THE WEARY PILGRIM
Weary Pilgrim, dry thy tear,
Look beyond these realms of night;
Mourn not, with redemption near,
Faint not, with the goal in sight.
Grief and pain are needful things,
Sent to chasten, not to slay;
And if pleasures have their wings,
Sorrows quickly pass away.
Where are childhood's sighs and throes?
Where are youth's tumultuous fears?
Where are manhood's thousand woes?
Lost amidst the lapse of years!
There are treasures which to gain,
Might a seraph's heart inspire;
There are joys which will remain
When the world is wrapt in fire.
Hope, with her expiring beam,
May illume our last delight;
But our trouble soon will seem,
Like the visions of the night.
We too oft remit our pace,
And at ease in slumbers dwell;
We are loiterers in our race,
And afflictions break the spell.
Woe to him, whoe'er he be,
Should (severest test below!)
All around him like a sea,
Health, and wealth, and honors, flow!
When unclouded suns we hail,
And our cedars proudly wave;
We forget their tenure frail,
With the bounteous hand that gave.
We on dangerous paths are bound,
Call'd to battle and to bleed;
We have hostile spirits round,
And the warrior's armour need.
We, within, have deadlier foes,
Wills rebellious, hearts impure;
God, the best physician, knows
What the malady will cure.
Earth is lovely! dress'd in flowers!
O'er her form luxuriant thrown,
But a lovelier world is ours,
Visible to faith alone.
Here the balm and spicy gales,
For a moment fill the air;
Here the mutable prevails,
Permanence alone is there.
Heaven to gain is worth our toil!
Angels call us to their sphere;
But to time's ignoble soil
We are bound, and will not hear.
Heaven attracts not! On we dream;
Cast like wrecks upon the shore
Where perfection reigns supreme,
And adieus are heard no more.
What is life? a tale! a span!
Swifter than the eagle's flight;
What the boasted age of man?
Vanishing beneath the sight.
Yet, our ardours and desires
Centred, circumscribed by earth;
Whilst eternity retires—
As an object nothing worth!
Oh, the folly of the proud!
Oh, the madness of the vain!
After every toy to crowd,
And unwithering crowns disdain!
Mighty men in grand array,
Magnates of the ages past,
Kings and conquerors, where are they?
Once whose frown a world o'ercast?
Faded! yet by fame enroll'd,
With their busts entwined with bays;
But if God his smile withhold,
Pitiful is human praise.
With what sadness and surprise,
Must Immortals view our lot;—
Eager for the flower that dies,
And the Amaranth heeding not.
May we from our dreams awake,
Love the truth, the truth obey;
On our night let morning break—
Prelude of a nobler day.
Harmony prevails above,
Where all hearts together blend;
Let the concords sweet of love,
Now begin and never end.
Have we not one common sire?
Have we not one home in sight?
Let the sons of peace conspire
Not to sever, but unite.
Hence, forgetful of the past,
May we all as brethren own,
Whom we hope to meet at last—
Round the everlasting throne.
Father! source of blessedness,
In thy strength triumphant ride;
Let the world thy Son confess,
And thy name be magnified!
Let thy word of truth prevail,
Scattering darkness, errors, lies;
Let all lands the treasure hail—
Link that binds us to the skies.
Let thy spirit, rich and free,
Copious shed his power divine,
Till (Creation's Jubilee!)
All Earth's jarring realms are thine!
Saints who once on earth endured—
Beating storm and thorny way,
Have the prize they sought secured,
And have enter'd perfect day.
Wiser taught,—with vision clear,
(Kindled from the light above)
Now their bitterest woes appear—
Charged with blessings, fraught with love:—
For, as earthly scenes withdrew,
In their false, but flattering guise,
They, rejoicing, fix'd their view—
On the mansions in the skies.
Art thou fearful of the end?
Dread not Jordan's swelling tide;
With the Saviour for thy friend!
With the Spirit for thy guide!
Why these half subdued alarms—
At the prospect of thy flight?
Has thy Father's house no charms?—
There to join the Saints in Light?
Terrors banish from thy breast,
Hope must solace, faith sustain;
Thou art journeying on to rest,
And with God shalt live and reign.
Then, fruition, like the morn,
Will unlock her boundless store;—
Roses bloom without a thorn,
And the day-star set no more.
But, an ocean lies between—
Stormy, to be cross'd alone;
With no ray to intervene—
O'er the cold and dark unknown!
Lo! a soft and soothing voice
Steals like music on my ears;—
"Let the drooping heart rejoice;
See! a glorious dawn appears!"
"When thy parting hours draw near,
And thou trembling view'st the last;
Christ and only Christ can cheer,
And o'er death a radiance cast!"
Weary Pilgrim, dry thy tear,
Look beyond these shades of night;
Mourn not with Redemption near,
Faint not with the goal in sight.
J. C.
Bristol, March 9, 1846.
Footnotes:
[1] The reader will bear in mind that the present work consists of Autobiography, and therefore, however repugnant to the writer's feelings, the apparent egotism has been unavoidable.
[2] Robert Lovell, himself was a poet, as will appear by the following being one of his Sonnets.
STONEHENGE.
Was it a spirit on yon shapeless pile?
It wore, methought, a holy Druid's form,
Musing on ancient days! The dying storm
Moan'd in his lifted locks. Thou, night! the while
Dost listen to his sad harp's wild complaint,
Mother of shadows! as to thee he pours
The broken strain, and plaintively deplores
The fall of Druid fame! Hark! murmurs faint
Breathe on the wavy air! and now more loud
Swells the deep dirge; accustomed to complain
Of holy rites unpaid, and of the crowd
Whose ceaseless steps the sacred haunts profane.
O'er the wild plain the hurrying tempest flies,
And, mid the storm unheard, the song of sorrow dies.
[3] I had an opportunity of introducing Mr. Southey at this time, to the eldest Mrs. More, who invited him down to spend some whole day with her sister Hannah, at their then residence, Cowslip Green. On this occasion, as requested, I accompanied him. The day was full of converse. On my meeting one of the ladies soon after, I was gratified to learn that Mr. S. equally pleased all five of the sisters. She said he was "brim full of literature, and one of the most elegant, and intellectual young men they had seen."
[4] It might he intimated, that, for the establishment of these lectures, there was, in Mr. Coleridge's mind, an interior spring of action. He wanted to "build up" a provision for his speedy marriage with Miss Sarah Fricker: and with these grand combined objects before him, no effort appeared too vast to be accomplished by his invigorated faculties.
[5] Copied from his MS. as delivered, not from his "Conciones ad Populum" as printed, where it will be found in a contracted state.
[6] Muir, Palmer, and Margarot.
[7] An eminent medical man in Bristol, who greatly admired Mr. Coleridge's conversation and genius, on one occasion, invited Mr. C. to dine with him, on a given day. The invitation was accepted, and this gentleman, willing to gratify his friends with an introduction to Mr. C. invited a large assemblage, for the express purpose of meeting him, and made a splendid entertainment, anticipating the delight which would be universally felt from Mr. C. a far-famed eloquence. It unfortunately happened that Mr. Coleridge had forgotten all about it! and the gentleman, [with his guests, after waiting till the hot became cold] under his mortification consoled himself by the resolve, never again to subject himself to a like disaster. No explanation or apology on my part could soothe the choler of this disciple of Glen. A dozen subscribers to his lectures fell off from this slip of his memory.
"Sloth jaundiced all! and from my graspless hand
Drop friendship's precious perls, like hour-glass sand.
I weep, yet stoop not! the faint anguish flows,
A dreamy pang in morning's feverish doze,"
[8] This honest upholsterer, (a Mr. W. a good little weak man) attended the preaching of the late eloquent Robert Hall. At one time an odd fancy entered his mind, such as would have occurred to none other; namely, that he possessed ministerial gifts; and with this notion uppermost in his head, he was sorely perplexed, to determine whether he ought not to forsake the shop, and ascend the pulpit.
In this uncertainty, he thought his discreetest plan would be to consult his Minister; in conformity with which, one morning he called on Mr. Hall, and thus began. "I call on you this morning, Sir, on a very important business!" "Well Sir." "Why you must know, Sir—I can hardly tell how to begin." "Let me hear, Sir." "Well Sir, if I must tell you, for these two months past I have had a strong persuasion on my mind, that I possess ministerial talents."—Mr. Hall (whose ideas were high of ministerial requisites) saw his delusion, and determined at once to check it. The Upholsterer continued: "Though a paper-hanger by trade, yet, sir, I am now satisfied that I am called to give up my business, and attend to something better; for you know, Mr. Hall, I should not bury my talents in a napkin." "O Sir," said Mr. H. "you need not use a napkin, a pocket-handkerchief will do."
This timely rebuke kept the good man to his paper-hangings for the remainder of his days, for whenever he thought of the ministry, this same image of the pocket-handkerchief, always damped his courage.
[9] Gilbert's derangement was owing to the loss of a naval cause at Portsmouth, in which he was concerned as an Advocate. Among other instances, one time when at his lodgings, he interpreted those words of Christ personally, "Sell all that thou hast and distribute to the poor," when, without the formality of selling, he thought the precept might be more summarily fulfilled, and therefore, one morning he tumbled every thing he had in his room, through the window, into the street, that the poor might help themselves; bed, bolsters, blankets, sheets, chairs! &c., &c, but unfortunately, it required at that season a higher exercise of the clear reasoning process than he possessed, to distinguish accurately between his own goods and chattels and those of his landlady!
He had all the volubility of a practised advocate, and seemed to delight in nothing so much as discussion, whether on the unconfirmed parallactic angle of Sirius, or the comparative weight of two straws. Amid the circle in which he occasionally found himself, ample scope was often given him for the exercise of this faculty. I once invited him, for the first time, to meet the late Robert Hall. I had calculated on some interesting discourse, aware that each was peculiarly susceptible of being aroused by opposition. The anticipations entertained on this occasion were abundantly realized. Their conversation, for some time, was mild and pleasant, each, for each, receiving an instinctive feeling of respect; but the subject happened to be started, of the contra-distinguishing merits of Hannah More and Ann Yearsley. By an easy transition, this led to the quarrel that some time before had taken place between these two remarkable females; the one occupying the summit, and the other moving in about the lowest grade of human society; but in genius, compeers. They at once took opposite sides. One argument elicited another, till at length each put forth his utmost strength, and such felicitous torrents of eloquence could rarely have been surpassed; where on each side ardour was repelled with fervency, and yet without the introduction of the least indecorous expression.
Gilbert was an astrologer; and at the time of a person's birth, he would with undoubting confidence predict all the leading events of his future life, and sometimes (if he knew anything of his personal history) even venture to declare the past. The caution with which he usually touched the second subject, formed a striking contrast with the positive declarations concerning the first.
I was acquainted at this time with a medical man of enlarged mind and considerable scientific attainments; and accidentally mentioning to him that a friend of mine was a great advocate for this sublime science, he remarked, "I should like to see him, and one half hour would be sufficient to despoil him of his weapons, and lay him prostrate in the dust." I said, "if you will sup with me I will introduce you to the astrologer, and if you can beat this nonsense out of his head, you will benefit him and all his friends." When the evening arrived, it appeared fair to apprise William Gilbert that I was going to introduce him to a doctor, who had kindly and gratuitously undertaken to cure him of all his astrological maladies. "Will he?" said Gilbert. "The malady is on his side. Perhaps I may cure him."
Each having a specific business before him, there was no hesitation or skirmishing, but at first sight they both, like tried veterans, in good earnest addressed themselves to war. On one side, there was a manifestation of sound sense and cogent argument; on the other, a familiarity with all those arguments, combined with great subtlety in evading them; and this sustained by new and ingenious sophisms. My medical friend, for some time stood his ground manfully, till, at length, he began to quail, apparently from the verbal torrent with which he was so unexpectedly assailed. Encountered thus by so fearful and consummate a disputant, whose eyes flashed fire in unison with his oracular tones and empassioned language, the doctor's quiver unaccountably became exhausted, and his spirit subdued. He seemed to look around for some mantle in which to hide the mortification of defeat; and the more so from his previous confidence. Never was a more triumphant victory, as it would superficially appear, achieved by ingenious volubility in a bad cause, over arguments, sound, but inefficiently wielded in a cause that was good. A fresh instance of the man of sense vanquished by the man of words.
[10] I would here subjoin, that when money, in future, may thus be collected for ingenious individuals, it might be the wisest procedure to transfer the full amount, at once, to the beneficiary, (unless under very peculiar circumstances.) This is felt to be both handsome and generous, and the obligation is permanently impressed on the mind. If the money then be improvidently dissipated, he who acts thus ungratefully to his benefactors, and cruelly to himself, reflects on his own folly alone. But when active and benevolent agents, who have raised subscriptions, will entail trouble on themselves, and with a feeling almost paternal, charge themselves with a disinterested solicitude for future generations, without a strong effort of the reasoning power, the favour is reduced to a fraction. Dissatisfaction almost necessarily ensues, and the accusation of ingratitude is seldom far behind.
[11] The Rev. James Newton, was Classical Tutor at the Bristol Baptist Academy, in conjunction with the late Dr. Caleb Evans, and, for a short season, the late Robert Hall. He was my most revered and honoured friend, who lived for twenty years an inmate in my Father's family, and to whom I am indebted in various ways, beyond my ability to express. His learning was his least recommendation. His taste for elegant literature; his fine natural understanding, his sincerity, and conciliating manners justified the eulogium expressed by Dr. Evans in preaching his Funeral Sermon, 1789, when he said (to a weeping congregation), that "He never made an enemy, nor lost a friend."
Mr. Newton was on intimate terms with the late Dean Tucker, and the Rev. Sir James Stonehouse, the latter of whom introduced him to Hannah More, who contracted for him, as his worth and talents became more and more manifest, a sincere and abiding friendship. Mr. Newton had the honour of teaching Hannah More Latin. The time of his instructing her did not exceed ten months. She devoted to this one subject the whole of her time, and all the energies of her mind. Mr. Newton spoke of her to me as exemplifying how much might be attained in a short time by talent and determination combined; and he said, for the limited period of his instruction, she surpassed in her progress all others whom he had ever known. H. More was in the habit of submitting her MSS. to Mr. N.'s judicious remarks, and by this means, from living in the same house with him, I preceded the public in inspecting some of her productions; particularly her MS. Poem on the "Slave Trade," and her "Bas Bleu." When a boy, many an evening do I recollect to have listened in wonderment to colloquisms and disputations carried on in Latin between Mr. Newton and John Henderson. It gives me pleasure to have borne this brief testimony of respect toward one on whom memory so often and so fondly reposes! Best of men, and kindest of friends, "farewell till we do meet again!"-(Bowles.)
[12] From his natural unassumed dignity, Mr. Foster used to call Mr. Hall "Jupiter."
[13] Mr. Hall broke down all distinction of sects and parties. On one of his visits to Bristol, when preaching at the chapel in Broadmead, a competent individual noticed in the thronged assembly an Irish Bishop, a Dean, and thirteen Clergymen. The late Dr. Parr was an enthusiastic admirer of Mr. Hall. He said to a friend of the writer, after a warm eulogium on the eloquence of Mr. H. "In short, sir, the man is inspired." Hannah More has more than once said to the writer, "There was no man in the church, nor out of it, comparable in talents to Robert Hall."
[14] I presented Mr. C. with the three guineas, but forbore the publication.
[15] I received a note, at this time, from Mr. Coleridge, evidently written in a moment of perturbation, apologising for not accepting an invitation of a more congenial nature, on account of his "Watch drudgery." At another time, he was reluctantly made a prisoner from the same cause, as will appear by the following note.
"April, 1796.
My dear Cottle,
My eye is so inflamed that I cannot stir out. It is alarmingly inflamed. In addition to this, the Debates which Burnet undertook to abridge for me, he has abridged in such a careless, slovenly manner, that I was obliged to throw them into the fire, and am now doing them myself!…
S. T. C."
[16] This "sheet" of Sonnets never arrived.
[17] A late worthy bookseller of Bristol, who by his exertions obtained one hundred and twenty subscribers for Mr. C.
[18] "My Bristol printer of the Watchman refused to wait a month for his money, and threatened to throw me into jail for between eighty and ninety pounds; when the money was paid by a friend."—Biographia Literaria. Mr. C.'s memory was here grievously defective. The fact is, Biggs the printer (a worthy man) never threatened nor even importuned for his Money. Instead also of nine numbers of the Watchman, there were ten; and the printing of these ten numbers, came but to thirty five pounds. The whole of the Paper (which cost more than the Printing) was paid for by the Writer.
[19] It is evident Mr. C. must have had cause of complaint against one or more of the booksellers before named. It could not apply to myself, as I invariably adhered to a promise I had at the commencement given Mr. Coleridge, not to receive any allowance for what copies of the 'Watchman' I might be so happy as to sell for him.
[20] In all Mr. Coleridge's lectures, he was a steady opposer of Mr. Pitt, and the then existing war; and also an enthusiastic admirer of Pox, Sheridan, Grey, &c., &c., but his opposition to the reigning politics discovered little asperity; it chiefly appeared by wit and sarcasm, and commonly ended in that which was the speaker's chief object, a laugh.
Few attended Mr. C.'s lectures but those whose political views were similar to his own; but on one occasion, some gentlemen of the opposite party came into the lecture-room, and at one sentiment they heard, testified their disapprobation by the only easy and safe way in their power; namely, by a hiss. The auditors were startled at so unusual a sound, not knowing to what it might conduct; but their noble leader soon quieted their fears, by instantly remarking with great coolness, "I am not at all surprised, when the red-hot prejudices of aristocrats are suddenly plunged iuto the cool water of reason, that they should go off with a hiss!" The words were electric. The assailants felt as well as testified, their confusion, and the whole company confirmed it by immense applause! There was no more hissing.
[21] A law just then passed.
[22] It is this general absence of the dates to Mr. C.'s letters, which may have occasioned me, in one or two instances, to err in the arrangement.
[23] Mr. Wordsworth, at this time resided at Allfoxden House, two or three miles from Stowey.
[24] How much is it to be deplored, that one whose views were so enlarged as those of Mr. Coleridge, and his conceptions so Miltonic, should have been satisfied with theorizing merely; and that he did not, like his great Prototype, concentrate all his energies, so as to produce some one august poetical work, which should become the glory of his country.
[25] Sister of the Premier.
[26] It appears from Sir James Macintosh's Life, published by his son, that a diminution of respect towards Sir James was entertained by Mr. For, arising from the above two letters of Mr. Coleridge, which appeared in the Morning Post. Some enemy of Sir James had informed Mr. Fox that these two letters were written by Macintosh, and which exceedingly wounded his mind. Before the error could be corrected, Mr. Fox died. This occurrence was deplored by Sir James, in a way that showed his deep feeling of regret, but which, as might be supposed, did not prevent him from bearing the amplest testimony to the social worth and surpassing talents of that great statesman.
Mr. Coleridge's Bristol friends will remember that once Mr. Fox was idolized by him as the paragon of political excellence; and Mr. Pitt depressed in the same proportion.
[27] The following is the Sonnet to Lord Stanhope, in the first edition, now omitted.
"Not STANHOPE! with the patriot's doubtful name
I mock thy worth, FRIEND OF THE HUMAN RACE!
Since, scorning faction's low and partial aim,
Aloof thou wendest in thy stately pace,
Thyself redeeming from that leprous stain—
NOBILITY! and, aye unterrified,
Pourest thy Abdiel warnings on the train
That sit complotting with rebellious pride
'Gainst her, who from th' Almighty's bosom leapt,
With whirlwind arm, fierce minister of love!
Wherefore, ere virtue o'er thy tomb hath wept.
Angels shall lead thee to the throne above,
And thou from forth its clouds shalt hear the voice—
Champion of FREEDOM, and her God, rejoice!
[28] The Skylark.
[29] It is to be regretted that Mr. C. in his emendations, should have excluded from the second verse of the first poem, the two best lines in the piece.
"And thy inmost soul confesses
Chaste Affection's majesty."
[30] Mr. C. afterward requested that the "allegorical lines" might alone be printed in his second edition, with this title: "To an Unfortunate Woman, whom the Author had known in the days of her innocence." The first Poem, "Maiden, that with sullen brow," &c. he meant to re-write, and which he will be found to have done, with considerable effect.
[31] Mr. Wordsworth lived at Racedown, before he removed to Allfoxden.
[32] Mr. C. after much hesitation, had intended to begin his second edition with this Poem from the "Joan of Arc," in its enlarged, but imperfect state, and even sent it to the press; but the discouraging remarks, which he remembered, of one and another, at the last moment, shook his resolution, and occasioned him to withdraw it wholly. He commenced his volume with the "Ode to the Departing Year."