The Complete Poetical Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Vol 1 (of 2)

by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

IX

TO WILLIAM GODWIN[86:1]

AUTHOR OF 'POLITICAL JUSTICE'

O form'd t' illume a sunless world forlorn,
As o'er the chill and dusky brow of Night,
In Finland's wintry skies the Mimic Morn[86:2]
Electric pours a stream of rosy light,

Pleas'd I have mark'd Oppression, terror-pale, 5
Since, thro' the windings of her dark machine,
Thy steady eye has shot its glances keen—
And bade th' All-lovely 'scenes at distance hail'.

Nor will I not thy holy guidance bless,
And hymn thee, Godwin! with an ardent lay; 10
For that thy voice, in Passion's stormy day,
When wild I roam'd the bleak Heath of Distress,

Bade the bright form of Justice meet my way—
And told me that her name was Happiness.

January 10, 1795.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[86:1] First published in the Morning Chronicle, January 10, 1795. First collected, P. and D. W., 1877, i. 143. The last six lines were sent in a letter to Southey, dated December 17, 1794. Letters of S. T. C., 1895, i. 117.

[86:2] Aurora Borealis.

---

X[87:1]

TO ROBERT SOUTHEY

OF BALIOL COLLEGE, OXFORD, AUTHOR OF THE 'RETROSPECT',
AND OTHER POEMS

Southey! thy melodies steal o'er mine ear
Like far-off joyance, or the murmuring
Of wild bees in the sunny showers of Spring—
Sounds of such mingled import as may cheer

The lonely breast, yet rouse a mindful tear: 5
Wak'd by the Song doth Hope-born Fancy fling
Rich showers of dewy fragrance from her wing,
Till sickly Passion's drooping Myrtles sear

Blossom anew! But O! more thrill'd, I prize
Thy sadder strains, that bid in Memory's Dream 10
The faded forms of past Delight arise;
Then soft, on Love's pale cheek, the tearful gleam

Of Pleasure smiles—as faint yet beauteous lies
The imag'd Rainbow on a willowy stream.

January 14, 1795.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[87:1] First published in the Morning Chronicle, January 14, 1795. First collected, P. and D. W., 1877, i. 142. This sonnet was sent in a letter to Southey, dated December 17, 1794. Letters of S. T. C., 1895, i. 120.

---

XI[87:2]

TO RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, ESQ.

It was some Spirit, Sheridan! that breath'd
O'er thy young mind such wildly-various power!
My soul hath mark'd thee in her shaping hour,
Thy temples with Hymettian[88:1] flow'rets wreath'd:

And sweet thy voice, as when o'er Laura's bier [5]
Sad Music trembled thro' Vauclusa's glade;
Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn Serenade
That wafts soft dreams to Slumber's listening ear.

Now patriot Rage and Indignation high
Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beams dance [10]
Meanings of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry!
Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance

The Apostate by the brainless rout ador'd,
As erst that elder Fiend beneath great Michael's sword.

January 29, 1795.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[87:2] First published in the Morning Chronicle, January 29, 1795: included in 1796, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834. Two MS. versions are extant; one in a letter to Southey, dated December 9, 1794 (Letters of S. T. C., 1895, i. 118), and a second in the Estlin copy-book. In 1796 a note to line 4 was included in Notes, p. 179, and in 1797 and 1803 affixed as a footnote, p. 95:—'Hymettian Flowrets. Hymettus, a mountain near Athens, celebrated for its honey. This alludes to Mr. Sheridan's classical attainments, and the following four lines to the exquisite sweetness and almost Italian delicacy of his poetry. In Shakespeare's Lover's Complaint there is a fine stanza almost prophetically characteristic of Mr. Sheridan.

So on the tip of his subduing tongue
All kind of argument and question deep,
All replication prompt and reason strong
For his advantage still did wake and sleep,
To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep:
He had the dialect and different skill
Catching all passions in his craft of will;
That he did in the general bosom reign
Of young and old.'

[88:1] Hymettus, a mountain of Attica famous for honey. M. C.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] To Sheridan MS. E: Effusion vi. 1796: Sonnet xi. 1803: Sonnet v. 1828, 1829, 1834.

[[1-5]]

Some winged Genius, Sheridan! imbreath'd
His various influence on thy natal hour:
My fancy bodies forth the Guardian power,
His temples with Hymettian flowrets wreath'd
And sweet his voice

MS. Letter, Dec. 9, 1794.

[[1-2]]

Was it some Spirit, Sheridan! that breath'd
His various &c.

M. C.

[[1-3]]

Some winged Genius, Sheridan! imbreath'd
O'er thy young Soul a wildly-various power!
My Fancy meets thee in her shaping hour

MS. E.

[[8]]

wafts] bears MS. Letter, 1794, M. C., MS. E.

[[9]]

Rage] Zeal MS. Letter, 1794, MS. E, M. C.

[[10]]

thine] his Letter, 1794, M. C.

[[12]]

While inly writhes from the Soul-probing glance

M. C.

[[12-14]]

Th' Apostate by the brainless rout ador'd
Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance
As erst that nobler Fiend

MS. Letter, 1794, MS. E.

[[14]]

elder] other M. C.

---

TO LORD STANHOPE[89:1]

ON READING HIS LATE PROTEST IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS

['MORNING CHRONICLE,' JAN. 31, 1795]

Stanhope! I hail, with ardent Hymn, thy name!
Thou shalt be bless'd and lov'd, when in the dust
Thy corse shall moulder—Patriot pure and just!
And o'er thy tomb the grateful hand of Fame

Shall grave:—'Here sleeps the Friend of Humankind!' 5
For thou, untainted by Corruption's bowl,
Or foul Ambition, with undaunted soul
Hast spoke the language of a Free-born mind

Pleading the cause of Nature! Still pursue
Thy path of Honour!—To thy Country true, 10

Still watch th' expiring flame of Liberty!
O Patriot! still pursue thy virtuous way,
As holds his course the splendid Orb of Day,
Or thro' the stormy or the tranquil sky!

One of the People.

1795.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[89:1] First collected in 1893. Mr. Campbell assigned the authorship of the Sonnet to Coleridge, taking it to be 'the original of the one to Stanhope printed in the Poems of 1796 and 1803'. For 'Corruption's bowl' (l. 6) see [Sonnet to Burke], line 9 (ante, p. 80).

---

TO EARL STANHOPE[89:2]

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, 5
Nobility: and aye unterrify'd
Pourest thine Abdiel warnings on the train
That sit complotting with rebellious pride

'Gainst Her[90:1] who from the Almighty's bosom leapt
With whirlwind arm, fierce Minister of Love! 10
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!

1795.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[89:2] First published in 1796: included in 1803, in Cottle's Early Rec. i. 203, and in Rem. 1848, p. 111. First collected in 1852.

[90:1] Gallic Liberty.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Effusion x. 1796 (To Earl Stanhope Contents): Sonnet xvi. 1803: Sonnet ix. 1852.

---

LINES[90:2]

TO A FRIEND IN ANSWER TO A MELANCHOLY LETTER

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

Yon setting Sun flashes a mournful gleam 5
Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train:
To-morrow shall the many-colour'd main
In brightness roll beneath his orient beam!

Wild, as the autumnal gust, the hand of Time
Flies o'er his mystic lyre: in shadowy dance 10
The alternate groups of Joy and Grief advance
Responsive to his varying strains sublime!

Bears on its wing each hour a load of Fate;
The swain, who, lull'd by Seine's mild murmurs, led
His weary oxen to their nightly shed, 15
To-day may rule a tempest-troubled State.

Nor shall not Fortune with a vengeful smile
Survey the sanguinary Despot's might,
And haply hurl the Pageant from his height
Unwept to wander in some savage isle. 20

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

? 1795.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[90:2] First published in 1796: included in 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Epistle II. To a Friend, &c. 1796: To a Friend, &c. 1803.

---

TO AN INFANT[91:1]

Ah! cease thy tears and sobs, my little Life!
I did but snatch away the unclasp'd knife:
Some safer toy will soon arrest thine eye,
And to quick laughter change this peevish cry!
Poor stumbler on the rocky coast of Woe, [5]
Tutor'd by Pain each source of pain to know!
Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire
Awake thy eager grasp and young desire;
Alike the Good, the Ill offend thy sight,
And rouse the stormy sense of shrill Affright! [10]
Untaught, yet wise! mid all thy brief alarms
Thou closely clingest to thy Mother's arms,
Nestling thy little face in that fond breast
Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest!
Man's breathing Miniature! thou mak'st me sigh— [15]
A Babe art thou—and such a Thing am I!
To anger rapid and as soon appeas'd,
For trifles mourning and by trifles pleas'd,
Break Friendship's mirror with a tetchy blow,
Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar glow! 20

O thou that rearest with celestial aim
The future Seraph in my mortal frame,
Thrice holy Faith! whatever thorns I meet
As on I totter with unpractis'd feet,
Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee, 25
Meek nurse of souls through their long Infancy!

1795.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[91:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797 (Supplement), 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834. A MS. version numbering 16 lines is included in the Estlin volume.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Effusion xxxiv. To an Infant 1796.

[[1-10]]

How yon sweet Child my Bosom's grief beguiles
With soul-subduing Eloquence of smiles!
Ah lovely Babe! in thee myself I scan—
Thou weepest! sure those Tears proclaim thee Man!
And now some glitt'ring Toy arrests thine eye,
And to quick laughter turns the peevish cry.
Poor Stumbler on the rocky coast of Woe,
Tutor'd by Pain the source of Pain to know!
Alike the foodful Fruit and scorching Fire
Awake thy eager grasp and young desire;
Alike the Good, the Ill thy aching sight
Scare with the keen Emotions of Affright!

MS. E.

[[8-11]]

Or rouse thy screams, or wake thy young desire:
Yet art thou wise, for mid thy brief alarms

1797.

[[9-10]]

om. 1797.

[[14]]

Whose kindly Heavings lull thy cares to Rest MS. E.

[[19]]

tetchy] fretful 1797.

---

TO THE REV. W. J. HORT[92:1]

WHILE TEACHING A YOUNG LADY SOME SONG-TUNES
ON HIS FLUTE

I

Hush! ye clamorous Cares! be mute!
Again, dear Harmonist! again
Thro' the hollow of thy flute
Breathe that passion-warbled strain:
Till Memory each form shall bring 5
The loveliest of her shadowy throng;
And Hope, that soars on sky-lark wing,
Carol wild her gladdest song!

II

O skill'd with magic spell to roll
The thrilling tones, that concentrate the soul! 10
Breathe thro' thy flute those tender notes again,
While near thee sits the chaste-eyed Maiden mild;
And bid her raise the Poet's kindred strain
In soft impassion'd voice, correctly wild.

III

In Freedom's undivided dell, 15
Where Toil and Health with mellow'd Love shall dwell,
Far from folly, far from men,
In the rude romantic glen,
Up the cliff, and thro' the glade,
Wandering with the dear-lov'd maid, [20]
I shall listen to the lay,
And ponder on thee far away
Still, as she bids those thrilling notes aspire
('Making my fond attuned heart her lyre'),
Thy honour'd form, my Friend! shall reappear, 25
And I will thank thee with a raptur'd tear.

1795.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[92:1] First published in 1796, and again in 1863.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] To the Rev. W. J. H. while Teaching, &c. 1796, 1863.

[[24]]

her] his 1863.

---

PITY[93:1]

Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled
To see thee, poor Old Man! and thy grey hairs
Hoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares
To clothe thy shrivell'd limbs and palsied head.
My Father! throw away this tatter'd vest [5]
That mocks thy shivering! take my garment—use
A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews
That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast.
My Sara too shall tend thee, like a child:
And thou shalt talk, in our fireside's recess, [10]
Of purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness—
He did not so, the Galilaean mild,
Who met the Lazars turn'd from rich men's doors
And call'd them Friends, and heal'd their noisome sores!

? 1795.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[93:1] First published in 1796: included in Selection of Sonnets, Poems 1796, in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Effusion xvi. 1796 (Contents—To an Old Man): Sonnet vi. 1797: Sonnet v. 1803: Sonnet x. 1828, 1829, 1834: Charity 1893.

[[7]]

arm] arms 1796, 1828.

[[12-14]]

He did not scowl, the Galilaean mild,
Who met the Lazar turn'd from rich man's doors,
And call'd him Friend, and wept upon his sores.

1797, 1803.

[[13]]

men's] man's 1796, Selection of Sonnets, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

---

TO THE NIGHTINGALE[93:2]

Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philomel!
How many Bards in city garret pent,
While at their window they with downward eye
Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell'd mud,
And listen to the drowsy cry of Watchmen 5
(Those hoarse unfeather'd Nightingales of Time!),
How many wretched Bards address thy name,
And hers, the full-orb'd Queen that shines above.
But I do hear thee, and the high bough mark,
Within whose mild moon-mellow'd foliage hid [10]
Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains.
O! I have listened, till my working soul,
Waked by those strains to thousand phantasies,
Absorb'd hath ceas'd to listen! Therefore oft,
I hymn thy name: and with a proud delight 15
Oft will I tell thee, Minstrel of the Moon!
'Most musical, most melancholy' Bird!
That all thy soft diversities of tone,
Tho' sweeter far than the delicious airs
That vibrate from a white-arm'd Lady's harp, 20
What time the languishment of lonely love
Melts in her eye, and heaves her breast of snow,
Are not so sweet as is the voice of her,
My Sara—best beloved of human kind!
When breathing the pure soul of tenderness, 25
She thrills me with the Husband's promis'd name!

1795.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[93:2] First published in 1796: included in 1803 and in Lit. Rem., i. 38. First collected in 1844.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Effusion xxiii. To the, &c. 1796.

[[12]]

O have I 1796.

---

LINES[94:1]

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

With many a pause and oft reverted eye
I climb the Coomb's ascent: sweet songsters near
Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:
Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear.
Up scour the startling stragglers of the flock [5]
That on green plots o'er precipices browze:
From the deep fissures of the naked rock
The Yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs
(Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats, 10
I rest:—and now have gain'd the topmost site.
Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets
My gaze! Proud towers, and Cots more dear to me,
Elm-shadow'd Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea!
Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear: 15
Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here!

---

FOOTNOTES:

[94:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797 (Supplement), 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Effusion xxi. Composed while climbing the Left Ascent of Brockley Coomb, in the County of Somerset, May 1795 1796: Sonnet v. Composed, &c. 1797: Sonnet xiv. Composed, &c. 1803.

[[7]]

deep] forc'd 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

---

LINES IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER[94:2]

O Peace, that on a lilied bank dost love
To rest thine head beneath an Olive-Tree,
I would that from the pinions of thy Dove
One quill withouten pain ypluck'd might be!
For O! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee, 5
And fain to her some soothing song would write,
Lest she resent my rude discourtesy,
Who vow'd to meet her ere the morning light,
But broke my plighted word—ah! false and recreant wight!

Last night as I my weary head did pillow 10
With thoughts of my dissever'd Fair engross'd,
Chill Fancy droop'd wreathing herself with willow,
As though my breast entomb'd a pining ghost.
'From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal boast,
Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way; [15]
But leave me with the matin hour, at most!
As night-clos'd floweret to the orient ray,
My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey.'

But Love, who heard the silence of my thought,
Contriv'd a too successful wile, I ween: 20
And whisper'd to himself, with malice fraught—
'Too long our Slave the Damsel's smiles hath seen:
To-morrow shall he ken her alter'd mien!'
He spake, and ambush'd lay, till on my bed
The morning shot her dewy glances keen, [25]
When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head—
'Now, Bard! I'll work thee woe!' the laughing Elfin said.

Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing
Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart;
When twang'd an arrow from Love's mystic string, 30
With pathless wound it pierc'd him to the heart.
Was there some magic in the Elfin's dart?
Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance?
For straight so fair a Form did upwards start
(No fairer deck'd the bowers of old Romance) 35
That Sleep enamour'd grew, nor mov'd from his sweet trance!

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— 40
Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem,
He sprang from Heaven! Such joys with Sleep did 'bide,
That I the living Image of my Dream
Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd—
'O! how shall I behold my Love at eventide!' [45]

1795.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[94:2] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Effusion xxiv. In the, &c. 1796: In the, &c. 1797.

[[17]]

Like snowdrop opening to the solar ray, 1796.

[[19]]

'heard the silence of my thought' 1797, 1803.

[[26]]

to lift] uplift 1797, 1803.

Below [l. 45] July 1795 1797, 1803.

---

THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET AGAIN[96:1]

(Composed during Illness, and in Absence.)

Dim Hour! that sleep'st on pillowing clouds afar,
O rise and yoke the Turtles to thy car!
Bend o'er the traces, blame each lingering Dove,
And give me to the bosom of my Love!
My gentle Love, caressing and carest, [5]
With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest!
Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes,
Lull with fond woe, and medicine me with sighs!
While finely-flushing float her kisses meek,
Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid cheek. [10]
Chill'd by the night, the drooping Rose of May
Mourns the long absence of the lovely Day;
Young Day returning at her promis'd hour
Weeps o'er the sorrows of her favourite Flower;
Weeps the soft dew, the balmy gale she sighs, [15]
And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes.
New life and joy th' expanding flow'ret feels:
His pitying Mistress mourns, and mourning heals!

? 1795.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[96:1] First published in The Watchman, No. III, March 17, 1796 (signed C.): included in 1797, 1803, 1844, and 1852. It was first reprinted, after 1803, in Literary Remains, 1836, i. 43, under 'the sportive title "Darwiniana", on the supposition that it was written' in half-mockery of Darwin's style with its dulcia vitia. (See 1852, Notes, p. 885.)

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Darwiniana. The Hour, &c. L. R., 1844: Composed during illness and absence 1852.

[[9-10]]

om. 1803.

[[14]]

her] the Lit. Rem., 1844, 1852.

[[17]]

New] Now Watchman.

---

LINES[96:2]

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

Good verse most good, and bad verse then seems better
Receiv'd from absent friend by way of Letter.
For what so sweet can labour'd lays impart
As one rude rhyme warm from a friendly heart?—Anon.

Nor travels my meandering eye
The starry wilderness on high;
Nor now with curious sight
I mark the glow-worm, as I pass,
Move with 'green radiance'[97:1] through the grass, 5
An emerald of light.

O ever present to my view!
My wafted spirit is with you,
And soothes your boding fears:
I see you all oppressed with gloom 10
Sit lonely in that cheerless room—
Ah me! You are in tears!

Belovéd Woman! did you fly
Chill'd Friendship's dark disliking eye,
Or Mirth's untimely din? 15
With cruel weight these trifles press
A temper sore with tenderness,
When aches the void within.

But why with sable wand unblessed
Should Fancy rouse within my breast 20
Dim-visag'd shapes of Dread?
Untenanting its beauteous clay
My Sara's soul has wing'd its way,
And hovers round my head!

I felt it prompt the tender Dream, [25]
When slowly sank the day's last gleam;
You rous'd each gentler sense,
As sighing o'er the Blossom's bloom
Meek Evening wakes its soft perfume
With viewless influence. [30]

And hark, my Love! The sea-breeze moans
Through yon reft house! O'er rolling stones
In bold ambitious sweep
The onward-surging tides supply
The silence of the cloudless sky 35
With mimic thunders deep.

Dark reddening from the channell'd Isle[98:1]
(Where stands one solitary pile
Unslated by the blast)
The Watchfire, like a sullen star 40
Twinkles to many a dozing Tar
Rude cradled on the mast.

Even there—beneath that light-house tower—
In the tumultuous evil hour
Ere Peace with Sara came, [45]
Time was, I should have thought it sweet
To count the echoings of my feet,
And watch the storm-vex'd flame.

And there in black soul-jaundic'd fit
A sad gloom-pamper'd Man to sit, 50
And listen to the roar:
When mountain surges bellowing deep
With an uncouth monster-leap
Plung'd foaming on the shore.

Then by the lightning's blaze to mark 55
Some toiling tempest-shatter'd bark;
Her vain distress-guns hear;
And when a second sheet of light
Flash'd o'er the blackness of the night—
To see no vessel there! 60

But Fancy now more gaily sings;
Or if awhile she droop her wings,
As skylarks 'mid the corn,
On summer fields she grounds her breast:
The oblivious poppy o'er her nest 65
Nods, till returning morn.

O mark those smiling tears, that swell
The open'd rose! From heaven they fell,
And with the sun-beam blend.
Blest visitations from above, 70
Such are the tender woes of Love
Fostering the heart they bend!

When stormy Midnight howling round
Beats on our roof with clattering sound,
To me your arms you'll stretch: 75
Great God! you'll say—To us so kind,
O shelter from this loud bleak wind
The houseless, friendless wretch!

The tears that tremble down your cheek,
Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek 80
In Pity's dew divine;
And from your heart the sighs that steal
Shall make your rising bosom feel
The answering swell of mine!

How oft, my Love! with shapings sweet 85
I paint the moment, we shall meet!
With eager speed I dart—
I seize you in the vacant air,
And fancy, with a husband's care
I press you to my heart! 90

'Tis said, in Summer's evening hour
Flashes the golden-colour'd flower
A fair electric flame:[99:1]
And so shall flash my love-charg'd eye
When all the heart's big ecstasy 95
Shoots rapid through the frame!

1795.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[96:2] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[97:1] The expression 'green radiance' is borrowed from Mr. Wordsworth, a Poet whose versification is occasionally harsh and his diction too frequently obscure; but whom I deem unrivalled among the writers of the present day in manly sentiment, novel imagery, and vivid colouring. Note, 1796, p. 185: Footnote, 1797, p. 88.

[The phrase 'green radiance' occurs in An Evening Walk, ll. 264-8, first published in 1793, and reprinted in 1820. In 1836 the lines were omitted.

Oft has she taught them on her lap to play
Delighted with the glow-worm's harmless ray,
Toss'd light from hand to hand; while on the ground
Small circles of green radiance gleam around.]

[98:1] The Holmes, in the Bristol Channel.

[99:1] Light from plants. In Sweden a very curious phenomenon has been observed on certain flowers, by M. Haggern, lecturer in natural history. One evening he perceived a faint flash of light repeatedly dart from a marigold. Surprised at such an uncommon appearance, he resolved to examine it with attention; and, to be assured it was no deception of the eye, he placed a man near him, with orders to make a signal at the moment when he observed the light. They both saw it constantly at the same moment.

The light was most brilliant on marigolds of an orange or flame colour; but scarcely visible on pale ones. The flash was frequently seen on the same flower two or three times in quick succession; but more commonly at intervals of several minutes; and when several flowers in the same place emitted their light together, it could be observed at a considerable distance.

This phenomenon was remarked in the months of July and August at sun-set, and for half an hour when the atmosphere was clear; but after a rainy day, or when the air was loaded with vapours nothing of it was seen.

The following flowers emitted flashes, more or less vivid, in this order:—

1. The marigold, galendula [sic] officinalis.

2. Monk's-hood, tropaelum [sic] majus.

3. The orange-lily, lilium bulbiferum.

4. The Indian pink, tagetes patula et erecta.

From the rapidity of the flash, and other circumstances, it may be conjectured that there is something of electricity in this phenomenon. Notes to Poems, 1796. Note 13, pp. 186, 188.

In 1797 the above was printed as a footnote on pp. 93, 94. In 1803 the last stanza, lines 91-96, was omitted, and, of course, the note disappeared. In 1828, 1829, and 1834 the last stanza was replaced but the note was not reprinted.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Epistle I. Lines written, &c. The motto is printed on the reverse of the half-title 'Poetical Epistles' [pp. 109, 110]. 1796: Ode to Sara, written at Shurton Bars, &c. 1797, 1803. The motto is omitted in 1797, 1803: The motto is prefixed to the poem in 1828, 1829, and 1834. In 1797 and 1803 a note is appended to the title:—Note. The first stanza alludes to a Passage in the Letter. [The allusions to a 'Passage in the Letter' must surely be contained not in the first but in the second and third stanzas. The reference is, no doubt, to the alienation from Southey, which must have led to a difference of feeling between the two sisters Sarah and Edith Fricker.]

[[26]]

sank] sunk 1796-1829.

[[33]]

With broad impetuous 1797, 1803.

[[34]]

fast-encroaching 1797, 1803.

[[48]]

storm-vex'd] troubled 1797, 1803.

[[49]]

black and jaundic'd fit 1797.

---

THE EOLIAN HARP[100:1]

COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE

My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined
Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is
To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o'ergrown
With white-flower'd Jasmin, and the broad-leav'd Myrtle,
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!) [5]
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,
Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve
Serenely brilliant (such should Wisdom be)
Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents
Snatch'd from yon bean-field! and the world so hush'd! [10]
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 caress'd,
Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover, [15]
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 [20]
As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve
Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,
Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers,
Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,
Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untam'd wing! [25]
O! the one Life within us and abroad,
Which meets all motion and becomes its soul,
A light in sound, a sound-like power in light,
Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every where—
Methinks, it should have been impossible 30
Not to love all things in a world so fill'd;
Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air
Is Music slumbering on her instrument.

And thus, my Love! as on the midway slope
Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon, 35
Whilst through my half-closed eye-lids I behold
The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main,
And tranquil muse upon tranquillity;
Full many a thought uncall'd and undetain'd,
And many idle flitting phantasies, [40]
Traverse my indolent and passive brain,
As wild and various as the random gales
That swell and flutter on this subject Lute!

And what if all of animated nature
Be but organic Harps diversely fram'd, 45
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 belovéd Woman! nor such thoughts 50
Dim and unhallow'd dost thou not reject,
And biddest me walk humbly with my God.
Meek Daughter in the family of Christ!
Well hast thou said and holily disprais'd
These shapings of the unregenerate mind; 55
Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break
On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring.
For never guiltless may I speak of him,
The Incomprehensible! save when with awe
I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels;[102:1] [60]
Who with his saving mercies healéd me,
A sinful and most miserable man,
Wilder'd and dark, and gave me to possess
Peace, and this Cot, and thee, heart-honour'd Maid!

1795.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[100:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[102:1] L'athée n'est point à mes yeux un faux esprit; je puis vivre avec lui aussi bien et mieux qu'avec le dévot, car il raisonne davantage, mais il lui manque un sens, et mon ame ne se fond point entièrement avec la sienne: il est froid au spectacle le plus ravissant, et il cherche un syllogisme lorsque je rends une [un 1797, 1803] action de grace. 'Appel a l'impartiale postérité', par la Citoyenne Roland, troisième partie, p. 67. Notes to Poems. Note 10, 1796, p. 183. The above was printed as a footnote to p. 99, 1797, and to p. 132, 1803.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Effusion xxxv. Composed August 20th, 1795, At Clevedon, Somersetshire 1796. Composed at Clevedon Somersetshire 1797, 1803: The Eolian Harp. Composed, &c. S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[[5]]

om. 1803.

[[8]]

om. 1803.

[[11]]

Hark! the still murmur 1803.

[[12]]

And th' Eolian Lute, 1803.

[[13]]

om. 1803.

[[16]]

upbraiding] upbraidings 1796, 1797, 1803, Sibylline Leaves, 1817.

Lines [21-33] are om. in 1803, and the text reads:

Such a soft floating witchery of sound—
Methinks, it should have been impossible
Not to love all things in a World like this,
Where e'en the Breezes of the simple Air
Possess the power and Spirit of Melody!
And thus, my Love, &c.

[26-33] are not in 1796, 1797. In Sibylline Leaves, for lines 26-33 of the text, four lines are inserted:

Methinks it should have been impossible
Not to love all things in a world like this,
Where even the breezes, and the common air,
Contain the power and spirit of Harmony.

Lines 26-33 were first included in the text in 1828, and reappeared in 1829 and 1834. They are supplied in the Errata, pp. [xi, xii], of Sibylline Leaves, with a single variant (l. 33): Is Music slumbering on its instrument.

[[44]]

And] Or 1796, 1797, 1803.

[[64]]

dear honoured Maid 1893.

---

TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS[102:2]

[Joseph Cottle]

PUBLISHED ANONYMOUSLY AT BRISTOL IN SEPTEMBER 1795

Unboastful Bard! whose verse concise yet clear
Tunes to smooth melody unconquer'd sense,
May your fame fadeless live, as 'never-sere'
The Ivy wreathes yon Oak, whose broad defence
Embowers me from Noon's sultry influence! 5
For, like that nameless Rivulet stealing by,
Your modest verse to musing Quiet dear
Is rich with tints heaven-borrow'd: the charm'd eye
Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the soften'd sky.

Circling the base of the Poetic mount 10
A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow
Its coal-black waters from Oblivion's fount:
The vapour-poison'd Birds, that fly too low,
Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go.
Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet 15
Beneath the Mountain's lofty-frowning brow,
Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet,
A mead of mildest charm delays th' unlabouring feet.

Not there the cloud-climb'd rock, sublime and vast,
That like some giant king, o'er-glooms the hill; 20
Nor there the Pine-grove to the midnight blast
Makes solemn music! But th' unceasing rill
To the soft Wren or Lark's descending trill
Murmurs sweet undersong 'mid jasmin bowers.
In this same pleasant meadow, at your will 25
I ween, you wander'd—there collecting flowers
Of sober tint, and herbs of med'cinable powers!

There for the monarch-murder'd Soldier's tomb
You wove th' unfinish'd[103:1] wreath of saddest hues;
And to that holier[103:2] chaplet added bloom 30
Besprinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews.
But lo your Henderson[103:3] awakes the Muse——
His Spirit beckon'd from the mountain's height!
You left the plain and soar'd mid richer views!
So Nature mourn'd when sunk the First Day's light, [35]
With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of night!

Still soar, my Friend, those richer views among,
Strong, rapid, fervent, flashing Fancy's beam!
Virtue and Truth shall love your gentler song;
But Poesy demands th' impassion'd theme: 40
Waked by Heaven's silent dews at Eve's mild gleam
What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around!
But if the vext air rush a stormy stream
Or Autumn's shrill gust moan in plaintive sound,
With fruits and flowers she loads the tempest-honor'd ground.

1795.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[102:2] First published in 1796: included in 1797 (Supplement), 1803, and 1852.

'The first in order of the verses which I have thus endeavoured to reprieve from immediate oblivion was originally addressed "To the Author of Poems published anonymously at Bristol". A second edition of these poems has lately appeared with the Author's name prefixed: and I could not refuse myself the gratification of seeing the name of that man among my poems without whose kindness they would probably have remained unpublished; and to whom I know myself greatly and variously obliged, as a Poet, a man, and a Christian.' 'Advertisement' to Supplement, 1797, pp. 243, 244.

[103:1] 'War,' a Fragment.

[103:2] 'John Baptist,' a poem.

[103:3] 'Monody on John Henderson.'

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Epistle iv. To the Author, &c. 1796: Lines to Joseph Cottle 1797: To the Author, &c., with footnote, 'Mr. Joseph Cottle' 1803.

[[1]]

Unboastful Bard] My honor'd friend 1797.

[[35]]

sunk] sank 1797.

---

THE SILVER THIMBLE[104:1]

THE PRODUCTION OF A YOUNG LADY, ADDRESSED TO THE
AUTHOR OF THE POEMS ALLUDED TO IN THE PRECEDING EPISTLE

She had lost her Silver Thimble, and her complaint being accidentally overheard by him, her Friend, he immediately sent her four others to take her choice of.

As oft mine eye with careless glance
Has gallop'd thro' some old romance,
Of speaking Birds and Steeds with wings,
Giants and Dwarfs, and Fiends and Kings;
Beyond the rest with more attentive care 5
I've lov'd to read of elfin-favour'd Fair——
How if she long'd for aught beneath the sky
And suffer'd to escape one votive sigh,
Wafted along on viewless pinions aery
It laid itself obsequious at her feet: 10
Such things, I thought, one might not hope to meet
Save in the dear delicious land of Faery!
But now (by proof I know it well)
There's still some peril in free wishing——
Politeness is a licensed spell, 15
And you, dear Sir! the Arch-magician.
You much perplex'd me by the various set:
They were indeed an elegant quartette!
My mind went to and fro, and waver'd long;
At length I've chosen (Samuel thinks me wrong) 20
That, around whose azure rim
Silver figures seem to swim,
Like fleece-white clouds, that on the skiey Blue,
Waked by no breeze, the self-same shapes retain;
Or ocean-Nymphs with limbs of snowy hue 25
Slow-floating o'er the calm cerulean plain.

Just such a one, mon cher ami,
(The finger shield of industry)
Th' inventive Gods, I deem, to Pallas gave
What time the vain Arachne, madly brave, 30
Challeng'd the blue-eyed Virgin of the sky
A duel in embroider'd work to try.
And hence the thimbled Finger of grave Pallas
To th' erring Needle's point was more than callous.
But ah the poor Arachne! She unarm'd 35
Blundering thro' hasty eagerness, alarm'd
With all a Rival's hopes, a Mortal's fears,
Still miss'd the stitch, and stain'd the web with tears.
Unnumber'd punctures small yet sore
Full fretfully the maiden bore, 40
Till she her lily finger found
Crimson'd with many a tiny wound;
And to her eyes, suffus'd with watery woe,
Her flower-embroider'd web danc'd dim, I wist,
Like blossom'd shrubs in a quick-moving mist: 45
Till vanquish'd the despairing Maid sunk low.

O Bard! whom sure no common Muse inspires,
I heard your Verse that glows with vestal fires!
And I from unwatch'd needle's erring point
Had surely suffer'd on each finger-joint 50
Those wounds, which erst did poor Arachne meet;
While he, the much-lov'd Object of my choice
(My bosom thrilling with enthusiast heat),
Pour'd on mine ear with deep impressive voice,
How the great Prophet of the Desart stood 55
And preach'd of Penitence by Jordan's Flood;
On War; or else the legendary lays
In simplest measures hymn'd to Alla's praise;
Or what the Bard from his heart's inmost stores
O'er his Friend's grave in loftier numbers pours: 60
Yes, Bard polite! you but obey'd the laws
Of Justice, when the thimble you had sent;
What wounds your thought-bewildering Muse might cause
'Tis well your finger-shielding gifts prevent.

Sara.

1795.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[104:1] First published in 1796: included for the first time in Appendix to 1863. Mrs. Coleridge told her daughter (Biog. Lit., 1847, ii. 411) that she wrote but little of these verses.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Epistle v. The Production of a Young Lady, &c. 1796: From a Young Lady Appendix, 1863.

---

REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF RETIREMENT[106:1]

Sermoni propriora.—Hor.

Low was our pretty Cot: our tallest Rose
Peep'd 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 5
Thick Jasmins twined: the little landscape round
Was green and woody, and refresh'd the eye.
It was a spot which you might aptly call
The Valley of Seclusion! Once I saw
(Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness) [10]
A wealthy son of Commerce saunter by,
Bristowa's citizen: methought, it calm'd
His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse
With wiser feelings: for he paus'd, and look'd
With a pleas'd sadness, and gaz'd all around, [15]
Then eyed our Cottage, and gaz'd round again,
And sigh'd, and said, it was a Blesséd Place.
And we were bless'd. Oft with patient ear
Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note
(Viewless, or haply for a moment seen [20]
Gleaming on sunny wings) in whisper'd tones
I've said to my Belovéd, 'Such, sweet Girl!
The inobtrusive song of Happiness,
Unearthly minstrelsy! then only heard
When the Soul seeks to hear; when all is hush'd, 25
And the Heart listens!'

But the time, when first
From that low Dell, steep up the stony Mount
I climb'd with perilous toil and reach'd the top,
Oh! what a goodly scene! Here the bleak mount,
The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep; 30
Grey clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields;
And river, now with bushy rocks o'er-brow'd,
Now winding bright and full, with naked banks;
And seats, and lawns, the Abbey and the wood,
And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-spire; 35
The Channel there, the Islands and white sails,
Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless Ocean—
It seem'd like Omnipresence! God, methought,
Had built him there a Temple: the whole World
Seem'd imag'd in its vast circumference: [40]
No wish profan'd my overwhelméd heart.
Blest hour! It was a luxury,—to be!

Ah! quiet Dell! dear Cot, and Mount sublime!
I was constrain'd to quit you. Was it right,
While my unnumber'd brethren toil'd and bled, [45]
That I should dream away the entrusted hours
On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart
With feelings all too delicate for use?
Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye
Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth: 50
And he that works me good with unmov'd face,
Does it but half: he chills me while he aids,
My benefactor, not my brother man!
Yet even this, this cold beneficence
Praise, praise it, O my Soul! oft as thou scann'st [55]
The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe!
Who sigh for Wretchedness, yet shun the Wretched,
Nursing in some delicious solitude
Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies!
I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand, 60
Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight
Of Science, Freedom, and the Truth in Christ.

Yet oft when after honourable toil
Bests the tir'd mind, and waking loves to dream,
My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot! [65]
Thy Jasmin and thy window-peeping Rose,
And Myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air.
And I shall sigh fond wishes—sweet Abode!
Ah!—had none greater! And that all had such!
It might be so—but the time is not yet. [70]
Speed it, O Father! Let thy Kingdom come!

1795.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[106:1] First published in the Monthly Magazine, October, 1796, vol. ii, p. 712: included in 1797, 1803, Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Reflections on entering into active life. A Poem which affects not to be Poetry M. Mag. The motto was prefixed in 1797.

[[12-17]]

Bristowa's citizen—he paus'd and look'd
With a pleased sadness and gaz'd all around,
Then eye'd our cottage and gaz'd round again,
And said it was a blessed little place.

Monthly Magazine.

[[17]]

And sigh'd, and said, it was a blessed place.

1797, 1803.

[[21]]

wings] wing M. M., 1797, 1803, S. L.

[[21-3]]

Gleaming on sunny wing,) 'And such,' I said,
'The inobtrusive song

1803.

[[40]]

Was imag'd M. M.

[[46]]

entrusted] trusted M. M., 1797.

[[55]]

Seizes my Praise, when I reflect on those 1797, 1803, Sibylline Leaves, 1817 (line as in text supplied in Errata).

[[69]]

none] none M. M. all] all M. M.

[[70-1]]

om. 1803.

---

RELIGIOUS MUSINGS[108:1]

A DESULTORY POEM, WRITTEN ON THE CHRISTMAS EVE OF 1794

This is the time, when most divine to hear,
The voice of Adoration rouses me,
As with a Cherub's trump: and high upborne,
Yea, mingling with the Choir, I seem to view
The vision of the heavenly multitude, [5]
Who hymned the song of Peace o'er Bethlehem's fields!
Yet thou more bright than all the Angel-blaze,
That harbingered thy birth, Thou Man of Woes!
Despiséd Galilaean! For the Great
Invisible (by symbols only seen) 10
With a peculiar and surpassing light
Shines from the visage of the oppressed good man,
When heedless of himself the scourgéd saint
Mourns for the oppressor. Fair the vernal mead,
Fair the high grove, the sea, the sun, the stars; 15
True impress each of their creating Sire!
Yet nor high grove, nor many-colour'd mead,
Nor the green ocean with his thousand isles,
Nor the starred azure, nor the sovran sun,
E'er with such majesty of portraiture 20
Imaged the supreme beauty uncreate,
As thou, meek Saviour! at the fearful hour
When thy insulted anguish winged the prayer
Harped by Archangels, when they sing of mercy!
Which when the Almighty heard from forth his throne [25]
Diviner light filled Heaven with ecstasy!
Heaven's hymnings paused: and Hell her yawning mouth
Closed a brief moment.

Lovely was the death
Of Him whose life was Love! Holy with power
He on the thought-benighted Sceptic beamed [30]
Manifest Godhead, melting into day
What floating mists of dark idolatry
Broke and misshaped the omnipresent Sire:[110:1]
And first by Fear uncharmed the drowséd Soul.
Till of its nobler nature it 'gan feel [35]
Dim recollections; and thence soared to Hope,
Strong to believe whate'er of mystic good
The Eternal dooms for His immortal sons.
From Hope and firmer Faith to perfect Love
Attracted and absorbed: and centered there 40
God only to behold, and know, and feel,
Till by exclusive consciousness of God
All self-annihilated it shall make[110:2]
God its Identity: God all in all!
We and our Father one!

And blest are they, 45
Who in this fleshly World, the elect of Heaven,
Their strong eye darting through the deeds of men,
Adore with steadfast unpresuming gaze
Him Nature's essence, mind, and energy!
And gazing, trembling, patiently ascend [50]
Treading beneath their feet all visible things
As steps, that upward to their Father's throne
Lead gradual—else nor glorified nor loved.
They nor contempt embosom nor revenge:
For they dare know of what may seem deform 55
The Supreme Fair sole operant: in whose sight
All things are pure, his strong controlling love
Alike from all educing perfect good.
Their's too celestial courage, inly armed—
Dwarfing Earth's giant brood, what time they muse [60]
On their great Father, great beyond compare!
And marching onwards view high o'er their heads
His waving banners of Omnipotence.
Who the Creator love, created Might
Dread not: within their tents no Terrors walk. 65
For they are holy things before the Lord
Aye unprofaned, though Earth should league with Hell;
God's altar grasping with an eager hand
Fear, the wild-visag'd, pale, eye-starting wretch,
Sure-refug'd hears his hot pursuing fiends [70]
Yell at vain distance. Soon refresh'd from Heaven
He calms the throb and tempest of his heart.
His countenance settles; a soft solemn bliss
Swims in his eye—his swimming eye uprais'd:
And Faith's whole armour glitters on his limbs! [75]
And thus transfigured with a dreadless awe,
A solemn hush of soul, meek he beholds
All things of terrible seeming: yea, unmoved
Views e'en the immitigable ministers
That shower down vengeance on these latter days. [80]
For kindling with intenser Deity
From the celestial Mercy-seat they come,
And at the renovating wells of Love
Have fill'd their vials with salutary wrath,[112:1]
To sickly Nature more medicinal [85]
Than what soft balm the weeping good man pours
Into the lone despoiléd traveller's wounds!

Thus from the Elect, regenerate through faith,
Pass the dark Passions and what thirsty cares[112:2]
Drink up the spirit, and the dim regards 90
Self-centre. Lo they vanish! or acquire
New names, new features—by supernal grace
Enrobed with Light, and naturalised in Heaven.
As when a shepherd on a vernal morn
Through some thick fog creeps timorous with slow foot, [95]
Darkling he fixes on the immediate road
His downward eye: all else of fairest kind
Hid or deformed. But lo! the bursting Sun!
Touched by the enchantment of that sudden beam
Straight the black vapour melteth, and in globes 100
Of dewy glitter gems each plant and tree;
On every leaf, on every blade it hangs!
Dance glad the new-born intermingling rays,
And wide around the landscape streams with glory!

There is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind, 105
Omnific. His most holy name is Love.
Truth of subliming import! with the which
Who feeds and saturates his constant soul,
He from his small particular orbit flies
With blest outstarting! From himself he flies, 110
Stands in the sun, and with no partial gaze
Views all creation; and he loves it all,
And blesses it, and calls it very good!
This is indeed to dwell with the Most High!
Cherubs and rapture-trembling Seraphim [115]
Can press no nearer to the Almighty's throne.
But that we roam unconscious, or with hearts
Unfeeling of our universal Sire,
And that in His vast family no Cain
Injures uninjured (in her best-aimed blow 120
Victorious Murder a blind Suicide)
Haply for this some younger Angel now
Looks down on Human Nature: and, behold!
A sea of blood bestrewed with wrecks, where mad
Embattling Interests on each other rush 125
With unhelmed rage!

'Tis the sublime of man,
Our noontide Majesty, to know ourselves
Parts and proportions of one wondrous whole!
This fraternises man, this constitutes
Our charities and bearings. But 'tis God 130
Diffused through all, that doth make all one whole;
This the worst superstition, him except
Aught to desire, Supreme Reality![114:1]
The plenitude and permanence of bliss!
O Fiends of Superstition! not that oft [135]
The erring Priest hath stained with brother's blood
Your grisly idols, not for this may wrath
Thunder against you from the Holy One!
But o'er some plain that steameth to the sun,
Peopled with Death; or where more hideous Trade 140
Loud-laughing packs his bales of human anguish;
I will raise up a mourning, O ye Fiends!
And curse your spells, that film the eye of Faith,
Hiding the present God; whose presence lost,
The moral world's cohesion, we become 145
An Anarchy of Spirits! Toy-bewitched,
Made blind by lusts, disherited of soul,
No common centre Man, no common sire
Knoweth! A sordid solitary thing,
Mid countless brethren with a lonely heart 150
Through courts and cities the smooth savage roams
Feeling himself, his own low self the whole;
When he by sacred sympathy might make
The whole one Self! Self, that no alien knows!
Self, far diffused as Fancy's wing can travel! 155
Self, spreading still! Oblivious of its own,
Yet all of all possessing! This is Faith!
This the Messiah's destined victory!

But first offences needs must come! Even now[115:1]
(Black Hell laughs horrible—to hear the scoff!) 160
Thee to defend, meek Galilaean! Thee
And thy mild laws of Love unutterable,
Mistrust and Enmity have burst the bands
Of social peace: and listening Treachery lurks
With pious fraud to snare a brother's life; [165]
And childless widows o'er the groaning land
Wail numberless; and orphans weep for bread!
Thee to defend, dear Saviour of Mankind!
Thee, Lamb of God! Thee, blameless Prince of Peace!
From all sides rush the thirsty brood of War!— 170
Austria, and that foul Woman of the North,
The lustful murderess of her wedded lord!
And he, connatural Mind![115:2] whom (in their songs
So bards of elder time had haply feigned)
Some Fury fondled in her hate to man, [175]
Bidding her serpent hair in mazy surge
Lick his young face, and at his mouth imbreathe
Horrible sympathy! And leagued with these
Each petty German princeling, nursed in gore!
Soul-hardened barterers of human blood![116:1] 180
Death's prime slave-merchants! Scorpion-whips of Fate!
Nor least in savagery of holy zeal,
Apt for the yoke, the race degenerate,
Whom Britain erst had blushed to call her sons!
Thee to defend the Moloch Priest prefers 185
The prayer of hate, and bellows to the herd,
That Deity, Accomplice Deity
In the fierce jealousy of wakened wrath
Will go forth with our armies and our fleets
To scatter the red ruin on their foes! 190
O blasphemy! to mingle fiendish deeds
With blessedness!

Lord of unsleeping Love,[116:2]
From everlasting Thou! We shall not die.
These, even these, in mercy didst thou form,
Teachers of Good through Evil, by brief wrong 195
Making Truth lovely, and her future might
Magnetic o'er the fixed untrembling heart.

In the primeval age a dateless while
The vacant Shepherd wander'd with his flock,
Pitching his tent where'er the green grass waved. [200]
But soon Imagination conjured up
An host of new desires: with busy aim,
Each for himself, Earth's eager children toiled.
So Property began, twy-streaming fount,
Whence Vice and Virtue flow, honey and gall. 205
Hence the soft couch, and many-coloured robe,
The timbrel, and arched dome and costly feast,
With all the inventive arts, that nursed the soul
To forms of beauty, and by sensual wants
Unsensualised the mind, which in the means 210
Learnt to forget the grossness of the end,
Best pleasured with its own activity.
And hence Disease that withers manhood's arm,
The daggered Envy, spirit-quenching Want,
Warriors, and Lords, and Priests—all the sore ills[117:1] 215
That vex and desolate our mortal life.
Wide-wasting ills! yet each the immediate source
Of mightier good. Their keen necessities
To ceaseless action goading human thought
Have made Earth's reasoning animal her Lord; [220]
And the pale-featured Sage's trembling hand
Strong as an host of arméd Deities,
Such as the blind Ionian fabled erst.

From Avarice thus, from Luxury and War
Sprang heavenly Science; and from Science Freedom. 225
O'er waken'd realms Philosophers and Bards
Spread in concentric circles: they whose souls,
Conscious of their high dignities from God,
Brook not Wealth's rivalry! and they, who long
Enamoured with the charms of order, hate 230
The unseemly disproportion: and whoe'er
Turn with mild sorrow from the Victor's car
And the low puppetry of thrones, to muse
On that blest triumph, when the Patriot Sage[118:1]
Called the red lightnings from the o'er-rushing cloud 235
And dashed the beauteous terrors on the earth
Smiling majestic. Such a phalanx ne'er
Measured firm paces to the calming sound
Of Spartan flute! These on the fated day,
When, stung to rage by Pity, eloquent men 240
Have roused with pealing voice the unnumbered tribes
That toil and groan and bleed, hungry and blind—
These, hush'd awhile with patient eye serene,
Shall watch the mad careering of the storm;
Then o'er the wild and wavy chaos rush 245
And tame the outrageous mass, with plastic might
Moulding Confusion to such perfect forms,
As erst were wont,—bright visions of the day!—
To float before them, when, the summer noon,
Beneath some arched romantic rock reclined [250]
They felt the sea-breeze lift their youthful locks;
Or in the month of blossoms, at mild eve,
Wandering with desultory feet inhaled
The wafted perfumes, and the flocks and woods
And many-tinted streams and setting sun [255]
With all his gorgeous company of clouds
Ecstatic gazed! then homeward as they strayed
Cast the sad eye to earth, and inly mused
Why there was misery in a world so fair.

Ah! far removed from all that glads the sense, 260
From all that softens or ennobles Man,
The wretched Many! Bent beneath their loads
They gape at pageant Power, nor recognise
Their cots' transmuted plunder! From the tree
Of Knowledge, ere the vernal sap had risen [265]
Rudely disbranchéd! Blessed Society!
Fitliest depictured by some sun-scorched waste,
Where oft majestic through the tainted noon
The Simoom sails, before whose purple pomp[119:1]
Who falls not prostrate dies! And where by night, [270]
Fast by each precious fountain on green herbs
The lion couches: or hyaena dips
Deep in the lucid stream his bloody jaws;
Or serpent plants his vast moon-glittering bulk,
Caught in whose monstrous twine Behemoth[119:2] yells, [275]
His bones loud-crashing!

O ye numberless,
Whom foul Oppression's ruffian gluttony
Drives from Life's plenteous feast! O thou poor Wretch
Who nursed in darkness and made wild by want,
Roamest for prey, yea thy unnatural hand [280]
Dost lift to deeds of blood! O pale-eyed form,
The victim of seduction, doomed to know
Polluted nights and days of blasphemy;
Who in loathed orgies with lewd wassailers
Must gaily laugh, while thy remembered Home 285
Gnaws like a viper at thy secret heart!
O agéd Women! ye who weekly catch
The morsel tossed by law-forced charity,
And die so slowly, that none call it murder!
O loathly suppliants! ye, that unreceived [290]
Totter heart-broken from the closing gates
Of the full Lazar-house; or, gazing, stand,
Sick with despair! O ye to Glory's field
Forced or ensnared, who, as ye gasp in death,
Bleed with new wounds beneath the vulture's beak! 295
O thou poor widow, who in dreams dost view
Thy husband's mangled corse, and from short doze
Start'st with a shriek; or in thy half-thatched cot
Waked by the wintry night-storm, wet and cold
Cow'rst o'er thy screaming baby! Rest awhile [300]
Children of Wretchedness! More groans must rise,
More blood must stream, or ere your wrongs be full.
Yet is the day of Retribution nigh:
The Lamb of God hath opened the fifth seal:[120:1]
And upward rush on swiftest wing of fire [305]
The innumerable multitude of wrongs
By man on man inflicted! Rest awhile,
Children of Wretchedness! The hour is nigh
And lo! the Great, the Rich, the Mighty Men,
The Kings and the Chief Captains of the World, 310
With all that fixed on high like stars of Heaven
Shot baleful influence, shall be cast to earth,
Vile and down-trodden, as the untimely fruit
Shook from the fig-tree by a sudden storm.
Even now the storm begins:[121:1] each gentle name, 315
Faith and meek Piety, with fearful joy
Tremble far-off—for lo! the Giant Frenzy
Uprooting empires with his whirlwind arm
Mocketh high Heaven; burst hideous from the cell
Where the old Hag, unconquerable, huge, 320
Creation's eyeless drudge, black Ruin, sits
Nursing the impatient earthquake.
O return!
Pure Faith! meek Piety! The abhorréd Form[121:2]
Whose scarlet robe was stiff with earthly pomp,
Who drank iniquity in cups of gold, 325
Whose names were many and all blasphemous,
Hath met the horrible judgment! Whence that cry?
The mighty army of foul Spirits shrieked
Disherited of earth! For she hath fallen
On whose black front was written Mystery; 330
She that reeled heavily, whose wine was blood;
She that worked whoredom with the Daemon Power,
And from the dark embrace all evil things
Brought forth and nurtured: mitred Atheism!
And patient Folly who on bended knee [335]
Gives back the steel that stabbed him; and pale Fear
Haunted by ghastlier shapings than surround
Moon-blasted Madness when he yells at midnight!
Return pure Faith! return meek Piety!
The kingdoms of the world are your's: each heart 340
Self-governed, the vast family of Love
Raised from the common earth by common toil
Enjoy the equal produce. Such delights
As float to earth, permitted visitants!
When in some hour of solemn jubilee [345]
The massy gates of Paradise are thrown
Wide open, and forth come in fragments wild
Sweet echoes of unearthly melodies,
And odours snatched from beds of Amaranth,
And they, that from the crystal river of life 350
Spring up on freshened wing, ambrosial gales!
The favoured good man in his lonely walk
Perceives them, and his silent spirit drinks
Strange bliss which he shall recognise in heaven.
And such delights, such strange beatitudes [355]
Seize on my young anticipating heart
When that blest future rushes on my view!
For in his own and in his Father's might
The Saviour comes! While as the Thousand Years[122:1]
Lead up their mystic dance, the Desert shouts! 360
Old Ocean claps his hands! The mighty Dead
Rise to new life, whoe'er from earliest time
With conscious zeal had urged Love's wondrous plan,
Coadjutors of God. To Milton's trump
The high groves of the renovated Earth [365]
Unbosom their glad echoes: inly hushed,
Adoring Newton his serener eye
Raises to heaven: and he of mortal kind
Wisest, he[123:1] first who marked the ideal tribes
Up the fine fibres through the sentient brain. [370]
Lo! Priestley there, patriot, and saint, and sage,
Him, full of years, from his loved native land
Statesmen blood-stained and priests idolatrous
By dark lies maddening the blind multitude
Drove with vain hate. Calm, pitying he retired, [375]
And mused expectant on these promised years.

O Years! the blest pre-eminence of Saints!
Ye sweep athwart my gaze, so heavenly bright,
The wings that veil the adoring Seraphs' eyes,
What time they bend before the Jasper Throne[123:2] [380]
Reflect no lovelier hues! Yet ye depart,
And all beyond is darkness! Heights most strange,
Whence Fancy falls, fluttering her idle wing.
For who of woman born may paint the hour,
When seized in his mid course, the Sun shall wane [385]
Making noon ghastly! Who of woman born
May image in the workings of his thought,
How the black-visaged, red-eyed Fiend outstretched[124:1]
Beneath the unsteady feet of Nature groans,
In feverous slumbers—destined then to wake, [390]
When fiery whirlwinds thunder his dread name
And Angels shout, Destruction! How his arm
The last great Spirit lifting high in air
Shall swear by Him, the ever-living One,
Time is no more!

Believe thou, O my soul,[124:2] 395
Life is a vision shadowy of Truth;
And vice, and anguish, and the wormy grave,
Shapes of a dream! The veiling clouds retire,
And lo! the Throne of the redeeming God
Forth flashing unimaginable day [400]
Wraps in one blaze earth, heaven, and deepest hell.

Contemplant Spirits! ye that hover o'er
With untired gaze the immeasurable fount
Ebullient with creative Deity!
And ye of plastic power, that interfused 405
Roll through the grosser and material mass
In organizing surge! Holies of God!
(And what if Monads of the infinite mind?)
I haply journeying my immortal course
Shall sometime join your mystic choir! Till then [410]
I discipline my young and novice thought
In ministeries of heart-stirring song,
And aye on Meditation's heaven-ward wing
Soaring aloft I breathe the empyreal air
Of Love, omnific, omnipresent Love, 415
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.

1794-1796.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[108:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834. Lines 260-357 were published in The Watchman, No. II, March 9, 1796, entitled 'The Present State of Society'. In the editions of 1796, 1797, and 1803 the following lines, an adaptation of a passage in the First Book of Akenside's Pleasures of the Imagination, were prefixed as a motto:—

What tho' first,
In years unseason'd, I attun'd the lay
To idle Passion and unreal Woe?
Yet serious Truth her empire o'er my song
Hath now asserted; Falsehood's evil brood,
Vice and deceitful Pleasure, she at once
Excluded, and my Fancy's careless toil
Drew to the better cause!

An 'Argument' followed on a separate page:—

Introduction. Person of Christ. His prayer on the Cross. The process of his Doctrines on the mind of the Individual. Character of the Elect. Superstition. Digression to the present War. Origin and Uses of Government and Property. The present State of Society. The French Revolution. Millenium. Universal Redemption. Conclusion.

[110:1] Τὸ Νοητὸν διῃρήκασιν εἰς πολλῶν Θεῶν ἰδιότητας. Damas. de Myst. Aegypt. Footnote to line 34, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829. [This note, which should be attached to l. 33, is a comment on the original line 'Split and mishap'd' &c., of 1796. The quotation as translated reads thus:—'Men have split up the Intelligible One into the peculiar attributes of Gods many'.]

[110:2] See this demonstrated by Hartley, vol. 1, p. 114, and vol. 2, p. 329. See it likewise proved, and freed from the charge of Mysticism, by Pistorius in his Notes and Additions to part second of Hartley on Man, Addition the 18th, the 653rd page of the third volume of Hartley, Octavo Edition. Note to line 44, 1797. [David Hartley's Observations on Man were published in 1749. His son republished them in 1791, with Notes, &c., from the German of H. A. Pistorius, Pastor and Provost of the Synod at Poseritz in the Island of Rügen.]

[112:1] And I heard a great voice out of the Temple saying to the seven Angels, pour out the vials of the wrath of God upon the earth. Revelation, xvi. 1. Note to line 91, Notes, 1796, p. 90.

[112:2] Our evil Passions, under the influence of Religion, become innocent, and may be made to animate our virtue—in the same manner as the thick mist melted by the Sun, increases the light which it had before excluded. In the preceding paragraph, agreeably to this truth, we had allegorically narrated the transfiguration of Fear into holy Awe. Footnote to line 91, 1797: to line 101, 1803.

[114:1] If to make aught but the Supreme Reality the object of final pursuit, be Superstition; if the attributing of sublime properties to things or persons, which those things or persons neither do or can possess, be Superstition; then Avarice and Ambition are Superstitions: and he who wishes to estimate the evils of Superstition, should transport himself, not to the temple of the Mexican Deities, but to the plains of Flanders, or the coast of Africa.—Such is the sentiment convey'd in this and the subsequent lines. Footnote to line 135, 1797: to line 143, 1803.

[115:1] January 21st, 1794, in the debate on the Address to his Majesty, on the speech from the Throne, the Earl of Guildford (sic) moved an Amendment to the following effect:—'That the House hoped his Majesty would seize the earliest opportunity to conclude a peace with France,' &c. This motion was opposed by the Duke of Portland, who 'considered the war to be merely grounded on one principle—the preservation of the Christian Religion'. May 30th, 1794, the Duke of Bedford moved a number of Resolutions, with a view to the Establishment of a Peace with France. He was opposed (among others) by Lord Abingdon in these remarkable words: 'The best road to Peace, my Lords, is War! and War carried on in the same manner in which we are taught to worship our Creator, namely, with all our souls, and with all our minds, and with all our hearts, and with all our strength.' [Footnote to line 159, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.]

[115:2] That Despot who received the wages of an hireling that he might act the part of a swindler, and who skulked from his impotent attacks on the liberties of France to perpetrate more successful iniquity in the plains of Poland. Note to line 193. Notes, 1796, p. 170.

[116:1] The Father of the present Prince of Hesse Cassell supported himself and his strumpets at Paris by the vast sums which he received from the British Government during the American War for the flesh of his subjects. Notes, 1796, p. 176.

[116:2] Art thou not from everlasting, O Lord, mine Holy One? We shall not die. O Lord! thou hast ordained them for judgment, &c. Habakkuk i. 12. Note to line 212. Notes, 1796, p. 171. Footnote, 1828, 1829, 1834.

Art thou not, &c. In this paragraph the Author recalls himself from his indignation against the instruments of Evil, to contemplate the uses of these Evils in the great process of divine Benevolence. In the first age, Men were innocent from ignorance of Vice; they fell, that by the knowledge of consequences they might attain intellectual security, i. e. Virtue, which is a wise and strong-nerv'd Innocence. Footnote to line 196, 1797: to line 204, 1803.

[117:1] I deem that the teaching of the gospel for hire is wrong; because it gives the teacher an improper bias in favour of particular opinions on a subject where it is of the last importance that the mind should be perfectly unbiassed. Such is my private opinion; but I mean not to censure all hired teachers, many among whom I know, and venerate as the best and wisest of men—God forbid that I should think of these, when I use the word Priest, a name, after which any other term of abhorrence would appear an anti-climax. By a Priest I mean a man who holding the scourge of power in his right hand and a bible (translated by authority) in his left, doth necessarily cause the bible and the scourge to be associated ideas, and so produces that temper of mind which leads to Infidelity—Infidelity which judging of Revelation by the doctrines and practices of established Churches honors God by rejecting Christ. See 'Address to the People', p. 57, sold by Parsons, Paternoster Row. Note to line 235. Notes, 1796, pp. 171, 172.

[118:1] Dr. Franklin. Note to line 253. Notes, 1796, p. 172.

[119:1] At eleven o'clock, while we contemplated with great pleasure the rugged top of Chiggre, to which we were fast approaching, and where we were to solace ourselves with plenty of good water, Idris cried out with a loud voice, 'Fall upon your faces, for here is the Simoom'. I saw from the S.E. an haze come on, in colour like the purple part of the rainbow, but not so compressed or thick. It did not occupy twenty yards in breadth, and was about twelve feet high from the ground.—We all lay flat on the ground, as if dead, till Idris told us it was blown over. The meteor, or purple haze, which I saw, was indeed passed; but the light air that still blew was of heat to threaten suffocation. Bruce's Travels, vol. 4, p. 557. Note to line 288. Notes, 1796, pp. 172, 173.

[119:2] Behemoth, in Hebrew, signifies wild beasts in general. Some believe it is the Elephant, some the Hippopotamus; some affirm it is the Wild Bull. Poetically, it designates any large Quadruped. [Footnote to l. 279, 1797: to l. 286, 1803. Reprinted in 1828, 1829, and 1834. The note to l. 294 in 1796, p. 173 ran thus: Used poetically for a very large quadruped, but in general it designates the elephant.]

[120:1] See the sixth chapter of the Revelation of St. John the Divine.—And I looked and beheld a pale horse; and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the Fourth part of the Earth to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with pestilence, and with the beasts of the Earth.—And when he had opened the fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of God, and for the testimony which they held; and white robes were given unto every one of them; and it was said unto them, that they should rest yet for a little season, until their fellow servants also, and their brethren that should be killed as they were should be fulfilled. And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, the stars of Heaven fell unto the Earth, even as a fig-tree casteth her untimely figs when she is shaken of a mighty wind: And the kings of the earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, &c. Note to line 324. Notes, 1796, pp. 174, 175.

[121:1] Alluding to the French Revolution 1834: The French Revolution 1796: This passage alludes to the French Revolution: and the subsequent paragraph to the downfall of Religious Establishments. I am convinced that the Babylon of the Apocalypse does not apply to Rome exclusively; but to the union of Religion with Power and Wealth, wherever it is found. Footnote to line 320, 1797, to line 322, 1803.

[121:2] And there came one of the seven Angels which had the seven vials, and talked with me, saying unto me, come hither! I will show unto thee the judgment of the great Whore, that sitteth upon many waters: with whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication, &c. Revelation of St. John the Divine, chapter the seventeenth. Note to l. 343. Notes, 1796, p. 175.

[122:1] The Millenium:—in which I suppose, that Man will continue to enjoy the highest glory, of which his human nature is capable.—That all who in past ages have endeavoured to ameliorate the state of man will rise and enjoy the fruits and flowers, the imperceptible seeds of which they had sown in their former Life: and that the wicked will during the same period, be suffering the remedies adapted to their several bad habits. I suppose that this period will be followed by the passing away of this Earth and by our entering the state of pure intellect; when all Creation shall rest from its labours. Footnote to line 365, 1797, to line 367, 1803.

[123:1] David Hartley. [Footnote to line 392, 1796, to line 375, 1797, to line 380, 1803: reprinted in 1828, 1829, and 1834.]

[123:2] Rev. chap. iv. v. 2 and 3.—And immediately I was in the Spirit: and behold, a Throne was set in Heaven and one sat on the Throne. And he that sat was to look upon like a jasper and a sardine stone, &c. [Footnote to line 386, 1797, to line 389, 1803: reprinted in 1828, 1829, and 1834.]

[124:1] The final Destruction impersonated. [Footnote to line 394, 1797, to line 396, 1803: reprinted in 1828, 1829, and 1834.]

[124:2] This paragraph is intelligible to those, who, like the Author, believe and feel the sublime system of Berkley (sic); and the doctrine of the final Happiness of all men. Footnote to line 402, 1797, to line 405, 1803.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] —— on Christmas Eve. In the year of Our Lord, 1794.

[[1-23]]

This is the time, when most divine to hear,
As with a Cherub's 'loud uplifted' trump
The voice of Adoration my thrill'd heart
Rouses! And with the rushing noise of wings
Transports my spirit to the favor'd fields 5
Of Bethlehem, there in shepherd's guise to sit
Sublime of extacy, and mark entranc'd
The glory-streaming Vision throng the night.[109:A]
Ah not more radiant, nor loud harmonies
Hymning more unimaginably sweet 10
With choral songs around th' Eternal Mind,
The constellated company of Worlds
Danc'd jubilant: what time the startling East
Saw from her dark womb leap her flamy child!
Glory to God in the Highest! Peace on Earth! 15
Yet thou more bright than all that Angel Blaze,
Despiséd Galilaean! Man of Woes!
For chiefly in the oppressed Good Man's face
The Great Invisible (by symbols seen)
Shines with peculiar and concentred light, 20
When all of Self regardless the scourg'd Saint
Mourns for th' oppressor. O thou meekest Man! 25
Meek Man and lowliest of the Sons of Men!
Who thee beheld thy imag'd Father saw.[109:B]
His Power and Wisdom from thy awful eye
Blended their beams, and loftier Love sat there
Musing on human weal, and that dread hour 30
When thy insulted, &c.

1796.

[109:A] And suddenly there was with the Angel a multitude of the heavenly Host, praising God and saying glory to God in the highest and on earth peace. Luke ii. 13 1796.

[109:B] Philip saith unto him, Lord! shew us the Father and it sufficeth us. Jesus saith unto him, Have I been so long time with you, and yet hast thou not known me, Philip? He that hath seen me hath seen the Father. John xiv. 9 1796.

[[7]]

Angel-blaze] Angel-Host 1803.

[[26]]

Diviner light flash'd extacy o'er Heaven!

1796.

[[32-4]]

What mists dim-floating of Idolatry
Split and mishap'd the Omnipresent Sire:
And first by Terror, Mercy's startling prelude,
Uncharm'd the Spirit spell-bound with earthy lusts.

1796.

[[39]]

From Hope and stronger Faith to perfect Love

1796.

[[54]]

embosom] imbosom 1796, 1797, 1803.

[[64-71]]

They cannot dread created might, who love
God the Creator! fair and lofty thought!
It lifts and swells my heart! and as I muse,
Behold a Vision gathers in my soul,
Voices and shadowy shapes! In human guise
I seem to see the phantom, Fear, pass by,
Hotly-pursued, and pale! From rock to rock
He bounds with bleeding feet, and thro' the swamp,
The quicksand and the groaning wilderness,
Struggles with feebler and yet feebler flight.
But lo! an altar in the wilderness,
And eagerly yet feebly lo! he grasps
The altar of the living God! and there
With wan reverted face the trembling wretch
All wildly list'ning to his Hunter-fiends
Stands, till the last faint echo of their yell
Dies in the distance. Soon refresh'd from Heaven &c.

1803.

[[74-7]]

Swims in his eyes: his swimming eyes uprais'd:
And Faith's whole armour girds his limbs! And thus
Transfigur'd, with a meek and dreadless awe,
A solemn hush of spirit he beholds

1803.

[[78-84]]

Yea, and there,
Unshudder'd unaghasted, he shall view
E'en the Seven Spirits, who in the latter day
Will shower hot pestilence on the sons of men,
For he shall know, his heart shall understand,
That kindling with intenser Deity
They from the Mercy-Seat like rosy flames,
From God's celestial Mercy-Seat will flash,
And at the wells of renovating Love
Fill their Seven Vials with salutary wrath.

1796.

[[81-3]]

For even these on wings of healing come,
Yea, kindling with intenser Deity
From the Celestial Mercy Seat they speed,
And at the renovating &c.

1803.

[[86]]

soft] sweet 1803.

[[96-7]]

Darkling with earnest eyes he traces out
Th' immediate road, all else of fairest kind

1803.

[[98]]

the burning Sun 1803.

[[115]]

The Cherubs and the trembling Seraphim 1803.

[[119-21]]

om. 1803.

[[135-41]]

O Fiends of Superstition! not that oft
Your pitiless rites have floated with man's blood
The skull-pil'd Temple, not for this shall wrath
Thunder against you from the Holy One!
But (whether ye th' unclimbing Bigot mock
With secondary Gods, or if more pleas'd
Ye petrify th' imbrothell'd Atheist's heart,
The Atheist your worst slave) I o'er some plain
Peopled with Death, and to the silent Sun
Steaming with tyrant-murder'd multitudes;
Or where mid groans and shrieks loud-laughing Trade
More hideous packs his bales of living anguish

1796.

[[165]]

pious] pious 1796-1829.

[[176]]

mazy surge] tortuous-folds 1796.

[[177]]

imbreathe] inbreathe 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[[202]]

An] A 1834.

[[222]]

an] a 1834.

[[223]]

om. 1796, 1803.

[[254-5]]

The wafted perfumes, gazing on the woods
The many tinted streams

1803.

[[257]]

In extacy! 1803.

[[266]]

Blessed] O Blest 1796, Watchman: evil 1803: Blessed 1797, 1828, 1829.

[[270]]

by] at Watchman.

[[273]]

bloody] gore-stained 1803.

[[274]]

plants] rolls 1796.

[[277-8]]

Ye whom Oppression's ruffian gluttony
Drives from the feast of life

1803.

[[280-1]]

Dost roam for prey—yea thy unnatural hand
Liftest to deeds of blood

1796.

[[281]]

Dost] Dar'st Watchman.

[[283-4]]

Nights of pollution, days of blasphemy,
Who in thy orgies with loath'd wassailers

1803.

[[290]]

O loathly-visag'd Suppliants! ye that oft 1796: O loathly-visag'd supplicants! that oft Watchman.

[[291-2]]

Rack'd with disease, from the unopen'd gate
Of the full Lazar-house, heart-broken crawl!

1796, Watchman.

[[293-6]]

O ye to scepter'd Glory's gore-drench'd field
Forc'd or ensnar'd, who swept by Slaughter's scythe
Stern nurse of Vultures! steam in putrid heaps

1796.

O ye that steaming to the silent Noon,
People with Death red-eyed Ambition's plains!
O Wretched Widow

Watchman.

[[300]]

Cow'rest 1796.

[[302]]

stream] steam 1796, Watchman, 1797, 1803.

[[305]]

And upward spring on swiftest plume of fire Watchman.

[[337]]

Hunted by ghastlier terrors 1796, Watchman. Haunted] Hunted 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[[345-8]]

When on some solemn Jubilee of Saints
The sapphire-blazing gates of Paradise
Are thrown wide open, and thence voyage forth
Detachments wild of seraph-warbled airs

1796, Watchman.

[[355]]

beatitudes] beatitude 1796, Watchman, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[[356]]

Seize on] Have seiz'd Watchman.

[[359-61]]

The Saviour comes! While as to solemn strains,
The Thousand Years lead up their mystic dance
Old Ocean claps his hands! the Desert shouts!
And soft gales wafted from the haunts of spring
Melt the primaeval North!

The Mighty Dead 1796.

[[365]]

The odorous groves of Earth reparadis'd

1796.

[[370-2]]

Down the fine fibres from the sentient brain
Roll subtly-surging. Pressing on his steps
Lo! Priestley there, Patriot, and Saint, and Sage,
Whom that my fleshly eye hath never seen
A childish pang of impotent regret
Hath thrill'd my heart. Him from his native land

1796.

Up the fine fibres thro' the sentient brain
Pass in fine surges. Pressing on his steps
Lo! Priestley there

1803.

[[378-80]]

Sweeping before the rapt prophetic Gaze
Bright as what glories of the jasper throne
Stream from the gorgeous and face-veiling plumes
Of Spirits adoring! Ye blest years! must end

1796.

[[380]]

they bend] he bends 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[[387]]

May image in his wildly-working thought 1796: May image, how the red-eyed Fiend outstretcht 1803.

[[390]]

feverous] feverish 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

Between [391, 392] Destruction! when the Sons of Morning shout, The Angels shout, Destruction 1803.

[[393]]

The Mighty Spirit 1796.

[[400]]

om. 1803.

[[401]]

blaze] Light 1803.

[[411]]

and novice] noviciate 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

---

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON[125:1]

O what a wonder seems the fear of death,
Seeing how gladly we all sink to sleep,
Babes, Children, Youths, and Men,
Night following night for threescore years and ten!
But doubly strange, where life is but a breath 5
To sigh and pant with, up Want's rugged steep.

Away, Grim Phantom! Scorpion King, away!
Reserve thy terrors and thy stings display
For coward Wealth and Guilt in robes of State!
Lo! by the grave I stand of one, for whom 10
A prodigal Nature and a niggard Doom
(That all bestowing, this withholding all)
Made each chance knell from distant spire or dome
Sound like a seeking Mother's anxious call,
Return, poor Child! Home, weary Truant, home! [15]

Thee, Chatterton! these unblest stones protect
From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect.
Too long before the vexing Storm-blast driven
Here hast thou found repose! beneath this sod!
Thou! O vain word! thou dwell'st not with the clod! 20
Amid the shining Host of the Forgiven
Thou at the throne of mercy and thy God
The triumph of redeeming Love dost hymn
(Believe it, O my Soul!) to harps of Seraphim.

Yet oft, perforce ('tis suffering Nature's call), [25]
I weep that heaven-born Genius so should fall;
And oft, in Fancy's saddest hour, my soul
Averted shudders at the poison'd bowl.
Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view
Thy corse of livid hue; [30]
Now Indignation checks the feeble sigh,
Or flashes through the tear that glistens in mine eye!

Is this the land of song-ennobled line?
Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain
Pour'd forth his lofty strain? [35]
Ah me! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine,
Beneath chill Disappointment's shade,
His weary limbs in lonely anguish lay'd.
And o'er her darling dead
Pity hopeless hung her head, [40]
While 'mid the pelting of that merciless storm,'
Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famish'd form!
Sublime of thought, and confident of fame,
From vales where Avon[127:1] winds the Minstrel came.
Light-hearted youth! aye, as he hastes along, [45]
He meditates the future song,
How dauntless Ælla fray'd the Dacyan foe;
And while the numbers flowing strong
In eddies whirl, in surges throng,
Exulting in the spirits' genial throe 50
In tides of power his life-blood seems to flow.

And now his cheeks with deeper ardors flame,
His eyes have glorious meanings, that declare
More than the light of outward day shines there,
A holier triumph and a sterner aim! [55]
Wings grow within him; and he soars above
Or Bard's or Minstrel's lay of war or love.
Friend to the friendless, to the sufferer health,
He hears the widow's prayer, the good man's praise;
To scenes of bliss transmutes his fancied wealth, 60
And young and old shall now see happy days.
On many a waste he bids trim gardens rise,
Gives the blue sky to many a prisoner's eyes;
And now in wrath he grasps the patriot steel,
And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel. 65
Sweet Flower of Hope! free Nature's genial child!
That didst so fair disclose thy early bloom,
Filling the wide air with a rich perfume!
For thee in vain all heavenly aspects smil'd;
From the hard world brief respite could they win— [70]
The frost nipp'd sharp without, the canker prey'd within!
Ah! where are fled the charms of vernal Grace,
And Joy's wild gleams that lighten'd o'er thy face?
Youth of tumultuous soul, and haggard eye!
Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps I view, [75]
On thy wan forehead starts the lethal dew,
And oh! the anguish of that shuddering sigh!

Such were the struggles of the gloomy hour,
When Care, of wither'd brow,
Prepar'd the poison's death-cold power: [80]
Already to thy lips was rais'd the bowl,
When near thee stood Affection meek
(Her bosom bare, and wildly pale her cheek)
Thy sullen gaze she bade thee roll
On scenes that well might melt thy soul; 85
Thy native cot she flash'd upon thy view,
Thy native cot, where still, at close of day,
Peace smiling sate, and listen'd to thy lay;
Thy Sister's shrieks she bade thee hear,
And mark thy Mother's thrilling tear; [90]
See, see her breast's convulsive throe,
Her silent agony of woe!
Ah! dash the poison'd chalice from thy hand!

And thou hadst dashed it, at her soft command,
But that Despair and Indignation rose, [95]
And told again the story of thy woes;
Told the keen insult of the unfeeling heart,
The dread dependence on the low-born mind;
Told every pang, with which thy soul must smart,
Neglect, and grinning Scorn, and Want combined! [100]
Recoiling quick, thou badest the friend of pain
Roll the black tide of Death through every freezing vein!
O spirit blest!
Whether the Eternal's throne around,
Amidst the blaze of Seraphim, 105
Thou pourest forth the grateful hymn,
Or soaring thro' the blest domain
Enrapturest Angels with thy strain,—
Grant me, like thee, the lyre to sound,
Like thee with fire divine to glow;— 110
But ah! when rage the waves of woe,
Grant me with firmer breast to meet their hate,
And soar beyond the storm with upright eye elate!

Ye woods! that wave o'er Avon's rocky steep,
To Fancy's ear sweet is your murmuring deep! 115
For here she loves the cypress wreath to weave;
Watching with wistful eye, the saddening tints of eve.
Here, far from men, amid this pathless grove,
In solemn thought the Minstrel wont to rove,
Like star-beam on the slow sequester'd tide [120]
Lone-glittering, through the high tree branching wide.
And here, in Inspiration's eager hour,
When most the big soul feels the mastering power,
These wilds, these caverns roaming o'er,
Round which the screaming sea-gulls soar, [125]
With wild unequal steps he pass'd along,
Oft pouring on the winds a broken song:
Anon, upon some rough rock's fearful brow
Would pause abrupt—and gaze upon the waves below.

Poor Chatterton! he sorrows for thy fate [130]
Who would have prais'd and lov'd thee, ere too late.
Poor Chatterton! farewell! of darkest hues
This chaplet cast I on thy unshaped tomb;
But dare no longer on the sad theme muse,
Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom: [135]
For oh! big gall-drops, shook from Folly's wing,
Have blacken'd the fair promise of my spring;
And the stern Fate transpierc'd with viewless dart
The last pale Hope that shiver'd at my heart!

Hence, gloomy thoughts! no more my soul shall dwell 140
On joys that were! no more endure to weigh
The shame and anguish of the evil day,
Wisely forgetful! O'er the ocean swell
Sublime of Hope I seek the cottag'd dell
Where Virtue calm with careless step may stray; [145]
And, dancing to the moon-light roundelay,
The wizard Passions weave an holy spell!

O Chatterton! that thou wert yet alive!
Sure thou would'st spread the canvass to the gale,
And love with us the tinkling team to drive [150]
O'er peaceful Freedom's undivided dale;
And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng,
Would hang, enraptur'd, on thy stately song,
And greet with smiles the young-eyed Poesy
All deftly mask'd as hoar Antiquity. 155

Alas, vain Phantasies! the fleeting brood
Of Woe self-solac'd in her dreamy mood!
Yet will I love to follow the sweet dream,
Where Susquehannah pours his untamed stream;
And on some hill, whose forest-frowning side 160
Waves o'er the murmurs of his calmer tide,
Will raise a solemn Cenotaph to thee,
Sweet Harper of time-shrouded Minstrelsy!
And there, sooth'd sadly by the dirgeful wind,
Muse on the sore ills I had left behind. 165

1790-1834.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[125:1] The 'Monody', &c., dated in eds. 1796, 1797, 1803, 'October, 1794,' was first published at Cambridge in 1794, in Poems, By Thomas Rowley [i. e. Chatterton] and others edited by Lancelot Sharpe (pp. xxv-xxviii). An Introductory Note was prefixed:—'The Editor thinks himself happy in the permission of an ingenious friend to insert the following Monody.' The variants marked 1794 are derived from that work. The 'Monody' was not included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817. For MS. variants vide ante, 'Monody', &c., Christ's Hospital Version.

Coleridge told Cottle, May 27, 1814 that lines 1-4 were written when he was 'a mere boy' (Reminiscences, 1847, p. 348); and, again, April 22, 1819, he told William Worship that they were written 'in his thirteenth year as a school exercise'. The Monody numbered 107 lines in 1794, 143 in 1796, 135 in 1797, 119 in 1803, 143 in 1828, 154 in 1829, and 165 lines in 1834.

[127:1] Avon, a river near Bristol, the birth-place of Chatterton.

LINENOTES:

[[1-15]]

When faint and sad o'er Sorrow's desart wild
Slow journeys onward, poor Misfortune's child;
When fades each lovely form by Fancy drest,
And inly pines the self-consuming breast;
(No scourge of scorpions in thy right arm dread,
No helméd terrors nodding o'er thy head,)
Assume, O Death! the cherub wings of Peace,
And bid the heartsick Wanderer's Anguish cease.

1794, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828.

[Lines 1-15 of the text were first printed in 1829.]

[[16]]

these] yon 1794, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828.

[[18-24]]

Escap'd the sore wounds of Affliction's rod
Meek at the throne of Mercy and of God,
Perchance, thou raisest high th' enraptur'd hymn
Amid the blaze of Seraphim!

1794, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828.

[[25]]

Yet oft ('tis Nature's bosom-startling call) 1794, 1796, 1828: Yet oft ('tis Nature's call) 1797, 1803.

[[26]]

should] shall 1829.

[[30]]

Thy] The 1794.

[[31-32]]

And now a flash of Indignation high
Darts through the tear that glistens in mine eye.

1794, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828.

[[35]]

his] her 1794.

[[37]]

Disappointment's deadly shade 1794.

[[41]]

merciless] pitiless 1794.

[[45]]

aye, as] om. 1797, 1803.

[[46]]

He] And 1797, 1803.

[[47-56]]

How dauntless Ælla fray'd the Dacyan foes;
And, as floating high in air,
Glitter the sunny Visions fair,
His eyes dance rapture, and his bosom glows!

1794, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828.

[1794 reads 'Danish foes'; 1797, 1803 read 'See, as floating', &c. Lines 48-56 were added in 1829.]

[[58-71]]

Friend to the friendless, to the sick man Health,
With generous Joy he views th' ideal wealth;
He hears the Widow's heaven-breath'd prayer of Praise;
He marks the shelter'd Orphan's tearful gaze;
Or where the sorrow-shrivell'd Captive lay, 5
Pours the bright Blaze of Freedom's noon-tide Ray:
And now, indignant 'grasps the patriot steel'
And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel.
Clad in Nature's rich array,
And bright in all her tender hues, 10
Sweet Tree of Hope! thou loveliest child of Spring!
How fair didst thou disclose thine early bloom,
Loading the west winds with its soft perfume!
And Fancy, elfin form of gorgeous wing,
[And Fancy hovering round on shadowy wing, 1794.]
On every blossom hung her fostering dews, 15
That, changeful, wanton'd to the orient Day!
But soon upon thy poor unshelter'd Head
[Ah! soon, &c. 1794.]
Did Penury her sickly mildew shed:
And soon the scathing Lightning bade thee stand
In frowning horror o'er the blighted Land

1794, 1796, 1828.

[Lines 1-8 of the preceding variant were omitted in 1797. Line 9 reads 'Yes! Clad,' &c., and line 12 reads 'Most fair,' &c. The entire variant, 'Friend . . . Land,' was omitted in 1803, but reappears in 1828. The quotation marks 'grasps the patriot steel' which appear in 1796, but not in 1794, were inserted in 1828, but omitted in 1829, 1834. Lines 1-6 were included in 'Lines written at the King's Arms, Ross', as first published in the Cambridge Intelligencer, Sept. 27, 1794, and in the editions of 1797, 1828, 1829, and 1834.]

[[72]]

Ah! where] Whither 1794, 1797.

[[73]]

that lighten'd] light-flashing 1797, 1803.

[[76]]

wan] cold 1794, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828. lethal] anguish'd 1794, 1796, 1797, 1828.

[[77]]

And dreadful was that bosom-rending sigh 1794, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828.

[[78]]

the gloomy] that gloomy 1803.

[[80]]

Prepar'd the poison's power 1797, 1803.

[[90]]

And mark thy mother's tear 1797, 1803.

[[98]]

low-born] low-bred 1794.

[[99]]

with] at 1794. must] might 1794.

[[102]]

black] dark 1794.

[[103-13]]

These lines, which form the conclusion (ll. 80-90) of the Christ's Hospital Version, were printed for the first time in 1834, with the following variants: l. 104 the Eternal's] th' Eternal; l. 105 Seraphim] Cherubim; l. 112 to meet] t'oppose; l. 113 storm] storms.

[[120]]

slow] rude 1794.

[[121]]

Lone glittering thro' the Forest's murksome pride 1794.

[[123]]

mastering] mad'ning 1794, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828.

[[129]]

Here the Monody ends 1794.

[[130-65]]

First printed in 1796.

[[133]]

unshaped] shapeless 1803.

[[136-39]]

om. 1803.

[[147]]

an] a 1834.

[[153]]

Would hang] Hanging 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

---

THE DESTINY OF NATIONS[131:1]

A VISION

Auspicious Reverence! Hush all meaner song,
Ere we the deep preluding strain have poured
To the Great Father, only Rightful King,
Eternal Father! King Omnipotent!
To the Will Absolute, the One, the Good! [5]
The I AM, the Word, the Life, the Living God!

Such symphony requires best instrument.
Seize, then, my soul! from Freedom's trophied dome
The Harp which hangeth high between the Shields
Of Brutus and Leonidas! With that [10]
Strong music, that soliciting spell, force back
Man's free and stirring spirit that lies entranced.
For what is Freedom, but the unfettered use
Of all the powers which God for use had given?
But chiefly this, him First, him Last to view [15]
Through meaner powers and secondary things
Effulgent, as through clouds that veil his blaze.
For all that meets the bodily sense I deem
Symbolical, one mighty alphabet
For infant minds; and we in this low world [20]
Placed with our backs to bright Reality,
That we may learn with young unwounded ken
The substance from its shadow. Infinite Love,
Whose latence is the plenitude of All,
Thou with retracted beams, and self-eclipse 25
Veiling, revealest thine eternal Sun.

But some there are who deem themselves most free
When they within this gross and visible sphere
Chain down the wingéd thought, scoffing ascent,
Proud in their meanness: and themselves they cheat 30
With noisy emptiness of learned phrase,
Their subtle fluids, impacts, essences,
Self-working tools, uncaused effects, and all
Those blind Omniscients, those Almighty Slaves,
Untenanting creation of its God. [35]

But Properties are God: the naked mass
(If mass there be, fantastic guess or ghost)
Acts only by its inactivity.
Here we pause humbly. Others boldlier think
That as one body seems the aggregate [40]
Of atoms numberless, each organized;
So by a strange and dim similitude
Infinite myriads of self-conscious minds
Are one all-conscious Spirit, which informs
With absolute ubiquity of thought [45]
(His one eternal self-affirming act!)
All his involvéd Monads, that yet seem
With various province and apt agency
Each to pursue its own self-centering end.
Some nurse the infant diamond in the mine; [50]
Some roll the genial juices through the oak;
Some drive the mutinous clouds to clash in air,
And rushing on the storm with whirlwind speed,
Yoke the red lightnings to their volleying car.
Thus these pursue their never-varying course, 55
No eddy in their stream. Others, more wild,
With complex interests weaving human fates,
Duteous or proud, alike obedient all,
Evolve the process of eternal good.

And what if some rebellious, o'er dark realms 60
Arrogate power? yet these train up to God,
And on the rude eye, unconfirmed for day,
Flash meteor-lights better than total gloom.
As ere from Lieule-Oaive's vapoury head
The Laplander beholds the far-off Sun 65
Dart his slant beam on unobeying snows,
While yet the stern and solitary Night
Brooks no alternate sway, the Boreal Morn
With mimic lustre substitutes its gleam.
Guiding his course or by Niemi lake [70]
Or Balda Zhiok,[133:1] or the mossy stone
Of Solfar-kapper,[133:2] while the snowy blast
Drifts arrowy by, or eddies round his sledge,
Making the poor babe at its mother's back[134:1]
Scream in its scanty cradle: he the while 75
Wins gentle solace as with upward eye
He marks the streamy banners of the North,
Thinking himself those happy spirits shall join
Who there in floating robes of rosy light
Dance sportively. For Fancy is the power 80
That first unsensualises the dark mind,
Giving it new delights; and bids it swell
With wild activity; and peopling air,
By obscure fears of Beings invisible,
Emancipates it from the grosser thrall 85
Of the present impulse, teaching Self-control,
Till Superstition with unconscious hand
Seat Reason on her throne. Wherefore not vain,
Nor yet without permitted power impressed,
I deem those legends terrible, with which [90]
The polar ancient thrills his uncouth throng:
Whether of pitying Spirits that make their moan
O'er slaughter'd infants, or that Giant Bird
Vuokho, of whose rushing wings the noise
Is Tempest, when the unutterable Shape [95]
Speeds from the mother of Death, and utters once[134:2]
That shriek, which never murderer heard, and lived.

Or if the Greenland Wizard in strange trance
Pierces the untravelled realms of Ocean's bed
Over the abysm, even to that uttermost cave [100]
By mis-shaped prodigies beleaguered, such
As Earth ne'er bred, nor Air, nor the upper Sea:
Where dwells the Fury Form, whose unheard name
With eager eye, pale cheek, suspended breath,
And lips half-opening with the dread of sound, [105]
Unsleeping Silence guards, worn out with fear
Lest haply 'scaping on some treacherous blast
The fateful word let slip the Elements
And frenzy Nature. Yet the wizard her,
Arm'd with Torngarsuck's power, the Spirit of Good,[135:1] [110]
Forces to unchain the foodful progeny
Of the Ocean stream;—thence thro' the realm of Souls,
Where live the Innocent, as far from cares
As from the storms and overwhelming waves
That tumble on the surface of the Deep, 115
Returns with far-heard pant, hotly pursued
By the fierce Warders of the Sea, once more,
Ere by the frost foreclosed, to repossess
His fleshly mansion, that had staid the while
In the dark tent within a cow'ring group 120
Untenanted.—Wild phantasies! yet wise,
On the victorious goodness of high God
Teaching reliance, and medicinal hope,
Till from Bethabra northward, heavenly Truth
With gradual steps, winning her difficult way, 125
Transfer their rude Faith perfected and pure.

If there be Beings of higher class than Man,
I deem no nobler province they possess,
Than by disposal of apt circumstance
To rear up kingdoms: and the deeds they prompt, [130]
Distinguishing from mortal agency,
They choose their human ministers from such states
As still the Epic song half fears to name,
Repelled from all the minstrelsies that strike
The palace-roof and soothe the monarch's pride. 135
And such, perhaps, the Spirit, who (if words
Witnessed by answering deeds may claim our faith)
Held commune with that warrior-maid of France
Who scourged the Invader. From her infant days,
With Wisdom, mother of retired thoughts, 140
Her soul had dwelt; and she was quick to mark
The good and evil thing, in human lore
Undisciplined. For lowly was her birth,
And Heaven had doomed her early years to toil
That pure from Tyranny's least deed, herself 145
Unfeared by Fellow-natures, she might wait
On the poor labouring man with kindly looks,
And minister refreshment to the tired
Way-wanderer, when along the rough-hewn bench
The sweltry man had stretched him, and aloft 150
Vacantly watched the rudely-pictured board
Which on the Mulberry-bough with welcome creak
Swung to the pleasant breeze. Here, too, the Maid
Learnt more than Schools could teach: Man's shifting mind,
His vices and his sorrows! And full oft 155
At tales of cruel wrong and strange distress
Had wept and shivered. To the tottering Eld
Still as a daughter would she run: she placed
His cold limbs at the sunny door, and loved
To hear him story, in his garrulous sort, 160
Of his eventful years, all come and gone.

So twenty seasons past. The Virgin's form,
Active and tall, nor Sloth nor Luxury
Had shrunk or paled. Her front sublime and broad,
Her flexile eye-brows wildly haired and low, 165
And her full eye, now bright, now unillumed,
Spake more than Woman's thought; and all her face
Was moulded to such features as declared
That Pity there had oft and strongly worked,
And sometimes Indignation. Bold her mien, [170]
And like an haughty huntress of the woods
She moved: yet sure she was a gentle maid!
And in each motion her most innocent soul
Beamed forth so brightly, that who saw would say
Guilt was a thing impossible in her! 175
Nor idly would have said—for she had lived
In this bad World, as in a place of Tombs,
And touched not the pollutions of the Dead.

'Twas the cold season when the Rustic's eye
From the drear desolate whiteness of his fields 180
Rolls for relief to watch the skiey tints
And clouds slow-varying their huge imagery;
When now, as she was wont, the healthful Maid
Had left her pallet ere one beam of day
Slanted the fog-smoke. She went forth alone 185
Urged by the indwelling angel-guide, that oft,
With dim inexplicable sympathies
Disquieting the heart, shapes out Man's course
To the predoomed adventure. Now the ascent
She climbs of that steep upland, on whose top 190
The Pilgrim-man, who long since eve had watched
The alien shine of unconcerning stars,
Shouts to himself, there first the Abbey-lights
Seen in Neufchâtel's vale; now slopes adown
The winding sheep-track vale-ward: when, behold 195
In the first entrance of the level road
An unattended team! The foremost horse
Lay with stretched limbs; the others, yet alive
But stiff and cold, stood motionless, their manes
Hoar with the frozen night-dews. Dismally [200]
The dark-red dawn now glimmered; but its gleams
Disclosed no face of man. The maiden paused,
Then hailed who might be near. No voice replied.
From the thwart wain at length there reached her ear
A sound so feeble that it almost seemed 205
Distant: and feebly, with slow effort pushed,
A miserable man crept forth: his limbs
The silent frost had eat, scathing like fire.
Faint on the shafts he rested. She, meantime,
Saw crowded close beneath the coverture 210
A mother and her children—lifeless all,
Yet lovely! not a lineament was marred—
Death had put on so slumber-like a form!
It was a piteous sight; and one, a babe.
The crisp milk frozen on its innocent lips, 215
Lay on the woman's arm, its little hand
Stretched on her bosom.

Mutely questioning,
The Maid gazed wildly at the living wretch.
He, his head feebly turning, on the group
Looked with a vacant stare, and his eye spoke 220
The drowsy calm that steals on worn-out anguish.
She shuddered; but, each vainer pang subdued,
Quick disentangling from the foremost horse
The rustic bands, with difficulty and toil
The stiff cramped team forced homeward. There arrived, 225
Anxiously tends him she with healing herbs,
And weeps and prays—but the numb power of Death
Spreads o'er his limbs; and ere the noon-tide hour,
The hovering spirits of his Wife and Babes
Hail him immortal! Yet amid his pangs, 230
With interruptions long from ghastly throes,
His voice had faltered out this simple tale.

The Village, where he dwelt an husbandman,
By sudden inroad had been seized and fired
Late on the yester-evening. With his wife 235
And little ones he hurried his escape.
They saw the neighbouring hamlets flame, they heard
Uproar and shrieks! and terror-struck drove on
Through unfrequented roads, a weary way!
But saw nor house nor cottage. All had quenched 240
Their evening hearth-fire: for the alarm had spread.
The air clipt keen, the night was fanged with frost,
And they provisionless! The weeping wife
Ill hushed her children's moans; and still they moaned,
Till Fright and Cold and Hunger drank their life. 245
They closed their eyes in sleep, nor knew 'twas Death.
He only, lashing his o'er-wearied team,
Gained a sad respite, till beside the base
Of the high hill his foremost horse dropped dead.
Then hopeless, strengthless, sick for lack of food, 250
He crept beneath the coverture, entranced,
Till wakened by the maiden.—Such his tale.

Ah! suffering to the height of what was suffered,
Stung with too keen a sympathy, the Maid
Brooded with moving lips, mute, startful, dark! 255
And now her flushed tumultuous features shot
Such strange vivacity, as fires the eye
Of Misery fancy-crazed! and now once more
Naked, and void, and fixed, and all within
The unquiet silence of confuséd thought 260
And shapeless feelings. For a mighty hand
Was strong upon her, till in the heat of soul
To the high hill-top tracing back her steps,
Aside the beacon, up whose smouldered stones
The tender ivy-trails crept thinly, there, 265
Unconscious of the driving element,
Yea, swallowed up in the ominous dream, she sate
Ghastly as broad-eyed Slumber! a dim anguish
Breathed from her look! and still with pant and sob,
Inly she toiled to flee, and still subdued, 270
Felt an inevitable Presence near.

Thus as she toiled in troublous ecstasy,
A horror of great darkness wrapt her round,
And a voice uttered forth unearthly tones,
Calming her soul,—'O Thou of the Most High 275
Chosen, whom all the perfected in Heaven
Behold expectant—'

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

[140:1]'Maid beloved of Heaven!
(To her the tutelary Power exclaimed)
Of Chaos the adventurous progeny 280
Thou seest; foul missionaries of foul sire.
Fierce to regain the losses of that hour
When Love rose glittering, and his gorgeous wings
Over the abyss fluttered with such glad noise,
As what time after long and pestful calms, [285]
With slimy shapes and miscreated life
Poisoning the vast Pacific, the fresh breeze
Wakens the merchant-sail uprising. Night
An heavy unimaginable moan
Sent forth, when she the Protoplast beheld 290
Stand beauteous on Confusion's charméd wave.
Moaning she fled, and entered the Profound
That leads with downward windings to the Cave
Of Darkness palpable, Desert of Death
Sunk deep beneath Gehenna's massy roots. 295
There many a dateless age the Beldame lurked
And trembled; till engendered by fierce Hate,
Fierce Hate and gloomy Hope, a Dream arose,
Shaped like a black cloud marked with streaks of fire.
It roused the Hell-Hag: she the dew-damp wiped [300]
From off her brow, and through the uncouth maze
Retraced her steps; but ere she reached the mouth
Of that drear labyrinth, shuddering she paused,
Nor dared re-enter the diminished Gulph.
As through the dark vaults of some mouldered Tower 305
(Which, fearful to approach, the evening hind
Circles at distance in his homeward way)
The winds breathe hollow, deemed the plaining groan
Of prisoned spirits; with such fearful voice
Night murmured, and the sound through Chaos went. [310]
Leaped at her call her hideous-fronted brood!
A dark behest they heard, and rushed on earth;
Since that sad hour, in Camps and Courts adored,
Rebels from God, and Tyrants o'er Mankind!'

---

From his obscure haunt [315]
Shrieked Fear, of Cruelty the ghastly Dam,
Feverous yet freezing, eager-paced yet slow,
As she that creeps from forth her swampy reeds.
Ague, the biform Hag! when early Spring
Beams on the marsh-bred vapours. [320]

'Even so (the exulting Maiden said)
The sainted Heralds of Good Tidings fell,
And thus they witnessed God! But now the clouds
Treading, and storms beneath their feet, they soar
Higher, and higher soar, and soaring sing 325
Loud songs of triumph! O ye Spirits of God,
Hover around my mortal agonies!'
She spake, and instantly faint melody
Melts on her ear, soothing and sad, and slow,
Such measures, as at calmest midnight heard [330]
By agéd Hermit in his holy dream,
Foretell and solace death; and now they rise
Louder, as when with harp and mingled voice
The white-robed multitude of slaughtered saints
At Heaven's wide-open'd portals gratulant [335]
Receive some martyred patriot. The harmony[142:1]
Entranced the Maid, till each suspended sense
Brief slumber seized, and confused ecstasy.

At length awakening slow, she gazed around:
And through a mist, the relict of that trance [340]
Still thinning as she gazed, an Isle appeared,
Its high, o'er-hanging, white, broad-breasted cliffs,
Glassed on the subject ocean. A vast plain
Stretched opposite, where ever and anon
The plough-man following sad his meagre team 345
Turned up fresh sculls unstartled, and the bones
Of fierce hate-breathing combatants, who there
All mingled lay beneath the common earth,
Death's gloomy reconcilement! O'er the fields
Stept a fair Form, repairing all she might, 350
Her temples olive-wreathed; and where she trod,
Fresh flowerets rose, and many a foodful herb.
But wan her cheek, her footsteps insecure,
And anxious pleasure beamed in her faint eye,
As she had newly left a couch of pain, 355
Pale Convalescent! (Yet some time to rule
With power exclusive o'er the willing world,
That blessed prophetic mandate then fulfilled—
Peace be on Earth!) An happy while, but brief,
She seemed to wander with assiduous feet, [360]
And healed the recent harm of chill and blight,
And nursed each plant that fair and virtuous grew.

But soon a deep precursive sound moaned hollow:
Black rose the clouds, and now, (as in a dream)
Their reddening shapes, transformed to Warrior-hosts, [365]
Coursed o'er the sky, and battled in mid-air.
Nor did not the large blood-drops fall from Heaven
Portentous! while aloft were seen to float,
Like hideous features looming on the mist,
Wan stains of ominous light! Resigned, yet sad, 370
The fair Form bowed her olive-crownéd brow,
Then o'er the plain with oft-reverted eye
Fled till a place of Tombs she reached, and there
Within a ruined Sepulchre obscure
Found hiding-place.

The delegated Maid [375]
Gazed through her tears, then in sad tones exclaimed;—
Thou mild-eyed Form! wherefore, ah! wherefore fled?
The Power of Justice like a name all light,
Shone from thy brow; but all they, who unblamed
Dwelt in thy dwellings, call thee Happiness. 380
Ah! why, uninjured and unprofited,
Should multitudes against their brethren rush?
Why sow they guilt, still reaping misery?
Lenient of care, thy songs, O Peace! are sweet,[144:1]
As after showers the perfumed gale of eve, [385]
That flings the cool drops on a feverous cheek;
And gay thy grassy altar piled with fruits.
But boasts the shrine of Dæmon War one charm,[144:2]
Save that with many an orgie strange and foul,[144:3]
Dancing around with interwoven arms, [390]
The Maniac Suicide and Giant Murder
Exult in their fierce union! I am sad,
And know not why the simple peasants crowd
Beneath the Chieftains' standard!' Thus the Maid.

To her the tutelary Spirit said: [395]
'When Luxury and Lust's exhausted stores
No more can rouse the appetites of kings;
When the low flattery of their reptile lords
Falls flat and heavy on the accustomed ear;
When eunuchs sing, and fools buffoonery make, 400
And dancers writhe their harlot-limbs in vain;
Then War and all its dread vicissitudes
Pleasingly agitate their stagnant hearts;
Its hopes, its fears, its victories, its defeats,
Insipid Royalty's keen condiment! 405
Therefore, uninjured and unprofited
(Victims at once and executioners),
The congregated Husbandmen lay waste
The vineyard and the harvest. As along
The Bothnic coast, or southward of the Line, 410
Though hushed the winds and cloudless the high noon,
Yet if Leviathan, weary of ease,
In sports unwieldy toss his island-bulk,
Ocean behind him billows, and before
A storm of waves breaks foamy on the strand. 415
And hence, for times and seasons bloody and dark,
Short Peace shall skin the wounds of causeless War,
And War, his strainéd sinews knit anew,
Still violate the unfinished works of Peace.
But yonder look! for more demands thy view!' [420]
He said: and straightway from the opposite Isle
A vapour sailed, as when a cloud, exhaled
From Egypt's fields that steam hot pestilence,
Travels the sky for many a trackless league,
Till o'er some death-doomed land, distant in vain, [425]
It broods incumbent. Forthwith from the plain,
Facing the Isle, a brighter cloud arose,
And steered its course which way the vapour went.

The Maiden paused, musing what this might mean.
But long time passed not, ere that brighter cloud [430]
Returned more bright; along the plain it swept;
And soon from forth its bursting sides emerged
A dazzling form, broad-bosomed, bold of eye,
And wild her hair, save where with laurels bound.
Not more majestic stood the healing God,[146:1] [435]
When from his bow the arrow sped that slew
Huge Python. Shriek'd Ambition's giant throng,
And with them hissed the locust-fiends that crawled
And glittered in Corruption's slimy track.
Great was their wrath, for short they knew their reign; 440
And such commotion made they, and uproar,
As when the mad Tornado bellows through
The guilty islands of the western main,
What time departing from their native shores,[146:2]
Eboe, or Koromantyn's plain of palms, 445
The infuriate spirits of the murdered make
Fierce merriment, and vengeance ask of Heaven.
Warmed with new influence, the unwholesome plain
Sent up its foulest fogs to meet the morn:
The Sun that rose on Freedom, rose in Blood! 450

'Maiden beloved, and Delegate of Heaven!
(To her the tutelary Spirit said)
Soon shall the Morning struggle into Day,
The stormy Morning into cloudless Noon.
Much hast thou seen, nor all canst understand— [455]
But this be thy best omen—Save thy Country!'
Thus saying, from the answering Maid he passed,
And with him disappeared the heavenly Vision.

'Glory to Thee, Father of Earth and Heaven!
All-conscious Presence of the Universe! [460]
Nature's vast ever-acting Energy![147:1]
In will, in deed, Impulse of All to All!
Whether thy Love with unrefracted ray
Beam on the Prophet's purgéd eye, or if
Diseasing realms the Enthusiast, wild of thought, 465
Scatter new frenzies on the infected throng,
Thou both inspiring and predooming both,
Fit instruments and best, of perfect end:
Glory to Thee, Father of Earth and Heaven!'

---

And first a landscape rose [470]
More wild and waste and desolate than where
The white bear, drifting on a field of ice,
Howls to her sundered cubs with piteous rage
And savage agony.

1796.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[131:1] First published, in its entirety, in Sibylline Leaves, 1817: included in 1828, 1829, and 1834. Two hundred and fifty-five lines were included in Book II of Joan of Arc, An Epic Poem, by Robert Southey, Bristol and London, 1796, 4^o. The greater part of the remaining 212 lines were written in 1796, and formed part of an unpublished poem entitled The Progress of Liberty or The Vision of the Maid of Orleans, or Visions of the Maid of Orleans, or Visions of the Maid of Arc, or The Vision of the Patriot Maiden. (See letter to Poole, Dec. 13, and letter to J. Thelwall, Dec. 17, 1796, Letters of S. T. C., 1895, i. 192, 206. See, too, Cottle's Early Recollections, 1837, i. 230; and, for Lamb's criticism of a first draft of the poem, his letters to Coleridge, dated Jan. 5 and Feb. 12, 1797.) For a reprint of Joan of Arc, Book the Second (Preternatural Agency), see Cottle's Early Recollections, 1837, ii. 241-62.

The texts of 1828, 1829 (almost but not quite identical) vary slightly from that of the Sibylline Leaves, 1817, and, again, the text of 1834 varies from that of 1828 and 1829. These variants (on a proof-sheet of the edition of 1828) are in Coleridge's own handwriting, and afford convincing evidence that he did take some part in the preparation of the text of his poems for the last edition issued in his own lifetime.

[133:1] Balda-Zhiok, i. e. mons altitudinis, the highest mountain in Lapland.

[133:2] Solfar-kapper: capitium Solfar, hic locus omnium, quotquot veterum Lapponum superstitio sacrificiisque religiosoque cultui dedicavit, celebratissimus erat, in parte sinus australis situs, semimilliaris spatio a mari distans. Ipse locus, quem curiositatis gratia aliquando me invisisse memini, duabus praealtis lapidibus, sibi invicem oppositis, quorum alter musco circumdatus erat, constabat.

[134:1] The Lapland women carry their infants at their backs in a piece of excavated wood which serves them for a cradle: opposite to the infant's mouth there is a hole for it to breathe through.

Mirandum prorsus est et vix credibile nisi cui vidisse contigit. Lappones hyeme iter facientes per vastos montes, perque horrida et invia tesqua, eo praesertim tempore quo omnia perpetuis nivibus obtecta sunt et nives ventis agitantur et in gyros aguntur, viam ad destinata loca absque errore invenire posse, lactantem autem infantem, si quem habeat, ipsa mater in dorso baiulat, in excavato ligno (Gieed'k ipsi vocant) quod pro cunis utuntur, in hoc infans pannis et pellibus convolutus colligatus iacet.—Leemius De Lapponibus.

[134:2] Jaibme Aibmo.

[135:1] They call the Good Spirit, Torngarsuck. The other great but malignant spirit a nameless female; she dwells under the sea in a great house where she can detain in captivity all the animals of the ocean by her magic power. When a dearth befalls the Greenlanders, an Angekok or magician must undertake a journey thither: he passes through the kingdom of souls, over an horrible abyss into the palace of this phantom, and by his enchantments causes the captive creatures to ascend directly to the surface of the ocean. See Crantz, History of Greenland, vol. i. 206.

[140:1] These are very fine Lines, tho' I say it, that should not: but, hang me, if I know or ever did know the meaning of them, tho' my own composition. MS. Note by S. T. C.

[142:1] Rev. vi. 9, 11: And when he had opened the fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of God and for the Testimony which they held. And white robes were given unto every one of them; and it was said unto them, that they should rest yet for a little Season, until their fellow-servants also, and their brethren that should be killed, as they were, should be fulfilled.

[144:1] A grievous defect here in the rhyme recalling assonance of Pe͞ace, swe͞et ēve, che͞ek. Better thus:—

Sweet are thy Songs, O Peace! lenient of care.

S. T. C., 1828.

[144:2] 388-93 Southeyan. To be omitted. S. T. C., 1828.

[144:3] A vile line [foul is underlined]. S. T. C., 1828.

[146:1] The Apollo Belvedere.

[146:2] The Slaves in the West-India Islands consider Death as a passport to their native country. The Sentiment is thus expressed in the Introduction to a Greek Prize Ode on the Slave-Trade, of which the Ideas are better than the Language or Metre, in which they are conveyed:—

Ὠ σκότου πύλας, Θάνατε, προλείπων
Ἐς γένος σπεύδοις ὑποζευχθὲν Ἄτᾳ[146:A];
Οὐ ξενισθήσῃ γενύων σπαραγμοῖς
Οὐδ' ὀλολυγμῷ,

Ἀλλὰ καὶ κύκλοισι χοροιτύποισι
Κἀσμάτων χαρᾷ; φοβερὸς μὲν ἐσσί,
Ἀλλ' ὁμῶς Ἐλευθερίᾳ συνοικεῖς,
Στυγνὲ Τύραννε!

Δασκίοις ἐπὶ πτερύγεσσι σῇσι
Ἆ! θαλάσσιον καθορῶντες οἶδμα
Αἰθεροπλάγκτοις ὑπὸ πόσσ' ἀνεῖσι
Πατρίδ' ἐπ' αἶαν,

Ἔνθα μὰν Ἐρασταὶ Ἐρωμένῃσιν
Ἀμφὶ πηγῇσιν κιτρίνων ὑπ' ἀλσῶν,
Ὅσσ' ὑπὸ βροτοῖς ἔπαθον βροτοί, τὰ
Δεινὰ λέγοντι.

LITERAL TRANSLATION.

Leaving the gates of Darkness, O Death! hasten thou to a Race yoked to Misery! Thou wilt not be received with lacerations of Cheeks, nor with funereal ululation, but with circling Dances and the joy of Songs. Thou art terrible indeed, yet thou dwellest with Liberty, stern Genius! Borne on thy dark pinions over the swelling of Ocean they return to their native country. There by the side of fountains beneath Citron groves, the Lovers tell to their Beloved, what horrors, being Men, they had endured from Men.

[146:A] ο before ζ ought to have been made long; δοῑς ὑπōζ is an Amphimacer not (as the metre here requires) a Dactyl. S. T. C.

[147:1] Tho' these Lines may bear a sane sense, yet they are easily, and more naturally interpreted with a very false and dangerous one. But I was at that time one of the Mongrels, the Josephidites [Josephides = the Son of Joseph], a proper name of distinction from those who believe in, as well as believe Christ the only begotten Son of the Living God before all Time. MS. Note by S. T. C.

LINENOTES:

[[1]]

No more of Usurpation's doom'd defeat

4^o.

[[5-6]]

Beneath whose shadowy banners wide unfurl'd
Justice leads forth her tyrant-quelling hosts.

4^o, Sibylline Leaves.

[[5]]

The Will, The Word, The Breath, The Living God 1828, 1829.

[[6]]

Added in 1834.

[[9-12]]

The Harp which hanging high between the shields
Of Brutus and Leonidas oft gives
A fitful music to the breezy touch
Of patriot spirits that demand their fame.

4^o.

[[12]]

Man's] Earth's Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829.

[[15]]

But chiefly this with holiest habitude
Of constant Faith, him First, him Last to view

4^o.

[[23-6]]

Things from their shadows. Know thyself my Soul!
Confirm'd thy strength, thy pinions fledged for flight
Bursting this shell and leaving next thy nest
Soon upward soaring shalt thou fix intense
Thine eaglet eye on Heaven's Eternal Sun!

4^o.

The substance from its shadow—Earth's broad shade
Revealing by Eclipse, the Eternal Sun.

Sibylline Leaves.

[The text of lines 23-6 is given in the Errata p. [lxii].]

[[37]]

om. 4^o.

[[40]]

seems] is 4^o.

[[44]]

Form one all-conscious Spirit, who directs 4^o.

[[46]]

om. 4^o.

[[47]]

involvéd] component 4^o.

[[54]]

lightnings] lightning 4^o.

[[70]]

Niemi] Niemi's 4^o.

[[90]]

deem] deemed 1829.

[[96-7]]

Speeds from the mother of Death his destin'd way
To snatch the murderer from his secret cell.

4^o.

Between lines [99-100]:

(Where live the innocent as far from cares
As from the storms and overwhelming waves
Dark tumbling on the surface of the deep).

4^o, Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829.

These lines form part of an addition (lines 111-21) which dates from 1834.

[[103]]

Where] There 4^o, Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829.

[[105]]

om. 4^o.

[[107]]

'scaping] escaping 4^o, Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829.

[[108]]

fateful word] fatal sound 4^o.

[[112-21]]

thence thro' . . . Untenanted are not included in 4^o, Sibylline Leaves, 1828, or 1829. For lines 113-15 vide ante, variant of line 99 of the text.

[[112]]

Ocean] Ocean's 1828, 1829.

[130] foll.

To rear some realm with patient discipline,
Aye bidding Pain, dark Error's uncouth child,
Blameless Parenticide! his snakey scourge 125
Lift fierce against his Mother! Thus they make
Of transient Evil ever-during Good
Themselves probationary, and denied
Confess'd to view by preternatural deed
To o'erwhelm the will, save on some fated day 130
Headstrong, or with petition'd might from God.
And such perhaps the guardian Power whose ken
Still dwelt on France. He from the invisible World
Burst on the Maiden's eye, impregning Air
With Voices and strange Shapes, illusions apt 135
Shadowy of Truth. [And first a landscape rose
More wild and waste and desolate, than where
The white bear drifting on a field of ice
Howls to her sunder'd cubs with piteous rage
And savage agony.] Mid the drear scene 140
A craggy mass uprear'd its misty brow,
Untouch'd by breath of Spring, unwont to know
Red Summer's influence, or the chearful face
Of Autumn; yet its fragments many and huge
Astounded ocean with the dreadful dance 145
Of whirlpools numberless, absorbing oft
The blameless fisher at his perilous toil.

4^o.

Note—Lines 148-223 of the Second Book of Joan of Arc are by Southey. Coleridge's unpublished poem of 1796 (The Visions of the Maid of Orleans) begins at line 127 of the text, ending at line 277. The remaining portion of the Destiny of Nations is taken from lines contributed to the Second Book. Lines 136-40 of variant 130 foll. form the concluding fragment of the Destiny of Nations. Lines 141-3 of the variant are by Southey. (See his Preface to Joan of Arc, 1796, p. vi.) The remaining lines of the variant were never reprinted.

[[132]]

human] mortal Sibylline Leaves (correction made in Errata, p. [xii]).

[[171]]

an] a 1834.

[[201]]

now] new Sibylline Leaves, 1828.

[[289]]

An] A 1834.

[[300]]

dew-damp] dew-damps 4^o.

[[314]]

Tyrants] Monarchs 4^o, Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829.

Between lines [314] and 315 of the text, the text of the original version (after line 259 of Joan of Arc, Book II) continues:—

'These are the fiends that o'er thy native land 260
Spread Guilt and Horror. Maid belov'd of Heaven!
Dar'st thou inspir'd by the holy flame of Love
Encounter such fell shapes, nor fear to meet
Their wrath, their wiles? O Maiden dar'st thou die?'
'Father of Heaven: I will not fear.' she said, 265
'My arm is weak, but mighty is thy sword.'

She spake and as she spake the trump was heard
That echoed ominous o'er the streets of Rome,
When the first Caesar totter'd o'er the grave
By Freedom delv'd: the Trump, whose chilling blast 270
On Marathon and on Plataea's plain
Scatter'd the Persian.—From his obscure haunt, &c.

[Lines 267-72, She spake . . . the Persian, are claimed by Southey.]

[[316]]

Shriek'd Fear the ghastliest of Ambition's throng 4^o.

[[317]]

Feverous] Fev'rish 4^o, Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829.

Between lines [320] and 321 of the text, the text of Joan of Arc, Book II, continues:—

'Lo she goes!
To Orleans lo! she goes—the mission'd Maid!
The Victor Hosts wither beneath her arm!
And what are Crecy, Poictiers, Azincour 280
But noisy echoes in the ear of Pride?'
Ambition heard and startled on his throne;
But strait a smile of savage joy illum'd
His grisly features, like the sheety Burst
Of Lightning o'er the awaken'd midnight clouds 285
Wide flash'd. [For lo! a flaming pile reflects
Its red light fierce and gloomy on the face
Of Superstition and her goblin Son
Loud-laughing Cruelty, who to the stake
A female fix'd, of bold and beauteous mien, 290
Her snow-white Limbs by iron fetters bruis'd
Her breast expos'd.] Joan saw, she saw and knew
Her perfect image. Nature thro' her frame
One pang shot shiv'ring; but, that frail pang soon
Dismiss'd, 'Even so, &c.

4^o.

[The passage included in brackets was claimed by Southey.]

[[330]]

calmest] calmy 4^o.

[[339-40]]

But lo! no more was seen the ice-pil'd mount
And meteor-lighted dome.—An Isle appear'd

4^o.

[[342]]

white] rough 4^o.

[[361]]

and] or 4^o.

[[366-7]]

The Sea meantime his Billows darkest roll'd,
And each stain'd wave dash'd on the shore a corse.

4^o.

[[369-72]]

His hideous features blended with the mist,
The long black locks of Slaughter. Peace beheld
And o'er the plain

4^o.

[[369]]

Like hideous features blended with the clouds Sibylline Leaves, 1817. (Errata: for 'blended', &c., read 'looming on the mist'. S. L., p. [xii].)

[[378-9]]

The name of Justice written on thy brow
Resplendent shone

4^o, S. L. 1817.

(The reading of the text is given as an emendation in the Errata, Sibylline Leaves, 1817, p. [xii].)

[[386]]

That plays around the sick man's throbbing temples

4^o.

[[394]]

Chieftains'] Chieftain's 4^o.

[[395]]

said] replied 4^o, S. L., 1828.

Between lines [421] and 423 of the text, the text of Joan of Arc, Book II, inserts:—

A Vapor rose, pierc'd by the Maiden's eye.
Guiding its course Oppression sate within,[145:A]
With terror pale and rage, yet laugh'd at times
Musing on Vengeance: trembled in his hand
A Sceptre fiercely-grasp'd. O'er Ocean westward
The Vapor sail'd

4^o.

[145:A] These images imageless, these Small-Capitals constituting themselves Personifications, I despised even at that time; but was forced to introduce them, to preserve the connection with the machinery of the Poem, previously adopted by Southey. S. T. C.

After [429] of the text, the text of Joan of Arc inserts:—

Envy sate guiding—Envy, hag-abhorr'd!
Like Justice mask'd, and doom'd to aid the fight 410
Victorious 'gainst oppression. Hush'd awhile

4^o.

[These lines were assigned by Coleridge to Southey.]

[[434]]

with] by 4^o.

[[437-8]]

Shriek'd Ambition's ghastly throng
And with them those the locust Fiends that crawl'd[146:B]

4^o.

[146:B] —if Locusts how could they shriek? I must have caught the contagion of unthinkingness. S. T. C. 4^o.

[[458]]

heavenly] goodly 4^o.

[[463]]

Love] Law 4^o.

For lines [470-74] vide ante var. of lines [130 foll.]

---

VER PERPETUUM[148:1]

FRAGMENT

From an unpublished poem.

The early Year's fast-flying vapours stray
In shadowing trains across the orb of day:
And we, poor Insects of a few short hours,
Deem it a world of Gloom.
Were it not better hope a nobler doom, 5
Proud to believe that with more active powers
On rapid many-coloured wing
We thro' one bright perpetual Spring
Shall hover round the fruits and flowers,
Screen'd by those clouds and cherish'd by those showers! 10

1796.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[148:1] First published without title ('From an unpublished poem') in The Watchman, No. iv, March 25, 1796, and reprinted in Literary Remains, 1836, i. 44, with an extract from the Essay in the Watchman in which it was included:—'In my calmer moments I have the firmest faith that all things work together for good. But alas! it seems a long and dark process.' First collected with extract only in Appendix to 1863. First entitled 'Fragment from an Unpublished Poem' in 1893, and 'Ver Perpetuum' in 1907.

---

ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST
OF FEBRUARY 1796[148:2]

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! [5]
These are but flatteries of the faithless year.
Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave,
Even now the keen North-East is on its way.
Flower that must perish! shall I liken thee
To some sweet girl of too too rapid growth [10]
Nipp'd by consumption mid untimely charms?
Or to Bristowa's bard,[149:1] the wondrous boy!
An amaranth, which earth scarce seem'd to own,
Till disappointment came, and pelting wrong
Beat it to earth? or with indignant grief [15]
Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's hope,
Bright flower of hope killed in the opening bud?
Farewell, sweet blossom! better fate be thine
And mock my boding! Dim similitudes
Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour [20]
From anxious Self, Life's cruel taskmaster!
And the warm wooings of this sunny day
Tremble along my frame and harmonize
The attempered organ, that even saddest thoughts
Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes 25
Played deftly on a soft-toned instrument.

1796.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[148:2] First published in The Watchman, No. vi, April 11, 1796: included in 1797, 1803, Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[149:1] Chatterton.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Lines on observing, &c., Written near Sheffield, Watchman, 1797, 1803.

[[5]]

With 'blue voluptuous eye' 1803.

Between [13] and 14 Blooming mid Poverty's drear wintry waste Watchman, 1797, 1803, S. L., 1817, 1828.

[[16]]

hope] hopes, Watchman.

[[21]]

From black anxiety that gnaws my heart.
For her who droops far off on a sick bed.

Watchman, 1797, 1803.

[[24]]

Th' attempered brain, that ev'n the saddest thoughts

Watchman, 1797, 1803.

---

TO A PRIMROSE[149:2]

THE FIRST SEEN IN THE SEASON

Nitens et roboris expers
Turget et insolida est: et spe delectat.

Ovid, Metam. [xv. 203].

Thy smiles I note, sweet early Flower,
That peeping from thy rustic bower
The festive news to earth dost bring,
A fragrant messenger of Spring.

But, tender blossom, why so pale? 5
Dost hear stern Winter in the gale?
And didst thou tempt the ungentle sky
To catch one vernal glance and die?

Such the wan lustre Sickness wears
When Health's first feeble beam appears; 10
So languid are the smiles that seek
To settle on the care-worn cheek,

When timorous Hope the head uprears,
Still drooping and still moist with tears,
If, through dispersing grief, be seen [15]
Of Bliss the heavenly spark serene.

And sweeter far the early blow,
Fast following after storms of Woe,
Than (Comfort's riper season come)
Are full-blown joys and Pleasure's gaudy bloom. 20

1796.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[149:2] First published in The Watchman, No. viii, April 27, 1796: reprinted in Literary Remains, 1836, i. 47. First collected in Appendix to 1863.

LINENOTES:

[Motto]: et] at L. R., App. 1863.

[[17-20]]

om. L. R., App. 1863

---

VERSES[150:1]

ADDRESSED TO J. HORNE TOOKE AND THE COMPANY WHO MET ON
JUNE 28TH, 1796, TO CELEBRATE HIS POLL AT THE
WESTMINSTER ELECTION

Britons! when last ye met, with distant streak
So faintly promis'd the pale Dawn to break:
So dim it stain'd the precincts of the Sky
E'en Expectation gaz'd with doubtful Eye.
But now such fair Varieties of Light 5
O'ertake the heavy sailing Clouds of Night;
Th' Horizon kindles with so rich a red,
That tho' the Sun still hides his glorious head
Th' impatient Matin-bird, assur'd of Day,
Leaves his low nest to meet its earliest ray; 10
Loud the sweet song of Gratulation sings,
And high in air claps his rejoicing wings!
Patriot and Sage! whose breeze-like Spirit first
The lazy mists of Pedantry dispers'd
(Mists in which Superstition's pigmy band 15
Seem'd Giant Forms, the Genii of the Land!),
Thy struggles soon shall wak'ning Britain bless,
And Truth and Freedom hail thy wish'd success.
Yes Tooke! tho' foul Corruption's wolfish throng
Outmalice Calumny's imposthum'd Tongue, 20
Thy Country's noblest and determin'd Choice,
Soon shalt thou thrill the Senate with thy voice;
With gradual Dawn bid Error's phantoms flit,
Or wither with the lightning's flash of Wit;
Or with sublimer mien and tones more deep, 25
Charm sworded Justice from mysterious Sleep,
'By violated Freedom's loud Lament,
Her Lamps extinguish'd and her Temple rent;
By the forc'd tears her captive Martyrs shed;
By each pale Orphan's feeble cry for bread; [30]
By ravag'd Belgium's corse-impeded Flood,
And Vendee steaming still with brothers' blood!'
And if amid the strong impassion'd Tale,
Thy Tongue should falter and thy Lips turn pale;
If transient Darkness film thy aweful Eye, 35
And thy tir'd Bosom struggle with a sigh:
Science and Freedom shall demand to hear
Who practis'd on a Life so doubly dear;
Infus'd the unwholesome anguish drop by drop,
Pois'ning the sacred stream they could not stop! 40
Shall bid thee with recover'd strength relate
How dark and deadly is a Coward's Hate:
What seeds of death by wan Confinement sown,
When Prison-echoes mock'd Disease's groan!
Shall bid th' indignant Father flash dismay, 45
And drag the unnatural Villain into Day
Who[151:1] to the sports of his flesh'd Ruffians left
Two lovely Mourners of their Sire bereft!
'Twas wrong, like this, which Rome's first Consul bore,
So by th' insulted Female's name he swore 50
Ruin (and rais'd her reeking dagger high)
Not to the Tyrants but the Tyranny!

1796.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[150:1] First printed in the Transactions of the Philobiblon Society. First published in P. W., 1893. The verses (without the title) were sent by Coleridge in a letter to the Rev. J. P. Estlin, dated July 4, [1796].

[151:1] 'Dundas left thief-takers in Horne Tooke's House for three days, with his two Daughters alone: for Horne Tooke keeps no servant.' S. T. C. to Estlin.

LINENOTES:

[[31, 32]]

These lines are borrowed from the first edition (4^o) of the Ode to the Departing Year.

---

ON A LATE CONNUBIAL RUPTURE IN HIGH LIFE[152:1]

[PRINCE AND PRINCESS OF WALES]

I sigh, fair injur'd stranger! for thy fate;
But what shall sighs avail thee? thy poor heart,
'Mid all the 'pomp and circumstance' of state,
Shivers in nakedness. Unbidden, start

Sad recollections of Hope's garish dream, 5
That shaped a seraph form, and named it Love,
Its hues gay-varying, as the orient beam
Varies the neck of Cytherea's dove.

To one soft accent of domestic joy
Poor are the shouts that shake the high-arch'd dome; 10
Those plaudits that thy public path annoy,
Alas! they tell thee—Thou'rt a wretch at home!

O then retire, and weep! Their very woes
Solace the guiltless. Drop the pearly flood
On thy sweet infant, as the full-blown rose, [15]
Surcharg'd with dew, bends o'er its neighbouring bud.

And ah! that Truth some holy spell might lend
To lure thy Wanderer from the Syren's power;
Then bid your souls inseparably blend
Like two bright dew-drops meeting in a flower. [20]

1796.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[152:1] First published in the Monthly Magazine, September 1796, vol. ii, pp. 64-7, reprinted in Felix Farley's Bristol Journal, Saturday, Oct. 8, 1796, and in the Poetical Register, 1806-7 [1811, vol. vi, p. 365]. First collected in P. and D. W., 1877, i. 187. The lines were sent in a letter to Estlin, dated July 4, 1796.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] To an Unfortunate Princess MS. Letter, July 4, 1796.

[[17]]

might] could MS. Letter, 1796.

[[18]]

thy] the Felix Farley's, &c.

[[20]]

meeting] bosomed MS. Letter, 1796.

---

SONNET[152:2]

ON RECEIVING A LETTER INFORMING ME OF THE BIRTH OF A SON

When they did greet me father, sudden awe
Weigh'd down my spirit: I retired and knelt
Seeking the throne of grace, but inly felt
No heavenly visitation upwards draw
My feeble mind, nor cheering ray impart. [5]
Ah me! before the Eternal Sire I brought
Th' unquiet silence of confuséd thought
And shapeless feelings: my o'erwhelméd heart
Trembled, and vacant tears stream'd down my face.
And now once more, O Lord! to thee I bend, 10
Lover of souls! and groan for future grace,
That ere my babe youth's perilous maze have trod,
Thy overshadowing Spirit may descend,
And he be born again, a child of God.

Sept. 20, 1796.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[152:2] First published in the 'Biographical Supplement' to the Biographia Literaria, 1847, ii. 379. First collected in P. and D. W., 1877-80. This and the two succeeding sonnets were enclosed in a letter to Poole, dated November 1, 1796. A note was affixed to the sonnet 'On Receiving', &c.: 'This sonnet puts in no claim to poetry (indeed as a composition I think so little of them that I neglected to repeat them to you) but it is a most faithful picture of my feelings on a very interesting event. When I was with you they were, indeed, excepting the first, in a rude and undrest shape.'

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Sonnet written on receiving letter informing me of the birth of a son, I being at Birmingham MS. Letter, Nov. 1, 1796.

[[8]]

shapeless] hopeless B. L.

---

SONNET[153:1]

COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR HAVING
RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE OF THE BIRTH OF A SON,
SEPT. 20, 1796

Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll
Which makes the present (while the flash doth last)
Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past,
Mixed with such feelings, as perplex the soul
Self-questioned in her sleep; and some have said[153:2] [5]
We liv'd, ere yet this robe of flesh we wore.[154:1]
O my sweet baby! when I reach my door,
If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead,
(As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear)
I think that I should struggle to believe 10
Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere
Sentenc'd for some more venial crime to grieve;
Did'st scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve,
While we wept idly o'er thy little bier!

1796.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[153:1] First published in 1797: included in 1803, Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[153:2] Ἦν που ἡμῶν ἡ ψυχὴ πρὶν ἐν τῷδε τῷ ἀνθρωπίνῳ εἴδει γενέσθαι. Plat. Phaedon. Cap. xviii. 72 e.

[154:1] Almost all the followers of Fénelon believe that men are degraded Intelligences who had all once existed together in a paradisiacal or perhaps heavenly state. The first four lines express a feeling which I have often had—the present has appeared like a vivid dream or exact similitude of some past circumstances. MS. Letter to Poole, Nov. 1, 1796.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Sonnet composed on my journey home from Birmingham MS. Letter, 1796: Sonnet ix. To a Friend, &c. 1797: Sonnet xvii. To a Friend, &c. 1803.

[[1-11]]

Oft of some unknown Past such Fancies roll
Swift o'er my brain as make the Present seem
For a brief moment like a most strange dream
When not unconscious that she dreamt, the soul
Questions herself in sleep! and some have said
We lived ere yet this fleshly robe we wore.

MS. Letter, 1796.

[[6]]

robe of flesh] fleshy robe 1797, 1803.

[[8]]

art] wert MS. Letter, 1796, 1797, 1803.

---

SONNET[154:2]

TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE NURSE
FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME

Charles! my slow heart was only sad, when first
I scann'd that face of feeble infancy:
For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst
All I had been, and all my child might be!
But when I saw it on its mother's arm, [5]
And hanging at her bosom (she the while
Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile)
Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most warm
Impress'd a father's kiss: and all beguil'd
Of dark remembrance and presageful fear, [10]
I seem'd to see an angel-form appear—
'Twas even thine, belovéd woman mild!
So for the mother's sake the child was dear,
And dearer was the mother for the child.

1796.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[154:2] First published in 1797: included in 1803, Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The 'Friend' was, probably, Charles Lloyd.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] To a Friend who wished to know, &c. MS. Letter, Nov. 1, 1796: Sonnet x. To a Friend 1797: Sonnet xix. To a Friend, &c. 1803.

[[4]]

child] babe MS. Letter, 1796, 1797, 1803.

[[5]]

saw] watch'd MS. Letter, 1796.

[[11]]

angel-form] Angel's form MS. Letter, 1796, 1797, 1803.

[[13]]

Comforts on his late eve, whose youthful friend. MS. correction by S. T. C. in copy of Nugae Canorae in the British Museum.

---

SONNET[155:1]

[TO CHARLES LLOYD]

The piteous sobs that choke the Virgin's breath
For him, the fair betrothéd Youth, who lies
Cold in the narrow dwelling, or the cries
With which a Mother wails her darling's death,
These from our nature's common impulse spring, 5
Unblam'd, unprais'd; but o'er the piléd earth
Which hides the sheeted corse of grey-hair'd Worth,
If droops the soaring Youth with slacken'd wing;
If he recall in saddest minstrelsy
Each tenderness bestow'd, each truth imprest, 10
Such grief is Reason, Virtue, Piety!
And from the Almighty Father shall descend
Comforts on his late evening, whose young breast
Mourns with no transient love the Agéd Friend.

1796.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[155:1] First published in Poems on the Death of Priscilla Farmer. By her Grandson, 1796, folio. It prefaced the same set of Lloyd's Sonnets included in the second edition of Poems by S. T. Coleridge, 1797. It was included in C. Lloyd's Nugae Canorae, 1819. First collected in P. and D. W., 1877-80.

---

TO A YOUNG FRIEND[155:2]

ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE AUTHOR

Composed in 1796

A mount, not wearisome and bare and steep,
But a green mountain variously up-piled,
Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep,
Or colour'd lichens with slow oozing weep;
Where cypress and the darker yew start wild; [5]
And, 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash
Dance brighten'd the red clusters of the ash;
Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds beguil'd,
Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep;
Till haply startled by some fleecy dam, [10]
That rustling on the bushy cliff above
With melancholy bleat of anxious love,
Made meek enquiry for her wandering lamb:
Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to climb,
E'en while the bosom ach'd with loneliness— [15]
How more than sweet, if some dear friend should bless
The adventurous toil, and up the path sublime
Now lead, now follow: the glad landscape round,
Wide and more wide, increasing without bound!

O then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark 20
The berries of the half-uprooted ash
Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dash,—
Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark,
Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock;
In social silence now, and now to unlock 25
The treasur'd heart; arm linked in friendly arm,
Save if the one, his muse's witching charm
Muttering brow-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag;
Till high o'er head his beckoning friend appears,
And from the forehead of the topmost crag 30
Shouts eagerly: for haply there uprears
That shadowing Pine its old romantic limbs,
Which latest shall detain the enamour'd sight
Seen from below, when eve the valley dims,
Tinged yellow with the rich departing light; 35
And haply, bason'd in some unsunn'd cleft,
A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears,
Sleeps shelter'd there, scarce wrinkled by the gale!
Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left,
Stretch'd on the crag, and shadow'd by the pine, [40]
And bending o'er the clear delicious fount,
Ah! dearest youth! it were a lot divine
To cheat our noons in moralising mood,
While west-winds fann'd our temples toil-bedew'd:
Then downwards slope, oft pausing, from the mount, [45]
To some lone mansion, in some woody dale,
Where smiling with blue eye, Domestic Bliss
Gives this the Husband's, that the Brother's kiss!

Thus rudely vers'd in allegoric lore,
The Hill of Knowledge I essayed to trace; 50
That verdurous hill with many a resting-place,
And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour
To glad, and fertilise the subject plains;
That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod,
And many a fancy-blest and holy sod 55
Where Inspiration, his diviner strains
Low-murmuring, lay; and starting from the rock's
Stiff evergreens, (whose spreading foliage mocks
Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age,
And Bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage!) [60]
O meek retiring spirit! we will climb,
Cheering and cheered, this lovely hill sublime;
And from the stirring world up-lifted high
(Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind,
To quiet musings shall attune the mind, [65]
And oft the melancholy theme supply),
There, while the prospect through the gazing eye
Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul,
We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame,
Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same, [70]
As neighbouring fountains image each the whole:
Then when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth
We'll discipline the heart to pure delight,
Rekindling sober joy's domestic flame.
They whom I love shall love thee, honour'd youth! [75]
Now may Heaven realise this vision bright!

1796.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[155:2] First published in 1797: included in 1803, Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, and 1834.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] To C. Lloyd on his proposing to domesticate, &c. 1797: To a Friend, &c. 1803. 'Composed in 1796' was added in S. L.

[[8]]

those still] stilly 1797: stillest 1803.

[[11]]

cliff] clift S. L., 1828, 1829.

[[16]]

How heavenly sweet 1797, 1803.

[[42]]

youth] Lloyd 1797: Charles 1803.

[[46]]

lone] low 1797, 1803.

[[60]]

And mad oppression's thunder-clasping rage 1797, 1803.

[[69]]

We'll laugh at wealth, and learn to laugh at fame 1797, 1803.

[[71]]

In 1803 the poem ended with line 71. In the Sibylline Leaves, 1829, the last five lines were replaced.

[[72]]

hath drunk] has drank 1797: hath drank S. L., 1828, 1829.

[[75]]

She whom I love, shall love thee. Honour'd youth 1797, S. L., 1817, 1828, 1829. The change of punctuation dates from 1834.

---

ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE[157:1]
[C. Lloyd]

WHO ABANDONED HIMSELF TO AN INDOLENT AND CAUSELESS MELANCHOLY

Hence that fantastic wantonness of woe,
O Youth to partial Fortune vainly dear!
To plunder'd Want's half-shelter'd hovel go,
Go, and some hunger-bitten infant hear
Moan haply in a dying mother's ear: [5]
Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood
O'er the rank church-yard with sear elm-leaves strew'd,
Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part
Was slaughter'd, where o'er his uncoffin'd limbs
The flocking flesh-birds scream'd! Then, while thy heart [10]
Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims,
Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind)
What Nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal!
O abject! if, to sickly dreams resign'd,
All effortless thou leave Life's commonweal [15]
A prey to Tyrants, Murderers of Mankind.

1796.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[157:1] First published in the Cambridge Intelligencer, December 17, 1796: included in the Quarto Edition of the Ode on the Departing Year, 1796, in Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The lines were sent in a letter to John Thelwall, dated December 17, 1796 (Letters of S. T. C., 1895, i. 207, 208).

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Lines, &c., C. I.: To a Young Man who abandoned himself to a causeless and indolent melancholy MS. Letter, 1796.

[[6-7]]

These lines were omitted in the MS. Letter and 4^o 1796, but were replaced in Sibylline Leaves, 1817.

[[8]]

Or seek some widow's MS. Letter, Dec. 17, 1796.

[[11]]

eye] eyes MS. Letter, Dec. 9, 1796, C. I.

[[15-16]]

earth's common weal
A prey to the thron'd Murderess of Mankind.

MS. Letter, 1796.

All effortless thou leave Earth's commonweal
A prey to the thron'd Murderers of Mankind.

C. I., 1796, 4^o.

---

TO A FRIEND[158:1]

[Charles Lamb]

WHO HAD DECLARED HIS INTENTION OF WRITING NO
MORE POETRY

Dear Charles! whilst yet thou wert a babe, I ween
That Genius plung'd thee in that wizard fount
Hight Castalie: and (sureties of thy faith)
That Pity and Simplicity stood by,
And promis'd for thee, that thou shouldst renounce 5
The world's low cares and lying vanities,
Steadfast and rooted in the heavenly Muse,
And wash'd and sanctified to Poesy.
Yes—thou wert plung'd, but with forgetful hand
Held, as by Thetis erst her warrior son: 10
And with those recreant unbaptizéd heels
Thou'rt flying from thy bounden ministeries—
So sore it seems and burthensome a task
To weave unwithering flowers! But take thou heed:
For thou art vulnerable, wild-eyed boy, 15
And I have arrows[159:1] mystically dipped
Such as may stop thy speed. Is thy Burns dead?
And shall he die unwept, and sink to earth
'Without the meed of one melodious tear'?
Thy Burns, and Nature's own beloved bard, 20
Who to the 'Illustrious[159:2] of his native Land
So properly did look for patronage.'
Ghost of Mæcenas! hide thy blushing face!
They snatch'd him from the sickle and the plough—
To gauge ale-firkins.

Oh! for shame return! [25]
On a bleak rock, midway the Aonian mount,
There stands a lone and melancholy tree,
Whose agéd branches to the midnight blast
Make solemn music: pluck its darkest bough,
Ere yet the unwholesome night-dew be exhaled, [30]
And weeping wreath it round thy Poet's tomb.
Then in the outskirts, where pollutions grow,
Pick the rank henbane and the dusky flowers
Of night-shade, or its red and tempting fruit,
These with stopped nostril and glove-guarded hand [35]
Knit in nice intertexture, so to twine,
The illustrious brow of Scotch Nobility!

1796.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[158:1] First published in a Bristol newspaper in aid of a subscription for the family of Robert Burns (the cutting is bound up with the copy of Selection of Sonnets (S. S.) in the Forster Library in the Victoria and Albert Museum): reprinted in the Annual Anthology, 1800: included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[159:1]

[Πολλά μοι ὑπ' ἀγκῶνος ὠκέα βέλη
Ἔνδον ἐντὶ φαρέτρας
Φωνᾶντα συνετοῖσιν.]

Pind. Olymp. ii. 149, κ. τ. λ.

[159:2] Verbatim from Burns's Dedication of his Poems to the Nobility and Gentry of the Caledonian Hunt.

LINENOTES:

[[1]]

whilst] while An. Anth.

[[3]]

of] for S. S., An. Anth.

[[25]]

gauge] guard S. L., 1817 (For 'guard' read 'guage'. Errata, p. [xii]).

[[33]]

stinking hensbane S. S., An. Anth.: hensbane S. L., 1817.

[[35]]

Those with stopped nostrils MS. correction in printed slip of the newspaper. See P. and D. W., 1877, ii. 379.

After [37] E S T E E S I 1796, An. Anth.

---

ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAR[160:1]

Ἰοὺ ἰού, ὢ ὢ κακά.
Ὑπ' αὖ με δεινὸς ὀρθομαντείας πόνος
Στροβεῖ, ταράσσων φροιμίοις δυσφροιμίοις.

* * * * *

Τὸ μέλλον ἥξει. Καὶ σύ μ' τάχει παρὼν
Ἄγαν ἀληθόμαντιν οἰκτείρας ἐρεῖς.

Aeschyl. Agam. 1173-75; 1199-1200.

ARGUMENT

The Ode[160:2] commences with an address to the Divine Providence 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, in anguish of spirit, the downfall of this country.

I

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 fix'd on Heaven's unchanging clime
Long had I listen'd, free from mortal fear, [5]
With inward stillness, and a bowéd 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, [10]
Ere yet the enter'd cloud foreclos'd my sight,
I rais'd the impetuous song, and solemnis'd his flight.

II[161:1]

Hither, from the recent tomb,
From the prison's direr gloom,
From Distemper's midnight anguish; [15]
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 bending,
Hope has fix'd her wishful gaze; [20]
Hither, in perplexéd 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, [25]
I bid you haste, a mix'd tumultuous band!
From every private bower,
And each domestic hearth,
Haste for one solemn hour;
And with a loud and yet a louder voice, [30]
O'er Nature struggling in portentous birth,
Weep and rejoice!
Still echoes the dread Name that o'er the earth[161:2]
Let slip the storm, and woke the brood of Hell:
And now advance in saintly Jubilee [35]
Justice and Truth! They too have heard thy spell,
They too obey thy name, divinest Liberty!

III[162:1]

I mark'd Ambition in his war-array!
I heard the mailéd Monarch's troublous cry—
'Ah! wherefore does the Northern Conqueress stay![162:2] [40]
Groans not her chariot on its onward way?'
Fly, mailéd Monarch, fly!
Stunn'd by Death's twice mortal mace,
No more on Murder's lurid face
The insatiate Hag shall gloat with drunken eye! [45]
Manes of the unnumber'd slain!
Ye that gasp'd on Warsaw's plain!
Ye that erst at Ismail's tower,
When human ruin choked the streams,
Fell in Conquest's glutted hour, [50]
Mid women's shrieks and infants' screams!
Spirits of the uncoffin'd slain,
Sudden blasts of triumph swelling,
Oft, at night, in misty train,
Rush around her narrow dwelling! [55]
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, [60]
Each some Tyrant-Murderer's fate!

IV[164:1]

Departing Year! 'twas on no earthly shore
My soul beheld thy Vision![164:2] Where alone,
Voiceless and stern, before the cloudy throne,
Aye Memory sits: thy robe inscrib'd with gore, [65]
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, [70]
From the choiréd gods advancing,
The Spirit of the Earth made reverence meet,
And stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy seat.

V

Throughout the blissful throng,
Hush'd were harp and song: 75
Till wheeling round the throne the Lampads seven,
(The mystic Words of Heaven)
Permissive signal make:
The fervent Spirit bow'd, then spread his wings and spake!
'Thou in stormy blackness throning [80]
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! [85]
By years of Havoc yet unborn!
And Hunger's bosom to the frost-winds bared!
But chief by Afric's wrongs,
Strange, horrible, and foul!
By what deep guilt belongs [90]
To the deaf Synod, 'full of gifts and lies!'[165:1]
By Wealth's insensate laugh! by Torture's howl!
Avenger, rise!
For ever shall the thankless Island scowl,
Her quiver full, and with unbroken bow? 95
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! [100]
Hark! how wide Nature joins her groans below!
Rise, God of Nature! rise.'

VI[166:1]

The voice had ceas'd, the Vision fled;
Yet still I gasp'd and reel'd with dread.
And ever, when the dream of night [105]
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; [110]
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, [115]
Death-like he dozes among heaps of dead!
(The strife is o'er, the day-light fled,
And the night-wind clamours hoarse!
See! the starting wretch's head
Lies pillow'd on a brother's corse!) [120]

VII

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 125
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! [130]
Hence for many a fearless age
Has social Quiet lov'd thy shore;
Nor ever proud Invader's rage
Or sack'd thy towers, or stain'd thy fields with gore.

VIII

Abandon'd of Heaven![167:1] mad Avarice thy guide, [135]
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! [140]
Strange-eyed Destruction! who with many a dream
Of central fires through nether seas up-thundering
Soothes her fierce solitude; yet as she lies
By livid fount, or red volcanic stream,
If ever to her lidless dragon-eyes, [145]
O Albion! thy predestin'd ruins rise,
The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap,
Muttering distemper'd triumph in her charméd sleep.

IX

Away, my soul, away!
In vain, in vain the Birds of warning sing— [150]
And hark! I hear the famish'd 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 [155]
Soliciting for food my scanty soil,
Have wail'd my country with a loud Lament.
Now I recentre my immortal mind
In the deep Sabbath of meek self-content;
Cleans'd from the vaporous passions that bedim [160]
God's Image, sister of the Seraphim.[168:1]

1796.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[160:1] First published in the Cambridge Intelligencer, December 31, 1796, and at the same time issued in a quarto pamphlet (the Preface is dated December 26): included in 1797, 1803, Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, 1829, and 1834. The Argument was first published in 1797. In 1803 the several sentences were printed as notes to the Strophes, Antistrophes, &c. For the Dedication vide Appendices.

This Ode was written on the 24th, 25th, and 26th days of December, 1796; and published separately on the last day of the year. Footnote, 1797, 1808: This Ode was composed and was first published on the last day of that year. Footnote, S. L., 1817, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[160:2] The Ode commences with an address to the great Being, or Divine Providence, who regulates into one vast Harmony all the Events of Time, however Calamitous some of them appear to mortals. 1803.

[161:1] The second Strophe calls on men to suspend their private Joys and Sorrows, and to devote their passions for a while to the cause of human Nature in general. 1803.

[161:2] The Name of Liberty, which at the commencement of the French Revolution was both the occasion and the pretext of unnumbered crimes and horrors. 1803.

[162:1] The first Epode refers to the late 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. 1803. The Empress died just as she had engaged to furnish more effectual aid to the powers combined against France. C. I.

[162:2] A subsidiary Treaty had been just concluded; and Russia was to have furnished more effectual aid than that of pious manifestoes to the Powers combined against France. I rejoice—not over the deceased Woman (I never dared figure the Russian Sovereign to my imagination under the dear and venerable Character of Woman—Woman, that complex term for Mother, Sister, Wife!) I rejoice, as at the disenshrining of a Daemon! I rejoice, as at the extinction of the evil Principle impersonated! This very day, six years ago, the massacre of Ismail was perpetrated. Thirty Thousand Human Beings, Men, Women, and Children, murdered in cold blood, for no other crime than that their garrison had defended the place with perseverance and bravery. Why should I recal the poisoning of her husband, her iniquities in Poland, or her late unmotived attack on Persia, the desolating ambition of her public life, or the libidinous excesses of her private hours! I have no wish to qualify myself for the office of Historiographer to the King of Hell—! December, 23, 1796. 4^o.

[164:1] The first Antistrophe describes the Image of the Departing Year, as in a vision; and concludes with introducing the Planetary Angel of the Earth preparing to address the Supreme Being. 1803.

[164:2] 'My soul beheld thy vision!' i. e. Thy Image in a vision. 4^o.

[165:1] Gifts used in Scripture for corruption. C. I.

[166:1] The poem concludes with prophecying in anguish of Spirit the Downfall of this Country. 1803.

[167:1] 'Disclaim'd of Heaven!'—The Poet from having considered the peculiar advantages, which this country has enjoyed, passes in rapid transition to the uses, which we have made of these advantages. We have been preserved by our insular situation, from suffering the actual horrors of War ourselves, and we have shewn our gratitude to Providence for this immunity by our eagerness to spread those horrors over nations less happily situated. In the midst of plenty and safety we have raised or joined the yell for famine and blood. Of the one hundred and seven last years, fifty have been years of War. Such wickedness cannot pass unpunished. We have been proud and confident in our alliances and our fleets—but God has prepared the canker-worm, and will smite the gourds of our pride. 'Art thou better than populous No, that was situate among the rivers, that had the waters round about it, whose rampart was the Sea? Ethiopia and Egypt were her strength and it was infinite: Put and Lubim were her helpers. Yet she was carried away, she went into captivity: and they cast lots for her honourable men, and all her great men were bound in chains. Thou also shalt be drunken: all thy strongholds shall be like fig trees with the first ripe figs; if they be shaken, they shall even fall into the mouth of the eater. Thou hast multiplied thy merchants above the stars of heaven. Thy crowned are as the locusts; and thy captains as the great grasshoppers which camp in the hedges in the cool-day; but when the Sun ariseth they flee away, and their place is not known where they are. There is no healing of thy bruise; thy wound is grievous: all, that hear the report of thee, shall clap hands over thee: for upon whom hath not thy wickedness passed continually?' Nahum, chap. iii. 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[168:1] 'Let it not be forgotten during the perusal of this Ode that it was written many years before the abolition of the Slave Trade by the British Legislature, likewise before the invasion of Switzerland by the French Republic, which occasioned the Ode that follows [France: an Ode. First published as The Recantation: an Ode], a kind of Palinodia.' MS. Note by S. T. C.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Ode for the last day of the Year 1796, C. I.: Ode on the Departing Year 4^o, 1797, 1803, S. L., 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Motto]] 3-5 All editions (4^o to 1834) read ἐφημίοις for δυσφροιμίοις, and Ἄγαν γ' for Ἄγαν; and all before 1834 μην for μ' ἐν.

[I]] Strophe I C. I., 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[[1]]

Spirit] Being 1803.

[[4]]

unchanging] unchanged 4^o.

[[5]]

free] freed 4^o.

[[6]]

and a bowéd] and submitted 1803, S. L., 1817, 1828, 1829.

[[7]]

When lo! far onwards waving on the wind
I saw the skirts of the Departing Year.

C. I., 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[[11]]

Ere yet he pierc'd the cloud and mock'd my sight C. I. foreclos'd] forebade 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[II]] Strophe II C. I., 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[[15-16]]

From Poverty's heart-wasting languish
From Distemper's midnight anguish

C. I., 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[[22]]

Ye Sorrows, and ye Joys advance C. I. ye] and 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[[25]]

Forbids its fateful strings to sleep C. I., 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[[31]]

O'er the sore travail of the common Earth C. I., 4^o.

[[33-7]]

Seiz'd in sore travail and portentous birth
(Her eyeballs flashing a pernicious glare)
Sick Nature struggles! Hark! her pangs increase!
Her groans are horrible! but O! most fair
The promis'd Twins she bears—Equality and Peace!

C. I., 4^o.

[[36]]

thy] the 1797, 1803.

[III]] Epode C. I., 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[[40]]

Ah! whither C. I., 4^o.

[[41]]

on] o'er C. I., 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[[43]]

'twice mortal' mace C. I., 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[[45]]

The insatiate] That tyrant C. I.] drunken] frenzied C. I.

Between [51] and 52

Whose shrieks, whose screams were vain to stir
Loud-laughing, red-eyed Massacre

C. I., 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[[58]]

armies] Army C. I., 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[[61]]

Tyrant-Murderer's] scepter'd Murderer's C. I., 4^o, 1797, 1803.

After [61]

When shall sceptred Slaughter cease?
A while he crouch'd, O Victor France!
Beneath the lightning of thy lance;
With treacherous dalliance courting Peace—[163:A]
But soon upstarting from his coward trance
The boastful bloody Son of Pride betray'd
His ancient hatred of the dove-eyed Maid.
A cloud, O Freedom! cross'd thy orb of Light,
And sure he deem'd that orb was set in night:
For still does Madness roam on Guilt's bleak dizzy height!

C. I.

When shall sceptred, &c.

* * * * *

With treacherous dalliance wooing Peace.
But soon up-springing from his dastard trance
The boastful bloody Son of Pride betray'd
His hatred of the blest and blessing Maid.
One cloud, O Freedom! cross'd thy orb of Light,
And sure he deem'd that orb was quench'd in night:
For still, &c.

4^o.

[163:A] To juggle this easily-juggled people into better humour with the supplies (and themselves, perhaps, affrighted by the successes of the French) our Ministry sent an Ambassador to Paris to sue for Peace. The supplies are granted: and in the meantime the Archduke Charles turns the scale of victory on the Rhine, and Buonaparte is checked before Mantua. Straightways our courtly messenger is commanded to uncurl his lips, and propose to the lofty Republic to restore all its conquests, and to suffer England to retain all hers (at least all her important ones), as the only terms of Peace, and the ultimatum of the negotiation!

Θρασύνει γὰρ αἰσχρόμητις
Τάλαινα ΠΑΡΑΚΟΠΑ πρωτοπήμων—Aeschyl., Ag. 222-4.

The friends of Freedom in this country are idle. Some are timid; some are selfish; and many the torpedo torch of hopelessness has numbed into inactivity. We would fain hope that (if the above account be accurate—it is only the French account) this dreadful instance of infatuation in our Ministry will rouse them to one effort more; and that at one and the same time in our different great towns the people will be called on to think solemnly, and declare their thoughts fearlessly by every method which the remnant of the Constitution allows. 4^o.

[IV]] Antistrophe I. C. I., 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[[62]]

no earthly] an awful C. I.

[[65]]

thy . . . gore] there garmented with gore C. I., 4^o, 1797.

[[65-7]]

Aye Memory sits: thy vest profan'd with gore.
Thou with an unimaginable groan
Gav'st reck'ning of thy Hours!

1803.

[[68]]

ethereal] choired C. I.

[[69]]

Whose purple locks with snow-white glories shone C. I., 4^o: Whose wreathed locks with snow-white glories shone 1797, 1803.

[[70]]

wild] strange C. I.

[V]] Antistrophe II. C. I., 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[[74-9]]

On every Harp on every Tongue
While the mute Enchantment hung:
Like Midnight from a thunder-cloud
Spake the sudden Spirit loud.

C. I., 4^o, 1797, 1803.

The sudden Spirit cried aloud.

C. I.

Like Thunder from a Midnight Cloud
Spake the sudden Spirit loud

1803.

[[83]]

Arm] God C. I.

Between [83] and 84

By Belgium's corse-impeded flood,[165:A]
By Vendee steaming [streaming C. I.] Brother's blood.

C. I., 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[165:A] The Rhine. C. I., 1797, 1803.

[[85]]

And mask'd Hate C. I.

[[87]]

By Hunger's bosom to the bleak winds bar'd C. I.

[[89]]

Strange] Most C. I.

[[90]]

By] And C. I.

[[91]]

Synod] Senate 1797, 1803.

[[94-102]]

For ever shall the bloody island scowl?
For ever shall her vast and iron bow
Shoot Famine's evil arrows o'er the world,[165:B]
Hark! how wide Nature joins her groans below;
Rise, God of Mercy, rise! why sleep thy bolts unhurl'd?

C. I.

For ever shall the bloody Island scowl?
For aye, unbroken shall her cruel Bow
Shoot Famine's arrows o'er thy ravaged World?
Hark! how wide Nature joins her groans below—
Rise, God of Nature, rise, why sleep thy Bolts unhurl'd?

4^o, 1797, 1803.

Rise God of Nature, rise! ah! why those bolts unhurl'd?

1797, 1803.

[165:B] 'In Europe the smoking villages of Flanders and the putrified fields of La Vendée—from Africa the unnumbered victims of a detestable Slave-Trade. In Asia the desolated plains of Indostan, and the millions whom a rice-contracting Governor caused to perish. In America the recent enormities of the Scalp-merchants. The four quarters of the globe groan beneath the intolerable iniquity of the nation.' See 'Addresses to the People', p. 46. C. I.

[[102]]

Here the Ode ends C. I.

[VI]] Epode II. 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[[103]]

Vision] Phantoms 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[[106]]

phantom] vision 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[[107]]

sweat-drops] sweat-damps 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[[113]]

stranger] uglier 4^o.

[[119]]

starting] startful 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[[121]]

O doom'd to fall, enslav'd and vile 4^o, 1797, 1803.

[[133]]

proud Invader's] sworded Foeman's 4^o, 1797: sworded Warrior's 1803.

[[135-9]]

Disclaim'd of Heaven! mad Avarice at thy side

4^o, 1797.

At coward distance, yet with kindling pride—
Safe 'mid thy herds and cornfields thou hast stood,
And join'd the yell of Famine and of Blood.
All nations curse thee: and with eager wond'ring

4^o, 1797.

[[135]]

O abandon'd 1803.

[[137-8]]

Mid thy Corn-fields and Herds thou in plenty hast stood
And join'd the loud yellings of Famine and Blood.

1803.

[[139]]

They] and 1797, 1803, S. L. 1817.

[[142]]

fires] flames 4^o.

[[144]]

Stretch'd on the marge of some fire-flashing fount
In the black Chamber of a sulphur'd mount.

4^o.

[[144]]

By livid fount, or roar of blazing stream 1797.

[[146]]

Visions of thy predestin'd ruins rise 1803.

[[151]]

famish'd] famin'd 4^o.

[[156]]

Soliciting my scant and blameless soil 4^o.

[[159-60]]

In the long sabbath of high self-content.
Cleans'd from the fleshly passions that bedim

4^o.

In the deep sabbath of blest self-content
Cleans'd from the fears and anguish that bedim

1797.

In the blest sabbath of high self-content
Cleans'd from bedimming Fear, and Anguish weak and blind.

1803.

[[161]]

om. 1803.

---

THE RAVEN[169:1]

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

Underneath an old oak tree
There was of swine a huge company,
That grunted as they crunched the mast:
For that was ripe, and fell full fast.
Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high: [5]
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. [10]
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. [15]
Many Autumns, many Springs
Travelled[170:1] 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, [20]
And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree.
They built them a nest in the topmost bough,
And young ones they had, and were happy enow.
But soon came a Woodman in leathern guise,
His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes. [25]
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. [30]

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 [35]
Such a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand.
It bulged on a rock, and the waves rush'd in fast:
Round and round flew the raven, and cawed to the blast.
He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls—
See! see! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls! [40]
Right glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet,
And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet,
And he thank'd him again and again for this treat:
They had taken his all, and Revenge it was sweet!

1797.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[169:1] First published in the Morning Post, March 10, 1798 (with an introductory letter, vide infra): included (with the letter, and except line 15 the same text) in the Annual Anthology, 1800, in Sibylline Leaves, 1817 (pp. vi-viii), 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[To the editor of the Morning Post.]

'Sir,—I am not absolutely certain that the following Poem was written by Edmund Spenser, and found by an Angler buried in a fishing-box:—

'Under the foot of Mole, that mountain hoar,
Mid the green alders, by the Mulla's shore.'

But a learned Antiquarian of my acquaintance has given it as his opinion that it resembles Spenser's minor Poems as nearly as Vortigern and Rowena the Tragedies of William Shakespeare.—The Poem must be read in recitative, in the same manner as the Aegloga Secunda of the Shepherd's Calendar.

Cuddy.'

M. P., An. Anth.

[170:1] Seventeen or eighteen years ago an artist of some celebrity was so pleased with this doggerel that he amused himself with the thought of making a Child's Picture Book of it; but he could not hit on a picture for these four lines. I suggested a Round-about with four seats, and the four seasons, as Children, with Time for the shew-man. Footnote, Sibylline Leaves, 1817.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] 'A Christmas Tale,' &c., was first prefixed in S. L. 1817. The letter introduced the poem in the Morning Post. In the Annual Anthology the 'Letter' is headed 'The Raven'. Lamb in a letter to Coleridge, dated Feb. 5, 1797, alludes to this poem as 'Your Dream'.

[[1-8]]

Under the arms of a goodly oak-tree
There was of Swine a large company.
They were making a rude repast,
Grunting as they crunch'd the mast.
Then they trotted away: for the wind blew high— 5
One acorn they left, ne more mote you spy,
Next came a Raven, who lik'd not such folly:
He belong'd, I believe, to the witch Melancholy!

M. P., An. Anth., and (with variants given below) MS. S. T. C.

[[1]]

Beneath a goodly old oak tree MS. S. T. C.: an old] a huge S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[[6]]

ne more] and no more MS. S. T. C.

[[7]]

Next] But soon MS. S. T. C.

[[8]]

belonged it was said S. L. 1817.

[[10]]

in the rain; his feathers were wet M. P., An. Anth., MS. S. T. C.

[[15]]

O'er hill, o'er dale M. P.

[[17]]

with] on MS. S. T. C.

[[20]]

came back] return'd M. P., An. Anth., MS. S. T. C.

[[21]]

to a tall] a large M. P., An. Anth., MS. S. T. C.

[[22]]

topmost] uppermost MS. S. T. C.

[[23]]

happy] jolly M. P., An. Anth.

[[26]]

and he nothing spoke M. P., An. Anth., MS. S. T. C.

[[28]]

At length] Wel-a-day MS. S. T. C.: At last M. P., An. Anth.

[[30]]

And his wife she did die M. P., An. Anth., MS. S. T. C.

[[31]]

The branches from off it M. P., An. Anth.: The branches from off this the MS. S. T. C.

[[32]]

And floated MS. S. T. C.

[[33]]

They saw'd it to planks, and its rind M. P., An. Anth.: They saw'd it to planks and its bark MS. S. T. C.

[[34]]

they built up a ship M. P., An. Anth.

[[36]]

Such . . . ship] A tempest arose which no ship M. P., An. Anth., MS. S. T. C.

[[38]]

The auld raven flew round and round M. P., An. Anth.: The old raven flew round and round MS. S. T. C., S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[[39]]

He heard the sea-shriek of their perishing souls M. P., An. Anth., MS. S. T. C.

[[40-4]]

They be sunk! O'er the topmast the mad water rolls
The Raven was glad that such fate they did meet.
They had taken his all and Revenge was sweet.

M. P., An. Anth.

[[40]]

See she sinks MS. S. T. C.

[[41]]

Very glad was the Raven, this fate they did meet MS. S. T. C.

[[42-3]]

om. MS. S. T. C.

[[44]]

Revenge was sweet. An. Anth., MS. S. T. C., S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829.

After l. [44], two lines were added in Sibylline Leaves, 1817:—

We must not think so; but forget and forgive,
And what Heaven gives life to, we'll still let it live.[171:A]

[171:A] 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 even a Raven to be a Raven, nor a Fox a Fox, but demands conventicular justice to be inflicted on their unchristian conduct, or at least an antidote to be annexed. MS. Note by S. T. C.

---

TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN
AT THE THEATRE[171:1]

Maiden, that with sullen brow
Sitt'st behind those virgins gay,
Like a scorch'd and mildew'd bough,
Leafless 'mid the blooms of May!

Him who lur'd thee and forsook, [5]
Oft I watch'd with angry gaze,
Fearful saw his pleading look,
Anxious heard his fervid phrase.

Soft the glances of the Youth,
Soft his speech, and soft his sigh; [10]
But no sound like simple Truth,
But no true love in his eye.

Loathing thy polluted lot,
Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence!
Seek thy weeping Mother's cot, 15
With a wiser innocence.

Thou hast known deceit and folly,
Thou hast felt that Vice is woe:
With a musing melancholy
Inly arm'd, go, Maiden! go. [20]

Mother sage of Self-dominion,
Firm thy steps, O Melancholy!
The strongest plume in Wisdom's pinion
Is the memory of past folly.

Mute the sky-lark and forlorn, [25]
While she moults the firstling plumes,
That had skimm'd the tender corn,
Or the beanfield's odorous blooms.

Soon with renovated wing
Shall she dare a loftier flight, [30]
Upward to the Day-Star spring,
And embathe in heavenly light.

1797.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[171:1] First published in the Morning Post, December 7, 1797: included in the Annual Anthology, 1800, in Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829, and 1834. For MS. sent to Cottle, see E. R. 1834, i. 213, 214.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] To an Unfortunate Woman in the Back Seats of the Boxes at the Theatre M. P.: To an Unfortunate Young Woman whom I had known in the days of her Innocence MS. sent to Cottle, E. R. i. 213: To an Unfortunate Woman whom the Author knew in the days of her Innocence. Composed at the Theatre An. Anth. 1800.

[[1]]

Maiden] Sufferer An. Anth.

In place of [5-12]

Inly gnawing, thy distresses
Mock those starts of wanton glee;
And thy inmost soul confesses
Chaste Affection's [affliction's An. Anth.] majesty.

MS. Cottle, An. Anth.

[[14]]

Maiden] Sufferer An. Anth.

[[22]]

Firm are thy steps M. P.

[[25]]

sky-lark] Lavrac MS. Cottle, An. Anth.

[[26]]

the] those MS. Cottle, M. P., An. Anth.

[[27]]

Which late had M. P.

[[31]]

Upwards to the day star sing MS. Cottle, An. Anth.

Stanzas ii, iii, v, vi are not in MS. Cottle nor in the Annual Anthology.

---

TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN[172:1]

WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS
OF HER INNOCENCE

Myrtle-leaf that, ill besped,
Pinest in the gladsome ray,
Soil'd beneath the common tread
Far from thy protecting spray!

When the Partridge o'er the sheaf [5]
Whirr'd along the yellow vale,
Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf!
Love the dalliance of the gale.

Lightly didst thou, foolish thing!
Heave and flutter to his sighs, 10
While the flatterer, on his wing,
Woo'd and whisper'd thee to rise.

Gaily from thy mother-stalk
Wert thou danc'd and wafted high—
Soon on this unshelter'd walk [15]
Flung to fade, to rot and die.

1797.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[172:1] First published in 1797: included in 1803, Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Allegorical Lines on the Same Subject MS. Cottle.

[[5]]

When the scythes-man o'er his sheaf
Caroll'd in the yellow vale

MS. Cottle.

When the rustic o'er his sheaf
Caroll'd in, &c.

1797.

[Note. The text of Stanza ii dates from 1803.]

[[9]]

foolish] poor fond MS. Cottle.

[[15]]

Soon upon this sheltered walk, MS. Cottle, Second Version.

[[16]]

to fade, and rot. MS. Cottle.

---

TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE[173:1]

OF OTTERY ST. MARY, DEVON

With some Poems

Notus in fratres animi paterni.

Hor. Carm. lib. ii. 2.

A blesséd 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; 5
And haply views his tottering little ones
Embrace those agéd knees and climb that lap,
On which first kneeling his own infancy
Lisp'd its brief prayer. Such, O my earliest Friend!
Thy lot, and such thy brothers too enjoy. [10]
At distance did ye climb Life's upland road,
Yet cheer'd 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 dispens'd 15
A different fortune and more different mind—
Me from the spot where first I sprang to light
Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fix'd
Its first domestic loves; and hence through life
Chasing chance-started friendships. A brief while [20]
Some have preserv'd 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, 25
False and fair-foliag'd as the Manchineel,
Have tempted me to slumber in their shade
E'en mid the storm; then breathing subtlest damps,
Mix'd their own venom with the rain from Heaven,
That I woke poison'd! But, all praise to Him [30]
Who gives us all things, more have yielded me
Permanent shelter; and beside one Friend,
Beneath the impervious covert of one oak,
I've rais'd a lowly shed, and know the names
Of Husband and of Father; not unhearing [35]
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 roam'd through life 40
Still most a stranger, most with naked heart
At mine own home and birth-place: chiefly then,
When I remember thee, my earliest Friend!
Thee, who didst watch my boyhood and my youth;
Didst trace my wanderings with a father's eye; [45]
And boding evil yet still hoping good,
Rebuk'd each fault, and over all my woes
Sorrow'd in silence! He who counts alone
The beatings of the solitary heart,
That Being knows, how I have lov'd thee ever, [50]
Lov'd as a brother, as a son rever'd thee!
Oh! 'tis to me an ever new delight,
To talk of thee and thine: or when the blast
Of the shrill winter, rattling our rude sash,
Endears the cleanly hearth and social bowl; 55
Or when, as now, on some delicious eve,
We in our sweet sequester'd orchard-plot
Sit on the tree crook'd earth-ward; whose old boughs,
That hang above us in an arborous roof,
Stirr'd by the faint gale of departing May, [60]
Send their loose blossoms slanting o'er our heads!

Nor dost not thou sometimes recall those 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 [65]
Or that sad wisdom folly leaves behind,
Or such as, tuned to these tumultuous times,
Cope with the tempest's swell!

Those various strains,
Which I have fram'd in many a various mood,
Accept, my Brother! and (for some perchance 70
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 26, 1797.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[173:1] First published as the Dedication to the Poems of 1797: included in 1803, Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. In a copy of the Poems of 1797, formerly in the possession of the late Mr. Frederick Locker-Lampson, Coleridge affixed the following note to the Dedication—'N. B. If this volume should ever be delivered according to its direction, i. e. to Posterity, let it be known that the Reverend George Coleridge was displeased and thought his character endangered by the Dedication.'—S. T. Coleridge. Note to P. and D. W., 1877-80, i. 163.

LINENOTES:

[Motto]] lib. i. 2 S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[[10]]

Thine and thy Brothers' favourable lot. 1803.

[[23]]

and] or 1797, 1803.

[[30]]

That I woke prison'd! But (the praise be His 1803.

[[33-4]]

I as beneath the covert of an oak
Have rais'd

1803.

[[35]]

not] nor 1797, 1803, S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[[47-9]]

Rebuk'd each fault, and wept o'er all my woes.
Who counts the beatings of the lonely heart

1797, 1803.

Between [52-3] My eager eye glist'ning with memry's tear 1797.

[[62]]

thou] thou all editions to 1834.

Between [66-7] Or the high raptures of prophetic Faith 1797, 1803.

[[68]]

strains] songs 1797, 1803.

---

ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S CHILD[176:1]

This day among the faithful plac'd
And fed with fontal manna,
O with maternal title grac'd,
Dear Anna's dearest Anna!

While others wish thee wise and fair, 5
A maid of spotless fame,
I'll breathe this more compendious prayer—
May'st thou deserve thy name!

Thy mother's name, a potent spell,
That bids the Virtues hie 10
From mystic grove and living cell,
Confess'd to Fancy's eye;

Meek Quietness without offence;
Content in homespun kirtle;
True Love; and True Love's Innocence, 15
White Blossom of the Myrtle!

Associates of thy name, sweet Child!
These Virtues may'st thou win;
With face as eloquently mild
To say, they lodge within. 20

So, when her tale of days all flown,
Thy mother shall be miss'd here;
When Heaven at length shall claim its own
And Angels snatch their Sister;

Some hoary-headed friend, perchance, 25
May gaze with stifled breath;
And oft, in momentary trance,
Forget the waste of death.

Even thus a lovely rose I've view'd
In summer-swelling pride; 30
Nor mark'd the bud, that green and rude
Peep'd at the rose's side.

It chanc'd I pass'd again that way
In Autumn's latest hour,
And wond'ring saw the selfsame spray 35
Rich with the selfsame flower.

Ah fond deceit! the rude green bud
Alike in shape, place, name,
Had bloom'd where bloom'd its parent stud,
Another and the same! 40

1797.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[176:1] First published in the Supplement to Poems, 1797: reprinted in Literary Remains, 1836, i. 48, 49: included in 1844 and 1852. The lines were addressed to Anna Cruickshank, the wife of John Cruickshank, who was a neighbour of Coleridge at Nether-Stowey.

---

TRANSLATION[177:1]

OF A LATIN INSCRIPTION BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES IN
NETHER-STOWEY CHURCH

Depart in joy from this world's noise and strife
To the deep quiet of celestial life!
Depart!—Affection's self reproves the tear
Which falls, O honour'd Parent! on thy bier;—
Yet Nature will be heard, the heart will swell, 5
And the voice tremble with a last Farewell!

1797.

[The Tablet is erected to the Memory of Richard Camplin, who died Jan. 20, 1792.

'Lætus abi! mundi strepitu curisque remotus;
Lætus abi! cæli quâ vocat alma Quies.
Ipsa fides loquitur lacrymamque incusat inanem,
Quæ cadit in vestros, care Pater, Cineres.
Heu! tantum liceat meritos hos solvere Ritus, [5]
Naturæ et tremulâ dicere Voce, Vale!']

---

FOOTNOTES:

[177:1] First published in Literary Remains, 1836, i. 50. First collected in P. and D. W., 1877, ii. 365.

LINENOTES:

[[6]]

Et longum tremulâ L. R. 1836.

---

THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON[178:1]

[ADDRESSED TO CHARLES LAMB, OF THE INDIA HOUSE, LONDON]

In the June of 1797 some long-expected friends paid a visit to the author's cottage; and on the morning of their arrival, he met with an accident, which disabled him from walking during the whole time of their stay. One evening, when they had left him for a few hours, he composed the following lines in the garden-bower.[178:2]

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 dimm'd mine eyes to blindness! They, meanwhile, [5]
Friends, whom I never more may meet again,
On springy[179:1] 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, 10
And only speckled by the mid-day sun;
Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock
Flings arching like a bridge;—that branchless ash,
Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves
Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still, 15
Fann'd by the water-fall! and there my friends
Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds,[179:2]
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 [20]
Beneath the wide wide Heaven—and view again
The many-steepled tract magnificent
Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea,
With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up
The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles [25]
Of purple shadow! Yes! they wander on
In gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad,
My gentle-hearted Charles! for thou hast pined
And hunger'd after Nature, many a year,
In the great City pent, winning thy way [30]
With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain
And strange calamity! Ah! slowly sink
Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun!
Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb,
Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds! [35]
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 [40]
Less gross than bodily; and of such hues
As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makes
Spirits perceive his presence.

A delight
Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad
As I myself were there! Nor in this bower, [45]
This little lime-tree bower, have I not mark'd
Much that has sooth'd me. Pale beneath the blaze
Hung the transparent foliage; and I watch'd
Some broad and sunny leaf, and lov'd to see
The shadow of the leaf and stem above 50
Dappling its sunshine! And that walnut-tree
Was richly ting'd, and a deep radiance lay
Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps
Those fronting elms, and now, with blackest mass
Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue [55]
Through the late twilight: and though now the bat
Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters,
Yet still the solitary humble-bee
Sings in the bean-flower! Henceforth I shall know
That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure; [60]
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 promis'd good, [65]
That we may lift the soul, and contemplate
With lively joy the joys we cannot share.
My gentle-hearted Charles! when the last rook
Beat its straight path along the dusky air
Homewards, I blest it! deeming its black wing [70]
(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light)
Had cross'd the mighty Orb's dilated glory,
While thou stood'st gazing; or, when all was still,
Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a charm[181:1]
For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom [75]
No sound is dissonant which tells of Life.

1797.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[178:1] First published in the Annual Anthology, 1800, reprinted in Mylius' Poetical Classbook, 1810: included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, in 1828, 1829, and 1834. The poem was sent in a letter to Southey, July 9, 1797, and in a letter to C. Lloyd, [July, 1797]. See Letters of S. T. C., 1895, i. 225-7 and P. W., 1893, p. 591.

[178:2] 'Ch. and Mary Lamb—dear to my heart, yea, as it were my Heart.—S. T. C. Æt. 63; 1834—1797-1834 = 37 years!' (Marginal note written by S. T. Coleridge over against the introductory note to 'This Lime-Tree Bower my Prison', in a copy of the Poetical Works, 1834.)

[179:1] 'Elastic, I mean.' MS. Letter to Southey.

[179:2] The Asplenium Scolopendrium, called in some countries the Adder's Tongue, in others the Hart's Tongue, but Withering gives the Adder's Tongue as the trivial name of the Ophioglossum only.

[181:1] Some months after I had written this line, it gave me pleasure to find [to observe An. Anth., S. L. 1828] that Bartram had observed the same circumstance of the Savanna Crane. 'When these Birds move their wings in flight, their strokes are slow, moderate and regular; and even when at a considerable distance or high above us, we plainly hear the quill-feathers: their shafts and webs upon one another creek as the joints or working of a vessel in a tempestuous sea.'

LINENOTES:

[Title]] This Lime-Tree Bower my Prison. A Poem Addressed, &c. An. Anth.: the words 'Addressed to', &c., are omitted in Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[[1-28]]

Well, they are gone, and here must I remain,
Lam'd by the scathe of fire, lonely and faint,
This lime-tree bower my prison! They, meantime,
My Friends, whom I may never meet again,
On springy heath, along the hill-top edge 5
Wander delighted, and look down, perchance,
On that same rifted dell, where many an ash
Twists its wild limbs beside the ferny rock
Whose plumy[178:A] ferns forever nod and drip
Spray'd by the waterfall. But chiefly thou 10
My gentle-hearted Charles! thou who had pin'd

MS. Letter to Southey, July 17, 1797.

[178:A] The ferns that grow in moist places grow five or six together, and form a complete 'Prince of Wales's Feather'—that is plumy. Letter to Southey.

[[1-28]]

Well they are gone, and here I must remain
This lime-tree, . . . hill-top edge
Delighted wander, and look down, perchance,
On that same rifted dell, where the wet ash
Twists its wild limbs above, . . . who hast pin'd

MS. Letter to Lloyd [July, 1797].

[[3]]

Such beauties and such feelings, as had been An. Anth., S. L.

[[4]]

my remembrance] to have remembered An. Anth.

[[6]]

My Friends, whom I may never meet again An. Anth., S. L.

[[20]]

blue] dim An. Anth.

[[22]]

tract] track An. Anth., S. L. 1828.

[[24]]

bark, perhaps, which lightly touches An. Anth.

[[28]]

hast] had'st An. Anth.

[[31]]

patient] bowed MS. Letter to Southey.

[[34]]

beams] heaven MS. Letter to Southey.

[38] foll.

Struck with joy's deepest calm, and gazing round
On the wide view[180:A] may gaze till all doth seem
Less gross than bodily; a living thing
That acts upon the mind, and with such hues
As clothe th' Almighty Spirit, when he makes.

MS. Letter to Southey.

[180:A] You remember I am a Berkleyan. Note to Letter.

[[40]]

wide] wild S. L.

[[40]]

(for wild r. wide; and the two following lines thus:

Less gross than bodily; and of such hues
As veil the Almighty Spirit

Errata, S. L., p. [xii].)

As veil the Almighty Spirit, when he makes

1828.

[41] foll.

Less gross than bodily, a living thing
Which acts upon the mind and with such hues
As cloathe the Almighty Spirit, when he makes

An. Anth., S. L.

[45] foll.

As I myself were there! Nor in the bower
Want I sweet sounds or pleasing shapes. I watch'd
The sunshine of each broad transparent leaf
Broke by the shadows of the leaf or stem
Which hung above it: and that walnut tree

MS. Letter to Southey.

[[55]]

branches] foliage MS. Letter to Southey.

[[56]]

and though the rapid bat MS. Letter to Southey.

[[60-64]]

om. in MS. Letter to Lloyd.

[[61-2]]

No scene so narrow but may well employ MS. Letter to Southey, An. Anth.

[[65]]

My Sister and my Friends MS. Letter to Southey: My Sara and my Friends MS. Letter to Lloyd.

[[70]]

Homewards] Homeward MS. Letter to Lloyd.

[[71]]

om. in MS. Letter to Lloyd. in the light An. Anth., S. L. (omit the before light. Errata, S. L., [p. xii]).

[[72]]

Cross'd like a speck the blaze of setting day MS. Letter to Southey: Had cross'd the mighty orb's dilated blase. MS. Letter to Lloyd.

[[73]]

While ye [you MS. Letter to Lloyd] stood MS. Letter to Southey.

[[74]]

thy head] your heads MSS. Letters to Southey and Lloyd.

[[75]]

For you my Sister and my Friends MS. Letter to Southey: For you my Sara and my Friends MS. Letter to Lloyd.

---

THE FOSTER-MOTHER'S TALE[182:1]

A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT

[From Osorio, Act IV. The title and text are here printed from Lyrical Ballads, 1798.]

Foster-Mother. I never saw the man whom you describe.

Maria. 'Tis strange! he spake of you familiarly
As mine and Albert's common Foster-mother.

Foster-Mother. Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be,
That joined your names with mine! O my sweet lady, 5
As often as I think of those dear times
When you two little ones would stand at eve
On each side of my chair, and make me learn
All you had learnt in the day; and how to talk
In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you— [10]
'Tis more like heaven to come than what has been!

Maria. O my dear Mother! this strange man has left me
Troubled with wilder fancies, than the moon
Breeds in the love-sick maid who gazes at it,
Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye [15]
She gazes idly!—But that entrance, Mother!

Foster-Mother. Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale!

Maria. No one.

Foster-Mother. My husband's father told it me,
Poor old Leoni!—Angels rest his soul!
He was a woodman, and could fell and saw 20
With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam
Which props the hanging wall of the old Chapel?
Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree,
He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined
With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool [25]
As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,
And rear'd him at the then Lord Velez' cost.
And so the babe grew up a pretty boy,
A pretty boy, but most unteachable—
And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead, [30]
But knew the names of birds, and mock'd their notes,
And whistled, as he were a bird himself:
And all the autumn 'twas his only play
To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them
With earth and water, on the stumps of trees. [35]
A Friar, who gather'd simples in the wood,
A grey-haired man—he lov'd this little boy,
The boy lov'd him—and, when the Friar taught him,
He soon could write with the pen: and from that time,
Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Castle. [40]
So he became a very learnéd youth.
But Oh! poor wretch!—he read, and read, and read,
Till his brain turn'd—and ere his twentieth year,
He had unlawful thoughts of many things:
And though he prayed, he never lov'd to pray [45]
With holy men, nor in a holy place—
But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,
The late Lord Velez ne'er was wearied with him.
And once, as by the north side of the Chapel
They stood together, chain'd in deep discourse, [50]
The earth heav'd under them with such a groan,
That the wall totter'd, and had well-nigh fallen
Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frighten'd;
A fever seiz'd him, and he made confession
Of all the heretical and lawless talk [55]
Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seiz'd
And cast into that hole. My husband's father
Sobb'd like a child—it almost broke his heart:
And once as he was working in the cellar,
He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's, [60]
Who sung a doleful song about green fields,
How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah,
To hunt for food, and be a naked man,
And wander up and down at liberty.
He always doted on the youth, and now [65]
His love grew desperate; and defying death,
He made that cunning entrance I describ'd:
And the young man escap'd.

Maria. 'Tis a sweet tale:
Such as would lull a listening child to sleep,
His rosy face besoil'd with unwiped tears.— [70]
And what became of him?

Foster-Mother. He went on shipboard
With those bold voyagers, who made discovery
Of golden lands. Leoni's younger brother
Went likewise, and when he return'd to Spain,
He told Leoni, that the poor mad youth, [75]
Soon after they arriv'd in that new world,
In spite of his dissuasion, seiz'd a boat,
And all alone, set sail by silent moonlight
Up a great river, great as any sea,
And ne'er was heard of more: but 'tis suppos'd, 80
He liv'd and died among the savage men.

1797.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[182:1] First published in the first edition of the Lyrical Ballads, 1798, and reprinted in the editions of 1800, 1803, and 1805. The 'dramatic fragment' was excluded from the acting version of Remorse, but was printed in an Appendix, p. 75, to the Second Edition of the Play, 1813. It is included in the body of the work in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, and again in 1852, and in the Appendix to Remorse in the editions of 1828, 1829, and 1834. It is omitted from 1844. 'The "Foster-Mother's Tale," (From Mr. C.'s own handwriting)' was published in Cottle's Early Recollections, i. 235.

'The following scene as unfit for the stage was taken from the Tragedy in 1797, and published in the Lyrical Ballads. But this work having been long out of print, and it having been determined, that this with my other poems in that collection (the Nightingale, Love, and the Ancient Mariner) should be omitted in any future edition, I have been advised to reprint it as a Note to the Second Scene of Act the Fourth, p. 55.' App. to Remorse, Ed. 2, 1813. [This note is reprinted in 1828 and 1829, but in 1834 only the first sentence is prefixed to the scene.]

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Foster-Mother's Tale. (Scene—Spain) Cottle, 1837: The, &c. A Narration in Dramatic Blank Verse L. B. 1800. In Remorse, App., 1813 and in 1828, 1829, 1834, the dramatis personae are respectively Teresa and Selma. The fragment opens thus:—Enter Teresa and Selma.

Ter. 'Tis said, he spake of you familiarly
As mine and Alvar's common foster-mother.

In Cottle's version, the scene begins at line 4.

[[1]]

man] Moor Osorio, MS. I.

[[12-16]]

O my dear Mother . . . She gazes idly! om. 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[[12]]

me] us Cottle, 1837.

[[13]]

the] yon Osorio, MS. I.

[[16]]

In Lyrical Ballads, 1800, the scene begins with the words: 'But that entrance'. But that entrance, Selma? 1813.

[[19]]

Leoni] Sesina 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[[27]]

Velez'] Valdez' 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834: Valez' S. L. 1817.

[[34]]

To gather seeds 1813, S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[[36]]

gather'd] oft culled S. L. 1817.

[[41]]

So he became a rare and learned youth 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[[41-2]]

So he became a very learned man.
But O poor youth

Cottle, 1837.

[[48]]

Velez] Valdez 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834: Valez S. L. 1817.

[[54]]

made a confession Osorio. A fever seiz'd the youth and he made confession Cottle, 1837.

[[57]]

hole] cell L. B. 1800: den 1813. [And fetter'd in that den. MS. S. T. C.].

[[59]]

in the cellar] near this dungeon 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[[62]]

wild] wide 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[[65]]

He always] Leoni L. B. 1800.

[[68-9]]

om. L. B. 1800.

[[73]]

Leoni's] Sesina's 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834. younger] youngest S. L. 1817.

[[75]]

Leoni] Sesina 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.

---

THE DUNGEON[185:1]

[From Osorio, Act V; and Remorse, Act V, Scene i. The title and text are here printed from Lyrical Ballads, 1798.]

And this place our forefathers made for man!
This is the process of our love and wisdom,
To each poor brother who offends against us—
Most innocent, perhaps—and what if guilty?
Is this the only cure? Merciful God! 5
Each pore and natural outlet shrivell'd up
By Ignorance and parching Poverty,
His energies roll back upon his heart,
And stagnate and corrupt; till chang'd to poison,
They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot; 10
Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks—
And this is their best cure! uncomforted
And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
And savage faces, at the clanking hour,
Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon, [15]
By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies
Circled with evil, till his very soul
Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deform'd
By sights of ever more deformity!

With other ministrations thou, O Nature! 20
Healest thy wandering and distemper'd child:
Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
Till he relent, and can no more endure 25
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 heal'd and harmoniz'd
By the benignant touch of Love and Beauty. 30

1797.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[185:1] First published in the Lyrical Ballads, 1798, and reprinted in the Lyrical Ballads, 1800. First collected (as a separate poem) in Poems, 1893, p. 85.

LINENOTES:

[[1]]

our] my Osorio, Act V, i. 107. 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834. man] men Osorio.

[[15]]

steams and vapour] steaming vapours Osorio, V, i. 121: steam and vapours 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.

---

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER[186:1]

IN SEVEN PARTS

Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibiles in rerum universitate. Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit? et gradus et cognationes et discrimina et singulorum munera? Quid agunt? quae loca habitant? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingenium humanum, nunquam attigit. Juvat, interea, non diffiteor, quandoque in animo, tanquam in tabulâ, majoris et melioris mundi imaginem contemplari: ne mens assuefacta hodiernae vitae minutiis se contrahat nimis, et tota subsidat in pusillas cogitationes. Sed veritati interea invigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut certa ab incertis, diem a nocte, distinguamus.—T. Burnet, Archaeol. Phil. p. 68.[186:2]

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. [L. B. 1798.][186:3]

Part I

An ancient Mariner meeteth three Gallants bidden to a wedding-feast, and detaineth one.

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, [5]
And I am next of kin;
The guests are met, the feast is set:
May'st hear the merry din.'

He holds him with his skinny hand,
'There was a ship,' quoth he. 10
'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!'
Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

The Wedding-Guest is spell-bound by the eye of the old seafaring man, and constrained to hear his tale.

He holds him with his glittering eye—
The Wedding-Guest stood still,
And listens like a three years' child: 15
The Mariner hath his will.

The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
He cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner. 20

'The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
Merrily did we drop
Below the kirk, below the hill,
Below the lighthouse top.

The Mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with a good wind and fair weather, till it reached the line.

The Sun came up upon the left, 25
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—' 30
The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,
For he heard the loud bassoon.

The Wedding-Guest heareth the bridal music; but the Mariner continueth his tale.

The bride hath paced into the hall,
Red as a rose is she;
Nodding their heads before her goes 35
The merry minstrelsy.

The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
Yet he cannot choose but hear;
And thus spake on that ancient man,
The bright-eyed Mariner. [40]

The ship driven by a storm toward the south pole.

'And now the Storm-blast came, and he
Was tyrannous and strong:
He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
And chased us south along.

With sloping masts and dipping prow, 45
As who pursued with 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. 50

And now there came both mist and snow,
And it grew wondrous cold:
And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
As green as emerald.

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

And through the drifts the snowy clifts [55]
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: [60]
It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
Like noises in a swound!

Till a great sea-bird, called the Albatross, came through the snow-fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality.

At length did cross an Albatross,
Thorough the fog it came;
As if it had been a Christian soul, [65]
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! 70

And lo! the Albatross proveth a bird of good omen, and followeth the ship as it returned northward through fog and floating ice.

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!

In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud, [75]
It perched for vespers nine;
Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
Glimmered the white Moon-shine.'

The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of good omen.

'God save thee, ancient Mariner!
From the fiends, that plague thee thus!— [80]
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 [85]
Went down into the sea.

And the good south wind still blew behind,
But no sweet bird did follow,
Nor any day for food or play
Came to the mariners' hollo! [90]

His shipmates cry out against the ancient Mariner, for killing the bird of good luck.

And I had done a hellish thing,
And it would work 'em woe:
For all averred, I had killed the bird
That made the breeze to blow.
Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay, [95]
That made the breeze to blow!

But when the fog cleared off, they justify the same, and thus make themselves accomplices in the crime.

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. [100]
'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
That bring the fog and mist.

The fair breeze continues; the ship enters the Pacific Ocean, and sails northward, even till it reaches the Line.

The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
The furrow followed free;
We were the first that ever burst 105
Into that silent sea.

The ship hath been suddenly becalmed.

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! 110

All in a hot and copper sky,
The bloody Sun at noon,
Right up above the mast did stand,
No bigger than the Moon.

Day after day, day after day, [115]
We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
As idle as a painted ship
Upon a painted ocean.

And the Albatross begins to be avenged.

Water, water, every where,
And all the boards did shrink; [120]
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 125
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. 130

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 Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael Psellus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no climate or element without one or more.

And some in dreams assuréd 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, [135]
Was withered at the root;
We could not speak, no more than if
We had been choked with soot.

The shipmates, 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.

Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
Had I from old and young! [140]
Instead of the cross, the Albatross
About my neck was hung.

Part III

The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar off.

There passed a weary time. Each throat
Was parched, and glazed each eye.
A weary time! a weary time! 145
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; [150]
It moved and moved, and took at last
A certain shape, I wist.

A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
And still it neared and neared:
As if it dodged a water-sprite, [155]
It plunged and tacked and veered.

At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship; and at a dear ransom he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst.

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, [160]
And cried, A sail! a sail!

With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
Agape they heard me call:

A flash of joy;

Gramercy! they for joy did grin,
And all at once their breath drew in, [165]
As they were drinking all.

And horror follows. For can it be a ship that comes onward without wind or tide?

See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!
Hither to work us weal;
Without a breeze, without a tide,
She steadies with upright keel! [170]

The western wave was all a-flame.
The day was well nigh done!
Almost upon the western wave
Bested the broad bright Sun;
When that strange shape drove suddenly [175]
Betwixt us and the Sun.

It seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship.

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. [180]

And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting Sun.

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?

The Spectre-Woman and her Death-mate, and no other on board the skeleton ship.

Are those her ribs through which the Sun 185
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?

Like vessel, like crew!

Death and Life-in-Death have diced for the ship's crew, and she (the latter) winneth the ancient Mariner.

Her lips were red, her looks were free, [190]
Her locks were yellow as gold:
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
The Night-mare Life-in-Death was she,
Who thicks man's blood with cold.

The naked hulk alongside came, [195]
And the twain were casting dice;
'The game is done! I've won! I've won!'
Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

No twilight within the[195:1] courts of the Sun.

The Sun's rim dips: the stars rush out:
At one stride comes the dark; [200]
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! [205]
The stars were dim, and thick the night,
The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white;
From the sails the dew did drip—
Till clomb above the eastern bar
The hornéd Moon, with one bright star 210
Within the nether tip.

One after another,

One after one, by the star-dogged Moon,
Too quick for groan or sigh,
Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,
And cursed me with his eye. 215

His shipmates drop down dead.

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

But Life-in-Death begins her work on the ancient Mariner.

The souls did from their bodies fly,— [220]
They fled to bliss or woe!
And every soul, it passed me by,
Like the whizz of my cross-bow!

Part IV

The Wedding-Guest feareth that a Spirit is talking to him;

'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!
I fear thy skinny hand! 225
And thou art long, and lank, and brown,
As is the ribbed sea-sand.[196:1]

But the ancient Mariner assureth him of his bodily life, and proceedeth to relate his horrible penance.

I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
And thy skinny hand, so brown.'—
Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest! [230]
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. [235]

He despiseth 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, [240]
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, [245]
A wicked whisper came, and made
My heart as dry as dust.

I closed my lids, and kept them close,
And the balls like pulses beat;
For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky [250]
Lay like a load on my weary eye,
And the dead were at my feet.

But the curse 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 255
Had never passed away.

An orphan's curse would drag to hell
A spirit from on high;
But oh! more horrible than that
Is the curse in a dead man's eye! [260]
Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,
And yet I could not die.

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 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.

The moving Moon went up the sky,
And no where did abide:
Softly she was going up, [265]
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 charméd water burnt alway 270
A still and awful red.

By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God's creatures of the great calm.

Beyond the shadow of the ship,
I watched the water-snakes:
They moved in tracks of shining white,
And when they reared, the elfish light 275
Fell off in hoary flakes.

Within the shadow of the ship
I watched their rich attire:
Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
They coiled and swam; and every track 280
Was a flash of golden fire.

Their beauty and their happiness.

He blesseth them in his heart.

O happy living things! no tongue
Their beauty might declare:
A spring of love gushed from my heart,
And I blessed them unaware: 285
Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
And I blessed them unaware.

The spell begins to break.

The self-same moment I could pray;
And from my neck so free
The Albatross fell off, and sank [290]
Like lead into the sea.

Part V

Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,
Beloved from pole to pole!
To Mary Queen the praise be given!
She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven, 295
That slid into my soul.

By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient Mariner is refreshed with rain.

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. [300]

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: [305]
I was so light—almost
I thought that I had died in sleep,
And was a blesséd 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; [310]
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! [315]
And to and fro, and in and out,
The wan stars danced between.

And the coming wind did roar more loud,
And the sails did sigh like sedge;
And the rain poured down from one black cloud; 320
The Moon was at its edge.

The thick black cloud was cleft, and still
The Moon was at its side:
Like waters shot from some high crag,
The lightning fell with never a jag, [325]
A river steep and wide.

The bodies of the ship's crew are inspired [inspirited, S. L.] and the ship moves on;

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. [330]

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

The helmsman steered, the ship moved on; 335
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. [340]

The body of my brother's son
Stood by me, knee to knee:
The body and I pulled at one rope,
But he said nought to me.

But not by the souls of the men, nor by dæmons 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!' [345]
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, [350]
And clustered round the mast;
Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,
And from their bodies passed.

Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
Then darted to the Sun; [355]
Slowly the sounds came back again,
Now mixed, now one by one.

Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
I heard the sky-lark sing;
Sometimes all little birds that are, 360
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, 365
That makes the heavens be mute.

It ceased; yet still the sails made on
A pleasant noise till noon,
A noise like of a hidden brook
In the leafy month of June, [370]
That to the sleeping woods all night
Singeth a quiet tune.

Till noon we quietly sailed on,
Yet never a breeze did breathe:
Slowly and smoothly went the ship, 375
Moved onward from beneath.

The lonesome Spirit from the south-pole carries on the ship as far as the Line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still requireth vengeance.

Under the keel nine fathom deep,
From the land of mist and snow,
The spirit slid: and it was he
That made the ship to go. 380
The sails at noon left off their tune,
And the ship stood still also.

The Sun, right up above the mast,
Had fixed her to the ocean:
But in a minute she 'gan stir, 385
With a short uneasy motion—
Backwards and forwards half her length
With a short uneasy motion.

Then like a pawing horse let go,
She made a sudden bound: [390]
It flung the blood into my head,
And I fell down in a swound.

The Polar Spirit's fellow-dæmons, the invisible inhabitants of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to the other, that penance long and heavy for the ancient Mariner hath been accorded to the Polar Spirit, who returneth southward.

How long in that same fit I lay,
I have not to declare;
But ere my living life returned, 395
I heard and in my soul discerned
Two voices in the air.

'Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man?
By him who died on cross,
With his cruel bow he laid full low 400
The harmless Albatross.

The spirit who bideth by himself
In the land of mist and snow,
He loved the bird that loved the man
Who shot him with his bow.' 405

The other was a softer voice,
As soft as honey-dew:
Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done,
And penance more will do.'

Part VI

FIRST VOICE

'But tell me, tell me! speak again, 410
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; 415
His great bright eye most silently
Up to the Moon is cast—

If he may know which way to go;
For she guides him smooth or grim.
See, brother, see! how graciously [420]
She looketh down on him.'

The Mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic power causeth the vessel to drive northward faster than human life could endure.

FIRST VOICE

'But why drives on that ship so fast,
Without or wave or wind?'

SECOND VOICE

'The air is cut away before,
And closes from behind. 425

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 supernatural motion is retarded; the Mariner awakes, and his penance begins anew.

I woke, and we were sailing on 430
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: 435
All fixed on me their stony eyes,
That in the Moon did glitter.

The pang, the curse, with which they died,
Had never passed away:
I could not draw my eyes from theirs, [440]
Nor turn them up to pray.

The curse is finally expiated.

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— [445]

Like one, that on a lonesome road
Doth walk in fear and dread,
And having once turned round walks on,
And turns no more his head;
Because he knows, a frightful fiend [450]
Doth close behind him tread.

But soon there breathed a wind on me,
Nor sound nor motion made:
Its path was not upon the sea,
In ripple or in shade. 455

It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek
Like a meadow-gale of spring—
It mingled strangely with my fears,
Yet it felt like a welcoming.

Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship, [460]
Yet she sailed softly too:
Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze—
On me alone it blew.

And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native country.

Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed
The light-house top I see? 465
Is this the hill? is this the kirk?
Is this mine own countree?

We drifted o'er the harbour-bar,
And I with sobs did pray—
O let me be awake, my God! 470
Or let me sleep alway.

The harbour-bay was clear as glass,
So smoothly it was strewn!
And on the bay the moonlight lay,
And the shadow of the Moon. [475]

The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,
That stands above the rock:
The moonlight steeped in silentness
The steady weathercock.

The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies,

And the bay was white with silent light, 480
Till rising from the same,
Full many shapes, that shadows were,
In crimson colours came.

And appear in their own forms of light.

A little distance from the prow
Those crimson shadows were: [485]
I turned my eyes upon the deck—
Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,
And, by the holy rood!
A man all light, a seraph-man, 490
On every corse there stood.

This seraph-band, each waved his hand:
It was a heavenly sight!
They stood as signals to the land,
Each one a lovely light; [495]

This seraph-band, each waved his hand,
No voice did they impart—
No voice; but oh! the silence sank
Like music on my heart.

But soon I heard the dash of oars, [500]
I heard the Pilot's cheer;
My head was turned perforce away,
And I saw a boat appear.

The Pilot and the Pilot's boy,
I heard them coming fast: 505
Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy
The dead men could not blast.

I saw a third—I heard his voice:
It is the Hermit good!
He singeth loud his godly hymns [510]
That he makes in the wood.
He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away
The Albatross's blood.

Part VII

The Hermit of the Wood,

This Hermit good lives in that wood
Which slopes down to the sea. [515]
How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
He loves to talk with marineres
That come from a far countree.

He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve—
He hath a cushion plump: [520]
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, [525]
That signal made but now?'

Approacheth the ship with wonder.

'Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said—
'And they answered not our cheer!
The planks looked warped! and see those sails,
How thin they are and sere! [530]
I never saw aught like to them,
Unless perchance it were

Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
My forest-brook along;
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 535
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,
That eats the she-wolf's young.'

'Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look—
(The Pilot made reply)
I am a-feared'—'Push on, push on!' [540]
Said the Hermit cheerily.

The boat came closer to the ship,
But I nor spake nor stirred;
The boat came close beneath the ship,
And straight a sound was heard. 545

The ship suddenly sinketh.

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.

The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat.

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, 550
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. 555

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 560
And fell down in a fit;
The holy Hermit raised his eyes,
And prayed where he did sit.

I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,
Who now doth crazy go, 565
Laughed loud and long, and all the while
His eyes went to and fro.
'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I see.
The Devil knows how to row.'

And now, all in my own countree, 570
I stood on the firm land!
The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,
And scarcely he could stand.

The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him.

'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!'
The Hermit crossed his brow. [575]
'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say—
What manner of man art thou?'

Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
With a woful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale; [580]
And then it left me free.

And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony constraineth him to travel from land to land;

Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns:
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns. [585]

I pass, like night, from land to land;
I have strange power of speech;
That moment that his face I see,
I know the man that must hear me:
To him my tale I teach. 590

What loud uproar bursts from that door!
The wedding-guests are there:
But in the garden-bower the bride
And bride-maids singing are:
And hark the little vesper bell, 595
Which biddeth me to prayer!

O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
Alone on a wide wide sea:
So lonely 'twas, that God himself
Scarce seeméd there to be. 600

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, 605
And all together pray,
While each to his great Father bends,
Old men, and babes, and loving friends
And youths and maidens gay!

And to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all things that God made and loveth.

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell [610]
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.

He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small; [615]
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 620
Turned from the bridegroom's door.

He went like one that hath been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn:
A sadder and a wiser man,
He rose the morrow morn. 625

1797-1798.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[186:1] The Ancient Mariner was first published in the Lyrical Ballads, 1798. It was reprinted in the succeeding editions of 1800, 1802, and 1805. It was first published under the Author's name in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, and included in 1828, 1829, and 1834. For the full text of the poem as published in 1798, vide Appendices. The marginal glosses were added in 1815-1816, when a collected edition of Coleridge's poems was being prepared for the press, and were first published in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, but it is possible that they were the work of a much earlier period. The text of the Ancient Mariner as reprinted in Lyrical Ballads, 1802, 1805 follows that of 1800.

[186:2] The text of the original passage is as follows: 'Facilè credo, plures esse naturas invisibiles quam visibiles, in rerum universitate: pluresque Angelorum ordines in cælo, quam sunt pisces in mari: Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit? Et gradus, et cognationes, et discrimina, et singulorum munera? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit ingenium humanum, nunquam attigit . . . Juvat utique non etc.: Archaeologiae Philosophicae sive Doctrina Antiqua De Rerum Originibus. Libri Duo: Londini, mdcxcii, p. 68.'

[186:3] How a Ship, having first sailed to the Equator, was driven by Storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole; how the Ancient Mariner cruelly and in contempt of the laws of hospitality killed a Sea-bird and how he was followed by many and strange Judgements: and in what manner he came back to his own Country, [L. B. 1800.]

[195:1] Om. in Sibylline Leaves, 1817.

[196:1] For the last two lines of this stanza, I am indebted to Mr. Wordsworth. It was on a delightful walk from Nether Stowey to Dulverton, with him and his sister, in the Autumn of 1797, that this Poem was planned, and in part composed. [Note by S. T. C., first printed in Sibylline Leaves.]

LINENOTES:

[Title]] The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere. In Seven Parts L. B. 1798: The Ancient Mariner. A Poet's Reverie L. B. 1800, 1802, 1805.

[Note.—The 'Argument' was omitted in L. B. 1802, 1805, Sibylline Leaves, 1817, and in 1828, 1829, and 1834.]

[Part I]] I L. B. 1798, 1800. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. In Seven Parts. S. L., 1828, 1829.

[[1]]

It is an ancyent Marinere L. B. 1798 [ancient is spelled 'ancyent' and Mariner 'Marinere' through out L. B. 1798].

[[3]]

thy glittering eye L. B. 1798, 1800.

[[4]]

stopp'st thou] stoppest L. B. 1798, 1800.

Between [8] and 13

But still he holds the wedding guest—
There was a Ship, quoth he—
'Nay, if thou'st got a laughsome tale,
Marinere, [Mariner! 1800] come with me.'

He holds him with his skinny hand—
Quoth he, there was a Ship—
Now get thee hence thou greybeard Loon!
Or my Staff shall make thee skip.

L. B. 1798, 1800.

Between [40] and 55

Listen, Stranger! Storm and Wind,
A Wind and Tempest strong!
For days and weeks it play'd us freaks—
Like chaff we drove along.

Listen Stranger! Mist and Snow,
And it grew wondrous cauld;
And Ice mast-high came floating by
As green as Emerauld.

L. B. 1798.

Between [40] and 51

But now the Northwind came more fierce,
There came a Tempest strong!
And Southward still for days and weeks
Like Chaff we drove along.

L. B. 1800.

Lines [41-50] of the text were added in Sibylline Leaves, 1817. [Note. The emendation in the marginal gloss, 'driven' for 'drawn' first appears in 1893.]

[[55]]

clifts] clift S. L. [probably a misprint. It is not corrected in the Errata.]

[[57]]

Nor . . . nor] Ne . . . ne L. B. 1798.

[[62]]

Like noises of a swound L. B. 1798: A wild and ceaseless sound L. B. 1800.

[[65]]

And an it were L. B. 1798: As if MS. Corr. S. T. C.

[[67]]

The Mariners gave it biscuit-worms L. B. 1798, 1800.

[[77]]

fog-smoke white] fog smoke-white L. B. 1798 (corr. in Errata).

[Part II]] II L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part the Second, S. L. 1828, 1829.

[[83]]

The Sun came up L. B. 1798.

[[85]]

And broad as a weft upon the left L. B. 1798.

[[89]]

Nor] Ne L. B. 1798.

[[90]]

mariners'] Marinere's L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L. 1817: Mariner's L. B. 1800.

[[91]]

a] an all editions to 1834.

[[95-6]]

om. L. B. 1798, 1800: were added in Sibylline Leaves.

[[97]]

Nor . . . nor] ne . . . ne L. B. 1798. like an Angel's head L. B. 1800.

[[103]]

The breezes blew L. B. 1798, 1800.

[[104]]

[190:A]The furrow stream'd off free S. L. 1817.

[190:A] In the former editions the line was,

The furrow follow'd free:

But I had not been long on board a ship, before I perceived that this was the image as seen by a spectator from the shore, or from another vessel. From the ship itself, the Wake appears like a brook flowing off from the stern. Note to S. L. 1817.

[[116]]

nor . . . nor] ne . . . ne L. B. 1798.

[[122]]

Nor] Ne L. B. 1798.

[[123]]

deep] deeps L. B. 1798, 1800.

[[139]]

well a-day] wel-a-day L. B. 1798, 1800.

Between [143] and 149

I saw a something in the sky
No bigger than my fist;
At first it seem'd, &c.

L. B. 1798.

Between [143] and 147

So past a weary time, each throat
Was parch'd and glaz'd each eye,
When looking westward, &c.

L. B. 1800.

[Lines 143-8 of the text in their present shape were added in Sibylline Leaves, 1817.]

[Part III]] III L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part the Third, S. L. 1828, 1829.

[[154]]

And still it ner'd and ner'd. L. B. 1798, 1800.

[[155]]

And, an it dodg'd L. B. 1798: And, as if it dodg'd L. B. 1800, S. L. 1817.

[[157-60]]

With throat unslack'd with black lips baked
Ne could we laugh, ne wail,
Then while thro' drouth all dumb they stood
I bit my arm, and suck'd the blood

L. B. 1798.

[[157]]

With throat unslack'd, &c. L. B. 1800, 1802, S. L. 1817.

[[160]]

Till I bit my arm and suck'd the blood L. B. 1800.

[[162]]

With throat unslack'd, &c. L. B. 1798, 1800, 1802, S. L. 1817.

[[167-70]]

She doth not tack from side to side—
Hither to work us weal.
Withouten wind, withouten tide
She steddies with upright keel.

L. B. 1798.

[[170]]

She steddies L. B. 1800, S. L. 1817.

[[177]]

straight] strait L. B. 1798, 1800.

[[182]]

neres and neres L. B. 1798, 1800.

[[183]]

her] her 1834, and also in 185 and 190.

Between [184-90]

Are those her naked ribs, which fleck'd
The sun that did behind them peer?
And are those two all, all the crew,[193:A]
That woman and her fleshless Pheere?

His bones were black with many a crack,
All black and bare I ween;
Jet-black and bare, save where with rust
Of mouldy damps and charnel crust
They're patch'd with purple and green.

L. B. 1798.

Are those her ribs which fleck'd the Sun
Like the bars of a dungeon grate?
And are those two all, all the crew
That woman and her mate?

MS. Correction of S. T. C. in L. B. 1798.

Are those her Ribs, thro' which the Sun
Did peer as thro' a grate?
And are those two all, all her crew,
That Woman, and her Mate?

His bones were black with many a crack

* * * * *

They were patch'd with purple and green.

L. B. 1800.

This Ship it was a plankless thing,
—A bare Anatomy!
A plankless spectre—and it mov'd
Like a Being of the Sea!
The woman and a fleshless man
Therein sate merrily.

His bones were black, &c. (as in 1800).

This stanza was found added in the handwriting of the Poet in the margin of a copy of the Bristol Edition [1798] of Lyrical Ballads. It is here printed for the first time. Note P. and D. W., 1877-80, ii. 36.

[193:A] those] these Errata, L. B. 1798.

[[190-4.]]

Her lips are red, her looks are free,
Her locks are yellow as gold:
Her skin is as white as leprosy,
And she is far liker Death than he;
Her flesh makes the still air cold.

L. B. 1798.

Her lips were red, her looks were free,
Her locks were as yellow as gold:
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
And she was far liker Death than he;
Her flesh made the still air cold.

L. B. 1800.

[[196]]

casting] playing L. B. 1798, 1800.

[[197]]

The game is done, I've, I've won S. L. 1817, 1828, 1839, 1834, 1844. The restoration of the text of 1798 and 1800 dates from 1852.

[[198]]

whistles] whistled L. B. 1798, 1800.

Between [198-218]

A gust of wind sterte up behind And whistled thro' his bones;
Thro the		holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth hole L. B. 1802, 1805
Half-whistles and half-groans.
With never a whisper in the Sea Off darts the Spectre-ship; While clombe above the Eastern bar The horned Moon with one bright Star Almost atween the tips. [Almost between the tips. L. B. 1800.]
One after one by the horned Moon (Listen, O Stranger! to me) Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang And curs'd me with his ee.
Four times fifty living men, With never a sigh or groan,

L. B. 1798, 1800.

Between [198-9] A gust of wind . . . half groans. S. L. (Page 15 erase the second stanza. Errata, S. L., p. [xi].)

Between [201-12]

With never a whisper on the main Off shot the spectre ship; And stifled words and groans of pain
Mix'd on each	murmuring trembling		lip.
And we look'd round, and we look'd up, And fear at our hearts, as at a cup, The Life-blood seem'd to sip—
The sky was dull, and dark the night, The helmsman's face by his lamp gleam'd bright, From the sails the dews did drip— Till clomb above the Eastern Bar, The horned Moon, with one bright star Within its nether tip.

Undated MS. correction of S. T. C. (first published 1893).

[[208]]

dew] dews S. L. 1817.

[[209]]

clomb] clombe S. L. 1817, 1828.

[Part IV]] IV. L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part the Fourth S. L. 1828, 1829.

[[220]]

The] Their L. B. 1798, 1800.

[[224]]

ancyent Marinere L. B. 1798.

[[233-4]]

Alone on the wide wide sea;
And Christ would take no pity on

L. B. 1798, 1800.

[[238]]

And a million, million slimy things L. B. 1798, 1800.

[[242]]

rotting] eldritch L. B. 1798: ghastly L. B. 1800.

[[249]]

And] Till L. B. 1798, 1800.

[[251]]

load] cloud S. L. (for cloud read load. Errata, S. L., p. [xi]).

[[254]]

Ne rot, ne reek L. B. 1798.

[[260]]

the curse] a curse 1828, 1829.

[[268]]

Like morning frosts yspread L. B. 1798.

[Part V]] V. L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part the Fifth S. L. 1828, 1829.

[[294]]

To Mary-queen L. B. 1798, 1800. given] yeven L. B. 1798.

[[300]]

awoke] woke (a pencilled correction in 1828, ? by S. T. C.).

[[309]]

The roaring wind! it roar'd far off L. B. 1798.

[[313]]

burst] bursts L. B. 1798.

[[315]]

were] are L. B. 1798.

[[317]]

The stars dance on between. L. B. 1798.

[[317-24]]

The coming wind doth roar more loud;
The sails do sigh, like sedge:
The rain pours down from one black cloud
And the Moon is at its edge.

Hark! hark! the thick black cloud is cleft,
And the Moon is at its side

L. B. 1798.

[[325]]

fell] falls L. B. 1798.

[[327-8]]

The strong wind reach'd the ship: it roar'd
And dropp'd down like a stone!

L. B. 1798.

[[332]]

nor . . . nor] ne . . . ne L. B. 1798.

Between [344-5]

And I quak'd to think of my own voice
How frightful it would be!

L. B. 1798.

[[345-9]]

om. in L. B. 1798, added in L. B. 1800.

[[350]]

The daylight dawn'd L. B. 1798.

[[359]]

sky-lark] Lavrock L. B. 1798.

Between [372-3]

Listen, O listen, thou Wedding-guest!
'Marinere! thou hast thy will:
For that, which comes out of thine eye, doth make
My body and soul to be still.'

Never sadder tale was told
To a man of woman born:
Sadder and wiser thou wedding-guest!
Thoul't rise to-morrow morn.

Never sadder tale was heard
By a man of woman born:
The Marineres all return'd to work
As silent as beforne.

The Marineres all 'gan pull the ropes,
But look at me they n'old;
Thought I, I am as thin as air—
They cannot me behold.

L. B. 1798.

[[373]]

quietly] silently L. B. 1798, 1800.

[[392]]

down in] into L. B. 1798, 1800.

[Part VI]] VI. L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Part the Sixth S. L. 1828, 1829.

[[423]]

Withouten wave L. B. 1798.

[[440-1]]

een from theirs; Ne turn L. B. 1798.

[[442-6]]

And in its time the spell was snapt,
And I could move my een:
I look'd far-forth, but little saw
Of what might else be seen.

L. B. 1798.

[[446]]

lonesome] lonely L. B. 1798.

[[453]]

Nor . . . nor] Ne . . . ne L. B. 1798.

[[464]]

O dream L. B. 1798, 1800.

Between [475-80]

The moonlight bay was white all o'er,
Till rising from the same,
Full many shapes, that shadows were,
Like as of torches came.

A little distance from the prow
Those dark-red shadows were;
But soon I saw that my own flesh
Was red as in a glare.

I turn'd my head in fear and dread,
And by the holy rood,
The bodies had advanc'd, and now
Before the mast they stood.

They lifted up their stiff right arms,
They held them strait and tight;
And each right-arm burnt like a torch,
A torch that's borne upright.
Their stony eye-balls glitter'd on
In the red and smoky light.

I pray'd and turn'd my head away
Forth looking as before.
There was no breeze upon the bay,
No wave against the shore.

L. B. 1798.

[[487]]

Oh, Christ!] O Christ L. B. 1798, 1800.

[[498]]

oh!] O L. B. 1798, 1800.

[[500]]

But soon] Eftsones L. B. 1798.

Between [503-4]

Then vanish'd all the lovely lights;[205:A]
The bodies rose anew:
With silent pace, each to his place,
Came back the ghastly crew,
The wind, that shade nor motion made,
On me alone it blew.

L. B. 1798.

[205:A]

Then vanish'd all the lovely lights,
The spirits of the air,
No souls of mortal men were they,
But spirits bright and fair.

MS. Correction by S. T. C. in a copy of L. B. 1798.

[[511]]

makes] maketh (a pencilled correction in 1828, ? by S. T. C.).

[Part VII]] VII. L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part the Seventh S. L. 1829: The Ancient Mariner. Part the Seventh 1828.

[[517]]

marineres] mariners L. B. 1800.

[[518]]

That come from a far Contrée. L. B. 1798.

[[523]]

neared] ner'd L. B. 1798, 1800.

[[529]]

looked] look L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L.

[[533]]

Brown] The L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L. [for The read Brown. Errata, S. L. 1817, p. (xi)].

[[543]]

nor . . . nor] ne . . . ne L. B. 1798.

[[577]]

What manner man L. B. 1798, 1800.

[[582-5]]

Since then at an uncertain hour,
Now ofttimes and now fewer,
That anguish comes and makes me tell
My ghastly aventure.

L. B. 1798.

[[583]]

agony] agency [a misprint] L. B. 1800.

[[588]]

That] The L. B. 1798, 1800.

[[610]]

Farewell, farewell] The comma to be omitted. Errata, L. B. 1798.

[[618]]

The Marinere L. B. 1798.

---

SONNETS ATTEMPTED IN THE MANNER OF
CONTEMPORARY WRITERS[209:1]

[SIGNED 'NEHEMIAH HIGGINBOTTOM']

I

Pensive at eve on the hard world I mus'd,
And my poor heart was sad: so at the Moon
I gaz'd—and sigh'd, and sigh'd!—for, ah! how soon
Eve darkens into night. Mine eye perus'd
With tearful vacancy the dampy grass [5]
Which wept and glitter'd in the paly ray;
And I did pause me on my lonely way,
And mused me on those wretched ones who pass
O'er the black heath of Sorrow. But, alas!
Most of Myself I thought: when it befell [10]
That the sooth Spirit of the breezy wood
Breath'd in mine ear—'All this is very well;
But much of one thing is for no thing good.'
Ah! my poor heart's inexplicable swell!

II

TO SIMPLICITY

O! I do love thee, meek Simplicity!
For of thy lays the lulling simpleness
Goes to my heart and soothes each small distress,
Distress though small, yet haply great to me!
'Tis true on Lady Fortune's gentlest pad [5]
I amble on; yet, though I know not why,
So sad I am!—but should a friend and I
Grow cool and miff, O! I am very sad!
And then with sonnets and with sympathy
My dreamy bosom's mystic woes I pall; [10]
Now of my false friend plaining plaintively,
Now raving at mankind in general;
But, whether sad or fierce, 'tis simple all,
All very simple, meek Simplicity!

III

ON A RUINED HOUSE IN A ROMANTIC COUNTRY

And this reft house is that the which he built,
Lamented Jack! And here his malt he pil'd,
Cautious in vain! These rats that squeak so wild,
Squeak, not unconscious of their father's guilt.
Did ye not see her gleaming thro' the glade? 5
Belike, 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn.
What though she milk no cow with crumpled horn,
Yet aye she haunts the dale where erst she stray'd;
And aye beside her stalks her amorous knight!
Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn, [10]
And thro' those brogues, still tatter'd and betorn,
His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white;
As when thro' broken clouds at night's high noon
Peeps in fair fragments forth the full-orb'd harvest-moon!

1797.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[209:1] First published in the Monthly Magazine for November, 1797. They were reprinted in the Poetical Register for 1803 (1805); by Coleridge in the Biographia Literaria, 1817, i. 26-8[209:A]; and by Cottle in Early Recollections, i. 290-2; and in Reminiscences, p. 160. They were first collected in P. and D. W., 1877-80, i. 211-13.

[209:A] 'Under the name of Nehemiah Higginbottom I contributed three sonnets, the first of which had for its object to excite a good-natured laugh at the spirit of doleful egotism and at the recurrence of favourite phrases, with the double defect of being at once trite and licentious. The second was on low creeping language and thoughts under the pretence of simplicity. The third, the phrases of which were borrowed entirely from my own poems, on the indiscriminate use of elaborate and swelling language and imagery. . . . So general at the time and so decided was the opinion concerning the characteristic vices of my style that a celebrated physician (now alas! no more) speaking of me in other respects with his usual kindness to a gentleman who was about to meet me at a dinner-party could not, however, resist giving him a hint not to mention The House that Jack Built in my presence, for that I was as sore as a boil about that sonnet, he not knowing that I was myself the author of it.'

Coleridge's first account of these sonnets in a letter to Cottle [November, 1797] is much to the same effect:—'I sent to the Monthly Magazine (1797) three mock Sonnets in ridicule of my own Poems, and Charles Lloyd's and Lamb's, etc., etc., exposing that affectation of unaffectedness, of jumping and misplaced accent in common-place epithets, flat lines forced into poetry by italics (signifying how well and mouthishly the author would read them), puny pathos, etc., etc. The instances were almost all taken from myself and Lloyd and Lamb. I signed them "Nehemiah Higginbottom". I think they may do good to our young Bards.' [E. R., i. 289; Rem. 160.]

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Sonnet I M. M.

[[4]]

darkens] saddens B. L., i. 27.

[[6]]

Which] That B. L., i. 27.

[[8]]

those] the B. L., i. 27. who] that B. L., i. 27.

[[9]]

black] bleak B. L., i. 27.

[[14]]

Ah!] Oh! B. L., i. 27.

[Sonnet II.] To Simplicity M. M.: no title in B. L.

[[6]]

yet, though] and yet B. L., i. 27.

[[8]]

Frown, pout and part then I am very sad B. L., i. 27.

[[12]]

in gener-al Cottle, E. R., i. 288.

[III]] Sonnet iii. To, &c. M. M.

[[10]]

their] his Cottle, E. R., i. 292.

[[13]]

As when] Ah! thus B. L., i. 27.

---

PARLIAMENTARY OSCILLATORS[211:1]

Almost awake? Why, what is this, and whence,
O ye right loyal men, all undefiléd?
Sure, 'tis not possible that Common-Sense
Has hitch'd her pullies to each heavy eye-lid?

Yet wherefore else that start, which discomposes [5]
The drowsy waters lingering in your eye?
And are you really able to descry
That precipice three yards beyond your noses?

Yet flatter you I cannot, that your wit
Is much improved by this long loyal dozing; [10]
And I admire, no more than Mr. Pitt,
Your jumps and starts of patriotic prosing—

Now cluttering to the Treasury Cluck, like chicken,
Now with small beaks the ravenous Bill opposing;[212:1]
With serpent-tongue now stinging, and now licking, 15
Now semi-sibilant, now smoothly glozing—

Now having faith implicit that he can't err,
Hoping his hopes, alarm'd with his alarms;
And now believing him a sly inchanter,
Yet still afraid to break his brittle charms, [20]

Lest some mad Devil suddenly unhamp'ring,
Slap-dash! the imp should fly off with the steeple,
On revolutionary broom-stick scampering.—
O ye soft-headed and soft-hearted people,

If you can stay so long from slumber free, [25]
My muse shall make an effort to salute 'e:
For lo! a very dainty simile
Flash'd sudden through my brain, and 'twill just suit 'e!

You know that water-fowl that cries, Quack! Quack!?
Full often have I seen a waggish crew [30]
Fasten the Bird of Wisdom on its back,
The ivy-haunting bird, that cries, Tu-whoo!

Both plung'd together in the deep mill-stream,
(Mill-stream, or farm-yard pond, or mountain-lake,)
Shrill, as a Church and Constitution scream, 35
Tu-whoo! quoth Broad-face, and down dives the Drake!

The green-neck'd Drake once more pops up to view,
Stares round, cries Quack! and makes an angry pother;
Then shriller screams the Bird with eye-lids blue,
The broad-faced Bird! and deeper dives the other. 40
Ye quacking Statesmen! 'tis even so with you—
One Peasecod is not liker to another.

Even so on Loyalty's Decoy-pond, each
Pops up his head, as fir'd with British blood,
Hears once again the Ministerial screech, 45
And once more seeks the bottom's blackest mud!

1798.

(Signed: Laberius.)

---

FOOTNOTES:

[211:1] First published in the Cambridge Intelligencer, January 6, 1798: included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817: Essays on His own Times, 1850, iii. 969-70. First collected in P. and D. W., 1877-80. In Sibylline Leaves the poem is incorrectly dated 1794.

[212:1] Pitt's 'treble assessment at seven millions' which formed part of the budget for 1798. The grant was carried in the House of Commons, Jan. 4, 1798.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] To Sir John Sinclair, S. Thornton, Alderman Lushington, and the whole Troop of Parliamentary Oscillators C. I.

[[2]]

right] tight C. I.

[[3]]

It's hardly possible C. I.

[[9]]

But yet I cannot flatter you, your wit C. I.

[[14]]

the] his C. I.

[[24]]

O ye soft-hearted and soft-headed, &c. C. I.

[[26, 28]]

'e] ye C. I.

[[29]]

that cries] which cries C. I.

[[30]]

Full often] Ditch-full oft C. I.

[[31]]

Fasten] Fallen C. I.

---

CHRISTABEL[213:1]

PREFACE

The first part of the following poem was written in the
year 1797, at Stowey, in the county of Somerset. The
second part, after my return from Germany, in the year
1800, at Keswick, Cumberland. It is probable that if the
poem had been finished at either of the former periods, or 5
if even the first and second part had been published in the
year 1800, the impression of its originality would have been
much greater than I dare at present expect. But for this
I have only my own indolence to blame. The dates are
mentioned for the exclusive purpose of precluding charges of 10
plagiarism or servile imitation from myself. For there is
amongst us a set of critics, who seem to hold, that every
possible thought and image is traditional; who have no
notion that there are such things as fountains in the world,
small as well as great; and who would therefore charitably 15
derive every rill they behold flowing, from a perforation
made in some other man's tank. I am confident, however,
that as far as the present poem is concerned, the celebrated
poets[215:1] whose writings I might be suspected of having
imitated, either in particular passages, or in the tone and [20]
the spirit of the whole, would be among the first to vindicate
me from the charge, and who, on any striking coincidence,
would permit me to address them in this doggerel version
of two monkish Latin hexameters.[215:2]

'Tis mine and it is likewise yours; 25
But an if this will not do;
Let it be mine, good friend! for I
Am the poorer of the two.

I have only to add that the metre of Christabel is not,
properly speaking, irregular, though it may seem so from its 30
being founded on a new principle: namely, that of counting
in each line the accents, not the syllables. Though the latter
may vary from seven to twelve, yet in each line the accents
will be found to be only four. Nevertheless, this occasional
variation in number of syllables is not introduced wantonly, 35
or for the mere ends of convenience, but in correspondence
with some transition in the nature of the imagery or passion.

Part I

'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;
Tu—whit!—--Tu—whoo!
And hark, again! the crowing cock,
How drowsily it crew. [5]
Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
Hath a toothless mastiff bitch;
From her kennel beneath the rock
She maketh answer to the clock,
Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; [10]
Ever and aye, by shine and shower,
Sixteen short howls, not over loud;
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.

Is the night chilly and dark?
The night is chilly, but not dark. 15
The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
It covers but not hides the sky.
The moon is behind, and at the full;
And yet she looks both small and dull.
The night is chill, the cloud is gray: 20
'Tis a month before the month of May,
And the Spring comes slowly up this way.

The lovely lady, Christabel,
Whom her father loves so well,
What makes her in the wood so late, [25]
A furlong from the castle gate?
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betrothéd knight;
And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that's far away. [30]

She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak
But moss and rarest misletoe:
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, [35]
And in silence prayeth she.

The lady sprang up suddenly,
The lovely lady, Christabel!
It moaned as near, as near can be,
But what it is she cannot tell.— 40
On the other side it seems to be,
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.

The night is chill; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air [45]
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady's cheek—
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can, [50]
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.

Hush, beating heart of Christabel!
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
She folded her arms beneath her cloak, [55]
And stole to the other side of the oak.
What sees she there?

There she sees a damsel bright,
Drest in a silken robe of white,
That shadowy in the moonlight shone: [60]
The neck that made that white robe wan,
Her stately neck, and arms were bare;
Her blue-veined feet unsandal'd were,
And wildly glittered here and there
The gems entangled in her hair. [65]
I guess, 'twas frightful there to see
A lady so richly clad as she—
Beautiful exceedingly!

Mary mother, save me now!
(Said Christabel,) And who art thou? [70]

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! [75]
Said Christabel, How camest 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: [80]
Five warriors seized me yestermorn,
Me, even me, a maid forlorn:
They choked my cries with force and fright,
And tied me on a palfrey white.
The palfrey was as fleet as wind, [85]
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; [90]
Nor do I know how long it is
(For I have lain entranced I wis)
Since one, the tallest of the five,
Took me from the palfrey's back,
A weary woman, scarce alive. [95]
Some muttered words his comrades spoke:
Ha 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, 100
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: [105]
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 [110]
Home to your noble father's hall.

She rose: and forth with steps they passed
That strove to be, and were not, fast.
Her gracious stars the lady blest,
And thus spake on sweet Christabel: 115
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, 120
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, 125
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 130
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, [135]
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! 140
Alas, alas! said Geraldine,
I cannot speak for weariness.
So free from danger, free from fear,
They crossed the court: right glad they were.

Outside her kennel, the mastiff old [145]
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 150
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 as you will! 155
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, [160]
And nothing else saw she thereby,
Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,
Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall.
O softly tread, said Christabel,
My father seldom sleepeth well. [165]

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, [170]
As still as death, with stifled breath!
And now have reached her chamber door;
And now doth Geraldine press down
The rushes of the chamber floor.

The moon shines dim in the open air, 175
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, 180
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. 185
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.

O weary lady, Geraldine, [190]
I pray you, drink this cordial wine!
It is a wine of virtuous powers;
My mother made it of wild flowers.

And will your mother pity me,
Who am a maiden most forlorn? 195
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 200
Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.
O mother dear! that thou wert here!
I would, said Geraldine, she were!

But soon with altered voice, said she—
'Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine! [205]
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, [210]
'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— [215]
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: 220
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 countrée. [225]

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, 230
Even I in my degree will try,
Fair maiden, to requite you well.
But now unrobe yourself; for I
Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.'

Quoth Christabel, So let it be! 235
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, 240
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, 245
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, [250]
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; [255]
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, 260
Collects herself in scorn and pride,
And lay down by the Maiden's side!—
And in her arms the maid she took,
Ah wel-a-day!
And with low voice and doleful look [265]
These words did say:
'In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow,
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow; [270]
But vainly thou warrest,
For this is alone in
Thy power to declare,
That in the dim forest
Thou heard'st a low moaning, [275]
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 I

It was a lovely sight to see
The lady Christabel, when she 280
Was praying at the old oak tree.
Amid the jaggéd shadows
Of mossy leafless boughs,
Kneeling in the moonlight,
To make her gentle vows; 285
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, [290]
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— [295]
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, 300
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— [305]
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! 310

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— 315
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, [320]
Beauteous in a wilderness,
Who, praying always, prays in sleep.
And, if she move unquietly,
Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free
Comes back and tingles in her feet. 325
No doubt, she hath a vision sweet.
What if her guardian spirit 'twere,
What if she knew her mother near?
But this she knows, in joys and woes,
That saints will aid if men will call: 330
For the blue sky bends over all!

1797.

Part II

Each matin bell, the Baron saith,
Knells us back to a world of death.
These words Sir Leoline first said,
When he rose and found his lady dead: 335
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, [340]
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! 345
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, [350]
And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent,
With ropes of rock and bells of air
Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent,
Who all give back, one after t'other,
The death-note to their living brother; [355]
And oft too, by the knell offended,
Just as their one! two! three! is ended,
The devil mocks the doleful tale
With a merry peal from Borodale.

The air is still! through mist and cloud [360]
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, 365
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 370
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 375
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. 380
'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 385
As dreams too lively leave behind.

So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed
Her maiden limbs, and having prayed
That He, who on the cross did groan,
Might wash away her sins unknown, 390
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, 395
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, 400
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, 405
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; [410]
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. [415]
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— [420]
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, 425
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. 430

O 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, 435
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 [440]
My tourney court—that there and then
I may dislodge their reptile souls
From the bodies and forms of men!'
He spake: his eye in lightning rolls!
For the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he kenned 445
In the beautiful lady the child of his friend!

And now the tears were on his face,
And fondly in his arms he took
Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace,
Prolonging it with joyous look. [450]
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, 455
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, [460]
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 465
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 belovéd child?' 470
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, 475
Had deemed her sure a thing divine:
Such sorrow with such grace she blended,
As if she feared she had offended
Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid!
And with such lowly tones she prayed 480
She might be sent without delay
Home to her father's mansion.
'Nay!
Nay, by my soul!' said Leoline.
'Ho! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine!
Go thou, with music sweet and loud, 485
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, [490]
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, 495
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! [500]
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 [505]
With all thy numerous array
And take thy lovely daughter home:
And he will meet thee on the way
With all his numerous array
White with their panting palfreys' foam: 510
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, [515]
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; 520
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, 525
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,
Warned by a vision in my rest! 530
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, 535
Among the green herbs in the forest alone.
Which when I saw and when I 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. 540

'And in my dream methought I went
To search out what might there be found;
And what the sweet bird's trouble meant,
That thus lay fluttering on the ground.
I went and peered, and could descry 545
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. 550
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, [555]
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 [560]
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; 565
Then turned to Lady Geraldine,
His eyes made up of wonder and love;
And said in courtly accents fine,
'Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove,
With arms more strong than harp or song, 570
Thy sire and I will crush the snake!'
He kissed her forehead as he spake,
And Geraldine in maiden wise
Casting down her large bright eyes,
With blushing cheek and courtesy fine 575
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, [580]
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, 585
And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread,
At Christabel she looked askance!—
One moment—and the sight was fled!
But Christabel in dizzy trance
Stumbling on the unsteady ground [590]
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 [595]
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, 600
So deeply had she drunken in
That look, those shrunken serpent eyes,
That all her features were resigned
To this sole image in her mind:
And passively did imitate 605
That look of dull and treacherous hate!
And thus she stood, in dizzy trance,
Still picturing that look askance
With forced unconscious sympathy
Full before her father's view—— [610]
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, [615]
'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. [620]

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! 625
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, 630
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? [635]

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, 640
His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild,
Dishonoured thus in his old age;
Dishonoured by his only child,
And all his hospitality
To the wronged daughter of his friend [645]
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— 650
'Why, Bracy! dost thou loiter here?
I bade thee hence!' The bard obeyed;
And turning from his own sweet maid,
The agéd knight, Sir Leoline,
Led forth the lady Geraldine! [655]

1800.

The Conclusion to Part II

A little child, a limber elf,
Singing, dancing to itself,
A fairy thing with red round cheeks,
That always finds, and never seeks,
Makes such a vision to the sight [660]
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. [665]
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 670
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 675
Comes seldom save from rage and pain,
So talks as it's most used to do.

1801.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[213:1] First published, together with Kubla Khan and The Pains of Sleep, 1816: included in 1828, 1829, and 1834. Three MSS. of Christabel have passed through my hands. The earliest, which belonged to Wordsworth, is partly in Coleridge's handwriting and partly in that of Mary Hutchinson (Mrs. Wordsworth). The probable date of this MS., now in the possession of the poet's grandson, Mr. Gordon Wordsworth, is April-October, 1800. Later in the same year, or perhaps in 1801, Coleridge made a copy of the First Part (or Book), the Conclusion to the First Book, and the Second Book, and presented it to Mrs. Wordsworth's sister, Sarah Hutchinson. A facsimile of the MS., now in the possession of Miss Edith Coleridge, was issued in collotype in the edition of Christabel published in 1907, under the auspices of the Royal Society of Literature. In 1801, or at some subsequent period (possibly not till 1815), Miss Hutchinson transcribed Coleridge's MS. The water-mark of the paper is 1801. Her transcript, now in the possession of Mr. A. H. Hallam Murray, was sent to Lord Byron in October, 1815. It is possible that this transcription was the 'copy' for the First Edition published in 1816; but, if so, Coleridge altered the text whilst the poem was passing through the press.

The existence of two other MSS. rests on the authority of John Payne Collier (see Seven Lectures on Shakespeare and Milton. By S. T. Coleridge, 1856, pp. xxxix-xliii).

The first, which remained in his possession for many years, was a copy in the handwriting of Sarah Stoddart (afterwards Mrs. Hazlitt). J. P. Collier notes certain differences between this MS., which he calls the 'Salisbury Copy', and the text of the First Edition. He goes on to say that before Christabel was published Coleridge lent him an MS. in his own handwriting, and he gives two or three readings from the second MS. which differ from the text of the 'Salisbury Copy' and from the texts of those MSS. which have been placed in my hands.

The copy of the First Edition of Christabel presented to William Stewart Rose's valet, David Hinves, on November 11, 1816, which Coleridge had already corrected, is now in the possession of Mr. John Murray. The emendations and additions inscribed on the margin of this volume were included in the collected edition of Coleridge's Poetical Works, published by William Pickering in 1828. The editions of 1829 and 1834 closely followed the edition of 1828, but in 1834 there was in one particular instance (Part I, lines 6-10) a reversion to the text of the First Edition. The MS. of the 'Conclusion of Part II' forms part of a letter to Southey dated May 6, 1801. (Letters of S. T. C., 1895, i. 355.) The following abbreviations have been employed to note the MSS. and transcriptions of Christabel:—

1. The Wordsworth MS., partly in Coleridge's (lines 1-295), and partly in Mary Hutchinson's (lines 295-655) handwriting = MS. W.

2. The Salisbury MS., copied by Sarah Stoddart = S. T. C. (a).

3. The MS. lent by Coleridge to Payne Collier = S. T. C. (b).

4. Autograph MS. in possession of Miss Edith Coleridge (reproduced in facsimile in 1907) = S. T. C. (c).

5. Transcription made by Sarah Hutchinson = S. H.

6. Corrections made by Coleridge in the Copy of the First Edition presented to David Hinves = H. 1816.

[215:1] Sir Walter Scott and Lord Byron.

[215:2] The 'Latin hexameters', 'in the lame and limping metre of a barbarous Latin poet', ran thus:

'Est meum et est tuum, amice! at si amborum nequit esse,
Sit meum, amice, precor: quia certe sum magi' pauper.'

It is interesting to note that Coleridge translated these lines in November, 1801, long before the 'celebrated poets' in question had made, or seemed to make, it desirable to 'preclude a charge of plagiarism'.

LINENOTES:

[Preface]] Prefixed to the three issues of 1816, and to 1828, 1829, 1834.

[[2]]

The year one thousand seven hundred and ninety seven 1816, 1828, 1829.

[[3, 4]]

The year one thousand eight hundred 1816, 1828, 1829.

[[4]]

after 'Cumberland'] Since the latter date, 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 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 is probable, &c. 1816, 1828, 1829: om. 1834.

[[23]]

doggrel 1816, 1828, 1829.

[Part I]] Book the First MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.: Part the First 1828, 1829.

[[3]]

Tu-u-whoo! Tu-u-whoo! MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[6-7]]

Sir Leoline the Baron bold
Hath a toothless mastiff old

H. 1816.

Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
Hath a toothless mastiff which

H. 1816, 1828, 1829, 1893.

[[9]]

She makes MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition: Maketh H. 1816, 1828, 1829.

[[11]]

moonshine or shower MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition: by shine or shower H. 1816.

Between [28-9]

Dreams, that made her moan and leap,
As on her bed she lay in sleep.

First Edition: Erased H. 1816: Not in any MS.

[[32]]

The breezes they were whispering low S. T. C. (a): The breezes they were still also MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.

[[34]]

But the moss and misletoe MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[35]]

kneels] knelt MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[37]]

sprang] leaps MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.

[[39]]

can] could H. 1816.

[[45-7]]

om. MS. W.

[[52]]

up] out MS. W., S. H.

[[54]]

Jesu Maria MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[58-66]]

A damsel bright
Clad in a silken robe of white,
Her neck, her feet, her arms were bare,
And the jewels were tumbled in her hair.
I guess, &c.

MS. W.

[[60]]

om. MS. S. T. C.

[[61-6]]

Her neck, her feet, her arms were bare,
And the jewels were tumbled in her hair.
I guess, &c.

S. T. C. (a), S. T. C. (c), S. H.

Her neck, her feet, her arms were bare,
And the jewels disorder'd in her hair.
I guess, &c.

First Edition.

[[65]]

And the jewels were tangled in her hair.

S. T. C. (b).

[In the Hinves copy (Nov., 1816), ll. 60-5 are inserted in the margin and the two lines 'Her neck . . . her hair' are erased. This addition was included in 1828, 1829, 1834, &c.]

[[74]]

scarce can] cannot H. 1816.

[[76]]

Said Christabel] Alas! but say H. 1816.

[[81-3]]

Five ruffians seized me yestermorn,
Me, even me, a maid forlorn;
They chok'd my cries with wicked might.

MS. W., S. T. C. (a); MS. S. T. C. (c); S. H.

Five warriors, &c. as in the text

S. T. C. (b)

[Lines [82], 83, 84-1/2 are erased in H. 1816. Lines 81-4, 89, 90, which Scott prefixed as a motto to Chapter XI of The Black Dwarf (1818), run thus:—

Three ruffians seized me yestermorn,
Alas! a maiden most forlorn;
They choked my cries with wicked might,
And bound me on a palfrey white:
As sure as Heaven shall pity me,
I cannot tell what men they be.

Christabel.

The motto to Chapter XXIV of The Betrothed (1825) is slightly different:—

Four Ruffians . . . palfrey white.]

[[88]]

once] twice MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[92]]

For I have lain in fits, I wis MS. W., S. T. C. (a), S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition. [Text, which follows S. T. C. (b), H. 1816, was first adopted in 1828.]

[[96]]

comrades] comrade MS. W.

[[98]]

He] They MS. W.

[[106-11]]

Saying that she should command
The service of Sir Leoline;
And straight be convoy'd, free from thrall,
Back to her noble father's hall.

MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.

[Text, which follows H. 1816, was first adopted in 1828.]

[[112-22]]

So up she rose and forth they pass'd
With hurrying steps yet nothing fast.
Her lucky stars the lady blest,
And Christabel she sweetly said—
All our household are at rest,
Each one sleeping in his bed;
Sir Leoline is weak in health,
And may not awakened be,
So to my room we'll creep in stealth,
And you to-night must sleep with me.

MS. W., S. T. C. (a), S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[So, too, First Edition, with the sole variant, 'And may not well awakened be'.]

[[114-17]]

Her smiling stars the lady blest,
And thus bespake sweet Christabel:
All our household is at rest,
The hall as silent as a cell.

S. T. C. (b).

[In H. 1816 ll. 112-22 of the text are inserted in Coleridge's handwriting. Line 113 reads: 'yet were not fast'. Line 122 reads: 'share your bed with me'. In 1828, ll. 117-22 were added to the text, and 'Her gracious stars' (l. 114) was substituted for 'Her lucky stars'.]

[[137]]

And Christabel she sweetly cried MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[139]]

Praise we] O praise MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[145]]

Outside] Beside MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[146]]

Lay fast] Was stretch'd H. 1816. [Not in S. T. C.'s handwriting.]

[[160]]

om. S. T. C. (a).

[[161]]

And nothing else she saw thereby MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[163]]

niche] nitch all MSS. and First Edition.

[[166-9]]

Sweet Christabel her feet she bares,
And they are creeping up the stairs,
Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,

MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.

[[167]]

Added in 1828.

[[171]]

With stifled breath, as still as death H. 1816. [Not in S. T. C.'s handwriting.]

[[173-4]]

And now they with their feet press down
The rushes of her chamber floor.

MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

And now with eager feet press down
The rushes of her chamber floor.

First Edition, H. 1816. [Not in S. T. C.'s handwriting.]

[[191]]

cordial] spicy MS. W., S. T. C. (a), S. T. C. (c), S. H.

Between [193-4]

Nay, drink it up, I pray you do,
Believe me it will comfort you.

MS. W., S. T. C. (a), S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[The omission was made in the First Edition.]

[[205-10], [212]]

om. MS. W.

[[219]]

And faintly said I'm better now MS. W., S. T. C. (a): I am better now S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[225]]

far] fair MS. W.

Between [252-3] Are lean and old and foul of hue. MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[254]]

And she is to sleep with Christabel. MS. W.: And she is to sleep by Christabel. S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition: And must she sleep by Christabel. H. 1816 [not in S. T. C.'s handwriting]: And she is alone with Christabel. H. 1816 erased [not in S. T. C.'s handwriting]: And must she sleep with Christabel. H. 1816 erased [not in S. T. C.'s handwriting].

[[255-61]]

om. MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition: included in H. 1816. [Not in S. T. C.'s handwriting.] First published in 1828.

Between [254] and 263

She took two paces and a stride,
And lay down by the maiden's side,

MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.

She gaz'd upon the maid, she sigh'd
She took two paces and a stride,
Then
And lay down by the Maiden's side.

H. 1816 erased.

[[265]]

low] sad MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[267]]

this] my MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[270]]

The mark of my shame, the seal of my sorrow. MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[277]]

And didst bring her home with thee, with love and with charity. MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[278]]

To shield her, and shelter her, and shelter far from the damp air. MS. W.

The [Conclusion] to Part I] The Conclusion of Book the First MS. W.: The Conclusion to Book the First S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[294]]

Here in MS. W. the handwriting changes. 'Dreaming' was written by S. T. C., 'yet' by Mary Hutchinson.

[[295]]

is] is H. 1816.

[[297]]

who] that MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., H. 1816.

[[306]]

Tairn or Tarn (derived by Lye from the Icelandic Tiorn, stagnum, palus) is rendered in our dictionaries as synonymous with Mere or Lake; but it is properly a large Pool or Reservoir in the Mountains, commonly the Feeder of some Mere in the valleys. Tarn Watling and Blellum Tarn, though on lower ground than other Tarns, are yet not exceptions, for both are on elevations, and Blellum Tarn feeds the Wynander Mere. Note to S. T. C. (c).

[[324]]

A query is attached to this line H. 1816.

[Part II]] Book the Second MS. W.: Christabel Book the Second S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[344]]

Wyndermere] Wyn'dermere MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.

[[353]]

sinful] simple MS. W.

[[354]]

A query is attached to this line H. 1816.

[[356]]

the] their MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[359]]

Borodale] Borrowdale MS. W., S. H., First Edition, 1828, 1829: Borrodale S. T. C. (c).

[[360]]

The air is still through many a cloud MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[363]]

the] her MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[364]]

silken] simple MS. W.

[[414]]

thus] so MS. Letter to Poole, Feb. 1813.

[[418]]

They] And MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[419]]

But] And MS. W.

[[424-5]]

But neither frost nor heat nor thunder
Can wholly, &c.,

MS. Letter to Poole, Feb. 1813.

[[441]]

tourney] Tournay MS. W., S. T. C. (c), First Edition.

[[453]]

The vision foul of fear and pain MS. W., S. T. C. (a), S. T. C. (c), S. H.: The vision of fear, the touch of pain S. T. C. (b).

[[463]]

The pang, the sight was passed away S. T. C. (a): The pang, the sight, had passed away MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[490]]

om. MS. W.

[[503]]

beautiful] beauteous MS. W.

[[507]]

take] fetch MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[516]]

Many a summer's suns have shone MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[559]]

seems] seem'd MS. W., S. T. C. (c).

[[560]]

vowed] swore MS. W.

[[563]]

loiter] wander MS. W.

[[582]]

Jesu, Maria] Jesu Maria MS. W.

[[591]]

Shuddered aloud with hissing sound MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[[596]]

on] o'er MS. W.

[[613]]

And] But MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.

[[615]]

her Father's Feet MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition, 1828.

[[620]]

the] that MS. W.

[[639]]

but] not MS. W.

[[645]]

wronged] insulted MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition, 1828, 1829.

The [Conclusion] to Part II] Not in any of the MSS. or in S. H. For the first manuscript version see Letter to Southey, May 6, 1801. (Letters of S. T. C., 1895, i. 355.)

[[659]]

'finds' and 'seeks' are italicized in the letters.

[[660-1]]

Doth make a vision to the sight
Which fills a father's eyes with light.

Letter, 1801.

[[664]]

In H. 1816 there is a direction (not in S. T. C.'s handwriting) to print line 664 as two lines.

[[665]]

In words of wrong and bitterness. Letter, 1801.

---

LINES TO W. L.[236:1]

WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC

While my young cheek retains its healthful hues,
And I have many friends who hold me dear,
L——[236:2]! methinks, I would not often hear
Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress 5
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 belovéd face at my bed-side, [10]
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!

1797.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[236:1] First published in the Annual Anthology for 1800: included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. A MS. is extant dated Sept. 14, 1797.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] To Mr. William Linley MS. 1797: Sonnet XII, To W. L.——[236:2]! Esq., while he sung &c. An. Anth.: To W. L. Esq. &c. S. L. 1828, 1829: Lines to W. Linley, Esq. 1893.

[[3]]

L——[236:2]!] Linley! MS. 1893.

[[10]]

at] by An. Anth.

[[12]]

Methinks] O God! An. Anth.

---

FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER[237:1]

A WAR ECLOGUE

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

Fam. Sisters! sisters! who sent you here?

Slau. [to Fire]. I will whisper it in her ear.

Fire. No! no! no!
Spirits hear what spirits tell:
'Twill make a holiday in Hell. [5]
No! no! no!
Myself, I named him once below,
And all the souls, that damnéd be.
Leaped up at once in anarchy,
Clapped their hands and danced for glee. [10]
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: [15]
'Twill make a 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! [20]

Slau. He came by stealth, and unlocked my den,
And I have drunk the blood since then
Of thrice three hundred thousand men.

Both. Who bade you do 't?

Slau. The same! the same!
Letters four do form his name. [25]
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; [30]
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? [35]
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: [40]
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. [45]

Fire. Sisters! I from Ireland 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, [50]
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! [55]
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, [60]
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. [65]

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

Fam. Wisdom comes with lack of food.
I'll gnaw, I'll gnaw the multitude,
Till the cup of rage o'erbrim: [70]
They shall seize him and his brood—

Slau. They shall 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? [75]
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 [80]
Cling to him everlastingly.

1798.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[237:1] First published in the Morning Post, January 8, 1798: included in Annual Anthology, 1800, and (with an Apologetic Preface, vide Appendices) in Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The poem was probably written in 1796. See Watchman, passim.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Scene: A depopulated Tract in La Vendée. Famine is discovered stretched on the ground; to her enter Slaughter and Fire M. P., Jan. 8, 1798.

[[2]]

Slaughter. I will name him in your ear. M. P.

[[5]]

a] an all editions to 1834.

[[11]]

me] me M. P.

[[16]]

a] an all editions to 1834.

[[17-18]]

Famine. Then sound it not, yet let me know;
Darkly hint it—soft and low!

M. P.

In a dark hint, soft and low.

An. Anth.

[[19]]

Four letters form his name. M. P.

[[20]]

Both] Famine M. P.

[[22-3]]

And I have spill'd the blood since then
Of thrice ten hundred thousand men.

M. P.

[[22]]

drunk] drank An. Anth., S. L. 1828, 1829.

[[24]]

Both] Fire and Famine M. P.

[[25]]

Four letters form his name. M. P.

[[29]]

Their wives and children M. P.

[[32]]

and the carrion crow M. P., An. Anth.

[[39]]

Both] Slaughter and Fire M. P.

[[42]]

Both] Slaughter and Fire M. P.

[[43]]

Four letters form his name. M. P.

[[47]]

Hedge] Huts M. P.

[[48]]

om. An. Anth.

[[49]]

Halloo! Halloo! the work was done An. Anth.

[[50]]

As on I strode with monstrous strides M. P.: And on as I strode with my great strides An. Anth.

[[51]]

and held M. P., An. Anth.

[[54]]

through] all M. P.

[[58]]

flame] fire M. P.: flames An. Anth.

[[59]]

While crash the roof fell in I wish M. P.

[[62]]

Both] Slaughter and Famine M. P.

[[63]]

Four letters form his name. M. P.

[[65]]

How shall I give him honour due? M. P.

[[67]]

we] I M. P.

[[71]]

and] of M. P.

[75] foll.

For him that did so much for you.

[To Slaughter.
For you he turn'd the dust to mud
With his fellow creatures' blood!

[To Famine.
And hunger scorch'd as many more,
To make your cup of joy run o'er.

[To Both.
Full ninety moons, he by my troth!
Hath richly cater'd for you both!
And in an hour would you repay
An eight years' debt? Away! away!
I alone am faithful! I
Cling to him everlastingly.

Laberius. M. P.

Below [81] 1798] 1796 S. L. 1828, 1829, and 1834.

---

FROST AT MIDNIGHT[240:1]

The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits 5
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed! so calm that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, 10
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,[240:2] which fluttered on the grate, [15]
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit [20]
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.
But O! how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, [25]
To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, [30]
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on 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! 35
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, 40
For still I hoped to see the stranger's face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, [45]
Fill up the intersperséd 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, 50
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 55
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God 60
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, [65]
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall [70]
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.[242:1]

---

FOOTNOTES:

[240:1] First published in a quarto pamphlet 'printed by Johnson in S. Paul's Churchyard, 1798': included in Poetical Register, 1808-9 (1812): in Fears in Solitude, &c., printed by Law and Gilbert, (?) 1812: in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[240:2] Only that film. In all parts of the kingdom these films are called strangers and supposed to portend the arrival of some absent friend. 4^o, P. R.

[242:1] The date is omitted in 1829 and in 1834.

LINENOTES:

Between [19-25]

With which I can hold commune. Idle thought!
But still the living spirit in our frame,
That loves not to behold a lifeless thing,
Transfuses into all its own delights,
Its own volition, sometimes with deep faith
And sometimes with fantastic playfulness.
Ah me! amus'd by no such curious toys
Of the self-watching subtilizing mind,
How often in my early school-boy days
With most believing superstitious wish.

4^o.

With which I can hold commune: haply hence,
That still the living spirit in our frame,
Which loves not to behold a lifeless thing,
Transfuses into all things its own Will,
And its own pleasures; sometimes with deep faith,
And sometimes with a wilful playfulness
That stealing pardon from our common sense
Smiles, as self-scornful, to disarm the scorn
For these wild reliques of our childish Thought,
That flit about, oft go, and oft return
Not uninvited.
Ah there was a time,
When oft amused by no such subtle toys
Of the self-watching mind, a child at school,
With most believing superstitious wish.

P. R.

Between [20-4]

To which the living spirit in our frame,
That loves not to behold a lifeless thing,
Transfuses its own pleasures, its own will.

S. L. 1828.

[[26]]

To watch the stranger there! and oft belike 4^o, P. R.

[[27]]

had] have P. R.

[[32]]

wild] sweet S. L. (for sweet read wild. Errata, S. L., p. [xii]).

[[45]]

deep] dead 4^o, P. R., S. L. (for dead read deep. Errata, S. L., p. [xii]).

[[46]]

Fill] Fill'd S. L. (for Fill'd read Fill. Errata, S. L., p. [xii]).

[[48]]

thrills] fills 4^o, P. R., S. L. (for fills read thrills. Errata, S. L., p. [xii]).

[[67]]

redbreast] redbreasts 4^o, P. R.

[[69]]

the nigh] all the 4^o.

[[71]]

trances] traces S. L. (for traces read trances. Errata, S. L., p. [xii]).

[72]-end

Or whether the secret ministery of cold
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet moon,
Like those, my babe! which ere tomorrow's warmth
Have capp'd their sharp keen points with pendulous drops,
Will catch thine eye, and with their novelty
Suspend thy little soul; then make thee shout,
And stretch and flutter from thy mother's arms
As thou wouldst fly for very eagerness.

4^o.

---

FRANCE: AN ODE[243:1]

I

Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause,
Whose pathless march no mortal may controul!
Ye Ocean-Waves! that, wheresoe'er ye roll,
Yield homage only to eternal laws!
Ye Woods! that listen to the night-birds singing, [5]
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, [10]
How oft, pursuing fancies holy,
My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound,
Inspired, beyond the guess of folly,
By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound!
O ye loud Waves! and O ye Forests high! 15
And O ye Clouds that far above me soared!
Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky!
Yea, every thing that is and will be free!
Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be,
With what deep worship I have still adored [20]
The spirit of divinest Liberty.

II

When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared,
And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea,
Stamped her strong foot and said she would be free,
Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared! [25]
With what a joy my lofty gratulation
Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band:
And when to whelm the disenchanted nation,
Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand,
The Monarchs marched in evil day, [30]
And Britain joined 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; [35]
Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat
To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance,
And shame too long delayed and vain retreat!
For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim
I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame; [40]
But blessed the paeans of delivered France,
And hung my head and wept at Britain's name.

III

'And what,' I said, 'though Blasphemy's loud scream
With that sweet music of deliverance strove!
Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove [45]
A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream!
Ye storms, that round the dawning East assembled,
The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light!'
And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled,
The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright; [50]
When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory
Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory;
When, insupportably advancing,
Her arm made mockery of the warrior's ramp;
While timid looks of fury glancing, [55]
Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp,
Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore;
Then I reproached my fears that would not flee;
'And soon,' I said, 'shall Wisdom teach her lore
In the low huts of them that toil and groan! [60]
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.'

IV

Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams!
I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, [65]
From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent—
I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams!
Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished,
And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows
With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I cherished 70
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; [75]
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? [80]
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?

V

The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, [85]
Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game
They burst their manacles and wear the name
Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain!
O Liberty! with profitless endeavour
Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; [90]
But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever
Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power.
Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee,
(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee)
Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, [95]
And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves,
Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions,
The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves!
And there I felt thee!—on that sea-cliff's verge,
Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above, [100]
Had made one murmur with the distant surge!
Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare,
And shot my being through earth, sea, and air,
Possessing all things with intensest love,
O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there. 105

February, 1798.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[243:1] First published in the Morning Post, April 16, 1798: included in quarto pamphlet published by J. Johnson, 1798: reprinted in Morning Post, Oct. 14, 1802: included in Poetical Register for 1808-9 (1812); in Fears in Solitude, &c., printed by Law and Gilbert, (?) 1812; in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. Lines 85, 98 are quoted from 'France, a Palinodia', in Biog. Lit., 1817, i. 195. To the first Morning Post version (1798) an editorial note was prefixed:—

Original Poetry.

The following excellent Ode will be in unison with the feelings of every friend to Liberty and foe to Oppression; of all who, admiring the French Revolution, detest and deplore the conduct of France towards Switzerland. It is very satisfactory to find so zealous and steady an advocate for Freedom as Mr. Coleridge concur with us in condemning the conduct of France towards the Swiss Cantons. Indeed his concurrence is not singular; we know of no Friend to Liberty who is not of his opinion. What we most admire is the avowal of his sentiments, and public censure of the unprincipled and atrocious conduct of France. The Poem itself is written with great energy. The second, third, and fourth stanzas contain some of the most vigorous lines we have ever read. The lines in the fourth stanza:—

'To scatter rage and trait'rous guilt
Where Peace her jealous home had built,'

to the end of the stanza are particularly expressive and beautiful.

To the second Morning Post version (1802) a note and Argument were prefixed:—

The following Ode was first published in this paper (in the beginning of the year 1798) in a less perfect state. The present state of France and Switzerland give it so peculiar an interest at the present time that we wished to re-publish it and accordingly have procured from the Author a corrected copy.

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 unqualified abhorrence of the Alliance against the Republic. 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 recantation. Fifth Stanza. An address to Liberty, in which the Poet expresses his conviction that those feelings and that grand ideal of 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.'

LINENOTES:

[Title]] The Recantation: an Ode. By S. T. Coleridge. 1798.

[[1]]

and] or 1802.

[[2]]

Veering your pathless march without controul 1802.

[[5]]

night-birds] night bird's 1798, 4^o, 1802: night-birds' S. L., 1828, 1829.

[[6]]

slope] steep 1798, 4^o, 1802, P. R.

[[12]]

way] path 1802.

[[23]]

smote air, earth, and sea] smote earth, air, and sea 1798, 4^o, P. R.: shook earth, air, and sea 1802.

[[24]]

foot] feet 1798.

[[26]]

lofty] eager 1802.

[[27]]

sang] sung 1798, 4^o, P. R.

[[30]]

marched] mov'd 1802.

[[34]]

the] that 1802.

[[35]]

flung] spread 1802.

[[41]]

But] I 1802.

[[44]]

that sweet music] those sweet Pæans 1802.

[[46]]

e'er was] ever 1798, 4^o, P. R.

[[51]]

deep-scarr'd] deep-scar'd 1798, 4^o, P. R., S. L.

[[53]]

insupportably] irresistibly 1802.

[[54]]

ramp] tramp 1828, 1829, 1834, 1852. [Text of 1834 is here corrected.]

[[58]]

reproached] rebuk'd 1802.

[[59]]

said] cried 1802.

[[62]]

compel] persuade 1802.

[[63]]

call the Earth] lo! the earth's 1802.

[[64]]

those] these 4^o, P. R.

[[66]]

caverns] cavern 1834, 1852. [Text of 1834 is here corrected.]

[[69]]

And ye that flying spot the [your 1802] mountain-snows 1798: And ye that fleeing spot the mountain-snows 4^o, P. R.

[[75]]

stormy] native 1802.

[[77]]

taint] stain 1802.

[[79]]

patriot] patient 1798, 1802.

[[80]]

Was this thy boast 1802.

[[81]]

Kings in the low lust] monarchs in the lust 1802.

[[85-9]]

The fifth stanza, which alluded to the African Slave Trade as conducted by this Country, and to the present Ministry and their supporters, has been omitted, and would have been omitted without remark if the commencing lines of the sixth stanza had not referred to it.

VI

Shall I with these my patriot zeal combine?
No, Afric, no! they stand before my ken
Loath'd as th' Hyaenas, that in murky den
Whine o'er their prey and mangle while they whine,
Divinest Liberty! with vain endeavour

1798.

[[87]]

burst] break 1802. and] to B. L., i. 194. name] name B. L.

[[91]]

strain] pomp B. L.

[[92]]

in] on 1802.

[[95]]

Priestcraft's] priesthood's 4^o, P. R.: superstition's B. L.

[[97]]

subtle] cherub B. L.

[[98]]

To live amid the winds and move upon the waves

1798, 4^o, P. R.

To live among the winds and brood upon the waves

1802.

[[99]]

there] there 1798: then 4^o, P. R. that] yon 1802.

[[100]]

scarce] just 1802.

[[102]]

Yes, as I stood and gazed my forehead bare

1802.

[[104]]

with] by 1802.

---

THE OLD MAN OF THE ALPS[248:1]

Stranger! whose eyes a look of pity shew,
Say, will you listen to a tale of woe?
A tale in no unwonted horrors drest;
But sweet is pity to an agéd breast.
This voice did falter with old age before; 5
Sad recollections make it falter more.
Beside the torrent and beneath a wood,
High in these Alps my summer cottage stood;
One daughter still remain'd to cheer my way,
The evening-star of life's declining day: 10
Duly she hied to fill her milking-pail,
Ere shout of herdsmen rang from cliff or vale;
When she return'd, before the summer shiel,
On the fresh grass she spread the dairy meal;
Just as the snowy peaks began to lose 15
In glittering silver lights their rosy hues.
Singing in woods or bounding o'er the lawn,
No blither creature hail'd the early dawn;
And if I spoke of hearts by pain oppress'd.
When every friend is gone to them that rest; 20
Or of old men that leave, when they expire,
Daughters, that should have perish'd with their sire—
Leave them to toil all day through paths unknown,
And house at night behind some sheltering stone;
Impatient of the thought, with lively cheer 25
She broke half-closed the tasteless tale severe.
She play'd with fancies of a gayer hue,
Enamour'd of the scenes her wishes drew;
And oft she prattled with an eager tongue
Of promised joys that would not loiter long, 30
Till with her tearless eyes so bright and fair,
She seem'd to see them realis'd in air!
In fancy oft, within some sunny dell,
Where never wolf should howl or tempest yell,
She built a little home of joy and rest, 35
And fill'd it with the friends whom she lov'd best:
She named the inmates of her fancied cot,
And gave to each his own peculiar lot;
Which with our little herd abroad should roam,
And which should tend the dairy's toil at home, 40
And now the hour approach'd which should restore
Her lover from the wars, to part no more.
Her whole frame fluttered with uneasy joy;
I long'd myself to clasp the valiant boy;
And though I strove to calm her eager mood, 45
It was my own sole thought in solitude.
I told it to the Saints amid my hymns—
For O! you know not, on an old man's limbs
How thrillingly the pleasant sun-beams play,
That shine upon his daughter's wedding-day. 50
I hoped, that those fierce tempests, soon to rave
Unheard, unfelt, around my mountain grave,
Not undelightfully would break her rest,
While she lay pillow'd on her lover's breast;
Or join'd his pious prayer for pilgrims driven 55
Out to the mercy of the winds of heaven.
Yes! now the hour approach'd that should restore
Her lover from the wars to part no more.
Her thoughts were wild, her soul was in her eye,
She wept and laugh'd as if she knew not why; 60
And she had made a song about the wars,
And sang it to the sun and to the stars!
But while she look'd and listen'd, stood and ran,
And saw him plain in every distant man,
By treachery stabbed, on Nansy's murderous day, 65
A senseless corse th' expected husband lay.
A wounded man, who met us in the wood,
Heavily ask'd her where my cottage stood,
And told us all: she cast her eyes around
As if his words had been but empty sound. 70
Then look'd to Heav'n, like one that would deny
That such a thing could be beneath the sky.
Again he ask'd her if she knew my name,
And instantly an anguish wrench'd her frame,
And left her mind imperfect. No delight 75
Thenceforth she found in any cheerful sight,
Not ev'n in those time-haunted wells and groves,
Scenes of past joy, and birth-place of her loves.
If to her spirit any sound was dear,
'Twas the deep moan that spoke the tempest near; 80
Or sighs which chasms of icy vales outbreathe,
Sent from the dark, imprison'd floods beneath.
She wander'd up the crag and down the slope,
But not, as in her happy days of hope,
To seek the churning-plant of sovereign power, 85
That grew in clefts and bore a scarlet flower!
She roam'd, without a purpose, all alone,
Thro' high grey vales unknowing and unknown.

Kind-hearted stranger! patiently you hear
A tedious tale: I thank you for that tear. 90
May never other tears o'ercloud your eye,
Than those which gentle Pity can supply!
Did you not mark a towering convent hang,
Where the huge rocks with sounds of torrents rang?
Ev'n yet, methinks, its spiry turrets swim 95
Amid yon purple gloom ascending dim!
For thither oft would my poor child repair,
To ease her soul by penitence and prayer.
I knew that peace at good men's prayers returns
Home to the contrite heart of him that mourns, 100
And check'd her not; and often there she found
A timely pallet when the evening frown'd.
And there I trusted that my child would light
On shelter and on food, one dreadful night,
When there was uproar in the element, 105
And she was absent. To my rest I went:
I thought her safe, yet often did I wake
And felt my very heart within me ache.
No daughter near me, at this very door,
Next morn I listen'd to the dying roar. 110
Above, below, the prowling vulture wail'd,
And down the cliffs the heavy vapour sail'd.
Up by the wide-spread waves in fury torn,
Homestalls and pines along the vale were borne.
The Dalesmen in thick crowds appear'd below 115
Clearing the road, o'erwhelm'd with hills of snow.
At times to the proud gust's ascending swell,
A pack of blood-hounds flung their doleful yell:
For after nights of storm, that dismal train
The pious convent sends, with hope humane, 120
To find some out-stretch'd man—perchance to save,
Or give, at least, that last good gift, a grave!
But now a gathering crowd did I survey,
That slowly up the pasture bent their way;
Nor could I doubt but that their care had found 125
Some pilgrim in th' unchannel'd torrent drown'd.
And down the lawn I hasten'd to implore
That they would bring the body to my door;
But soon exclaim'd a boy, who ran before,
'Thrown by the last night's waters from their bed, 130
Your daughter has been found, and she is dead!'

The old man paused—May he who, sternly just,
Lays at his will his creatures in the dust;
Some ere the earliest buds of hope be blown,
And some, when every bloom of joy is flown; 135
May he the parent to his child restore
In that unchanging realm, where Love reigns evermore!

March 8, 1798.

Nicias Erythraeus.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[248:1] First published in the Morning Post, March 8, 1798: first collected P. and D. W., 1877-80: not included in P. W., 1893. Coleridge affixed the signature Nicias Erythraeus to these lines and to Lewti, which was published in the Morning Post five weeks later, April 13, 1798. For a biographical notice of Janus Nicius Erythraeus (Giovanni Vittorio d'Rossi, 1577-1647) by the late Richard Garnett, see Literature, October 22, 1898.

---

TO A YOUNG LADY[252:1]

[Miss Lavinia Poole]

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. [5]

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. [10]

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? [15]

Besides, what vexed us worse, we knew,
They have no need of such as you
In the place where you were going:
This World has angels all too few,
And Heaven is overflowing! [20]

March 31, 1798.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[252:1] First published in the Morning Post, Dec. 9, 1799, included in the Annual Anthology, 1800, in Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] To a Young Lady, on Her First Appearance After A Dangerous Illness. Written in the Spring of 1799 [1799 must be a slip for 1798]. M. P., An. Anth.

[[1]]

Louisa] Ophelia M. P., An. Anth.

[[6-7]]

The breezy air, the sun, the sky,
The little birds that sing on high

M. P., An. Anth.

[[12]]

all] how M. P., An. Anth.

[[13]]

grow] all M. P., An. Anth.

[[16]]

what] which M. P., An. Anth.

[[17]]

have] had M. P., An. Anth.

[[19]]

This] The M. P.

Below [20] Laberius M. P., An. Anth.

---

LEWTI[253:1]

OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHAUNT

At midnight by the stream I roved,
To forget the form I loved.
Image of Lewti! from my mind
Depart; for Lewti is not kind.
The Moon was high, the moonlight gleam 5
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.— [10]
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, 15
Onward to the moon it passed;
Still brighter and more bright it grew,
With floating colours not a few,
Till it reached the moon at last:
Then the cloud was wholly bright, 20
With a rich and amber light!
And so with many a hope I seek,
And with such joy I find my Lewti;
And even so my pale wan cheek
Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty! 25
Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind,
If Lewti never will be kind.

The little cloud—it floats away
Away it goes; away so soon!
Alas! it has no power to stay: 30
Its hues are dim, its hues are grey—
Away it passes from the moon!
How mournfully it seems to fly,
Ever fading more and more,
To joyless regions of the sky— 35
And now 'tis whiter than before!
As white as my poor cheek will be,
When, Lewti! on my couch I lie,
A dying man for love of thee.
Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind— 40
And yet, thou didst not look unkind.

I saw a vapour in the sky,
Thin, and white, and very high;
I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud:
Perhaps the breezes that can fly 45
Now below and now above,
Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud[255:1]
Of Lady fair—that died for love.
For maids, as well as youths, have perished
From fruitless love too fondly cherished. [50]
Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind—
For Lewti never will be kind.

Hush! my heedless feet from under
Slip the crumbling banks for ever:
Like echoes to a distant thunder, 55
They plunge into the gentle river.
The river-swans have heard my tread.
And startle from their reedy bed.
O beauteous birds! methinks ye measure
Your movements to some heavenly tune! 60
O beauteous birds! 'tis such a pleasure
To see you move beneath the moon,
I would it were your true delight
To sleep by day and wake all night.

I know the place where Lewti lies, [65]
When silent night has closed her eyes:
It is a breezy jasmine-bower,
The nightingale sings o'er her head:
Voice of the Night! had I the power
That leafy labyrinth to thread, [70]
And creep, like thee, with soundless tread,
I then might view her bosom white
Heaving lovely to my sight,
As these two swans together heave
On the gently-swelling wave. 75

Oh! that she saw me in a dream,
And dreamt that I had died for care;
All pale and wasted I would seem,
Yet fair withal, as spirits are!
I'd die indeed, if I might see [80]
Her bosom heave, and heave for me!
Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind!
To-morrow Lewti may be kind.

1798.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[253:1] First published in the Morning Post (under the signature Nicias Erythraeus), April 18, 1798: included in the Annual Anthology, 1800; Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. For MS. versions vide Appendices. 'Lewti was to have been included in the Lyrical Ballads of 1798, but at the last moment the sheets containing it were cancelled and The Nightingale substituted.' (Note to reprint of L. B. (1898), edited by T. Hutchinson.) A copy which belonged to Southey, with the new Table of Contents and The Nightingale bound up with the text as at first printed, is in the British Museum. Another copy is extant which contains the first Table of Contents only, and Lewti without the addition of The Nightingale. In the M. P. the following note accompanies the poem:—'It is not amongst the least pleasing of our recollections, that we have been the means of gratifying the public taste with some exquisite pieces of Original Poetry. For many of them we have been indebted to the author of the Circassian's Love Chant. Amidst images of war and woe, amidst scenes of carnage and horror of devastation and dismay, it may afford the mind a temporary relief to wander to the magic haunts of the Muses, to bowers and fountains which the despoiling powers of war have never visited, and where the lover pours forth his complaint, or receives the recompense of his constancy. The whole of the subsequent Love Chant is in a warm and impassioned strain. The fifth and last stanzas are, we think, the best.'

[255:1] This image was borrowed by Miss Bailey (sic) in her Basil as the dates of the poems prove. MS. Note by S. T. C.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Lewti; or the Circassian's Love Chant M. P.

Between lines [14-15]

I saw the white waves, o'er and o'er,
Break against the distant shore.
All at once upon the sight,
All at once they broke in light;
I heard no murmur of their roar,
Nor ever I beheld them flowing,
Neither coming, neither going;
But only saw them o'er and o'er,
Break against the curved shore:
Now disappearing from the sight,
Now twinkling regular and white,
And Lewti's smiling mouth can shew
As white and regular a row.
Nay, treach'rous image from my mind
Depart; for Lewti is not kind.

M. P.

[[52]]

For] Tho' M. P.

Between lines [52-3]

This hand should make his life-blood flow,
That ever scorn'd my Lewti so.

I cannot chuse but fix my sight
On that small vapour, thin and white!
So thin it scarcely, I protest,
Bedims the star that shines behind it!
And pity dwells in Lewti's breast
Alas! if I knew how to find it.
And O! how sweet it were, I wist,
To see my Lewti's eyes to-morrow
Shine brightly thro' as thin a mist
Of pity and repentant sorrow!
Nay treach'rous image! leave my mind—
Ah, Lewti! why art thou unkind?

[[53]]

Hush!] Slush! Sibylline Leaves (Errata, S. L., p. [xi], for Slush r. Hush).

[[69-71]]

Had I the enviable power
To creep unseen with noiseless tread
Then should I view

M. P., An. Anth.

O beating heart had I the power.

MS. Corr. An. Anth. by S. T. C.

[[73]]

my] the M. P., An. Anth.

Below [83] Signed Nicias Erythraeus. M. P.

---

FEARS IN SOLITUDE[256:1]

WRITTEN IN APRIL 1798, 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, 5
All golden with the never-bloomless furze,
Which now blooms most profusely: but the dell,
Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate
As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax,
When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve, 10
The level sunshine glimmers with green light.
Oh! 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook!
Which all, methinks, would love; but chiefly he,
The humble man, who, in his youthful years,
Knew just so much of folly, as had made [15]
His early manhood more securely wise!
Here he might lie on fern or withered heath,
While from the singing lark (that sings unseen
The minstrelsy that solitude loves best),
And from the sun, and from the breezy air, 20
Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame;
And he, with many feelings, many thoughts,
Made up a meditative joy, and found
Religious meanings in the forms of Nature!
And so, his senses gradually wrapt 25
In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds,
And dreaming hears thee still, O singing lark,
That singest like an angel in the clouds!

My God! it is a melancholy thing
For such a man, who would full fain preserve [30]
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— 35
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! [40]
We have offended, Oh! my countrymen!
We have offended very grievously,
And been most tyrannous. From east to west
A groan of accusation pierces Heaven!
The wretched plead against us; multitudes 45
Countless and vehement, the sons of God,
Our brethren! Like a cloud that travels on.
Steamed up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence,
Even so, my countrymen! have we gone forth
And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs, [50]
And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint
With slow perdition murders the whole man,
His body and his soul! Meanwhile, at home,
All individual dignity and power
Engulfed in Courts, Committees, Institutions, 55
Associations and Societies,
A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting Guild,
One Benefit-Club for mutual flattery,
We have drunk up, demure as at a grace,
Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth; 60
Contemptuous of all honourable rule,
Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life
For gold, as at a market! The sweet words
Of Christian promise, words that even yet
Might stem destruction, were they wisely preached, [65]
Are muttered o'er by men, whose tones proclaim
How flat and wearisome they feel their trade:
Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent
To deem them falsehoods or to know their truth.
Oh! blasphemous! the Book of Life is made 70
A superstitious instrument, on which
We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break;
For all must swear—all and in every place,
College and wharf, council and justice-court;
All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed, 75
Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest,
The rich, the poor, the old man and the young;
All, all make up one scheme of perjury,
That faith doth reel; the very name of God
Sounds like a juggler's charm; and, bold with joy, 80
Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place,
(Portentous sight!) the owlet Atheism,
Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon,
Drops his blue-fringéd lids, and holds them close,
And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven, 85
Cries out, 'Where is it?'

Thankless too for peace,
(Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seas)
Secure from actual warfare, we have loved
To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war!
Alas! for ages ignorant of all 90
Its ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague,
Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows,)
We, this whole people, have been clamorous
For war and bloodshed; animating sports,
The which we pay for as a thing to talk of, 95
Spectators and not combatants! No guess
Anticipative of a wrong unfelt,
No speculation on contingency,
However dim and vague, too vague and dim
To yield a justifying cause; and forth, 100
(Stuffed out with big preamble, holy names.
And adjurations of the God in Heaven.)
We send our mandates for the certain death
Of thousands and ten thousands! Boys and girls,
And women, that would groan to see a child 105
Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war,
The best amusement for our morning meal!
The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers
From curses, who knows scarcely words enough
To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father, [110]
Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute
And technical in victories and defeats,
And all our dainty terms for fratricide;
Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues
Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which 115
We join no feeling and attach no form!
As if the soldier died without a wound;
As if the fibres of this godlike frame
Were gored without a pang; as if the wretch,
Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds, [120]
Passed off to Heaven, translated and not killed;
As though he had no wife to pine for him,
No God to judge him! Therefore, evil days
Are coming on us, O my countrymen!
And what if all-avenging Providence, 125
Strong and retributive, should make us know
The meaning of our words, force us to feel
The desolation and the agony
Of our fierce doings?

Spare us yet awhile,
Father and God! O! spare us yet awhile! [130]
Oh! let not English women drag their flight
Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes,
Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday
Laughed at the breast! Sons, brothers, husbands, all
Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms [135]
Which grew up with you round the same fire-side,
And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells
Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves pure!
Stand forth! be men! repel an impious foe,
Impious and false, a light yet cruel race, [140]
Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth
With deeds of murder; and still promising
Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free,
Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart
Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes, [145]
And all that lifts the spirit! Stand we forth;
Render them back upon the insulted ocean,
And let them toss as idly on its waves
As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blast
Swept from our shores! And oh! may we return [150]
Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear,
Repenting of the wrongs with which we stung
So fierce a foe to frenzy!

I have told,
O Britons! O my brethren! I have told
Most bitter truth, but without bitterness. [155]
Nor deem my zeal or factious or mistimed;
For never can true courage dwell with them,
Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look
At their own vices. We have been too long
Dupes of a deep delusion! Some, belike, [160]
Groaning with restless enmity, expect
All change from change of constituted power;
As if a Government had been a robe,
On which our vice and wretchedness were tagged
Like fancy-points and fringes, with the robe [165]
Pulled off at pleasure. Fondly these attach
A radical causation to a few
Poor drudges of chastising Providence,
Who borrow all their hues and qualities
From our own folly and rank wickedness, [170]
Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others, meanwhile,
Dote with a mad idolatry; and all
Who will not fall before their images,
And yield them worship, they are enemies
Even of their country!

Such have I been deemed.— [175]
But, O dear Britain! O my Mother Isle!
Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy
To me, a son, a brother, and a friend,
A husband, and a father! who revere
All bonds of natural love, and find them all [180]
Within the limits of thy rocky shores.
O 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, 185
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 190
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 195
I 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
And menace of the vengeful enemy
Pass like the gust, that roared and died away 200
In the distant tree: which heard, and only heard
In this low dell, bowed not the delicate grass.

But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad
The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze:
The light has left the summit of the hill, [205]
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 [210]
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, 215
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! 220
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 225
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 230
Is softened, and made worthy to indulge
Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind.

Nether Stowey, April 20, 1798.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[256:1] First published in a quarto pamphlet 'printed by J. Johnson in S. Paul's Churchyard, 1798': included in Poetical Register, 1808-9 (1812), and, with the same text, in an octavo pamphlet printed by Law and Gilbert in (?) 1812: in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. Lines 129-97 were reprinted in the Morning Post, Oct. 14, 1802. They follow the reprint of France: an Ode, and are thus prefaced:—'The following extracts are made from a Poem by the same author, written in April 1798 during the alarm respecting the threatened invasion. They were included in The Friend, No. II (June 8, 1809), as Fears of Solitude.' An autograph MS. (in the possession of Professor Dowden), undated but initialled S. T. C., is subscribed as follows:—'N. B. The above is perhaps not Poetry,—but rather a sort of middle thing between Poetry and Oratory—sermoni propriora.—Some parts are, I am conscious, too tame even for animated prose.' An autograph MS. dated (as below 232) is in the possession of Mr. Gordon Wordsworth.

LINENOTES:

[Title]] Fears &c. Written, April 1798, during the Alarms of an Invasion MS. W., 4^o: Fears &c. Written April 1798, &c. P. R.

[[19]]

that] which 4^o, P. R.

[[33]]

It is indeed a melancholy thing
And weighs upon the heart

4^o, P. R., S. L.

[[40]]

groans] screams 4^o, P. R.

[[43]]

And have been tyrannous 4^o, P. R.

[[44-60]]

The groan of accusation pleads against us.

* * * * *

Desunt aliqua
. . . Meanwhile at home
We have been drinking with a riotous thirst
Pollutions, &c.

MS. D.

[[53-9]]

Meanwhile at home
We have been drinking with a riotous thirst.
Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth
A selfish, lewd, effeminated race.

MS. W., 4^o, P. R.

[Lines 54-8 of the text were added in Sibylline Leaves, 1817.]

[[69]]

know] know MS. W., 4^o, P. R.

[[110]]

from] of 4^o, P. R.

[[112]]

defeats] deceit S. L. [Probably a misprint].

[[121]]

translated] translated 4^o, P. R.

[[131]]

drag] speed 1809.

[[133]]

that] who 1802, 1809.

[[134]]

Laugh'd at the bosom! Husbands, fathers, all 1802: Smil'd at the bosom! Husbands, Brothers, all The Friend, 1809.

[[136]]

Which] That 1802.

[[138]]

pure] strong 1809.

[[139]]

foe] race 1809.

[[138-9]]

Without the Infidel's scorn, stand forth, be men,
Make yourselves strong, repel an impious foe

1802.

[[140]]

yet] and MS. W.

[[141]]

Who] That 4^o, P. R., 1802, 1809.

[[146]]

we] ye 1809.

[[148]]

toss] float 1809.

[[149]]

sea-weed] sea-weeds MS. W., 4^o, 1802. some] the 1809.

[[150]]

Swept] Sweeps 1809.

[[151]]

fear] awe 1802.

[[151-3]]

Not in a drunken triumph, but with awe
Repentant of the wrongs, with which we stung
So fierce a race to Frenzy.

1809.

[[154]]

O men of England! Brothers! I have told 1809.

[[155]]

truth] truths 1802, 1809.

[[156]]

factious] factitious 1809.

[[157]]

courage] freedom 1802.

[[159-61]]

At their own vices. Fondly some expect [We have been . . . enmity om.] 1802.

[[161-4]]

Restless in enmity have thought all change
Involv'd in change of constituted power.
As if a Government were but a robe
On which our vice and wretchedness were sewn.

1809.

[[162]]

constituted] delegated 1802.

[[163]]

had been] were but 1809.

[[163-75]]

As if a government were but a robe
To which our crimes and miseries were affix'd,
Like fringe, or epaulet, and with the robe
Pull'd off at pleasure. Others, the meantime,
Doat with a mad idolatry, and all
Who will not bow their heads, and close their eyes,
And worship blindly—these are enemies
Even of their country. Such have they deemed me.

1802.

[[166-71]]

Fondly . . . nursed them om. 1809.

[[171]]

nursed] nurse 4^o, S. L. meanwhile] meantime 1809.

[[175]]

Such have I been deemed 1809.

[[177]]

prove] be 1802, 1809.

[[179]]

father] parent 1809.

[[180]]

All natural bonds of 1802.

[[181]]

limits] circle 1802, 1809.

[[183]]

couldst thou be 1802: shouldst thou be 1809.

[[184-5]]

To me who from thy brooks and mountain-hills,
Thy quiet fields, thy clouds, thy rocks, thy seas

1802.

To me who from thy seas and rocky shores
Thy quiet fields thy streams and wooded hills

1809.

[[207]]

Aslant the ivied] On the long-ivied MS. W., 4^o.

[[214]]

nook] scene MS. W., 4^o, P. R.

---

THE NIGHTINGALE[264:1]

A CONVERSATION POEM, APRIL, 1798

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, 5
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 10
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,
'Most musical, most melancholy' bird![264:2]
A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought!
In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 15
But some night-wandering man whose heart was pierced
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
Or slow distemper, or neglected love,
(And so, poor wretch! filled all things with himself,
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale [20]
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 25
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell,
By sun or moon-light, to the influxes
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song
And of his fame forgetful! so his fame 30
Should share in Nature's immortality,
A venerable thing! and so his song
Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself
Be loved like Nature! But 'twill not be so;
And youths and maidens most poetical, 35
Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.

My Friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt [40]
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, 45
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, 50
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 [55]
So many nightingales; and far and near,
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove,
They answer and provoke each other's song,
With skirmish and capricious passagings,
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug, [60]
And one low piping sound more sweet than all—
Stirring the air with such a harmony,
That should you close your eyes, you might almost
Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes,
Whose dewy leaflets are but half-disclosed. 65
You may perchance behold them on the twigs,
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade
Lights up her love-torch.

A most gentle Maid,
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 70
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, [75]
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, [80]
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 85
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! 90
Full fain it would delay me! My dear babe,
Who, capable of no articulate sound,
Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How he would place his hand beside his ear,
His little hand, the small forefinger up, 95
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—) [100]
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!— 105
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. 110

1798.

---

FOOTNOTES:

[264:1] First published in Lyrical Ballads, 1798, reprinted in Lyrical Ballads, 1800, 1802, and 1805: included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[264:2] 'Most musical, most melancholy.' This passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere description; it is spoken in the character of the melancholy Man, and has therefore a dramatic propriety. The Author makes this remark, to rescue himself from the charge of having alluded with levity to a line in Milton; a charge than which none could be more painful to him, except perhaps that of having ridiculed his Bible. Footnote to l. 13 L. B. 1798, L. B. 1800, S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829. In 1834 the footnote ends with the word 'Milton', the last sentence being omitted.

LINENOTES:

Note. In the Table of Contents of 1828 and 1829 'The Nightingale' is omitted.

[Title]] The Nightingale; a Conversational Poem, written in April, 1798 L. B. 1798: The Nightingale, written in April, 1798 L. B. 1800: The Nightingale A Conversation Poem, written in April, 1798 S. L., 1828, 1829.

[[21]]

sorrow] sorrows L. B. 1798, 1800.

[[40]]

My Friend, and my Friend's sister L. B. 1798, 1800.

[[58]]

song] songs L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L.

[[61]]

And one, low piping, sounds more sweet than all—S. L. 1817: (punctuate thus, reading Sound for sounds:—And one low piping Sound more sweet than all—Errata, S. L., p. [xii]).

[[62]]

a] an all editions to 1884.

[[64-9]]

On moonlight . . . her love-torch om. L. B. 1800.

[[79]]

those] these S. L. 1817.

[[81]]

As if one quick and sudden gale had swept L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L. 1817.

[[82]]

A] An all editions to 1834.

[[84]]

blossomy] blosmy L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L. 1817.

[[102]]

beheld] beholds L. B. 1798, 1800.

---

THE THREE GRAVES[267:1]

A FRAGMENT OF A SEXTON'S TALE

'The Author has published the following humble fragment, encouraged by the decisive recommendation of more than one of our most celebrated living Poets. The language was intended to be dramatic; that is, suited to the narrator; and the metre corresponds to the homeliness of the diction. It is therefore presented as the fragment, not of a Poem, but of a common Ballad-tale.[268:1] Whether this is sufficient to justify the adoption of such a style, in any metrical composition not professedly ludicrous, the Author is himself in some doubt. At all events, it is not presented as poetry, and it is in no way connected with the Author's judgment concerning poetic diction. Its merits, if any, are exclusively psychological. The story which must be supposed to have been narrated in the first and second parts is as follows:—

'Edward, a young farmer, meets at the house of Ellen her bosom-friend Mary, and commences an acquaintance, which ends in a mutual attachment. With her consent, and by the advice of their common friend Ellen, he announces his hopes and intentions to Mary's mother, a widow-woman bordering on her fortieth year, and from constant health, the possession of a competent property, and from having had no other children but Mary and another daughter (the father died in their infancy), retaining for the greater part her personal attractions and comeliness of appearance; but a woman of low education and violent temper. The answer which she at once returned to Edward's application was remarkable—"Well, Edward! you are a handsome young fellow, and you shall have my daughter." From this time all their wooing passed under the mother's eye; and, in fine, she became herself enamoured of her future son-in-law, and practised every art, both of endearment and of calumny, to transfer his affections from her daughter to herself. (The outlines of the Tale are positive facts, and of no very distant date, though the author has purposely altered the names and the scene of action, as well as invented the characters of the parties and the detail of the incidents.) Edward, however, though perplexed by her strange detractions from her daughter's good qualities, yet in the innocence of his own heart still mistook[268:2] her increasing fondness for motherly affection; she at length, overcome by her miserable passion, after much abuse of Mary's temper and moral tendencies, exclaimed with violent emotion—"O Edward! indeed, indeed, she is not fit for you—she has not a heart to love you as you deserve. It is I that love you! Marry me, Edward! and I will this very day settle all my property on you." The Lover's eyes were now opened; and thus taken by surprise, whether from the effect of the horror which he felt, acting as it were hysterically on his nervous system, or that at the first moment he lost the sense of the guilt of the proposal in the feeling of its strangeness and absurdity, he flung her from him and burst into a fit of laughter. Irritated by this almost to frenzy, the woman fell on her knees, and in a loud voice that approached to a scream, she prayed for a curse both on him and on her own child. Mary happened to be in the room directly above them, heard Edward's laugh, and her mother's blasphemous prayer, and fainted away. He, hearing the fall, ran upstairs, and taking her in his arms, carried her off to Ellen's home; and after some fruitless attempts on her part toward a reconciliation with her mother, she was married to him.—And here the third part of the Tale begins.

'I was not led to choose this story from any partiality to tragic, much less to monstrous events (though at the time that I composed the verses, somewhat more than twelve years ago, I was less averse to such subjects than at present), but from finding in it a striking proof of the possible effect on the imagination, from an idea violently and suddenly impressed on it. I had been reading Bryan Edwards's account of the effects of the Oby witchcraft on the Negroes in the West Indies, and Hearne's deeply interesting anecdotes of similar workings on the imagination of the Copper Indians (those of my readers who have it in their power will be well repaid for the trouble of referring to those works for the passages alluded to); and I conceived the design of shewing that instances of this kind are not peculiar to savage or barbarous tribes, and of illustrating the mode in which the mind is affected in these cases, and the progress and symptoms of the morbid action on the fancy from the beginning.

'The Tale is supposed to be narrated by an old Sexton, in a country church-yard, to a traveller whose curiosity had been awakened by the appearance of three graves, close by each other, to two only of which there were grave-stones. On the first of these was the name, and dates, as usual: on the second, no name, but only a date, and the words, "The Mercy of God is infinite.[269:1]"' S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Part I—From MS.]

Beneath this thorn when I was young,
This thorn that blooms so sweet,
We loved to stretch our lazy limbs
In summer's noon-tide heat.

And hither too the old man came, 5
The maiden and her feer,
'Then tell me, Sexton, tell me why
The toad has harbour here.

'The Thorn is neither dry nor dead,
But still it blossoms sweet; [10]
Then tell me why all round its roots
The dock and nettle meet.

'Why here the hemlock, &c. [sic in MS.]

'Why these three graves all side by side,
Beneath the flow'ry thorn, 15
Stretch out so green and dark a length,
By any foot unworn.'

There, there a ruthless mother lies
Beneath the flowery thorn;
And there a barren wife is laid, 20
And there a maid forlorn.

The barren wife and maid forlorn
Did love each other dear;
The ruthless mother wrought the woe,
And cost them many a tear. 25

Fair Ellen was of serious mind,
Her temper mild and even,
And Mary, graceful as the fir
That points the spire to heaven.

Young Edward he to Mary said, [30]
'I would you were my bride,'
And she was scarlet as he spoke,
And turned her face to hide.

'You know my mother she is rich,
And you have little gear; 35
And go and if she say not Nay,
Then I will be your fere.'

Young Edward to the mother went.
To him the mother said:
'In truth you are a comely man; 40
You shall my daughter wed.'

[271:1][In Mary's joy fair Eleanor
Did bear a sister's part;
For why, though not akin in blood,
They sisters were in heart.] [45]

Small need to tell to any man
That ever shed a tear
What passed within the lover's heart
The happy day so near.

The mother, more than mothers use, 50
Rejoiced when they were by;
And all the 'course of wooing' passed[271:2]
Beneath the mother's eye.

And here within the flowering thorn
How deep they drank of joy: 55
The mother fed upon the sight,
Nor . . . [sic in MS.]

[Part II—From MS.][271:3]

And now the wedding day was fix'd,
The wedding-ring was bought;
The wedding-cake with her own hand 60
The ruthless mother brought.

'And when to-morrow's sun shines forth
The maid shall be a bride';
Thus Edward to the mother spake
While she sate by his side. 65

Alone they sate within the bower:
The mother's colour fled,
For Mary's foot was heard above—
She decked the bridal bed.

And when her foot was on the stairs 70
To meet her at the door,
With steady step the mother rose,
And silent left the bower.

She stood, her back against the door,
And when her child drew near— 75
'Away! away!' the mother cried,
'Ye shall not enter here.

'Would ye come here, ye maiden vile,
And rob me of my mate?'
And on her child the mother scowled [80]
A deadly leer of hate.

Fast rooted to the spot, you guess,
The wretched maiden stood,
As pale as any ghost of night
That wanteth flesh and blood. 85

She did not groan, she did not fall,
She did not shed a tear,
Nor did she cry, 'Oh! mother, why
May I not enter here?'

But wildly up the stairs she ran, 90
As if her sense was fled,
And then her trembling limbs she threw
Upon the bridal bed.

The mother she to Edward went
Where he sate in the bower, 95
And said, 'That woman is not fit
To be your paramour.

'She is my child—it makes my heart
With grief and trouble swell;
I rue the hour that gave her birth, 100
For never worse befel.

'For she is fierce and she is proud,
And of an envious mind;
A wily hypocrite she is,
And giddy as the wind. 105

'And if you go to church with her,
You'll rue the bitter smart;
For she will wrong your marriage-bed,
And she will break your heart.

'Oh God, to think that I have shared 110
Her deadly sin so long;
She is my child, and therefore I
As mother held my tongue.

'She is my child, I've risked for her
My living soul's estate: 115
I cannot say my daily prayers,
The burthen is so great.

'And she would scatter gold about
Until her back was bare;
And should you swing for lust of hers 120
In truth she'd little care.'

Then in a softer tone she said,
And took him by the hand:
'Sweet Edward, for one kiss of your's
I'd give my house and land. 125

'And if you'll go to church with me,
And take me for your bride,
I'll make you heir of all I have—
Nothing shall be denied.'

Then Edward started from his seat, 130
And he laughed loud and long—
'In truth, good mother, you are mad,
Or drunk with liquor strong.'

To him no word the mother said,
But on her knees she fell, 135
And fetched her breath while thrice your hand
Might toll the passing-bell.

'Thou daughter now above my head,
Whom in my womb I bore,
May every drop of thy heart's blood 140
Be curst for ever more.

'And curséd be the hour when first
I heard thee wawl and cry;
And in the Church-yard curséd be
The grave where thou shalt lie!' 145

And Mary on the bridal-bed
Her mother's curse had heard;
And while the cruel mother spake
The bed beneath her stirred.

In wrath young Edward left the hall, 150
And turning round he sees
The mother looking up to God
And still upon her knees.

Young Edward he to Mary went
When on the bed she lay: 155
'Sweet love, this is a wicked house—
Sweet love, we must away.'

He raised her from the bridal-bed,
All pale and wan with fear;
'No Dog,' quoth he, 'if he were mine, 160
No Dog would kennel here.'

He led her from the bridal-bed,
He led her from the stairs.
[Had sense been hers she had not dar'd
To venture on her prayers. MS. erased.]

The mother still was in the bower,
And with a greedy heart 165
She drank perdition on her knees,
Which never may depart.

But when their steps were heard below
On God she did not call;
She did forget the God of Heaven, 170
For they were in the hall.

She started up—the servant maid
Did see her when she rose;
And she has oft declared to me
The blood within her froze. 175

As Edward led his bride away
And hurried to the door,
The ruthless mother springing forth
Stopped midway on the floor.

What did she mean? What did she mean? 180
For with a smile she cried:
'Unblest ye shall not pass my door,
The bride-groom and his bride.

'Be blithe as lambs in April are,
As flies when fruits are red; 185
May God forbid that thought of me
Should haunt your marriage-bed.

'And let the night be given to bliss,
The day be given to glee:
I am a woman weak and old, 190
Why turn a thought on me?

'What can an agéd mother do,
And what have ye to dread?
A curse is wind, it hath no shape
To haunt your marriage-bed.' 195

When they were gone and out of sight
She rent her hoary hair,
And foamed like any Dog of June
When sultry sun-beams glare.

* * * * *

Now ask you why the barren wife, 200
And why the maid forlorn,
And why the ruthless mother lies
Beneath the flowery thorn?

Three times, three times this spade of mine,
In spite of bolt or bar, 205
Did from beneath the belfry come,
When spirits wandering are.

And when the mother's soul to Hell
By howling fiends was borne,
This spade was seen to mark her grave 210
Beneath the flowery thorn.

And when the death-knock at the door
Called home the maid forlorn,
This spade was seen to mark her grave
Beneath the flowery thorn. 215

And 'tis a fearful, fearful tree;
The ghosts that round it meet,
'Tis they that cut the rind at night,
Yet still it blossoms sweet.

* * * * *

[End of MS.]

Part III[276:1]

The grapes upon the Vicar's wall [220]
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: [225]
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, [230]
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. 235

But when they to the church-yard came,
I've heard poor Mary say,
As soon as she stepped into the sun,
Her heart it died away.

And when the Vicar join'd their hands, [240]
Her limbs 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—
I saw poor Mary's back, 245
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— 250
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. 255

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 [260]
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: 265
O Edward! you are all to me,
I wish for your sake I could be
More lifesome and more gay.

'I'm dull and sad! indeed, indeed
I know I have no reason! 270
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 [275]
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. 280

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. 285

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, 290
Once, Sir, he said to me,
He wished that service was clean out
Of our good Liturgy.

The mother walked into the church—
To Ellen's seat she went: 295
Though Ellen always kept her church
All church-days during Lent.

And gentle Ellen welcomed her
With courteous looks and mild:
Thought she, 'What if her heart should melt, 300
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. [305]

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, 310
And audibly she cried—
'Oh! may a clinging curse consume
This woman by my side!

'O hear me, hear me, Lord in Heaven.
Although you take my life— [315]
O curse this woman, at whose house
Young Edward woo'd his wife.

'By night and day, in bed and bower,
O let her curséd be!!!'
So having prayed, steady and slow, 320
She rose up from her knee!
And left the church, nor e'er again
The church-door entered she.

I saw poor Ellen kneeling still,
So pale! I guessed not why: 325
When she stood up, there plainly was
A trouble in her eye.

And when the prayers were done, we all
Came round and asked her why:
Giddy she seemed, and sure, there was 330
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?' 335

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, 340
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: 345
'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: 350
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!' 355

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, 360
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: 365
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 370
Fast-linked they both together came,
Whene'er he said his prayers.

And in the moment of his prayers
He loved them both alike:
Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy 375
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. 380

And Mary could not check her tears,
So on his breast she bowed;
Then frenzy melted into grief,
And Edward wept aloud.

Dear Ellen did not weep at all, 385
But closelier did she cling,
And turned her face and looked as if
She saw some frightful thing.

Part IV

To see a man tread over graves
I hold it no good mark; 390
'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 [395]
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! 400

'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, 405
For three good hours and more;
Though I had heard it, in the main,
From Edward's self, before.

Well! it passed off! the gentle Ellen
Did well nigh dote on Mary; 410
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; 415
All seemed the same: all seemed so, Sir!
But all was not the same!

Had Ellen lost her mirth? Oh! no!
But she was seldom cheerful;
And Edward looked as if he thought 420
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. 425

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! 430
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; 435

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 440
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: [445]
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 450
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. 455

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, 460
And nothing to him said;
She tried to smile, and on his arm
Mournfully leaned her head.

And he burst into tears, and fell
Upon his knees in prayer: 465
'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 [470]
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. 475

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 [480]
To any pasture-plot;
But clustered near the chattering brook,
Lone hollies marked the spot.

Those hollies of themselves a shape
As of an arbour took, [485]
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, [490]
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. 495

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. 500

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, [505]
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; [510]
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; 515
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, 520
And the thumping in his breast.

'A mother too!' these self-same words
Did Edward mutter plain;
His face was drawn back on itself,
With horror and huge pain. 525

Both groaned at once, for both knew well
What thoughts were in his mind;
When he waked up, and stared like one
That hath been just struck blind.

He sat upright; and ere the dream [530]
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; 535
And Mary shivered, where she sat,
And never she smiled after.

1797-1809.

Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow! and To-morrow! and To-morrow!

---

FOOTNOTES:

[267:1] Parts III and IV of the Three Graves were first published in The Friend, No. VI, September 21, 1809. They were included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. Parts I and II, which were probably written in the spring of 1798, at the same time as Parts III and IV, were first published, from an autograph MS. copy, in Poems, 1893. [For evidence of date compare ll. 255-8 with Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal for March 20, 24, and April 6, 8.] The original MS. of Parts III and IV is not forthcoming. The MS. of the poem as published in The Friend is in the handwriting of Miss Sarah Stoddart (afterwards Mrs. Hazlitt), and is preserved with other 'copy' of The Friend (of which the greater part is in the handwriting of Miss Sarah Hutchinson) in the Forster Collection which forms part of the Victoria and Albert Museum, South Kensington. The preface and emendations are in the handwriting of S. T. C. The poem was reprinted in the British Minstrel, Glasgow, 1821 as 'a modern ballad of the very first rank'. In a marginal note in Mr. Samuel's copy of Sibylline Leaves Coleridge writes:—'This very poem was selected, notwithstanding the preface, as a proof of my judgment and poetic diction, and a fair specimen of the style of my poems generally (see the Mirror): nay! the very words of the preface were used, omitting the not,' &c. See for this and other critical matter, Lyrical Ballads, 1798, edited by Thomas Hutchinson, 1898. Notes, p. 257.

[268:1] in the common ballad metre MS.

[268:2] mistaking The Friend.

[269:1] In the first issue of The Friend, No. VI, September 21, 1809, the poem was thus introduced:—'As I wish to commence the important Subject of—The Principles of political Justice with a separate number of The Friend, and shall at the same time comply with the wishes communicated to me by one of my female Readers, who writes as the representative of many others, I shall conclude this Number with the following Fragment, or the third and fourth [second and third MS. S. T. C.] parts of a Tale consisting of six. The two last parts may be given hereafter, if the present should appear to have afforded pleasure, and to have answered the purpose of a relief and amusement to my Readers. The story as it is contained in the first and second parts is as follows: Edward a young farmer, etc.'

[271:1] It is uncertain whether this stanza is erased, or merely blotted in the MS.

[271:2] Othello iii. 3.

[271:3] The words 'Part II' are not in the MS.

[276:1] In the MS. of The Friend, Part III is headed:—'The Three Graves. A Sexton's Tale. A Fragment.' A MS. note erased in the handwriting of S. T. C. is attached:—'N. B. Written for me by Sarah Stoddart before her brother was an entire Blank. I have not voluntarily been guilty of any desecration of holy Names.' In The Friend, in Sibylline Leaves, in 1828, 1829, and 1834, the poem is headed 'The Three Graves, &c.' The heading 'Part III' first appeared in 1893.

LINENOTES:

[[4]]

In the silent summer heat MS. alternative reading.

[[14]]

Why these three graves all in a row

MS. alternative reading.

Stretch out their dark and gloomy length

MS. erased.

[[33]]

turned] strove MS. erased.

[[49]]

happy] wedding MS. variant.

[[81]]

A deadly] The ghastly MS. erased.

[Part III]] III MS. erased.

[220] foll. In The Friend the lines were printed continuously. The division into stanzas (as in the MS.) dates from the republication of the poem in Sibylline Leaves, 1817.

[[221]]

as ripe] as they MS.

[[224]]

High on the hedge-elms in the lane MS. erased.

[[225]]

spikes] strikes Sibylline Leaves, 1817. [Note. It is possible that 'strikes'—a Somersetshire word—(compare 'strikes of flax') was deliberately substituted for 'spikes'. It does not appear in the long list of Errata prefixed to Sibylline Leaves. Wagons passing through narrow lanes leave on the hedge-rows not single 'spikes', but little swathes or fillets of corn.]

[[230]]

over boughed] over-bough'd MS.

[[242]]

they] he MS. The Friend, 1809.

[[260]]

So five months passed: this mother foul MS. erased.

[[278]]

dark] dank MS. The Friend, 1809.

[[308]]

swinging] singing MS. The Friend, 1809: swaying S. L.

[[309]]

You could not hear the Vicar. MS. The Friend, 1809.

[[315]]

you] thou The Friend, 1809.

[Part IV]] The Three Graves, a Sexton's Tale, Part the IVth MS.

[[395]]

O Sir!] Oh! 'tis S. L.

[[447]]

you're] how MS.

[[473]]

we] one MS. The Friend, 1809.

[[483]]

Lone] Some MS. The Friend, 1809.

[[487]]

a] the MS. The Friend, 1809.

[[490]]

friends] dears MS. erased.

[[507]]

in] in MS. The Friend, 1809.

[[511]]

inserted by S. T. C. MS.

[[530-1]]

He sat upright; and with quick voice
While his eyes seem'd to start

MS. erased.

---

THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN[285:1]

PREFATORY NOTE

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

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

Encinctured with a twine of leaves,
That leafy twine his only dress!
A lovely Boy was plucking fruits,
By moonlight, in a wilderness.
(In a moonlight wilderness Aids to Reflection, 1825.)
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 little child,
In place so silent and so wild—
Has he no friend, no loving mother near?

I have here given the birth, parentage, and premature decease of the 'Wanderings of Cain, a poem',—intreating, however, my Readers, not to think so meanly of my judgment as to suppose that I either regard or offer it as any excuse for the publication of the following fragment (and I may add, of one or two others in its neighbourhood) in its primitive crudity. But I should find still greater difficulty in forgiving myself were I to record pro taedio publico a set of petty mishaps and annoyances which I myself wish to forget. I must be content therefore with assuring the friendly Reader, that the less he attributes its appearance to the Author's will, choice, or judgment, the nearer to the truth he will be.

S. T. Coleridge (1828).