THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN
CANTO II
'A little further, O my father, yet a little further, and
we shall come into the open moonlight.' Their road was
through a forest of fir-trees; at its entrance the trees stood
at distances from each other, and the path was broad, and
the moonlight and the moonlight shadows reposed upon it, 5
and appeared quietly to inhabit that solitude. But soon the
path winded and became narrow; the sun at high noon
sometimes speckled, but never illumined it, and now it was
dark as a cavern.
'It is dark, O my father!' said Enos, 'but the path under [10]
our feet is smooth and soft, and we shall soon come out into
the open moonlight.'
'Lead on, my child!' said Cain; 'guide me, little child!'
And the innocent little child clasped a finger of the hand
which had murdered the righteous Abel, and he guided his 15
father. 'The fir branches drip upon thee, my son.' 'Yea,
pleasantly, father, for I ran fast and eagerly to bring thee
the pitcher and the cake, and my body is not yet cool. How
happy the squirrels are that feed on these fir-trees! they leap
from bough to bough, and the old squirrels play round their 20
young ones in the nest. I clomb a tree yesterday at noon,
O my father, that I might play with them, but they leaped
away from the branches, even to the slender twigs did they
leap, and in a moment I beheld them on another tree. Why,
O my father, would they not play with me? I would be good [25]
to them as thou art good to me: and I groaned to them
even as thou groanest when thou givest me to eat, and when
thou coverest me at evening, and as often as I stand at thy
knee and thine eyes look at me?' Then Cain stopped, and
stifling his groans he sank to the earth, and the child Enos 30
stood in the darkness beside him.
And Cain lifted up his voice and cried bitterly, and said,
'The Mighty One that persecuteth me is on this side and on
that; he pursueth my soul like the wind, like the sand-blast
he passeth through me; he is around me even as the air! 35
O that I might be utterly no more! I desire to die—yea,
the things that never had life, neither move they upon the
earth—behold! they seem precious to mine eyes. O that
a man might live without the breath of his nostrils. So
I might abide in darkness, and blackness, and an empty 40
space! Yea, I would lie down, I would not rise, neither
would I stir my limbs till I became as the rock in the den
of the lion, on which the young lion resteth his head whilst he
sleepeth. For the torrent that roareth far off hath a voice:
and the clouds in heaven look terribly on me; the Mighty One 45
who is against me speaketh in the wind of the cedar grove;
and in silence am I dried up.' Then Enos spake to his father,
'Arise, my father, arise, we are but a little way from the place
where I found the cake and the pitcher.' And Cain said,
'How knowest thou!' and the child answered:—'Behold the 50
bare rocks are a few of thy strides distant from the forest;
and while even now thou wert lifting up thy voice, I heard
the echo.' Then the child took hold of his father, as if he
would raise him: and Cain being faint and feeble rose slowly
on his knees and pressed himself against the trunk of a fir, 55
and stood upright and followed the child.
The path was dark till within three strides' length of its
termination, when it turned suddenly; the thick black trees
formed a low arch, and the moonlight appeared for a moment
like a dazzling portal. Enos ran before and stood in the open [60]
air; and when Cain, his father, emerged from the darkness,
the child was affrighted. For the mighty limbs of Cain were
wasted as by fire; his hair was as the matted curls on the
bison's forehead, and so glared his fierce and sullen eye
beneath: and the black abundant locks on either side, a rank 65
and tangled mass, were stained and scorched, as though the
grasp of a burning iron hand had striven to rend them; and his
countenance told in a strange and terrible language of agonies
that had been, and were, and were still to continue to be.
The scene around was desolate; as far as the eye could 70
reach it was desolate: the bare rocks faced each other, and
left a long and wide interval of thin white sand. You might
wander on and look round and round, and peep into the
crevices of the rocks and discover nothing that acknowledged
the influence of the seasons. There was no spring, no summer, 75
no autumn: and the winter's snow, that would have been
lovely, fell not on these hot rocks and scorching sands. Never
morning lark had poised himself over this desert; but the huge
serpent often hissed there beneath the talons of the vulture, and
the vulture screamed, his wings imprisoned within the coils of 80
the serpent. The pointed and shattered summits of the ridges
of the rocks made a rude mimicry of human concerns, and
seemed to prophecy mutely of things that then were not;
steeples, and battlements, and ships with naked masts. As far
from the wood as a boy might sling a pebble of the brook, there [85]
was one rock by itself at a small distance from the main ridge.
It had been precipitated there perhaps by the groan which the
Earth uttered when our first father fell. Before you approached,
it appeared to lie flat on the ground, but its base slanted from
its point, and between its point and the sands a tall man might [90]
stand upright. It was here that Enos had found the pitcher
and cake, and to this place he led his father. But ere they
had reached the rock they beheld a human shape: his back was
towards them, and they were advancing unperceived, when they
heard him smite his breast and cry aloud, 'Woe is me! woe is [95]
me! I must never die again, and yet I am perishing with
thirst and hunger.'
Pallid, as the reflection of the sheeted lightning on the
heavy-sailing night-cloud, became the face of Cain; but the
child Enos took hold of the shaggy skin, his father's robe, and 100
raised his eyes to his father, and listening whispered, 'Ere
yet I could speak, I am sure, O my father, that I heard that
voice. Have not I often said that I remembered a sweet voice?
O my father! this is it': and Cain trembled exceedingly.
The voice was sweet indeed, but it was thin and querulous, [105]
like that of a feeble slave in misery, who despairs altogether,
yet can not refrain himself from weeping and lamentation.
And, behold! Enos glided forward, and creeping softly round
the base of the rock, stood before the stranger, and looked up
into his face. And the Shape shrieked, and turned round, [110]
and Cain beheld him, that his limbs and his face were those
of his brother Abel whom he had killed! And Cain stood
like one who struggles in his sleep because of the exceeding
terribleness of a dream.
Thus as he stood in silence and darkness of soul, the 115
Shape fell at his feet, and embraced his knees, and cried
out with a bitter outcry, 'Thou eldest born of Adam, whom
Eve, my mother, brought forth, cease to torment me! I was
feeding my flocks in green pastures by the side of quiet rivers,
and thou killedst me; and now I am in misery.' Then Cain 120
closed his eyes, and hid them with his hands; and again he
opened his eyes, and looked around him, and said to Enos,
'What beholdest thou? Didst thou hear a voice, my son?'
'Yes, my father, I beheld a man in unclean garments, and
he uttered a sweet voice, full of lamentation.' Then Cain 125
raised up the Shape that was like Abel, and said:—'The
Creator of our father, who had respect unto thee, and unto
thy offering, wherefore hath he forsaken thee?' Then the
Shape shrieked a second time, and rent his garment, and
his naked skin was like the white sands beneath their feet; 130
and he shrieked yet a third time, and threw himself on his
face upon the sand that was black with the shadow of the
rock, and Cain and Enos sate beside him; the child by his
right hand, and Cain by his left. They were all three under
the rock, and within the shadow. The Shape that was like 135
Abel raised himself up, and spake to the child, 'I know where
the cold waters are, but I may not drink, wherefore didst
thou then take away my pitcher?' But Cain said, 'Didst
thou not find favour in the sight of the Lord thy God?'
The Shape answered, 'The Lord is God of the living only, 140
the dead have another God.' Then the child Enos lifted up
his eyes and prayed; but Cain rejoiced secretly in his heart.
'Wretched shall they be all the days of their mortal life,'
exclaimed the Shape, 'who sacrifice worthy and acceptable
sacrifices to the God of the dead; but after death their toil 145
ceaseth. Woe is me, for I was well beloved by the God of
the living, and cruel wert thou, O my brother, who didst
snatch me away from his power and his dominion.' Having
uttered these words, he rose suddenly, and fled over the sands:
and Cain said in his heart, 'The curse of the Lord is on me; 150
but who is the God of the dead?' and he ran after the Shape,
and the Shape fled shrieking over the sands, and the sands
rose like white mists behind the steps of Cain, but the feet
of him that was like Abel disturbed not the sands. He greatly
outrun Cain, and turning short, he wheeled round, and came 155
again to the rock where they had been sitting, and where Enos
still stood; and the child caught hold of his garment as he
passed by, and he fell upon the ground. And Cain stopped,
and beholding him not, said, 'he has passed into the dark
woods,' and he walked slowly back to the rocks; and when he [160]
reached it the child told him that he had caught hold of his
garment as he passed by, and that the man had fallen upon
the ground: and Cain once more sate beside him, and said,
'Abel, my brother, I would lament for thee, but that the spirit
within me is withered, and burnt up with extreme agony. 165
Now, I pray thee, by thy flocks, and by thy pastures, and
by the quiet rivers which thou lovedst, that thou tell me all
that thou knowest. Who is the God of the dead? where doth
he make his dwelling? what sacrifices are acceptable unto him?
for I have offered, but have not been received; I have prayed, [170]
and have not been heard; and how can I be afflicted more than
I already am?' The Shape arose and answered, 'O that thou
hadst had pity on me as I will have pity on thee. Follow me,
Son of Adam! and bring thy child with thee!'
And they three passed over the white sands between the [175]
rocks, silent as the shadows.
1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[285:1] The Wanderings of Cain in its present shape was first published in 1828: included in 1829, and (with the omission of that part of the Prefatory Note which follows the verses) in 1834. The verses ('Encinctured', &c.) were first published in the 'Conclusion' of Aids to Reflection, 1825, p. 383, with the following apologetic note:—'Will the Reader forgive me if I attempt at once to illustrate and relieve the subject ["the enthusiastic Mystics">[ by annexing the first stanza of the Poem, composed in the same year in which I wrote the Ancient Mariner and the first Book of Christabel.' The prose was first published without the verses or 'Prefatory Note' in the Bijou for 1828. [See Poems, 1893, Notes, p. 600.]
A rough draft of a continuation or alternative version of the Wanderings of Cain was found among Coleridge's papers. The greater portion of these fragmentary sheets was printed by the Editor, in the Athenaeum of January 27, 1894, p. 114. The introduction of 'alligators' and an 'immense meadow' help to fix the date of The Wanderings of Cain. The imagery is derived from William Bartram's Travels in Florida and Carolina, which Coleridge and Wordsworth studied in 1798. Mr. Hutchinson, who reprints (Lyrical Ballads of 1798, Notes, pp. 259-60) a selected passage from the MS. fragment, points out 'that Coleridge had for a time thought of shaping the poem as a narrative addressed by Cain to his wife'.
'He falls down in a trance—when he awakes he sees a luminous body coming before him. It stands before him an orb of fire. It goes on, he moves not. It returns to him again, again retires as if wishing him to follow it. It then goes on and he follows: they are led to near the bottom of the wild woods, brooks, forests etc. etc. The Fire gradually shapes itself, retaining its luminous appearance, into the lineaments of a man. A dialogue between the fiery shape and Cain, in which the being presses upon him the enormity of his guilt and that he must make some expiation to the true deity, who is a severe God, and persuades him to burn out his eyes. Cain opposes this idea, and says that God himself who had inflicted this punishment upon him, had done it because he neglected to make a proper use of his senses, etc. The evil spirit answers him that God is indeed a God of mercy, and that an example must be given to mankind, that this end will be answered by his terrible appearance, at the same time he will be gratified with the most delicious sights and feelings. Cain, over-persuaded, consents to do it, but wishes to go to the top of the rocks to take a farewell of the earth. His farewell speech concluding with an abrupt address to the promised redeemer, and he abandons the idea on which the being had accompanied him, and turning round to declare this to the being he sees him dancing from rock to rock in his former shape down those interminable precipices.
'Child affeared by his father's ravings, goes out to pluck the fruits in the moonlight wildness. Cain's soliloquy. Child returns with a pitcher of water and a cake. Cain wonders what kind of beings dwell in that place—whether any created since man or whether this world had any beings rescued from the Chaos, wandering like shipwrecked beings from another world etc.
'Midnight on the Euphrates. Cedars, palms, pines. Cain discovered sitting on the upper part of the ragged rock, where is cavern overlooking the Euphrates, the moon rising on the horizon. His soliloquy. The Beasts are out on the ramp—he hears the screams of a woman and children surrounded by tigers. Cain makes a soliloquy debating whether he shall save the woman. Cain advances, wishing death, and the tigers rush off. It proves to be Cain's wife with her two children, determined to follow her husband. She prevails upon him at last to tell his story. Cain's wife tells him that her son Enoch was placed suddenly by her side. Cain addresses all the elements to cease for a while to persecute him, while he tells his story. He begins with telling her that he had first after his leaving her found out a dwelling in the desart under a juniper tree etc., etc., how he meets in the desart a young man whom upon a nearer approach he perceives to be Abel, on whose countenance appears marks of the greatest misery . . . of another being who had power after this life, greater than Jehovah. He is going to offer sacrifices to this being, and persuades Cain to follow him—he comes to an immense gulph filled with water, whither they descend followed by alligators etc. They go till they come to an immense meadow so surrounded as to be inaccessible, and from its depth so vast that you could not see it from above. Abel offers sacrifice from the blood of his arm. A gleam of light illumines the meadow—the countenance of Abel becomes more beautiful, and his arms glistering—he then persuades Cain to offer sacrifice, for himself and his son Enoch by cutting his child's arm and letting the blood fall from it. Cain is about to do it when Abel himself in his angelic appearance, attended by Michael, is seen in the heavens, whence they sail slowly down. Abel addresses Cain with terror, warning him not to offer up his innocent child. The evil spirit throws off the countenance of Abel, assumes its own shape, flies off pursuing a flying battle with Michael. Abel carries off the child.'
LINENOTES:
[[12]]
moonlight. Ah, why dost thou groan so deeply? MS. Bijou, 1828.
[[25]]
with me? Is it because we are not so happy, as they? Is it because I groan sometimes even as thou groanest? Then Cain stopped, &c. MS. Bijou, 1828.
[[63-8]]
by fire: his hair was black, and matted into loathly curls, and his countenance was dark and wild, and told, &c. MS. Bijou, 1828.
[[87]]
by the terrible groan the Earth gave when, &c. MS. Bijou, 1828.
[[92-3]]
But ere they arrived there they beheld, MS. Bijou, 1828.
[[94]]
advancing] coming up MS. Bijou, 1828.
[[98-101]]
The face of Cain turned pale, but Enos said, 'Ere yet, &c. MS. Bijou, 1828.
[[108-9]]
Enos crept softly round the base of the rock and stood before MS. Bijou, 1828.
[[114-16]]
of a dream; and ere he had recovered himself from the tumult of his agitation, the Shape, &c. MS. Bijou, 1828.
[[160]]
and walked Bijou, 1828. rocks] rock MS.
[[170]]
but] and MS.
[[176]]
the] their MS.
TO ——[292:1]
I mix in life, and labour to seem free,
With common persons pleas'd and common things,
While every thought and action tends to thee,
And every impulse from thy influence springs.
? 1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[292:1] First published without title in Literary Remains, 1836, i. 280 (among other short pieces and fragments 'communicated by Mr. Gutch'). First collected, again without title, in P. and D. W., 1877-80.
LINENOTES:
[Title]] To —— 1893. The heading Ubi Thesaurus Ibi Cor was prefixed to the illustrated edition of The Poems of Coleridge, 1907.
THE BALLAD OF THE DARK LADIÉ[293:1]
A FRAGMENT
Beneath yon birch with silver bark,
And boughs so pendulous and fair,
The brook falls scatter'd down the rock:
And all is mossy there!
And there upon the moss she sits, 5
The Dark Ladié in silent pain;
The heavy tear is in her eye,
And drops and swells again.
Three times she sends her little page
Up the castled mountain's breast, 10
If he might find the Knight that wears
The Griffin for his crest.
The sun was sloping down the sky,
And she had linger'd there all day,
Counting moments, dreaming fears— 15
Oh wherefore can he stay?
She hears a rustling o'er the brook,
She sees far off a swinging bough!
'Tis He! 'Tis my betrothéd Knight!
Lord Falkland, it is Thou!' 20
She springs, she clasps him round the neck,
She sobs a thousand hopes and fears,
Her kisses glowing on his cheeks
She quenches with her tears.
* * * * *
'My friends with rude ungentle words 25
They scoff and bid me fly to thee!
O give me shelter in thy breast!
O shield and shelter me!
'My Henry, I have given thee much,
I gave what I can ne'er recall, 30
I gave my heart, I gave my peace,
O Heaven! I gave thee all.'
The Knight made answer to the Maid,
While to his heart he held her hand,
'Nine castles hath my noble sire, 35
None statelier in the land.
'The fairest one shall be my love's,
The fairest castle of the nine!
Wait only till the stars peep out,
The fairest shall be thine: 40
'Wait only till the hand of eve
Hath wholly closed yon western bars,
And through the dark we two will steal
Beneath the twinkling stars!'—
'The dark? the dark? No! not the dark? 45
The twinkling stars? How, Henry? How?'
O God! 'twas in the eye of noon
He pledged his sacred vow!
And in the eye of noon my love
Shall lead me from my mother's door, [50]
Sweet boys and girls all clothed in white
Strewing flowers before:
But first the nodding minstrels go
With music meet for lordly bowers,
The children next in snow-white vests, [55]
Strewing buds and flowers!
And then my love and I shall pace.
My jet black hair in pearly braids,
Between our comely bachelors
And blushing bridal maids. 60
* * * * *
1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[293:1] First published in 1834. 'In a manuscript list (undated) of the poems drawn up by Coleridge appear these items together: Love 96 lines . . . The Black Ladié 190 lines.' Note to P. W., 1893, p. 614. A MS. of the three last stanzas is extant. In Chapter XIV of the Biographia Literaria, 1817, ii. 3 Coleridge synchronizes the Dark Ladié (a poem which he was 'preparing' with the Christabel). It would seem probable that it belongs to the spring or early summer of 1798, and that it was anterior to Love, which was first published in the Morning Post, December 21, 1799, under the heading 'Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladié'. If the MS. List of Poems is the record of poems actually written, two-thirds of the Dark Ladié must have perished long before 1817, when Sibylline Leaves was passing through the press, and it was found necessary to swell the Contents with 'two School-boy Poems' and 'with a song modernized with some additions from one of our elder poets'.
LINENOTES:
[[53-6]]
And first the nodding Minstrels go
With music fit for lovely Bowers,
The children then in snowy robes,
Strewing Buds and Flowers.
MS. S. T. C.
[[57]]
pace] go MS. S. T. C.
KUBLA KHAN[295:1]:
Or, A Vision in a Dream. A Fragment.
The following fragment is here published at the request
of a poet of great and deserved celebrity [Lord Byron], and,
as far as the Author's own opinions are concerned, rather as
a psychological curiosity, than on the ground of any supposed
poetic merits. 5
In the summer of the year 1797[295:2], the Author, then in ill
health, had retired to a lonely farm-house between Porlock
and Linton, on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire.
In consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne
had been prescribed, from the effects of which he fell asleep 10
in his chair at the moment that he was reading the following
sentence, or words of the same substance, in 'Purchas's
Pilgrimage': 'Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace
to be built, and a stately garden thereunto. And thus ten
miles of fertile ground were inclosed with a wall.'[296:1] The
Author continued for about three hours in a profound sleep,
at least of the external senses, during which time he has the
most vivid confidence, that he could not have composed less
than from two to three hundred lines; if that indeed can
be called composition in which all the images rose up before 20
him as things, with a parallel production of the correspondent
expressions, without any sensation or consciousness of effort.
On awaking he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection
of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly
and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At
this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on
business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour,
and on his return to his room, found, to his no small surprise
and mortification, that though he still retained some vague
and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, 30
with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and
images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the
surface of a stream into which a stone has been cast, but, alas!
without the after restoration of the latter!
Then all the charm
Is broken—all that phantom-world so fair
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread,
And each mis-shape['s] the other. Stay awhile,
Poor youth! who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes—
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon 40
The visions will return! And lo, he stays,
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms
Come trembling back, unite, and now once more
The pool becomes a mirror.
[From The Picture; or, the Lover's Resolution, II. 91-100.]
Yet from the still surviving recollections in his mind, the
Author has frequently purposed to finish for himself what had
been originally, as it were, given to him. Σαμερον αδιον ασω[297:1]
[Αὔριον ἅδιον ἄσω 1834]: but the to-morrow is yet to come.
As a contrast to this vision, I have annexed a fragment of a
very different character, describing with equal fidelity the 50
dream of pain and disease.[297:2]
KUBLA KHAN
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea. [5]
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills, [10]
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted [15]
By woman wailing for her demon-lover![297:3]
[297:4]And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 20
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 25
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war! 30
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device, 35
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice![298:1]
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played, 40
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long, 45
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice![298:2]
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair! [50]
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[295:1] First published together with Christabel and The Pains of Sleep, 1816: included in 1828, 1829, and 1834.
[295:2] There can be little doubt that Coleridge should have written 'the summer of 1798'. In an unpublished MS. note dated November 3, 1810, he connects the retirement between 'Linton and Porlock' and a recourse to opium with his quarrel with Charles Lloyd, and consequent distress of mind. That quarrel was at its height in May 1798. He alludes to distress of mind arising from 'calumny and ingratitude from men who have been fostered in the bosom of my confidence' in a letter to J. P. Estlin, dated May 14, 1798; and, in a letter to Charles Lamb, dated [Spring] 1798, he enlarges on his quarrel with Lloyd and quotes from Lloyd's novel of Edmund Oliver which was published in 1798. See Letters of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1895, i. 245, note 1. I discovered and read for the first time the unpublished note of November 3, 1810, whilst the edition of 1893 was in the press, and in a footnote to p. xlii of his Introduction the editor, J. D. Campbell, explains that it is too late to alter the position and date of Kubla Khan, but accepts the later date (May, 1798) on the evidence of the MS. note.
[296:1] 'In Xamdu did Cublai Can build a stately Palace, encompassing sixteene miles of plaine ground with a wall, wherein are fertile Meddowes, pleasant Springs, delightfull Streames, and all sorts of beasts of chase and game, and in the middest thereof a sumptuous house of pleasure.'—Purchas his Pilgrimage: Lond. fol. 1626, Bk. IV, chap. xiii, p. 418.
[297:1] The quotation is from Theocritus, i. 145:—ἐς ὕστερον ἅδιον ᾀσῶ.
[297:2] The Pains of Sleep.
[297:3] And woman wailing for her Demon Lover. Motto to Byron's Heaven and Earth, published in The Liberal, No. II, January 1, 1823.
[297:4] With lines 17-24 compare William Bartram's description of the 'Alligator-Hole.' Travels in North and South Carolina, 1794, pp. 286-8.
[298:1] Compare Thomas Maurice's History of Hindostan, 1795, i. 107. The reference is supplied by Coleridge in the Gutch Memorandum Note Book (B. M. Add. MSS., No. 27, 901), p. 47: 'In a cave in the mountains of Cashmere an Image of Ice,' &c.
[298:2] In her 'Lines to S. T. Coleridge, Esq.,' Mrs. Robinson (Perdita) writes:—
'I'll mark thy "sunny domes" and view
Thy "caves of ice", and "fields of dew".'
It is possible that she had seen a MS. copy of Kubla Khan containing these variants from the text.
LINENOTES:
[Title] of Introduction:—Of the Fragment of Kubla Khan 1816, 1828, 1829.
[[1-5]]
om. 1834.
[[8]]
there] here S. L. 1828, 1829.
[[11]]
Enfolding] And folding 1816. The word 'Enfolding' is a pencil emendation in David Hinves's copy of Christabel. ? by S. T. C.
[[19]]
In the early copies of 1893 this line was accidentally omitted.
[[54]]
drunk] drank 1816, 1828, 1829.
RECANTATION[299:1]
ILLUSTRATED IN THE STORY OF THE MAD OX
I
An Ox, long fed with musty hay,
And work'd with yoke and chain,
Was turn'd out on an April day,
When fields are in their best array,
And growing grasses sparkle gay [5]
At once with Sun and rain.
II
The grass was fine, the Sun was bright—
With truth I may aver it;
The ox was glad, as well, he might,
Thought a green meadow no bad sight, 10
And frisk'd,—to shew his huge delight,
Much like a beast of spirit.
III
'Stop, neighbours, stop, why these alarms?
The ox is only glad!'
But still they pour from cots and farms— [15]
'Halloo!' the parish is up in arms,
(A hoaxing-hunt has always charms)
'Halloo! the ox is mad.'
The frighted beast scamper'd about—
Plunge! through the hedge he drove: [20]
The mob pursue with hideous rout,
A bull-dog fastens on his snout;
'He gores the dog! his tongue hangs out!
He's mad, he's mad, by Jove!'
V
'Stop, neighbours, stop!' aloud did call [25]
A sage of sober hue.
But all at once, on him they fall,
And women squeak and children squall,
'What? would you have him toss us all?
And dam'me, who are you?' [30]
VI
Oh! hapless sage! his ears they stun,
And curse him o'er and o'er!
'You bloody-minded dog! (cries one,)
To slit your windpipe were good fun,
'Od blast you for an impious son[300:1] [35]
Of a Presbyterian wh—re!'
VII
'You'd have him gore the Parish-priest,
And run against the altar!
You fiend!' the sage his warnings ceas'd,
And north and south, and west and east, [40]
Halloo! they follow the poor beast,
Mat, Dick, Tom, Bob and Walter.
VIII
Old Lewis ('twas his evil day),
Stood trembling in his shoes;
The ox was his—what cou'd he say?
His legs were stiffen'd with dismay, [45]
The ox ran o'er him mid the fray,
And gave him his death's bruise.
IX
The frighted beast ran on—(but here,
No tale, (tho' in print, more true is) [50]
My Muse stops short in mid career—
Nay, gentle Reader, do not sneer!
I cannot chuse but drop a tear,
A tear for good old Lewis!)
X
The frighted beast ran through the town, [55]
All follow'd, boy and dad,
Bull-dog, parson, shopman, clown:
The publicans rush'd from the Crown,
'Halloo! hamstring him! cut him down!'
They drove the poor Ox mad. [60]
XI
Should you a Rat to madness tease
Why ev'n a Rat may plague you:
There's no Philosopher but sees
That Rage and Fear are one disease—
Though that may burn, and this may freeze, [65]
They're both alike the Ague.
XII
And so this Ox, in frantic mood,
Fac'd round like any Bull!
The mob turn'd tail, and he pursued,
Till they with heat and fright were stew'd, [70]
And not a chick of all this brood
But had his belly full!
Old Nick's astride the beast, 'tis clear!
Old Nicholas, to a tittle!
But all agree he'd disappear, [75]
Would but the Parson venture near,
And through his teeth,[302:1] right o'er the steer,
Squirt out some fasting-spittle.
XIV
Achilles was a warrior fleet,
The Trojans he could worry: [80]
Our Parson too was swift of feet,
But shew'd it chiefly in retreat:
The victor Ox scour'd down the street,
The mob fled hurry-scurry.
XV
Through gardens, lanes and fields new-plough'd, 85
Through his hedge, and through her hedge,
He plung'd and toss'd and bellow'd loud—
Till in his madness he grew proud
To see this helter-skelter crowd
That had more wrath than courage! [90]
XVI
Alas! to mend the breaches wide
He made for these poor ninnies,
They all must work, whate'er betide,
Both days and months, and pay beside
(Sad news for Av'rice and for Pride), [95]
A sight of golden guineas!
But here once more to view did pop
The man that kept his senses—
And now he cried,—'Stop, neighbours, stop!
The Ox is mad! I would not swop, [100]
No! not a school-boy's farthing top
For all the parish-fences.'
XVIII
'The Ox is mad! Ho! Dick, Bob, Mat!
'What means this coward fuss?
Ho! stretch this rope across the plat— [105]
'Twill trip him up—or if not that,
Why, dam'me! we must lay him flat—
See! here's my blunderbuss.'
XIX
'A lying dog! just now he said
The Ox was only glad— 110
Let's break his Presbyterian head!'
'Hush!' quoth the sage, 'you've been misled;
No quarrels now! let's all make head,
You drove the poor Ox mad.'
XX
As thus I sat, in careless chat, [115]
With the morning's wet newspaper,
In eager haste, without his hat,
As blind and blund'ring as a bat,
In came that fierce Aristocrat,
Our pursy woollen-draper. [120]
XXI
And so my Muse per force drew bit;
And in he rush'd and panted!
'Well, have you heard?' No, not a whit.
'What, ha'nt you heard?' Come, out with it!
'That Tierney votes for Mister Pitt, [125]
And Sheridan's recanted!'
1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[299:1] First published in the Morning Post for July 30, 1798, with the following title and introduction:—'Original Poetry. A Tale. The following amusing Tale gives a very humourous description of the French Revolution, which is represented as an Ox': included in Annual Anthology, 1800, and Sibylline Leaves, 1817; reprinted in Essays on His Own Times, 1880, iii 963-9. First collected in P. and D. W., 1877-80. In a copy of the Annual Anthology of 1800 Coleridge writes over against the heading of this poem, 'Written when fears were entertained of an invasion, and Mr. Sheridan and Mr. Tierney were absurdly represented as having recanted because to [The French Revolution (?)] in its origin they, [having been favourable, changed their opinion when the Revolutionists became unfaithful to their principles (?)].' See Note to P. W., 1893.
The text is that of Sibylline Leaves and Essays on his Own Times.
[300:1] One of the many fine words which the most uneducated had about this time a constant opportunity of acquiring, from the sermons in the pulpit and the proclamations on [in S. L.] the —— corners. An. Anth., S. L.
[302:1] According to the common superstition there are two ways of fighting with the Devil. You may cut him in half with a straw, or he will vanish if you spit over his horns with a fasting spittle. Note by S. T. C. in M. P. According to the superstition of the West-Countries, if you meet the Devil, you may either cut him in half with a straw, or force him to disappear by spitting over his horns. An. Anth., S. L.
LINENOTES:
[[3]]
turn'd out] loosen'd M. P.
[[9]]
ox] beast M. P.
[[19]]
beast] ox M. P.
[[22]]
fastens] fasten'd M. P.
[[27]]
'You cruel dog!' at once they bawl. M. P.
[[31]]
Oh] Ah! M. P., An. Anth.
[[35-6]]
om. Essays, &c.
[[38]]
run] drive M. P.
[[39]]
fiend] rogue M. P.
[[42]]
Mat, Tom, Bob, Dick M. P.
[[49]]
The baited ox drove on M. P., An. Anth.
[[50]]
No . . . print] The Gospel scarce M. P., An. Anth.
[[53]]
cannot] could M. P.
[[55]]
The ox drove on, right through the town M. P.
[[62]]
may] might M. P., An. Anth.
[[68]]
any] a mad M. P.
[[70]]
heat and fright] flight and fear M. P., An. Anth.
[[71]]
this] the M. P.
[[73]]
beast] ox M. P.
[[75]]
agree] agreed M. P.
[[83]]
scour'd] drove M. P.
[[91]]
Alas] Alack M. P.
[[99]]
cried] bawl'd M. P.
[[103]]
Tom! Walter! Mat! M. P.
[[109]]
lying] bare-faced M. P.
[[115]]
But lo! to interrupt my chat M. P.
[[119]]
In came] In rush'd M. P.
[[122]]
And he rush'd in M. P.
[[125-6]]
That Tierney's wounded Mister Pitt,
And his fine tongue enchanted!
M. P.
HEXAMETERS[304:1]
William, my teacher, my friend! dear William and dear Dorothea!
Smooth out the folds of my letter, and place it on desk or on table;
Place it on table or desk; and your right hands loosely half-closing,[304:2]
Gently sustain them in air, and extending the digit didactic,
Rest it a moment on each of the forks of the five-forkéd left hand, 5
Twice on the breadth of the thumb, and once on the tip of each finger;
Read with a nod of the head in a humouring recitativo;
And, as I live, you will see my hexameters hopping before you.
This is a galloping measure; a hop, and a trot, and a gallop!
All my hexameters fly, like stags pursued by the stag-hounds, 10
Breathless and panting, and ready to drop, yet flying still onwards,[304:3]
I would full fain pull in my hard-mouthed runaway hunter;
But our English Spondeans are clumsy yet impotent curb-reins;
And so to make him go slowly, no way left have I but to lame him.
William, my head and my heart! dear Poet that feelest and thinkest! 15
Dorothy, eager of soul, my most affectionate sister!
Many a mile, O! many a wearisome mile are ye distant,
Long, long comfortless roads, with no one eye that doth know us.
O! it is all too far to send you mockeries idle:
Yea, and I feel it not right! But O! my friends, my beloved! 20
Feverish and wakeful I lie,—I am weary of feeling and thinking.
Every thought is worn down, I am weary yet cannot be vacant.
Five long hours have I tossed, rheumatic heats, dry and flushing,
Gnawing behind in my head, and wandering and throbbing about me,
Busy and tiresome, my friends, as the beat of the boding night-spider.[305:1] [25]
I forget the beginning of the line:
. . . my eyes are a burthen,
Now unwillingly closed, now open and aching with darkness.
O! what a life is the eye! what a strange and inscrutable essence!
Him that is utterly blind, nor glimpses the fire that warms him;
Him that never beheld the swelling breast of his mother; [30]
Him that smiled in his gladness as a babe that smiles in its slumber;
Even for him it exists, it moves and stirs in its prison;
Lives with a separate life, and 'Is it a Spirit?' he murmurs:
'Sure it has thoughts of its own, and to see is only a language.'
There was a great deal more, which I have forgotten. . . . The last line which I wrote, I remember, and write it for the truth of the sentiment, scarcely less true in company than in pain and solitude:—
William, my head and my heart! dear William and dear Dorothea! 35
You have all in each other; but I am lonely, and want you!
1798-9.
FOOTNOTES:
[304:1] First published in Memoirs of W. Wordsworth, 1851, i. 139-41: reprinted in Life by Prof. Knight, 1889, i. 185. First collected as a whole in P. W. [ed. T. Ashe], 1885. lines 30-6, 'O what a life is the eye', &c., were first published in Friendship's Offering, and are included in P. W., 1834. They were reprinted by Cottle in E. R., 1837, i. 226. The 'Hexameters' were sent in a letter, written in the winter of 1798-9 from Ratzeburg to the Wordsworths at Goslar.
[304:2] False metre. S. T. C.
[304:3] 'Still flying onwards' were perhaps better. S. T. C.
[305:1] False metre. S. T. C.
LINENOTES:
[[28]]
strange] fine Letter, 1798-9, Cottle, 1837.
[[29]]
Him] He Cottle, 1837.
[[30]]
Him] He Cottle, 1837.
[[31]]
Him that ne'er smiled at the bosom as babe Letter, 1798-9: He that smiled at the bosom, the babe Cottle, 1837.
[[32]]
Even to him it exists, it stirs and moves Letter, 1798-9: Even to him it exists, it moves and stirs Cottle, 1837.
[[33]]
a Spirit] the Spirit Letter, 1798-9.
[[34]]
a] its Letter, 1798-9.
TRANSLATION OF A PASSAGE IN OTTFRIED'S
METRICAL PARAPHRASE OF THE GOSPEL
[This paraphrase, written about the time of Charlemagne, is by no means deficient in occasional passages of considerable poetic merit. There is a flow and a tender enthusiasm in the following lines which even in the translation will not, I flatter myself, fail to interest the reader. Ottfried is describing the circumstances immediately following the birth of our Lord. Most interesting is it to consider the effect when the feelings are wrought above the natural pitch by the belief of something mysterious, while all the images are purely natural. Then it is that religion and poetry strike deepest. Biog. Lit., 1817, i. 203-4.[306:1]]
She gave with joy her virgin breast;
She hid it not, she bared the breast
Which suckled that divinest babe!
Blessed, blessed were the breasts
Which the Saviour infant kiss'd; [5]
And blessed, blessed was the mother
Who wrapp'd his limbs in swaddling clothes,
Singing placed him on her lap,
Hung o'er him with her looks of love,
And soothed him with a lulling motion. 10
Blessed! for she shelter'd him
From the damp and chilling air;
Blessed, blessed! for she lay
With such a babe in one blest bed,
Close as babes and mothers lie! 15
Blessed, blessed evermore,
With her virgin lips she kiss'd,
With her arms, and to her breast,
She embraced the babe divine,
Her babe divine the virgin mother! 20
There lives not on this ring of earth
A mortal that can sing her praise.
Mighty mother, virgin pure,
In the darkness and the night
For us she bore the heavenly Lord! 25
? 1799.
FOOTNOTES:
[306:1] First published as a footnote to Chapter X of the Biographia Literaria (ed. 1817, i. 203-4). First collected in 1863 (Appendix, pp. 401-2). The translation is from Otfridi Evang., lib. i, cap. xi, ll. 73-108 (included in Schilter's Thesaurus Antiquitatum Teutonicarum, pp. 50-1, Biog. Lit., 1847, i. 213). Otfrid, 'a monk at Weissenburg in Elsass', composed his Evangelienbuch about 870 a.d. (Note by J. Shawcross, Biog. Lit., 1907, ii. 259). As Coleridge says that 'he read through Ottfried's metrical paraphrase of the Gospel' when he was at Göttingen, it may be assumed that the translation was made in 1799.
LINENOTES:
[[5]]
Saviour infant] infant Saviour 1863.
CATULLIAN HENDECASYLLABLES[307:1]
Hear, my belovéd, an old Milesian story!—
High, and embosom'd in congregated laurels,
Glimmer'd a temple upon a breezy headland;
In the dim distance amid the skiey billows
Rose a fair island; the god of flocks had blest it. [5]
From the far shores of the bleat-resounding island
Oft by the moonlight a little boat came floating,
Came to the sea-cave beneath the breezy headland,
Where amid myrtles a pathway stole in mazes
Up to the groves of the high embosom'd temple. 10
There in a thicket of dedicated roses,
Oft did a priestess, as lovely as a vision,
Pouring her soul to the son of Cytherea,
Pray him to hover around the slight canoe-boat,
And with invisible pilotage to guide it [15]
Over the dusk wave, until the nightly sailor
Shivering with ecstasy sank upon her bosom.
? 1799.
FOOTNOTES:
[307:1] First published in 1834. These lines, which are not 'Hendecasyllables', are a translation of part of Friedrich von Matthisson's Milesisches Mährchen. For the original see Note to Poems, 1852, and Appendices of this edition. There is no evidence as to the date of composition. The emendations in lines 5 and 6 were first printed in P. W., 1893.
LINENOTES:
[[5]]
blest] plac'd 1834, 1844, 1852.
[[6]]
bleat-resounding] bleak-resounding 1834, 1852.
[[16]]
nightly] mighty 1834, 1844.
THE HOMERIC HEXAMETER[307:2]
DESCRIBED AND EXEMPLIFIED
Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows,
Nothing before and nothing behind but the sky and the ocean.
? 1799.
FOOTNOTES:
[307:2] First published (together with the 'Ovidian Elegiac Metre', &c.) in Friendship's Offering, 1834: included in P. W., 1834. An acknowledgement that these 'experiments in metre' are translations from Schiller was first made in a Note to Poems, 1844, p. 371. The originals were given on p. 372. See Appendices of this edition. There is no evidence as to the date of composition.
