Round that small orb, so blue.' 
 
 And then they argued of those rays, 
 
 What colour they might be ; 
 Says this, ' They're mostly green ' ; says that, 
 
 ♦ They're amber-like to me.' 
 
 So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts 
 
 Were troubling Edward's rest ; 
 But soon they heard his hard quick pants. 
 
 And the thumping in his breast.
 
 222 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 ' A mother too ! ' these self-same words 
 Did Edward mutter plain ; 
 His face was drawn back on itself, 
 With horror and huge pain. 
 
 Both groan'd at once, for both knew well 
 
 What thoughts were in his mind ; 
 When he waked up, and stared like one 
 
 That hath been just struck blind. 
 
 He sat upright ; and ere the dream 
 Had had time to depart, 
 ' O God, forgive me ! ' (he exclaimed) 
 ' I have torn out her heart.' 
 
 Then Ellen shrieked, and forthwith burst 
 
 Into ungentle laughter ; 
 And Mary shivered, where she sat, 
 
 And never she smiled after. 
 
 1797-1809.
 
 J'he Ballad of the Dark Ladie 223 
 
 THE BALLAD OF THE DARK LADIE. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 O LEAVE the lily on its stem ; 
 O leave the rose upon the spray ; 
 O leave the elder-bloom, fair maids ! 
 And listen to my lay. 
 
 A cypress and a myrtle bough 
 This morn around my harp you twined, 
 Because it fashion'd mournfully 
 Its murmurs in the wind. 
 
 And now a tale of love and woe, 
 A woeful tale of love I sing ; 
 Hark, gentle maidens ! hark, it sighs 
 And trembles on the string. 
 
 But most, my own dear Genevieve, 
 It sighs and trembles most for thee ! 
 O come and hear the cruel wrongs, 
 Befel the dark Ladie ! 
 
 Beneath yon birch with silver bark. 
 And boughs so pendulous and fair. 
 The brook falls scatter'd down the rock : 
 And all is mossy there !
 
 224 ^^^^ Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 And there upon the moss she sits, 
 The Dark Ladie in silent pain ; 
 The heavy tear is in her eye, 
 
 And drops and swells again. 
 
 Three times she sends her little page 
 Up the castled mountain's breast, 
 If he might find the Knight that wears 
 The Griffin for his crest. 
 
 The sun was sloping down tlie sky, 
 And she had linger'd there all day. 
 Counting moments, dreaming fears — 
 Oh wherefore can he stay ? 
 
 She hears a rustling o'er the brook, 
 She sees far off a swinging bough ? 
 ' 'Tis He ! 'Tis my betrothed Knight ! 
 Lord Falkland, it is Thou ! ' 
 
 She springs, she clasps him round the neck, 
 She sobs a thousand hopes and fears, 
 Her kisses glowing on his cheeks 
 She quenches with her tears. 
 
 ' My friends with rude ungentle words 
 They scoff and bid me fly to thee ! 
 
 give me shelter in thy breast ! 
 
 O 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, 
 O Heaven ! I gave thee all,'
 
 The Ballad of the Dark Ladie 225 
 
 The Knight made answer to the Maid, 
 While to his heart he held her hand, 
 ' Nine castles hath my noble sire. 
 None statelier in the land. 
 
 ' The fairest one shall be my love's, 
 The fairest castle of the nine ! 
 Wait only till the stars peep out, 
 The fairest shall be thine : 
 
 ' Wait only till the hand of eve 
 Hath wholly closed yon western bars. 
 And through the dark, we two will steal 
 Beneath the twinkling stars ! ' — ■ 
 
 ' The dark ? the dark ? No ! not the dark ? 
 The twinkling stars ? How, Henry ? How ? 
 O God ! 'twas in the eye of noon 
 He pledged his sacred vow ! 
 
 ' And in the eye of noon my love 
 I Shall lead me from my mother's door. 
 
 Sweet boys and girls all clothed in white 
 Strewing flowers before : 
 
 ' But first the nodding minstrels go 
 With music meet for lordly bowers, 
 The children next in snow-white vests, 
 Strewing buds and flowers ! 
 
 ' And then my love and I shall pace. 
 My jet black hair in pearly braids, 
 Between our comely bachelors 
 And blushing bridal maids.' 
 
 1798.
 
 2 26 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 ALICE DU CLOS, OR THE FORKED 
 TONGUE. 
 
 A BALLAD. 
 
 " One word with two meanings is the traitor's shield and 
 shaft: and a slit tongue be his blazon! " — Caucasian Proverb. 
 
 " The Sun is not yet risen, 
 
 But the dawn lies red on the dew : 
 
 Lord Julian has stolen from the hunters away, 
 
 Is seeking. Lady, for you. 
 
 Put on your dress of green. 
 
 Your buskins and your quiver ; 
 Lord Julian is a hasty man, 
 
 Long waiting brook'd he never. 
 I dare not doubt him, that he means 
 
 To wed you on a day. 
 Your lord and master for to be. 
 
 And you his lady gay, 
 
 Lady ! throw your book aside ! 
 
 1 would not that my Lord should chide." 
 
 Thus spake Sir Hugh the vassal knight 
 
 To Alice, child of old Du Clos, 
 As spotless fair, as airy light 
 
 As that moon-shiny doe. 
 The gold star on its brow, her sire's ancestral crest ! 
 For ere the lark had left his nest,
 
 Alice du CIos, or the Forked Tongue 227 
 
 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 1 
 
 O close your eyes, and strive to see 
 
 The studious maid, with book on knee, — 
 
 Ah ! earliest-open'd flower ; 
 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 from the book 
 She rais'd her head, nor did she deign 
 
 The knight a single look. 
 
 " Ofl^, traitor friend ! how dar'st thou fix 
 
 Thy wanton gaze on me ? 
 And why, against my earnest suit, 
 
 Does Julian 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."
 
 2 28 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 She said : and with a baleful smile 
 
 The vassal knight reei'd off — 
 Like a huge billow from a bark 
 
 Toil'd in the deep sea-trough, 
 That shouldering sideways in mid plunge, 
 
 Is travers'd by a flash. 
 And staggering onward, leaves the ear 
 
 With dull and distant crash. 
 
 And Alice sate with troubled mien 
 A moment ; for the scoff was keen, 
 
 And thro' her veins did shiver ! 
 Then rose and donn'd her dress of green. 
 
 Her buskins and her quiver. 
 
 There stands the flow'ring may-thorn tree ! 
 From thro' the veiling mist you see 
 
 The black and shadowy stem ; — 
 Smit by the sun the mist in glee 
 Dissolves to lightsome jewelry — 
 
 Each blossom hath its gem ! 
 
 With tear-drop glittering to a smile, 
 The gay maid on the garden-stile 
 
 Mimics the hunter's shout. 
 " Hip ! Florian, hip ! To horse, to horse ! 
 
 Go, bring the palfrey out. 
 " My Julian's out with all his clan, 
 
 And, bonny boy, you wis. 
 Lord Julian is a hasty man. 
 
 Who comes late, comes amiss."
 
 Alice du Clos^ or the Forked Tongue 229 
 
 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. 
 
 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,
 
 230 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 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. 
 
 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 ? "
 
 Alice du Clos^ or the Forked Tongue 231 
 
 With stifled tones tlie knight replied, 
 And loolc'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. Not 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.'
 
 232 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 " 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. 
 
 ? 1825.
 
 Fire, Fajnine, and Slaughter 233 
 
 FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER. 
 
 A WAR ECLOGUE. 
 
 The Scene a desolated Tract in La Vendee. FAMINE is discovered 
 lying on the ground ; to her enter FlRE and Slaughter. 
 
 Fam. Sisters ! sisters ! who sent you here ? 
 
 Slau. \jo Fire']. I will whisper it in her ear. 
 
 Fire. No ! no ! no 1 
 Spirits hear what spirits tell : 
 'Twill make an holiday in Hell. 
 
 No ! no ! no ! 
 Myself, I named him once below. 
 And all the souls, that damned be, 
 Leaped up at once in anarchy, 
 Clapped their hands and danced for glee. 
 They no longer heeded me ; 
 But laughed to hear Hell's burning rafters 
 Unwillingly re-echo laughters ! 
 
 No ! no ! no ! 
 Spirits hear what spirits tell : 
 'Twill make an holiday in Hell ! 
 
 Fam. Whisper it, sister ! so and so ! 
 In a dark hint, soft and slow. 
 
 Slau. Letters four do form his name — 
 And who sent you ? 
 
 Both. The same ! the same ! 
 
 S/au. He came by stealth, and unlocked my den, 
 And I have drunk the blood since then 
 Of thrice three hundred thousand men.
 
 234 ^^^^ Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Both. Who bade you do 't ? 
 
 S!au. Tlic same ! the same ! 
 
 Letters four do form his name. 
 He let me loose, and cried Halloo ! 
 To him alone the praise is due. 
 
 Fam. Thanks, sister, thanks ! the men have bled, 
 Their wives and their children faint for bread. 
 I stood in a swampy field of battle ; 
 With bones and skulls I made a rattle, 
 To frighten the wolf and carrion-crow 
 And the homeless dog — but they would not go. 
 So off I flew : for how could I bear 
 To see them gorge their dainty fare I 
 I heard a groan and a peevish squall, 
 And through the chink of a cottage-wall — 
 Can you guess what I saw there ? 
 
 Both. Whisper it, sister ! in our ear. 
 
 Fam. A baby beat its dying mother : 
 I had starved the one and was starving the other ! 
 
 Both. Who bade you do 't ? 
 
 Fam. The same ! the same ! 
 
 Letters four do form his name. 
 He let me loose, and cried. Halloo ! 
 To him alone the praise is due. 
 
 Fire. Sisters ! I from L'eland came ! 
 Hedge and corn-fields all on flame, 
 I triumph'd o'er the setting sun ! 
 And all the while the work was done, 
 On as I strode with my huge strides, 
 I flung back my head and I held my sides, 
 It was so rare a piece of fun 
 To see the sweltered cattle run 
 With uncouth gallop through the night, 
 Scared by the red and noisy light 1
 
 ^ire^ Fam'mc^ and Slaughter 235 
 
 By the light of his own blazing cot 
 Was many a naked Rebel shot : 
 The house-stream met the flame and hissed, 
 While crash ! fell in the roof, I wist, 
 On some of those old bed-rid nurses, 
 That deal in discontent and curses. 
 
 Both. Who bade you do 't ? 
 
 Fire. The same ! the same ! 
 
 Letters four do form his name. 
 He let me loose, and cried Halloo ! 
 To him alone the praise is due. 
 
 ^11. He let us loose, and cried Halloo ! 
 How shall we yield him honour due ? 
 
 Fam. Wisdom comes with lack of food. 
 I '11 gnaw, I '11 gnaw the multitude. 
 Till the cup of rage o'erbrim : 
 They shall seize him and his brood — 
 
 Slau. They sliall tear him limb from limb ! 
 
 Fire. O thankless beldames and untrue ! 
 And is this all that you can do 
 For him, who did so much for you ? 
 Ninety months he, by my troth ! 
 Hath richly catered for you both ; 
 And in an hour would you repay 
 An eight years' work ? — Away ! away ! 
 I alone am faithful ! I 
 Cling to him everlastingly. 
 
 '797-
 
 236 The Golden Book of Cole ridg 
 
 THE SPELL 
 
 FROM REMORSE. \_Music. 
 
 Ahar. With no iiTeverent voice or uncouth charm 
 I call up the Departed ! 
 
 Soul of Alvar ! 
 Hear our soft suit, and heed my milder spell : 
 So may the Gates of Paradise, unbarr'd. 
 Cease thy swift toils ! Since haply thou art one 
 Of that innumerable company 
 Who in broad circle, lovelier than the rainbow, 
 Girdle this round earth in a dizzy motion, 
 With noise too vast and constant to be heard : 
 Fitliest unheard ? For oh, ye numberless, 
 And rapid Travellers ! what ear unstunn'd, 
 What sense unmadden'd, might bear up against 
 The rushing of your congregated wings ? \_Music. 
 
 Even now your living wheel turns o'er my head ! 
 
 \_Music expressive of the tnovements 
 and images that folloiu. 
 Ye, as ye pass, toss high the desart Sands, 
 That roar and whiten, like a burst of waters, 
 A sweet appearance, but a dread illusion 
 To the parch'd caravan that roams by night ! 
 And ye upbuild on the becalmed waves 
 That whirling pillar, which from Earth to Heaven 
 Stands vast, and moves in blackness ! Ye too split 
 The ice mount ! and with fragments many and huge
 
 The Spell 237 
 
 Tempest the new-thaw'd sea, whose sudden gulphs 
 Suck in, perchance, some Lapland wizard's skiff! 
 Then round and round the whirlpool's marge ye dance, 
 Till from the blue swoln Corse the Soul toils out. 
 And joins your mighty Army. 
 
 \_Here behind the scenes a voice sings the 
 three ivords, ' Hear, Siveet Spirit ' 
 Soul of Alvar ! 
 Hear the mild spell, and tempt no blacker Charm ! 
 By sighs unquiet, and the sickly pang 
 Of a half-dead, yet still undying Hope, 
 Pass visible before our mortal sense ! 
 So shall the Church's cleansing rites be thine. 
 Her knells and masses that redeem the Dead ! 
 
 Behind the Scenes, accompanied by the same 
 Instrument as before. 
 
 Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell. 
 Lest a blacker charm compel ! 
 So shall the midnight breezes swell 
 With thy deep long-lingering knelL 
 
 And at evening evermore. 
 
 In a chapel on the shore. 
 
 Shall the Chaunters sad and saintly, 
 
 Yellow tapers burning faintly. 
 
 Doleful Masses chaunt for thee. 
 
 Miserere Domine !
 
 238 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Hark ! the cadence dies away 
 
 On the quiet moonlight sea : 
 The boatmen rest their oars and say, 
 
 Miserere Domhie ! '[_u4 long pause. 
 
 Ordonio. The innocent obey nor charm nor spell ! 
 My brother is in heaven. 
 
 DOMESTIC PEACE. 
 
 [from the fall of ROBESPIERRE, ACT I.] 
 
 Tell me, on what holy ground 
 May Domestic Peace be found ? 
 Halcyon daughter of the skies, 
 Far on fearful wings she flies, 
 From the pomp of Sceptered State, 
 From the Rebel's noisy hate. 
 In a cottaged vale She dwells, 
 Listening to the Sabbath bells ! 
 Still around her steps are seen 
 Spotless Honour's meeker mien. 
 Love, the sire of pleasing fears, 
 Sorrow smiling through her tears, 
 And conscious of the past employ 
 Memory, bosom-spring of joy. 
 
 1794.
 
 dd Vilmum Axiologwn 239 
 
 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 borrow'd 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, 
 Even now the keen North- East is on its way. 
 
 AD VILMUM AXIOLOGUM. 
 
 I^TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.J 
 
 This be the meed, that thy song creates a thousand-fold 
 
 echo ! 
 Sweet as the warble of woods, that awakes at the gale 
 
 of the morning ! 
 List ! the Hearts of the Pure, like caves in the ancient 
 
 mountains 
 Deep, deep in the Bosom, Andfrom the Bosom resound it. 
 Each with a different tone, complete or in musical 
 
 fragments — 
 All have welcomed thy Voice, and receive and retain 
 
 and prolong it ! 
 
 This is the word of the Lord ! it is spoken and Beings 
 
 Eternal 
 Live and are borne as an Infant, the Eternal begets the 
 
 Immortal, 
 IjOve is the Spirit of Life, and Music the Life of the 
 
 Spirit ! 
 MS. > 1805.
 
 240 The Golden Book of Coleridg 
 
 HEXAMETERS. 
 
 William, my teacher, my friend ! dear William and 
 
 dear Dorothea ! 
 Smooth out the folds of my letter, and place it on desk 
 
 or on table ; 
 Place it on table or desk ; and your right hands loosely 
 
 half-closing, 
 Gently sustain them in air, and extending the digit 
 
 didactic. 
 Rest it a moment on each of the forks of the five-forked 
 
 left hand. 
 Twice on the breadth of the thumb, and once on the 
 
 tip of each finger ; 
 Read with a nod of the head in a humouring recitativo ; 
 And, as I live, you will see my hexameters hopping 
 
 before you. 
 This is a galloping measure ; a hop, and a trot, and a 
 
 gallop ! 
 
 All my hexameters fly, like stags pursued by the stag- 
 hounds. 
 
 Breathless and panting, and ready to drop, yet flying 
 still onwards, 
 
 I wouldfull fain pull in my hard-mouthed runaway hunter; 
 
 But our English Spondeans are clumsy yet impotent 
 curb-reins ; 
 
 And so to make him go slowly, no way left have T but 
 to lame him.
 
 Hexa?neters 241 
 
 William, my head and my heart ! dear Poet that feelest 
 
 and thinkest ! 
 Dorothy, eager of soul, my most affectionate sister ! 
 Many a mile, O ! many a wearisome mile are ye distant. 
 Long, long comfortless roads, with no one eye that 
 
 doth know us. 
 O ! it is all too far to send you mockeries idle : 
 Yea, and I feel it not right ! But O ! my friends, my 
 
 beloved ! 
 Feverish and wakeful I lie, — I am weary of feeling and 
 
 thinking. 
 Every thought is worn doiun, I am weary yet cannot be 
 
 vacant. 
 
 . . . my eyes are a burthen, 
 Now unwillingly closed, now open and aching with 
 
 darkness. 
 O ! what a life is the eye ! what a fine and inscrutable 
 
 essence ! 
 Him that is utterly blind, nor glimpses the fire that 
 
 warms him ; 
 Him that never beheld the swelling breast of his mother ; 
 Him that ne'er smiled at the bosom as babe that smiles 
 
 in its slumber ; 
 Even to him it exists, it stirs and moves in its prison ; 
 Lives with a separate life, and ' Is it the Spirit ? ' he 
 
 murmurs : 
 Sure it has thoughts of its own, and to see is only its 
 
 language. 
 
 William my head and my heart ! dear William and 
 
 dear Dorothea ! 
 You have all in each other ; but I am lonely, and want 
 
 you !
 
 242 The Golden Book of Coleridg 
 
 TO A GENTLEMAN. 
 
 [WILLIAM WORDSWORTH.] 
 
 COMPOSED ON THE NIGHT AFTER HIS RECITATION OF A 
 POEM ON THE GROWTH OF AN INDIVIDUAL MIND. 
 
 Friend of the wise ! and Teacher of the Good ! 
 Into my heart have I received that Lay 
 More than historic, that prophetic Lay 
 Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright) 
 Of the foundations and the building up 
 Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell 
 What may be told, to the understanding mind 
 Revealable ; and what within the mind 
 By vital breathings secret as the soul 
 Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart 
 Thoughts all too deep for words ! — 
 
 Theme hard as high ! 
 Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears 
 (The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth). 
 Of tides obedient to external force. 
 And currents self-determined, as might seem, 
 Or by some inner Power ; of moments awful, 
 Now in thy inner life, and now abroad, 
 When power streamed from thee, and thy soul received 
 The light reflected, as a light bestowed — 
 Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth, 
 Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought
 
 To a Gentleman 24^ 
 
 Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens 
 Native or outland, lakes and famous hills ! 
 Or on the lonely high-road, when the stars 
 Were rising ; or by secret mountain-streams, 
 The guides and the companions of thy way ! 
 
 Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense 
 
 Distending wide, and man beloved as man. 
 
 Where France in all her towns lay vibrating 
 
 Like some becalmed bark beneath the burst 
 
 Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud 
 
 Is visible, or shadow on the main. 
 
 For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded. 
 
 Amid the tremor of a realm aglow, 
 
 Amid a miglity nation jubilant. 
 
 When from the general heart of human kind 
 
 Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity ! 
 
 Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down. 
 
 So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and sure 
 From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute self. 
 With light unwaning on her eyes, to look 
 Far on — herself a glory to behold. 
 The Angel of the vision ! Then (last strain) 
 Of Duty, chosen Laws controlling choice, 
 Action and joy ! — An orphic song indeed, 
 A song divine of high and passionate thoughts 
 To their own music chaunted ! 
 
 O great Bard ! 
 Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air. 
 With stedfast 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,
 
 244 ^^^ Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Are permanent, and Time is not with them, 
 
 Save as it workethyor them, they in it. 
 
 Nor less a sacred Roll, than those of old. 
 
 And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame 
 
 Among the archives of mankind, thy work 
 
 Makes audible a linked lay of Truth, 
 
 Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay, 
 
 Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes ! 
 
 j^Dear shall it be to every human heart,* 
 
 To me how more than dearest ! me, on whom 
 
 Comfort from thee, and utterance of thy love, 
 
 Came with such heights and depths of harmony, 
 
 Such sense of wings uplifting, that its might 
 
 Scattered and quell'd me, till my thoughts became 
 
 A bodily tumult ; and thy faithful hopes. 
 
 Thy hopes of me, dear Friend, by me unfelt ! 
 
 Were troublous to me, almost as a voice, 
 
 Familiar once, and more than musical ; 
 
 As a dear woman's Voice to one cast forth, 
 
 A wanderer with a worn-out heart forlorn. 
 
 Mid strangers pining with untended wounds. 
 
 O, Friend, too well thou know'st, of what sad years I 
 
 The long suppression had benumb'd my soul,J 
 
 That, as I listen'd 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 ; 
 
 * These lines in brackets were in the first version of the 
 poem, and were omitted, owing, it is supposed, to the 
 temporary estrangement between Wordsworth and Cole- 
 ridge. We oive their restoration to Mr Dykes Campbell^ whose 
 note on the poem ought to be read.
 
 To a Gentle?nan 245 
 
 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 1 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 coflin, for the self-same grave ! 
 
 That way no more ! and ill beseems it me, 
 Who came a welcomer in herald's guise. 
 Singing of glory, and futurity. 
 To wander back on such unhealthful road, 
 Plucking the poisons of self-harm ! And ill 
 Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths 
 Strew 'd before thy advancing ! 
 
 Nor do thou, 
 Sage Bard ! impair the memory of that hour 
 Of thy communion with my nobler mind 
 By pity or grief, already felt too long ! 
 Nor let my words import more blame than needs. 
 The tumult rose and ceased : for Peace is nigh 
 Where wisdom's voice has found a listening heart. 
 Amid the howl of more than wintry storms. 
 The halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours 
 Already on the wing. 
 
 Eve following eve. 
 Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Plome 
 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
 
 246 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Driven as in surges now beneath the stars, 
 With momentary stars of my own birth, 
 Fair constellated foam, still darting off 
 Into the darkness ; now a tranquil sea. 
 Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the moon. 
 
 And when — O Friend ! my comforter and guide ! 
 
 Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength ! — 
 
 Thy long sustained Song finally closed. 
 
 And thy deep voice had ceased — yet thou thyself 
 
 Wert still before my eyes, and round us both 
 
 That happy vision of beloved faces — 
 
 Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close 
 
 I sate, my being blended in one thought 
 
 (Thought was it? or aspiration ? or resolve?) 
 
 Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound — 
 
 And when I rose, I found myself in prayer. 
 
 January 1 807. 
 
 THE BLOSSOMING OF THE SOLITARY 
 DATE-TREE. 
 
 A LAMENT. 
 
 Imagination ; honourable aims ; 
 Free commune with the choir that cannot die ; 
 Science and song ; delight in little things. 
 The buoyant child surviving in the man ; 
 Fields, forests, ancient mountains, ocean, sky. 
 With all their voices — O dare I accuse 
 My earthly lot as guilty of my spleen,
 
 The Blosso7ning of the Solitary Date-Tree 247 
 
 Or call my destiny niggard ! O 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 ? 
 
 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 ? 
 
 1S05.
 
 248 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 A TOMBLESS EPITAPH. 
 
 'Tis tme, 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 an hollow age. 
 
 Ever idolatrous, and changing ever 
 
 Its worthless idols ! Learning, power, and time, 
 
 (Too much of all) thus wasting in vain war 
 
 Of fervid colloquy. Sickness, tis 'true. 
 
 Whole years of weary days, besieged him close, 
 
 Even to the gates and inlets of his life ! 
 
 But it is true, no less, that strenuous, firm. 
 
 And with a natural gladness, he maintained 
 
 The citadel unconquered, and in joy 
 
 Was strong to follow the delightful Muse. 
 
 For not a hidden path, that to the shades 
 
 Of the beloved Parnassian forest leads. 
 
 Lurked undiscovered by him ; not a rill 
 
 There issues from the fount of Hippocrene, 
 
 But he had traced it upward to its source. 
 
 Through open glade, dark glen, and secret dell, 
 
 Knew the gay wild flowers on its banks, and culled 
 
 Its med'cinable herbs. Yea, oft alone, 
 
 Piercing the long-neglected holy cave, 
 
 The haunt obscure of old Philosophy,
 
 The Pains of Sleep 249 
 
 He bade with lifted torch its stany walls 
 Sparkle, as erst they sparkled to the flame 
 Of odorous lamps tended by Saint and Sage. 
 O framed for calmer times and nobler hearts ! 
 O studious Poet, eloquent for truth ! 
 Philosopher ! contemning wealth and death, 
 Yet docile, childlike, full of Life and Love ! 
 Here, rather than on monumental stone. 
 This record of thy worth thy Friend inscribes, 
 Thoughtful, with quiet tears upon his cheek. 
 
 ? 1809. 
 
 THE PAINS OF SLEEP. 
 
 Ere on my bed my limbs 1 lay. 
 
 It hath not been my use to pray 
 
 With moving lips or bended knees ; 
 
 But silently, by slow degrees. 
 
 My spirit I to l^ove 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. 
 
 But yester-night I pray'd aloud 
 
 In anguish and in agony. 
 
 Up-starting from the fiendish crowd 
 
 Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me : 
 
 A lurid light, a trampling throng, 
 
 Sense of intolerable wrong,
 
 250 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 And whom I scorned, those only strong ! 
 Thirst of revenge, the powerless will 
 Still baffled, and yet burning still ! 
 Desire with loathing strangely mixed 
 On wild or hateful objects fixed. 
 Fantastic passions ! maddening brawl ! 
 And shame and terror over all ! 
 Deeds to be hid which were not hid. 
 Which all confused I could not know 
 Whether I suffered, or I did : 
 For all seem'd guilt, remorse or woe, 
 My own or others still the same 
 Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame ! 
 
 So two nights passed : the night's dismay 
 Saddened and stunned the coming day. 
 Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me 
 Distemper's worst calamity. 
 The third night, when my own loud scream 
 Had waked me from the fiendish dream, 
 O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild, 
 I wept as I had been a child ; 
 And having thus by tears subdued 
 My anguish to a milder mood, 
 Such punishments, I said, were due 
 To natures dcepliest stained with sin : 
 For aye entempesting anew 
 The unfathomable hell within 
 The horror of their deeds to view. 
 To know and loathe, yet wish and do ! 
 Such griefs with such men well agree, 
 But wherefore, wherefore fall on me ? 
 To be beloved is all I need. 
 And whom I love, I love indeed. 
 
 1803.
 
 i?2 Ode to the Rain 251 
 
 AN ODE TO THE RAIN. 
 
 COMPOSED BEFORE DAYLIGHT, ON THE MORNING APPOINTED 
 FOR THE DEPARTURE OF A VERY WORTHY, BUT NOT 
 VERY PLEASANT VISITOR, WHOM IT WAS FEARED THE 
 RAIN MIGHT DETAIN. 
 
 I. 
 
 I KNOW it is dark ; and though I have lain, 
 Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain, 
 I have not once open'd the Hds of my eyes, 
 But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies. 
 
 Rain ! 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, 
 
 O Rain ! you will but take your flight, 
 I'll neither rail, nor malice keep. 
 Though sick and sore for want of sleep. 
 But only now, for this one day. 
 Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! 
 
 O Rain ! with your dull two-fold sound, 
 The clash hard by, and the murmur all round ! 
 You know, if you know aught, that we. 
 Both night and day, but ill agree :
 
 252 The Golden Book of Coleridg 
 
 For days and months, and almost years, 
 
 Have limp'd on through this vale of tears, 
 
 Since body of mine, and rainy weather. 
 
 Have lived on easy terms together. 
 
 Yet if, as soon as it is light, 
 
 O Rain ! you will but take your flight. 
 
 Though you should come again to-morrow. 
 
 And bring with you both pain and sorrow ; 
 
 Though stomach should sicken and knees should swell — 
 
 I'll nothing speak of you but well. 
 
 But only now for this one day, 
 
 Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! 
 
 Dear Rain ! I ne'er refused to say 
 You're a good creature in your way ; 
 Nay, I could write a book myself. 
 Would fit a parson's lower shelf, 
 Showing how very good you are. — 
 What then ? sometimes it must be fair 
 And if sometimes, why not to-day ? 
 Do go, dear Rain ! do go away ! 
 
 Dear Rain ! if I've been cold and shy. 
 Take no offence ! I'll tell you why. 
 A dear old Friend e'en now is here, 
 And with him came my sister dear ; 
 After long absence now first met, 
 Long months by pain and grief beset — 
 We three dear friends ! in truth, we groan 
 Impatiently to be alone.
 
 An Ode to the Rain 253 
 
 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 stay'd a week or more. 
 Were ten times duller than before ; 
 Yet with kind heart, and right good will, 
 I'll sit and listen to you still ; 
 Nor should you go away, dear Rain ! 
 Uninvited to remain. 
 But only now, for this one day. 
 Do go, dear Rain ! do go away. 
 
 1802.
 
 254 ^f^^ Golden Book of ColeM 
 
 LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT- 
 ROOM. 
 
 O GIVE me, from this heartless scene released, 
 To hear our old musician, blind and grey, 
 
 (Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kissed,) 
 His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play. 
 
 By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night. 
 The while I dance amid the tedded hay 
 
 With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light. 
 
 Or lies the purple evening on the bay 
 Of the calm glossy lake, O 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 cheek is wet with quiet tears. 
 
 But O, dear Anne ! when midnight wind careers. 
 And the gust pelting on the out-house shed 
 
 Makes the cock shrilly in the rain-storm crow, 
 
 To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe. 
 Ballad of ship-wreck'd sailor floating dead, 
 
 Whom his own 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.
 
 Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath 255 
 
 INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN 
 ON A HEATH. 
 
 This Sycamore, oft musical with bees, — 
 
 Such tents the Patriarchs loved ! O long unharmed 
 
 May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy 
 
 The small round basin, which this jutting stone 
 
 Keeps pure from frilling leaves ! Long may the Spring, 
 
 Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath. 
 
 Send up cold waters to the traveller 
 
 With soft and even pulse ! Nor ever cease 
 
 Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance, 
 
 Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's Page, 
 
 As merry and no taller, dances still. 
 
 Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount. 
 
 Here twilight is and coolness : here is moss, 
 
 A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade. 
 
 Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree. 
 
 Drink, Pilgrim, here ! Here rest ! and if thy heart 
 
 Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh 
 
 Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound, 
 
 Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees ! 
 
 1802.
 
 256 The Golden Book of Colerid^ 
 
 A SUNSET. 
 
 Upon the mountain's edge with light touch resting, 
 There a brief while the globe of splendour sits 
 And seems a creature of the earth, but soon. 
 More changeful than the Moon, 
 To wane fantastic his great orb submits, 
 Or cone or mow of fire : till sinking slowly 
 Even to a star at length he lessens wholly. 
 
 Abrupt, as Spirits vanish, he is sunk ! 
 
 A soul-like breeze possesses all the wood. 
 
 The boughs, the spiays have stood 
 As motionless as stands the ancient trunk ! 
 But every leaf through all the forest flutters, 
 And. deep the cavern of the mountain mutters. 
 
 MS. 1805. 
 
 A THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY A VIEW 
 
 OF SADDLEBACK IN CUMBERLAND. 
 
 On stern Blencartha's perilous height 
 
 The winds are tyrannous and strong ; 
 And flashing forth unsteady light 
 From stern Blencartha's skiey height, 
 
 As loud the torrents throng ! 
 Beneath the moon, in gentle weather. 
 They bind the earth and sky together. 
 But oh ! the sky and all its forms, how quiet ! 
 The things that seek the earth, how full of noise and 
 riot ! 1 806.
 
 To Nature 257 
 
 TO NATURE. 
 
 It may indeed be phantasy when I 
 
 Essay to draw from all created things 
 
 Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings ; 
 
 And trace in leaves and flowers that round me lie 
 
 Lessons of love and earnest piety. 
 
 So let it be ; and if the wide world rings 
 
 In mock of this belief, it brings 
 
 Nor fear, nor grief, nor vain perplexity. 
 
 So will I build my altar in the fields. 
 
 And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be. 
 
 And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields 
 
 Shall be the incense I will yield to Thee, 
 
 Thee only God ! and thou shalt not despise 
 
 Even me, the priest of this poor sacrifice. 
 
 ? 1820.
 
 258 The Golden Book of Coleridg 
 
 A STRANGER MINSTREL. 
 
 [written to MRS. ROBINSON, A FEW WEEKS BEFORE 
 HER DEATH.] 
 
 As late on Skiddaw's mount I lay supine, 
 Midway th' ascent, in that repose divine 
 When the soul centred in the heart's recess 
 Hath quaff'd its fill of Nature's loveliness. 
 Yet still beside the fountain's marge will stay 
 
 And fain would thirst again, again to quaff; 
 Then when the tear, slow travelling on its way. 
 
 Fills up the wrinkles of a silent laugh — 
 In that sweet mood of sad and humorous thought 
 A form within me rose, within me wrought 
 With such strong magic, that I cried aloud, 
 
 ' Thou ancient Skiddaw by thy helm of cloud, 
 And by thy many-colour'd chasms deep, 
 And by their shadows that for ever sleep, 
 By yon small flaky mists that love to creep 
 Along the edges of those spots of light. 
 Those sunny islands on thy smooth green height. 
 And by yon shepherds with their sheep. 
 And dogs and boys, a gladsome crowd, 
 That rush even now with clamour loud 
 Sudden from forth thy topmost cloud, 
 And by this laugh, and by this tear, 
 I would, old Skiddaw, she were here !
 
 A Stranger Minstrel 259 
 
 A lady of sweet song is she, 
 
 Her soft blue eye was made for thee ! 
 
 ancient Skiddaw, by this tear, 
 
 1 would, I would that she were here ! * 
 
 Then ancient Skiddaw, stern and proud, 
 
 In sullen majesty replying, 
 Thus spake from out his helm of cloud 
 
 (His voice was like an echo dying !) : — 
 * She dwells belike in scenes more fair. 
 And scorns a mount so bleak and bare.' 
 
 I only sigh'd when this I heard. 
 
 Such mournful thoughts within me stirr'd 
 
 That all my heart was faint and weak. 
 
 So sorely was I troubled ! 
 No laughter wrinkled on my cheek, 
 
 But O the tears were doubled ! 
 But ancient Skiddaw green and high 
 Heard and understood my sigh ; 
 And now, in tones less stern and rude, 
 As if he wish'd to end the feud. 
 Spake he, the proud response renewing 
 (His voice was like a monarch wooing) : — 
 
 ' Nay, but thou dost not know her might. 
 
 The pinions of her soul how strong ! 
 But many a stranger in my height 
 Hath sung to me her magic song. 
 Sending forth his ecstasy 
 In her divinest melody, 
 And hence I know her soul is free. 
 She is where'er she wills to be, 
 Unfetter'd by mortality !
 
 2 6o The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 Now to the " haunted beach " can fly, 
 
 Beside the threshold scourged with waves, 
 Now where the maniac wildly raves, 
 " Pale moon, thou spectre of the shy ! " 
 No wind that hurries o'er my height 
 Can travel with so swift a flight. 
 
 I too, methinks, might merit 
 
 The presence of her spirit ! 
 
 To me too might belong 
 The honour of her song and witching melody, 
 
 Which most resembles me. 
 
 Soft, various, and sublime, 
 
 Exempt from wrongs of Time ! ' 
 
 Thus spake this mighty Mount, and I 
 Made answer, with a deep-drawn sigh : — 
 ' Thou ancient Skiddaw, by this tear, 
 I would, I would that she were here ! ' 
 
 No-v ember 1 8oo. 
 
 PORTRAIT OF SIR GEORGE BEAUMONT. 
 
 FROM THE APPENDIX TO REMORSE 
 
 Ziilimez {^speaking of Alvar in the third person^. 
 
 Such was the noble Spaniard's own relation. 
 He told me, too, how in his early youth. 
 And his first travels, 'twas his choice or chance 
 To make long sojourn in sea-wedded Venice ; 
 There won the love of that divine old man. 
 Courted by mightiest kings, the famous Titian !
 
 Portrait of Sir George Beaumont 261 
 
 Who, like a second and more lovely Nature, 
 By the sweet mystery of lines and colours 
 Changed the blank canvas to a magic mirror. 
 That made the Absent present ; and to Shadows 
 Gave light, depth, substance, bloom, yea, thought and 
 
 motion. 
 He loved the old man, and revered his art : 
 And though of noblest birth and ample fortune. 
 The young enthusiast thought it no scorn 
 But this inalienable ornament. 
 To be his pupil, and with filial zeal 
 By practice to appropriate the sage lessons. 
 Which the gay, smiling old man gladly gave. 
 The Art, he honoured thus, requited him : 
 And in the following and calamitous years 
 Beguiled the hours of his captivity. 
 
 j4lhadra. And then he framed this picture ? and 
 unaided 
 By arts unlawful, spell, or talisman 1 
 
 Alvar. A potent spell, a mighty talisman ! 
 The imperishable memory of the deed, 
 Sustained by love, and grief, and indignation ! 
 So vivid were the forms witliin his brain. 
 His very eyes, when shut, made pictures of them ! * 
 
 ?i8i4. 
 
 * "This passage is no mere fancy portrait, but a slight, yet 
 not unfaithful profile of one who still lives, nobilitate felix, 
 arte clarior, vita colendissimus."
 
 262 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 TO A YOUNG LADY. 
 
 []miss lavinia POOLE.J 
 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 fear. 
 
 And feverish heat incessant. 
 
 The sunny showers, the dappled sky, 
 The little birds that warble high. 
 
 Their vernal loves commencing, 
 Will better welcome you than I 
 
 With their sweet influencing. 
 
 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 ? 
 
 Begides, 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 ! 
 
 March 31, 1798.
 
 Lines to W. Linley^ Esq. 263 
 
 LINES TO W. LINLEY, ESQ^ 
 
 WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELl's MUSIC. 
 
 While my young cheek retains its healthful hues, 
 
 And 1 have many friends who hold me dear, 
 
 Linley ! methinks, I would not often hear 
 Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose 
 All memory of the wrongs and sore distress 
 
 For which my miserable brethren weep ! 
 
 But should uncomforted misfortunes steep 
 My daily bread in tears and bitterness ; 
 And if at death's dread moment I should lie 
 
 With no beloved face at my bed-side, 
 To fix the last glance of my closing eye, 
 
 Methinks such strains, breathed by my angel-guide, 
 Would make me pass the cup of anguish by, 
 
 Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died ! 
 
 1800.
 
 264 The Goldeti Book of Coleridge 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN COMMONPLACE BOOK OF MISS BARBOUR, 
 DAUGHTER OF THE MINISTER OF THE U.S.A. TO 
 ENGLAND. 
 
 Child of my muse ! in Barbour's gentle hand 
 
 Go cross the main : thou seek'st no foreign land : 
 
 'Tis not the clod beneath our feet we name 
 
 Our country. Each heaven-sanctioned tie the same, 
 
 Laws, manners, language, faith, ancestral blood. 
 
 Domestic honour, awe of womanhood : — 
 
 With kindling pride thou wilt rejoice to see 
 
 Britain with elbow-room and doubly free ! 
 
 Go seek thy countrymen ! and if one scar 
 
 Still linger of that fratricidal war, 
 
 Look to the maid who brings thee from afar ; 
 
 Be thou the olive-leaf and she the dove. 
 
 And say I greet thee with a brother's love ! 
 
 S. T. Coleridge, 
 Grove, Highgate, August 1829.
 
 4 Christmas Carol 265 
 
 A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
 
 The shepherds went their hasty way, 
 
 And found the lowly stable-shed 
 Where the Virgin-Mother lay : 
 
 And now they checked their eager tread, 
 For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung, 
 A Mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung. 
 
 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 pressed ; 
 And while she cried, the Babe is mine ! 
 Tlie 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
 
 266 The Golden Book of Coleridg 
 
 TRANSLATION OF A PASSAGE IN 
 OTTFRIED'S METRICAL PARAPHRASE 
 OF THE GOSPEL. 
 
 She gave with joy her virgin breast ; 
 
 She hid it not, she bared the breast 
 
 Which suckled that divinest babe ! 
 
 Blessed, blessed were the breasts 
 
 Which the Saviour infant kiss'd ; 
 
 And blessed, blessed was the mother 
 
 Who wrapp'd his limbs in swaddling clothes, 
 
 Singing placed him on her lap. 
 
 Hung o'er him with her looks of love, 
 
 And soothed him with a lulling motion. 
 
 Blessed ! for she shelter'd him 
 
 From the damp and chilling air ; 
 
 Blessed, blessed ! for she lay 
 
 With such a 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 ! 
 
 I 1799.
 
 omething Childish^ but Very Natural 267 
 
 SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY 
 NATURAL. 
 
 WRITTEN IN GERMANY. 
 
 If I had but two little wings 
 And were a little feathery bird, 
 To you I'd fly, my dear ! 
 But thoughts like these are idle things, 
 And I stay here. 
 
 But in my sleep to you I fly : 
 
 I'm always with you in my sleep ! 
 The world is all one's own, 
 But then one wakes, and where am I ? 
 All, all alone. 
 
 Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids : 
 
 So I love to wake ere break of day : 
 
 For though my sleep be gone, 
 
 Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids. 
 
 And still dreams on. 
 
 April 21, 1799. 
 
 ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION. 
 
 Do you ask what the birds say ? The Sparrow, the Dove, 
 The Linnet and Thrush say, ' I love and I love ! ' 
 In the winter they're silent — the wind is so strong ; 
 What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song. 
 But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather. 
 And singing, and loving — all come back together. 
 But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love. 
 The green fields below him, the blue sky above, 
 That he sings, and he sings ; and for ever sings he — 
 * I love my Love, and my Love loves me ! ' 
 
 1802.
 
 268 The Golden Book of Colerid^ 
 
 WHAT IS LIFE? 
 
 Resembles life what once was deem'd 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 ? 
 
 1805. 
 
 PHANTOM. 
 
 All look and likeness caught from earth. 
 
 All accident of kin and birth. 
 
 Had pass'd away. There was no trace 
 
 Of aught on that illumined face, 
 
 Upraised beneath the rifted stone 
 
 But of one spirit all her own ; — 
 
 She, she herself, and only she. 
 
 Shone through her body visibly. 
 
 1804.
 
 '^hantom or Fact 269 
 
 PHANTOM OR FACT. 
 
 A DIALOGUE IN VERSE. 
 
 A LOVELY form there sate beside my bed, 
 And such a feeding calm its presence shed, 
 A tender love so pure from earthly leaven, 
 That I unnethe the fancy might control, 
 'Twas my own spirit newly come from heaven, 
 Wooing its gentle way into my soul ! 
 But ah ! the change — It had not stirr'd, and yet- 
 Alas ! that change how fain would I forget ! 
 That shrinking back, like one that had mistook ! 
 That weary, wandering, disavowing look ! 
 'Twas all another, feature, look, and frame. 
 And still, methought, I knew, it was the same ! 
 
 This riddling tale, to what does it belong ? 
 Is't history ? vision ? or an idle song ? 
 Or rather say at once, within what space 
 Of time this wild disastrous change took place ? 
 
 Call it a moment' s work (and such it seems) 
 This tale's a fragment from the life of dreams ; 
 But say, that years matur'd the silent strife, 
 And 'tis a record from the dream of life. 
 
 ? 18 
 
 30-
 
 270 The Golde?i Book of Coleric 
 
 LOVE'S APPARITION AND 
 
 EVANISHMENT. 
 
 AN ALLEGORIC ROMANCE. 
 
 Like a lone Arab, old and blind, 
 
 Some caravan had left behind. 
 
 Who sits beside a ruin'd well. 
 
 Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell ; 
 And now he hangs his aged head aslant, 
 And listens for a human sound — in vain ! 
 And now the aid, which Heaven alone can grant. 
 Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to gain ; — 
 Even thus, in vacant mood, one sultry hour. 
 Resting my eye upon a drooping plant. 
 With brow low-bent, within my garden-bower, 
 I sate upon the couch of camomile ; 
 And — whether 'twas a transient sleep, perchance. 
 Flitted across the idle brain, the while 
 I watch'd the sickly calm with aimless scope. 
 In my own heart ; or that, indeed a trance, 
 Turn'd my eye inward — thee, O genial Hope, 
 Love's elder sister ! thee did I behold, 
 Drest as a bridesmaid, but all pale and cold. 
 With roseless cheek, all pale and cold and dim, 
 
 Lie lifeless at my feet ! 
 And then came Love, a sylph in bridal trim, 
 
 And stood beside my seat ; 
 She bent, and kiss'd her sister's lips, 
 As she was wont to do ; —
 
 Lovers Apparition and Evanisbment 271 
 
 Alas ! 'twas but a chilling breath 
 Woke just enough of life in death 
 To make Hope die anew. 
 
 In vain we supplicate the Powers above ; 
 There is no resurrection for the Love 
 That, nursed in tenderest care, yet fades away 
 In the chill'd heart by gradual self-decay. 
 
 •833- 
 
 DUTY SURVIVING SELF-LOVE. 
 
 THE ONLY SURE FRIEND OF DECLINING LIFE. 
 A SOLILOQUY. 
 
 Unchanged within, to see all changed without, 
 
 Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt. 
 
 Yet why at others' wanings should'st thou fret ? 
 
 Then only might'st thou feel a just regret, 
 
 Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy light 
 
 In selfish forethought of neglect and slight. 
 
 O wiselier then, from feeble yearnings freed, 
 
 IVh'tley and on ivhom, thou may'st — shine on ! nor heed 
 
 Whether the object by reflected light 
 
 Return thy radiance or absorb it quite : 
 
 And though thou notest from thy safe recess 
 
 Old friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome air, 
 
 Love them for what they are ; nor love them less. 
 
 Because to thee they are not what they ivere. 
 
 1826.
 
 272 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 WORK WITHOUT HOPE. 
 
 LINES COMPOSED 2 1 ST FEBRUARY I 827. 
 
 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 v/hence streams of nectar flow. 
 Bloom, O ye amaranths ! bloom for whom ye may, 
 For me ye bloom not ! Glide, rich streams, away ! 
 With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll : 
 And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul ? 
 Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve, 
 And Hope without an object cannot live. 
 
 1827.
 
 Love^ Hope J and Patience in Education 27, 
 
 LOVE, HOPE, AND PATIENCE IN 
 EDUCATION. 
 
 O'er wayward childhood would'st thou hold firm nile, 
 And sun thee in the light of happy faces ; 
 Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces, 
 And in thine own heart let them first keep school. 
 For as old Atlas on his broad neck places 
 Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it ; — so 
 Do these upbear the little world below 
 Of Education, — Patience, Love, and Hope. 
 Methinks, I see them group'd in seemly show, 
 The straiten'd arms upraised, the palms aslope. 
 And robes that touching as adown they flow, 
 Distinctly blend, like snow emboss'd in snow. 
 
 O part them never ! If Hope prostrate lie, 
 Love too will sink and die. 
 But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive 
 From her own life that Hope is yet alive ; 
 And bending o'er, with soul-transfusing eyes, 
 And the soft murmurs of the mother dove. 
 Wooes back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies ; — 
 Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to 
 
 Love. 
 Yet haply there will come a weary day, 
 
 When overtask'd at length 
 Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way. 
 Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength, 
 Stands the mute sister. Patience, nothing loth. 
 And both supporting does the work of both. 
 
 1829.
 
 2 74 T^he Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 SELF-KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 Tvudi giauTov ! — 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 own ?- 
 
 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 ! 
 
 1832. 
 
 EPITAPH. 
 
 Stop, Christian passer-by ! — Stop, child of God, 
 And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod 
 A poet lies, or that which once seem'd he. — 
 O, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C. ; 
 That he who many a year with toil of breath 
 Found death in life, may here find life in death ! 
 Mercy for praise — to be forgiven for fame 
 He ask'd, and hoped, through Christ. 
 Do thou the same ! 
 
 gth November 1833.
 
 NOTES. 
 
 1. Saltan Harp, -p. dj. Coleridge, ;« 1 797, thought this poem 
 the most perfect he had ever written. It belongs to the early 
 time. 
 
 2. Aquiet place, p. 69. The title in the Poems is "Reflections 
 on having left a Place of Retirement." I have left out the 
 reflections, and therefore changed the title. 
 
 3. Fears in Solitude, p. 80. A great part of this poem, exces- 
 sively like a poor sermon, is omitted. 
 
 4. The Nightingale, p. 83. The friend and our sister were 
 William and Dorothy Wordsworth; and the 'gentle maid' 
 is also Dorothy. 
 
 5. UJe to the Departing Tear, p. 95. This Ode was written on 
 the 24th, 25th, and 26th days of December 1796, and published 
 separately on the last day of the year. 
 
 6. France: an Ode, p. loi. The folIowing'Argument, which 
 Coleridge placed before the Ode, condenses his position 
 towards the French Revolution : — 
 
 '• Argument. 
 
 " First Stanza. An invocation to those objects in Nature, the 
 contemplation of which had inspired the Poet with a devotional 
 love of Liberty. Second Stanza. The exultation of the Poet at 
 the commencement of the French Revolution, and his unquali- 
 fied abhorrence of the Alliance against the Re])ublic. Third 
 Stanza. The blasphemies and horrors during the domination 
 of the Terrorists regarded by the Poet as a transient storm, 
 and as the natural consequence of the former despotism and of 
 the foul superstition of Popery. Reason, indeed, began to 
 suggest many apprehensions ; yet still the Poet struggled to 
 retain the hope that France would make conquests by no other 
 means than by presenting to the observation of Europe a people 
 more happy and better instructed than under other forms of 
 Government. Fourth Stanza. Switzerland, and the Poet's re-
 
 276 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 cantation. Fifth Stanza. An Address to Liberty, in which the 
 Poet expresses his conviction that those feelings and that grand 
 ideal oi Freedom which the mind attains by its contemplation 
 of its individual nature, and of the sublime surrounding objects 
 (see stanza the first), do not belong to men as a society, nor 
 can possibly be either gratified or realised under any form of 
 human government, but belong to the individual man, so far 
 as he is pure, and inflamed with the love and adoration of God 
 in Nature." 
 
 7. Dejection: an Ode,p. 10^, The poem Was originally addressed 
 to Wordsworth, then to Wordsworth under the name of 
 Edmund. In 18 17, 'Lady' took the place of Edmund. 
 ' Otway ' is used instead of Edmund, and it is plain that the 
 lines 1 17-125 refer to the poem of Luci^ Gray, which was 
 printed in 1 800. 
 
 8. Hymn tothe Earthy p. 1 1 1. This is a translation, and partly 
 an expansion, of the opening of F. L. Stolberg's Hymne an die 
 Erde ; and On a Cataract, which follows, is also improved from 
 Stolberg's lines on this subject. The originals of these, and of 
 Schiller's Visit of the Gods, will be found in the Notes of Mr 
 Dykes Campbell's Edition of Coleridge's Poems. 
 
 9. Hymn before Sunrise, p. 116. Coleridge was never at 
 Chamouni, and he was indebted for the germ of the poem, and 
 for many of its words and images, to the stanzas, Chamouni at 
 Sunrise, written by Frederike Brun, and addressed to Klopstock. 
 The original stanzas are inserted in Dykes Campbell's Notes. 
 
 10. The Ancient Mariner, p. I2i. In one of the Appendices 
 annexed to Mr Dykes Campbell's Edition of the Poems, the 
 original form of the Ancient Mariner, as published in the Lyrical 
 Ballads, will be found ; and it is well worth while to inwardly 
 digest the remarkable changes which Coleridge made in his 
 poem. Wordsworth thus described the origin of the poem to 
 Miss Fenwick : — 
 
 "In the autumn of 1797 [really November], he [Coleridge], 
 my sister, and myself, started from Alfoxden pretty late in the 
 afternoon with a view to visit Linton and the Valley of Stones, 
 near to it. Accordingly we set off, and proceeded along the 
 Quantock Hills towards Watchet, and in the course ji this 
 walk was planned the poem of The Ancient Mariner, founded 
 on a dream, as Mr Coleridge said, of his friend Mr Cruikshank. 
 Much the greatest part of the story was Mr Coleridge's inven- 
 tion, but certain parts I suggested : for example, some crime 
 was to be committed which should bring upon the Old
 
 Notes 277 
 
 Navigator, as Coleridge afterwards delighted to call him, 
 the spectral persecution, as a consequence of that crime and 
 his own wanderings. I had been reading in Shelvocke's 
 Voyages, a day or two before, that, while doubling Cape Horn, 
 they frequently saw albatrosses in that latitude, the largest 
 sort of sea-fowl, some extending their wings twelve or thirteen 
 feet. 'Suppose,' said I, 'you represent him as having killed 
 one of these birds on entering the South Sea, and that the 
 tutelary spirits of these regions take upon them to avenge the 
 crime.' The incident was thought fit for the purpose, and 
 adopted accordingly. I also suggested the navigation of the 
 ship by the dead men, but do not recollect that I had anything 
 more to do with the scheme of the poem. The gloss with 
 which it was subsequently accompanied was not thought of 
 by either of us at the time — at least not a hint of it was given 
 to me, and I have no doubt it was a gratuitous afterthought. 
 We began the composition together on that, to me, memorable 
 evening. I furnished two or three lines at the beginning of 
 the poem, in particular — 
 
 ' And listened like a three years' child : 
 The Mariner had his will.' 
 
 These trifling contributions, all but one, which Mr Coleridge 
 has with unnecessary scrupulosity recorded, slipped out of his 
 mind, as they well might. As we endeavoured to proceed 
 conjointly (I speak of the same evening), our respective 
 manners proved so widely different that it would have been 
 quite presumptuous in me to do anything but separate from 
 an undertaking upon which I could only have been a clog.'' — 
 Memoirs of William Wordsivorth, London, 1851, vol. i. pp. 107, 
 108. 
 
 A further reminiscence of Wordsworth was communicated 
 by the Rev. Alex. Dyce to H. N. Coleridge : — 
 
 "When my truly-honoured friend Mr Wordsworth was 
 last in London, soon after the ap()earance of De Ouincey's 
 papers in Tail'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 wliich 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 to make together. The Ancient Mariner was
 
 278 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 intended for this periodical, but was too long. I had very 
 little share in the composition of it, for I soon found that 
 the style of Coleridge and myself would not assimilate. 
 Besides the lines (in the fourth part) — 
 
 ' And thou art long, and lank, and brown. 
 As is the ribbed sea-sand ' — 
 
 I wrote the stanza (in the first part) — 
 
 ' He holds him with his glittering eye — 
 The Wedding-Guest stood still, 
 And listens like a three-years' child : 
 The Mariner hath his will ' — 
 
 and four or five lines more in different parts of the poem, 
 which I could not now point out. The idea of ^shooting an 
 albatross^ ivas mine ; for I had been reading Shel-vocke s Voyages, -which 
 probably Coleridge never saiv. I also suggested the reanimation 
 of the dead bodies to work the ship.' "■ — (Note in Poems of 
 S.T.C. ed. 1852). 
 
 The following is Coleridge's account of the matter, as given 
 in Chap. XIV. of his Biog. Lit. :— 
 
 "During the first year that Mr Wordsworth and I were 
 neighbours, our conversations turned frequently on the two 
 cardinal points of poetry — the power of exciting the sympathy 
 of the reader by a faithful adherence to the truth of nature, 
 and the power of giving the interest of novelty by the modi- 
 fying colours of imagination. The sudden charm which 
 accidents of light and shade, which moonlight or sunset, 
 diffused over a known and familiar landscape, appeared to 
 represent the practicability of combining both. These are 
 the poetry of nature. The thought suggested itself (to which 
 of us I do not recollect), that a series of poems might be 
 composed of two sorts. In the one, the incidents and agents 
 were to be, in part at least, supernatural; and the excellence 
 aimed at was to consist in the interesting of the affections by 
 the dramatic truth of such emotions as would naturally 
 accompany such situations, supposing them real. And real in 
 this sense they have been to every human being who, from 
 whatever source of delusion, has at any time believed himself 
 under supernatural agency. For the second class, subjects 
 were to be chosen from ordinary life ; the characters and 
 incidents were to be such as will be found in every village
 
 Notes 279 
 
 and its vicinity, where there is a meditative and feeling mind 
 to seek after them, or to notice them when they present 
 themselves. 
 
 "In this idea originated the plan of the Lyrical Ballads, in 
 which it was agreed that my endeavours should be directed to 
 persons and characters supernatural, or at least romantic ; yet 
 so as to transfer from our inward nature a human interest and 
 a semblance of truth, sufficient to procure for these shadows of 
 imagination that willing suspension of disbelief for the 
 moment, which constitutes poetic faith. Mr Wordsworth, on 
 the other hand, was to propose to himself as his object to give 
 the charm of novelty to things of every day, and to excite a 
 feeling analogous to the supernatural, by awakening the 
 mind's attention from the lethargy of custom, and directing it 
 to the loveliness and the wonders of the world before us ; an 
 inexhaustible treasure, but for which, in consequence of the 
 film of familiarity and selfish solicitude, we have eyes, yet see 
 not, ears that hear not, and hearts that neither feel nor under- 
 stand. 
 
 " With this view I wrote The Ancient A^ariner, and was pre- 
 paring, among other poems, the Dark Ladie, and the Christabel, 
 in which I should have more nearly realised my ideal than I 
 had done in my first attempt. But Mr Wordsworth's industry 
 had proved so much more successful, and the number of his 
 poems so much greater, that my compositions, instead of 
 forming a balance, appeared rather an interpolation of hetero- 
 geneous matter. Mr Wordsworth added two or three poems 
 w^ritten in his own character, in the impassioned, lofty, and 
 sustained diction which is characteristic of his genius. In 
 this form the Lyrical Ballads Were published." 
 
 As to its morality, Coleridge said in his Table Talk: — 
 
 " Mrs Barbauld once told me that she admired The Ancient 
 Mariner very much, but that there were two faults in it, — it 
 was improbable, and had no moral. As for the probability, 
 I owned that that might admit some question ; but as to the 
 want of a moral, I told her that in my own judgment the 
 poem had too much ; and that the only, or chief fault, if I 
 might say so, was the obtrusion of the moral sentiment so 
 openly on the reader as a principle or cause of action in a 
 work of such pure imagination. It ought to have had no 
 more moral than the Arabian Nights' tale of the merchant's 
 sitting down to eat dates by the side of a well, and throwing 
 the shells aside, and lo ! a genie starts up, and says he must
 
 28o The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 kill the aforesaid merchant, because one of the date shells had, it 
 seems, put out the eye of the genie's son." — Table Tali, May 
 31, 1830. 
 
 He expresses the same indignation as to the necessity of a 
 moral with regard to The Ra-uen, to which he added, after its 
 first publication, the following lines at the close: — 
 
 " We must not think so, but forget and forgive ; 
 And what Heaven gives life to, we'll let it live" — 
 
 Mr Campbell found, he says, " in the margin of a copy now in 
 the possession of Mr Stuart (by whose courtesy I am enabled 
 to print it), the following note of Coleridge" : — " Added thro' 
 cowardly fear of the Goody ! What a Hollow where the 
 Heart of Faith ought to be, does it not betray — this alarm 
 concerning Christian morality, that will not permit a Raven 
 to be a Raven, nor a Fox a Fox, but demands conventicular 
 justice to be inflicted on their un-Christian conduct, or at least 
 an antidote to be annexed." 
 
 II. Encinctured ivith a tivine of leciiies, p. 169. Here is the 
 prose of the IVanJer'mgs of Cain, only the introductory stanza of 
 which exists in Encinctured, Isfc. 
 
 THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN. 
 
 " A little further, O 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, O my father I " 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
 
 Notes 281 
 
 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 yesterday 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, O my 
 father, would they not play with me ? I would be good to 
 them, as thou art good to me : and I groaned to them, even as 
 thou groanest when thou givest me to eat, and when thou 
 coverest me at evening, and as often as I stand at thy knee and 
 chine 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. 
 
 And Cain lifted up his voice and cried bitterly, and said, 
 " The Mighty One that persecuteth me is on this side and on 
 that ; he pursueth my soul like the wind, like the sand-blast 
 he passeth through me ; he is around me even as the air ! O 
 that I might be utterly no more 1 I desire to die — yea, the 
 things that never had life, neither move they upon the earth- 
 behold 1 they seem precious to mine eyes. O that a man 
 might live without the breath of his nostrils. So I might 
 abide in darkness, and blackness, and an empty space I Yea, I 
 \vould 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 terribly 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 1 
 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 tnmk of a fir, and stood 
 upright and followed the child. 
 
 The path was dark till within three strides' length of its 
 termination, when it turned suddenly ; the thick black trees
 
 282 The Golden Book of Coleridge 
 
 formed a low arch, and the moonlight appeared for a moment 
 like a dazzling portal. Enos ran before and stood in the open 
 air ; and when Cain, his father, emerged from the darkness, 
 the child was affrighted. For the mighty limbs of Cain were 
 wasted as by fire ; his hair was as the matted curls on the 
 bison's forehead, and so glared his fierce and sullen eye 
 beneath : and the black abundant locks on either side, a rank 
 and tangled mass, were stained and 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 the 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 had found the pitcher and cake, and to 
 this place he led his father. But ere they had reached the 
 rock they beheld a human shape : his back was towards them, 
 and they were advancing unperceived, when they 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 ; but the
 
 Notes 283 
 
 child Enos 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, O my father, that I heard that voice. 
 Have not I often said that I remembered a sweet voice? O 
 my father! this is it : " and Cain trembled exceedingly. The 
 voice was sweet indeed, but it was thin and querulous, like 
 that of a feeble slave in misery, who despairs altogether, yet 
 cannot refrain himself from weeping and lamentation. And, 
 behold ! Enos glided forward, and creeping softly round the 
 base of the rock, stood before the stranger, and looked up into 
 his face. And the Shape shrieked, and turned round, and Cain 
 beheld him, that his limbs and his face were those of his 
 brother Abel whom he had killed! And Cain stood like one 
 who struggles in his sleep because of the exceeding terribleness 
 of a dream. 
 
 Thus as he stood in silence and darkness of soul, the Shape 
 fell at his feet, and embraced his knees, and cried out with a 
 bitter outcry. " Thou eldest born 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 miseiy. " Then Cain 
 closed his eyes, and hid them with his hands; and again he 
 opened his eyes, and looked around him, and said to Enos, 
 " What beholdest thou ? Didst thou hear a voice, my son ? " 
 •'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 w^as like Abel, and said : — "The Creator of 
 our father, who had respect unto thee, and unto thy offering, 
 wherefore hath he forsaken thee ? '' Then the shape shrieked 
 a second time, and rent his garment, and his naked skin was 
 like the white sands beneath their feet ; and he shrieked yet 
 a third time, and threw himself on his face upon the sand that 
 was black with the shadow of the rock, and Cain and Enos 
 sate beside him ; the child by his right hand, and 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
 
 284 The Golden Book of Coleridg 
 
 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. W'oe is me, for I was well 
 beloved by the God of the living, and cruel wert thou, O 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 sand 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 w^here 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, 1 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 
 God 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 answ^ered, " O 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. '79^- 
 
 12. Kublu Khan, p. 170. I give Coleridge's note — 
 
 Of the Fragment of Kubla Khan. 
 
 The following fragment is here published at the request of 
 a poet of great and deserved celebrity [presumably Eyron], 
 and, as far as the Author's own opinions are concerned, rather 
 as a psychological curiosity, than on the ground of any sup- 
 posed poetic merits.
 
 Notes 285 
 
 In the summer of the year 1797, the Author, then in ill 
 health, had retired to a lonely farm-house between Porlock 
 and Linton, on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devon- 
 shire. In consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne 
 had been prescribed, from the effects of which he fell asleep 
 in his chair at the moment that he was reading the following 
 sentence, or words of the same substance, in " Purchas's Pilgri- 
 mage " : " Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be 
 built, and a stately garden thereunto. And thus ten miles of 
 fertile ground were inclosed with a wall." 1 The Author 
 continued 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 composed less than from 
 two to three hundred lines ; if that indeed can be called com- 
 position in which all the images rose up before him as things, 
 with a parallel production of the correspondent expressions, 
 w^ithout any sensation or consciousness of effort. On awaking 
 he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the 
 whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and 
 eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At this 
 moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on 
 business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour, 
 and on his return to his room, found, to his 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 has 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 return ! And lo, he stays. 
 And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms 
 
 1 " In Xamdu did Cublai Can build a stately Palace, encompassing 
 sixteene miles of plaine ground with a wall, wherein are fertile Meddowes, 
 pleasant Springs, delightfull Streames, and all sorts of beasts of chase 
 and game, and in the middest thereof a sumptuous house of pleasure.' — 
 PuRCHAS his Pilgrimage : Loud. fol. 1626, Bk. iv. chap. xiii. p. 418. — 
 Ed.
 
 286 The Golden Book of Coleridgi. 
 
 Come trembling back, unite, and now once more 
 The pool becomes a mirror." 
 
 (From The Picture ; or, the Lover's Resolution.^ 
 
 Yet from the still-surviving recollections in his mind, the 
 Author has frequently purposed to finish for himself what 
 had beeen originally, as it were, given to him. 'Zapjj.ov ESiov 
 q,ffu: but the to-morrow is yet to come. 
 
 13. Fable is Lovers ivorld, p. 172. From T/ie Piccolomini, 
 Act II. Scene iv. 
 
 14. Fancy in Nubibus,p. 175. The last five lines are imitated 
 from Stolberg's An Jus Meer. 
 
 15. Catullian Hendecasyllables, p. 176. This is a free translation 
 from Matthisson's Milesisches Mahrchen. See, for original, 
 Mr Campbell's Edition of the Poems of Coleridge. 
 
 16. The Snoiv Drop, p. 1 90. I have omitted one stanza. 
 
 17. The Spell, p. 236. From Remorse, Act III. Scene i. 
 
 18. On obser-ving a blossom, p. 239. Some lines are here, at the 
 close, omitted. 
 
 19. A tombless Epitaph, \).z\t. Satyrane is Coleridge himself. 
 
 20. Lines composed in a Concert Room, p. 254. This is only the 
 close of the poem. It can well stand alone. The previous 
 verses are not good. 
 
 21. A Christmas Carol, p. 265. I have only printed the first 
 3 verses.
 
 INDEX TO FIRST LINES 
 
 A blessed lot hath he, who, having passed . 
 
 A green and silent spot amid the hills 
 
 A lovely form there sate beside my bed 
 
 A sunny shaft did I behold 
 
 All look and likeness caught from earth 
 
 All nature seems at work ; slugs leave their lair 
 
 All thoughts, all passions, all delights. 
 
 And is this the prime .... 
 
 As late on Skiddaw's Mount I lay supine . 
 
 At midnight by the stream I roved 
 
 Child of my muse ; in Barbour's tender hand 
 
 Come hither, gently rowing 
 
 Do you ask what the birds say, the Sparrows, the Dove 
 
 Earth, thou mother of numberless children, the nurse 
 
 and the mother ..... 
 Encinctured with a twine of leaves 
 Ere on my bed my limbs I lay . 
 Fear thou no more, thou timid flower 
 Friend of the wise and teacher of the good 
 Hast thon a charm to stay the morning star? 
 Hear, my beloved, an old Milesian story 
 How warm this woodland wild recess 
 I ask'd my fair one happy day . 
 I know it is dark, and though I have lain 
 I love, and he loves me again. 
 
 71 
 
 80 
 
 269 
 
 173 
 268 
 
 272 
 
 183 
 274 
 258 
 187 
 264 
 
 '97 
 267 
 
 1 1 1 
 169 
 
 249 
 190 
 242 
 116 
 .76 
 192 
 208 
 251 
 194 
 
 287
 
 288 
 
 The Golden Book of Coleridgi 
 
 I stood on Brocken's sovran height 
 
 If I had but two little wings 
 
 Imagination ; honourable aims . 
 
 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
 
 It is an Ancient Mariner . 
 
 It may indeed be phantasy when I 
 
 Like a lone Arab, old and blind . 
 
 Low was our pretty Cot, our tallest rose 
 
 My eyes make pictures when they are shut 
 
 My Lesbia, let us love and live . 
 
 My pensive Sara, thy soft cheek reclined 
 
 Never believe me .... 
 
 No cloud, no relique of the sunken day 
 
 O fair is Love's first Hope to gentle mind 
 
 O, give me from this heartless scene released 
 
 O, it is pleasant, with a heart at ease 
 
 O, leave the lily on its stem 
 
 O, never rudely will I blame his faith 
 
 O'er wayward childhood would'st thou hold 
 
 Of late, in one of those most weary hours 
 
 On stern Blencartha's perilous height . 
 
 On the wide level of a mountain's head 
 
 Resembles life what onee was deemed of light 
 
 She gave with joy her virgin breast . 
 
 Since all that beat about in Nature's range 
 
 Sisters ! Sisters ! who sent you here ! . 
 
 Spirit who sweepest the wild Harp of time 
 
 Stop, Christian passer-by, stop, child of God 
 
 Such was the noble Spaniard's own relation 
 
 Sweet flower, that peeping from thy russet stem 
 
 Tell me, on what holy ground . 
 
 The cloud doth gather, the greenwood roar 
 
 The Frost performs its secret ministry 
 
 The grapes upon the Vicar's wall 
 
 The hour bell sounds, and I must go . , 
 
 rule
 
 Index to First Lines 
 
 289 
 
 The Shepherds went their hasty way . 
 
 The sun is not yet risen ..... 
 
 The tedded hay, the first-fruits of the soil . 
 
 This be the meed, that thy song creates a thousand-fol 
 
 echo ........ 
 
 This sycamore, oft musical with bees . 
 Through weeds and thorns and matted underwood 
 'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock 
 'Tis true. Idoloclastes Satyrane .... 
 
 Tranquillity, thou better name .... 
 
 Unchanged within, to see all changed without . 
 Underneath a huge oak tree .... 
 
 Unperishing youth ...... 
 
 Upon the mountain's edge, with light touch resting 
 Up, up, ye dames and lasses gay 
 Verse, a breeze 'mid blossoms straying 
 Well ! If the bard was weatherwise, who made . 
 Well, they are gone, and here must I remain 
 When thou to my true love com'st ... 
 Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn . 
 While my young cheek retains its healthful hues 
 Why need I say, Louisa dear ! . ... 
 
 William, my teacher and friend ; dear William and 
 
 dear Dorothea ...... 
 
 With no irreverent voice or uncouth charm 
 Ye clouds ! that far above me float and pause 
 Yet art thou happier far than she 
 
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 lOI 
 
 TURNBULL & SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. 
 
 T .
 
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