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Title: The Complete Poetical Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Vol I (of II)
Author: Coleridge, Samuel Taylor, 1772-1834
Language: English
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Copyright Status: Not copyrighted in the United States. If you live elsewhere check the laws of your country before downloading this ebook. See comments about copyright issues at end of book.

*** Start of this Doctrine Publishing Corporation Digital Book "The Complete Poetical Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge - Vol I (of II)" ***

This book is indexed by ISYS Web Indexing system to allow the reader find any word or number within the document.

Transcriber's Notes: Words surrounded by _underscores_ are in italics in
the original. Characters superscripted in the original are enclosed in

In this text, the following symbols are used:

  ¯ indicates a macron
  ˘ indicates a breve

Some words and phrases have a line drawn through them in the original.
These struck out words are enclosed in brackets with asterisks like

  [*these words are struck through*]

Other Transcriber's Notes follow the text.










M.A., HON. F.R.S.L.






The aim and purport of this edition of the _Poetical Works_ of Samuel
Taylor Coleridge is to provide the general reader with an authoritative
list of the poems and dramas hitherto published, and at the same time to
furnish the student with an exhaustive summary of various readings
derived from published and unpublished sources, viz. (1) the successive
editions issued by the author, (2) holograph MSS., or (3) contemporary
transcriptions. Occasion has been taken to include in the Text and
Appendices a considerable number of poems, fragments, metrical
experiments and first drafts of poems now published for the first time
from MSS. in the British Museum, from Coleridge's Notebooks, and from
MSS. in the possession of private collectors.

The text of the poems and dramas follows that of the last edition of the
_Poetical Works_ published in the author's lifetime--the three-volume
edition issued by Pickering in the spring and summer of 1834.

I have adopted the text of 1834 in preference to that of 1829, which was
selected by James Dykes Campbell for his monumental edition of 1893. I
should have deferred to his authority but for the existence of
conclusive proof that, here and there, Coleridge altered and emended the
text of 1829, with a view to the forthcoming edition of 1834. In the
Preface to the 'new edition' of 1852, the editors maintain that the
three-volume edition of 1828 (a mistake for 1829) was the last upon
which Coleridge was 'able to bestow personal care and attention', while
that of 1834 was 'arranged mainly if not entirely at the discretion of
his latest editor, H. N. Coleridge'. This, no doubt, was perfectly true
with regard to the choice and arrangement of the poems, and the labour
of seeing the three volumes through the press; but the fact remains that
the text of 1829 differs from that of 1834, and that Coleridge himself,
and not his 'latest editor', was responsible for that difference.

I have in my possession the proof of the first page of the 'Destiny of
Nations' as it appeared in 1828 and 1829. Line 5 ran thus: 'The Will,
the Word, the Breath, the Living God.' This line is erased and line 5
of 1834 substituted: 'To the Will Absolute, the One, the Good' and line
6, 'The I AM, the Word, the Life, the Living God,' is added, and, in
1834, appeared for the first time. Moreover, in the 'Songs of the
Pixies', lines 9, 11, 12, 15, 16, as printed in 1834, differ from the
readings of 1829 and all previous editions. Again, in 'Christabel' lines
6, 7 as printed in 1834 differ from the versions of 1828, 1829, and
revert to the original reading of the MSS. and the First Edition. It is
inconceivable that in Coleridge's lifetime and while his pen was still
busy, his nephew should have meddled with, or remodelled, the master's

The poems have been printed, as far as possible, in chronological order,
but when no MS. is extant, or when the MS. authority is a first draft
embodied in a notebook, the exact date can only be arrived at by a
balance of probabilities. The present edition includes all poems and
fragments published for the first time in 1893. Many of these were
excerpts from the Notebooks, collected, transcribed, and dated by
myself. Some of the fragments (_vide post_, p. 996, n. 1) I have since
discovered are not original compositions, but were selected passages
from elder poets--amongst them Cartwright's lines, entitled 'The Second
Birth', which are printed on p. 362 of the text; but for their insertion
in the edition of 1893, for a few misreadings of the MSS., and for their
approximate date, I was mainly responsible.

In preparing the textual and bibliographical notes which are now printed
as footnotes to the poems I was constantly indebted for information and
suggestions to the Notes to the Poems (pp. 561-654) in the edition of
1893. I have taken nothing for granted, but I have followed, for the
most part, where Dykes Campbell led, and if I differ from his
conclusions or have been able to supply fresh information, it is because
fresh information based on fresh material was at my disposal.

No apology is needed for publishing a collation of the text of
Coleridge's Poems with that of earlier editions or with the MSS. of
first drafts and alternative versions. The first to attempt anything of
the kind was Richard Herne Shepherd, the learned and accurate editor of
the _Poetical Works_ in four volumes, issued by Basil Montagu Pickering
in 1877. Important variants are recorded by Mr. Campbell in his Notes to
the edition of 1893; and in a posthumous volume, edited by Mr. Hale
White in 1899 (_Coleridge's Poems_, &c.), the corrected parts of
'Religious Musings', the MSS. of 'Lewti', the 'Introduction to the Dark
Ladié', and other poems are reproduced in facsimile. Few poets have
altered the text of their poems so often, and so often for the better,
as Coleridge. He has been blamed for 'writing so little', for deserting
poetry for metaphysics and theology; he has been upbraided for winning
only to lose the 'prize of his high calling'. Sir Walter Scott, one of
his kindlier censors, rebukes him for 'the caprice and indolence with
which he has thrown from him, as if in mere wantonness, those unfinished
scraps of poetry, which like the Torso of antiquity defy the skill of
his poetical brethren to complete them'. But whatever may be said for or
against Coleridge as an 'inventor of harmonies', neither the fineness of
his self-criticism nor the laborious diligence which he expended on
perfecting his inventions can be gainsaid. His erasures and emendations
are not only a lesson in the art of poetry, not only a record of
poetical growth and development, but they discover and reveal the hidden
springs, the thoughts and passions of the artificer.

But if this be true of a stanza, a line, a word here or there, inserted
as an afterthought, is there use or sense in printing a number of
trifling or, apparently, accidental variants? Might not a choice have
been made, and the jots and tittles ignored or suppressed?

My plea is that it is difficult if not impossible to draw a line above
which a variant is important and below which it is negligible; that, to
use a word of the poet's own coining, his emendations are rarely if ever
'lightheartednesses'; and that if a collation of the printed text with
MSS. is worth studying at all the one must be as decipherable as the
other. Facsimiles are rare and costly productions, and an exhaustive
table of variants is the nearest approach to a substitute. Many, I know,
are the shortcomings, too many, I fear, are the errors in the footnotes
to this volume, but now, for the first time, the MSS. of Coleridge's
poems which are known to be extant are in a manner reproduced and made
available for study and research.

Six poems of some length are now printed and included in the text of the
poems for the first time.

The first, 'Easter Holidays' (p. 1), is unquestionably a 'School-boy
Poem', and was written some months before the author had completed his
fifteenth year. It tends to throw doubt on the alleged date of 'Time,
Real and Imaginary'.

The second,'An Inscription for a Seat,' &c. (p. 349), was first
published in the _Morning Post_, on October 21, 1800, Coleridge's
twenty-eighth birthday. It remains an open question whether it was
written by Coleridge or by Wordsworth. Both were contributors to the
_Morning Post_. Both wrote 'Inscriptions'. Both had a hand in making the
'seat'. Neither claimed or republished the poem. It favours or, rather,
parodies the style and sentiments now of one and now of the other.

The third, 'The Rash Conjurer' (p. 399), must have been read by H. N.
Coleridge, who included the last seven lines, the 'Epilogue', in the
first volume of _Literary Remains_, published in 1836. I presume that,
even as a fantasia, the subject was regarded as too extravagant, and, it
may be, too coarsely worded for publication. It was no doubt in the
first instance a 'metrical experiment', but it is to be interpreted
allegorically. The 'Rash Conjurer', the _âme damnée_, is the adept in
the black magic of metaphysics. But for that he might have been like his
brothers, a 'Devonshire Christian'.

The fourth, 'The Madman and the Lethargist' (p. 414), is an expansion of
an epigram in the Greek Anthology. It is possible that it was written in
Germany in 1799, and is contemporary with the epigrams published in the
_Morning Post_ in 1802, for the Greek original is quoted by Lessing in a
critical excursus on the nature of an epigram.

The fifth, 'Faith, Hope, and Charity' (p. 427), was translated from the
Italian of Guarini at Calne, in 1815.

Of the sixth, 'The Delinquent Travellers' (p. 443), I know nothing save
that the MS., a first copy, is in Coleridge's handwriting. It was
probably written for and may have been published in a newspaper or
periodical. It was certainly written at Highgate.

Of the epigrams and _jeux d'esprit_ eight are now published for the
first time, and of the fragments from various sources twenty-seven have
been added to those published in 1893.

Of the first drafts and alternative versions of well-known poems
thirteen are now printed for the first time. Two versions of 'The Eolian
Harp', preserved in the Library of Rugby School, and the dramatic
fragment entitled 'The Triumph of Loyalty', are of especial interest and

An exact reproduction of the text of the 'Ancyent Marinere' as printed
in an early copy of the _Lyrical Ballads_ of 1798 which belonged to S.
T. Coleridge, and a collation of the text of the 'Introduction to the
Tale of the Dark Ladié', as published in the _Morning Post_, Dec. 21,
1799, with two MSS. preserved in the British Museum, are included in
Appendix No. I.

The text of the 'Allegoric Vision' has been collated with the original
MS. and with the texts of 1817 and 1829.

A section has been devoted to 'Metrical Experiments'; eleven out of
thirteen are now published for the first time. A few critical notes by
Professor Saintsbury are, with his kind permission, appended to the

Numerous poems and fragments of poems first saw the light in 1893; and
now again, in 1912, a second batch of newly-discovered, forgotten, or
purposely omitted MSS. has been collected for publication. It may
reasonably be asked if the tale is told, or if any MSS. have been
retained for publication at a future date. I cannot answer for fresh
discoveries of poems already published in newspapers and periodicals, or
of MSS. in private collections, but I can vouch for a final issue of all
poems and fragments of poems included in the collection of Notebooks and
unassorted MSS. which belonged to Coleridge at his death and were
bequeathed by him to his literary executor, Joseph Henry Green. Nothing
remains which if published in days to come could leave the present issue

A bibliography of the successive editions of poems and dramas published
by Coleridge himself and of the principal collected and selected
editions which have been published since 1834 follows the Appendices to
this volume. The actual record is long and intricate, but the history of
the gradual accretions may be summed up in a few sentences. 'The Fall of
Robespierre' was published in 1795. A first edition, entitled 'Poems on
Various Subjects', was published in 1796. Second and third editions,
with additions and subtractions, followed in 1797 and 1803. Two poems,
'The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere' and 'The Nightingale, a Conversation
Poem', and two extracts from an unpublished drama ('Osorio') were
included in the _Lyrical Ballads_ of 1798. A quarto pamphlet containing
three poems, 'Fears in Solitude,' 'France: An Ode,' 'Frost at Midnight,'
was issued in the same year. 'Love' was first published in the second
edition of the _Lyrical Ballads_, 1800. 'The Three Graves,' 'A Hymn
before Sunrise, &c.,' and 'Idoloclastes Satyrane', were included in the
_Friend_ (Sept.-Nov., 1809). 'Christabel,' 'Kubla Khan,' and 'The Pains
of Sleep' were published by themselves in 1816. _Sibylline Leaves_,
which appeared in 1817 and was described as 'A Collection of Poems',
included the contents of the editions of 1797 and 1803, the poems
published in the _Lyrical Ballads_ of 1798, 1800, and the quarto
pamphlet of 1798, but excluded the contents of the first edition (except
the 'Eolian Harp'), 'Christabel', 'Kubla Khan', and 'The Pains of
Sleep'. The first collected edition of the _Poetical Works_ (which
included a selection of the poems published in the three first editions,
a reissue of _Sibylline Leaves_, the 'Wanderings of Cain', a few poems
recently contributed to periodicals, and the following dramas--the
translation of Schiller's 'Piccolomini', published in 1800, 'Remorse'--a
revised version of 'Osorio'--published in 1813, and 'Zapolya', published
in 1817) was issued in three volumes in 1828. A second collected edition
in three volumes, a reissue of 1828, with an amended text and the
addition of 'The Improvisatore' and 'The Garden of Boccaccio', followed
in 1829.

Finally, in 1834, there was a reissue in three volumes of the contents
of 1829 with numerous additional poems then published or collected for
the first time. The first volume contained twenty-six juvenilia printed
from letters and MS. copybooks which had been preserved by the poet's
family, and the second volume some forty 'Miscellaneous Poems',
extracted from the Notebooks or reprinted from newspapers. The most
important additions were 'Alice du Clos', then first published from MS.,
'The Knight's Tomb' and the 'Epitaph'. 'Love, Hope, and Patience in
Education', which had appeared in the _Keepsake_ of 1830, was printed on
the last page of the third volume.

After Coleridge's death the first attempt to gather up the fragments of
his poetry was made by his 'latest editor' H. N. Coleridge in 1836. The
first volume of _Literary Remains_ contains the first reprint of 'The
Fall of Robespierre', some thirty-six poems collected from the
_Watchman_, the _Morning Post_, &c., and a selection of fragments then
first printed from a MS. Notebook, now known as 'the Gutch Memorandum

H. N. Coleridge died in 1843, and in 1844 his widow prepared a
one-volume edition of the Poems, which was published by Pickering.
Eleven juvenilia which had first appeared in 1834 were omitted and the
poems first collected in _Literary Remains_ were for the first time
included in the text. In 1850 Mrs. H. N. Coleridge included in the third
volume of the _Essays on His Own Times_ six poems and numerous epigrams
and _jeux d'esprit_ which had appeared in the _Morning Post_ and
_Courier_. This was the first reprint of the Epigrams as a whole. A 'new
edition' of the Poems which she had prepared in the last year of her
life was published immediately after her death (May, 1852) by Edward
Moxon. It was based on the one-volume edition of 1844, with unimportant
omissions and additions; only one poem, 'The Hymn', was published for
the first time from MS.

In the same year (1852) the Dramatic Works (not including 'The Fall of
Robespierre'), edited by Derwent Coleridge, were published in a separate

In 1863 and 1870 the 'new edition' of 1852 was reissued by Derwent
Coleridge with an appendix containing thirteen poems collected for the
first time in 1863. The reissue of 1870 contained a reprint of the first
edition of the 'Ancient Mariner'.

The first edition of the _Poetical Works_, based on all previous
editions, and including the contents of _Literary Remains_ (vol. i) and
of _Essays on His Own Times_ (vol. iii), was issued by Basil Montagu
Pickering in four volumes in 1877. Many poems (including 'Remorse') were
collated for the first time with the text of previous editions and
newspaper versions by the editor, Richard Herne Shepherd. The four
volumes (with a Supplement to vol. ii) were reissued by Messrs.
Macmillan in 1880.

Finally, in the one-volume edition of the _Poetical Works_ issued by
Messrs. Macmillan in 1893, J. D. Campbell included in the text some
twenty poems and in the Appendix a large number of poetical fragments
and first drafts then printed for the first time from MS.

       *       *       *       *       *

The frontispiece of this edition is a photogravure by Mr. Emery Walker,
from a pencil sketch (_circ._ 1818) by C. R. Leslie, R.A., in the
possession of the Editor. An engraving of the sketch, by Henry Meyer, is
dated April, 1819.

The vignette on the title-page is taken from the impression of a seal,
stamped on the fly-leaf of one of Coleridge's Notebooks.

I desire to express my thanks to my kinsman Lord Coleridge for
opportunity kindly afforded me of collating the text of the fragments
first published in 1893 with the original MSS. in his possession, and of
making further extracts; to Mr. Gordon Wordsworth for permitting me to
print a first draft of the poem addressed to his ancestor on the 'Growth
of an Individual Mind'; and to Miss Arnold of Fox How for a copy of the
first draft of the lines 'On Revisiting the Sea-shore'.

I have also to acknowledge the kindness and courtesy of the Authorities
of Rugby School, who permitted me to inspect and to make use of an
annotated copy of Coleridge's translation of Schiller's 'Piccolomini',
and to publish first drafts of 'The Eolian Harp' and other poems which
had formerly belonged to Joseph Cottle and were presented by Mr.
Shadworth Hodgson to the School Library.

I am indebted to my friend Mr. Thomas Hutchinson for valuable
information with regard to the authorship of some of the fragments, and
for advice and assistance in settling the text of the 'Metrical
Experiments' and other points of difficulty.

I have acknowledged in a prefatory note to the epigrams my obligation to
Dr. Hermann Georg Fiedler, Taylorian Professor of the German Language
and Literature at Oxford, in respect of his verifications of the German
originals of many of the epigrams published by Coleridge in the _Morning
Post_ and elsewhere.

Lastly, I wish to thank Mr. H. S. Milford for the invaluable assistance
which he afforded me in revising my collation of the 'Songs of the
Pixies' and the 'Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladié', and some
of the earlier poems, and the Reader of the Oxford University Press for
numerous hints and suggestions, and for the infinite care which he has
bestowed on the correction of slips of my own or errors of the press.




PREFACE                                                              iii

  Easter Holidays. [MS. _Letter_, May 12, 1787.]                       1
  Dura Navis. [B. M. Add. MSS. 34,225]                                 2
  Nil Pejus est Caelibe Vitâ. [Boyer's _Liber Aureus_.]                4

  Sonnet: To the Autumnal Moon                                         5

  Anthem for the Children of Christ's Hospital. [MS. O.]               5
  Julia. [Boyer's _Liber Aureus_.]                                     6
  Quae Nocent Docent. [Boyer's _Liber Aureus_.]                        7
  The Nose. [MS. O.]                                                   8
  To the Muse. [MS. O.]                                                9
  Destruction of the Bastile. [MS. O.]                                10
  Life. [MS. O.]                                                      11

  Progress of Vice. [MS. O.: Boyer's _Liber Aureus_.]                 12
  Monody on the Death of Chatterton. (First version.) [MS. O.:
      Boyer's _Liber Aureus_.]                                        13
  An Invocation. [J. D. C.]                                           16
  Anna and Harland. [MS. J. D. C.]                                    16
  To the Evening Star. [MS. O.]                                       16
  Pain. [MS. O.]                                                      17
  On a Lady Weeping. [MS. O. (c).]                                    17
  Monody on a Tea-kettle. [MSS. O., S. T. C.]                         18
  Genevieve. [MSS. O., E.]                                            19

  On receiving an Account that his Only Sister's Death was
      Inevitable. [MS. O.]                                            20
  On seeing a Youth Affectionately Welcomed by a Sister               21
  A Mathematical Problem. [MS. _Letter_, March 31, 1791:
      MS. O. (c).]                                                    21
  Honour. [MS. O.]                                                    24
  On Imitation. [MS. O.]                                              26
  Inside the Coach. [MS. O.]                                          26
  Devonshire Roads. [MS. O.]                                          27
  Music. [MS. O.]                                                     28
  Sonnet: On quitting School for College. [MS. O.]                    29
  Absence. A Farewell Ode on quitting School for Jesus College,
      Cambridge. [MS. E.]                                             29
  Happiness. [MS. _Letter_, June 22, 1791: MS. O. (c).]               30

  A Wish. Written in Jesus Wood, Feb. 10, 1792. [MS. _Letter_,
      Feb. 13, [1792].]                                               33
  An Ode in the Manner of Anacreon. [MS. _Letter_, Feb. 13, [1792].]  33
  To Disappointment. [MS. _Letter_, Feb. 13, [1792].]                 34
  A Fragment found in a Lecture-room. [MS. _Letter_, April [1792],
      MS. E.]                                                         35
  Ode. ('Ye Gales,' &c.) [MS. E.]                                     35
  A Lover's Complaint to his Mistress. [MS. _Letter_, Feb. 13,
      [1792].]                                                        36
  With Fielding's 'Amelia.' [MS. O.]                                  37
  Written after a Walk before Supper. [MS. _Letter_, Aug. 9,
      [1792].]                                                        37

  Imitated from Ossian. [MS. E.]                                      38
  The Complaint of Ninathóma. [MS. _Letter_, Feb. 7, 1793.]           39
  Songs of the Pixies. [MS. 4{o}: MS. E.]                             40
  The Rose. [MS. _Letter_, July 28, 1793: MS. (_pencil_) in
      Langhorne's _Collins_: MS. E.]                                  45
  Kisses. [MS. _Letter_, Aug. 5, 1793: MS. (_pencil_) in Langhorne's
     _Collins_: MS. E.]                                               46
  The Gentle Look. [MS. _Letter_, Dec. 11. 1794: MS. E.]              47
  Sonnet: To the River Otter                                          48
  An Effusion at Evening. Written in August 1792. (First Draft.)
      [MS. E.]                                                        49
  Lines: On an Autumnal Evening                                       51
  To Fortune                                                          54

  Perspiration. A Travelling Eclogue. [MS. _Letter_, July 6, 1794.]   56
  [Ave, atque Vale!] ('Vivit sed mihi,' &c.) [MS. _Letter_, July 13,
      [1794].]                                                        56
  On Bala Hill. [Morrison MSS.]                                       56
  Lines: Written at the King's Arms, Ross, formerly the House of the
      'Man of Ross'. [MS. _Letter_, July 13, 1794: MS. E: Morrison
      MSS: MS. 4{o}.]                                                 57
  Imitated from the Welsh. [MS. _Letter_, Dec. 11, 1794: MS. E.]      58
  Lines: To a Beautiful Spring in a Village. [MS. E.]                 58
  Imitations: Ad Lyram. (Casimir, Book II, Ode 3.) [MS. E.]           59
  To Lesbia. [Add. MSS. 27,702]                                       60
  The Death of the Starling. [_ibid._]                                61
  Moriens Superstiti. [_ibid._]                                       61
  Morienti Superstes. [_ibid._]                                       62
  The Sigh. [MS. _Letter_, Nov. 1794: Morrison MSS: MS. E.]           62
  The Kiss. [MS. 4{o}: MS. E.]                                        63
  To a Young Lady with a Poem on the French Revolution. [MS.
      _Letter_, Oct. 21, 1794: MS. 4{o}: MS. E.]                      64
  Translation of Wrangham's 'Hendecasyllabi ad Bruntonam e Granta
      Exituram' [Kal. Oct. MDCCXC]                                    66
  To Miss Brunton with the preceding Translation                      67
  Epitaph on an Infant. ('Ere Sin could blight.') [MS. E.]            68
  Pantisocracy. [MSS. _Letters_, Sept. 18, Oct. 19, 1794: MS. E.]     68
  On the Prospect of establishing a Pantisocracy in America           69
  Elegy: Imitated from one of Akenside's Blank-verse Inscriptions.
      [(No.) III.]                                                    69
  The Faded Flower                                                    70
  The Outcast                                                         71
  Domestic Peace. (From 'The Fall of Robespierre,' Act I, l. 210.)    71
  On a Discovery made too late. [MS. _Letter_, Oct. 21, 1794.]        72
  To the Author of 'The Robbers'                                      72
  Melancholy. A Fragment. [MS. _Letter_, Aug. 26,1802.]               73
  To a Young Ass: Its Mother being tethered near it. [MS. Oct. 24,
      1794: MS. _Letter_, Dec. 17, 1794.]                             74
  Lines on a Friend who Died of a Frenzy Fever induced by Calumnious
      Reports. [MS. _Letter_, Nov. 6, 1794: MS. 4{o}: MS. E.]         76
  To a Friend [Charles Lamb] together with an Unfinished Poem. [MS.
      _Letter_, Dec. 1794]                                            78
  Sonnets on Eminent Characters: Contributed to the _Morning
      Chronicle_, in Dec. 1794 and Jan. 1795:--
       I. To the Honourable Mr. Erskine                               79
      II. Burke. [MS. _Letter_, Dec. 11, 1794.]                       80
     III. Priestley. [MS. _Letter_, Dec. 17, 1794.]                   81
      IV. La Fayette                                                  82
       V. Koskiusko. [MS. _Letter_, Dec. 17, 1794.]                   82
      VI. Pitt                                                        83
     VII. To the Rev. W. L. Bowles. (First Version, printed in
              _Morning Chronicle_, Dec. 26, 1794.) [MS. _Letter_,
              Dec. 11, 1794.]                                         84
          (Second Version.)                                           85
    VIII. Mrs. Siddons                                                85

      IX. To William Godwin, Author of 'Political Justice.' [Lines
              9-14, MS. _Letter_, Dec. 17, 1794.]                     86
       X. To Robert Southey of Baliol College, Oxford, Author of the
              'Retrospect' and other Poems. [MS. _Letter_, Dec. 17,
              1794.]                                                  87
      XI. To Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Esq. [MS. _Letter_, Dec. 9,
              1794: MS. E.]                                           87
     XII. To Lord Stanhope on reading his Late Protest in the House
              of Lords. [_Morning Chronicle_, Jan. 31, 1795.]         89
  To Earl Stanhope                                                    89
  Lines: To a Friend in Answer to a Melancholy Letter                 90
  To an Infant. [MS. E.]                                              91
  To the Rev. W. J. Hort while teaching a Young Lady some Song-tunes
      on his Flute                                                    92
  Pity. [MS. E.]                                                      93
  To the Nightingale                                                  93
  Lines: Composed while climbing the Left Ascent of Brockley Coomb,
      Somersetshire, May 1795                                         94
  Lines in the Manner of Spenser                                      94
  The Hour when we shall meet again. (_Composed during Illness and
      in Absence._)                                                   96
  Lines written at Shurton Bars, near Bridgewater, September 1795,
      in Answer to a Letter from Bristol                              96
  The Eolian Harp. Composed at Clevedon, Somersetshire. [MS. R.]     100
  To the Author of Poems [Joseph Cottle] published anonymously at
      Bristol in September 1795                                      102
  The Silver Thimble. The Production of a Young Lady, addressed to
      the Author of the Poems alluded to in the preceding Epistle.
      [MS. R.]                                                       104
  Reflections on having left a Place of Retirement                   106
  Religious Musings. [1794-1796.]                                    108
  Monody on the Death of Chatterton. [1790-1834.]                    125

  The Destiny of Nations. A Vision                                   131
  Ver Perpetuum. Fragment from an Unpublished Poem                   148
  On observing a Blossom on the First of February 1796               148
  To a Primrose. The First seen in the Season                        149
  Verses: Addressed to J. Horne Tooke and the Company who met on
      June 28, 1796, to celebrate his Poll at the Westminster
      Election                                                       150
  On a Late Connubial Rupture in High Life [Prince and Princess of
      Wales]. [MS _Letter_, July 4, 1796]                            152
  Sonnet: On receiving a Letter informing me of the Birth of a Son.
      [MS. _Letter_, Nov. 1, 1796.]                                  152
  Sonnet: Composed on a Journey Homeward; the Author having
      received Intelligence of the Birth of a Son, Sept. 20, 1796.
      [MS. _Letter_, Nov. 1, 1796.]                                  153
  Sonnet: To a Friend who asked how I felt when the Nurse first
      presented my Infant to me. [MS. _Letter_, Nov. 1, 1796]        154
  Sonnet: [To Charles Lloyd]                                         155
  To a Young Friend on his proposing to domesticate with the
      Author. _Composed in_ 1796                                     155
  Addressed to a Young Man of Fortune [C. Lloyd]                     157
  To a Friend [Charles Lamb] who had declared his intention of
      writing no more Poetry                                         158
  Ode to the Departing Year                                          160

  The Raven. [MS. S. T. C.]                                          169
  To an Unfortunate Woman at the Theatre                             171
  To an Unfortunate Woman whom the Author had known in the days of
      her Innocence                                                  172
  To the Rev. George Coleridge                                       173
  On the Christening of a Friend's Child                             176
  Translation of a Latin Inscription by the Rev. W. L. Bowles in
      Nether-Stowey Church                                           177
  This Lime-tree Bower my Prison                                     178
  The Foster-mother's Tale                                           182
  The Dungeon                                                        185
  The Rime of the Ancient Mariner                                    186
  Sonnets attempted in the Manner of Contemporary Writers            209
  Parliamentary Oscillators                                          211
  Christabel. [For MSS. _vide_ p. 214]                               213
  Lines to W. L. while he sang a Song to Purcell's Music             236

  Fire, Famine, and Slaughter                                        237
  Frost at Midnight                                                  240
  France: An Ode.                                                    243
  The Old Man of the Alps                                            248
  To a Young Lady on her Recovery from a Fever                       252
  Lewti, or the Circassian Love-chaunt. [For MSS. _vide_ pp.
      1049-62]                                                       253
  Fears in Solitude. [MS. W.]                                        256
  The Nightingale. A Conversation Poem                               264
  The Three Graves. [Parts I, II. MS. S. T. C.]                      267
  The Wanderings of Cain. [MS. S. T. C.]                             285
  To ----                                                            292
  The Ballad of the Dark Ladié                                       293
  Kubla Khan                                                         295
  Recantation: Illustrated in the Story of the Mad Ox                299

  Hexameters. ('William my teacher,' &c.)                            304
  Translation of a Passage in Ottfried's Metrical Paraphrase of the
      Gospel                                                         306
  Catullian Hendecasyllables                                         307
  The Homeric Hexameter described and exemplified                    307
  The Ovidian Elegiac Metre described and exemplified                308
  On a Cataract. [MS. S. T. C.]                                      308
  Tell's Birth-Place                                                 309
  The Visit of the Gods                                              310
  From the German. ('Know'st thou the land,' &c.)                    311
  Water Ballad. [From the French.]                                   311
  On an Infant which died before Baptism. ('Be rather,' &c.) [MS.
      _Letter_, Apr. 8, 1799]                                        312
  Something Childish, but very Natural. Written in Germany. [MS.
      _Letter_, April 23, 1799.]                                     313
  Home-Sick. Written in Germany. [MS. _Letter_, May 6, 1799.]        314
  Lines written in the Album at Elbingerode in the Hartz Forest.
      [MS. _Letter_, May 17, 1799.]                                  315
  The British Stripling's War-Song. [Add. MSS. 27,902]               317
  Names. [From Lessing.]                                             318
  The Devil's Thoughts. [MS. copy by Derwent Coleridge.]             319
  Lines composed in a Concert-room                                   324
  Westphalian Song                                                   326
  Hexameters. Paraphrase of Psalm xlvi. [MS. _Letter_, Sept. 29,
      1799.]                                                         326
  Hymn to the Earth. [Imitated from Stolberg's _Hymne an die
      Erde_.] Hexameters                                             327
  Mahomet                                                            329
  Love. [British Museum Add. MSS. No. 27,902: Wordsworth and
      Coleridge MSS.]                                                330
  Ode to Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, on the Twenty-fourth
      Stanza in her 'Passage over Mount Gothard'                     335
  A Christmas Carol                                                  338

  Talleyrand to Lord Grenville. A Metrical Epistle                   340
  Apologia pro Vita sua. ('The poet in his lone,' &c.) [MS.
      Notebook.]                                                     345
  The Keepsake                                                       345
  A Thought suggested by a View of Saddleback in Cumberland. [MS.
      Notebook.]                                                     347
  The Mad Monk                                                       347
  Inscription for a Seat by the Road Side half-way up a Steep Hill
      facing South                                                   349
  A Stranger Minstrel                                                350
  Alcaeus to Sappho. [MS. _Letter_, Oct. 7, 1800.]                   353
  The Two Round Spaces on the Tombstone. [MS. _Letter_, Oct. 9,
      1800: Add. MSS. 28,322]                                        353
  The Snow-drop. [MS. S. T. C.]                                      356

  On Revisiting the Sea-shore. [MS. _Letter_, Aug. 15, 1801:
      MS. A.]                                                        359
  Ode to Tranquillity                                                360
  To Asra. [MS. (of _Christabel_) S. T. C. (c).]                     361
  The Second Birth. [MS. Notebook.]                                  362
  Love's Sanctuary. [MS. Notebook.]                                  362

  Dejection: An Ode. [Written April 4, 1802.] [MS. _Letter_,
      July 19, 1802: Coleorton MSS.]                                 362
  The Picture, or the Lover's Resolution                             369
  To Matilda Betham from a Stranger                                  374
  Hymn before Sun-rise, in the Vale of Chamouni. [MS. A. (1803):
      MS. B. (1809): MS. C. (1815).]                                 376
  The Good, Great Man                                                381
  Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath                              381
  An Ode to the Rain                                                 382
  A Day-dream. ('My eyes make pictures,' &c.)                        385
  Answer to a Child's Question                                       386
  The Day-dream. From an Emigrant to his Absent Wife                 386
  The Happy Husband. A Fragment                                      388

  The Pains of Sleep. [MS. _Letters_, Sept. 11, Oct 3, 1803.]        389

  The Exchange                                                       391

  Ad Vilmum Axiologum. [To William Wordsworth.] [MS. Notebook.]      391
  An Exile. [MS. Notebook.]                                          392
  Sonnet. [Translated from Marini.] [MS. Notebook.]                  392
  Phantom. [MS. Notebook.]                                           393
  A Sunset. [MS. Notebook.]                                          393
  What is Life? [MS. Notebook.]                                      394
  The Blossoming of the Solitary Date-tree                           395
  Separation. [MS. Notebook.]                                        397
  The Rash Conjurer. [MS. Notebook.]                                 399

  A Child's Evening Prayer. [MS. Mrs. S. T. C.]                      401
  Metrical Feet. Lesson for a Boy. [Lines 1-7, MS. Notebook.]        401
  Farewell to Love                                                   402
  To William Wordsworth. [Coleorton MS: MS. W.]                      403
  An Angel Visitant. [? 1801.] [MS. Notebook.]                       409

  Recollections of Love. [MS. Notebook.]                             409
  To Two Sisters. [Mary Morgan and Charlotte Brent]                  410

  Psyche. [MS. S. T. C.]                                             412

  A Tombless Epitaph                                                 413
  For a Market-clock. (Impromptu.) [MS. _Letter_, Oct. 9, 1809: MS.
      Notebook.]                                                     414
  The Madman and the Lethargist. [MS. Notebook.]                     414

  The Visionary Hope                                                 416

  Epitaph on an Infant. ('Its balmy lips,' &c.)                      417
  The Virgin's Cradle-hymn                                           417
  To a Lady offended by a Sportive Observation that Women have no
      Souls                                                          418
  Reason for Love's Blindness                                        418
  The Suicide's Argument. [MS. Notebook.]                            419

  Time, Real and Imaginary                                           419
  An Invocation. From _Remorse_ [Act III, Scene I, ll. 69-82]        420

  The Night-scene. [Add. MSS. 34,225]                                421

  A Hymn                                                             423
  To a Lady, with Falconer's _Shipwreck_                             424

  Human Life. On the Denial of Immortality                           425
  Song. From _Zapolya_ (Act II, Sc. i, ll. 65-80.)                   426
  Hunting Song. From _Zapolya_ (Act IV, Sc. ii, ll. 56-71)           427
  Faith, Hope, and Charity. From the Italian of Guarini              427
  To Nature [? 1820]                                                 429

  Limbo. [MS. Notebook: MS. S. T. C.]                                429
  _Ne Plus Ultra_ [? 1826]. [MS. Notebook.]                          431
  The Knight's Tomb                                                  432
  On Donne's Poetry [? 1818]                                         433
  Israel's Lament                                                    433
  Fancy in Nubibus, or the Poet in the Clouds. [MS. S. T. C.]        435

  The Tears of a Grateful People                                     436

  Youth and Age. [MS. S. T. C.: MSS. (1, 2) Notebook.]               439
  The Reproof and Reply                                              441

  First Advent of Love. [MS. Notebook.]                              443
  The Delinquent Travellers                                          443

  Work without Hope. Lines composed 21st February, 1825              447
  _Sancti Dominici Pallium._ A Dialogue between Poet and Friend.
      [MS. S. T. C.]                                                 448
  Song. ('Though veiled,' &c.) [MS. Notebook.]                       450
  A Character. [Add. MSS. 34,225]                                    451
  The Two Founts. [MS. S. T. C.]                                     454
  Constancy to an Ideal Object                                       455
  The Pang more Sharp than All. An Allegory                          457

  Duty surviving Self-love. The only sure Friend of declining Life.  459
  Homeless                                                           460
  Lines suggested by the last Words of Berengarius; ob. Anno Dom.
      1088                                                           460
  Epitaphium Testamentarium                                          462
  Ἔρως ἀεὶ λάληθρος ἑταῖρος                                               462

  The Improvisatore; or, 'John Anderson, My Jo, John'                462
  To Mary Pridham [afterwards Mrs. Derwent Coleridge]. [MS.
      S. T. C.]                                                      468

  Alice du Clos; or, The Forked Tongue. A Ballad. [MS. S. T. C.]     469
  Love's Burial-place                                                475
  Lines: To a Comic Author, on an Abusive Review [? 1825]. [Add.
      MSS. 34,225]                                                   476
  Cologne                                                            477
  On my Joyful Departure from the same City                          477
  The Garden of Boccaccio                                            478

  Love, Hope, and Patience in Education. [MS. _Letter_, July 1,
      1829: MS. S. T. C.]                                            481
  To Miss A. T.                                                      482
  Lines written in Commonplace Book of Miss Barbour, Daughter of
      the Minister of the U. S. A. to England                        483

  Song, _ex improviso_, on hearing a Song in praise of a Lady's
      Beauty                                                         483
  Love and Friendship Opposite                                       484
  Not at Home                                                        484
  Phantom or Fact. A Dialogue in Verse                               484
  Desire. [MS. S. T. C.]                                             485
  Charity in Thought                                                 486
  Humility the Mother of Charity                                     486
  [Coeli Enarrant.] [MS. S. T. C.]                                   486
  Reason                                                             487

  Self-knowledge                                                     487
  Forbearance                                                        488

  Love's Apparition and Evanishment                                  488
  To the Young Artist Kayser of Kaserwerth                           490
  My Baptismal Birth-day                                             490
  Epitaph. [For six MS. versions vide Note, p. 491].                 491




  THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. An Historic Drama                         495

  OSORIO. A Tragedy                                                  518

      translated from the German of Schiller.
    Preface to the First Edition                                     598
    The Piccolomini                                                  600
  THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. A Tragedy in Five Acts.
    Preface of the Translator to the First Edition                   724
    The Death of Wallenstein                                         726

    Preface                                                          812
    Prologue                                                         816
    Epilogue                                                         817
    Remorse. A Tragedy in Five Acts                                  819

  ZAPOLYA. A Christmas Tale in Two Parts.
    Advertisement                                                    883
    Part I. The Prelude, entitled 'The Usurper's Fortune'            884
    Part II. The Sequel, entitled 'The Usurper's Fate'               901

  An Apology for Spencers                                            951
  On a Late Marriage between an Old Maid and French Petit Maître     952
  On an Amorous Doctor                                               952
  'Of smart pretty Fellows,' &c.                                     952
  On Deputy ----                                                     953
  'To be ruled like a Frenchman,' &c.                                953
  On Mr. Ross, usually Cognominated _Nosy_                           953
  'Bob now resolves,' &c.                                            953
  'Say what you will, Ingenious Youth'                               954
  'If the guilt of all lying,' &c.                                   954
  On an Insignificant                                                954
  'There comes from old Avaro's grave'                               954
  On a Slanderer                                                     955
  Lines in a German Student's Album                                  955
  [Hippona]                                                          955
  On a Reader of His Own Verses                                      955
  On a Report of a Minister's Death                                  956
  [Dear Brother Jem]                                                 956
  Job's Luck                                                         957
  On the Sickness of a Great Minister                                957
  [To a Virtuous Oeconomist]                                         958
  [L'Enfant Prodigue]                                                958
  On Sir Rubicund Naso                                               958
  To Mr. Pye                                                         959
  [Ninety-Eight]                                                     959
  Occasioned by the Former                                           959
  [A Liar by Profession]                                             960
  To a Proud Parent                                                  960
  Rufa                                                               960
  On a Volunteer Singer                                              960
  Occasioned by the Last                                             961
  Epitaph on Major Dieman                                            961
  On the Above                                                       961
  Epitaph on a Bad Man (Three Versions)                              961
  To a Certain Modern Narcissus                                      962
  To a Critic                                                        962
  Always Audible                                                     963
  Pondere non Numero                                                 963
  The Compliment Qualified                                           963
  'What is an Epigram,' &c.                                          963
  'Charles, grave or merry,' &c.                                     964
  'An evil spirit's on thee, friend,' &c.                            964
  'Here lies the Devil,' &c.                                         964
  To One Who Published in Print, &c.                                 964
  'Scarce any scandal,' &c.                                          965
  'Old Harpy,' &c.                                                   965
  To a Vain Young Lady                                               965
  A Hint to Premiers and First Consuls                               966
  'From me, Aurelia,' &c.                                            966
  For a House-Dog's Collar                                           966
  'In vain I praise thee, Zoilus'                                    966
  Epitaph on a Mercenary Miser                                       967
  A Dialogue between an Author and his Friend                        967
  Μωροσοφία, or Wisdom in Folly                                       967
  'Each Bond-street buck,' &c.                                       968
  From an Old German Poet                                            968
  On the Curious Circumstance, That in the German, &c.               968
  Spots in the Sun                                                   969
  'When Surface talks,' &c.                                          969
  To my Candle                                                       969
  Epitaph on Himself                                                 970
  The Taste of the Times                                             970
  On Pitt and Fox                                                    970
  'An excellent adage,' &c.                                          971
  Comparative Brevity of Greek and English                           971
  On the Secrecy of a Certain Lady                                   971
  Motto for a Transparency, &c. (Two Versions)                       972
  'Money, I've heard,' &c.                                           972
  Modern Critics                                                     972
  Written in an Album                                                972
  To a Lady who requested me to Write a Poem upon Nothing            973
  Sentimental                                                        973
  'So Mr. Baker,' &c.                                                973
  Authors and Publishers                                             973
  The Alternative                                                    974
  'In Spain, that land,' &c.                                         974
  Inscription for a Time-piece                                       974
  On the Most Veracious Anecdotist, &c.                              974
  'Nothing speaks our mind,' &c.                                     975
  Epitaph of the Present Year on the Monument of Thomas Fuller       975

JEUX D'ESPRIT                                                        976
  My Godmother's Beard                                               976
  Lines to Thomas Poole                                              976
  To a Well-known Musical Critic, &c.                                977
  To T. Poole: An Invitation                                         978
  Song, To be Sung by the Lovers of all the noble liquors, &c.       978
  Drinking _versus_ Thinking                                         979
  The Wills of the Wisp                                              979
  To Captain Findlay                                                 980
  On Donne's Poem 'To a Flea'                                        980
  [Ex Libris S. T. C.]                                               981
  ΕΓΩΕΝΚΑΙΠΑΝ                                                          981
  The Bridge Street Committee                                        982
  Nonsense Sapphics                                                  983
  To Susan Steele, &c.                                               984
  Association of Ideas                                               984
  Verses Trivocular                                                  985
  Cholera Cured Before-hand                                          985
  To Baby Bates                                                      987
  To a Child                                                         987

FRAGMENTS FROM A NOTEBOOK. (_circa_ 1796-1798)                       988

FRAGMENTS. (_For unnamed Fragments see_ Index of First Lines.)       996
  Over my Cottage                                                    997
  [The Night-Mare Death in Life]                                     998
  A Beck in Winter                                                   998
  [Not a Critic--But a Judge]                                       1000
  [De Profundis Clamavi]                                            1001
  Fragment of an Ode on Napoleon                                    1003
  Epigram on Kepler                                                 1004
  [Ars Poetica]                                                     1006
  Translation of the First Strophe of Pindar's Second Olympic       1006
  Translation of a Fragment of Heraclitus                           1007
  Imitated from Aristophanes                                        1008
  To Edward Irving                                                  1008
  [Luther--De Dæmonibus]                                            1009
  The Netherlands                                                   1009
  Elisa: Translated from Claudian                                   1009
  Profuse Kindness                                                  1010
  Napoleon                                                          1010
  The Three Sorts of Friends                                        1012
  Bo-Peep and I Spy--                                               1012
  A Simile                                                          1013
  Baron Guelph of Adelstan. A Fragment                              1013

METRICAL EXPERIMENTS                                                1014
  An Experiment for a Metre ('I heard a Voice,' &c.)                1014
  Trochaics                                                         1015
  The Proper Unmodified Dochmius                                    1015
  Iambics                                                           1015
  Nonsense ('Sing, impassionate Soul,' &c.)                         1015
  A Plaintive Movement                                              1016
  An Experiment for a Metre ('When thy Beauty appears')             1016
  Nonsense Verses ('Ye fowls of ill presage')                       1017
  Nonsense ('I wish on earth to sing')                              1017
  'There in some darksome shade'                                    1018
  'Once again, sweet Willow, wave thee'                             1018
  'Songs of Shepherds, and rustical Roundelays'                     1018
  A Metrical Accident                                               1019
  Notes by Professor Saintsbury                                     1019



  A. Effusion 35, August 20th, 1795. (First Draft.) [MS. R.]        1021
       Effusion, p. 96 [1797]. (Second Draft.) [MS. R.]             1021
  B. Recollection                                                   1023
  C. The Destiny of Nations. (Draft I.) [Add. MSS. 34,225]          1024
        "      "       "     (Draft II.) [_ibid._]                  1026
        "      "       "     (Draft III.) [_ibid._]                 1027
  D. Passages in Southey's _Joan of Arc_ (First Edition, 1796)
         contributed by S. T. Coleridge                             1027
  E. The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere [1798]                        1030
  F. The Raven. [_M. P._ March 10, 1798.]                           1048
  G. Lewti; or, The Circassian's Love-Chant. (1.) [B. M. Add. MSS.
         27,902.]                                                   1049
       The Circassian's Love-Chaunt. (2.) [Add. MSS. 35,343.]       1050
       Lewti; or, The Circassian's Love-Chant. (3.) [Add. MSS.
           35,343.]                                                 1051
  H. Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladie. [_M. P._ Dec. 21,
         1799.]                                                     1052
  I. The Triumph of Loyalty. An Historic Drama. [Add. MSS.
         34,225.]                                                   1060
  J. Chamouny; The Hour before Sunrise. A Hymn. [_M. P._ Sept. 11,
         1802.]                                                     1074
  K. Dejection: An Ode. [_M. P._ Oct. 4, 1802.]                     1076
  L. To W. Wordsworth. January 1807                                 1081
  M. Youth and Age. (MS. I, Sept. 10, 1823.)                        1084
       "      "     (MS. II. 1.)                                    1085
       "      "     (MS. II. 2.)                                    1086
  N. Love's Apparition and Evanishment. (First Draft.)              1087
  O. Two Versions of the Epitaph. ('Stop, Christian,' &c.)          1088
  P. [Habent sua Fata--Poetae.] ('The Fox, and Statesman,' &c.)     1089
  Q. To John Thelwall                                               1090
  R. [Lines to T. Poole.] [1807.]                                   1090


ALLEGORIC VISION                                                    1091





  A. Questions and Answers in the Court of Love                     1109
  B. Prose Version of Glycine's Song in _Zapolya_                   1109
  C. Work without Hope. (First Draft.)                              1110
  D. Note to Line 34 of the _Joan of Arc_ Book II. [4{o} 1796.]     1112
  E. Dedication. Ode on the Departing Year. [4{o} 1796.]            1113
  F. Preface to the MS. of _Osorio_                                 1114



  From Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke:
    God and the World _we_ worship still together                   1115
    The _Augurs_ we of all the world admir'd                        1116
    Of Humane Learning                                              1116
  From Sir John Davies: On the Immortality of the Soul              1116
  From Donne:  Eclogue. 'On Unworthy Wisdom'                        1117
    Letter to Sir Henry Goodyere.                                   1117
  From Ben Jonson: A Nymph's Passion (Mutual Passion)               1118
    Underwoods, No. VI. The Hour-glass                              1119
    The Poetaster, Act I, Scene i.                                  1120
  From Samuel Daniel: Epistle to Sir Thomas Egerton, Knight         1120
    Musophilus, Stanza CXLVII                                       1121
    Musophilus, Stanzas XXVII, XXIX, XXX                            1122
  From Christopher Harvey: The Synagogue (The Nativity, or
      Christmas Day.)                                               1122
  From Mark Akenside: Blank Verse Inscriptions                      1123
  From W. L. Bowles:--'I yet remain'                                1124
  From an old Play: Napoleon                                        1124



  F. von Matthison: Ein milesisches Mährchen, Adonide               1125
  Schiller: Schwindelnd trägt er dich fort auf rastlos strömenden
      Wogen                                                         1125
    Im Hexameter steigt des Springquells flüssige Säule             1125
  Stolberg: Unsterblicher Jüngling!                                 1126
    Seht diese heilige Kapell!                                      1126
  Schiller: Nimmer, das glaubt mir                                  1127
  Goethe: Kennst du das Land, wo die Citronen blühn                 1128
  François-Antoine-Eugène de Planard: 'Batelier, dit Lisette'       1128
  German Folk Song: Wenn ich ein Vöglein wär                        1129
  Stolberg: Mein Arm wird stark und gross mein Muth                 1129
  Lessing: Ich fragte meine Schöne                                  1130
  Stolberg: Erde, du Mutter zahlloser Kinder, Mutter und Amme!      1130
  Friederike Brun: Aus tiefem Schatten des schweigenden
      Tannenhains                                                   1131
  Giambattista Marino: Donna, siam rei di morte. Errasti, errai     1131
  MS. Notebook: In diesem Wald, in diesen Gründen                   1132
  Anthologia Graeca: Κοινῇ πὰρ κλισίῃ ληθαργικὸς ἠδὲ φρενοπλὴξ               1132
  Battista Guarini: Canti terreni amori                             1132
  Stolberg: Der blinde Sänger stand am Meer                         1134



  No. I. Poems first published in Newspapers or Periodicals         1178
  No. II. Epigrams and Jeux d'Esprit first published in Newspapers
      and Periodicals                                               1182
  No. III. Poems included in Anthologies and other Works            1183
  No. IV. Poems first printed or reprinted in _Literary Remains_,
      1836, &c.                                                     1187
  Poems first printed or reprinted in _Essays on His Own Times_,
      1850                                                          1188

INDEX OF FIRST LINES                                                1189


   MS. B. M. = MS. preserved in the British Museum.

      MS. O. = MS. Ottery: i. e. a collection of juvenile poems in the
               handwriting of S. T. Coleridge (_circ._ 1793).

 MS. O. (c.) = MS. Ottery, No. 3: a transcript (_circ._ 1823) of a
               collection of juvenile poems by S. T. Coleridge.

MS. S. T. C. = A single MS. poem in the handwriting of S. T. Coleridge.

      MS. E. = MS. Estlin: i. e. a collection of juvenile poems in the
               handwriting of S. T. Coleridge presented to Mrs. Estlin
               of Bristol _circ._ 1795.

    MS. 4{o} = A collection of early poems in the handwriting of S. T.
               Coleridge (_circ._ 1796).

      MS. W. = An MS. in the handwriting of S. T. Coleridge, now in the
               possession of Mr. Gordon Wordsworth.

      MS. R. = MS. Rugby: i. e. in the possession of the Governors of
               Rugby School.

 _An. Anth._ = _Annual Anthology_ of 1800.

     _B. L._ = _Biographia Literaria_.

     _C. I._ = _Cambridge Intelligencer_.

     _E. M._ = _English Minstrelsy_.

     _F. F._ = _Felix Farley's Bristol Journal_, 1818.

     _F. O._ = _Friendship's Offering_, 1834.

     _L. A._ = _Liber Aureus_.

     _L. B._ = _Lyrical Ballads_.

     _L. R._ = _Literary Remains_.

     _M. C._ = _Morning Chronicle_.

     _M. M._ = _Monthly Magazine_.

     _M. P._ = _Morning Post_.

     _P. R._ = _Poetical Register_, 1802.

_P. & D. W._ = _Poetical and Dramatic Works_.

     _P. W._ = _Poetical Works_.

     _S. L._ = _Sibylline Leaves_ (1817).

     _S. S._ = _Selection of Sonnets_.


On p. 16, _n._ 2, line 1, _for_ Oct. 15, _read_ Oct. 25.

On p. 68, line 6, _for_ 1795 _read_ 1794, and _n._ 1, line 1, _for_
September 24, _read_ September 23.

On p. 69, lines 11 and 28, _for_ 1795 _read_ 1794.

On p. 96, _n._ 1, line 1, _for_ March 9, _read_ March 17.

On p. 148, _n._ 1, line 2, _for_ March 28, _read_ March 25.

On p. 314, line 17, _for_ May 26 _read_ May 6.

On p. 1179, line 7, _for_ Sept. 27, _read_ Sept. 23.

On p. 1181, line 33, _for_ Oct. 9 _read_ Oct. 29.





  Hail! festal Easter that dost bring
  Approach of sweetly-smiling spring,
      When Nature's clad in green:
  When feather'd songsters through the grove
  With beasts confess the power of love                                5
      And brighten all the scene.


  Now youths the breaking stages load
  That swiftly rattling o'er the road
      To Greenwich haste away:
  While some with sounding oars divide                                10
  Of smoothly-flowing Thames the tide
      All sing the festive lay.


  With mirthful dance they beat the ground,
  Their shouts of joy the hills resound
      And catch the jocund noise:                                     15
  Without a tear, without a sigh
  Their moments all in transports fly
      Till evening ends their joys.


  But little think their joyous hearts
  Of dire Misfortune's varied smarts                                  20
      Which youthful years conceal:
  Thoughtless of bitter-smiling Woe
  Which all mankind are born to know
      And they themselves must feel.


  Yet he who Wisdom's paths shall keep                                25
  And Virtue firm that scorns to weep
      At ills in Fortune's power,
  Through this life's variegated scene
  In raging storms or calm serene
      Shall cheerful spend the hour.                                  30


  While steady Virtue guides his mind
  Heav'n-born Content he still shall find
      That never sheds a tear:
  Without respect to any tide
  His hours away in bliss shall glide                                 35
      Like Easter all the year.



[1:1] From a hitherto unpublished MS. The lines were sent in a letter to
Luke Coleridge, dated May 12, 1787.


  To tempt the dangerous deep, too venturous youth,
  Why does thy breast with fondest wishes glow?
  No tender parent there thy cares shall sooth,
  No much-lov'd Friend shall share thy every woe.
  Why does thy mind with hopes delusive burn?                          5
  Vain are thy Schemes by heated Fancy plann'd:
  Thy promis'd joy thou'lt see to Sorrow turn
  Exil'd from Bliss, and from thy native land.

  Hast thou foreseen the Storm's impending rage,
  When to the Clouds the Waves ambitious rise,                        10
  And seem with Heaven a doubtful war to wage,
  Whilst total darkness overspreads the skies;
  Save when the lightnings darting wingéd Fate
  Quick bursting from the pitchy clouds between
  In forkéd Terror, and destructive state[2:2]                        15
  Shall shew with double gloom the horrid scene?

  Shalt thou be at this hour from danger free?
  Perhaps with fearful force some falling Wave
  Shall wash thee in the wild tempestuous Sea,
  And in some monster's belly fix thy grave;                          20
  Or (woful hap!) against some wave-worn rock
  Which long a Terror to each Bark had stood
  Shall dash thy mangled limbs with furious shock
  And stain its craggy sides with human blood.

  Yet not the Tempest, or the Whirlwind's roar                        25
  Equal the horrors of a Naval Fight,
  When thundering Cannons spread a sea of Gore
  And varied deaths now fire and now affright:
  The impatient shout, that longs for closer war,
  Reaches from either side the distant shores;                        30
  Whilst frighten'd at His streams ensanguin'd far
  Loud on his troubled bed huge Ocean roars.[3:1]

  What dreadful scenes appear before my eyes!
  Ah! see how each with frequent slaughter red,
  Regardless of his dying fellows' cries                              35
  O'er their fresh wounds with impious order tread!
  From the dread place does soft Compassion fly!
  The Furies fell each alter'd breast command;
  Whilst Vengeance drunk with human blood stands by
  And smiling fires each heart and arms each hand.                    40

  Should'st thou escape the fury of that day
  A fate more cruel still, unhappy, view.
  Opposing winds may stop thy luckless way,
  And spread fell famine through the suffering crew,
  Canst thou endure th' extreme of raging Thirst                      45
  Which soon may scorch thy throat, ah! thoughtless Youth!
  Or ravening hunger canst thou bear which erst
  On its own flesh hath fix'd the deadly tooth?

  Dubious and fluttering 'twixt hope and fear
  With trembling hands the lot I see thee draw,                       50
  Which shall, or sentence thee a victim drear,
  To that ghaunt Plague which savage knows no law:
  Or, deep thy dagger in the friendly heart,
  Whilst each strong passion agitates thy breast,
  Though oft with Horror back I see thee start,                       55
  Lo! Hunger _drives_ thee to th' inhuman feast.

  These are the ills, that may the course attend--
  Then with the joys of home contented rest--
  Here, meek-eyed Peace with humble Plenty lend
  Their aid united still, to make thee blest.                         60
  To ease each pain, and to increase each joy--
  Here mutual Love shall fix thy tender wife,
  Whose offspring shall thy youthful care employ
  And gild with brightest rays the evening of thy Life.



[2:1] First published in 1893. The autograph MS. is in the British

[2:2] _State_, Grandeur [1792]. This school exercise, written in the
15th year of my age, does not contain a line that any clever schoolboy
might not have written, and like most school poetry is a _Putting of
Thought into Verse_; for such Verses as _strivings_ of mind and
struggles after the Intense and Vivid are a fair Promise of better
things.--S. T. C. _aetat. suae_ 51. [1823.]

[3:1] I well remember old Jemmy Bowyer, the plagose Orbilius of Christ's
Hospital, but an admirable educer no less than Educator of the
Intellect, bade me leave out as many epithets as would turn the whole
into eight-syllable lines, and then ask myself if the exercise would not
be greatly improved. How often have I thought of the proposal since
then, and how many thousand bloated and puffing lines have I read, that,
by this process, would have tripped over the tongue excellently.
Likewise, I remember that he told me on the same occasion--'Coleridge!
the connections of a Declamation are not the transitions of Poetry--bad,
however, as they are, they are better than "Apostrophes" and "O thou's",
for at the worst they are something like common sense. The others are
the grimaces of Lunacy.'--S. T. COLERIDGE.




    What pleasures shall he ever find?
    What joys shall ever glad his heart?
    Or who shall heal his wounded mind,
    If tortur'd by Misfortune's smart?
  Who Hymeneal bliss will never prove,                                 5
  That more than friendship, friendship mix'd with love.


    Then without child or tender wife,
    To drive away each care, each sigh,
    Lonely he treads the paths of life
    A stranger to Affection's tye:                                    10
  And when from Death he meets his final doom
  No mourning wife with tears of love shall wet his tomb.


    Tho' Fortune, Riches, Honours, Pow'r,
    Had giv'n with every other toy,
    Those gilded trifles of the hour,                                 15
    Those painted nothings sure to cloy:
  He dies forgot, his name no son shall bear
  To shew the man so blest once breath'd the vital air.



[4:1] First published in 1893.



  Mild Splendour of the various-vested Night!
    Mother of wildly-working visions! hail!
  I watch thy gliding, while with watery light
    Thy weak eye glimmers through a fleecy veil;
  And when thou lovest thy pale orb to shroud                          5
    Behind the gather'd blackness lost on high;
  And when thou dartest from the wind-rent cloud
    Thy placid lightning o'er the awaken'd sky.

  Ah such is Hope! as changeful and as fair!
    Now dimly peering on the wistful sight;                           10
  Now hid behind the dragon-wing'd Despair:
    But soon emerging in her radiant might
  She o'er the sorrow-clouded breast of Care
    Sails, like a meteor kindling in its flight.



[5:1] First published in 1796: included in 1803, 1829, 1834. No changes
were made in the text.


Title] Effusion xviii, To the, &c.: Sonnet xviii, To the, &c., 1803.



    Seraphs! around th' Eternal's seat who throng
      With tuneful ecstasies of praise:
    O! teach our feeble tongues like yours the song
      Of fervent gratitude to raise--
    Like you, inspired with holy flame                                 5
    To dwell on that Almighty name
  Who bade the child of Woe no longer sigh,
  And Joy in tears o'erspread the widow's eye.

    Th' all-gracious Parent hears the wretch's prayer;
      The meek tear strongly pleads on high;                          10
    Wan Resignation struggling with despair
      The Lord beholds with pitying eye;
    Sees cheerless Want unpitied pine,
    Disease on earth its head recline,
  And bids Compassion seek the realms of woe                          15
  To heal the wounded, and to raise the low.

    She comes! she comes! the meek-eyed Power I see
      With liberal hand that loves to bless;
    The clouds of Sorrow at her presence flee;
      Rejoice! rejoice! ye Children of Distress!                      20
    The beams that play around her head
    Thro' Want's dark vale their radiance spread:
  The young uncultur'd mind imbibes the ray,
  And Vice reluctant quits th' expected prey.

    Cease, thou lorn mother! cease thy wailings drear;                25
      Ye babes! the unconscious sob forego;
    Or let full Gratitude now prompt the tear
      Which erst did Sorrow force to flow.
    Unkindly cold and tempest shrill
    In Life's morn oft the traveller chill,                           30
  But soon his path the sun of Love shall warm;
  And each glad scene look brighter for the storm!



[5:2] First published in 1834.


_Anthem._ For the Children, &c.] This Anthem was written as if intended
to have been sung by the Children of Christ's Hospital. MS. O.

[3] yours] you MS. O.

[14] its head on earth MS. O.



        Medio de fonte leporum
  Surgit amari aliquid.

  Julia was blest with beauty, wit, and grace:
  Small poets lov'd to sing her blooming face.
  Before her altars, lo! a numerous train
  Preferr'd their vows; yet all preferr'd in vain,
  Till charming Florio, born to conquer, came                          5
  And touch'd the fair one with an equal flame.
  The flame she felt, and ill could she conceal
  What every look and action would reveal.
  With boldness then, which seldom fails to move,
  He pleads the cause of Marriage and of Love:                        10
  The course of Hymeneal joys he rounds,
  The fair one's eyes danc'd pleasure at the sounds.
  Nought now remain'd but 'Noes'--how little meant!
  And the sweet coyness that endears consent.
  The youth upon his knees enraptur'd fell:                           15
  The strange misfortune, oh! what words can tell?
  Tell! ye neglected sylphs! who lap-dogs guard,
  Why snatch'd ye not away your precious ward?
  Why suffer'd ye the lover's weight to fall
  On the ill-fated neck of much-lov'd Ball?                           20
  The favourite on his mistress casts his eyes,
  Gives a short melancholy howl, and--dies.
  Sacred his ashes lie, and long his rest!
  Anger and grief divide poor Julia's breast.
  Her eyes she fixt on guilty Florio first:                           25
  On him the storm of angry grief must burst.
  That storm he fled: he wooes a kinder fair,
  Whose fond affections no dear puppies share.
  'Twere vain to tell, how Julia pin'd away:
  Unhappy Fair! that in one luckless day--                            30
  From future Almanacks the day be crost!--
  At once her Lover and her Lap-dog lost.



[6:1] First published in the _History of . . . Christ's Hospital_. By
the Rev. W. Trollope, 1834, p. 192. Included in _Literary Remains_,
1836, i. 33, 34. First collected _P. and D. W._, 1877-80.


_Julia_, Medio, &c.] De medio fonte leporum. _Trollope._

[12] danc'd] dance (T. Lit. Rem.)



  O! mihi praeteritos referat si Jupiter annos!

  Oh! might my ill-past hours return again!
  No more, as then, should Sloth around me throw
    Her soul-enslaving, leaden chain!
  No more the precious time would I employ
  In giddy revels, or in thoughtless joy,                              5
  A present joy producing future woe.

  But o'er the midnight Lamp I'd love to pore,
  I'd seek with care fair Learning's depths to sound,
    And gather scientific Lore:
  Or to mature the embryo thoughts inclin'd,                          10
  That half-conceiv'd lay struggling in my mind,
  The cloisters' solitary gloom I'd round.

  'Tis vain to wish, for Time has ta'en his flight--
  For follies past be ceas'd the fruitless tears:
    Let follies past to future care incite.                           15
  Averse maturer judgements to obey
  Youth owns, with pleasure owns, the Passions' sway,
  But sage Experience only comes with years.



[7:1] First published in 1893.


    Ye souls unus'd to lofty verse
      Who sweep the earth with lowly wing,
    Like sand before the blast disperse--
      A Nose! a mighty Nose I sing!
  As erst Prometheus stole from heaven the fire                        5
    To animate the wonder of his hand;
  Thus with unhallow'd hands, O Muse, aspire,
    And from my subject snatch a burning brand!
  So like the Nose I sing--my verse shall glow--
  Like Phlegethon my verse in waves of fire shall flow!               10

    Light of this once all darksome spot
      Where now their glad course mortals run,
    First-born of Sirius begot
      Upon the focus of the Sun--
  I'll call thee ----! for such thy earthly name--                    15
    What name so high, but what too low must be?
  Comets, when most they drink the solar flame
    Are but faint types and images of thee!
  Burn madly, Fire! o'er earth in ravage run,
  Then blush for shame more red by fiercer ---- outdone!              20

    I saw when from the turtle feast
      The thick dark smoke in volumes rose!
    I saw the darkness of the mist
      Encircle thee, O Nose!
  Shorn of thy rays thou shott'st a fearful gleam                     25
    (The turtle quiver'd with prophetic fright)
  Gloomy and sullen thro' the night of steam:--
    So Satan's Nose when Dunstan urg'd to flight,
  Glowing from gripe of red-hot pincers dread
  Athwart the smokes of Hell disastrous twilight shed!                30

    The Furies to madness my brain devote--
      In robes of ice my body wrap!
    On billowy flames of fire I float,
      Hear ye my entrails how they snap?
  Some power unseen forbids my lungs to breathe!                      35
    What fire-clad meteors round me whizzing fly!
  I vitrify thy torrid zone beneath,
    Proboscis fierce! I am calcined! I die!
  Thus, like great Pliny, in Vesuvius' fire,
  I perish in the blaze while I the blaze admire.                     40



[8:1] First published in 1834. The third stanza was published in the
_Morning Post_, Jan. 2, 1798, entitled 'To the Lord Mayor's Nose'.
William Gill (see ll. 15, 20) was Lord Mayor in 1788.


Title] Rhapsody MS. O: The Nose.--An Odaic Rhapsody MS. O (c).

[5] As erst from Heaven Prometheus stole the fire MS. O (c).

[7] hands] hand MS. O (c).

[10] waves of fire] fiery waves MS. O (c).

[15] I'll call thee Gill MS. O. G--ll MS. O (c).

[16] high] great MS. O (c).

[20] by fiercer Gill outdone MS. O.: more red for shame by fiercer G--ll
MS. O (c).

[22] dark] dank MS. O, MS. O (c).

[25] rays] beams MS. O (c).

[30] MS. O (c) ends with the third stanza.


  Tho' no bold flights to thee belong;
  And tho' thy lays with conscious fear,
  Shrink from Judgement's eye severe,
  Yet much I thank thee, Spirit of my song!
  For, lovely Muse! thy sweet employ                                   5
  Exalts my soul, refines my breast,
  Gives each pure pleasure keener zest,
  And softens sorrow into pensive Joy.
  From thee I learn'd the wish to bless,
  From thee to commune with my heart;                                 10
  From thee, dear Muse! the gayer part,
  To laugh with pity at the crowds that press
  Where Fashion flaunts her robes by Folly spun,
  Whose hues gay-varying wanton in the sun.



[9:1] First published in 1834.


Title] Sonnet I. To my Muse MS. O.



  Heard'st thou yon universal cry,
    And dost thou linger still on Gallia's shore?
  Go, Tyranny! beneath some barbarous sky
    Thy terrors lost and ruin'd power deplore!
      What tho' through many a groaning age                            5
      Was felt thy keen suspicious rage,
      Yet Freedom rous'd by fierce Disdain
      Has wildly broke thy triple chain,
  And like the storm which Earth's deep entrails hide,
  At length has burst its way and spread the ruins wide.              10

         *       *       *       *       *


  In sighs their sickly breath was spent; each gleam
    Of Hope had ceas'd the long long day to cheer;
  Or if delusive, in some flitting dream,
    It gave them to their friends and children dear--
      Awaked by lordly Insult's sound                                 15
      To all the doubled horrors round,
      Oft shrunk they from Oppression's band
      While Anguish rais'd the desperate hand
  For silent death; or lost the mind's controll,
  Thro' every burning vein would tides of Frenzy roll.                20


  But cease, ye pitying bosoms, cease to bleed!
    Such scenes no more demand the tear humane;
  I see, I see! glad Liberty succeed
    With every patriot virtue in her train!
      And mark yon peasant's raptur'd eyes;                           25
      Secure he views his harvests rise;
      No fetter vile the mind shall know,
      And Eloquence shall fearless glow.
  Yes! Liberty the soul of Life shall reign,
  Shall throb in every pulse, shall flow thro' every vein!            30


  Shall France alone a Despot spurn?
    Shall she alone, O Freedom, boast thy care?
  Lo, round thy standard Belgia's heroes burn,
    Tho' Power's blood-stain'd streamers fire the air,
      And wider yet thy influence spread,                             35
      Nor e'er recline thy weary head,
      Till every land from pole to pole
      Shall boast one independent soul!
  And still, as erst, let favour'd Britain be
  First ever of the first and freest of the free!                     40

? 1789.


[10:1] First published in 1834. _Note._ The Bastile was destroyed July
14, 1789.


Title] An ode on the Destruction of the Bastile MS. O.

[11] In MS. O stanza iv follows stanza i, part of the leaf being torn
out. In another MS. copy in place of the asterisks the following note is
inserted: 'Stanzas second and third are lost. We may gather from the
context that they alluded to the Bastile and its inhabitants.'

[12] long long] live-long MS. O.

[32] Shall She, O Freedom, all thy blessings share MS. O erased.


  As late I journey'd o'er the extensive plain
    Where native Otter sports his scanty stream,
  Musing in torpid woe a Sister's pain,
    The glorious prospect woke me from the dream.

  At every step it widen'd to my sight--                               5
    Wood, Meadow, verdant Hill, and dreary Steep,
  Following in quick succession of delight,--
    Till all--at once--did my eye ravish'd sweep!
  May this (I cried) my course through Life portray!
  New scenes of Wisdom may each step display,                         10
    And Knowledge open as my days advance!
  Till what time Death shall pour the undarken'd ray,
    My eye shall dart thro' infinite expanse,
  And thought suspended lie in Rapture's blissful trance.



[11:1] First published in 1834.


Title] Sonnet II. Written September, 1789 MS. O: Sonnet written just
after the writer left the Country in Sept. 1789, _aetat._ 15 MS. O (c).

[6] dreary] barren MS. O, MS. O (c).

[8] my ravish'd eye did sweep. MS. O, MS. O (c).

[12] Till when death pours at length MS. O (c).

[14] While thought suspended lies MS. O: While thought suspended lies in
Transport's blissful trance MS. O (c).


     [Nemo repente turpissimus]

      Deep in the gulph of Vice and Woe
      Leaps Man at once with headlong throw?
      Him inborn Truth and Virtue guide,
      Whose guards are Shame and conscious Pride.
    In some gay hour Vice steals into the breast;                      5
    Perchance she wears some softer Virtue's vest.
    By unperceiv'd degrees she tempts to stray,
  Till far from Virtue's path she leads the feet away.

      Then swift the soul to disenthrall
      Will Memory the past recall,                                    10
      And Fear before the Victim's eyes
      Bid future ills and dangers rise.
    But hark! the Voice, the Lyre, their charms combine--
    Gay sparkles in the cup the generous Wine--
    Th' inebriate dance, the fair frail Nymph inspires,               15
  And Virtue vanquish'd--scorn'd--with hasty flight retires.

      But soon to tempt the Pleasures cease;
      Yet Shame forbids return to peace,
      And stern Necessity will force
      Still to urge on the desperate course.                          20
    The drear black paths of Vice the wretch must try,
    Where Conscience flashes horror on each eye,
    Where Hate--where Murder scowl--where starts Affright!
  Ah! close the scene--ah! close--for dreadful is the sight.



[12:1] First published in 1834, from _MS. O_.


Title] Progress of Vice. An Ode MS. O. The motto first appears in
Boyer's _Liber Aureus_.

[1] Vice] Guilt L. A.

[3] inborn] innate L. A.

[9] Yet still the heart to disenthrall L. A.

[12] Bid] Bids MS. O. ills] woes L. A.

[13] But hark! their charms the voice L. A.

[15] The mazy dance and frail young Beauty fires L. A.

[20] Still on to urge MS. O.

[24] Ah! close the scene, for dreadful MS. O.



  Cold penury repress'd his noble rage,
  And froze the genial current of his soul.

        Now prompts the Muse poetic lays,
      And high my bosom beats with love of Praise!
    But, Chatterton! methinks I hear thy name,
  For cold my Fancy grows, and dead each Hope of Fame.

    When Want and cold Neglect had chill'd thy soul,                   5
  Athirst for Death I see thee drench the bowl!
      Thy corpse of many a livid hue
      On the bare ground I view,
    Whilst various passions all my mind engage;
      Now is my breast distended with a sigh,                         10
        And now a flash of Rage
  Darts through the tear, that glistens in my eye.

      Is this the land of liberal Hearts!
    Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain
  Pour'd forth her soul-enchanting strain?                            15
    Ah me! yet Butler 'gainst the bigot foe
      Well-skill'd to aim keen Humour's dart,
      Yet Butler felt Want's poignant sting;
        And Otway, Master of the Tragic art,
        Whom Pity's self had taught to sing,                          20
      Sank beneath a load of Woe;
    This ever can the generous Briton hear,
  And starts not in his eye th' indignant Tear?

      Elate of Heart and confident of Fame,
  From vales where Avon sports, the Minstrel came,                    25
      Gay as the Poet hastes along
      He meditates the future song,
  How Ælla battled with his country's foes,
    And whilst Fancy in the air
    Paints him many a vision fair                                     30
  His eyes dance rapture and his bosom glows.
  With generous joy he views th' ideal gold:
    He listens to many a Widow's prayers,
    And many an Orphan's thanks he hears;
      He soothes to peace the care-worn breast,                       35
      He bids the Debtor's eyes know rest,
      And Liberty and Bliss behold:
  And now he punishes the heart of steel,
  And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel.

  Fated to heave sad Disappointment's sigh,                           40
  To feel the Hope now rais'd, and now deprest,
  To feel the burnings of an injur'd breast,
    From all thy Fate's deep sorrow keen
    In vain, O Youth, I turn th' affrighted eye;
    For powerful Fancy evernigh                                       45
  The hateful picture forces on my sight.
    There, Death of every dear delight,
    Frowns Poverty of Giant mien!
  In vain I seek the charms of youthful grace,
  Thy sunken eye, thy haggard cheeks it shews,                        50
  The quick emotions struggling in the Face
    Faint index of thy mental Throes,
  When each strong Passion spurn'd controll,
  And not a Friend was nigh to calm thy stormy soul.

  Such was the sad and gloomy hour                                    55
  When anguish'd Care of sullen brow
  Prepared the Poison's death-cold power.
  Already to thy lips was rais'd the bowl,
  When filial Pity stood thee by,
  Thy fixéd eyes she bade thee roll                                   60
  On scenes that well might melt thy soul--
  Thy native cot she held to view,
  Thy native cot, where Peace ere long
  Had listen'd to thy evening song;
  Thy sister's shrieks she bade thee hear,                            65
  And mark thy mother's thrilling tear,
  She made thee feel her deep-drawn sigh,
  And all her silent agony of Woe.

  And from _thy_ Fate shall such distress ensue?
  Ah! dash the poison'd chalice from thy hand!                        70
  And thou had'st dash'd it at her soft command;
  But that Despair and Indignation rose,
  And told again the story of thy Woes,
  Told the keen insult of th' unfeeling Heart,
  The dread dependence on the low-born mind,                          75
  Told every Woe, for which thy breast might smart,
  Neglect and grinning scorn and Want combin'd--
      Recoiling back, thou sent'st the friend of Pain
  To roll a tide of Death thro' every freezing vein.

        O Spirit blest!                                               80
      Whether th' eternal Throne around,
      Amidst the blaze of Cherubim,
      Thou pourest forth the grateful hymn,
      Or, soaring through the blest Domain,
      Enraptur'st Angels with thy strain,--                           85
      Grant me, like thee, the lyre to sound,
      Like thee, with fire divine to glow--
      But ah! when rage the Waves of Woe,
      Grant me with firmer breast t'oppose their hate,
    And soar beyond the storms with upright eye elate![15:1]          90



[13:1] First published in 1898. The version in the Ottery Copy-book _MS.
O_ was first published in _P. and D. W._, 1880, ii. 355*-8*. Three MSS.
of the _Monody_, &c. are extant: (1) the Ottery Copy-book [_MS. O_]; (2)
Boyer's _Liber Aureus_ = the text as printed; (3) the transcription of
S. T. C.'s early poems made in 1823 [_MS. O (c)_]. Variants in 1 and 3
are given below.

[15:1] [Note to ll. 88-90.] 'Altho' this latter reflection savours of
suicide, it will easily meet with the indulgence of the considerate
reader when he reflects that the Author's imagination was at that time
inflam'd with the idea of his beloved Poet, and perhaps uttered a
sentiment which in his cooler moments he would have abhor'd the thought
of.' [Signed] J. M. _MS. O (c)_.


Title] A Monody on Chatterton, who poisoned himself at the age of
eighteen--written by the author at the age of sixteen. MS. O (c).

Motto] The motto does not appear in MS. O, but a note is prefixed: 'This
poem has since appeared in print, much altered, whether for the better I
doubt. This was, I believe, written before the Author went to College'
(J. T. C.).

[6] drench] drain MS. O, MS. O (c).

[7] corpse] corse MS. O, MS. O (c).

[13] Hearts] Heart MS. O, MS. O (c).

[20] taught] bade MS. O, MS. O (c).

[21] Sank] Sunk MS. O, MS. O (c).

[22] This ever] Which can the . . . ever hear MS. O, MS. O (c).

[29] whilst] while MS. O.

[32] ideal] rising MS. O.

[36] eyes] too MS. O (c).

[42] To feel] With all MS. O.

[43] Lo! from thy dark Fate's sorrow keen MS. O.

[45] powerful] busy MS. O.

[50] cheeks it] cheek she MS. O: looks she MS. O (c).

[51] the] thy MS. O.

[60] eyes] eye MS. O.

[61] On scenes which MS. O. On] To MS. O (c).

[64] evening] Evening's MS. O (c).

[66] thrilling] frequent MS. O (c).

[67] made] bade MS. O, MS. O (c).

[78] sent'st] badest MS. O.

[79] To] Quick. freezing] icening MS. O, MS. O (c).

[81] eternal] Eternal's MS. O: endless MS. O (c).

[82] Cherubim] Seraphim MS. O.

[88] But ah!] Like thee MS. O, MS. O (c).


  To leave behind Contempt, and Want, and State, MS. O.

  To leave behind Contempt and Want and Hate MS. O (c).

  And seek in other worlds an happier Fate MS. O, MS. O (c).


  Sweet Muse! companion of my every hour!
  Voice of my Joy! Sure soother of the sigh!
  Now plume thy pinions, now exert each power,
  And fly to him who owns the candid eye.
  And if a smile of Praise thy labour hail                             5
  (Well shall thy labours then my mind employ)
  Fly fleetly back, sweet Muse! and with the tale
  O'erspread my Features with a flush of Joy!



[16:1] First published in 1893, from an autograph MS.


  Within these wilds was Anna wont to rove
    While Harland told his love in many a sigh,
    But stern on Harland roll'd her brother's eye,
  They fought, they fell--her brother and her love!

  To Death's dark house did grief-worn Anna haste,                     5
    Yet here her pensive ghost delights to stay;
    Oft pouring on the winds the broken lay--
  And hark, I hear her--'twas the passing blast.

  I love to sit upon her tomb's dark grass,
    Then Memory backward rolls Time's shadowy tide;                   10
    The tales of other days before me glide:
  With eager thought I seize them as they pass;
  For fair, tho' faint, the forms of Memory gleam,
  Like Heaven's bright beauteous bow reflected in the stream.

? 1790.


[16:2] First printed in the _Cambridge Intelligencer_, Oct. 25, 1794.
First collected _P. and D. W._, 1880, _Supplement_, ii. 359. The text is
that of 1880 and 1893, which follow a MS. version.


Title] Anna and Henry C. I.

[1] Along this glade C. I.

[2] Henry C. I.

[3] stern] dark C. I. Harland] Henry C. I.

[5] To her cold grave did woe-worn C. I.

[6] stay] stray C. I.

[7] the] a C. I.

[9] dark] dank C. I.

[10] Then] There C. I.

[11] tales] forms C. I.

[14] Like Heaven's bright bow reflected on the stream. C. I.


  O meek attendant of Sol's setting blaze,
    I hail, sweet star, thy chaste effulgent glow;
  On thee full oft with fixéd eye I gaze
    Till I, methinks, all spirit seem to grow.
  O first and fairest of the starry choir,                             5
    O loveliest 'mid the daughters of the night,
  Must not the maid I love like thee inspire
    _Pure_ joy and _calm_ Delight?

  Must she not be, as is thy placid sphere
    Serenely brilliant? Whilst to gaze a while                        10
  Be all my wish 'mid Fancy's high career
    E'en till she quit this scene of earthly toil;
  Then Hope perchance might fondly sigh to join
  Her spirit in thy kindred orb, O Star benign!

? 1790.


[16:3] First published in _P. and D. W._, 1880, _Supplement_, ii. 359,
from _MS. O_.


  Once could the Morn's first beams, the healthful breeze,
  All Nature charm, and gay was every hour:--
  But ah! not Music's self, nor fragrant bower
  Can glad the trembling sense of wan Disease.
  Now that the frequent pangs my frame assail,                         5
  Now that my sleepless eyes are sunk and dim,
  And seas of Pain seem waving through each limb--
  Ah what can all Life's gilded scenes avail?
  I view the crowd, whom Youth and Health inspire,
  Hear the loud laugh, and catch the sportive lay,                    10
  Then sigh and think--I too could laugh and play
  And gaily sport it on the Muse's lyre,
  Ere Tyrant Pain had chas'd away delight,
  Ere the wild pulse throbb'd anguish thro' the night!

? 1790.


[17:1] First published in 1834.


Title] Pain, a Sonnet MS. O: Sonnet Composed in Sickness MS.

[3] But ah! nor splendid feasts MS. O (c).

[12] Muse's] festive MS. O, MS. O (c).



  Lovely gems of radiance meek
  Trembling down my Laura's cheek,
  As the streamlets silent glide
  Thro' the Mead's enamell'd pride,
  Pledges sweet of pious woe,                                          5
  Tears which Friendship taught to flow,
  Sparkling in yon humid light
  Love embathes his pinions bright:
  There amid the glitt'ring show'r
  Smiling sits th' insidious Power;                                   10
  As some wingéd Warbler oft
  When Spring-clouds shed their treasures soft
  Joyous tricks his plumes anew,
  And flutters in the fost'ring dew.

? 1790.


[17:2] First published in 1893. From _MS. O (c)_.


    O Muse who sangest late another's pain,
    To griefs domestic turn thy coal-black steed!
    With slowest steps thy funeral steed must go,
    Nodding his head in all the pomp of woe:
    Wide scatter round each dark and deadly weed,                      5
    And let the melancholy dirge complain,
    (Whilst Bats shall shriek and Dogs shall howling run)
  The tea-kettle is spoilt and Coleridge is undone!

    Your cheerful songs, ye unseen crickets, cease!
    Let songs of grief your alter'd minds engage!                     10
    For he who sang responsive to your lay,
    What time the joyous bubbles 'gan to play,
    The _sooty swain_ has felt the fire's fierce rage;--
    Yes, he is gone, and all my woes increase;
    I heard the water issuing from the wound--                        15
  No more the Tea shall pour its fragrant steams around!

    O Goddess best belov'd! Delightful Tea!
    With thee compar'd what yields the madd'ning Vine?
    Sweet power! who know'st to spread the calm delight,
    And the pure joy prolong to midmost night!                        20
    Ah! must I all thy varied sweets resign?
    Enfolded close in grief thy form I see;
  No more wilt thou extend thy willing arms,
  Receive the _fervent Jove_, and yield him all thy charms!

    How sink the mighty low by Fate opprest!--                        25
    Perhaps, O Kettle! thou by scornful toe
    Rude urg'd t' ignoble place with plaintive din.
    May'st rust obscure midst heaps of vulgar tin;--
    As if no joy had ever seiz'd my breast
    When from thy spout the streams did arching fly,--                30
    As if, infus'd, thou ne'er hadst known t' inspire
    All the warm raptures of poetic fire!

    But hark! or do I fancy the glad voice--
    'What tho' the swain did wondrous charms disclose--
    (Not such did Memnon's sister sable drest)                        35
    Take these bright arms with royal face imprest,
    A better Kettle shall thy soul rejoice,
    And with Oblivion's wings o'erspread thy woes!'
    Thus Fairy Hope can soothe distress and toil;
  On empty Trivets she bids fancied Kettles boil!                     40



[18:1] First published in 1834, from _MS. O_. The text of 1893 follows
an autograph MS. in the Editor's possession.


_Monody_] 1 Muse that late sang another's poignant pain MS. S. T. C.

[3] In slowest steps the funeral steeds shall go MS. S. T. C.

[4] Nodding their heads MS. S. T. C.

[5] each deadly weed MS. S. T. C.

[8] The] His MS. S. T. C.

[9] songs] song MS. S. T. C.

[15] issuing] hissing MS. S. T. C.

[16] pour] throw MS. S. T. C. steams] steam MS. S. T. C.

[18] thee] whom MS. S. T. C. Vine] Wine MS. S. T. C.

[19] who] that MS. S. T. C.

[21] various charms MS. S. T. C.

[23] extend] expand MS. S. T. C.

[25] How low the mighty sink MS. S. T. C.

[29] seiz'd] chear'd MS. S. T. C.


  When from thy spout the stream did arching flow
  As if, inspir'd

MS. S. T. C.

[33] the glad] _Georgian_ MS. S. T. C.

[34] the swain] its form MS. S. T. C.

[35] _Note._ A parenthetical reflection of the Author's. MS. O.

[38] wings] wing MS. S. T. C.


  Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve!
  In Beauty's light you glide along:
  Your eye is like the Star of Eve,
  And sweet your voice, as Seraph's song
  Yet not your heavenly beauty gives                                   5
  This heart with Passion soft to glow:
  Within your soul a voice there lives!
  It bids you hear the tale of Woe.
  When sinking low the sufferer wan
  Beholds no hand outstretch'd to save,                               10
  Fair, as the bosom of the Swan
  That rises graceful o'er the wave,
  I've seen your breast with pity heave,
  And _therefore_ love I you, sweet Genevieve!



[19:1] First published in the _Cambridge Intelligencer_ for Nov. 1,
1794: included in the editions of 1796, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.
Three MSS. are extant; (1) an autograph in a copy-book made for the
family [_MS. O_]; (2) an autograph in a copy-book presented to Mrs.
Estlin [_MS. E_]; and (3) a transcript included in a copy-book presented
to Sara Coleridge in 1823 [_MS. O (c)_]. In an unpublished letter dated
Dec. 18, 1807, Coleridge invokes the aid of Richard ['Conservation']
Sharp on behalf of a 'Mrs. Brewman, who was elected a nurse to one of
the wards of Christ's Hospital at the time that I was a boy there'. He
says elsewhere that he spent full half the time from seventeen to
eighteen in the sick ward of Christ's Hospital. It is doubtless to this
period, 1789-90, that _Pain_ and _Genevieve_, which, according to a
Christ's Hospital tradition, were inspired by his 'Nurse's Daughter',
must be assigned.

'This little poem was written when the Author was a boy'--_Note 1796,


Title] Sonnet iii. MS. O: Ode MS. E: A Sonnet MS. O (c): Effusion xvii.
1796. The heading, _Genevieve_, first appears in 1803.

[2] Thou glid'st along [so, too, in ll. 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 13, 14] MS. O,
MS. E, MS. O (c), C. I.

[4] Thy voice is lovely as the MS. E: Thy voice is soft, &c. MS. O (c),
C. I.

[8] It bids thee hear the tearful plaint of woe MS. E.

[10] no . . . save] no friendly hand that saves MS. E. outstretch'd]
stretcht out MS. O, MS. O (c), C. I.

[12] the wave] quick-rolling waves MS. E.


  The tear which mourn'd a brother's fate scarce dry--
  Pain after pain, and woe succeeding woe--
  Is my heart destin'd for another blow?
  O my sweet sister! and must thou too die?
  Ah! how has Disappointment pour'd the tear                           5
  O'er infant Hope destroy'd by early frost!
  How are ye gone, whom most my soul held dear!
  Scarce had I lov'd you ere I mourn'd you lost;
  Say, is this hollow eye, this heartless pain,
  Fated to rove thro' Life's wide cheerless plain--                   10
  Nor father, brother, sister meet its ken--
  My woes, my joys unshared! Ah! long ere then
  On me thy icy dart, stern Death, be prov'd;--
  Better to die, than live and not be lov'd!



[20:1] First published in 1834. The 'brother' (line 1) was Luke Herman
Coleridge who died at Thorverton in 1790. Anne Coleridge, the poet's
sister (the only daughter of his father's second marriage), died in
March 1791.


Title] Sonnet v. MS. O.

[1] tear] tears MS. O.

[4] O my sweet sister must _thou_ die MS. O.

[7] gone] flown MS. O.

[10] Fated] Destin'd MS. O.

[11] father] Mother MS. O.


    I too a sister had! too cruel Death!
      How sad Remembrance bids my bosom heave!
    Tranquil her soul, as sleeping Infant's breath;
      Meek were her manners as a vernal Eve.
    Knowledge, that frequent lifts the bloated mind,                   5
      Gave her the treasure of a lowly breast,
    And Wit to venom'd Malice oft assign'd,
      Dwelt in her bosom in a Turtle's nest.
    Cease, busy Memory! cease to urge the dart;
      Nor on my soul her love to me impress!                          10
    For oh I mourn in anguish--and my heart
      Feels the keen pang, th' unutterable distress.
  Yet wherefore grieve I that her sorrows cease,
  For Life was misery, and the Grave is Peace!



[21:1] First published in 1834.


  If Pegasus will let _thee_ only ride him,
  Spurning my clumsy efforts to o'erstride him,
  Some fresh expedient the Muse will try,
  And walk on stilts, although she cannot fly.



     I have often been surprised that Mathematics, the quintessence
     of Truth, should have found admirers so few and so languid.
     Frequent consideration and minute scrutiny have at length
     unravelled the cause; viz. that though Reason is feasted,
     Imagination is starved; whilst Reason is luxuriating in its
     proper Paradise, Imagination is wearily travelling on a dreary
     desert. To assist Reason by the stimulus of Imagination is the
     design of the following production. In the execution of it
     much may be objectionable. The verse (particularly in the
     introduction of the ode) may be accused of unwarrantable
     liberties, but they are liberties equally homogeneal with the
     exactness of Mathematical disquisition, and the boldness of
     Pindaric daring. I have three strong champions to defend me
     against the attacks of Criticism: the Novelty, the Difficulty,
     and the Utility of the work. I may justly plume myself that I
     first have drawn the nymph Mathesis from the visionary caves
     of abstracted idea, and caused her to unite with Harmony. The
     first-born of this Union I now present to you; with interested
     motives indeed--as I expect to receive in return the more
     valuable offspring of your Muse.
                                      Thine ever,
                                                  S. T. C.

     [CHRIST'S HOSPITAL], _March 31, 1791_.

          This is now--this was erst,
  Proposition the first--and Problem the first.


    On a given finite line
  Which must no way incline;
      To describe an equi--
      --lateral Tri--
      --A, N, G, L, E.[22:1]                                           5
        Now let A. B.
      Be the given line
  Which must no way incline;
      The great Mathematician
      Makes this Requisition,                                         10
        That we describe an Equi--
        --lateral Tri--
        --angle on it:
  Aid us, Reason--aid us, Wit!


    From the centre A. at the distance A. B.                          15
      Describe the circle B. C. D.
    At the distance B. A. from B. the centre
  The round A. C. E. to describe boldly venture.[22:2]
        (Third postulate see.)
      And from the point C.                                           20
    In which the circles make a pother
    Cutting and slashing one another,
        Bid the straight lines a journeying go.
      C. A. C. B. those lines will show.
        To the points, which by A. B. are reckon'd,                   25
        And postulate the second
      For Authority ye know.
              A. B. C.
            Triumphant shall be
          An Equilateral Triangle,                                    30
    Not Peter Pindar carp, nor Zoilus can wrangle.


      Because the point A. is the centre
        Of the circular B. C. D.
      And because the point B. is the centre
        Of the circular A. C. E.                                      35
      A. C. to A. B. and B. C. to B. A.
    Harmoniously equal for ever must stay;
        Then C. A. and B. C.
      Both extend the kind hand
        To the basis, A. B.                                           40
    Unambitiously join'd in Equality's Band.
  But to the same powers, when two powers are equal,
        My mind forbodes the sequel;
    My mind does some celestial impulse teach,
        And equalises each to each.                                   45
    Thus C. A. with B. C. strikes the same sure alliance,
    That C. A. and B. C. had with A. B. before;
          And in mutual affiance
            None attempting to soar
              Above another,                                          50
            The unanimous three
        C. A. and B. C. and A. B.
      All are equal, each to his brother,
        Preserving the balance of power so true:
    Ah! the like would the proud Autocratrix[23:1] do!                55
      At taxes impending not Britain would tremble,
      Nor Prussia struggle her fear to dissemble;
        Nor the Mah'met-sprung Wight
          The great Mussulman
          Would stain his Divan                                       60
  With Urine the soft-flowing daughter of Fright.


  But rein your stallion in, too daring Nine!
  Should Empires bloat the scientific line?
  Or with dishevell'd hair all madly do ye run
  For transport that your task is done?                               65
    For done it is--the cause is tried!
    And Proposition, gentle Maid,
  Who soothly ask'd stern Demonstration's aid,
      Has proved her right, and A. B. C.
          Of Angles three                                             70
        Is shown to be of equal side;
  And now our weary steed to rest in fine,
  'Tis rais'd upon A. B. the straight, the given line.



[21:2] First published in 1834 without a title, but tabulated as
'Mathematical Problem' in 'Contents' 1 [p. xi].

[22:1] _Poetice_ for Angle. _Letter, 1791._

[22:2] Delendus 'fere'. _Letter, 1791._

[23:1] Empress of Russia.


Title] Prospectus and Specimen of a Translation of Euclid in a series of
Pindaric Odes, communicated in a letter of the author to his Brother
Rev. G. Coleridge [March 17, 1791]. MS. O (c).

[5] A E N G E E E L E. Letter, 1791.

[36] A C to C B and C B to C A. Letter, 1791, MS. O (c).

[48] affiance] alliance Letter, 1791.

[55] Autocratrix] Autocratorix MS. O (c).


  O, curas hominum! O, quantum est in rebus inane!

  The fervid Sun had more than halv'd the day,
  When gloomy on his couch Philedon lay;
  His feeble frame consumptive as his purse,
  His aching head did wine and women curse;
  His fortune ruin'd and his wealth decay'd,                           5
  Clamorous his duns, his gaming debts unpaid,
  The youth indignant seiz'd his tailor's bill,
  And on its back thus wrote with moral quill:
  'Various as colours in the rainbow shown,
  Or similar in emptiness alone,                                      10
  How false, how vain are Man's pursuits below!
  Wealth, Honour, Pleasure--what can ye bestow?
  Yet see, how high and low, and young and old
  Pursue the all-delusive power of Gold.
  Fond man! should all Peru thy empire own,                           15
  For thee tho' all Golconda's jewels shone,
  What greater bliss could all this wealth supply?
  What, but to eat and drink and sleep and die?
  Go, tempt the stormy sea, the burning soil--
  Go, waste the night in thought, the day in toil,                    20
  Dark frowns the rock, and fierce the tempests rave--
  Thy ingots go the unconscious deep to pave!
  Or thunder at thy door the midnight train,
  Or Death shall knock that never knocks in vain.
  Next Honour's sons come bustling on amain;                          25
  I laugh with pity at the idle train.
  Infirm of soul! who think'st to lift thy name
  Upon the waxen wings of human fame,--
  Who for a sound, articulated breath--
  Gazest undaunted in the face of death!                              30
  What art thou but a Meteor's glaring light--
  Blazing a moment and then sunk in night?
  Caprice which rais'd thee high shall hurl thee low,
  Or Envy blast the laurels on thy brow.
  To such poor joys could ancient Honour lead                         35
  When empty fame was toiling Merit's meed;
  To Modern Honour other lays belong;
  Profuse of joy and Lord of right and wrong,
  Honour can game, drink, riot in the stew,
  Cut a friend's throat;--what cannot Honour do?                      40
  Ah me!--the storm within can Honour still
  For Julio's death, whom Honour made me kill?
  Or will this lordly Honour tell the way
  To pay those debts, which Honour makes me pay?
  Or if with pistol and terrific threats                              45
  I make some traveller pay my Honour's debts,
  A medicine for this wound can Honour give?
  Ah, no! my Honour dies to make my Honour live.
  But see! young Pleasure, and her train advance,
  And joy and laughter wake the inebriate dance;                      50
  Around my neck she throws her fair white arms,
  I meet her loves, and madden at her charms.
  For the gay grape can joys celestial move,
  And what so sweet below as Woman's love?
  With such high transport every moment flies,                        55
  I curse Experience that he makes me wise;
  For at his frown the dear deliriums flew,
  And the changed scene now wears a gloomy hue.
  A hideous hag th' Enchantress Pleasure seems,
  And all her joys appear but feverous dreams.                        60
  The vain resolve still broken and still made,
  Disease and loathing and remorse invade;
  The charm is vanish'd and the bubble's broke,--
  A slave to pleasure is a slave to smoke!'
    Such lays repentant did the Muse supply;                          65
  When as the Sun was hastening down the sky,
  In glittering state twice fifty guineas come,--
  His Mother's plate antique had rais'd the sum.
  Forth leap'd Philedon of new life possest:--                        69
  'Twas Brookes's all till two,--'twas Hackett's all the rest!



[24:1] First published in 1834: included in _P. and D. W._, 1877-80, and
in 1893.


_Honour_] No title, but motto as above MS. O.: Philedon, Eds. 1877,

[34] Or] And MS. O.


  Or will my Honour kindly tell the way
  To pay the debts

MS. O.

[60] feverous] feverish MS. O.

[70] Brookes's, a famous gaming-house in Fleet Street. Hackett's, a
brothel under the Covent Garden Piazza. Note MS. O.


  All are not born to soar--and ah! how few
  In tracks where Wisdom leads their paths pursue!
  Contagious when to wit or wealth allied,
  Folly and Vice diffuse their venom wide.
  On Folly every fool his talent tries;                                5
  It asks some toil to imitate the wise;
  Tho' few like Fox can speak--like Pitt can think--
  Yet all like Fox can game--like Pitt can drink.

? 1791


[26:1] First published in 1834. In _MS. O_ lines 3, 4 follow lines 7, 8
of the text.


  'Tis hard on Bagshot Heath to try
  Unclos'd to keep the weary eye;
  But ah! Oblivion's nod to get
  In rattling coach is harder yet.
  Slumbrous God of half-shut eye!                                      5
  Who lovest with limbs supine to lie;
  Soother sweet of toil and care
  Listen, listen to my prayer;
  And to thy votary dispense
  Thy soporific influence!                                            10
  What tho' around thy drowsy head
  The seven-fold cap of night be spread,
  Yet lift that drowsy head awhile
  And yawn propitiously a smile;
  In drizzly rains poppean dews                                       15
  O'er the tired inmates of the Coach diffuse;
  And when thou'st charm'd our eyes to rest,
  Pillowing the chin upon the breast,
  Bid many a dream from thy dominions
  Wave its various-painted pinions,                                   20
  Till ere the splendid visions close
  We snore quartettes in ecstasy of nose.
  While thus we urge our airy course,
  O may no jolt's electric force
  Our fancies from their steeds unhorse,                              25
  And call us from thy fairy reign
  To dreary Bagshot Heath again!



[26:2] First published in 1834.


Title] Ode to sleep. Travelling in the Exeter Coach with three other
passengers over Bagshot Heath, after some vain endeavours to compose
myself I composed this Ode--August 17, 1791. MS. O.

[12] Vulgo yclept night-cap MS. O.

[13] that] thy MS. O.


  The indignant Bard composed this furious ode,
  As tired he dragg'd his way thro' Plimtree road![27:2]
      Crusted with filth and stuck in mire
      Dull sounds the Bard's bemudded lyre;
      Nathless Revenge and Ire the Poet goad                           5
      To pour his imprecations on the road.

      Curst road! whose execrable way
      Was darkly shadow'd out in Milton's lay,
      When the sad fiends thro' Hell's sulphureous roads
      Took the first survey of their new abodes;                      10
      Or when the fall'n Archangel fierce
      Dar'd through the realms of Night to pierce,
      What time the Bloodhound lur'd by Human scent
      Thro' all Confusion's quagmires floundering went.

  Nor cheering pipe, nor Bird's shrill note                           15
  Around thy dreary paths shall float;
  Their boding songs shall scritch-owls pour
  To fright the guilty shepherds sore,
  Led by the wandering fires astray
  Thro' the dank horrors of thy way!                                  20
  While they their mud-lost sandals hunt
  May all the curses, which they grunt
  In raging moan like goaded hog,
  Alight upon thee, damnéd Bog!



[27:1] First published in 1834.

[27:2] Plymtree Road, August 18, 1791. _Note, MS. O._ [Plimtree is about
8 miles N. of Ottery St. Mary. S. T. C. must have left the mail coach at
Cullompton to make his way home on foot.]


_Devonshire Roads_] No title MS. O.


  Hence, soul-dissolving Harmony
    That lead'st th' oblivious soul astray--
  Though thou sphere-descended be--
    Hence away!--
  Thou mightier Goddess, thou demand'st my lay,                        5
    Born when earth was seiz'd with cholic;
  Or as more sapient sages say,
    What time the Legion diabolic
      Compell'd their beings to enshrine
      In bodies vile of herded swine,                                 10
      Precipitate adown the steep
      With hideous rout were plunging in the deep,
  And hog and devil mingling grunt and yell
    Seiz'd on the ear with horrible obtrusion;--
  Then if aright old legendaries tell,                                15
    Wert thou begot by Discord on Confusion!

  What though no name's sonorous power
  Was given thee at thy natal hour!--
  Yet oft I feel thy sacred might,
  While concords wing their distant flight.                           20
    Such Power inspires thy holy son
      Sable clerk of Tiverton!
  And oft where Otter sports his stream,
  I hear thy banded offspring scream.
  Thou Goddess! thou inspir'st each throat;                           25
  'Tis thou who pour'st the scritch-owl note!
  Transported hear'st thy children all
  Scrape and blow and squeak and squall;
  And while old Otter's steeple rings,
  Clappest hoarse thy raven wings!                                    30



[28:1] First published in 1834.


Title] Ode on the Ottery and Tiverton Church Music MS. O.



  Farewell parental scenes! a sad farewell!
  To you my grateful heart still fondly clings,
  Tho' fluttering round on Fancy's burnish'd wings
  Her tales of future Joy Hope loves to tell.
  Adieu, adieu! ye much-lov'd cloisters pale!                          5
  Ah! would those happy days return again,
  When 'neath your arches, free from every stain,
  I heard of guilt and wonder'd at the tale!
  Dear haunts! where oft my simple lays I sang,
  Listening meanwhile the echoings of my feet,                        10
  Lingering I quit you, with as great a pang,
  As when erewhile, my weeping childhood, torn
  By early sorrow from my native seat,
  Mingled its tears with hers--my widow'd Parent lorn.



[29:1] First published in 1834.


Title] Sonnet on the Same (i. e. 'Absence, A Farewell Ode,' &c.) 1834.



  Where graced with many a classic spoil
  CAM rolls his reverend stream along,
  I haste to urge the learnéd toil
  That sternly chides my love-lorn song:
  Ah me! too mindful of the days                                       5
  Illumed by Passion's orient rays,
  When Peace, and Cheerfulness and Health
  Enriched me with the best of wealth.
  Ah fair Delights! that o'er my soul
  On Memory's wing, like shadows fly!                                 10
  Ah Flowers! which Joy from Eden stole
  While Innocence stood smiling by!--
  But cease, fond Heart! this bootless moan:
  Those Hours on rapid Pinions flown
  Shall yet return, by Absence crown'd,                               15
  And scatter livelier roses round.
  The Sun who ne'er remits his fires
  On heedless eyes may pour the day:
  The Moon, that oft from Heaven retires,
  Endears her renovated ray.                                          20
  What though she leave the sky unblest
  To mourn awhile in murky vest?
  When she relumes her lovely light,
  We bless the Wanderer of the Night.



[29:2] First published in _Cambridge Intelligencer_, October 11, 1794:
included in 1796, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.


Title] Sonnet on Quitting Christ's Hospital MS. O. Absence, A Farewell
Ode 1796, 1803.


  On wide or narrow scale shall Man
  Most happily describe Life's plan?
  Say shall he bloom and wither there,
  Where first his infant buds appear;
  Or upwards dart with soaring force,                                  5
  And tempt some more ambitious course?
    Obedient now to Hope's command,
  I bid each humble wish expand,
  And fair and bright Life's prospects seem.
  While Hope displays her cheering beam,                              10
  And Fancy's vivid colourings stream,
  While Emulation stands me nigh
  The Goddess of the eager eye.
    With foot advanc'd and anxious heart
  Now for the fancied goal I start:--                                 15
  Ah! why will Reason intervene
  Me and my promis'd joys between!
  She stops my course, she chains my speed,
  While thus her forceful words proceed:--
  Ah! listen, Youth, ere yet too late,                                20
  What evils on thy course may wait!
  To bow the head, to bend the knee,
  A minion of Servility,
  At low Pride's frequent frowns to sigh,
  And watch the glance in Folly's eye;                                25
  To toil intense, yet toil in vain,
  And feel with what a hollow pain
  Pale Disappointment hangs her head
  O'er darling Expectation dead!
    'The scene is changed and Fortune's gale                          30
  Shall belly out each prosperous sail.
  Yet sudden wealth full well I know
  Did never happiness bestow.
  That wealth to which we were not born
  Dooms us to sorrow or to scorn.                                     35
  Behold yon flock which long had trod
  O'er the short grass of Devon's sod,
  To Lincoln's rank rich meads transferr'd,
  And in their fate thy own be fear'd;
  Through every limb contagions fly,                                  40
  Deform'd and choked they burst and die.
    'When Luxury opens wide her arms,
  And smiling wooes thee to those charms,
  Whose fascination thousands own,
  Shall thy brows wear the stoic frown?                               45
  And when her goblet she extends
  Which maddening myriads press around,
  What power divine thy soul befriends
  That thou should'st dash it to the ground?--
  No, thou shalt drink, and thou shalt know                           50
  Her transient bliss, her lasting woe,
  Her maniac joys, that know no measure,
  And Riot rude and painted Pleasure;--
  Till (sad reverse!) the Enchantress vile
  To frowns converts her magic smile;                                 55
  Her train impatient to destroy,
  Observe her frown with gloomy joy;
  On thee with harpy fangs they seize
  The hideous offspring of Disease,
  Swoln Dropsy ignorant of Rest,                                      60
  And Fever garb'd in scarlet vest,
  Consumption driving the quick hearse,
  And Gout that howls the frequent curse,
  With Apoplex of heavy head
  That surely aims his dart of lead.                                  65
    'But say Life's joys unmix'd were given
  To thee some favourite of Heaven:
  Within, without, tho' all were health--
  Yet what e'en thus are Fame, Power, Wealth,
  But sounds that variously express,                                  70
  What's thine already--Happiness!
  'Tis thine the converse deep to hold
  With all the famous sons of old;
  And thine the happy waking dream
  While Hope pursues some favourite theme,                            75
  As oft when Night o'er Heaven is spread,
  Round this maternal seat you tread,
  Where far from splendour, far from riot,
  In silence wrapt sleeps careless Quiet.
  'Tis thine with Fancy oft to talk,                                  80
  And thine the peaceful evening walk;
  And what to thee the sweetest are--
  The setting sun, the Evening Star--
  The tints, which live along the sky,
  And Moon that meets thy raptur'd eye,                               85
  Where oft the tear shall grateful start,
  Dear silent pleasures of the Heart!
  Ah! Being blest, for Heaven shall lend
  To share thy simple joys a friend!
  Ah! doubly blest, if Love supply                                    90
  His influence to complete thy joy,
  If chance some lovely maid thou find
  To read thy visage in thy mind.
    'One blessing more demands thy care:--
  Once more to Heaven address the prayer:                             95
  For humble independence pray
  The guardian genius of thy way;
  Whom (sages say) in days of yore
  Meek Competence to Wisdom bore,
  So shall thy little vessel glide                                   100
  With a fair breeze adown the tide,
  And Hope, if e'er thou 'ginst to sorrow,
  Remind thee of some fair to-morrow,
  Till Death shall close thy tranquil eye
  While Faith proclaims "Thou shalt not die!"'                       105



[30:1] First published in 1834. The poem was sent to George Coleridge in
a letter dated June 22, 1791. An adapted version of ll. 80-105 was sent
to Southey, July 13, 1794.


Title] Upon the Author's leaving school and entering into Life. MS. O

[6] tempt] dare MS. O, MS. O (c).

[10] While] When MS. O, MS. O (c).

[Between 11-13]

  How pants my breast before my eyes
  While Honour WAVES her radiant prize.
  And Emulation, &c.

MS. O, MS. O (c).

[22] To bend the head, to bow MS. O (c).

[24] frowns] frown MS. O, MS. O (c).

[25] in] of MS. O (c).

[41] Deformed, choaked MS. O, MS. O (c).

[45] brows] brow MS. O, MS. O (c).

[55] magic] wonted MS. O, MS. O (c).

[57] her frown] the fiend MS. O, MS. O (c).

[68] Without, within MS. O, MS. O (c).

[76] is] has MS O, MS. O (c).

[77] _Note_--Christ's Hospital MS. O: Ottery S. Mary in Devonshire MS. O


  'Tis thine with faery forms to talk
  And thine the philosophic walk.

Letter to Southey, 1794.

[84] which] that MS. O, MS. O (c), Letter, 1794.

[85] And] The Letter, 1794.

[86] Where grateful oft the big drops start. Letter, 1794. shall] does
MS. O (c).


  Ah! doubly blest, if Love supply
  Lustre to this now heavy eye,
  And with unwonted Spirit grace
  That fat[32:A] vacuity of face.
  Or if e'en Love, the mighty Love
  Shall find this change his power above;
  Some lovely maid perchance thou'lt find
  To read thy visage in thy mind.

MS. O, MS. O (c).

     [32:A] The Author was at this time, _aetat._ 17, remarkable
     for a plump face. MS. O (c).


  But if thou pour one votive lay
  For humble, &c.

Letter, 1794.

[96] Not in Letter.

[101] adown Life's tide MS. O, MS. O (c).

[102-3] Not in Letter, 1794.

A WISH[33:1]


  Lo! through the dusky silence of the groves,
  Thro' vales irriguous, and thro' green retreats,
  With languid murmur creeps the placid stream
          And works its secret way.

  Awhile meand'ring round its native fields                            5
  It rolls the playful wave and winds its flight:
  Then downward flowing with awaken'd speed
          Embosoms in the Deep!

  Thus thro' its silent tenor may my Life
  Smooth its meek stream by sordid wealth unclogg'd,                  10
  Alike unconscious of forensic storms,
          And Glory's blood-stain'd palm!

  And when dark Age shall close Life's little day,
  Satiate of sport, and weary of its toils,
  E'en thus may slumbrous Death my decent limbs                       15
          Compose with icy hand!



[33:1] First published in 1893, from _MS. Letter to Mary Evans_, Feb. 13


  As late, in wreaths, gay flowers I bound,
  Beneath some roses Love I found;
  And by his little frolic pinion
  As quick as thought I seiz'd the minion,
  Then in my cup the prisoner threw,                                   5
  And drank him in its sparkling dew:
  And sure I feel my angry guest
  Fluttering _his wings_ within my breast!



[33:2] First published in 1893, from _MS. Letter_, Feb. 13 [1792].


    Hence! thou fiend of gloomy sway,
  That lov'st on withering blast to ride
  O'er fond Illusion's air-built pride.
    Sullen Spirit! Hence! Away!

    Where Avarice lurks in sordid cell,                                5
  Or mad Ambition builds the dream,
  Or Pleasure plots th' unholy scheme
    There with Guilt and Folly dwell!

    But oh! when Hope on Wisdom's wing
  Prophetic whispers pure delight,                                    10
  Be distant far thy cank'rous blight,
    Demon of envenom'd sting.

    Then haste thee, Nymph of balmy gales!
  Thy poet's prayer, sweet May! attend!
  Oh! place my parent and my friend                                   15
    'Mid her lovely native vales.

    Peace, that lists the woodlark's strains,
  Health, that breathes divinest treasures,
  Laughing Hours, and Social Pleasures
    Wait my friend in Cambria's plains.                               20

    Affection there with mingled ray
  Shall pour at once the raptures high
  Of filial and maternal Joy;
    Haste thee then, delightful May!

    And oh! may Spring's fair flowerets fade,                         25
  May Summer cease her limbs to lave
  In cooling stream, may Autumn grave
    Yellow o'er the corn-cloath'd glade;

    Ere, from sweet retirement torn,
  She seek again the crowded mart:                                    30
  Nor thou, my selfish, selfish heart
    Dare her slow return to mourn!



[34:1] First published in _Letters of Samuel Taylor Coleridge_, 1895, i.
28, 29. The lines were included in a letter to Mrs. Evans, dated
February 13, 1792.


  Where deep in mud Cam rolls his slumbrous stream,
  And bog and desolation reign supreme;
  Where all Boeotia clouds the misty brain,
  The owl Mathesis pipes her loathsome strain.
  Far, far aloof the frighted Muses fly,                               5
  Indignant Genius scowls and passes by:
  The frolic Pleasures start amid their dance,
  And Wit congeal'd stands fix'd in wintry trance.
  But to the sounds with duteous haste repair
  Cold Industry, and wary-footed Care;                                10
  And Dulness, dosing on a couch of lead,
  Pleas'd with the song uplifts her heavy head,
  The sympathetic numbers lists awhile,
  Then yawns propitiously a frosty smile. . . .
             [Caetera desunt.]



[35:1] First published in _Letters of Samuel Taylor Coleridge_, 1895, i.
44. The lines were sent in a letter to the Rev. G. Coleridge, dated
April [1792].


[1] slumbrous] reverend MS. E.

[5] frighted] affrighted MS. E.

[9] to] at MS. E.

[12] Sooth'd with the song uprears MS. E.

[13] The] Its MS. E.


  Ye Gales, that of the Lark's repose
  The impatient Silence break,
  To yon poor Pilgrim's wearying Woes
  Your gentle Comfort speak!
  He heard the midnight whirlwind die,                                 5
  He saw the sun-awaken'd Sky
  Resume its slowly-purpling Blue:
  And ah! he sigh'd--that I might find
  The cloudless Azure of the Mind
  And Fortune's brightning Hue!                                       10
  Where'er in waving Foliage hid
  The Bird's gay Charm ascends,
  Or by the fretful current chid
  Some giant Rock impends--
  There let the lonely Cares respire                                  15
  As small airs thrill the mourning Lyre
  And teach the Soul her native Calm;
  While Passion with a languid Eye
  Hangs o'er the fall of Harmony
  And drinks the sacred Balm.                                         20

  Slow as the fragrant whisper creeps
    Along the lilied Vale,
  The alter'd Eye of Conquest weeps,
    And ruthless War grows pale
  Relenting that his Heart forsook                                    25
  Soft Concord of auspicious Look,
  And Love, and social Poverty;
  The Family of tender Fears,
  The Sigh, that saddens and endears,
  And Cares, that sweeten Joy.                                        30

  Then cease, thy frantic Tumults cease,
  Ambition, Sire of War!
  Nor o'er the mangled Corse of Peace
  Urge on thy scythéd Car.
  And oh! that Reason's voice might swell                             35
  With whisper'd Airs and holy Spell
    To rouse thy gentler Sense,
  As bending o'er the chilly bloom
  The Morning wakes its soft Perfume
    With breezy Influence.                                            40



[35:2] These lines, first published in the _Watchman_ (No. IV, March 25,
1796, _signed_ G. A. U. N. T.), were included in the volume of MS. Poems
presented to Mrs. Estlin in April, 1795. They were never claimed by
Coleridge or assigned to him, and are now collected for the first time.


Title] A Morning Effusion Watchman.

[4] Comfort] solace W.

[13] fretful] fretting MS. E.

[16] mourning] lonely W.

[17] her] its W.

[18] languid] waning W.

[19] Hangs] Bends W.


  As slow the whisper'd measure creeps
  Along the steaming Vale.


[24] grows] turns W.

[31] Tumults] outrage W.

[32] Thou scepter'd Demon, WAR W.

[35] oh] ah W.

[38] chilly] flowrets' W.



  The dubious light sad glimmers o'er the sky:
  'Tis silence all. By lonely anguish torn,
  With wandering feet to gloomy groves I fly,
  And wakeful Love still tracks my course forlorn.

  And will you, cruel Julia! will you go?                              5
  And trust you to the Ocean's dark dismay?
  Shall the wide wat'ry world between us flow?
  And winds unpitying snatch my Hopes away?

  Thus could you sport with my too easy heart?
  Yet tremble, lest not unaveng'd I grieve!                           10
  The winds may learn your own delusive art,
  And faithless Ocean smile--but to deceive!



[36:1] First published in 1893, from _MS. Letter_, Feb. 13 [1792].


  Virtues and Woes alike too great for man
    In the soft tale oft claim the useless sigh;
  For vain the attempt to realise the plan,
    On Folly's wings must Imitation fly.
  With other aim has Fielding here display'd                           5
    Each social duty and each social care;
  With just yet vivid colouring portray'd
    What every wife should be, what many are.
  And sure the Parent[37:2] of a race so sweet
    With double pleasure on the page shall dwell,                     10
  Each scene with sympathizing breast shall meet,
    While Reason still with smiles delights to tell
  Maternal hope, that her loved progeny
  In all but sorrows shall Amelias be!

? 1792.


[37:1] First published in 1834.

[37:2] It is probable that the recipient of the _Amelia_ was the mother
of Coleridge's first love, Mary Evans.


Title] Sent to Mrs. ---- with an _Amelia_. MS. O.

[10] double] doubled MS. O.


  Tho' much averse, dear Jack, to flicker,
  To find a likeness for friend V--ker,
  I've made thro' Earth, and Air, and Sea,
  A Voyage of Discovery!
  And let me add (to ward off strife)                                  5
  For V--ker and for V--ker's Wife--
  She large and round beyond belief,
  A superfluity of beef!
  Her mind and body of a piece,
  And both composed of kitchen-grease.                                10
  In short, Dame Truth might safely dub her
  Vulgarity enshrin'd in blubber!
  He, meagre bit of littleness,
  All snuff, and musk, and politesse;
  So thin, that strip him of his clothing,                            15
  He'd totter on the edge of Nothing!
  In case of foe, he well might hide
  Snug in the collops of her side.

  Ah then, what simile will suit?
  Spindle-leg in great jack-boot?                                     20
  Pismire crawling in a rut?
  Or a spigot in a butt?
  Thus I humm'd and ha'd awhile,
  When Madam Memory with a smile
  Thus twitch'd my ear--'Why sure, I ween,                            25
  In London streets thou oft hast seen
  The very image of this pair:
  A little Ape with huge She-Bear
  Link'd by hapless chain together:
  An unlick'd mass the one--the other                                 30
  An antic small with nimble crupper----'
  But stop, my Muse! for here comes supper.



[37:3] First published in 1796, and secondly in _P. and D. W._, 1877-80.
These lines, described as 'A Simile', were sent in a letter to the Rev.
George Coleridge, dated August 9 [1792]. The Rev. Fulwood Smerdon, the
'Vicar' of the original MS., succeeded the Rev. John Coleridge as vicar
of Ottery St. Mary in 1781. He was the 'Edmund' of 'Lines to a Friend',
&c., _vide post_, pp. 74, 75.


Title] Epistle iii. Written, &c., 1796.

[1] dear Jack] at folk Letter, 1792.

[2] A simile for Vicar Letter, 1792.

[6] For Vicar and for Vicar's wife Letter, 1792.

[7] large] gross Letter, 1792.

[12] enshrin'd] enclos'd

[19] will] can Letter, 1792.

[23] I ha'd and hem'd Letter, 1792.

[24] Madam] Mrs. Letter, 1792.

[28] huge] large Letter, 1792.

[29] Link'd] Tied Letter, 1792.

[31] small] lean Letter, 1792: huge 1796, 1877, 1888, 1893. For Antic
huge read _antic small_ 'Errata', 1796 p. [189].


  The stream with languid murmur creeps,
    In Lumin's _flowery_ vale:
  Beneath the dew the Lily weeps
    Slow-waving to the gale.

  'Cease, restless gale!' it seems to say,                             5
    'Nor wake me with thy sighing!
  The honours of my vernal day
    On rapid wing are flying.

  'To-morrow shall the Traveller come
    Who late beheld me blooming:                                      10
  His searching eye shall vainly roam
    The _dreary_ vale of Lumin.'

  With eager gaze and wetted cheek
    My wonted haunts along,
  Thus, faithful Maiden! _thou_ shalt seek                            15
    The Youth of simplest song.

  But I along the breeze shall roll
    The voice of feeble power;
  And dwell, the Moon-beam of thy soul,
    In Slumber's nightly hour.                                        20



[38:1] First published in 1796: included in 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.
The following note was attached in 1796 and 1803:--The flower hangs its
[heavy] head waving at times to the gale. 'Why dost thou awake me, O
Gale?' it seems to say, 'I am covered with the drops of Heaven. The time
of my fading is near, the blast that shall scatter my leaves. Tomorrow
shall the traveller come; he that saw me in my beauty shall come. His
eyes will search the field, [but] they will not find me. So shall they
search in vain for the voice of Cona, after it has failed in the
field.'--Berrathon, see Ossian's _Poems_, vol. ii. [ed. 1819, p. 481].


Title] Ode MS. E.

[10] That erst, &c. MS. E.

[15] faithful] lovely MS. E.

[16] simplest] gentle MS. E.



  How long will ye round me be swelling,
    O ye blue-tumbling waves of the sea?
  Not always in caves was my dwelling,
    Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree.
  Through the high-sounding halls of Cathlóma                          5
    In the steps of my beauty I strayed;
  The warriors beheld Ninathóma,
    And they blesséd the white-bosom'd Maid!
  A Ghost! by my cavern it darted!
    In moon-beams the Spirit was drest--                              10
  For lovely appear the Departed
    When they visit the dreams of my rest!
  But disturb'd by the tempest's commotion
    Fleet the shadowy forms of delight--
  Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean!                           15
    To howl through my cavern by night.



[39:1] First published in 1796: included in 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.
These lines were included in a letter from Coleridge to Mary Evans,
dated Feb. 7, 1793. In 1796 and 1803 the following note was
attached:--'How long will ye roll around me, blue-tumbling waters of
Ocean. My dwelling is not always in caves; nor beneath the whistling
tree. My [The] feast is spread in Torthoma's Hall. [My father delighted
in my voice.] The youths beheld me in [the steps of] my loveliness. They
blessed the dark-haired Nina-thomà.'--Berrathon [Ossian's _Poems_, 1819,
ii. 484].


Title] Effusion xxx. The Complaint, &c., 1796.

[5] halls] Hall Letter, 1793.

[8] white-bosom'd] dark-tressed Letter, 1793.

[Between 8-9]

  By my friends, by my Lovers discarded,
    Like the flower of the Rock now I waste,
  That lifts her fair head unregarded,
    And scatters its leaves on the blast.

Letter, 1793.

[13] disturb'd] dispers'd Letter, 1793.


The Pixies, in the superstition of Devonshire, are a race of beings
invisibly small, and harmless or friendly to man. At a small distance
from a village in that county, half-way up a wood-covered hill, is an
excavation called the Pixies' Parlour. The roots of old trees form its
ceiling; and on its sides are innumerable cyphers, among which the
author discovered his own cypher and those of his brothers, cut by the
hand of their childhood. At the foot of the hill flows the river Otter.

To this place the Author, during the summer months of the year 1793,
conducted a party of young ladies; one of whom, of stature elegantly
small, and of complexion colourless yet clear, was proclaimed the Faery
Queen. On which occasion the following Irregular Ode was written.


  Whom the untaught Shepherds call
    Pixies in their madrigal,
  Fancy's children, here we dwell:
    Welcome, Ladies! to our cell.
  Here the wren of softest note                                        5
    Builds its nest and warbles well;
  Here the blackbird strains his throat;
    Welcome, Ladies! to our cell.


  When fades the moon to shadowy-pale,
  And scuds the cloud before the gale,                                10
  Ere the Morn all gem-bedight
  Hath streak'd the East with rosy light,
  We sip the furze-flower's fragrant dews
  Clad in robes of rainbow hues;
  Or sport amid the shooting gleams                                   15
  To the tune of distant-tinkling teams,
  While lusty Labour scouting sorrow
  Bids the Dame a glad good-morrow,
  Who jogs the accustom'd road along,
  And paces cheery to her cheering song.                              20


        But not our filmy pinion
      We scorch amid the blaze of day,
      When Noontide's fiery-tresséd minion
          Flashes the fervid ray.
        Aye from the sultry heat                                      25
        We to the cave retreat
  O'ercanopied by huge roots intertwin'd
  With wildest texture, blacken'd o'er with age:
  Round them their mantle green the ivies bind,
        Beneath whose foliage pale                                    30
        Fann'd by the unfrequent gale
  We shield us from the Tyrant's mid-day rage.


      Thither, while the murmuring throng
      Of wild-bees hum their drowsy song,
      By Indolence and Fancy brought,                                 35
      A youthful Bard, 'unknown to Fame,'
      Wooes the Queen of Solemn Thought,
  And heaves the gentle misery of a sigh
          Gazing with tearful eye,
      As round our sandy grot appear                                  40
      Many a rudely-sculptur'd name
          To pensive Memory dear!
  Weaving gay dreams of sunny-tinctur'd hue,
        We glance before his view:
  O'er his hush'd soul our soothing witcheries shed                   45
  And twine the future garland round his head.


            When Evening's dusky car
            Crown'd with her dewy star
  Steals o'er the fading sky in shadowy flight;
            On leaves of aspen trees                                  50
            We tremble to the breeze
  Veil'd from the grosser ken of mortal sight.
      Or, haply, at the visionary hour,
  Along our wildly-bower'd sequester'd walk,
  We listen to the enamour'd rustic's talk;                           55
  Heave with the heavings of the maiden's breast,
  Where young-eyed Loves have hid their turtle nest;
      Or guide of soul-subduing power
  The glance that from the half-confessing eye
  Darts the fond question or the soft reply.                          60


      Or through the mystic ringlets of the vale
      We flash our faery feet in gamesome prank;
      Or, silent-sandal'd, pay our defter court,
      Circling the Spirit of the Western Gale,
      Where wearied with his flower-caressing sport,                  65
      Supine he slumbers on a violet bank;
  Then with quaint music hymn the parting gleam
  By lonely Otter's sleep-persuading stream;
  Or where his wave with loud unquiet song
  Dash'd o'er the rocky channel froths along;                         70
  Or where, his silver waters smooth'd to rest,
  The tall tree's shadow sleeps upon his breast.


          Hence thou lingerer, Light!
          Eve saddens into Night.
  Mother of wildly-working dreams! we view                            75
      The sombre hours, that round thee stand
      With down-cast eyes (a duteous band!)
  Their dark robes dripping with the heavy dew.
          Sorceress of the ebon throne!
          Thy power the Pixies own,                                   80
          When round thy raven brow
          Heaven's lucent roses glow,
      And clouds in watery colours drest
    Float in light drapery o'er thy sable vest:
    What time the pale moon sheds a softer day                        85
    Mellowing the woods beneath its pensive beam:
    For mid the quivering light 'tis ours to play,
    Aye dancing to the cadence of the stream.


      Welcome, Ladies! to the cell
      Where the blameless Pixies dwell:                               90
  But thou, Sweet Nymph! proclaim'd our Faery Queen,
      With what obeisance meet
      Thy presence shall we greet?
  For lo! attendant on thy steps are seen
      Graceful Ease in artless stole,                                 95
      And white-robed Purity of soul,
        With Honour's softer mien;
    Mirth of the loosely-flowing hair,
  And meek-eyed Pity eloquently fair,
    Whose tearful cheeks are lovely to the view,                     100
        As snow-drop wet with dew.


  Unboastful Maid! though now the Lily pale
    Transparent grace thy beauties meek;
  Yet ere again along the impurpling vale,
  The purpling vale and elfin-haunted grove,                         105
  Young Zephyr his fresh flowers profusely throws,
    We'll tinge with livelier hues thy cheek;
  And, haply, from the nectar-breathing Rose
          Extract a Blush for Love!



[40:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and
1834. _The Songs of the Pixies_ forms part of the volume of MS. Poems
presented to Mrs. Estlin, and of a quarto MS. volume which the poet
retained for his own use.


This preface appears in all editions. Previous to 1834 the second
paragraph read:--To this place the Author conducted a party of young
Ladies, during the Summer months of the year 1793, &c.

The Songs of the Pixies, an irregular Ode. The lower orders of the
people in Devonshire have a superstition concerning the existence of
'Pixies', a race of beings supposed to be invisibly small, and harmless
or friendly to man. At a small village in the county, half-way up a
Hill, is a large excavation called the 'Pixies'' Parlour. The roots of
the trees growing above it form the ceiling--and on its sides are
engraved innumerable cyphers, among which the author descried his own
and those of his Brothers, cut by the rude hand of their childhood. At
the foot of the Hill flows the River Otter. To this place the Author had
the Honour of conducting a party of Young Ladies during the Summer
months, on which occasion the following Poem was written. MS. E.

_Note._ The emendations in ll. 9, 11, 12, 15, 16 are peculiar to the
edition of 1834, and are, certainly, Coleridge's own handiwork.

[9] to] all MS. 4{o}, MS. E, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[11] Ere Morn with living gems bedight MS. 4{o}E, 1796, 1797, 1803,
1828, 1829.

[12] Hath streak'd] Purples MS. 4{o}, MS. E, 1796, 1828, 1829: Streaks
1797, 1803. rosy] streaky MS. E, 1796, 1828, 1829: purple 1797, 1803.

After l. 14 the following lines appear in MS. 4{o}, MS. E, 1796, 1797,
1803, 1828:

  Richer than the deepen'd bloom
  That glows on Summer's lily-scented (scented 1797, 1803) plume.

[15] shooting] rosy MS. 4{o}, MS. E, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[15-16] gleam . . . team MS. 4{o}, MS. E, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[16] To the tune of] Sooth'd by the MS. 4{o}, MS. E, 1796, 1797, 1803,
1828, 1829.

[20] Timing to Dobbin's foot her cheery song. MS. E, MS. 4{o} erased.

[21] our] the MS. E.

[35] By rapture-beaming Fancy brought MS. E, MS. 4{o} erased.

[37] Oft wooes MS. E: our faery garlands MS. 4{o}, MS. E, 1796, 1797,
1803, 1828, 1829.


  Or at the silent visionary hour
  Along our rude sequester'd walk
  We list th' enamour'd Shepherd's talk.

MS. E.

  Or at the silent

MS. 4{o} erased.

[54] wildly-bower'd] wild 1797, 1803.

[57] hid] built MS. 4{o}, MS. E, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[58] of] with MS. E.


  The Electric Flash that from the melting eye,

MS. 4{o}, MS. E, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[60] or] and MS. E, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.


  Or haply in the flower-embroider'd vale
  We ply our faery feet in gamesome prank;
  Or pay our wonted court
  Circling the Spirits of the Western Gale,
  Where tir'd with vernal sport

MS. E.


  Or in deft homage pay our silent court

MS. 4{o} erased.


  By lonely Otter's 'peace-persuading' stream
  Or where his frothing wave with merry song
  'Dash'd o'er the rough rock lightly leaps along'

MS. E.

[68] peace-persuading stream MS. 4{o} erased.


  Or where his waves with loud unquiet song
  Dash'd o'er the rocky channel froth along

MS. 4{o}, 1796 ('froths' _in text_, 'froth' _errata_).

[70] froths] froth 1828, 1829.


  Mother of wild'ring dreams thy course pursue.
  With downcast eyes around thee stand
  The sombre Hours, a duteous band.

MS. E.

[92] obedience MS. 4{o}, 1796: Correction made in Errata.

[94] For lo! around thy MS. E.

[97] softer] gentler MS. E.

[99] meek-eyed] meekest MS. E.

[100] cheeks are] cheek is MS. E.


  Yet ere again the impurpled vale
    And elfin-haunted grove

MS. 4{o}.


  Yet ere again the purpling vale
    And elfin-haunted Grove
  Young Zephyr with fresh flowrets strews.

MS. 4{o}, MS. E.

[108] nectar-breathing] nectar-dropping MS. E.

[109] for] of MS. E.

THE ROSE[45:1]

  As late each flower that sweetest blows
  I pluck'd, the Garden's pride!
  Within the petals of a Rose
  A sleeping Love I spied.

  Around his brows a beamy wreath                                      5
  Of many a lucent hue;
  All purple glow'd his cheek, beneath,
  Inebriate with dew.

  I softly seiz'd the unguarded Power,
  Nor scared his balmy rest:                                          10
  And placed him, caged within the flower,
  On spotless Sara's breast.

  But when unweeting of the guile
  Awoke the prisoner sweet,
  He struggled to escape awhile                                       15
  And stamp'd his faery feet.

  Ah! soon the soul-entrancing sight
  Subdued the impatient boy!
  He gazed! he thrill'd with deep delight!
  Then clapp'd his wings for joy.                                     20

  'And O!' he cried--'Of magic kind
  What charms this Throne endear!
  Some other Love let Venus find--
  I'll fix _my_ empire _here_.'[46:1]



[45:1] First published in 1796, included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and
1834. A copy of this poem is written in pencil on the blank page of
Langhorne's _Collins_; a note adds, 'This "Effusion" and "Kisses" were
addressed to a Miss F. Nesbitt at Plymouth, whither the author
accompanied his eldest brother, to whom he was paying a visit, when he
was twenty-one years of age.' In a letter to his brother George, dated
July 28, 1793, Coleridge writes, 'presented a moss rose to a lady. Dick
Hart [George Coleridge's brother-in-law] asked if she was not afraid to
put it in her bosom, as, perhaps, there might be love in it. I
immediately wrote the following little ode or song or what you please to
call it. [The Rose.] It is of the namby-pamby genus.' _Letters of S. T.
C._, 1895, i. 54.

[46:1] _Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. p. 55.


Title] On presenting a moss rose to Miss F. Nesbitt. MS. (pencil).
Effusion xxvi. 1796.

[5] beamy] lucent MS. E: lucid Letter, 1793.

[6] lucent] changing MS. E: mingled Letter, 1793.


  On lovely Nesbitt's breast.    MS. (pencil).

  On Angelina's breast.          Letter, 1793.

  On spotless Anna's breast.     MS. E.

[Probably Anna Buclé, afterwards Mrs. Cruikshank.]

[13] But when all reckless Letter, 1793.

[14] prisoner] slumberer Letter, 1793.

[16] faery] angry Letter, 1793.


  'And, O', he cried, 'What charms refined
  This magic throne endear

Letter, 1793, MS. E.

[23] Another Love may Letter, 1793.


  Cupid, if storying Legends tell aright,
  Once fram'd a rich Elixir of Delight.
  A Chalice o'er love-kindled flames he fix'd,
  And in it Nectar and Ambrosia mix'd:
  With these the magic dews which Evening brings,                      5
  Brush'd from the Idalian star by faery wings:
  Each tender pledge of sacred Faith he join'd,
  Each gentler Pleasure of th' unspotted mind--
  Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness glow,
  And Hope, the blameless parasite of Woe.                            10
  The eyeless Chemist heard the process rise,
  The steamy Chalice bubbled up in sighs;
  Sweet sounds transpired, as when the enamour'd Dove
  Pours the soft murmuring of responsive Love.
  The finish'd work might Envy vainly blame,                          15
  And 'Kisses' was the precious Compound's name.
  With half the God his Cyprian Mother blest,
  And breath'd on Sara's lovelier lips the rest.



[46:2] First published in 1796: included in 1797 (_Supplement_), 1803,
and 1844. Three MSS. are extant, (1) as included in a letter to George
Coleridge, Aug. 5, 1793; (2) as written in pencil in a copy of
Langhorne's _Collins_ in 1793; (3) _MS. E._ _Poems_, 1796 (Note 7, p.
181), and footnotes in 1797 and 1803, supply the original Latin:

  Effinxit quondam blandum meditata laborem
    Basia lascivâ Cypria Diva manu.
  Ambrosiae succos occultâ temperat arte,
    Fragransque infuso nectare tingit opus.
  Sufficit et partem mellis, quod subdolus olim
    Non impune favis surripuisset Amor.
  Decussos violae foliis admiscet odores
    Et spolia aestivis plurima rapta rosis.
  Addit et illecebras et mille et mille lepores,
    Et quot Acidalius gaudia Cestus habet.
  Ex his composuit Dea basia; et omnia libens
    Invenias nitidae sparsa per ora Cloës.
                       Carm[ina] Quad[ragesimalia], vol. ii.


Title] Cupid turn'd Chymist Letter, 1793, Pencil. The Compound MS. E:
Effusion xxvi. 1796: The Composition of a Kiss 1797: Kisses 1803, 1844,

[1] storying] ancient Pencil.

[3] Chalice] cauldron Letter, 1793.

[8] gentler] gentle Pencil.


  Gay Dreams whose tints with beamy brightness glow.

Letter, 1793, MS. E.


      { Hopes the blameless parasites of Woe
  And { Fond                           Bristol MS.

  And Dreams whose tints with beamy brightness glow.
                               Pencil, Bristol MS.


  With joy he view'd his chymic process rise,
  The steaming cauldron bubbled up in sighs.
                                     Letter, 1793.


                    the chymic process rise,
  The steaming chalice
                                    Pencil, MS. E.


                    the chymic process rise,
  The charming cauldron
                                       Bristol MS.

[14] Murmuring] murmurs Letter, 1793.

  Cooes the soft murmurs                   Pencil.


  not Envy's self could blame    Letter, 1793, Pencil.
                  might blame.   MS. E.

[17] With part Letter, 1793, MS. E.


  on Nesbitt's lovely lips the rest.         Letter, 1793, Pencil.
  on Mary's lovelier lips the rest.          MS. E.
  on lovely Nesbitt's lovely lips the rest.  Bristol MS.


  Thou gentle Look, that didst my soul beguile,
    Why hast thou left me? Still in some fond dream
  Revisit my sad heart, auspicious Smile!
    As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam:
  What time, in sickly mood, at parting day                            5
    I lay me down and think of happier years;
  Of joys, that glimmer'd in Hope's twilight ray,
    Then left me darkling in a vale of tears.
  O pleasant days of Hope--for ever gone!
    Could I recall you!--But that thought is vain.                    10
  Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone
    To lure the fleet-wing'd Travellers back again:
  Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam
  Like the bright Rainbow on a willowy stream.[48:1]

? 1793.


[47:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and
1834. The 'four _last_ lines' of the Sonnet as sent to Southey, on Dec.
11, 1794, were written by Lamb. _Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 111,

[48:1] Compare ll. 13, 14 with ll. 13, 14 of _Anna and Harland_ and ll.
17, 18 of _Recollection_. _Vide_ Appendix.


Title] Irregular Sonnet MS. E: Effusion xiv. 1796: Sonnet III. 1797,
1803: Sonnet viii. 1828, 1829, 1834: The Smile P. W. 1885: The Gentle
Look P. W. 1893.

[1] Thou] O Letter, 1794.

[9] gone] flown MS. E.

[10] you] one Letter, 1794.


  Anon they haste to everlasting Night,
  Nor can a Giant's arm arrest them in their flight

Letter, 1794.

  On on, &c.,

MS. E.



  Dear native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West!
    How many various-fated years have past,
    What happy and what mournful hours, since last
  I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
  Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest                       5
  Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
    I never shut amid the sunny ray,
  But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,
    Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,
  And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes                       10
  Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my way,
    Visions of Childhood! oft have ye beguil'd
  Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs:
    Ah! that once more I were a careless Child!

? 1793.


[48:2] Lines 2-11 were first published in the _Watchman_, No. V, April
2, 1796, as lines 17-26 of _Recollection_. First published, as a whole,
in _Selection of Sonnets_, 1796, included in 1797, 1803, _Sibylline
Leaves_, 1828, 1829, and 1834.


Title] Sonnet No. IV. To the, &c., 1797, 1803.

[3] What blissful and what anguish'd hours Watchman, S. S., 1797, 1803.

[7] ray] blaze Watchman, S. S., 1797, 1803.

[8] thy] their S. L. _Corrected in Errata_, p. [xii].


  The crossing plank, and margin's willowy maze Watchman.

  Thy crossing plank, thy margin's willowy maze S. S., 1797, 1803.

[11] On my way] to the gaze Watchman, S. S., 1797, 1803.

[14] Ah! that I were once more, &c. S. L. _Corrected in Errata_, p.




  Imagination, Mistress of my Love!
  Where shall mine Eye thy elfin haunt explore?
  Dost thou on yon rich Cloud thy pinions bright
  Embathe in amber-glowing Floods of Light?
  Or, wild of speed, pursue the track of Day                           5
  In other worlds to hail the morning Ray?
  'Tis time to bid the faded shadowy Pleasures move
  On shadowy Memory's wings across the Soul of Love;
  And thine o'er _Winter's_ icy plains to fling
  Each flower, that binds the breathing Locks of _Spring_,            10
  When blushing, like a bride, from primrose Bower
  She starts, awaken'd by the pattering Shower!

  Now sheds the setting Sun a purple gleam,
  Aid, lovely Sorc'ress! aid the Poet's dream.
  With faery wand O bid my Love arise,                                15
  The dewy brilliance dancing in her Eyes;
  As erst she woke with soul-entrancing Mien
  The thrill of Joy extatic yet serene,
  When link'd with Peace I bounded o'er the Plain
  And Hope itself was all I knew of Pain!                             20

  Propitious Fancy hears the votive sigh--
  The absent Maiden flashes on mine Eye!
  When first the matin Bird with startling Song
  Salutes the Sun his veiling Clouds among,
                               { accustom'd
  I trace her footsteps on the { steaming Lawn,                       25
  I view her glancing in the gleams of Dawn!
  When the bent Flower beneath the night-dew weeps
  And on the Lake the silver Lustre sleeps,
  Amid the paly Radiance soft and sad
  She meets my lonely path in moonbeams clad.                         30
  With _her_ along the streamlet's brink I rove;
  With _her_ I list the warblings of the Grove;
  And seems in each low wind _her_ voice to float,
  Lone-whispering Pity in each soothing Note!
  As oft in climes beyond the western Main                            35
  Where boundless spreads the wildly-silent Plain,
  The savage Hunter, who his drowsy frame
  Had bask'd beneath the Sun's unclouded Flame,
  Awakes amid the tempest-troubled air,
  The Thunder's Peal and Lightning's lurid glare--                    40
  Aghast he hears the rushing Whirlwind's Sweep,
  And sad recalls the sunny hour of Sleep!
  So lost by storms along Life's wild'ring Way
  Mine Eye reverted views that cloudless Day,
  When, ----! on thy banks I joy'd to rove                            45
  While Hope with kisses nurs'd the infant Love!

  Sweet ----! where Pleasure's streamlet glides
  Fann'd by soft winds to curl in mimic tides;
  Where Mirth and Peace beguile the blameless Day;
  And where Friendship's fixt star beams a mellow'd Ray;              50
  Where Love a crown of thornless Roses wears;
  Where soften'd Sorrow smiles within her tears;
  And Memory, with a Vestal's meek employ,
  Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of Joy!
  No more thy Sky Larks less'ning from my sight                       55
  Shall thrill th' attunéd Heartstring with delight;
  No more shall deck thy pensive Pleasures sweet
  With wreaths of sober hue my evening seat!
  Yet dear to [My] Fancy's Eye thy varied scene
  Of Wood, Hill, Dale and sparkling Brook between:                    60
  Yet sweet to [My] Fancy's Ear the warbled song,
  That soars on Morning's wing thy fields among!

  Scenes of my Hope! the aching Eye ye leave,
  Like those rich Hues that paint the clouds of Eve!
  Tearful and saddening with the sadden'd Blaze                       65
  Mine Eye the gleam pursues with wistful Gaze--
  Sees Shades on Shades with deeper tint impend,
  Till chill and damp the moonless Night descend!




  O thou wild Fancy, check thy wing! No more
  Those thin white flakes, those purple clouds explore!
  Nor there with happy spirits speed thy flight
  Bath'd in rich amber-glowing floods of light;
  Nor in yon gleam, where slow descends the day,                       5
  With western peasants hail the morning ray!
  Ah! rather bid the perish'd pleasures move,
  A shadowy train, across the soul of Love!
  O'er Disappointment's wintry desert fling
  Each flower that wreath'd the dewy locks of Spring,                 10
  When blushing, like a bride, from Hope's trim bower
  She leapt, awaken'd by the pattering shower.

  Now sheds the sinking Sun a deeper gleam,
  Aid, lovely Sorceress! aid thy Poet's dream!
  With faery wand O bid the Maid arise,                               15
  Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes;
  As erst when from the Muses' calm abode
  I came, with Learning's meed not unbestowed;
  When as she twin'd a laurel round my brow,
  And met my kiss, and half return'd my vow,                          20
  O'er all my frame shot rapid my thrill'd heart,
  And every nerve confess'd the electric dart.

  O dear Deceit! I see the Maiden rise,
  Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes!
  When first the lark high-soaring swells his throat,                 25
  Mocks the tir'd eye, and scatters the loud note,
  I trace her footsteps on the accustom'd lawn,
  I mark her glancing mid the gleam of dawn.
  When the bent flower beneath the night-dew weeps
  And on the lake the silver lustre sleeps,                           30
  Amid the paly radiance soft and sad,
  She meets my lonely path in moon-beams clad.
  With her along the streamlet's brink I rove;
  With her I list the warblings of the grove;
  And seems in each low wind her voice to float                       35
  Lone-whispering Pity in each soothing note!

  Spirits of Love! ye heard her name! Obey
  The powerful spell, and to my haunt repair.
  Whether on clust'ring pinions ye are there,
  Where rich snows blossom on the Myrtle-trees,                       40
  Or with fond languishment around my fair
  Sigh in the loose luxuriance of her hair;
  O heed the spell, and hither wing your way,
  Like far-off music, voyaging the breeze!

  Spirits! to you the infant Maid was given                           45
  Form'd by the wond'rous Alchemy of Heaven!
  No fairer Maid does Love's wide empire know,
  No fairer Maid e'er heav'd the bosom's snow.
  A thousand Loves around her forehead fly;
  A thousand Loves sit melting in her eye;                            50
  Love lights her smile--in Joy's red nectar dips
  His myrtle flower, and plants it on her lips.
  She speaks! and hark that passion-warbled song--
  Still, Fancy! still that voice, those notes prolong.
  As sweet as when that voice with rapturous falls                    55
  Shall wake the soften'd echoes of Heaven's Halls!
  [52:1]O (have I sigh'd) were mine the wizard's rod,
  Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful God!
  A flower-entangled Arbour I would seem
  To shield my Love from Noontide's sultry beam:                      60
  Or bloom a Myrtle, from whose od'rous boughs
  My Love might weave gay garlands for her brows.
  When Twilight stole across the fading vale,
  To fan my Love I'd be the Evening Gale;
  Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest,                       65
  And flutter my faint pinions on her breast!
  On Seraph wing I'd float a Dream by night,
  To soothe my Love with shadows of delight:--
  Or soar aloft to be the Spangled Skies,
  And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes!                             70

  As when the Savage, who his drowsy frame
  Had bask'd beneath the Sun's unclouded flame,
  Awakes amid the troubles of the air,
  The skiey deluge, and white lightning's glare--
  Aghast he scours before the tempest's sweep,                        75
  And sad recalls the sunny hour of sleep:--
  So tossed by storms along Life's wild'ring way,
  Mine eye reverted views that cloudless day,
  When by my native brook I wont to rove,
  While Hope with kisses nurs'd the Infant Love.                      80

  Dear native brook! like Peace, so placidly
  Smoothing through fertile fields thy current meek!
  Dear native brook! where first young Poesy
  Stared wildly-eager in her noontide dream!
  Where blameless pleasures dimple Quiet's cheek,                     85
  As water-lilies ripple thy slow stream!
  Dear native haunts! where Virtue still is gay,
  Where Friendship's fix'd star sheds a mellow'd ray,
  Where Love a crown of thornless Roses wears,
  Where soften'd Sorrow smiles within her tears;                      90
  And Memory, with a Vestal's chaste employ,
  Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of joy!
  No more your sky-larks melting from the sight
  Shall thrill the attunéd heart-string with delight--
  No more shall deck your pensive Pleasures sweet                     95
  With wreaths of sober hue my evening seat.
  Yet dear to Fancy's eye your varied scene
  Of wood, hill, dale, and sparkling brook between!
  Yet sweet to Fancy's ear the warbled song,
  That soars on Morning's wing your vales among.                     100

  Scenes of my Hope! the aching eye ye leave
  Like yon bright hues that paint the clouds of eve!
  Tearful and saddening with the sadden'd blaze
  Mine eye the gleam pursues with wistful gaze:
  Sees shades on shades with deeper tint impend,                     105
  Till chill and damp the moonless night descend



[51:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829 and
1834. In _Social Life at the English Universities_, by Christopher
Wordsworth, M.A., 1874, it is recorded that this poem was read by
Coleridge to a party of college friends on November 7, 1793.

[52:1] Note to line 57. Poems, 1796, pp. 183-5:--I entreat the Public's
pardon for having carelessly suffered to be printed such intolerable
stuff as this and the thirteen following lines. They have not the merit
even of originality: as every thought is to be found in the Greek
Epigrams. The lines in this poem from the 27th to the 36th, I have been
told are a palpable imitation of the passage from the 355th to the 370th
line of the Pleasures of Memory Part 3. I do not perceive so striking a
similarity between the two passages; at all events I had written the
Effusion several years before I had seen M{r} Rogers' Poem.--It may be
proper to remark that the tale of Florio in the 'Pleasures of Memory' is
to be found in Lochleven, a poem of great merit by Michael Bruce.--In
M{r} Rogers' Poem[52:A] the names are Florio and Julia; in the Lochleven
Lomond and Levina--and this is all the difference. We seize the
opportunity of transcribing from the Lochleven of Bruce the following
exquisite passage, expressing the effects of a fine day on the human

  Fat on the plain, and mountain's sunny side
  Large droves of oxen and the fleecy flocks
  Feed undisturb'd; and fill the echoing air
  With Music grateful to their [the] Master's ear.
  The Traveller stops and gazes round and round
  O'er all the plains [scenes] that animate his heart
  With mirth and music. Even the mendicant
  Bow-bent with age, that on the old gray stone
  Sole-sitting suns him in the public way,
  Feels his heart leap, and to himself he sings.
                    [_Poems_ by Michael Bruce, 1796, p. 94.]

     [52:A] For Coleridge's retractation of the charge of
     plagiarism and apology to Rogers see 'Advertisement to
     Supplement of 1797', pp. 244, 245.


Title] Effusion xxxvi. Written in Early Youth, The Time, An Autumnal
Evening 1796: Written in etc. 1803: An Effusion on an Autumnal Evening.
Written in Early Youth 1797 (Supplement).

A first draft, headed 'An Effusion at Evening, Written in August, 1792'
is included in the MS. volume presented to Mrs. Estlin in April, 1795
(_vide ante_, pp. 49, 50).

[28] gleam] gleams 1796, 1797, 1803, 1893.


                  in Joy's bright nectar dips
  The flamy rose, and plants it on her lips!
  Tender, serene, and all devoid of guile,
  Soft is her soul, as sleeping infants' smile.
  She speaks, &c.

1796, 1803.

[54] still those mazy notes 1796, 1803.


  Sweet as th' angelic harps, whose rapturous falls
  Awake the soften'd echoes of Heaven's Halls.

1796, 1803.

[86] thy] a 1796, 1803.



     SIR,--The following poem you may perhaps deem admissible into
     your journal--if not, you will commit it εἰς ἱερὸν μένος
     Ἡφαίστοιο.--I am, with more respect and gratitude than I
     ordinarily feel for Editors of Papers, your obliged, &c.,
                                                 CANTAB.--S. T. C.


_On buying a Ticket in the Irish Lottery_

     Composed during a walk to and from the Queen's Head, Gray's
     Inn Lane, Holborn, and Hornsby's and Co., Cornhill.

  Promptress of unnumber'd sighs,
  O snatch that circling bandage from thine eyes!
  O look, and smile! No common prayer
  Solicits, Fortune! thy propitious care!
  For, not a silken son of dress,                                      5
  I clink the gilded chains of _politesse_,
  Nor ask thy boon what time I scheme
  Unholy Pleasure's frail and feverish dream;
  Nor yet my view life's _dazzle_ blinds--
  Pomp!--Grandeur! Power!--I give you to the winds!                   10
  Let the little bosom cold
  Melt only at the sunbeam ray of gold--
  My pale cheeks glow--the big drops start--
  The rebel _Feeling_ riots at my heart!
  And if in lonely durance pent,                                      15
  Thy poor mite mourn a brief imprisonment--
  That mite at Sorrow's faintest sound
  Leaps from its scrip with an elastic bound!
  But oh! if ever song thine ear
  Might soothe, O haste with fost'ring hand to rear                   20
  One Flower of Hope! At Love's behest,
  Trembling, I plac'd it in my secret breast:
  And thrice I've view'd the vernal gleam,
  Since oft mine eye, with Joy's electric beam,
  Illum'd it--and its sadder hue                                      25
  Oft moisten'd with the Tear's ambrosial dew!
  Poor wither'd floweret! on its head
  Has dark Despair his sickly mildew shed!
  But thou, O Fortune! canst relume
  Its deaden'd tints--and thou with hardier bloom                     30
  May'st haply tinge its beauties pale,
  And yield the unsunn'd stranger to the western gale!



[54:1] First published, _Morning Chronicle_, Nov. 7, 1793. First
collected 1893.


  The dust flies smothering, as on clatt'ring wheel
  Loath'd Aristocracy careers along;
  The distant track quick vibrates to the eye,
  And white and dazzling undulates with heat,
  Where scorching to the unwary traveller's touch,                     5
  The stone fence flings its narrow slip of shade;
  Or, where the worn sides of the chalky road
  Yield their scant excavations (sultry grots!),
  Emblem of languid patience, we behold
  The fleecy files faint-ruminating lie.                              10



[56:1] First published, _Letters of Samuel Taylor Coleridge_, 1895, i.
73, 74. The lines were sent in a letter to Southey, dated July 6, 1794.

[AVE, ATQUE VALE!][56:2]

  Vivit sed mihi non vivit--nova forte marita,
  Ah dolor! alterius carâ a cervice pependit.
  Vos, malefida valete accensae insomnia mentis,
  Littora amata valete! Vale, ah! formosa Maria!



[56:2] First published, _Biog. Lit._ 1847, Biog. Supplement, ii. 340.
This Latin quatrain was sent in a letter to Southey, dated July 13,


  With many a weary step at length I gain
  Thy summit, Bala! and the cool breeze plays
  Cheerily round my brow--as hence the gaze
  Returns to dwell upon the journey'd plain.

  'Twas a long way and tedious!--to the eye                            5
  Tho' fair th' extended Vale, and fair to view
  The falling leaves of many a faded hue
  That eddy in the wild gust moaning by!

  Ev'n so it far'd with Life! in discontent
  Restless thro' Fortune's mingled scenes I went,                     10
  Yet wept to think they would return no more!
  O cease fond heart! in such sad thoughts to roam,
  For surely thou ere long shalt reach thy home,
  And pleasant is the way that lies before.



[56:3] First published (as Coleridge's) in 1893, from an unsigned
autograph MS. found among the Evans Papers. The lines are all but
identical with Southey's Sonnet to Lansdown Hill (Sonnet viii), dated
1794, and first published in 1797, and were, probably, his composition.
See _Athenaeum_, January 11, 1896.


[2] Bala] Lansdown Poems, 1797.

[3] Cheerily] Gratefully Poems, 1797.

[12] O] But Poems, 1797.



  Richer than Miser o'er his countless hoards,
  Nobler than Kings, or king-polluted Lords,
  Here dwelt the MAN OF ROSS! O Traveller, hear!
  Departed Merit claims a reverent tear.
  Friend to the friendless, to the sick man health,                    5
  With generous joy he view'd his modest wealth;
  He heard the widow's heaven-breath'd prayer of praise,
  He mark'd the shelter'd orphan's tearful gaze,
  Or where the sorrow-shrivell'd captive lay,
  Pour'd the bright blaze of Freedom's noon-tide ray.                 10
  Beneath this roof if thy cheer'd moments pass,
  Fill to the good man's name one grateful glass:
  To higher zest shall Memory wake thy soul,
  And Virtue mingle in the ennobled bowl.
  But if, like me, through Life's distressful scene                   15
  Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been;
  And if thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught,
  Thou journeyest onward tempest-tossed in thought;
  Here cheat thy cares! in generous visions melt,
  And _dream_ of Goodness, thou hast never felt!                      20



[57:1] First published in the _Cambridge Intelligencer_, September 27,
1794: included in _A Pedestrian Tour through North Wales_. By J. Hucks,
1795, p. 15: 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

In a letter to Southey dated July 13, 1794, Coleridge writes:--'At Ross
. . . we took up our quarters at the King's Arms, once the house of
Kyrle, the Man of Ross. I gave the window-shutter the following
effusion--"Richer than Misers" etc.' J. Hucks, in his _Tour_, 1795, p.
15, writes to the same effect. There are but slight variations in the
text as printed in the _Cambridge Intelligencer_ and in Hucks' _Tour_.
In 1796 lines 5-10 of the text, which were included in _A Monody on the
Death of Chatterton_ (1796), are omitted, and the poem numbered only
fourteen lines. In 1797 lines 5-10 were restored to the _Man of Ross_
and omitted from the _Monody_. The poem numbered twenty lines. In 1803
lines 5-10 were again omitted from the _Man of Ross_, but not included
in the _Monody_. The poem numbered fourteen lines. The text of 1828,
1829 is almost identical with that of 1834.

Four MS. versions are extant, (1) the Letter to Southey, July 13, 1794;
(2) the Estlin Copy-book; (3) the Morrison MSS.; (4) the MS. 4{o}


Title] Written . . . Mr. Kyrle, 'the Man of Ross'. MS. E.

[1] Misers o'er their Letter, 1794, J. H., MS. E, 1808.

[4] the glistening tear Letter, 1794: a] the J. H., MS. E. Lines 5-10
are not in MS. 4{o}, 1796, 1803: in 1797 they follow l. 14 of the text.

[5] to the poor man wealth, Morrison MSS.

[7] heard] hears 1797, 1828, 1829.

[8] mark'd] marks 1797, 1828.

[9] And o'er the dowried maiden's glowing cheek, Letter, 1794, Morrison
MSS.: virgin's snowy cheek, J. H., MS. E.

[10] Bade bridal love suffuse its blushes meek. Letter, 1794, MS. E,
Morrison MSS. Pour'd] Pours 1797, 1828, 1829.

[11] If 'neath this roof thy wine cheer'd moments pass Letter, J. H.,
MS. E, MS. 4{o}, 1803.

[14] ennobled] sparkling Letter, 1794.

[15] me] mine 1803.


  If while my passion I impart,
    You deem my words untrue,
  O place your hand upon my heart--
    Feel how it throbs for _you_!

  Ah no! reject the thoughtless claim                                  5
    In pity to your Lover!
  That thrilling touch would aid the flame
    It wishes to discover.

? 1794.


[58:1] First published in 1796: included in 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.


Title] Song MS. E: Effusion xxxi. Imitated &c., 1796.



  Once more! sweet Stream! with slow foot wandering near,
  I bless thy milky waters cold and clear.
  Escap'd the flashing of the noontide hours,
  With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers
  (Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn)                           5
  My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn.
  For not through pathless grove with murmur rude
  Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude;
  Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well,
  The Hermit-fountain of some dripping cell!                          10
  Pride of the Vale! thy useful streams supply
  The scatter'd cots and peaceful hamlet nigh.
  The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks
  With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks,
  Releas'd from school, their little hearts at rest,                  15
  Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast.
  The rustic here at eve with pensive look
  Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook,
  Or, starting, pauses with hope-mingled dread
  To list the much-lov'd maid's accustom'd tread:                     20
  She, vainly mindful of her dame's command,
  Loiters, the long-fill'd pitcher in her hand.

  Unboastful Stream! thy fount with pebbled falls
  The faded form of past delight recalls,
  What time the morning sun of Hope arose,                            25
  And all was joy; save when another's woes
  A transient gloom upon my soul imprest,
  Like passing clouds impictur'd on thy breast.
  Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon,
  Or silvery stole beneath the pensive Moon:                          30
  Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorns among,
  Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along!



[58:2] First published in 1796: included in _Annual Register_, 1796:
1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.


Title] Lines addressed to a Spring in Village of Kirkhampton near Bath
MS. E.

[7] groves in murmurs MS. E.


  And now essays his simple Faith to prove
  By all the soft solicitudes of Love.

MS. E.

[30] Or silver'd its smooth course beneath the Moon. MS. 4{o}.

[31] rude] the thorny MS. 4{o} erased.

For ll. 29-32

  But ah! too brief in Youths' enchanting reign,
  Ere Manhood wakes th' unweeting heart to pain,
  Silent and soft thy silver waters glide:
  So glided Life, a smooth and equal Tide.
  Sad Change! for now by choking Cares withstood
  It hardly bursts its way, a turbid, boist'rous Flood!

MS. E.


AD LYRAM[59:1]


  The solemn-breathing air is ended--
    Cease, O Lyre! thy kindred lay!
  From the poplar-branch suspended
    Glitter to the eye of Day!

  On thy wires hov'ring, dying,                                        5
    Softly sighs the summer wind:
  I will slumber, careless lying,
    By yon waterfall reclin'd.

  In the forest hollow-roaring
    Hark! I hear a deep'ning sound--                                  10
  Clouds rise thick with heavy low'ring!
    See! th' horizon blackens round!

  Parent of the soothing measure,
    Let me seize thy wetted string!
  Swiftly flies the flatterer, Pleasure,                              15
    Headlong, ever on the wing.[60:1]



[59:1] First published in the _Watchman_, No. II, March 9, 1796:
included in _Literary Remains_, 1836, I. 41-3. First collected in 1844.

[60:1] If we except Lucretius and Statius, I know not of any Latin poet,
ancient or modern, who has equalled Casimir in boldness of conception,
opulence of fancy, or beauty of versification. The Odes of this
illustrious Jesuit were translated into English about 150 years ago, by
a Thomas Hill, I think, [--by G. H. [G. Hils.] London, 1646. 12mo. _Ed.
L. R._ 1836. I never saw the translation. A few of the Odes have been
translated in a very animated manner by Watts. I have subjoined the
third ode of the second book, which, with the exception of the first
line, is an effusion of exquisite elegance. In the imitation attempted,
I am sensible that I have destroyed the _effect of suddenness_, by
translating into two stanzas what is one in the original.


  Sonori buxi Filia sutilis,
  Pendebis alta, Barbite, populo,
    Dum ridet aer, et supinas
      Solicitat levis aura frondes:
  Te sibilantis lenior halitus
  Perflabit Euri: me iuvet interim
    Collum reclinasse, et virenti
      Sic temere iacuisse ripa.
  Eheu! serenum quae nebulae tegunt
  Repente caelum! quis sonus imbrium!
    Surgamus--heu semper fugaci
      Gaudia praeteritura passu!

                              'Advertisement' to _Ad Lyram_,
                           in _Watchman_, II, March 9, 1796.


Title] Song. [_Note._ Imitated from Casimir.] MS. E.


  Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus.

  My Lesbia, let us love and live,
  And to the winds, my Lesbia, give
  Each cold restraint, each boding fear
  Of age and all her saws severe.
  Yon sun now posting to the main                                      5
  Will set,--but 'tis to rise again;--
  But we, when once our mortal light
  Is set, must sleep in endless night.
  Then come, with whom alone I'll live,
  A thousand kisses take and give!                                    10
  Another thousand!--to the store
  Add hundreds--then a thousand more!
  And when they to a million mount,
  Let confusion take the account,--
  That you, the number never knowing,                                 15
  May continue still bestowing--
  That I for joys may never pine,
  Which never can again be mine!

? 1794.


[60:2] First published in the _Morning Post_, April 11, 1798: included
in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 274. First collected in _P. W._, 1893.


Title] Lines imitated from Catullus. M. P.

[4] her] its L. R.

[7] mortal] little L. R.

[18] _signed_ Mortimer M. P.


  Lugete, O Veneres, Cupidinesque.--CATULLUS.

  Pity! mourn in plaintive tone
  The lovely starling dead and gone!
    Pity mourns in plaintive tone
  The lovely starling dead and gone.
  Weep, ye Loves! and Venus! weep                                      5
  The lovely starling fall'n asleep!
  Venus sees with tearful eyes--
  In her lap the starling lies!
  While the Loves all in a ring
  Softly stroke the stiffen'd wing.                                   10

? 1794.


[61:1] First published, _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 274. First
collected, _P. W._, 1893. The titles 'Lesbia' and 'The Death of the
Starling' first appear in 1893.


[7] sees] see L. R.


  The hour-bell sounds, and I must go;
  Death waits--again I hear him calling;--
  No cowardly desires have I,
  Nor will I shun his face appalling.
  I die in faith and honour rich--                                     5
  But ah! I leave behind my treasure
  In widowhood and lonely pain;--
  To live were surely then a pleasure!

  My lifeless eyes upon thy face
  Shall never open more to-morrow;                                    10
  To-morrow shall thy beauteous eyes
  Be closed to Love, and drown'd in Sorrow;
  To-morrow Death shall freeze this hand,
  And on thy breast, my wedded treasure,
  I never, never more shall live;--                                   15
  Alas! I quit a life of pleasure.


[61:2] First published in the _Morning Post_, May 10, 1798, with a
prefatory note:--'The two following verses from the French, never before
published, were written by a French Prisoner as he was preparing to go
to the Guillotine': included in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 275. First
collected _P. W._, 1893.


  Yet art thou happier far than she
  Who feels the widow's love for thee!
  For while her days are days of weeping,
  Thou, in peace, in silence sleeping,
  In some still world, unknown, remote,                                5
  The mighty parent's care hast found,
  Without whose tender guardian thought
  No sparrow falleth to the ground.

? 1794.

THE SIGH[62:1]

  When Youth his faery reign began
  Ere Sorrow had proclaim'd me man;
  While Peace the present hour beguil'd,
  And all the lovely Prospect smil'd;
  Then Mary! 'mid my lightsome glee                                    5
  I heav'd the painless Sigh for thee.

  And when, along the waves of woe,
  My harass'd Heart was doom'd to know
  The frantic burst of Outrage keen,
  And the slow Pang that gnaws unseen;                                10
  Then shipwreck'd on Life's stormy sea
  I heaved an anguish'd Sigh for thee!

  But soon Reflection's power imprest
  A stiller sadness on my breast;
  And sickly Hope with waning eye                                     15
  Was well content to droop and die:
  I yielded to the stern decree,
  Yet heav'd a languid Sigh for thee!

  And though in distant climes to roam,
  A wanderer from my native home,                                     20
  I fain would soothe the sense of Care,
  And lull to sleep the Joys that were!
  Thy Image may not banish'd be--
  Still, Mary! still I sigh for thee.



[62:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.
Coleridge dated the poem, June 1794, but the verses as sent to Southey,
in a letter dated November, 1794 (_Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 100,
101), could not have taken shape before the August of that year, after
the inception of Pantisocracy and his engagement to Sarah Fricker.


Title] Ode MS. E: Song Letter, Nov. 1794, Morrison MSS.: Effusion xxxii:
The Sigh 1796.

[7] along th'] as tossed on 1803. waves] wilds Letter, 1794, MS. E.

[9] of] the 1803.

[13] power] hand Letter, Nov. 1794, MS. E.

[18] a] the Letter, 1794.


  I fain would woo a gentle Fair
  To soothe the aching sense of Care

Letter, Nov. 1794.

[21] sense of] aching MS. E.

[Below l. 24] June 1794 Poems, 1796.

THE KISS[63:1]

  One kiss, dear Maid! I said and sigh'd--
  Your scorn the little boon denied.
  Ah why refuse the blameless bliss?
  Can danger lurk within a kiss?

  Yon viewless wanderer of the vale,                                   5
  The Spirit of the Western Gale,
  At Morning's break, at Evening's close
  Inhales the sweetness of the Rose,
  And hovers o'er the uninjur'd bloom
  Sighing back the soft perfume.                                      10
  Vigour to the Zephyr's wing
  Her nectar-breathing kisses fling;
  And He the glitter of the Dew
  Scatters on the Rose's hue.
  Bashful lo! she bends her head,                                     15
  And darts a blush of deeper Red!

  Too well those lovely lips disclose
  The triumphs of the opening Rose;
  O fair! O graceful! bid them prove
  As passive to the breath of Love.                                   20
  In tender accents, faint and low,
  Well-pleas'd I hear the whisper'd 'No!'
  The whispered 'No'--how little meant!
  Sweet Falsehood that endears Consent!
  For on those lovely lips the while                                  25
  Dawns the soft relenting smile,
  And tempts with feign'd dissuasion coy
  The gentle violence of Joy.

? 1794.


[63:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and


Title] Ode MS. E: Effusion xxviii 1796: The Kiss 1797, 1828, 1829, 1834:
To Sara 1803. _MSS. of_ The Kiss _are included in the Estlin volume and
in S. T. C.'s quarto copy-book_.


  Vigor to his languid wing
  The Rose's fragrant kisses bring,
  And He o'er all her brighten'd hue
  Flings the glitter of the dew.
  See she bends her bashful head.

MS. E.


  And He o'er all her brighten'd hue
  Sheds the glitter of the dew.

MS. 4{o} erased.

[18] The fragrant triumphs of the Rose. MS. E.

[26] Dawns] Dawn'd MS. E.

[27] And] That MS. E.



  Much on my early youth I love to dwell,
  Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell,
  Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale,
  I heard of guilt and wonder'd at the tale!
  Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing,                       5
  Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing.
  Aye as the Star of Evening flung its beam
  In broken radiance on the wavy stream,
  My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom
  Mourn'd with the breeze, O Lee Boo![64:2] o'er thy tomb.            10
  Where'er I wander'd, Pity still was near,
  Breath'd from the heart and glisten'd in the tear:
  No knell that toll'd but fill'd my anxious eye,
  And suffering Nature wept that _one_ should die![65:1]

  Thus to sad sympathies I sooth'd my breast,                         15
  Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West:
  When slumbering Freedom roused by high Disdain
  With giant Fury burst her triple chain!
  Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glow'd;
  Her banners, like a midnight meteor, flow'd;                        20
  Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies!
  She came, and scatter'd battles from her eyes!
  Then Exultation waked the patriot fire
  And swept with wild hand the Tyrtaean lyre:
  Red from the Tyrant's wound I shook the lance,                      25
  And strode in joy the reeking plains of France!

  Fallen is the Oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low,
  And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow.
  With wearied thought once more I seek the shade,
  Where peaceful Virtue weaves the Myrtle braid.                      30
  And O! if Eyes whose holy glances roll,
  Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul;
  If Smiles more winning, and a gentler Mien
  Than the love-wilder'd Maniac's brain hath seen
  Shaping celestial forms in vacant air,                              35
  If these demand the empassion'd Poet's care--
  If Mirth and soften'd Sense and Wit refined,
  The blameless features of a lovely mind;
  Then haply shall my trembling hand assign
  No fading wreath to Beauty's saintly shrine.                        40
  Nor, Sara! thou these early flowers refuse--
  Ne'er lurk'd the snake beneath their simple hues;
  No purple bloom the Child of Nature brings
  From Flattery's night-shade: as he feels he sings.

_September_ 1794.


[64:1] First published in _The Watchman_, No. I, March 1, 1796: included
in 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834. Three MSS. are extant: (1)
the poem as sent to Southey in a letter dated Oct. 21, 1794 (see
_Letters of S. T. C._, 1855, i. 94, 95); (2) the Estlin volume; (3) the
MS. 4{o} copy-book.

[64:2] Lee Boo, the son of Abba Thule, Prince of the Pelew Islands, came
over to England with Captain Wilson, died of the small-pox, and is
buried in Greenwich churchyard. See Keate's _Account of the Pelew
Islands_. 1788.

[65:1] And suffering Nature, &c. Southey's _Retrospect_.

  'When eager patriots fly the news to spread
   Of glorious conquest, and of thousands dead;
   All feel the mighty glow of victor joy--

          *       *       *       *       *

   But if extended on the gory plain,
   And, snatch'd in conquest, some lov'd friend be slain,
   Affection's tears will dim the sorrowing eye,
   And suffering Nature grieve that one should die.'

From the _Retrospect_ by Robert Southey, published by Dilly [1795, pp.
9, 10]. _MS. 4{o}._


Title] Verses addressed to a Lady with a poem relative to a recent event
in the French Revolution MS. E.

[2] friendly] guardian MS. Letter, 1794, MS. E.

[3] cloisters] cloister MS. E.

[5] careless] rosy MS. E.

[9] My pensive soul amid the twilight gloom MS. Letter,

[10] Boo] Bo MS. E.

[12] glisten'd] glitter'd MS. Letter, 1794.

[13] anxious] anguish'd MS. Letter, 1794.

[16] Calm] Bright MS. E.

[17] by] with 1829.

[23] waked] woke MS. Letter, 1794, MS. E.

[24] with wilder hand th' empassion'd lyre MS. Letter, 1794: with wilder
hand th' Alcaean lyre MS. 4{o}, MS. E, Watchman, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828,

[25] wound] wounds MS. Letter, 1794.

[27] In ghastly horror lie th' Oppressors low MS. Letter, 1794, MS. E,
MS. 4{o}, 1796, Watchman.

[29] With sad and wearied thought I seek the shade MS. E: With wearied
thought I seek the amaranth shade MS. Letter, 1794.

[30] the] her MS. Letter, 1794, MS. E.

[32] The eloquent messengers of the pure soul MS. Letter, 1794, MS. E,
MS. 4{o}, Watchman, 1796.

[33] winning] cunning MS. Letter, 1794.

[36] empassion'd] wond'ring MS. Letter, 1794.

[40] wreath] flowers MS. Letter, 1794, MS. E.


  Nor, Brunton! thou the blushing-wreath refuse,
  Though harsh her notes, yet guileless is my Muse.
  Unwont at Flattery's Voice to plume her wings,
  A Child of Nature, as she feels she sings.

MS. Letter, 1794.

  Nor ----! thou the blushing wreath refuse
  Tho' harsh her song, yet guileless is the Muse.
  Unwont &c.

MS. E.


  No Serpent lurks beneath their simple hues.
  No purple blooms from Flattery's nightshade brings,
  The Child of Nature--as he feels he sings.

MS. 4{o} erased.


  Nature's pure Child from Flatt'ry's night-shade brings
  No blooms rich-purpling: as he feels he sings.

MS. 4{o}.

[Below l. 44] September, 1794 1797, 1803: September 1792 1828, 1829,



  Maid of unboastful charms! whom white-robed Truth
  Right onward guiding through the maze of youth,
  Forbade the Circe Praise to witch thy soul,
  And dash'd to earth th' intoxicating bowl:
  Thee meek-eyed Pity, eloquently fair,                                5
  Clasp'd to her bosom with a mother's care;
  And, as she lov'd thy kindred form to trace,
  The slow smile wander'd o'er her pallid face.

    For never yet did mortal voice impart
  Tones more congenial to the sadden'd heart:                         10
  Whether, to rouse the sympathetic glow,
  Thou pourest lone Monimia's tale of woe;
  Or haply clothest with funereal vest
  The bridal loves that wept in Juliet's breast.
  O'er our chill limbs the thrilling Terrors creep,                   15
  Th' entrancéd Passions their still vigil keep;
  While the deep sighs, responsive to the song,
  Sound through the silence of the trembling throng.

    But purer raptures lighten'd from thy face,
  And spread o'er all thy form an holier grace,                       20
  When from the daughter's breasts the father drew
  The life he gave, and mix'd the big tear's dew.
  Nor was it thine th' heroic strain to roll
  With mimic feelings foreign from the soul:
  Bright in thy parent's eye we mark'd the tear;                      25
  Methought he said, 'Thou art no Actress here!
  A semblance of thyself the _Grecian_ dame,
  And Brunton and Euphrasia still the same!'

    O soon to seek the city's busier scene,
  Pause thee awhile, thou chaste-eyed maid serene,                    30
  Till Granta's sons from all her sacred bowers
  With grateful hand shall weave Pierian flowers
  To twine a fragrant chaplet round thy brow,
  Enchanting ministress of virtuous woe!



[66:1] First published in _Poems_, by Francis Wrangham, London, 1795,
pp. 79-83. First collected in _P. and D. W._, 1880, ii. 360*



  That darling of the Tragic Muse,
    When Wrangham sung her praise,
  Thalia lost her rosy hues,
    And sicken'd at her lays:

  But transient was th' unwonted sigh;                                 5
    For soon the Goddess spied
  A sister-form of mirthful eye,
    And danc'd for joy and cried:

  'Meek Pity's sweetest child, proud dame,
    The fates have given to you!                                      10
  Still bid your Poet boast her name;
    _I_ have _my_ Brunton too.'



[67:1] First published in _Poems_, by Francis Wrangham, 1795, p. 83.
First collected in _P. and D. W._, 1880, ii. 362* (_Supplement_).


  Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade,
    Death came with friendly care:
  The opening Bud to Heaven convey'd,
    And bade it blossom _there_.



[68:1] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, September 23, 1794:
included in _The Watchman_, No. IX, May 5, 1796, _Poems_ 1796, 1797,
1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834. These well-known lines, which vexed the soul
of Charles Lamb, were probably adapted from 'An Epitaph on an Infant' in
the churchyard of Birchington, Kent (_A Collection of Epitaphs_, 1806,
i. 219):--

  Ah! why so soon, just as the bloom appears,
  Drops the fair blossom in the vale of tears?
  Death view'd the treasure in the desart given
  And claim'd the right of planting it in Heav'n.

In _MS. E_ a Greek version (possibly a rejected prize epigram) is
prefixed with the accompanying footnote.

  Ηλυες εἰς αιδην, καὶ δή τυ ποθεῦσι τοκηες:
    Ηλυες αδυ βρεφος! τοι βραχυ δυνε φαος.
  Ομμα μεν εις σεο σῆμα Πατηρ πικρον ποτιβαλλει
    Ευσεβεης δε Θεῳ δωρα διδωσιν ἑα![68:A]

     [68:A] Translation of the Greek Epitaph. 'Thou art gone down
     into the Grave, and heavily do thy Parents feel the Loss. Thou
     art gone down into the Grave, sweet Baby! Thy short Light is
     set! Thy Father casts an Eye of Anguish towards thy Tomb--yet
     with uncomplaining Piety resigns to God his own Gift!'

     Equal or Greater simplicity marks all the writings of the
     Greek Poets.--The above [i. e. the Greek] Epitaph was written
     in Imitation of them. [S. T. C.]


  No more my visionary soul shall dwell
  On joys that were; no more endure to weigh
  The shame and anguish of the evil day,
  Wisely forgetful! O'er the ocean swell
  Sublime of Hope, I seek the cottag'd dell                            5
  Where Virtue calm with careless step may stray,
  And dancing to the moonlight roundelay,
  The wizard Passions weave an holy spell.
  Eyes that have ach'd with Sorrow! Ye shall weep
  Tears of doubt-mingled joy, like theirs who start                   10
  From Precipices of distemper'd sleep,
  On which the fierce-eyed Fiends their revels keep,
  And see the rising Sun, and feel it dart
  New rays of pleasance trembling to the heart.



[68:2] First published in the _Life and Correspondence of R. Southey_,
1849, i. 224. First collected 1852 (Notes). Southey includes the sonnet
in a letter to his brother Thomas dated Oct. 19, 1794, and attributes
the authorship to Coleridge's friend S. Favell, with whom he had been in
correspondence. He had already received the sonnet in a letter from
Coleridge (dated Sept. 18, 1794), who claims it for his own and
apologizes for the badness of the poetry. The octave was included (ll.
129-36) in the second version of the _Monody on the Death of
Chatterton_, first printed in Lancelot Sharpe's edition of the _Poems_
of Chatterton published at Cambridge in 1794. Mrs. H. N. Coleridge
(_Poems_, 1852, p. 382) prints the sonnet and apologizes for the alleged
plagiarism. It is difficult to believe that either the first eight or
last six lines of the sonnet were not written by Coleridge. It is
included in the MS. volume of Poems which Coleridge presented to Mrs.
Estlin in 1795. The text is that of _Letter Sept. 18, 1794_.


Title] Sonnet MS. E.

[1] my] the MS. E.

[8] Passions weave] Passion wears Letter, Oct. 19 1794, 1852.

[9] Sorrow] anguish Letter, Oct. 19 1794, 1852.

[10] like theirs] as those Letter, Oct. 19 1794, 1852: as they, MS. E.

[13] feel] find Letter, Oct. 19 1794, 1852.

[14] pleasance] pleasure Letter, Oct. 19 1794, 1852.


  Whilst pale Anxiety, corrosive Care,
  The tear of Woe, the gloom of sad Despair,
    And deepen'd Anguish generous bosoms rend;--
  Whilst patriot souls their country's fate lament;
  Whilst mad with rage demoniac, foul intent,                          5
    Embattled legions Despots vainly send
  To arrest the immortal mind's expanding ray
    Of everlasting Truth;--I other climes
  Where dawns, with hope serene, a brighter day
    Than e'er saw Albion in her happiest times,                       10
  With mental eye exulting now explore,
    And soon with kindred minds shall haste to enjoy
  (Free from the ills which here our peace destroy)
  Content and Bliss on Transatlantic shore.



[69:1] First published in the _Co-operative Magazine and Monthly
Herald_, March 6, 1826, and reprinted in the _Athenæum_, Nov. 5, 1904.
First collected in 1907. It has been conjectured, but proof is wanting,
that the sonnet was written by Coleridge.



  Near the lone pile with ivy overspread,
    Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound,
  Where 'sleeps the moonlight' on yon verdant bed--
    O humbly press that consecrated ground!

  For there does Edmund rest, the learnéd swain!                       5
    And there his spirit most delights to rove:
  Young Edmund! fam'd for each harmonious strain,
    And the sore wounds of ill-requited Love.

  Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide,
    And loads the West-wind with its soft perfume,                    10
  His manhood blossom'd; till the faithless pride
    Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb.

  But soon did righteous Heaven her Guilt pursue!
    Where'er with wilder'd step she wander'd pale,
  Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view,                        15
    Still Edmund's voice accus'd her in each gale.

  With keen regret, and conscious Guilt's alarms,
    Amid the pomp of Affluence she pined;
  Nor all that lur'd her faith from Edmund's arms
    Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind.                        20

  Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught:
    Some tearful Maid perchance, or blooming Youth,
  May hold it in remembrance; and be taught
    That Riches cannot pay for Love or Truth.

? 1794.


[69:2] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, September 23, 1794:
included in _The Watchman_, No. III, March 17, 1794: in _Sibylline
Leaves_, 1817: 1828, 1829, and 1834, but omitted in 1852 as of doubtful
origin. The elegy as printed in the _Morning Chronicle_ is unsigned. In
_The Watchman_ it is signed T.


Title] An Elegy Morning Chronicle, Watchman.

[1] the] yon M. C.

[6] And there his pale-eyed phantom loves to rove M. C.

[10] West-wind] Zephyr M. C.

[11] till] ere M. C.

[12] Lucinda sunk M. C.

[13] Guilt] crime M. C.

[14] step] steps M. C.

[17] remorse and tortur'd Guilt's M. C.

[20] Could soothe the conscious horrors of her mind M. C. horror]
horrors The Watchman.

[22] tearful] lovely M. C.


  Ungrateful he, who pluck'd thee from thy stalk,
  Poor faded flow'ret! on his careless way;
  Inhal'd awhile thy odours on his walk,
  Then onward pass'd and left thee to decay.
  Ah! melancholy emblem! had I seen                                    5
  Thy modest beauties dew'd with Evening's gem,
  I had not rudely cropp'd thy parent stem,
  But left thee, blushing, 'mid the enliven'd green
  And now I bend me o'er thy wither'd bloom,
  And drop the tear--as Fancy, at my side,                            10
  Deep-sighing, points the fair frail Abra's tomb--
  'Like thine, sad Flower, was that poor wanderer's pride!
  Oh! lost to Love and Truth, whose selfish joy
  Tasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy!'



[70:1] First published in the _Monthly Magazine_, August, 1836. First
collected in _P. W._, 1893.


  Pale Roamer through the night! thou poor Forlorn!
  Remorse that man on his death-bed possess,
  Who in the credulous hour of tenderness
  Betrayed, then cast thee forth to Want and Scorn!
  The world is pitiless: the chaste one's pride                        5
  Mimic of Virtue scowls on thy distress:
  Thy Loves and they that envied thee deride:
  And Vice alone will shelter Wretchedness!
  O! I could weep to think that there should be
  Cold-bosom'd lewd ones, who endure to place                         10
  Foul offerings on the shrine of Misery,
  And force from Famine the caress of Love;
  May He shed healing on the sore disgrace,
  He, the great Comforter that rules above!

? 1794.


[71:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and
1834. 'The first half of Effusion xv was written by the Author of "Joan
of Arc", an Epic Poem.' Preface to _Poems_, 1796, p. xi.


Title] Effusion xv. 1796: Sonnet vii. 1797: Sonnet vi. 1803: Sonnet ix.
1828, 1829, and 1834: An Unfortunate 1893.

[7] Thy kindred, when they see thee, turn aside 1803.

[9] O I am sad 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[10] Men, born of woman 1803.


  Man has no feeling for thy sore Disgrace:
  Keen blows the Blast upon the moulting Dove.


[13] the] thy 1796, 1797, 1828.



  Tell me, on what holy ground
  May Domestic Peace be found?
  Halcyon daughter of the skies,
  Far on fearful wings she flies,
  From the pomp of Sceptered State,                                    5
  From the Rebel's noisy hate.

  In a cottag'd vale She dwells,
  Listening to the Sabbath bells!
  Still around her steps are seen
  Spotless Honour's meeker mien,                                      10
  Love, the sire of pleasing fears,
  Sorrow smiling through her tears,
  And conscious of the past employ
  Memory, bosom-spring of joy.



[71:2] First published in the _Fall of Robespierre_, 1795: included (as
'Song', p. 13) in 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.


Title] Effusion xxv. 1796.


  Thou bleedest, my poor Heart! and thy distress
  Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile
  And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the while
  Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness.
  Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland?                       5
  Or, listening, why forget the healing tale,
  When Jealousy with feverous fancies pale
  Jarr'd thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand?
  Faint was that Hope, and rayless!--Yet 'twas fair
  And sooth'd with many a dream the hour of rest:                     10
  Thou should'st have lov'd it most, when most opprest,
  And nurs'd it with an agony of care,
  Even as a mother her sweet infant heir
  That wan and sickly droops upon her breast!



[72:1] First published in 1796: _Selection of Sonnets_, _Poems_ 1796: in
1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834. It was sent in a letter to Southey,
dated October 21, 1794. (_Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 92.)


Title] Effusion xix. 1796 (in 'Contents' _To my Heart_): Sonnet II. On a
Discovery made too late 1797, 1803, and again in P. and D. W., 1877-80:
Sonnet xi. 1828, 1829, 1834.


  Doth Reason ponder with an anguish'd smile
  Probing thy sore wound sternly, tho' the while
  Her eye be swollen and dim with heaviness.

Letter, 1794.

[6] the] its Letter, 1794.

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

[14] wan] pale Letter, 1794.


  Schiller! that hour I would have wish'd to die,
  If thro' the shuddering midnight I had sent
  From the dark dungeon of the Tower time-rent
  That fearful voice, a famish'd Father's cry--
  Lest in some after moment aught more mean                            5
  Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout
  Black Horror scream'd, and all her _goblin_ rout
  Diminish'd shrunk from the more withering scene!
  Ah! Bard tremendous in sublimity!
  Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood                             10
  Wandering at eve with finely-frenzied eye
  Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood!
  Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood:
  Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy!

? 1794.


[72:2] First published in 1796: included in _Selection of Sonnets_,
1796: in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The following 'Note' (Note 6,
pp. 180, 181) was printed in 1796, and appears again in 1797 as a
footnote, p. 83:--'One night in Winter, on leaving a College-friend's
room, with whom I had supped, I carelessly took away with me "The
Robbers", a drama, the very name of which I had never before heard
of:--A Winter midnight--the wind high--and "The Robbers" for the first
time!--The readers of Schiller will conceive what I felt. Schiller
introduces no supernatural beings; yet his human beings agitate and
astonish more than all the _goblin_ rout--even of Shakespeare.' See for
another account of the midnight reading of 'The Robbers', Letter to
Southey, November [6], 1794, _Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 96, 97.

In the _Selection of Sonnets_, 1796, this note was reduced to one
sentence. 'Schiller introduces no Supernatural Beings.' In 1803 the note
is omitted, but a footnote to line 4 is appended: 'The Father of Moor in
the Play of the Robbers.'


Title] Effusion xx. To the Author, &c. [To 'Schiller', _Contents_] 1796:
Sonnet viii. To the Author of 'The Robbers' 1797: Sonnet xv. 1803:
Sonnet xii. To the Author of the Robbers 1828, 1829, 1834.

_Lines 1-4_ are printed in the reverse order (_4_, _3_, _2_, _1_).


  That in no after moment aught, less vast
  Might stamp me human!


  That in no after moment aught less vast
  Might stamp me mortal!

1797, 1803.

[8] From the more with'ring scene diminish'd past. Selections, 1797,



  Stretch'd on a moulder'd Abbey's broadest wall,
    Where ruining ivies propp'd the ruins steep--
  Her folded arms wrapping her tatter'd pall,
  [73:2]Had Melancholy mus'd herself to sleep.
      The fern was press'd beneath her hair,
      The dark green Adder's Tongue[74:1] was there;
  And still as pass'd the flagging sea-gale weak,
  The long lank leaf bow'd fluttering o'er her cheek.

      That pallid cheek was flush'd: her eager look
    Beam'd eloquent in slumber! Inly wrought,                         10
      Imperfect sounds her moving lips forsook,
    And her bent forehead work'd with troubled thought.
      Strange was the dream----

? 1794.


[73:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, December 12, 1797 (not, as
Coleridge says, the _Morning Chronicle_); included in _Sibylline
Leaves_, 1817 (with an addition), and, again, in _P. and D. W._,
1877-80, and (in its first shape) in 1828, 1829, 1834, 1852, and 1893.
Sent in Letter to Sotheby, Aug. 26, 1802.

[73:2] Bowles borrowed these lines unconsciously, I doubt not. I had
repeated the poem on my first visit [Sept. 1797]. _MS. Note, S. T. C._
See, too, _Letter_, Aug. 26, 1802. [Here Melancholy on the pale crags
laid, Might muse herself to sleep--_Coomb Ellen_, written September,

[74:1] A Plant found on old walls and in wells and mois[t] [h]edges.--It
is often called the Hart's Tongue. _M. C._ _Asplenium Scolopendrium_,
more commonly called Hart's Tongue. _Letter_, 1802. A botanical mistake.
The plant I meant is called the Hart's Tongue, but this would unluckily
spoil the poetical effect. _Cedat ergo Botanice._ _Sibylline Leaves_,
1817. A botanical mistake. The plant which the poet here describes is
called the Hart's Tongue, _1828_, _1829_, _1852_.


[1] Upon a mouldering Letter, Aug. 26, 1802.

[2] Where ruining] Whose running M. C. propp'd] prop Letter, Aug. 26,

[7] pass'd] came Letter, 1802. sea-gale] sea-gales M. C., Letter, 1802.

[8] The] Her Letter, 1802.

[9] That] Her Letter, 1802.

[13] Not in Letter 1802.


      Strange was the dream that fill'd her soul,
      Nor did not whisp'ring spirits roll
  A mystic tumult, and a fateful rhyme,
  Mix'd with wild shapings of the unborn time!

M. C., Sibylline Leaves, 1817.



  Poor little Foal of an oppresséd race!
  I love the languid patience of thy face:
  And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
  And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head.
  But what thy dulled spirits hath dismay'd,                           5
  That never thou dost sport along the glade?
  And (most unlike the nature of things young)
  That earthward still thy moveless head is hung?
  Do thy prophetic fears anticipate,
  Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate?                              10
  The starving meal, and all the thousand aches
  'Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes'?
  Or is thy sad heart thrill'd with filial pain
  To see thy wretched mother's shorten'd chain?
  And truly, very piteous is _her_ lot--                              15
  Chain'd to a log within a narrow spot,
  Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen,
  While sweet around her waves the tempting green!

  Poor Ass! thy master should have learnt to show
  Pity--best taught by fellowship of Woe!                             20
  For much I fear me that _He_ lives like thee,
  Half famish'd in a land of Luxury!
  How _askingly_ its footsteps hither bend?
  It seems to say, 'And have I then _one_ friend?'
  Innocent foal! thou poor despis'd forlorn!                          25
  I hail thee _Brother_--spite of the fool's scorn!
  And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell
  Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell,
  Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride,
  And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side!                          30
  How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play,
  And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay!
  Yea! and more musically sweet to me
  Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be,
  Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest                           35
  The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast!



[74:2] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, December 30, 1794:
included in 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834. A MS. version, dated
October 24, 1794 (see _P. W._, 1893, pp. 477, 488), was presented by
Coleridge to Professor William Smyth, Professor of Modern History at
Cambridge, 1807-49; a second version was included in a letter to
Southey, dated December 17, 1794 (_Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 119,


Title] Monologue to a Young Jack Ass in Jesus Piece. Its mother near it
chained to a log MS. Oct. 24, 1794: Address to a Young Jack-Ass and its
Tether'd mother MS. Dec. 17, 1794: Address, &c. In familiar verse
Morning Chronicle, Dec. 30, 1794: Effusion xxxiii. To a Young Ass, &c.

[3] gentle] friendly MS. Dec. 1794, M. C.

[4] pat] scratch MS. Oct. 1794, M. C.

[5] spirits] spirit MSS. Oct. Dec. 1794, M. C.

[6] along] upon MS. Dec. 1794, M. C.

[8] That still to earth thy moping head is hung MSS. Oct. Dec. 1794, M.

[9] Doth thy prophetic soul MS. Oct. 1794.

[12] Which] That MSS. Oct. Dec. 1794.

[14] shorten'd] lengthen'd MS. Dec. 1794, M. C.

[16] within] upon MSS. Oct. Dec. 1794, M. C.

[19] thy] her 1796.

[21] For much I fear, that He lives e'en as she, 1796.

[23] footsteps hither bend] steps toward me tend MS. Oct. 1794: steps
towards me bend MS. Dec. 1794, M. C.: footsteps t'ward me bend 1796.

[25] despised and forlorn MS. Oct. 1794.

[27] would] I'd MSS. Oct. Dec. 1794. in] to MS. Oct. 1794.

[28] Of high-soul'd Pantisocracy to dwell MS. Dec. 1794, M. C.

[28 foll.]

  Where high-soul'd Pantisocracy shall dwell!
  Where Mirth shall tickle Plenty's ribless side,[75:A]
  And smiles from Beauty's Lip on sunbeams glide,
  Where Toil shall wed young Health that charming Lass!
  And use his sleek cows for a looking-glass--
  Where Rats shall mess with Terriers hand-in-glove
  And Mice with Pussy's Whiskers sport in Love

MS. Oct. 1794.

     [75:A] This is a truly poetical line of which the author has
     assured us that he did not _mean_ it to have any _meaning_.
     Note by Ed. of MS. Oct. 1794.


  Than Handel's softest airs that soothe to rest
  The tumult of a scoundrel Monarch's Breast.

MS. Oct. 1794.

  Than _Banti's_ warbled airs that sooth to rest
  The tumult &c.

MS. Dec. 1794.

[36] The tumult of some SCOUNDREL Monarch's breast. M. C. 1796.



  Edmund! thy grave with aching eye I scan,
  And inly groan for Heaven's poor outcast--Man!
  'Tis tempest all or gloom: in early youth
  If gifted with th' Ithuriel lance of Truth
  We force to start amid her feign'd caress                            5
  Vice, siren-hag! in native ugliness;
  A Brother's fate will haply rouse the tear,
  And on we go in heaviness and fear!
  But if our fond hearts call to Pleasure's bower
  Some pigmy Folly in a careless hour,                                10
  The faithless guest shall stamp the enchanted ground,
  And mingled forms of Misery rise around:
  Heart-fretting Fear, with pallid look aghast,
  That courts the future woe to hide the past;
  Remorse, the poison'd arrow in his side,                            15
  And loud lewd Mirth, to Anguish close allied:
  Till Frenzy, fierce-eyed child of moping Pain,
  Darts her hot lightning-flash athwart the brain.

  Rest, injur'd shade! Shall Slander squatting near
  Spit her cold venom in a dead man's ear?                            20
  'Twas thine to feel the sympathetic glow
  In Merit's joy, and Poverty's meek woe;
  Thine all, that cheer the moment as it flies,
  The zoneless Cares, and smiling Courtesies.
  Nurs'd in thy heart the firmer Virtues grew,                        25
  And in thy heart they wither'd! Such chill dew
  Wan Indolence on each young blossom shed;
  And Vanity her filmy net-work spread,
  With eye that roll'd around in asking gaze,
  And tongue that traffick'd in the trade of praise.                  30
  Thy follies such! the hard world mark'd them well!
  Were they more wise, the Proud who never fell?
  Rest, injur'd shade! the poor man's grateful prayer
  On heaven-ward wing thy wounded soul shall bear.

  As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass,                          35
  And sit me down upon its recent grass,
  With introverted eye I contemplate
  Similitude of soul, perhaps of--Fate!
  To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assign'd
  Energic Reason and a shaping mind,                                  40
  The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part,
  And Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart--
  Sloth-jaundic'd all! and from my graspless hand
  Drop Friendship's precious pearls, like hour-glass sand.
  I weep, yet stoop not! the faint anguish flows,                     45
  A dreamy pang in Morning's feverous doze.

  Is this piled earth our Being's passless mound?
  Tell me, cold grave! is Death with poppies crown'd?
  Tired Sentinel! mid fitful starts I nod,
  And fain would sleep, though pillowed on a clod!                    50



[76:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and
1834. Four MS. versions are extant, (1) in Letter to Southey, Nov. [6],
1794 (_Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 98, 99): (2) in letter to George
Coleridge, Nov. 6, 1794: (3) in the Estlin copy-book: (4) in the MS.
4{o}. The Friend was the Rev. Fulwood Smerdon, vicar of Ottery St. Mary,
who died in August 1794.


Title] On the Death of a Friend who died of a Frenzy Fever brought on by
anxiety MS. E.

[1] ----! thy grave MS. Letter to R. S.: Smerdon! thy grave MS. Letter
to G. C.

[3] early] earliest MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C., MS. E.

[5] We] He MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C., MS. E, MS. 4{o}, 1796.

[7] will] shall MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C., MS. E.

[8] And on he goes MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C., MS. E, 1796: Onward
we move 1803.

[9] his fond heart MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C., MS. E, 1796.

[11] quick stamps MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C., MS. E, MS. 4{o}.

[12] threaten round MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C.

[17] fierce-eyed] frantic MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C., MS. E erased
[See Lamb's Letter to Coleridge, June 10, 1796].

[19] squatting] couching MS Letter to G. C., MS. E [See Lamb's Letter,
June 10, 1796].

[23] cheer] cheers MS. E.

[25] firmer] generous MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C.: manly MS. E.

[29] roll'd] prowl'd MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C., MS. E.


                 the poor man's prayer of praise
  On heavenward wing thy wounded soul shall raise.


[35] As oft in Fancy's thought MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C.

[39] bounteous] liberal MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C., MS. E.

[41] ken] soul MS. Letter to R. S.

[46] feverous] feverish all MSS. and Eds. 1796-1829.

[47] this] that MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C., MS. E. passless] hapless
Letter to G. C.

[49] Sentinel] Centinel all MSS. and Eds. 1796-1829. mid] with Letters
to R. S. and G. C.

Below l. 50 the date (November 1794) is affixed in 1796, 1797, and 1803.




  Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme
  Elaborate and swelling: yet the heart
  Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers
  I ask not now, my friend! the aiding verse,
  Tedious to thee, and from thy anxious thought                        5
  Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know)
  From business wandering far and local cares,
  Thou creepest round a dear-lov'd Sister's bed
  With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look,
  Soothing each pang with fond solicitude,                            10
  And tenderest tones medicinal of love.
  I too a Sister _had_, an only Sister--
  She lov'd me dearly, and I doted on her!
  To her I pour'd forth all my puny sorrows
  (As a sick Patient in a Nurse's arms)                               15
  And of the heart those hidden maladies
  That e'en from Friendship's eye will shrink asham'd.
  O! I have wak'd at midnight, and have wept,
  Because she was not!--Cheerily, dear Charles!
  Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year:                     20
  Such warm presages feel I of high Hope.
  For not uninterested the dear Maid
  I've view'd--her soul affectionate yet wise,
  Her polish'd wit as mild as lambent glories
  That play around a sainted infant's head.                           25
  He knows (the Spirit that in secret sees,
  Of whose omniscient and all-spreading Love
  Aught to _implore_[79:1] were impotence of mind)
  That my mute thoughts are sad before his throne,
  Prepar'd, when he his healing ray vouchsafes,                       30
  Thanksgiving to pour forth with lifted heart,
  And praise Him Gracious with a Brother's Joy!



[78:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, and, again, in
1844. Lines 12-19 ('I too a sister . . . Because she was not') are
published in 1834 (i. 35) under the heading 'The Same', i. e. the same
as the preceding poem, 'On seeing a Youth affectionately welcomed by a
Sister.' The date, December 1794, affixed in 1797 and 1803, is correct.
The poem was sent in a letter from Coleridge to Southey, dated December
1794. (_Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 128.) The 'Unfinished Poem' was,
certainly, _Religious Musings_, begun on Christmas Eve, 1794. The text
is that of 1844.

[79:1] I utterly recant the sentiment contained in the lines--

  'Of whose omniscient and all-spreading Love
   Aught to _implore_ were impotence of mind,'

it being written in Scripture, '_Ask_, and it shall be given you,' and
my human reason being moreover convinced of the propriety of offering
_petitions_ as well as thanksgivings to Deity. [Note of S. T. C., in
_Poems_, 1797 and 1803.]


Title] To C. Lamb MS. Letter, Dec. 1794: Effusion xxii. To a Friend, &c.
1796: To Charles Lamb with an unfinished Poem 1844.


  Thus far my sterile brain hath fram'd the song
  Elaborate and swelling: but the heart
  Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing power

MS. Letter, Dec. 1794.

[7] Not in MS. Letter, Dec. 1794.

[Between 13 and 14]

  On her soft bosom I reposed my cares
  And gain'd for every wound a healing tear.

MS. Letter, 1794.

[15] a] his MS. Letter, 1794, 1796, 1797, 1803.

[17] That shrink asham'd from even Friendship's eye. MS. Letter, 1794,
1796, 1797.

[18] wak'd] woke MS. Letter, 1794, 1796, 1797, 1803.

[21] warm] high: high] warm MS. Letter, 1794. presages] presagings 1803.

[25] sainted] holy MS. Letter, 1794.

[26] that] who MS. Letter, 1794.

[31] To pour forth thanksgiving MS. Letter, 1794, 1796, 1797, 1803.



[The Sonnets were introduced by the following letter:--

     'MR. EDITOR--If, Sir, the following Poems will not disgrace
     your poetical department, I will transmit you a series of
     _Sonnets_ (as it is the fashion to call them) addressed like
     these to eminent Contemporaries.

     'JESUS COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.'                   S. T. C.]



  When British Freedom for an happier land
    Spread her broad wings, that flutter'd with affright,
    ERSKINE! thy voice she heard, and paus'd her flight
  Sublime of hope, for dreadless thou didst stand
    (Thy censer glowing with the hallow'd flame)                       5
    A hireless Priest before the insulted shrine,
    And at her altar pour the stream divine
  Of unmatch'd eloquence. Therefore thy name

  Her sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast
    With blessings heaven-ward breath'd. And when the doom
    Of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb                          11
  Thy light shall shine: as sunk beneath the West

  Though the great Summer Sun eludes our gaze,
  Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze.[80:A]

_December_ 1, 1794.


[79:2] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, Dec. 1, 1794:
included in 1796, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[80:A] 'Our elegant correspondent will highly gratify every reader of
taste by the continuance of his exquisitely beautiful productions. No.
II. shall appear on an early day.'


Title] Effusion v. 1796: Sonnet x. 1803: Sonnet iv. 1828, 1829, 1834.

[4] for dreadless] where fearless M. C. Dec. 1, 1794.

[6] A] An M. C., 1796-1803, 1828, 1829. the insulted] her injur'd M. C.

[7] pour] pour'dst M. C., 1796, 1803.

[8] unmatch'd] matchless M. C.

[10] With heav'n-breath'd blessings; and, when late the doom M. C.

[11] die] rise 1803.


  Though the great Sun not meets our wistful gaze
  Still glows wide Heaven

M. C.

[Below l. 14] Jesus College Cambridge M. C.



  As late I lay in Slumber's shadowy vale,
    With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise,
    I saw the sainted form of FREEDOM rise:
  She spake! not sadder moans the autumnal gale--

  'Great Son of Genius! sweet to me thy name,                          5
    Ere in an evil hour with alter'd voice
    Thou bad'st Oppression's hireling crew rejoice
  Blasting with wizard spell my laurell'd fame.

  'Yet never, BURKE! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl![80:2]
    Thee stormy Pity and the cherish'd lure                           10
    Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul
  Wilder'd with meteor fires. Ah Spirit pure!

  'That Error's mist had left thy purgéd eye:
  So might I clasp thee with a Mother's joy!'

_December_ 9, 1794.


[80:1] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, Dec. 9, 1794:
included in 1796, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834. This Sonnet was sent in a
letter to Southey, dated December 11, 1794. _Letters of S. T. C._, 1895,
i. 118.


  _Yet never_, BURKE! thou dran'kst Corruption's bowl!

When I composed this line, I had not read the following paragraph in the
_Cambridge Intelligencer_ (of Saturday, November 21, 1795):--

'_When Mr. Burke first crossed over the House of Commons from the
Opposition to the Ministry, he received a pension of £1200 a year
charged on the Kings Privy Purse._ When he had completed his labours, it
was then a question what recompense his service deserved. Mr. Burke
wanting a present supply of money, it was thought that a pension of
£2000 _per annum_ for _forty years certain_, would sell for eighteen
years' purchase, and bring him of course £36,000. But this pension must,
by the very unfortunate act, of which Mr. Burke was himself the author,
have come before Parliament. Instead of this Mr. Pitt suggested the idea
of a pension of £2000 a year for _three lives_, to be charged on the
King's Revenue of the West India 4-1/2 per cents. This was tried at the
market, but it was found that it would not produce the £36,000 which
were wanted. In consequence of this a pension of £2500 per annum, _for
three lives_ on the 4-1/2 West India Fund, the lives to be nominated by
Mr. Burke, that he may accommodate the purchasers is _finally_ granted
to this disinterested patriot. He has thus retir'd from the trade of
politics, with pensions to the amount of £3700 a year.' 1796, Note, pp.


Title] Effusion ii. 1796: Sonnet vii. 1803: Sonnet ii. 1828, 1829, 1834.

[1] As late I roam'd through Fancy's shadowy vale MS. Letter, Dec. 11,

[4] She] He MS. Letter, 1794.

[12] Urg'd on with wild'ring fires MS. Letter, Dec. 17, 1794, M. C.

[Below l. 14] Jesus College M. C.



  Though rous'd by that dark Vizir Riot rude
    Have driven our PRIESTLEY o'er the Ocean swell;
    Though Superstition and her wolfish brood
  Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell;
  Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell!                      5
    For lo! RELIGION at his strong behest
    Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell,
  And flings to Earth her tinsel-glittering vest,
  Her mitred State and cumbrous Pomp unholy;
    And JUSTICE wakes to bid th' Oppressor wail                       10
    Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly;
  And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won
  Meek NATURE slowly lifts her matron veil
  To smile with fondness on her gazing Son!

_December_ 11, 1794.


[81:1] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, December 11, 1794:
included in 1796, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834. In all editions prior to
1852, 'Priestley' is spelled 'Priestly'. The Sonnet was sent to Southey
in a letter dated December 17, 1794.


Title] Effusion iv. 1796: Sonnet ix. 1803: Sonnet iii. 1828, 1829, 1834.


  Tho' king-bred rage with lawless uproar rude
    Hath driv'n

M. C.

  Tho' king-bred rage with lawless tumult rude
    Have driv'n

MS. Letter, Dec. 17, 1794.

[7] Disdainful rouses from the Papal spell, M. C., MS. Letter, 1794.

[11] That ground th' ensnared soul of patient Folly. M. C., MS. Letter,



  As when far off the warbled strains are heard
    That soar on Morning's wing the vales among;
    Within his cage the imprison'd Matin Bird
  Swells the full chorus with a generous song:

  He bathes no pinion in the dewy light,                               5
    No Father's joy, no Lover's bliss he shares,
    Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight--
  His fellows' Freedom soothes the Captive's cares!

  Thou, FAYETTE! who didst wake with startling voice
    Life's better Sun from that long wintry night,                    10
    Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice
  And mock with raptures high the Dungeon's might:

  For lo! the Morning struggles into Day,
  And Slavery's spectres shriek and vanish from the ray![82:2]

_December_ 15, 1794.


[82:1] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, December 15, 1794:
included in 1796, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[82:2] The above beautiful sonnet was written antecedently to the joyful
account of the Patriot's escape from the Tyrant's Dungeon. [Note in _M.


Title] Effusion ix. 1796: Sonnet xiii. 1803: Sonnet vii. 1828, 1829,



  O what a loud and fearful shriek was there,
    As though a thousand souls one death-groan pour'd!
    Ah me! they saw beneath a Hireling's sword
  Their KOSKIUSKO fall! Through the swart air
  (As pauses the tir'd Cossac's barbarous yell                         5
    Of Triumph) on the chill and midnight gale
    Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell
  The dirge of murder'd Hope! while Freedom pale
  Bends in such anguish o'er her destin'd bier,
    As if from eldest time some Spirit meek                           10
    Had gather'd in a mystic urn each tear
  That ever on a Patriot's furrow'd cheek
  Fit channel found; and she had drain'd the bowl
  In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul!

_December_ 16, 1794.


[82:3] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, December 16, 1794:
included in 1796, 1828, 1829, 1834. The Sonnet was sent to Southey in a
letter dated December 17, 1794. _Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 117.


Title] Effusion viii. 1796: Sonnet vi. 1828, 1829, 1834.


  Great _Kosciusko_ 'neath an hireling's sword
  The warriors view'd! Hark! through the list'ning air

MS. Letter, Dec. 17, 1794.

  Great KOSCIUSKO 'neath an Hireling's sword
  His country view'd. Hark through the list'ning air

M. C.

  Ah me! they view'd beneath an hireling's sword
  Fall'n Kosciusko! Thro' the burthened air

1796, 1828, 1829.

[5] As] When M. C., MS. Letter, Dec. 17, 1794.

[8] The 'dirge of Murder'd Hope' MS. Letter, Dec. 17, 1794.

[12] That ever furrow'd a sad Patriot's cheek MS. Letter, 1794, M. C.,


  And she had drench'd the sorrows of the bowl
  E'en till she reel'd intoxicate of soul

MS. Letter, 1794, M. C.

  And she had drain'd the sorrows of the bowl
  E'en till she reel'd, &c.




  Not always should the Tear's ambrosial dew
    Roll its soft anguish down thy furrow'd cheek!
    Not always heaven-breath'd tones of Suppliance meek
  Beseem thee, Mercy! Yon dark Scowler view,
  Who with proud words of dear-lov'd Freedom came--                    5
    More blasting than the mildew from the South!
    And kiss'd his country with Iscariot mouth
  (Ah! foul apostate from his Father's fame!)[83:2]
  Then fix'd her on the Cross of deep distress,
    And at safe distance marks the thirsty Lance                      10
    Pierce her big side! But O! if some strange trance
  The eye-lids of thy stern-brow'd Sister[83:3] press,
  Seize, Mercy! thou more terrible the brand,                         13
  And hurl her thunderbolts with fiercer hand!

_December_ 23, 1794.


[83:1] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, December 23, 1794,
and, secondly, in _The Watchman_, No. V, April 2, 1796; included in
1796, 1803, and in 1852, with the following note:--'This Sonnet, and the
ninth, to Stanhope, were among the pieces withdrawn from the second
edition of 1797. They reappeared in the edition of 1803, and were again
withdrawn in 1828, solely, it may be presumed, on account of their
political vehemence. They will excite no angry feelings, and lead to no
misapprehensions now, and as they are fully equal to their companions in
poetical merit, the Editors have not scrupled to reproduce them. These
Sonnets were originally entitled "Effusions".'

[83:2] Earl of Chatham.

[83:3] Justice.


Title] Effusion iii. 1796: To Mercy Watchman: Sonnet viii. 1803: Sonnet
iii. 1852.

[8] Staining most foul a Godlike Father's name M. C., Watchman.

[13] Seize thou more terrible th' avenging brand M. C.




  My heart has thank'd thee, BOWLES! for those soft strains,
    That, on the still air floating, tremblingly
    Wak'd in me Fancy, Love, and Sympathy!
  For hence, not callous to a Brother's pains

  Thro' Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went;                  5
    And, when the _darker_ day of life began,
    And I did roam, a thought-bewilder'd man!
  Thy kindred Lays an healing solace lent,

  Each lonely pang with dreamy joys combin'd,
    And stole from vain REGRET her scorpion stings;                   10
    While shadowy PLEASURE, with mysterious wings,
  Brooded the wavy and tumultuous mind,

  Like that great Spirit, who with plastic sweep
  Mov'd on the darkness of the formless Deep!


[84:1] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, December 26, 1794.
First collected, _P. and D. W._, 1877, i. 138. The sonnet was sent in a
letter to Southey, dated December 11, 1794. _Letters of S. T. C._, 1895,
i. 111.

[84:2] Author of _Sonnets and other Poems_, published by Dilly. To Mr.
Bowles's poetry I have always thought the following remarks from Maximus
Tyrius peculiarly applicable:--'I am not now treating of that poetry
which is estimated by the pleasure it affords to the ear--the ear having
been corrupted, and the judgment-seat of the perceptions; but of that
which proceeds from the intellectual Helicon, that which is _dignified_,
and appertaining to _human_ feelings, and entering into the soul.'--The
13th Sonnet for exquisite delicacy of painting; the 19th for tender
simplicity; and the 25th for manly pathos, are compositions of, perhaps,
unrivalled merit. Yet while I am selecting these, I almost accuse myself
of causeless partiality; for surely never was a writer so equal in
excellence!--S. T. C. [In this note as it first appeared in the _Morning
Chronicle_ a Greek sentence preceded the supposed English translation.
It is not to be found in the _Dissertations_ of Maximus Tyrius, but the
following passage which, for verbal similitudes, may be compared with
others (e. g. 20, 8, p. 243: 21, 3, p. 247; 28, 3, p. 336) is to be
found in Davies and Markland's edition (Lips. 1725), vol. ii, p.
203:--Οὔ τί τοι λέγω τὴν δἰ' αὐλῶν καὶ ᾠδῶν καὶ χορῶν καὶ ψαλμάτων, ἄνευ λόγου ἐπὶ τῇ
ψυχῇ ἰοῦσαν, τῷ τερπνῷ τῆς ἀκοῆς τιμηθεῖσαν . . . τὴν ἀληθῆ καὶ ἐκ τοῦ Ἑλικῶνος
μοῦσαν. . . .]


[3] Wak'd] Woke MS. Letter, Dec. 11, 1794.


  My heart has thank'd thee, BOWLES! for those soft strains
    Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring
    Of wild-bees in the sunny showers of spring!
  For hence not callous to the mourner's pains

  Through Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went:                5
    And when the mightier Throes of mind began,
    And drove me forth, a thought-bewilder'd man,
  Their mild and manliest melancholy lent

  A mingled charm, such as the pang consign'd
    To slumber, though the big tear it renew'd;                       10
    Bidding a strange mysterious PLEASURE brood
  Over the wavy and tumultuous mind,

  As the great SPIRIT erst with plastic sweep
  Mov'd on the darkness of the unform'd deep.


[85:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and


Title] Effusion i. 1796: Sonnet i. 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, 1834.


  And when the darker day of life began
  And I did roam, &c.

1796, 1797, 1803.

[9] such as] which oft 1797, 1803.

[11] a] such 1797, 1803.


  As made the soul enamour'd of her woe:
  No common praise, dear Bard! to thee I owe.

1797, 1803.



  As when a child on some long Winter's night
    Affrighted clinging to its Grandam's knees
    With eager wond'ring and perturb'd delight
  Listens strange tales of fearful dark decrees
  Muttered to wretch by necromantic spell;                             5
    Or of those hags, who at the witching time
    Of murky Midnight ride the air sublime,
  And mingle foul embrace with fiends of Hell:

  Cold Horror drinks its blood! Anon the tear
    More gentle starts, to hear the Beldame tell                      10
    Of pretty Babes, that lov'd each other dear.
  Murder'd by cruel Uncle's mandate fell:

  Even such the shiv'ring joys thy tones impart,
  Even so thou, SIDDONS! meltest my sad heart!

_December_ 29, 1794.


[85:2] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, December 29, 1794,
under the signature, S. T. C.: included in 1796 (as C. L.'s) and in 1797
as Charles Lamb's, but reassigned to Coleridge in 1803. First collected,
_P. and D. W._, 1877, i. 140, 141. This sonnet may have been altered by
Coleridge, but was no doubt written by Lamb and given by him to
Coleridge to make up his tale of sonnets for the _Morning Chronicle_. In
1796 and 1797 Coleridge acknowledged the sonnet to be Lamb's; but in
1803, Lamb, who was seeing that volume through the press, once more
handed it over to Coleridge.


Title] Effusion vii. 1796: Sonnet viii. 1797, p. 224: Sonnet xii. 1803.

[4] dark tales of fearful strange decrees M. C.

[6] Of Warlock Hags that M. C.




  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.


[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.




  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.


[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.



  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.


[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._


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


  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.


  Was it some Spirit, SHERIDAN! that breath'd
  His _various_ &c.

M. C.


  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.


  While inly writhes from the Soul-probing glance

M. C.


  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.




  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.



[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).


  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!



[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.


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



  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.


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


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


  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!



[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.


Title] Effusion xxxiv. To an Infant 1796.


  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.


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


[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]



  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!


  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.


      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.



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


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

[24] her] his 1863.


  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.


[93:1] First published in 1796: included in _Selection of Sonnets_,
_Poems_ 1796, in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.


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.


    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.


  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!



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


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

[12] O have I 1796.



  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!


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


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.


  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



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


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.


(_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.


[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.)


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.



  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!



[96:1] First published in _The Watchman_, No. III, March 9, 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.)

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

[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

  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

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

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

  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.


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.



  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!



[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,


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.




  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.



[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.'


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.



     _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.



[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.


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


     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!



[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.


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


  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.


  And sigh'd, and said, _it was a blessed place_.

1797, 1803.

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


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


[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.



  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.



[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,

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,

[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,

[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_.


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


  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.


     [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.


  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.


[39] From Hope and stronger Faith to perfect Love 1796.

[54] embosom] imbosom 1796, 1797, 1803.


  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.



  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_



                  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_.



  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.


[86] soft] sweet 1803.


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


[98] the burning Sun 1803.

[115] The Cherubs and the trembling Seraphim 1803.

[119-21] om. 1803.


  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


[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.


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


[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.


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



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


[281] Dost] Dar'st Watchman.


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


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


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

1796, Watchman.


  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


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


[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.


  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.


  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.


  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_


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



  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


[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.


  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



[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.



  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.


  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.


  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.


  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.]


  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,

[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.



  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

          [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.



[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

[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.


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._


[1] No more of Usurpation's doom'd defeat 4{o}.


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

4{o}, Sibylline Leaves.


[6] _Added in_ 1834.


  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.


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


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



  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!


  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.


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


[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

[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.


_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.

[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.


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

[330] calmest] calmy 4{o}.


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


[342] white] rough 4{o}.

[361] and] or 4{o}.


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



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


[369] Like hideous features blended with the clouds Sibylline Leaves,
1817. (_Errata_: for '_blended_', &c., read '_looming on the mist_'. S.
L., p. [xii].)


  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


     [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


[These lines were assigned by Coleridge to Southey.]

[434] with] by 4{o}.


               Shriek'd AMBITION'S ghastly throng
  And with them those the locust Fiends that crawl'd[146:A]


     [146:A] --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.



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



[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.


  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.



[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.


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

[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.


  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.



                             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



[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.


_To a Primrose._--Motto: et] at L. R., App. 1863.

[17-20] om. L. R., App. 1863



  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!



[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,

[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._


[31, 32] These lines are borrowed from the first edition (4{o}) of the
_Ode to the Departing Year_.]



  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



[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.


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.



  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.


[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.'


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.



  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!



[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.


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.


  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.



  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.



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


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.



  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.



[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.



_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!



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


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.




  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.



[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).


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.


            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]



  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!



[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.


  [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.


[1] whilst] while An. Anth.

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

[25] gauge] guard S. L., 1817 (For 'guard' read 'guage'. _Errata_, p.

[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.


                       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.


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.


  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.


        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!


  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!


  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.


      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.'


  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


  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.


  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.


            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]



[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
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.

[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.

[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._


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.


  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.


  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}.


  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.


     [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},


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


[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.


  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


[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.


  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


  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.


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


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

[142] fires] flames 4{o}.


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


[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}.


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


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


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


[161] om. 1803.

THE RAVEN[169:1]


  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!



[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

       '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.


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_'.


  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.


  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._


  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.



[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.


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



  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.



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


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


  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.


[_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.



_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!



[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.


_To the Rev. George Coleridge_--Motto] lib. I. 2 S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829,

[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.


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


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


  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.


  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



[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.



  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!


[_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!']


[177:1] First published in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 50. First
collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii. 365.


[6] Et longum tremulâ L. R. 1836.



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.



[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.'


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.


  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._


  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


[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.

[68] 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

[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.



     [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.



[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.]


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,

[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.


  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.

[75] Leoni] Sesina 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.


     [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



[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.


[1] our] my _Osorio_, Act V, i. 107. 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834. man] men

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



     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]


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]


[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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!

[Sidenote: 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

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

  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.'

[Sidenote: 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.


  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

[Sidenote: 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!

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.


[Sidenote: The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar

  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.

[Sidenote: 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:

[Sidenote: A flash of joy;]

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

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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

[Sidenote: And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting

  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?

[Sidenote: 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?

[Sidenote: Like vessel, like crew!]

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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!


[Sidenote: 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]

[Sidenote: 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

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: Their beauty and their happiness.]

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.


  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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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,
  And clustered round the mast;                                      351
  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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.'



  '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?'


  '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.'

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


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


  '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.'

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.


[Sidenote: 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?'

[Sidenote: 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

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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.

[Sidenote: 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!

[Sidenote: 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



[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_.]


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.

[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.


  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.


  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_.


  _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} 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.


  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.

[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.


  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.


  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.


  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.


       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.


  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.

[618] The Marinere L. B. 1798.




  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!



  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!



  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?
  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!



[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[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.

[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.]


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.

II] 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.


  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!

                                       (_Signed:_ LABERIUS.)


[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.


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.



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.


  'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,
  And the owls have awakened the crowing cock;
  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.'


  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!



  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, 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.

  'And in my dream methought I went                                  541
  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



  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.



[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'.


PREFACE] Prefixed to the three issues of 1816, and to 1828, 1829, 1834.

_Christabel_--Preface. 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.


  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.


            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.


  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.


  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.


  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

  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.


The motto to Chapter XXIV of _The Betrothed_ (1825) is slightly

  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.


  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.]


  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'.]


  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.


  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


  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

[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,*]
  [*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

[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.


  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,

[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.


  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 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!



[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.

[236:2] [Transcriber's Note: Footnote 2 is missing from original.]


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.



_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.



[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_.


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,

[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.


  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.


  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.

M. P.

[Below 81] 1798] 1796 S. L. 1828, 1829, and 1834.


  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]


[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_.


[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.


  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.

[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.

[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]).


  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.




  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.


  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.


  '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.'


  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?


      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.


[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:--


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

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.


'_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.'


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

[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.


  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


[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.


  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


[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.


  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.


[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.




  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.


[252:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, Dec. 9, 1799, included in
the _Annual Anthology_, 1800, in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1828, 1829, and


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.


  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.



  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.



[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._


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_).


    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.



  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.


[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.


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.


  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.


  The groan of accusation pleads against us.

         *       *       *       *       *

                  Desunt aliqua
             . . . Meanwhile at home
  We have been drinking with a riotous thirst
  Pollutions, &c.

MS. D.


                   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.


  Without the Infidel's scorn, stand forth, be men,
  Make yourselves strong, repel an impious foe


[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.


  Not in a drunken triumph, but with awe
  Repentant of the wrongs, with which we stung
  So fierce a race to Frenzy.


[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.


  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.


[162] constituted] delegated 1802.

[163] had been] were but 1809.


  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_.


[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.


  To me who from thy brooks and mountain-hills,
  Thy quiet fields, thy clouds, thy rocks, thy seas


  To me who from thy seas and rocky shores
  Thy quiet fields thy streams and wooded hills


[207] Aslant the ivied] On the long-ivied MS. W., 4{o}.

[214] nook] scene MS. W., 4{o}, P. R.



  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



[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.


_Note._ In the Table of Contents of 1828 and 1829 'The Nightingale' is

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,

[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.

[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 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._


  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.


  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.


_Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum._ To-morrow! and To-morrow!
and To-morrow!


[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


[4] In the silent summer heat MS. alternative reading.


  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.


  He sat upright; and with quick voice
  While his eyes seem'd to start

MS. erased.



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

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).



  '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.



[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.'


[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.


[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._,


Title] To ---- 1893. The heading _Ubi Thesaurus Ibi Cor_ was prefixed to
the illustrated edition of The Poems of Coleridge, 1907.



  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

         *       *       *       *       *



[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'.



  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]:


  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]


  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!
  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.



[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.

[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)

  '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.


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.




  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.


  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.


  '_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!'


  '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


  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!'


  '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.


  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.


  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!)


  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


  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.


  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.


  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.


  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


  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.'


  '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.'


  '_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,


  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


  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_!'



[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._


[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.


  That Tierney's wounded Mister PITT,
  And his fine tongue enchanted!

M. P.


  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
  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
  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
  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
  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!



[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._


[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.


[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.

  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.


[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.


[5] Saviour infant] infant Saviour 1863.


  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.


[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.


[5] blest] plac'd 1834, 1844, 1852.

[6] bleat-resounding] bleak-resounding 1834, 1852.

[16] nightly] mighty 1834, 1844.



  Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows,
  Nothing before and nothing behind but the sky and the ocean.

? 1799.


[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.



  In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column;
  In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.

? 1799.




  Unperishing youth!
  Thou leapest from forth
  The cell of thy hidden nativity;
  Never mortal saw
  The cradle of the strong one;                                        5
  Never mortal heard
  The gathering of his voices;
  The deep-murmured charm of the son of the rock,
  That is lisp'd evermore at his slumberless fountain.
  There's a cloud at the portal, a spray-woven veil                   10
  At the shrine of his ceaseless renewing;
  It embosoms the roses of dawn,
  It entangles the shafts of the noon,
  And into the bed of its stillness
  The moonshine sinks down as in slumber,                             15
  That the son of the rock, that the nursling of heaven
  May be born in a holy twilight!


  The wild goat in awe
  Looks up and beholds
  Above thee the cliff inaccessible;--                                20
  Thou at once full-born
  Madd'nest in thy joyance,
  Whirlest, shatter'st, splitt'st,
  Life invulnerable.

? 1799.


[308:1] First published in 1834. For the original (_Unsterblicher
Jüngling_) by Count F. L. Stolberg see Note to _Poems_, 1844, pp. 371-2,
and Appendices of this edition.


Title] Improved from Stolberg. On a Cataract, &c. 1844, 1852.


  Thou streamest from forth
  The cleft of thy ceaseless Nativity

MS. S. T. C.

[Between 7 and 13.]

  The murmuring songs of the Son of the Rock,
  When he feeds evermore at the slumberless Fountain.
  There abideth a Cloud,
  At the Portal a Veil,
  At the shrine of thy self-renewing;
  It embodies the Visions of Dawn,
  It entangles, &c.

MS. S. T. C.

[20] Below thee the cliff inaccessible MS. S. T. C.


  Flockest in thy Joyance,
  Wheelest, shatter'st, start'st.

MS. S. T. C.




  Mark this holy chapel well!
  The birth-place, this, of William Tell.
  Here, where stands God's altar dread,
  Stood his parents' marriage-bed.


  Here, first, an infant to her breast,                                5
  Him his loving mother prest;
  And kissed the babe, and blessed the day,
  And prayed as mothers use to pray.


  'Vouchsafe him health, O God! and give
  The child thy servant still to live!'                               10
  But God had destined to do more
  Through him, than through an arméd power.


  God gave him reverence of laws,
  Yet stirring blood in Freedom's cause--
  A spirit to his rocks akin,                                         15
  The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein!


  To Nature and to Holy Writ
  Alone did God the boy commit:
  Where flashed and roared the torrent, oft
  His soul found wings, and soared aloft!                             20


  The straining oar and chamois chase
  Had formed his limbs to strength and grace:
  On wave and wind the boy would toss,
  Was great, nor knew how great he was!


  He knew not that his chosen hand,                                   25
  Made strong by God, his native land
  Would rescue from the shameful yoke
  Of Slavery----the which he broke!

? 1799.


[309:1] First published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: included in 1828,
1829, and 1834. For the original (_Bei Wilhelm Tells Geburtsstätte im
Kanton Uri_) by Count F. L. Stolberg see Appendices of this edition.
There is no evidence as to the date of composition.


[28] Slavery] _Slavery_, all editions to 1834.



                  Never, believe me,
                  Appear the Immortals,
                    Never alone:
  Scarce had I welcomed the Sorrow-beguiler,
  Iacchus! but in came Boy Cupid the Smiler;                           5
  Lo! Phoebus the Glorious descends from his throne!
  They advance, they float in, the Olympians all!
                  With Divinities fills my
                    Terrestrial hall!

                  How shall I yield you                               10
                  Due entertainment,
                    Celestial quire?
  Me rather, bright guests! with your wings of upbuoyance
  Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of joyance,
  That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre!                         15
  Hah! we mount! on their pinions they waft up my soul!
                O give me the nectar!
                  O fill me the bowl!

                  Give him the nectar!
                  Pour out for the poet,                              20
                    Hebe! pour free!
  Quicken his eyes with celestial dew,
  That Styx the detested no more he may view,
  And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be!
  Thanks, Hebe! I quaff it! Io Paean, I cry!                          25
                  The wine of the Immortals
                    Forbids me to die!

? 1799.


[310:1] First published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: included in 1828,
1829 ('Vision of the Gods', Contents, vol. i, pp. 322-3 of both
editions), and in 1834. For Schiller's original (_Dithyrambe_) see
Appendices of this edition.


  Know'st thou the land where the pale citrons grow,
  The golden fruits in darker foliage glow?
  Soft blows the wind that breathes from that blue sky!
  Still stands the myrtle and the laurel high!
  Know'st thou it well, that land, beloved Friend?                     5
  Thither with thee, O, thither would I wend!

? 1799.


[311:1] First published in 1834. For the original ('Mignon's Song') in
Goethe's _Wilhelm Meister_ see Appendices of this edition.



  'Come hither, gently rowing,
    Come, bear me quickly o'er
  This stream so brightly flowing
    To yonder woodland shore.
  But vain were my endeavour                                           5
    To pay thee, courteous guide;
  Row on, row on, for ever
    I'd have thee by my side.

  'Good boatman, prithee haste thee,
    I seek my father-land.'--                                         10
  'Say, when I there have placed thee,
    Dare I demand thy hand?'
  'A maiden's head can never
    So hard a point decide;
  Row on, row on, for ever                                            15
    I'd have thee by my side.'

  The happy bridal over
    The wanderer ceased to roam,
  For, seated by her lover,
    The boat became her home.                                         20
  And still they sang together
    As steering o'er the tide:
  'Row on through wind and weather
    For ever by my side.'

? 1799.


[311:2] First published in _The Athenaeum_, October 29, 1831. First
collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877-80. For the original ('Barcarolle de
Marie') of François Antoine Eugène de Planard see Appendices of this



  'Be, rather than be called, a child of God,'
  Death whispered! With assenting nod,
  Its head upon its mother's breast,
    The Baby bowed, without demur--
  Of the kingdom of the Blest
    Possessor, not Inheritor.

_April_ 8, 1799.


[312:1] First published in _P. W._, 1834. These lines were sent in a
letter from Coleridge to his wife, dated Göttingen, April 6, 1799:--'Ah,
my poor Berkeley!' [b. May 15, 1798, d. Feb. 10, 1799] he writes, 'A few
weeks ago an Englishman desired me to write an epitaph on an infant who
had died before its Christening. While I wrote it, my heart with a deep
misgiving turned my thoughts homeward. "On an Infant", &c. It refers to
the second question in the Church Catechism.' _Letters of S. T. C._
1895, i. 287.


[1] called] _call'd_ MS. Letter, 1799.

[3] its] the MS. letter, 1799.

[4] bow'd and went without demur MS. Letter, 1799.



  If I had but two little wings
    And were a little feathery bird,
      To you I'd fly, my dear!
  But thoughts like these are idle things,
        And I stay here.                                               5

  But in my sleep to you I fly:
    I'm always with you in my sleep!
      The world is all one's own.
  But then one wakes, and where am I?
        All, all alone.                                               10

  Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:
    So I love to wake ere break of day:
      For though my sleep be gone,
  Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,
        And still dreams on.                                          15

_April_ 23, 1799.


[313:1] First published in the Annual Anthology (1800), with the
signature 'Cordomi': included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and
1834. The lines, without title or heading, were sent in a letter from
Coleridge to his wife, dated Göttingen, April 23, 1799 (Letters of S. T.
C., 1895, i. 294-5). They are an imitation (see F. Freiligrath's
Biographical Memoir to the Tauchnitz edition of 1852) of the German
Folk-song Wenn ich ein Vöglein wär. For the original see Appendices of
this edition. The title 'Something Childish', &c., was prefixed in the
Annual Anthology, 1800.


[3] you] _you_ MS. Letter, 1799.

[6] you] _you_ MS. Letter, 1799.



  'Tis sweet to him who all the week
    Through city-crowds must push his way,
  To stroll alone through fields and woods,
    And hallow thus the Sabbath-day.

  And sweet it is, in summer bower,                                    5
    Sincere, affectionate and gay,
  One's own dear children feasting round,
    To celebrate one's marriage-day.

  But what is all to his delight,
    Who having long been doomed to roam,                              10
  Throws off the bundle from his back,
    Before the door of his own home?

  Home-sickness is a wasting pang;
    This feel I hourly more and more:
  There's healing only in thy wings,                                  15
    Thou breeze that play'st on Albion's shore!

_May_ 6, 1799.


[314:1] First published in the _Annual Anthology_ (1800), with the
signature 'Cordomi': included in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829,
1834. The lines, without title or heading, were sent in a letter from
Coleridge to Poole, dated May 6, 1799 (_Letters of S. T.C._, 1895, i.
298). Dr. Carlyon in his _Early Years_, &c. (1856, i. 66), prints
stanzas 1, 3, and 4. He says that they were written from Coleridge's
dictation, in the Brockenstammbuch at the little inn on the Brocken. The
title 'Home-Sick', &c., was prefixed in the _Annual Anthology_, 1800.


[13] a wasting pang] no baby-pang MS. Letter, 1799, An.

[15] There's only music in thy wings MS. Letter, 1799.



  I stood on Brocken's[315:2] sovran height, and saw
  Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills,
  A surging scene, and only limited
  By the blue distance. Heavily my way
  Downward I dragged through fir groves evermore,                      5
  Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms
  Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard,
  The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound;
  And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly,
  Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct                           10
  From many a note of many a waterfall,
  And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet-stones
  The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell
  Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat
  Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on                        15
  In low and languid mood:[315:3] for I had found
  That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive
  Their finer influence from the Life within;--
  Fair cyphers else: fair, but of import vague
  Or unconcerning, where the heart not finds                          20
  History or prophecy of friend, or child,
  Or gentle maid, our first and early love,
  Or father, or the venerable name
  Of our adoréd country! O thou Queen,
  Thou delegated Deity of Earth,                                      25
  O dear, dear England! how my longing eye
  Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds
  Thy sands and high white cliffs!

                                   My native Land!
  Filled with the thought of thee this heart was proud,
  Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the view                    30
  From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills,
  Floated away, like a departing dream,
  Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses
  Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane,
  With hasty judgment or injurious doubt,                             35
  That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel
  That God is everywhere! the God who framed
  Mankind to be one mighty family,
  Himself our Father, and the World our Home.

_May_ 17, 1799.


[315:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, September 17, 1799:
included in the _Annual Anthology_ (1800) [signed C.], in _Sibylline
Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The lines were sent in a letter
from Coleridge to his wife, dated May 17, 1799. Part of the letter was
printed in the _Amulet_, 1829, and the whole in the _Monthly Magazine_
for October, 1835. A long extract is given in Gillman's _Life of S. T.
C._, 1838, pp. 125-38.

[315:2] The highest Mountain in the Harz, and indeed in North Germany.


             ----When I have gaz'd
  From some high eminence on goodly vales,
  And cots and villages embower'd below,
  The thought would rise that all to me was strange
  Amid the scenes so fair, nor one small spot
  Where my tired mind might rest and call it home.
                            SOUTHEY'S _Hymn to the Penates_.


[3] _surging_] _surging_ M. P.

[4] Heavily] Wearily MS. Letter.

[6] heaves] mov'd MS. Letter.

[8] a] an all editions to 1834.

[9] breeze] gale MS. Letter.

[11] waterfall] waterbreak MS. Letter.

[12] 'mid] on MS. Letter.

[16] With low and languid thought, for I had found MS. Letter.

[17] That grandest scenes have but imperfect charms MS. Letter, M. P.,
An. Anth.


  Where the eye vainly wanders nor beholds

MS. Letter.

  Where the sight, &c.

M. P., An. Anth.

[19] One spot with which the heart associates MS. Letter, M. P., An.


  Fair cyphers of vague import, where the Eye
  Traces no spot, in which the Heart may read
  History or Prophecy

S. L. 1817, 1828.


  Holy Remembrances of Child or Friend

MS. Letter.

  Holy Remembrances of Friend or Child

M. P., An. Anth.

[26] eye] eyes MS. Letter.


                     Sweet native Isle
  This heart was proud, yea mine eyes swam with tears
  To think of thee: and all the goodly view

MS. Letter.

[28] O native land M. P., An. Anth.

[34] I] _I_ MS. Letter.

[38] family] brother-hood MS. Letter.



  Yes, noble old Warrior! this heart has beat high,
    Since you told of the deeds which our countrymen wrought;
  O lend me the sabre that hung by thy thigh,
    And I too will fight as my forefathers fought.

  Despise not my youth, for my spirit is steel'd,                      5
    And I know there is strength in the grasp of my hand;
  Yea, as firm as thyself would I march to the field,
    And as proudly would die for my dear native land.

  In the sports of my childhood I mimick'd the fight,
    The sound of a trumpet suspended my breath;                       10
  And my fancy still wander'd by day and by night,
   Amid battle and tumult, 'mid conquest and death.

  My own shout of onset, when the Armies advance,
    How oft it awakes me from visions of glory;
  When I meant to have leapt on the Hero of France,                   15
    And have dash'd him to earth, pale and breathless and gory.

  As late thro' the city with banners all streaming
    To the music of trumpets the Warriors flew by,
  With helmet and scimitars naked and gleaming,
    On their proud-trampling, thunder-hoof'd steeds did they fly;     20

  I sped to yon heath that is lonely and bare,
    For each nerve was unquiet, each pulse in alarm;
  And I hurl'd the mock-lance thro' the objectless air,
    And in open-eyed dream proved the strength of my arm.

  Yes, noble old Warrior! this heart has beat high,                   25
    Since you told of the deeds that our countrymen wrought;
  O lend me the sabre that hung by thy thigh,
    And I too will fight as my forefathers fought!

? 1799.


[317:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, August 24, 1799: included
in the _Annual Anthology_ for 1800: reprinted in _Literary Remains_,
1836, i. 276, in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, 1848. ('Communicated to the
_Bath Herald_ during the Volunteer Frenzy of 1803') (N. S. xxix, p. 60),
and in _Essays on His Own Times_, iii. 988-9. First collected in _P.
W._, 1877-80, ii. 200-1. The MS. is preserved in the British Museum. The
text follows that of the _Annual Anthology_, 1800, pp. 173-4. For the
original by Count F. L. Stolberg (_Lied eines deutschen Knaben_) see
Appendices of this edition.


Title] The Stripling's War-Song. Imitated from the German of Stolberg
MS. The Stripling's, &c. Imitated from Stolberg L. R. The British
Stripling's War Song M. P., An. Anth., Essays, &c. The Volunteer
Stripling. A Song G. M.

[1] Yes] My MS., L. R.

[2] Since] When G. M. which] that MS., L. R. our] your M. P., Essays,

[3] Ah! give me the sabre [[*Falchion*]] that [which L. R.] MS., Essays,

[5] O despise MS., L. R., Essays, &c.

[7] march] move MS., L. R.

[8] would] could Essays, &c. native land] fatherland L. R.

[9] fight] sight G. M.

[10] sound] shrill [[*sound*]] MS., L. R. a] the M. P., Essays, &c.

[12] Amid tumults [tumult L. R.] and perils MS. 'mid] and Essays, &c.
Mid battle and bloodshed G. M.


  My own eager shout in the heat of my trance

MS., MS. correction in An. Anth., L. R.

  My own shout of onset, { in the heat of my trance G. M., 1893.
                         { [*when the armies advance*] MS.

[14] visions] dreams full MS., L. R. How oft it has wak'd G. M.

[15] When I dreamt that I rush'd G. M.

[16] breathless] deathless L. R. pale, breathless G. M.

[17] city] town G. M.


        { with bannerets streaming
        { [*with a terrible beauty*]
  To [And L. R.] the music


[19] scimitars] scymetar MS., L.R., Essays, &c., G. M.: scymeter M. P.

[Between 20-1]

  And the Host pacing after in gorgeous parade
  All mov'd to one measure in front and in rear;
  And the Pipe, Drum and Trumpet, such harmony made
  As the souls of the Slaughter'd would loiter to hear.

MS. erased.

[21] that] which L. R.

[22] For my soul MS. erased.

[23] I hurl'd my MS., L. R., Essays, &c. objectless] mind-peopled G. M.

[26] Since] When G. M.

[27] Ah! give me the falchion MS., L. R.



  I ask'd my fair one happy day,
  What I should call her in my lay;
    By what sweet name from Rome or Greece;
  Lalage, Neaera, Chloris,
  Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris,                                            5
    Arethusa or Lucrece.

  'Ah!' replied my gentle fair,
  'Belovéd, what are names but air?
    Choose thou whatever suits the line;
  Call me Sappho, call me Chloris,                                    10
  Call me Lalage or Doris,
    Only, only call me Thine.'



[318:1] First published in the _Morning Post_: reprinted in the
_Poetical Register_ for 1803 (1805) with the signature HARLEY.
PHILADELPHIA, in the _Keepsake_ for 1829, in Cottle's _Early
Recollections_ (two versions) 1837, ii. 67, and in _Essays on His Own
Times_, iii. 990, 'As it first appeared' in the _Morning Post_. First
collected in 1834. For the original (_Die Namen_) see Appendices of this


Title] Song from Lessing M. P., Essays, &c.: From the German of Lessing
P. R.: Epigram Keepsake, 1829, Cottle's Early Recollections.

[1] fair] love Cottle, E. R.


  Iphigenia, Clelia, Chloris,

M. P., Cottle, E. R., P. R.

  Neaera, Laura, Daphne, Chloris,



  Laura, Lesbia, or Doris,

MS. 1799, M. P., Cottle, E. R.

  Carina, Lalage, or Doris,


[6] Dorimene, or Lucrece, MS. 1799, M. P., Cottle, E. R., P. R.,

[8] Belovéd.] Dear one Keepsake.

[9] Choose thou] Take thou M. P., P. R.: Take Cottle, E. R.

[10] Call me Laura, call me Chloris MS. 1799, Keepsake.


  Call me Clelia, call me Chloris,
  Laura, Lesbia or Doris

M. P., Cottle, E. R.


  Clelia, Iphigenia, Chloris,
  Laura, Lesbia, Delia, Doris,
  But don't forget to call me _thine_.

P. R.



  From his brimstone bed at break of day
  A walking the Devil is gone,
  To visit his snug little farm the earth,
  And see how his stock goes on.


  Over the hill and over the dale,                                     5
  And he went over the plain,
  And backward and forward he switched his long tail
  As a gentleman switches his cane.


  And how then was the Devil drest?
  Oh! he was in his Sunday's best:                                    10
  His jacket was red and his breeches were blue,
  And there was a hole where the tail came through.


  He saw a Lawyer killing a Viper
  On a dunghill hard by his own stable;
  And the Devil smiled, for it put him in mind                        15
  Of Cain and his brother, Abel.


  He saw an Apothecary on a white horse
    Ride by on his vocations,
  And the Devil thought of his old Friend
    Death in the Revelations.[320:1]                                  20


  He saw a cottage with a double coach-house,
    A cottage of gentility;
  And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin
    Is pride that apes humility.


  He peep'd into a rich bookseller's shop,                            25
    Quoth he! we are both of one college!
  For I sate myself, like a cormorant, once
    Hard by the tree of knowledge.[321:1]


  Down the river did glide, with wind and tide,
    A pig with vast celerity;                                         30
  And the Devil look'd wise as he saw how the while,
  It cut its own throat. 'There!' quoth he with a smile,
    'Goes "England's commercial prosperity."'


  As he went through Cold-Bath Fields he saw
    A solitary cell;                                                  35
  And the Devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint
    For improving his prisons in Hell.


  He saw a Turnkey in a trice
    Fetter a troublesome blade;
  'Nimbly,' quoth he, 'do the fingers move                            40
    If a man be but used to his trade.'


  He saw the same Turnkey unfetter a man,
    With but little expedition,
  Which put him in mind of the long debate
    On the Slave-trade abolition.                                     45


  He saw an old acquaintance
    As he passed by a Methodist meeting;--
  She holds a consecrated key,
    And the devil nods her a greeting.


  She turned up her nose, and said,                                   50
    'Avaunt! my name's Religion,'
  And she looked to Mr. ----
    And leered like a love-sick pigeon.


  He saw a certain minister
    (A minister to his mind)                                          55
  Go up into a certain House,
    With a majority behind.


  The Devil quoted Genesis
    Like a very learnéd clerk,
  How 'Noah and his creeping things                                   60
    Went up into the Ark.'


  He took from the poor,
    And he gave to the rich,
  And he shook hands with a Scotchman,
    For he was not afraid of the ----                                 65


  General ----[323:1] burning face
    He saw with consternation,
  And back to hell his way did he take,
  For the Devil thought by a slight mistake
    It was general conflagration.                                     70



[319:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, September 6, 1799:
included in 1828, 1829, and 1834. It is printed separately as the
_Devil's Walk_, a Poem, By Professor Porson, London, Marsh and Miller,
&c., 1830. In 1827, by way of repudiating Porson's alleged authorship of
_The Devil's Thoughts_, Southey expanded the _Devil's Thoughts_ of 1799
into a poem of fifty-seven stanzas entitled _The Devil's Walk_. See _P.
W._, 1838, iii. pp. 87-100. In the _Morning Post_ the poem numbered
fourteen stanzas; in 1828, 1829 it is reduced to ten, and in 1834
enlarged to seventeen stanzas. Stanzas iii and xiv-xvi of the text are
not in the _M. P._ Stanzas iv and v appeared as iii, iv; stanza vi as
ix; stanza vii as v; stanza viii as x; stanza ix as viii; stanza x as
vi; stanza xi as vii; stanza xvii as xiv. In 1828, 1829, the poem
consists of stanzas i-ix of the text, and of the concluding stanzas
stanza xi ('Old Nicholas', &c.) of the _M. P._ version was not
reprinted. Stanzas xiv-xvi of the text were first acknowledged by
Coleridge in 1834.

[320:1] And I looked, and behold a pale horse, and his name that sat on
him was Death, Rev. vi. 8. _M. P._

[321:1] This anecdote is related by that most interesting of the Devil's
Biographers, Mr. John Milton, in his _Paradise Lost_, and we have here
the Devil's own testimony to the truth and accuracy of it. _M. P._

  'And all amid them stood the TREE OF LIFE
   High, eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit
   Of vegetable gold (query _paper-money_), and next to Life
   _Our_ Death, the TREE OF KNOWLEDGE, grew fast by.--

          *       *       *       *       *

          *       *       *       *       *

   So clomb this first grand thief--
   Thence up he flew, and on the tree of life
   Sat like a cormorant.'--_Par. Lost_, iv.

The allegory here is so apt, that in a catalogue of _various readings_
obtained from collating the MSS. one might expect to find it noted, that
for 'LIFE' _Cod. quid. habent_, 'TRADE.' Though indeed THE TRADE, _i.
e._ the bibliopolic, so called κατ' ἐξοχήν, may be regarded as LIFE
sensu _eminentiori_; a suggestion, which I owe to a young retailer in
the hosiery line, who on hearing a description of the net profits,
dinner parties, country houses, etc., of the trade, exclaimed, 'Ay!
that's what I call LIFE now!'--This 'Life, _our_ Death,' is thus happily
contrasted with the fruits of Authorship.--Sic nos non nobis
mellificamus Apes.

Of this poem, which with the 'Fire, Famine, and Slaughter' first
appeared in the _Morning Post_ [6th Sept. 1799], the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 9th,
and 16th stanzas[321:A] were dictated by Mr. Southey. See Apologetic
Preface [to _Fire, Famine and Slaughter_]. [Between the ninth and the
concluding stanza, two or three are omitted, as grounded on subjects
which have lost their interest--and for better reasons. _1828_, _1829_.]

If any one should ask who General ---- meant, the Author begs leave to
inform him, that he did once see a red-faced person in a dream whom by
the dress he took for a General; but he might have been mistaken, and
most certainly he did not hear any names mentioned. In simple verity,
the author never meant any one, or indeed any thing but to put a
concluding stanza to his doggerel.

     [321:A] The three first stanzas, which are worth all the rest,
     and the ninth _1828_, _1829_.

[323:1] In a MS. copy in the B. M. and in some pirated versions the
blank is filled up by the word 'Gascoigne's'; but in a MS. copy taken at
Highgate, in June, 1820, by Derwent Coleridge the line runs 'General
Tarleton's', &c.



  { To look at his little snug farm of the Earth
  { To visit, &c.

1828, 1829.

  And see how his stock went on.

M. P., 1828, 1829.

[7] switched] swish'd M. P., 1828, 1829.

[8] switches] swishes M. P., 1828, 1829.

[9-12] Not in M. P.

[14] On the dunghill beside his stable M. P.: On a dung-heap beside his
stable 1828, 1829.


  Oh! oh; quoth he, for it put him in mind
  Of the story of Cain and Abel

M. P.

[16] his] _his_ 1828, 1829.

[17] He . . . on] An Apothecary on M. P.: A Pothecary on 1828, 1829.

[18] Ride] Rode M.P., 1828, 1829. vocations] vocation M. P.

[20] Revelations] Revelation M. P.

[21] saw] past M. P.

[23] And he grinn'd at the sight, for his favourite vice M. P.

[25] peep'd] went M. P., 1828, 1829.

[27] sate myself] myself sate 1828, 1829.

[28] Hard by] Upon M. P.: Fast by 1828, 1829.


  He saw a pig right rapidly
    Adown the river float,
  The pig swam well, but every stroke
    Was cutting his own throat.

M. P.

[29] did glide] there plied 1828, 1829.

[Between 33-4]

  Old Nicholas grinn'd and swish'd his tail
    For joy and admiration;
  And he thought of his daughter, Victory,
    And his darling babe, Taxation.

M. P.


  As he went through ---- ---- fields he look'd
    At a

M. P.

[37] his] the M. P. in] of M. P.

[39] Fetter] Hand-cuff M. P.: Unfetter 1834.


  'Nimbly', quoth he, 'the fingers move
    If a man is but us'd to his trade.'

M. P.

[42] unfetter] unfettering M. P.

[44] And he laugh'd for he thought of the long debates M. P.

[46] saw] met M. P.

[47] Just by the Methodist meeting. M. P.

[48] holds] held M. P. key] flag[323:A] M. P.

     [323:A] The allusion is to Archbishop Randolph consecrating
     the Duke of York's banners. See S. T. Coleridge's _Notizbuch
     aus den Jahren 1795-8_ . . . von A. Brandl, 1896, p. 354 (p.
     25 _a_, l. 18 of _Gutch Memorandum Book_, B. M. Add. MSS.

[49] And the Devil nods a greeting. M. P.


  She tip'd him the wink, then frown'd and cri'd
    'Avaunt! my name's ----
  And turn'd to Mr. W----

M. P.

[66] General ----] General ----'s M. P.

[68] way did take M. P.

[70] general] General M. P.


  Nor cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest
    These scented Rooms, where, to a gaudy throng,
  Heaves the proud Harlot her distended breast,
    In intricacies of laborious song.

  These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign                      5
    To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint;
  But when the long-breathed singer's uptrilled strain
    Bursts in a squall--they gape for wonderment.

  Hark! the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate!
    Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer                  10
  My lady eyes some maid of humbler state,
    While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest,
    Prattles accordant scandal in her ear.

  O give me, from this heartless scene released,
    To hear our old Musician, blind and grey,                         15
  (Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kissed,)
    His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play,
  By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night,
    The while I dance amid the tedded hay
  With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light.                     20

  Or lies the purple evening on the bay
  Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide
    Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees,
  For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied,
  On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease,                     25
  And while the lazy boat sways to and fro,
    Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow,
  That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears.

  But O, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers,
  And the gust pelting on the out-house shed                          30
    Makes the cock shrilly in the rainstorm crow,
    To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe,
  Ballad of ship-wreck'd sailor floating dead,
    Whom his own true-love buried in the sands!
  Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures                        35
  Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures
    The things of Nature utter; birds or trees,
  Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves,
  Or where the stiff grass mid the heath-plant waves,
    Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze.                           40



[324:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, September 24, 1799:
included in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. There is no
evidence as to the date of composition. In a letter to Coleridge, dated
July 5, 1796, Lamb writes 'Have a care, good Master Poet, of the Statute
_de Contumeliâ_. What do you mean by calling Madame Mara harlots and
naughty things? The goodness of the verse would not save you in a Court
of Justice'--but it is by no means certain that Lamb is referring to the
_Lines Composed in a Concert-Room_, or that there is any allusion in
line 3 to Madame Mara. If, as J. D. Campbell suggested, the poem as it
appeared in the _Morning Post_ is a recast of some earlier verses, it is
possible that the scene is Ottery, and that 'Edmund' is the 'Friend who
died dead of' a 'Frenzy Fever' (vide _ante_, p. 76). In this case a
probable date would be the summer of 1793. But the poem as a whole
suggests a later date. Coleridge and Southey spent some weeks at Exeter
in September 1799. They visited Ottery St. Mary, and walked through
Newton Abbot to Ashburton and Dartmouth. It is possible that the
'Concert-Room,' the 'pert Captain,' and 'primmer Priest' are
reminiscences of Exeter, the 'heath-plant,' and the 'ocean caves' of
Dartmoor and Torbay. If so, the 'shame and absolute rout' (l. 49 of
variant, p. 325) would refer to the victory of Suwaroff over Joubert at
Novi, which took place August 15, 1799. See _Letters of S. T. C._, 1895,
i. 307.


[14] heartless] loathsome M. P.

[24] Around whose roots M. P., S. L.

[40] thin] then M. P.

[After line 40]

  Dear Maid! whose form in solitude I seek,
    Such songs in such a mood to hear thee sing,
    It were a deep delight!--But thou shalt fling
  Thy white arm round my neck, and kiss my cheek,
    And love the brightness of my gladder eye                         45
    The while I tell thee what a holier joy

  It were in proud and stately step to go,
    With trump and timbrel clang, and popular shout,
    To celebrate the shame and absolute rout
  Unhealable of Freedom's latest foe,                                 50
    Whose tower'd might shall to its centre nod.

  When human feelings, sudden, deep and vast,
  As all good spirits of all ages past
    Were armied in the hearts of living men,
  Shall purge the earth, and violently sweep                          55
  These vile and painted locusts to the deep,
  Leaving un---- undebas'd
  A ---- world made worthy of its God.

M. P.

[The words in lines 57, 58 were left as blanks in the Morning Post,
from what cause or with what object must remain a matter of doubt.]


[The following is an almost literal translation of a very old and very
favourite song among the Westphalian Boors. The turn at the end is the
same with one of Mr. Dibdin's excellent songs, and the air to which it
is sung by the Boors is remarkably sweet and lively.]

  When thou to my true-love com'st
    Greet her from me kindly;
  When she asks thee how I fare?
    Say, folks in Heaven fare finely.

  When she asks, 'What! Is he sick?'                                   5
    Say, dead!--and when for sorrow
  She begins to sob and cry,
    Say, I come to-morrow.

? 1799.


[326:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, Sept. 27, 1802: reprinted
in _Essays on His Own Times_, 1850, iii. 992. First collected in _P.
W._, 1877-80, ii. 170.



  Gōd ĭs oŭr Strēngth ănd oŭr Rēfŭge: thērefŏre wīll wĕ nŏt trēmblĕ,
  Thō' thĕ Eārth bĕ rĕmōvĕd ănd thō' thĕ pĕrpētŭăl Moūntaīns
  Sink in the Swell of the Ocean! God is our Strength and our Refuge.
  There is a River the Flowing whereof shall gladden the City,
  Hallelujah! the City of God! Jehova shall help her.                  5
  Thē Idōlătĕrs rāgĕd, the kingdoms were moving in fury;
  But he uttered his Voice: Earth melted away from beneath them.
  Halleluja! th' Eternal is with us, Almighty Jehova!
  Fearful the works of the Lord, yea fearful his Desolations;
  But He maketh the Battle to cease, he burneth the Spear and the
      Chariot.                                                        10
  Halleluja! th' Eternal is with us, the God of our Fathers!



[326:2] Now published for the first time. The lines were sent in a
letter to George Coleridge dated September 29, 1799. They were prefaced
as follows:--'We were talking of Hexameters with you. I will, for want
of something better, fill up the paper with a translation of one of my
favourite Psalms into that metre which allowing trochees for spondees,
as the nature of our Language demands, you will find pretty accurate a
scansion.' _Mahomet_ and, no doubt, the _Hymn to the Earth_ may be
assigned to the end of September or the beginning of October, 1799.




  Earth! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and the
  Hail! O Goddess, thrice hail! Blest be thou! and, blessing, I hymn
  Forth, ye sweet sounds! from my harp, and my voice shall float on
      your surges--
  Soar thou aloft, O my soul! and bear up my song on thy pinions.

  Travelling the vale with mine eyes--green meadows and lake with
      green island,                                                    5
  Dark in its basin of rock, and the bare stream flowing in
  Thrilled with thy beauty and love in the wooded slope of the
  Here, great mother, I lie, thy child, with his head on thy bosom!
  Playful the spirits of noon, that rushing soft through thy tresses,
  Green-haired goddess! refresh me; and hark! as they hurry or
      linger,                                                         10
  Fill the pause of my harp, or sustain it with musical murmurs.
  Into my being thou murmurest joy, and tenderest sadness
  Shedd'st thou, like dew, on my heart, till the joy and the
      heavenly sadness
  Pour themselves forth from my heart in tears, and the hymn of

  Earth! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and the
      mother,                                                         15
  Sister thou of the stars, and beloved by the Sun, the rejoicer!
  Guardian and friend of the moon, O Earth, whom the comets forget
  Yea, in the measureless distance wheel round and again they behold
  Fadeless and young (and what if the latest birth of creation?)
  Bride and consort of Heaven, that looks down upon thee enamoured!   20
  Say, mysterious Earth! O say, great mother and goddess,
  Was it not well with thee then, when first thy lap was ungirdled,
  Thy lap to the genial Heaven, the day that he wooed thee and won
  Fair was thy blush, the fairest and first of the blushes of
  Deep was the shudder, O Earth! the throe of thy self-retention:     25
  Inly thou strovest to flee, and didst seek thyself at thy centre!
  Mightier far was the joy of thy sudden resilience; and forthwith
  Myriad myriads of lives teemed forth from the mighty embracement.
  Thousand-fold tribes of dwellers, impelled by thousand-fold
  Filled, as a dream, the wide waters; the rivers sang on their
      channels;                                                       30
  Laughed on their shores the hoarse seas; the yearning ocean
      swelled upward;
  Young life lowed through the meadows, the woods, and the echoing
  Wandered bleating in valleys, and warbled on blossoming branches.



[327:1] First published in _Friendship's Offering_, 1834, pp. 165-7,
with other pieces, under the general heading:--_Fragments from the Wreck
of Memory: or Portions of Poems composed in Early Manhood: by S. T.
Coleridge._ A Note was prefixed:--'It may not be without use or interest
to youthful, and especially to intelligent female readers of poetry, to
observe that in the attempt to adapt the Greek metres to the English
language, we must begin by substituting _quality_ of sound for
_quantity_--that is, accentuated or comparatively emphasized syllables,
for what in the Greek and Latin Verse, are named long, and of which the
prosodial mark is ¯; and _vice versâ_, unaccented syllables for short
marked ˘. Now the Hexameter verse consists of two sorts of _feet_, the
spondee composed of two long syllables, and the dactyl, composed of one
long syllable followed by two short. The following verse from the Psalms
is a rare instance of a _perfect_ hexameter (i. e. line of six feet) in
the English language:--

  Gōd cāme | ūp wĭth ă | shōut: oūr | Lōrd wĭth thĕ | sōund ŏf ă |

But so few are the truly _spondaic_ words in our language, such as
Ēgȳpt, ūprŏar, tūrmoĭl, &c., that we are compelled to substitute, in
most instances, the trochee; or ¯ ˘, i. e. in such words as mērry̆,
līghtly̆, &c., for the proper spondee. It need only be added, that in
the hexameter the fifth foot must be a dactyl, and the sixth a spondee,
or trochee. I will end this note with two hexameter lines, likewise from
the Psalms:--

  Thēre ĭs ă | rīvĕr thĕ | flōwĭng whĕre|ōf shāll | glāddĕn thĕ | cīty̆,
  Hāllē|lūjăh thĕ | cīty̆ | Gōd Jē|hōvăh hăth | blēst hĕr.

                                                   S. T. C.'

On some proof-sheets, or loose pages of a copy of _The Hymn_ as
published in _Friendship's Offering_ for 1834, which Coleridge
annotated, no doubt with a view to his corrections being adopted in the
forthcoming edition of his poems (1834), he adds in MS. the following
supplementary note:--'To make any considerable number of Hexameters
feasible in our monosyllabic trocheeo-iambic language, there must, I
fear, be other licenses granted--in the _first_ foot, at least--_ex.
gr._ a superfluous ˘ prefixed in cases of particles such as 'of, 'and',
and the like: likewise ¯ ˘ ¯ where the stronger accent is on the first
syllable.--S. T. C.'

The _Hymn to the Earth_ is a free translation of F. L. Stolberg's _Hymne
an die Erde_. (See F. Freiligrath's _Biographical Memoirs_ prefixed to
the Tauchnitz edition of the _Poems_ published in 1852.) The translation
exceeds the German original by two lines. The Hexameters 'from the
Psalms' are taken from a metrical experiment which Coleridge sent to his
brother George, in a letter dated September 29, 1799 (vide _ante_).
First collected in 1834. The acknowledgement that the _Hymn to the
Earth_ is imitated from Stolberg's _Hymne an die Erde_ was first
prefixed by J. D. Campbell in 1893.


[8] his] its F. O. 1834.

[9] that creep or rush through thy tresses F. O. 1834.

[33] on] in F. O. 1834.

[After 33]

       *       *       *       *       *

F. O. 1834.


  Utter the song, O my soul! the flight and return of Mohammed,
  Prophet and priest, who scatter'd abroad both evil and blessing,
  Huge wasteful empires founded and hallow'd slow persecution,
  Soul-withering, but crush'd the blasphemous rites of the Pagan
  And idolatrous Christians.--For veiling the Gospel of Jesus,         5
  They, the best corrupting, had made it worse than the vilest.
  Wherefore Heaven decreed th' enthusiast warrior of Mecca,
  Choosing good from iniquity rather than evil from goodness.
    Loud the tumult in Mecca surrounding the fane of the idol;--
  Naked and prostrate the priesthood were laid--the people with mad
      shouts                                                          10
  Thundering now, and now with saddest ululation
  Flew, as over the channel of rock-stone the ruinous river
  Shatters its waters abreast, and in mazy uproar bewilder'd,
  Rushes dividuous all--all rushing impetuous onward.

? 1799.


[329:1] First published in 1834. In an unpublished letter to Southey,
dated Sept. 25, 1799, Coleridge writes, 'I shall go on with the
Mohammed'. There can be no doubt that these fourteen lines, which
represent Coleridge's contribution to a poem on 'Mahomet' which he had
planned in conjunction with Southey, were at that time already in
existence. For Southey's portion, which numbered 109 lines, see _Oliver
Newman_. By Robert Southey, 1845, pp. 113-15.


  All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
  Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
  All are but ministers of Love,
      And feed his sacred flame.

  Oft in my waking dreams do I                                         5
  Live o'er again that happy hour,
  When midway on the mount I lay,
      Beside the ruined tower.

  The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene
  Had blended with the lights of eve;                                 10
  And she was there, my hope, my joy,
      My own dear Genevieve!

  She leant against the arméd man,
  The statue of the arméd knight;
  She stood and listened to my lay,                                   15
      Amid the lingering light.

  Few sorrows hath she of her own,
  My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
  She loves me best, whene'er I sing
      The songs that make her grieve.                                 20

  I played a soft and doleful air,
  I sang an old and moving story--
  An old rude song, that suited well
      That ruin wild and hoary.

  She listened with a flitting blush,                                 25
  With downcast eyes and modest grace;
  For well she knew, I could not choose
      But gaze upon her face.

  I told her of the Knight that wore
  Upon his shield a burning brand;                                    30
  And that for ten long years he wooed
      The Lady of the Land.

  I told her how he pined: and ah!
  The deep, the low, the pleading tone
  With which I sang another's love,                                   35
      Interpreted my own.

  She listened with a flitting blush,
  With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
  And she forgave me, that I gazed
      Too fondly on her face!                                         40

  But when I told the cruel scorn
  That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
  And that he crossed the mountain-woods,
      Nor rested day nor night;

  That sometimes from the savage den,                                 45
  And sometimes from the darksome shade,
  And sometimes starting up at once
      In green and sunny glade,--

  There came and looked him in the face
  An angel beautiful and bright;                                      50
  And that he knew it was a Fiend,
      This miserable Knight!

  And that unknowing what he did,
  He leaped amid a murderous band,
  And saved from outrage worse than death                             55
      The Lady of the Land!

  And how she wept, and clasped his knees;
  And how she tended him in vain--
  And ever strove to expiate
      The scorn that crazed his brain;--                              60

  And that she nursed him in a cave;
  And how his madness went away,
  When on the yellow forest-leaves
      A dying man he lay;--

  His dying words--but when I reached                                 65
  That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
  My faultering voice and pausing harp
      Disturbed her soul with pity!

  All impulses of soul and sense
  Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;                                70
  The music and the doleful tale,
      The rich and balmy eve;

  And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
  An undistinguishable throng,
  And gentle wishes long subdued,                                     75
      Subdued and cherished long!

  She wept with pity and delight,
  She blushed with love, and virgin-shame;
  And like the murmur of a dream,
      I heard her breathe my name.                                    80

  Her bosom heaved--she stepped aside,
  As conscious of my look she stepped--
  Then suddenly, with timorous eye
    She fled to me and wept.

  She half enclosed me with her arms,                                 85
  She pressed me with a meek embrace;
  And bending back her head, looked up,
      And gazed upon my face.

  'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
  And partly 'twas a bashful art,                                     90
  That I might rather feel, than see,
      The swelling of her heart.

  I calmed her fears, and she was calm,
  And told her love with virgin pride;
  And so I won my Genevieve,                                          95
      My bright and beauteous Bride.



[330:1] First published (with four preliminary and three concluding
stanzas) as the _Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladie_, in the
_Morning Post_, Dec. 21, 1799 (for complete text with introductory
letter vide Appendices): included (as _Love_) in the _Lyrical Ballads_
of 1800, 1802, 1805: reprinted with the text of the _Morning Post_ in
_English Minstrelsy_, 1810 (ii. 131-9) with the following prefatory
note:--'These exquisite stanzas appeared some years ago in a London
Newspaper, and have since that time been republished in Mr. Wordsworth's
Lyrical Ballads, but with some alterations; the Poet having apparently
relinquished his intention of writing the Fate of the Dark Ladye':
included (as _Love_) in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The
four opening and three concluding stanzas with prefatory note were
republished in _Literary Remains_, 1836, pp. 50-2, and were first
collected in 1844. For a facsimile of the MS. of _Love_ as printed in
the _Lyrical Ballads_, 1800 (i. 138-44), see _Wordsworth and Coleridge
MSS._, edited by W. Hale White, 1897 (between pp. 34-5). For a collation
of the _Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladie_ with two MSS. in the
British Museum [Add. MSS., No. 27,902] see _Coleridge's Poems_. A
Facsimile Reproduction, &c. Ed. by James Dykes Campbell, 1899, and
Appendices of this edition.

It is probable that the greater part of the _Introduction to the Tale of
the Dark Ladie_ was written either during or shortly after a visit which
Coleridge paid to the Wordsworths's friends, George and Mary, and Sarah
Hutchinson, at Sockburn, a farm-house on the banks of the Tees, in
November, 1799. In the first draft, ll. 13-16, 'She leaned, &c.' runs

  She lean'd against a grey stone rudely carv'd,
  The statue of an arméd Knight:
  She lean'd in melancholy mood
      Amid the lingering light.

In the church at Sockburn there is a recumbent statue of an 'armed
knight' (of the Conyers family), and in a field near the farm-house
there is a 'Grey-Stone' which is said to commemorate the slaying of a
monstrous wyverne or 'worme' by the knight who is buried in the church.
It is difficult to believe that the 'arméd knight' and the 'grey stone'
of the first draft were not suggested by the statue in Sockburn Church,
and the 'Grey-Stone' in the adjoining field. It has been argued that the
_Ballad of the Dark Ladié_, of which only a fragment remains, was
written after Coleridge returned from Germany, and that the
_Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladie_, which embodies _Love_, was
written at Stowey in 1797 or 1798. But in referring to 'the plan' of the
_Lyrical Ballads_ of 1798 (_Biog. Lit._, 1817, Cap. XIV, ii. 3)
Coleridge says that he had written the _Ancient Mariner_, and was
preparing the _Dark Ladie_ and the _Christabel_ (both unpublished poems
when this Chapter was written), but says nothing of so typical a poem as
_Love_. By the _Dark Ladié_ he must have meant the unfinished _Ballad of
the Dark Ladié_, which, at one time, numbered 190 lines, not the
_Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladie_, which later on he refers
to as the 'poem entitled Love' (_Biog. Lit._, 1817, Cap. XXIV, ii. 298),
and which had appeared under that title in the _Lyrical Ballads_ of
1800, 1802, and 1805.

In _Sibylline Leaves_, 1828, 1829, and 1834, _Love_, which was the first
in order of a group of poems with the sub-title 'Love Poems', was
prefaced by the following motto:--

  Quas humilis tenero stylus olim effudit in aevo,
  Perlegis hic lacrymas, et quod pharetratus acuta
  Ille puer puero fecit mihi cuspide vulnus.
  Omnia paulatim consumit longior aetas,
  Vivendoque simul morimur, rapimurque manendo.
  Ipse mihi collatus enim non ille videbor:
  Frons alia est, moresque alii, nova mentis imago,
  Voxque aliud sonat--
  Pectore nunc gelido calidos miseremur amantes,
  Jamque arsisse pudet. Veteres tranquilla tumultus
  Mens horret, relegensque alium putat ista locutum.


Title] Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladie M. P.: Fragment, S. T.
Coleridge English Minstrelsy, 1810.

Opening stanzas

  O leave the Lilly on its stem;
    O leave the Rose upon the spray;
  O leave the Elder-bloom, fair Maids!
    And listen to my lay.

  A Cypress and a Myrtle bough,
    This morn around my harp you twin'd,
  Because it fashion'd mournfully
    Its murmurs in the wind.

  And now a Tale of Love and Woe,
    A woeful Tale of Love I sing:
  Hark, gentle Maidens, hark! it sighs
    And trembles on the string.

  But most, my own dear Genevieve!
    It sighs and trembles most for thee!
  O come and hear what cruel wrongs
    Befel the dark Ladie.

The fifth stanza of the _Introduction_ finds its place as the fifth
stanza of the text, and the sixth stanza as the first.

[3] All are] Are all S. L. (For _Are all_ r. _All are_. _Errata_, p.


  O ever in my waking dreams
  I dwell upon

M. P., MS. erased.

[7] lay] sate M. P.

[15] lay] harp M. P., MS., L. B.

[21] soft] sad M. P., MS. erased.

[22] sang] sung E. M.

[23] suited] fitted M. P., MS., L. B.

[24] That ruin] The Ruin M. P., MS., L. B.: The ruins E. M.

[29] that] who M. P.

[31] that] how M. P.

[34] The low, the deep MS., L. B.

[35] In which I told E. M.

[42] That] Which MS., L. B. that] this M. P., MS., L. B.

[43] And how he roam'd M. P. that] how MS. erased.

[Between 44-5]

  And how he cross'd the Woodman's paths [path E. M.]
    Tho' briars and swampy mosses beat,
  How boughs rebounding scourg'd his limbs,
    And low stubs gor'd his feet.

M. P.

[45] That] How M. P., MS. erased.

[51] that] how M. P., MS. erased.

[53] that] how M. P., MS. erased.

[54] murderous] lawless M. P.

[59] ever] meekly M. P. For still she MS. erased.

[61] that] how M. P., MS. erased.

[78] virgin-] maiden-M. P., MS., L. B.

[79] murmur] murmurs M. P.

[Between 80-1]

                  { heave
  I saw her bosom { [*rise*] and swell,
    Heave and swell with inward sighs--
  I could not choose but love to see
    Her gentle bosom rise.

M. P., MS. erased.

[81] Her wet cheek glowed M. P., MS. erased.

[84] fled] flew M. P.

[94] virgin] maiden MS. erased.

[95] so] thus M. P.

[After 96]

  And now once more a tale of woe,
    A woeful tale of love I sing;
  For thee, my Genevieve! it sighs,
    And trembles on the string.

  When last I sang [sung E. M.] the cruel scorn
    That craz'd this bold and lonely [lovely E. M.] knight,
  And how he roam'd the mountain woods,
      Nor rested day or night;

  I promis'd thee a sister tale
    Of Man's perfidious Cruelty;
  Come, then, and hear what cruel wrong
      Befel the Dark Ladie.

_End of the Introduction_ M. P.



  And hail the Chapel! hail the Platform wild!
    Where Tell directed the avenging dart,
  With well-strung arm, that first preservst his child,
    Then aim'd the arrow at the tyrant's heart.

  Splendour's fondly-fostered child!
  And did you hail the platform wild,
    Where once the Austrian fell
    Beneath the shaft of Tell!
  O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!                                 5
  Whence learn'd you that heroic measure?

  Light as a dream your days their circlets ran,
  From all that teaches brotherhood to Man
  Far, far removed! from want, from hope, from fear!
  Enchanting music lulled your infant ear,                            10
  Obeisance, praises soothed your infant heart:
  Emblazonments and old ancestral crests,
  With many a bright obtrusive form of art,
  Detained your eye from Nature: stately vests,
  That veiling strove to deck your charms divine,                     15
  Rich viands, and the pleasurable wine,
  Were yours unearned by toil; nor could you see
  The unenjoying toiler's misery.
  And yet, free Nature's uncorrupted child,
  You hailed the Chapel and the Platform wild,                        20
      Where once the Austrian fell
      Beneath the shaft of Tell!
    O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
    Whence learn'd you that heroic measure?

  There crowd your finely-fibred frame                                25
    All living faculties of bliss;
  And Genius to your cradle came,
  His forehead wreathed with lambent flame,
    And bending low, with godlike kiss
    Breath'd in a more celestial life;                                30
  But boasts not many a fair compeer
    A heart as sensitive to joy and fear?
  And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife,
  Some few, to nobler being wrought,
  Corrivals in the nobler gift of thought.                            35
      Yet these delight to celebrate
      Laurelled War and plumy State;
      Or in verse and music dress
      Tales of rustic happiness--
    Pernicious tales! insidious strains!                              40
      That steel the rich man's breast,
      And mock the lot unblest,
    The sordid vices and the abject pains,
    Which evermore must be
    The doom of ignorance and penury!                                 45
  But you, free Nature's uncorrupted child,
  You hailed the Chapel and the Platform wild,
        Where once the Austrian fell
        Beneath the shaft of Tell!
      O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!                            50
      Whence learn'd you that heroic measure?

  You were a Mother! That most holy name,
      Which Heaven and Nature bless,
    I may not vilely prostitute to those
      Whose infants owe them less                                     55
    Than the poor caterpillar owes
      Its gaudy parent fly.
  You were a mother! at your bosom fed
    The babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye,
  Each twilight-thought, each nascent feeling read,                   60
    Which you yourself created. Oh! delight!
      A second time to be a mother,
        Without the mother's bitter groans:
      Another thought, and yet another,
        By touch, or taste, by looks or tones,                        65
    O'er the growing sense to roll,
    The mother of your infant's soul!
  The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides[337:1]
    His chariot-planet round the goal of day,
  All trembling gazes on the eye of God                               70
    A moment turned his awful face away;
  And as he viewed you, from his aspect sweet
    New influences in your being rose,
  Blest intuitions and communions fleet
    With living Nature, in her joys and woes!                         75
      Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see
      The shrine of social Liberty!
      O beautiful! O Nature's child!
      'Twas thence you hailed the Platform wild,
        Where once the Austrian fell                                  80
        Beneath the shaft of Tell!
      O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
      Thence learn'd you that heroic measure.



[335:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, December 24, 1799 (in
four numbered stanzas): included in the _Annual Anthology_, 1800, in
_Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The Duchess's poem
entitled 'Passage over Mount Gothard' was published in the _Morning
Chronicle_ on Dec. 20 and in the _Morning Post_, Dec. 21, 1799.

[337:1] In a copy of the _Annual Anthology_ Coleridge drew his pen
through ll. 68-77, but the lines appeared in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817,
and in all later editions (see _P. W._, 1898, p. 624).


_Ode to Georgiana_, &c.--Motto 4

  Then wing'd the arrow to

M. P., An. Anth.

Sub-title] On the 24{th} stanza in her Poem, entitled 'The Passage of
the Mountain of St. Gothard.' M. P.


  Lady, Splendor's foster'd child
  And did _you_

M. P.

[2] you] _you_ An. Anth.

[7] your years their courses M. P.

[9] Ah! far remov'd from want and hope and fear M. P.

[11] Obeisant praises M. P.

[14] stately] gorgeous M. P.

[15] om. An. Anth.

[31 foll.]

  But many of your many fair compeers
  [But many of thy many fair compeers M. P.]
  Have frames as sensible of joys and fears;
  And some might wage an equal strife

An. Anth.


  (Some few perchance to nobler being wrought),
  Corrivals in the plastic powers of thought.

M. P.

[35] Corrivals] co-rivals An. Anth., S. L. 1828.

[36] these] _these_ S. L. 1828, 1829.

[40] insidious] insulting M. P.

[45] penury] poverty M. P., An. Anth.

[47] Hail'd the low Chapel M. P., An. Anth.

[51] Whence] Where An. Anth., S. L. 1828, 1829.

[56] caterpillar] Reptile M. P., An. Anth.

[60] each] and M. P.

[72] you] thee M. P.

[73] your] thy M. P.

[76] O Lady thence ye joy'd to see M. P.



    The shepherds went their hasty way,
      And found the lowly stable-shed
    Where the Virgin-Mother lay:
      And now they checked their eager tread,
  For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung,                            5
  A Mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung.


    They told her how a glorious light,
      Streaming from a heavenly throng,
    Around them shone, suspending night!
      While sweeter than a mother's song,                             10
  Blest Angels heralded the Saviour's birth,
  Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth.


    She listened to the tale divine,
      And closer still the Babe she pressed;
    And while she cried, the Babe is mine!                            15
      The milk rushed faster to her breast:
  Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn;
  Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.


    Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace,
      Poor, simple, and of low estate!                                20
    That strife should vanish, battle cease,
      O why should this thy soul elate?
  Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's story,--
  Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory?


    And is not War a youthful king,                                   25
      A stately Hero clad in mail?
    Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;
      Him Earth's majestic monarchs hail
  Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye
  Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh.                          30


    'Tell this in some more courtly scene,
      To maids and youths in robes of state!
    I am a woman poor and mean,
      And therefore is my soul elate.
  War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,                           35
  That from the agéd father tears his child!


    'A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,
      He kills the sire and starves the son;
    The husband kills, and from her board
      Steals all his widow's toil had won;                            40
  Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away
  All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.


    'Then wisely is my soul elate,
      That strife should vanish, battle cease:
    I'm poor and of a low estate,                                     45
      The Mother of the Prince of Peace.
  Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn:
  Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.'



[338:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, December 25, 1799:
included in the _Annual Anthology_, 1800, in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817,
1828, 1829, and 1834.


_A Christmas Carol_--8: a] an M. P., An. Anth.

[10] While] And M. P.

[35] War is a ruffian Thief, with gore defil'd M. P., An.

[37] fiend] Thief M. P., An. Anth.

[41] rends] tears M. P.

[After 49]

  Strange prophecy! Could half the screams
    Of half the men that since have died
  To realise War's kingly dreams,
    Have risen at once in one vast tide,
  The choral music of Heav'n's multitude
  Had been o'erpower'd, and lost amid the uproar rude!

M. P., An. Anth.



[As printed in _Morning Post_ for January 10, 1800.]

     To the Editor of _The Morning Post_.

     MR. EDITOR,--An unmetrical letter from Talleyrand to Lord
     Grenville has already appeared, and from an authority too high
     to be questioned: otherwise I could adduce some arguments for
     the exclusive authenticity of the following metrical epistle.
     The very epithet which the wise ancients used, '_aurea
     carmina_,' might have been supposed likely to have determined
     the choice of the French minister in favour of verse; and the
     rather when we recollect that this phrase of '_golden verses_'
     is applied emphatically to the works of that philosopher who
     imposed _silence_ on all with whom he had to deal. Besides is
     it not somewhat improbable that Talleyrand should have
     preferred prose to rhyme, when the latter alone _has got the
     chink_? Is it not likewise curious that in our official answer
     no notice whatever is taken of the Chief Consul, Bonaparte, as
     if there had been no such person [man _Essays, &c., 1850_]
     existing; notwithstanding that his existence is pretty
     generally admitted, nay that some have been so rash as to
     believe that he has created as great a sensation in the world
     as Lord Grenville, or even the Duke of Portland? But the
     Minister of Foreign Affairs, Talleyrand, is acknowledged,
     which, in our opinion, could not have happened had he written
     only that insignificant prose-letter, which seems to precede
     Bonaparte's, as in old romances a dwarf always ran before to
     proclaim the advent or arrival of knight or giant. That
     Talleyrand's character and practices more resemble those of
     some _regular_ Governments than Bonaparte's I admit; but this
     of itself does not appear a satisfactory explanation. However,
     let the letter speak for itself. The second line is
     supererogative in syllables, whether from the oscitancy of the
     transcriber, or from the trepidation which might have
     overpowered the modest Frenchman, on finding himself in the
     act of writing to so _great_ a man, I shall not dare to
     determine. A few Notes are added by
                                         Your servant,

     _P.S._--As mottoes are now fashionable, especially if taken
     from out of the way books, you may prefix, if you please, the
     following lines from Sidonius Apollinaris:

       'Saxa, et robora, corneasque fibras
       Mollit dulciloquâ canorus arte!'


  My Lord! though your Lordship repel deviation
  From forms long establish'd, yet with high consideration,
  I plead for the honour to hope that no blame
  Will attach, should this letter _begin_ with my name.
  I dar'd not presume on your Lordship to bounce,                      5
  But thought it more _exquisite_ first to _announce_!

  My Lord! I've the honour to be Talleyrand,
  And the letter's from _me_! you'll not draw back your hand
  Nor yet take it up by the rim in dismay,
  As boys pick up ha'pence on April fool-day.                         10
  I'm no Jacobin foul, or red-hot Cordelier
  That your Lordship's _un_gauntleted fingers need fear
  An infection or burn! Believe me, 'tis true,
  With a scorn like another I look down on the crew
  That bawl and hold up to the mob's detestation                      15
  The most delicate wish for a _silent persuasion_.
  _A form long-establish'd_ these Terrorists call
  Bribes, perjury, theft, and the devil and all!
  And yet spite of all that the Moralist[341:1] prates,
  'Tis the keystone and cement of _civilized States_.                 20
  Those American _Reps_![342:1] And i' faith, they were serious!
  It shock'd us at Paris, like something mysterious,
  That men who've a Congress--But no more of 't! I'm proud
  To have stood so distinct from the Jacobin crowd.

    My Lord! though the vulgar in wonder be lost at                   25
  My transfigurations, and name me _Apostate_,
  Such a meaningless nickname, which never incens'd me,
  _Cannot_ prejudice you or your Cousin against me:
  I'm Ex-bishop. What then? Burke himself would agree
  That I left not the Church--'twas the Church that left me.
  My titles prelatic I lov'd and retain'd,                            31
  As long as what _I_ meant by Prelate remain'd:
  And tho' Mitres no longer will _pass_ in our mart,
  I'm _episcopal_ still to the core of my heart.
  No time from my name this my motto shall sever:                     35
  'Twill be _Non sine pulvere palma_[342:2] for ever!

    Your goodness, my Lord, I conceive as excessive,
  Or I dar'd not present you a scroll so digressive;
  And in truth with my pen thro' and thro' I should strike it;
  But I hear that your Lordship's own style is just like it.          40
  Dear my Lord, we are right: for what charms can be shew'd
  In a thing that goes straight like an old Roman road?
  The tortoise crawls straight, the hare doubles about;
  And the true line of beauty still winds in and out.
  It argues, my Lord! of fine thoughts such a brood in us             45
  To split and divide into heads multitudinous,
  While charms that surprise (it can ne'er be denied us)
  Sprout forth from each head, like the ears from King Midas.
  Were a genius of rank, like a commonplace dunce,
  Compell'd to drive on to the main point at once,                    50
  What a plentiful vintage of initiations[342:3]
  Would Noble Lords lose in your Lordship's orations.
  My fancy transports me! As mute as a mouse,
  And as fleet as a pigeon, I'm borne to the house
  Where all those who _are_ Lords, from father to son,                55
  Discuss the affairs of all those who are none.
  I behold you, my Lord! of your feelings quite full,
  'Fore the woolsack arise, like a sack full of wool!
  You rise on each Anti-Grenvillian Member,
  Short, thick and blustrous, like a day in November![343:1]          60
  Short in person, I mean: for the length of your speeches
  Fame herself, that most famous reporter, ne'er reaches.
  Lo! Patience beholds you contemn her brief reign,
  And Time, that all-panting toil'd after in vain,
  (Like the Beldam who raced for a smock with her grand-child)        65
  Drops and cries: 'Were such lungs e'er assign'd to a man-child?'
  Your strokes at her vitals pale Truth has confess'd,
  And Zeal unresisted entempests your breast![343:2]
  Though some noble Lords may be wishing to sup,
  Your merit self-conscious, my Lord, _keeps you up_,                 70
  Unextinguish'd and swoln, as a balloon of paper
  Keeps aloft by the smoke of its own farthing taper.
  Ye SIXTEENS[343:3] of Scotland, your snuffs ye must trim;
  Your Geminies, fix'd stars of England! grow dim,
  And but for _a form long-establish'd_, no doubt                     75
  Twinkling faster and faster, ye all would _go out_.

  _Apropos_, my dear Lord! a ridiculous blunder
  Of some of our Journalists caused us some wonder:
  It was said that in aspect malignant and sinister
  In the Isle of Great Britain a great Foreign Minister               80
  Turn'd as pale as a journeyman miller's frock coat is
  On observing a star that appear'd in BOOTES!
  When the whole truth was this (O those ignorant brutes!)
  Your Lordship had made his appearance in boots.
  You, my Lord, with your star, sat in boots, and the Spanish
  Ambassador thereupon thought fit to vanish.                         86

  But perhaps, dear my Lord, among other worse crimes,
  The whole was no more than a lie of _The Times_.
  It is monstrous, my Lord! in a civilis'd state
  That such Newspaper rogues should have license to prate.            90
  Indeed printing in general--but for the taxes,
  Is in theory false and pernicious in praxis!
  You and I, and your Cousin, and Abbé Sieyes,
  And all the great Statesmen that live in these days,
  Are agreed that no nation secure is from vi'lence                   95
  Unless all who must think are maintain'd all in silence.
  This printing, my Lord--but 'tis useless to mention
  What we both of us think--'twas a curséd invention,
  And Germany might have been honestly prouder
  Had she left it alone, and found out only powder.                  100
  My Lord! when I think of our labours and cares
  Who rule the Department of foreign affairs,
  And how with their libels these journalists bore us,
  Though Rage I acknowledge than Scorn less decorous;
  Yet their presses and types I could shiver in splinters,           105
  Those Printers' black Devils! those Devils of Printers!
  In case of a peace--but perhaps it were better
  To proceed to the absolute point of my letter:
  For the deep wounds of France, Bonaparte, my master,
  Has found out a new sort of _basilicon_ plaister.                  110
  But your time, my dear Lord! is your nation's best treasure,
  I've intruded already too long on your leisure;
  If so, I entreat you with penitent sorrow
  To pause, and resume the remainder to-morrow.



[340:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, January 10, 1800:
reprinted in _Essays on His Own Times_, 1850, i. 233-7. First collected
_P. and D. W._, 1877, 1880.

[341:1] This sarcasm on the writings of moralists is, in general,
extremely just; but had Talleyrand continued long enough in England, he
might have found an honourable exception in the second volume of Dr.
Paley's _Moral Philosophy_; in which both Secret Influence, and all the
other _Established Forms_, are justified and placed in their true light.

[342:1] A fashionable abbreviation in the higher circles for
Republicans. Thus _Mob_ was originally the Mobility.

[342:2] _Palma non sine pulvere_ In plain English, an itching palm, not
without the yellow dust.

[342:3] The word _Initiations_ is borrowed from the new Constitution,
and can only mean, in plain English, introductory matter. If the
manuscript would bear us out, we should propose to read the line thus:
'What a plentiful _Verbage_, what Initiations!' inasmuch as Vintage must
necessarily refer to wine, really or figuratively; and we cannot guess
what species Lord Grenville's eloquence may be supposed to resemble,
unless, indeed, it be _Cowslip_ wine. A slashing critic to whom we read
the manuscript, proposed to read, 'What a plenty of Flowers--what
initiations!' and supposes it may allude indiscriminately to Poppy
Flowers, or Flour of Brimstone. The most modest emendation, perhaps,
would be this--for Vintage read Ventage.

[343:1] We cannot sufficiently admire the accuracy of this simile. For
as Lord Grenville, though short, is certainly not the shortest man in
the House, even so is it with the days in November.

[343:2] An evident plagiarism of the Ex-Bishop's from Dr. Johnson:--

  'Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
   And panting Time toil'd after him in vain:
   His pow'rful strokes presiding Truth confess'd,
   And unresisting Passion storm'd the breast.'

[343:3] This line and the following are involved in an almost
Lycophrontic tenebricosity. On repeating them, however, to an
_Illuminant_, whose confidence I possess, he informed me (and he ought
to know, for he is a Tallow-chandler by trade) that certain candles go
by the name of _sixteens_. This explains the whole, the Scotch Peers are
destined to burn out--and so are candles! The English are perpetual, and
are therefore styled Fixed Stars! The word _Geminies_ is, we confess,
still obscure to us; though we venture to suggest that it may perhaps be
a metaphor (daringly sublime) for the two eyes which noble Lords do in
general possess. It is certainly used by the poet Fletcher in this
sense, in the 31st stanza of his _Purple Island_:--

  'What! shall I then need seek a patron out,
     Or beg a favour from a mistress' eyes,
   To fence my song against the vulgar rout,
     And shine upon me with her _geminies_?'


[14] With a scorn, like your own Essay, &c., 1850.


  The poet in his lone yet genial hour
  Gives to his eyes a magnifying power:
  Or rather he emancipates his eyes
  From the black shapeless accidents of size--
  In unctuous cones of kindling coal,                                  5
  Or smoke upwreathing from the pipe's trim hole,
      His gifted ken can see
      Phantoms of sublimity.



[345:1] Included in the text of _The Historie and Gests of Maxilian_:
first published in _Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine_, January, 1822, vol.
xi, p. 12. The lines were taken from a MS. note-book, dated August 28,
1800. First collected _P. and D. W._, 1877-80.


Title] The Poet's ken P. W., 1885: Apologia, &c. 1907.


  The poet's eye in his tipsy hour
      Hath a magnifying power
  Or rather emancipates his eyes
  Of the accidents of size


[5] cones] cone MS.

[6] Or smoke from his pipe's bole MS.

[7] His eye can see MS.


  The tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil,
  The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field,
  Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall
  Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust,
  Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark,                      5
  Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose
  (In vain the darling of successful love)
  Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years,
  The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone.
  Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk                                 10
  By rivulet, or spring, or wet roadside,
  That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook,
  Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not![346:1]
  So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline
  With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk                        15
  Has worked (the flowers which most she knew I loved),
  And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair.

  In the cool morning twilight, early waked
  By her full bosom's joyous restlessness,
  Softly she rose, and lightly stole along,                           20
  Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower,
  Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze,
  Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung,
  Making a quiet image of disquiet
  In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool.                          25
  There, in that bower where first she owned her love,
  And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy
  From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretched
  The silk upon the frame, and worked her name
  Between the Moss-Rose and Forget-me-not--                           30
  Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair!
  That forced to wander till sweet spring return,
  I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look,
  Her voice, (that even in her mirthful mood
  Has made me wish to steal away and weep,)                           35
  Nor yet the enhancement of that maiden kiss
  With which she promised, that when spring returned,
  She would resign one half of that dear name,
  And own thenceforth no other name but mine!

? 1800.


[345:2] First published in the _Morning Post_, September 17, 1802
(signed, ΕΣΤΗΣΕ): included in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829,
1834. 'It had been composed two years before' (1802), _Note_, 1893, p.
624. Mr. Campbell may have seen a dated MS. Internal evidence would
point to the autumn of 1802, when it was published in the _Morning

[346:1] One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the
_Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris_, a flower from six to twelve inches
high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has the same name over
the whole Empire of Germany (_Vergissmeinnicht_) and, we believe, in
Denmark and Sweden.


[1] om. M. P.

[2] one] _one_ M. P.

[12] Line 13 precedes line 12 M. P.

[17] they] all M. P.

[19] joyous] joyless S. L. 1828.


                  joyous restlessness,
  Leaving the soft bed to her sister,
  Softly she rose, and lightly stole along,
  Her fair face flushing in the purple dawn,
  Adown the meadow to the woodbine bower

M. P.

[Between 19-20] Leaving the soft bed to her sleeping sister S. L. 1817.

[25] scarcely moving] scarcely-flowing M. P.

[39] thenceforth] henceforth M. P.



    On stern Blencartha's perilous height
      The winds are tyrannous and strong;
    And flashing forth unsteady light
    From stern Blencartha's skiey height,
      As loud the torrents throng!                                     5
    Beneath the moon, in gentle weather,
    They bind the earth and sky together.
  But oh! the sky and all its forms, how quiet!
  The things that seek the earth, how full of noise and riot!



[347:1] First published in the _Amulet_, 1833, reprinted in
_Friendship's Offering_, 1834: included in _Essays on His Own Times_,
1850, iii. 997. First collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877-80. These lines
are inserted in one of the Malta Notebooks, and appear from the context
to have been written at Olevano in 1806; but it is almost certain that
they belong to the autumn of 1800 when Coleridge made a first
acquaintance of 'Blencathara's rugged coves'. The first line is an
adaptation of a line in a poem of Isaac Ritson, quoted in Hutchinson's
_History of Cumberland_, a work which supplied him with some of the
place-names in the Second Part of _Christabel_. Compare, too, a sentence
in a letter to Sir H. Davy of Oct. 18, 1800:--'At the bottom of the
Carrock Man . . . the wind became so fearful and _tyrannous_, etc.'


Title] A Versified Reflection F. O. 1834. In F. O. 1834, the lines were
prefaced by a note:--[A Force is the provincial term in Cumberland for
any narrow fall of water from the summit of a mountain precipice. The
following stanza (it may not arrogate the name of poem) or versified
reflection was composed while the author was gazing on three parallel
_Forces_ on a moonlight night, at the foot of the Saddleback Fell. _S.
T. C._] A ---- by the view of Saddleback, near Threlkeld in Cumberland,
Essays, &c.

[1] Blencartha's] Blenkarthur's MS.: Blencarthur's F. O.: Blenharthur's
Essays, &c., 1850.

[2] The wind is F. O.

[4] Blencartha's] Blenkarthur's MS.: Blencarthur's F. O.: Blenharthur's
Essays, &c., 1850.

[8] oh!] ah! Essays, &c.


  I heard a voice from Etna's side;
    Where o'er a cavern's mouth
    That fronted to the south
  A chesnut spread its umbrage wide:
  A hermit or a monk the man might be;                                 5
    But him I could not see:
  And thus the music flow'd along,
  In melody most like to old Sicilian song:

  'There was a time when earth, and sea, and skies,
    The bright green vale, and forest's dark recess,                  10
  With all things, lay before mine eyes
    In steady loveliness:
  But now I feel, on earth's uneasy scene,
    Such sorrows as will never cease;--
    I only ask for peace;                                             15
  If I must live to know that such a time has been!'
  A silence then ensued:
      Till from the cavern came
      A voice;--it was the same!
  And thus, in mournful tone, its dreary plaint renew'd:              20

  'Last night, as o'er the sloping turf I trod,
    The smooth green turf, to me a vision gave
  Beneath mine eyes, the sod--
    The roof of Rosa's grave!

  My heart has need with dreams like these to strive,                 25
    For, when I woke, beneath mine eyes I found
    The plot of mossy ground,
  On which we oft have sat when Rosa was alive.--
  Why must the rock, and margin of the flood,
    Why must the hills so many flow'rets bear,                        30
  Whose colours to a _murder'd_ maiden's blood,
    Such sad resemblance wear?--

  '_I struck the wound_,--this hand of mine!
  For Oh, thou maid divine,
    I lov'd to agony!                                                 35
  The youth whom thou call'd'st thine
    Did never love like me!

  'Is it the stormy clouds above
    That flash'd so red a gleam?
    On yonder downward trickling stream?--                            40
  'Tis not the blood of her I love.--
  The sun torments me from his western bed,
    Oh, let him cease for ever to diffuse
    Those crimson spectre hues!
  Oh, let me lie in peace, and be for ever dead!'                     45

  Here ceas'd the voice. In deep dismay,
  Down thro' the forest I pursu'd my way.



[347:2] First published in the _Morning Post_, October 13, 1800 (signed
_Cassiani junior_): reprinted in _Wild Wreath_ (By M. E. Robinson),
1804, pp. 141-4. First collected in _P. W._, 1880 (ii, Supplement, p.


Title] The Voice from the Side of Etna; or the Mad Monk: An Ode in Mrs.
Ratcliff's Manner M. P.

[8] to] an M. P.

[14] sorrows] motions M. P.

[16] Then wherefore must I know M. P.

[23] I saw the sod M. P.

[26] woke] wak'd M. P.

[27] The] That M. P.

[28] On which so oft we sat M. P.

[31] a wounded woman's blood M. P.


  It is the stormy clouds above
  That flash

M. P.

[After 47]

    The twilight fays came forth in dewy shoon
  Ere I within the Cabin had withdrawn
  The goatherd's tent upon the open lawn--
    That night there was no moon.

M. P.


  Thou who in youthful vigour rich, and light
  With youthful thoughts dost need no rest! O thou,
  To whom alike the valley and the hill
  Present a path of ease! Should e'er thine eye
  Glance on this sod, and this rude tablet, stop!                      5
  'Tis a rude spot, yet here, with thankful hearts,
  The foot-worn soldier and his family
  Have rested, wife and babe, and boy, perchance
  Some eight years old or less, and scantly fed,
  Garbed like his father, and already bound                           10
  To his poor father's trade. Or think of him
  Who, laden with his implements of toil,
  Returns at night to some far distant home,
  And having plodded on through rain and mire
  With limbs o'erlaboured, weak from feverish heat,                   15
  And chafed and fretted by December blasts,
  Here pauses, thankful he hath reached so far,
  And 'mid the sheltering warmth of these bleak trees
  Finds restoration--or reflect on those
  Who in the spring to meet the warmer sun                            20
  Crawl up this steep hill-side, that needlessly
  Bends double their weak frames, already bowed
  By age or malady, and when, at last,
  They gain this wished-for turf, this seat of sods,
  Repose--and, well-admonished, ponder here                           25
  On final rest. And if a serious thought
  Should come uncalled--how soon _thy_ motions high,
  Thy balmy spirits and thy fervid blood
  Must change to feeble, withered, cold and dry,
  Cherish the wholesome sadness! And where'er                         30
  The tide of Life impel thee, O be prompt
  To make thy present strength the staff of all,
  Their staff and resting-place--so shalt thou give
  To Youth the sweetest joy that Youth can know;
  And for thy future self thou shalt provide                          35
  Through every change of various life, a seat,
  Not built by hands, on which thy inner part,
  Imperishable, many a grievous hour,
  Or bleak or sultry may repose--yea, sleep
  The sleep of Death, and dream of blissful worlds,                   40
  Then wake in Heaven, and find the dream all true.



[349:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, October 21, 1800
(Coleridge's birthday) under the signature VENTIFRONS: reprinted in the
_Lake Herald_, November 2, 1906. Now first included in Coleridge's
_Poetical Works_. Venti Frons is dog-Latin for Windy Brow, a point of
view immediately above the River Greta, on the lower slope of Latrigg.
Here it was that on Wednesday, August 13, 1800, Wordsworth, his sister
Dorothy, and Coleridge 'made the Windy Brow seat'--a 'seat of sods'. In
a letter to his printers, Biggs and Cottle, of October 10, 1800,
Wordsworth says that 'a friend [the author of the _Ancient Mariner_,
&c.] has also furnished me with a few of these Poems in the second
volume [of the _Lyrical Ballads_] which are classed under the title of
"Poems on the Naming of Places"' (_Wordsworth and Coleridge MSS._, Ed.
W. Hale White, 1897, pp. 27, 28). No such poems or poem appeared, and it
has been taken for granted that none were ever written. At any rate
_one_ 'Inscription', now at last forthcoming, was something more than a
'story from the land of dreams'!



  As late on Skiddaw's mount I lay supine,
  Midway th' ascent, in that repose divine
  When the soul centred in the heart's recess
  Hath quaff'd its fill of Nature's loveliness,
  Yet still beside the fountain's marge will stay                      5
    And fain would thirst again, again to quaff;
  Then when the tear, slow travelling on its way,
    Fills up the wrinkles of a silent laugh--
  In that sweet mood of sad and humorous thought
  A form within me rose, within me wrought                            10
  With such strong magic, that I cried aloud,
  'Thou ancient Skiddaw by thy helm of cloud,
  And by thy many-colour'd chasms deep,
  And by their shadows that for ever sleep,
  By yon small flaky mists that love to creep                         15
  Along the edges of those spots of light,
  Those sunny islands on thy smooth green height,
    And by yon shepherds with their sheep,
    And dogs and boys, a gladsome crowd,
    That rush e'en now with clamour loud                              20
    Sudden from forth thy topmost cloud,
    And by this laugh, and by this tear,
    I would, old Skiddaw, she were here!
    A lady of sweet song is she,
    Her soft blue eye was made for thee!                              25
    O ancient Skiddaw, by this tear,
    I would, I would that she were here!'

  Then ancient Skiddaw, stern and proud,
    In sullen majesty replying,
  Thus spake from out his helm of cloud                               30
    (His voice was like an echo dying!):--
  'She dwells belike in scenes more fair,
  And scorns a mount so bleak and bare.'

  I only sigh'd when this I heard,
  Such mournful thoughts within me stirr'd                            35
  That all my heart was faint and weak,
    So sorely was I troubled!
  No laughter wrinkled on my cheek,
    But O the tears were doubled!
  But ancient Skiddaw green and high                                  40
  Heard and understood my sigh;
  And now, in tones less stern and rude,
  As if he wish'd to end the feud,
  Spake he, the proud response renewing
  (His voice was like a monarch wooing):--                            45
  'Nay, but thou dost not know her might,
    The pinions of her soul how strong!
  But many a stranger in my height
    Hath sung to me her magic song,
      Sending forth his ecstasy                                       50
      In her divinest melody,
    And hence I know her soul is free,
    She is where'er she wills to be,
    Unfetter'd by mortality!
  Now to the "haunted beach" can fly,[352:1]                          55
    Beside the threshold scourged with waves,
    Now where the maniac wildly raves,
  "_Pale moon, thou spectre of the sky!_"[352:2]
    No wind that hurries o'er my height
    Can travel with so swift a flight.                                60
      I too, methinks, might merit
      The presence of her spirit!
      To me too might belong
    The honour of her song and witching melody,
      Which most resembles me,                                        65
      Soft, various, and sublime,
      Exempt from wrongs of Time!'

    Thus spake the mighty Mount, and I
    Made answer, with a deep-drawn sigh:--
    Thou ancient Skiddaw, by this tear,                               70
    I would, I would that she were here!'

_November_, 1800.


[350:1] First published in _Memoirs of the late Mrs. Robinson_, Written
by herself. With some Posthumous Pieces, 1801, iv. 141: reprinted in
_Poetical Works of the late Mrs. Mary Robinson_, 1806, i. xlviii, li.
First collected in _P. W._, 1877-80.

[352:1] 'The Haunted Beach,' by Mrs. Robinson, was included in the
_Annual Anthology_ for 1800.

[352:2] From 'Jasper', a ballad by Mrs. Robinson, included in the
_Annual Anthology_ for 1800.


[1] Skiddaw's] Skiddaw 1801.

[8] wrinkles] wrinkle 1801.

[13] chasms so deep 1801.

[17] sunny] sunshine 1801.

[32] in] by 1801.

[38] on] now 1801.

[57] Now to the maniac while he raves 1801.


  How sweet, when crimson colours dart
    Across a breast of snow,
  To see that you are in the heart
    That beats and throbs below.

  All Heaven is in a maiden's blush,                                   5
    In which the soul doth speak,
  That it was you who sent the flush
    Into the maiden's cheek.

  Large steadfast eyes! eyes gently rolled
    In shades of changing blue,                                       10
  How sweet are they, if they behold
    No dearer sight than you.

  And, can a lip more richly glow,
    Or be more fair than this?
  The world will surely answer, No!                                   15
    I, SAPPHO, answer, Yes!

  Then grant one smile, tho' it should mean
    A thing of doubtful birth;
  That I may say these eyes have seen
    The fairest face on earth!                                        20



[353:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, November 24, 1800:
reprinted in _Letters from the Lake Poets_, 1889, p. 16. It is probable
that these lines, sent in a letter to Daniel Stuart (Editor of the
_Morning Post_), dated October 7, 1800, were addressed to Mrs. Robinson,
who was a frequent contributor of verses signed 'Sappho'. A sequence of
Sonnets entitled 'Sappho to Phaon' is included in the collected edition
of her _Poems_, 1806, iii. 63-107.


  The Devil believes that the Lord will come,
  Stealing a march without beat of drum,
  About the same time that he came last,
  On an Old Christmas-day in a snowy blast:
  Till he bids the trump sound neither body nor soul stirs,            5
  For the dead men's heads have slipt under their bolsters.

    Oh! ho! brother Bard, in our churchyard,
    Both beds and bolsters are soft and green;
    Save one alone, and that's of stone,
    And under it lies a Counsellor keen.                              10
  'Twould be a square tomb, if it were not too long;
  And 'tis fenced round with irons sharp, spear-like, and strong.

  This fellow from Aberdeen hither did skip
  With a waxy face and a blubber lip,
  And a black tooth in front, to show in part                         15
  What was the colour of his whole heart.
      This Counsellor sweet,
      This Scotchman complete,
      (The Devil scotch him for a snake!)
      I trust he lies in his grave awake.                             20
        On the sixth of January,
      When all around is white with snow,
      As a Cheshire yeoman's dairy,
        Brother Bard, ho! ho! believe it, or no,
      On that stone tomb to you I'll show                             25
      Two round spaces void of snow.
  I swear by our Knight, and his forefathers' souls,
  That in size and shape they are just like the holes
      In the house of privity
      Of that ancient family.                                         30
  On those two places void of snow,
  There have sat in the night for an hour or so,
  Before sunrise, and after cock-crow,
  He kicking his heels, she cursing her corns,
  All to the tune of the wind in their horns,                         35
      The Devil and his Grannam,
      With a snow-blast to fan 'em;
  Expecting and hoping the trumpet to blow,
  For they are cock-sure of the fellow below!



[353:2] First published in the _Morning Post_, December 4, 1800:
reprinted in _Fraser's Magazine_ both in February and in May, 1833, and
in Payne Collier's _Old Man's Diary_, i. 35. First collected in _P. W._,
1834, with the following Prefatory Note:--'See the apology for the
"Fire, Famine, and Slaughter", in first volume. This is the first time
the author ever published these lines. He would have been glad, had they
perished; but they have now been printed repeatedly in magazines, and he
is told that the verses will not perish. Here, therefore, they are
owned, with a hope that they will be taken--as assuredly they were
composed--in mere sport.' These lines, which were directed against Sir
James Mackintosh, were included in a letter to [Sir] Humphry Davy, dated
October 9, 1800. There is a MS. version in the British Museum in the
handwriting of R. Heber, presented by him to J. Mitford. Mr. Campbell
questions the accuracy of Coleridge's statement with regard to his never
having published the poem on his own account. But it is possible that
Davy may have sent the lines to the Press without Coleridge's authority.
Daniel Stuart, the Editor of the _Morning Post_, in the _Gentleman's
Magazine_ for May, 1838, says that 'Coleridge sent one [poem] attacking
Mackintosh, too obviously for me not to understand it, and of course it
was not published. Mackintosh had had one of his front teeth broken and
the stump was black'. Stuart remembered that the lines attacking his
brother-in-law had been suppressed, but forgot that he had inserted the
rest of the poem. The poem as printed in 1893, despite the heading, does
not follow the text of the _Morning Post_.


Title] Skeltoniad (To be read in the Recitative Lilt) MS. Letter: The
Two Round Spaces; A Skeltoniad M. P.

[1] The Devil believes the Fraser (1).

[3] time] hour MS. Letter, M. P., Fraser (1), Collier. At the same hour
MS. H.

[4] an Old] a cold Fraser (1): On Old MS. H.

[5] neither] nor MS. Letter, M. P.: Till he bids the trump blow nor
Fraser (2): Till the trump then shall sound no Collier: Until that time
not a body or MS. H.

[6] their] the Collier.

[7] Oh! ho!] Ho! Ho! M. P., MS. H.: Oho Fraser (1). Brother Collier.
our] _our_ MS. Letter.

[8] Both bed and bolster Fraser (2). The graves and bolsters MS. H.

[9] Except one alone MS. H.

[10] under] in Fraser (2).

[11] This tomb would be square M. P.: 'Twould be a square stone if it
were not so long Fraser (1). It would be square MS. H. tomb] grave

[12] And 'tis railed round with iron tall M. P.: And 'tis edg'd round
with iron Fraser (1): 'Tis fenc'd round with irons tall Fraser (2): And
'tis fenc'd round with iron tall Collier. 'tis] its MS. H.

[13-20] om. M. P.

[13] From Aberdeen hither this fellow MS. Letter. hither] here Fraser

[14] blubber] blabber MS. Letter, Fraser (1), (2), MS. H.

[15] in front] before MS. H.

[17] Counsellor] lawyer so MS. H.

[19] The Devil] Apollyon MS. Letter. scotch] _scotch_ Collier.

[20] trust] hope Collier.] (A humane wish) Note in MS. Letter.

[21] sixth] seventh M. P., Collier: fifth MS. H.

[22] When all is white both high and low MS. Letter, M. P., Fraser (2),
Collier, MS. H.: When the ground All around Is as white as snow Fraser

[23] As] Or Fraser (1): Like MS. H.

[24] ho! ho!] oho! Fraser (1). it] me M. P.

[25] stone] tall MS. Letter, M. P., Fraser (2), Collier. On the stone to
you MS. H.

[25-6] om. Fraser (1).

[Between 25-6] After sunset and before cockcrow M. P. Before sunrise and
after cockcrow Fraser (2).

[26] void] clear M. P.

[27] I swear by the might Of the darkness of night, I swear by the sleep
of our forefathers' souls Fraser (1). souls] soul MS. H.

[26-8] om. Fraser (2).

[28] Both in shape and size MS. Letter: Both in shape and in size M. P.:
That in shape and size they resembled Fraser (1), Collier: That in shape
and size they are just like the Hole MS. H.

[29] In the large house M. P.


  In mansions not seen by the general eye
    Of that right ancient family.

Fraser (1).

[31] two] round MS. Letter. places] spaces Collier, MS. H. void] clear
M. P.

[32] Have sat Fraser (1), (2): There have sat for an hour MS. H.

[33] om. MS. Letter, M. P.

[36] Devil] De'il M. P.

[37] With the snow-drift M. P.: With a snow-blast to fan MS. Letter.

[38] Expecting and wishing the trumpet would blow Collier.



  Fear no more, thou timid Flower!
  Fear thou no more the winter's might,
  The whelming thaw, the ponderous shower,
  The silence of the freezing night!
  Since Laura murmur'd o'er thy leaves                                 5
  The potent sorceries of song,
  To thee, meek Flowret! gentler gales
      And cloudless skies belong.


  Her eye with tearful meanings fraught,
  She gaz'd till all the body mov'd                                   10
  Interpreting the Spirit's thought--
  The Spirit's eager sympathy
  Now trembled with thy trembling stem,
  And while thou droopedst o'er thy bed,
  With sweet unconscious sympathy                                     15
      Inclin'd the drooping head.[357:1]


  She droop'd her head, she stretch'd her arm,
  She whisper'd low her witching rhymes,
  Fame unreluctant heard the charm,
  And bore thee to Pierian climes!                                    20
  Fear thou no more the Matin Frost
  That sparkled on thy bed of snow;
  For there, mid laurels ever green,
      Immortal thou shalt blow.


  Thy petals boast a white more soft,                                 25
  The spell hath so perfuméd thee,
  That careless Love shall deem thee oft
  A blossom from his Myrtle tree.
  Then, laughing at the fair deceit,
  Shall race with some Etesian wind                                   30
  To seek the woven arboret
      Where Laura lies reclin'd.


  All them whom Love and Fancy grace,
  When grosser eyes are clos'd in sleep,
  The gentle spirits of the place                                     35
  Waft up the insuperable steep,
  On whose vast summit broad and smooth
  Her nest the Phœnix Bird conceals,
  And where by cypresses o'erhung
      The heavenly Lethe steals.                                      40


  A sea-like sound the branches breathe,
  Stirr'd by the Breeze that loiters there;
  And all that stretch their limbs beneath,
  Forget the coil of mortal care.
  Strange mists along the margins rise,                               45
  To heal the guests who thither come,
  And fit the soul to re-endure
      Its earthly martyrdom.


  The margin dear to moonlight elves
  Where Zephyr-trembling Lilies grow,                                 50
  And bend to kiss their softer selves
  That tremble in the stream below:--
  There nightly borne does Laura lie
  A magic Slumber heaves her breast:
  Her arm, white wanderer of the Harp,                                55
      Beneath her cheek is prest.


  The Harp uphung by golden chains
  Of that low wind which whispers round,
  With coy reproachfulness complains,
  In snatches of reluctant sound:                                     60
  The music hovers half-perceiv'd,
  And only moulds the slumberer's dreams;
  Remember'd LOVES relume her cheek
      With Youth's returning gleams.



[356:1] First published in _P. W._, 1893. The two last stanzas[*] were
omitted as 'too imperfect to print'. The MS. bears the following

     _To the Editor of the Morning Post._


     I am one of your many readers who have been highly gratified
     by some extracts from Mrs. Robinson's 'Walsingham': you will
     oblige me by inserting the following lines [_sic_] immediately
     on the perusal of her beautiful poem 'The Snow Drop'.--ZAGRI.

The 'Lines' were never sent or never appeared in the _Morning Post_.

To the Snow Drop.


  Fear thou no more the wintry storm,
  Sweet Flowret, blest by LAURA'S song:
  She gaz'd upon thy slender form,
  The mild Enchantress gaz'd so long;
  That trembling as she saw thee droop,
  Poor Trembler! o'er thy snowy bed,
  With imitation's sympathy
    She too inclin'd her head.


  She droop'd her head, she stretch'd her arm,
  She whisper'd low her witching rhymes:
  A gentle Sylphid heard the charm,
  And bore thee to Pierian climes!
  Fear thou no more the sparkling Frost,
  The Tempest's Howl, the Fog-damp's gloom:
  For thus mid laurels evergreen
    Immortal thou shalt bloom!

  3 [Stanza 2]

  With eager [*feelings*] unreprov'd
  With [*steady eye and brooding thought*]
  Her eye with tearful meanings fraught,
  [*My Fancy saw her gaze at thee*]
  She gaz'd till all the body mov'd
  [*Till all the moving body caught,*]
  Interpreting, the Spirit's sympathy--
  The Spirit's eager sympathy
  Now trembled with thy trembling stem,
  And while thou drooped'st o'er thy bed,
  With sweet unconscious sympathy
    Inclin'd { her [*portraiture*]
             { the drooping head.
                  First draft of Stanzas 1-3. _MS. S. T. C._

[357:1] The second stanza of Mrs. Robinson's ('Perdita') 'Ode to the
Snow-drop' runs thus:

  All weak and wan, with head inclin'd,
    Its parent-breast the drifted snow,
  It trembles, while the ruthless wind
  Bends its slim form; the tempest lowers,
  Its em'rald eye drops crystal show'rs
    On its cold bed below.

_The Poetical Works of the late Mrs. Mary Robinson_, 1806, i. 123.


[36] insuperable] unvoyageable MS. erased.


  Along that marge does Laura lie
  Full oft where Slumber heaves her breast

MS. erased.

[64] With Beauty's morning gleams MS. erased.



  God be with thee, gladsome Ocean!
    How gladly greet I thee once more!
  Ships and waves, and ceaseless motion,
    And men rejoicing on thy shore.

  Dissuading spake the mild Physician,                                 5
    'Those briny waves for thee are Death!'
  But my soul fulfilled her mission,
    And lo! I breathe untroubled breath!

  Fashion's pining sons and daughters,
    That seek the crowd they seem to fly,                             10
  Trembling they approach thy waters;
    And what cares Nature, if they die?

  Me a thousand hopes and pleasures
    A thousand recollections bland,
  Thoughts sublime, and stately measures,                             15
    Revisit on thy echoing strand:

  Dreams (the Soul herself forsaking),
    Tearful raptures, boyish mirth;
  Silent adorations, making
    A blessed shadow of this Earth!                                   20

  O ye hopes, that stir within me,
    Health comes with you from above!
  God is with me, God is in me!
    I cannot die, if Life be Love.

_August_, 1801.


[359:1] First published in the _Morning Post_ (signed Εστησε), September
15, 1801: included in the _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and
1834. The lines were sent in an unpublished letter to Southey dated
August 15, 1801. An autograph MS. is in the possession of Miss Arnold of


Title] A flowering weed on the sweet Hill of Poesy MS. Letter, 1801: Ode
After Bathing in the Sea, Contrary to Medical Advice M. P. After bathing
in the Sea at Scarborough in company with T. Hutchinson. Aug. 1801 MS.

[3] ceaseless] endless MS. Letter, M. P., MS. A.

[4] men] life MS. Letter, M. P., MS. A.


                   { mild              MS. A.
  Gravely said the { sage Physician    MS. Letter:

  Mildly said the mild Physician       M. P.

[6] To bathe me on thy shores were death MS. Letter, M. P., MS. A.

[10] That love the city's gilded sty MS. Letter, M. P., MS. A.

[13] hopes] loves MS. Letter, MS. A.

[16] echoing] sounding MS. Letter, M. P., MS. A.

[18] Grief-like transports MS. Letter, M. P., MS. A.


      Tranquillity! thou better name
      Than all the family of Fame!
      Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age
      To low intrigue, or factious rage;
      For oh! dear child of thoughtful Truth,                          5
      To thee I gave my early youth,
  And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore,
  Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with its roar.

      Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,
      On him but seldom, Power divine,                                10
      Thy spirit rests! Satiety
      And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,
      Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope
      And dire Remembrance interlope,
  To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind:                           15
  The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind.

      But me thy gentle hand will lead
      At morning through the accustomed mead;
      And in the sultry summer's heat
      Will build me up a mossy seat;                                  20
      And when the gust of Autumn crowds,
      And breaks the busy moonlight clouds,
  Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune,
  Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon.

      The feeling heart, the searching soul,                          25
      To thee I dedicate the whole!
      And while within myself I trace
      The greatness of some future race,
      Aloof with hermit-eye I scan
      The present works of present man--                              30
  A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile,
  Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!



[360:1] First published in the _Morning Post_ (with two additional
stanzas at the commencement of the poem), December 4, 1801: reprinted in
_The Friend_ (without heading or title), No. 1, Thursday, June 1, 1809:
included in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The stanzas
were not indented in the _Morning Post_ or _The Friend_.


Title] _Vix ea nostra voco_ M. P.

[Before 1]

  What Statesmen scheme and Soldiers work,
  Whether the Pontiff or the Turk,
  Will e'er renew th' expiring lease
  Of Empire; whether War or Peace
  Will best play off the CONSUL'S game;
  What fancy-figures, and what name
  Half-thinking, sensual France, a natural Slave,
  On those ne'er-broken Chains, her self-forg'd Chains, will grave;

  Disturb not me! Some tears I shed
  When bow'd the Swiss his noble head;
  Since then, with quiet heart have view'd
  Both distant Fights and Treaties crude,
  Whose heap'd up terms, which Fear compels,
  (Live Discord's green Combustibles,
  And future Fuel of the funeral Pyre)
  Now hide, and soon, alas! will feed the low-burnt Fire.

M. P.

[8] tempest] storm-wind M. P.

[15] To] And The Friend, 1809. slumbers] slumber M. P., The Friend.

[17] thy gentle hand] the power Divine M. P.

[21] Autumn] Summer M. P.

[23] The best the thoughts will lift M. P.

[26] thee] her M. P.

[28] some] a M. P.

[29] hermit] hermit's M. P.

TO ASRA[361:1]

  Are there two things, of all which men possess,
  That are so like each other and so near,
  As mutual Love seems like to Happiness?
  Dear Asra, woman beyond utterance dear!
  This Love which ever welling at my heart,                            5
  Now in its living fount doth heave and fall,
  Now overflowing pours thro' every part
  Of all my frame, and fills and changes all,
  Like vernal waters springing up through snow,
  This Love that seeming great beyond the power                       10
  Of growth, yet seemeth ever more to grow,
  Could I transmute the whole to one rich Dower
  Of Happy Life, and give it all to Thee,
  Thy lot, methinks, were Heaven, thy age, Eternity!



[361:1] First published in 1893. The Sonnet to 'Asra' was prefixed to
the MS. of _Christabel_ which Coleridge presented to Miss Sarah
Hutchinson in 1804.


  There are two births, the one when Light
  First strikes the new-awaken'd sense--
  The other when two souls unite,
  And we must count our life from then.

  When you lov'd me, and I lov'd you,                                  5
  Then both of us were born anew.

? 1801.


[362:1] First published from a MS. in 1893.


  This yearning heart (Love! witness what I say)
  Enshrines thy form as purely as it may,
  Round which, as to some spirit uttering bliss,
  My thoughts all stand ministrant night and day
  Like saintly Priests, that dare not think amiss.

? 1801.


[362:2] First published from a MS. in 1893.



  Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
  With the old Moon in her arms;
  And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
  We shall have a deadly storm.
                   _Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence._


  Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made
    The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
    This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
  Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
  Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,                     5
  Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes
  Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,
      Which better far were mute.
    For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
    And overspread with phantom light,                                10
    (With swimming phantom light o'erspread
    But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)
  I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling
    The coming-on of rain and squally blast.
  And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,                       15
    And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!
  Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,
      And sent my soul abroad,
  Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
  Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!            20


  A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
    A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
    Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
        In word, or sigh, or tear--
  O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,                             25
  To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,
    All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
  Have I been gazing on the western sky,
    And its peculiar tint of yellow green:
  And still I gaze--and with how blank an eye!                        30
  And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
  That give away their motion to the stars;
  Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
  Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen:
  Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew                           35
  In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
  I see them all so excellently fair,
  I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!


      My genial spirits fail;
      And what can these avail                                        40
  To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?
      It were a vain endeavour,
      Though I should gaze for ever
  On that green light that lingers in the west:
  I may not hope from outward forms to win                            45
  The passion and the Life, whose fountains are within.


  O Lady! we receive but what we give,
  And in our life alone does Nature live:
  Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud!
    And would we aught behold, of higher worth,                       50
  Than that inanimate cold world allowed
  To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
    Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
  A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
      Enveloping the Earth--                                          55
  And from the soul itself must there be sent
    A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
  Of all sweet sounds the life and element!


  O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
  What this strong music in the soul may be!                          60
  What, and wherein it doth exist,
  This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
  This beautiful and beauty-making power.
    Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given,
  Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,                         65
  Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower,
  Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,
  Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower
    A new Earth and new Heaven,
  Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud--                          70
  Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud--
      We in ourselves rejoice!
  And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
    All melodies the echoes of that voice,
  All colours a suffusion from that light.                            75


  There was a time when, though my path was rough,
    This joy within me dallied with distress,
  And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
    Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:
  For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,                      80
  And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
  But now afflictions bow me down to earth:
  Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
      But oh! each visitation
  Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,                           85
    My shaping spirit of Imagination.
  For not to think of what I needs must feel,
    But to be still and patient, all I can;
  And haply by abstruse research to steal
    From my own nature all the natural man--                          90
    This was my sole resource, my only plan:
  Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
  And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.


  Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
      Reality's dark dream!                                           95
  I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
    Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
  Of agony by torture lengthened out
  That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without,
    Bare crag, or mountain-tairn,[367:1] or blasted tree,            100
  Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
  Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
    Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
  Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,
  Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,                     105
  Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,
  The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.
    Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
  Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold!
      What tell'st thou now about?                                   110
      'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,
    With groans, of trampled men, with smarting wounds--
  At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!
  But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
    And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,                       115
  With groans, and tremulous shudderings--all is over--
    It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!
      A tale, of less affright,
      And tempered with delight,
  As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,--                       120
        'Tis of a little child
        Upon a lonesome wild,
  Not far from home, but she hath lost her way:
  And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
  And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.


  'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:                 126
  Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
  Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,
    And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
  May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,                  130
    Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!
      With light heart may she rise,
      Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
    Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;
  To her may all things live, from pole to pole,                     135
  Their life the eddying of her living soul!
    O simple spirit, guided from above,
  Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
  Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.



[362:3] First published in the _Morning Post_, October 4, 1802. Included
in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The Ode was sent in a
letter to W. Sotheby, dated Keswick, July 19, 1802 (_Letters of S. T.
C._, 1895, i. 379-84). Two other MS. versions are preserved at Coleorton
(_P. W. of W. Wordsworth_, ed. by William Knight, 1896, iii. App., pp.
400, 401). Lines 37, 38 were quoted by Coleridge in the _Historie and
Gests of Maxilian_ (first published in _Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine_
for January, 1822, and reprinted in _Miscellanies, &c._, ed. by T. Ashe,
1885, p. 282): l. 38 by Wordsworth in his pamphlet on _The Convention of
Cintra_, 1809, p. 135: lines 47-75, followed by lines 29-38, were quoted
by Coleridge in _Essays on the Fine Arts_, No. III (which were first
published in _Felix Farley's Bristol Journal_, Sept. 10, 1814, and
reprinted by Cottle, _E. R._, 1837, ii. 201-40); and lines 21-28,
_ibid._, in illustration of the following _Scholium_:--'We have
sufficiently distinguished the beautiful from the agreeable, by the sure
criterion, that when we find an object agreeable, the _sensation_ of
pleasure always precedes the judgment, and is its determining cause. We
_find_ it agreeable. But when we declare an object beautiful, the
contemplation or intuition of its beauty precedes the _feeling_ of
complacency, in order of nature at least: nay in great depression of
spirits may even exist without sensibly producing it.' Lines 76-93 are
quoted in a letter to Southey of July 29, 1802; lines 76-83 are quoted
in a letter to Allsop, September 30, 1819, _Letters, &c._, 1836, i. 17.
Lines 80, 81 are quoted in the _Biographia Literaria_, 1817, ii. 182,
and lines 87-93 in a letter to Josiah Wedgwood, dated October 20, 1802:
see Cottle's _Rem._, 1848, p. 44, and _Tom Wedgwood_ by R. B.
Litchfield, 1903, pp. 114, 115.

[367:1] Tairn is a small lake, generally if not always applied to the
lakes up in the mountains and which are the feeders of those in the
valleys. This address to the Storm-wind [wind _S. L._], will not appear
extravagant to those who have heard it at night and in a mountainous


Title] Dejection, &c., written April 4, 1802 M. P.

[2] grand] dear Letter to Sotheby, July 19, 1802.

[5] Than that which moulds yon clouds Letter, July 19, 1802. cloud]
clouds M. P., S. L.

[6] moans] drones Letter, July 19, 1802, M. P.

[12] by] with Letter, July 19, 1802.

[17-20] om. Letter, July 19, 1802, M. P.

[21-8] Quoted as illustrative of a 'Scholium' in Felix Farley's Journal,

[22] stifled] stifling Letter, July 19, 1802.

[23] Which] That Letter, July 19, 1802, F. F.

[Between 24-7]

  This, William, well thou knowst
  Is the sore evil which I dread the most
  And oft'nest suffer. In this heartless mood
  To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd
  That pipes within the larch-tree, not unseen,
  The larch, that pushes out in tassels green
  Its bundled leafits, woo'd to mild delights
  By all the tender sounds and gentle sights
  Of this sweet primrose-month and vainly woo'd!
  O dearest Poet in this heartless mood.

Letter, July 19, 1802.

[25] O Edmund M. P.: O William Coleorton MS.: O dearest Lady in this
heartless mood F. F.

[26] by yon sweet throstle woo'd F. F.

[28] on] at F. F.

[29] peculiar] celestial F. F. yellow green] yellow-green Letter, July
19, 1802, M. P.

[30] blank] black Cottle, 1837.


  Yon crescent moon that seems as if it grew
  In its own starless, cloudless

F. F.

[Between 36-7] A boat becalm'd! thy own sweet sky-canoe Letter, July 19,
1802: A boat becalm'd! a lovely sky-canoe M. P.

[38] I _see_ not _feel_ M. P., Letter, July 19, 1802: _I see . . . they
are_ F. F.

[45-6] Quoted in the _Gests of Maxilian_, Jan. 1822, and _Convention of
Cintra_, 1809, p. 135.

[47] Lady] Wordsworth Letter, July 19, 1802: William Coleorton MS.:
Edmund M. P., F. F. we _receive_ but what we _give_ Coleorton MS., F. F.

[48] our] _our_ M. P., F. F.

[51] allowed] _allow'd_ Letter, July 19, 1802, M. P.

[57] potent] powerful Letter, July 19, 1802, F. F.

V] Stanza v is included in stanza iv in M. P.

[60] What] _What_ Letter, July 19, 1802.

[61] exist] subsist F. F.

[64] virtuous Lady] blameless Poet Letter, July 19, 1802: virtuous
Edmund M. P. Joy, O belovéd, Joy that F. F.

[66] om. Letter, July 19, 1802, M. P.: Life of our life the parent and
the birth F. F. effluence] effulgence S. L. Corr. in _Errata_ p. [xii],
and in text by S. T. C. (MS.).

[67] Lady] William Letter, July 19, 1802: Edmund M. P.: om. F. F.

[68] Which] That Letter, July 19, 1802.

[69] A new heaven and new earth F. F.

[71] om. Letter, July 19, 1802: _This_ is the strong voice, this the
luminous cloud F. F.

[72] We, we ourselves Letter,July 19, 1802, M. P.: Our inmost selves F.

[73] flows] comes Letter, July 19, 1802. charms] glads F. F.

[74] the echoes] an echo Letter, July 19, 1802.

[After 75]

  Calm steadfast Spirit, guided from above,
  O Wordsworth! friend of my devoutest choice,
  Great son of genius! full of light and love
      Thus, thus dost thou rejoice.
  To thee do all things live from pole to pole,
  Their life the eddying of thy living soul
  Brother and friend of my devoutest choice
  Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice!

Letter, July 19, 1802.

[Before 76] Yes, dearest poet, yes Letter, July 19, 1802: Yes, dearest
William! Yes! Coleorton MS. [Stanza v] Yes, dearest Edmund, yes M. P.

[76] The time when Letter, Sept. 30, 1819.

[77] This] The Letters, July 19, 1802, Sept. 30, 1819. I had a heart
that dallied Letter to Southey, July 29, 1802.

[80] For] When Biog. Lit., Letter, Sept. 30, 1819. twining] climbing
Letters, July 19, 29, 1802, Biog. Lit.

[80-1] Quoted in Biog. Lit., 1817, ii. 180.

[81] fruits] fruit Letter, July 19, 1802.

[82] But seared thoughts now Letter, Sept. 30, 1819.

[83] care] car'd Letter, July 19, 1802.

[86] In M. P. the words 'The sixth and seventh stanzas omitted' preceded
three rows of four asterisks, lines 87-93 (quoted in Letter to Josiah
Wedgwood, Oct. 20, 1802) being omitted. The Coleorton MS. ends with line

[87] think] _think_ Letters, July 19, 29, 1802.

[91] was] is Letter, Sept. 30, 1819. only] wisest Letters, July 19, 29,

[92] Till] And Letters, July 19, 29, 1802.

[93] habit] temper Letters, July 19, 29, Oct. 20, 1802.


  Nay [O M. P.] wherefore did I let it haunt my mind
  This dark distressful dream.

Letter, July 19, 1802.

[96] you] it Letter, July 19, 1802, M. P.

[99] That lute sent out! O thou wild storm without Letter, July 19,
1802. O Wind M. P.

[104] who] that Letter, July 19, 1802.

[112] With many groans from men Letter, July 19, 1802: With many groans
of men M. P.

[115] Again! but all that noise Letter, July 19, 1802.

[117] And it has other sounds less fearful and less loud Letter, July
19, 1802.

[120] Otway's self] thou thyself Letter, July 19, 1802: Edmund's self M.

[122] lonesome] heath Letter, July 19, 1802.

[124] bitter] utter Letter, July 19, 1802, M. P.

[125] hear] _hear_ Letter, July 19, 1802, M. P.

VIII] om. Letter, July 19, 1802.

[126] but] and M. P.

[128] her] him M. P.

[130] her] his M. P.

[131] watched] _watch'd_ M. P.

[132] she] he M. P.

[After 133]

  And sing his lofty song and teach me to rejoice!
  O Edmund, friend of my devoutest choice,
  O rais'd from anxious dread and busy care,
  By the immenseness of the good and fair
    Which thou see'st everywhere,                                      5
  Joy lifts thy spirit, joy attunes thy voice,
  To thee do all things live from pole to pole,
  Their life the eddying of thy living soul!
  O simple Spirit, guided from above,
  O lofty Poet, full of life and love,                                10
  Brother and Friend of my devoutest choice,
  Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice!

M. P.

[_Note._--For lines 7, 8, 11, 12 of this variant, vide _ante_, variant
of lines 75 foll.]



  Through weeds and thorns, and matted underwood
  I force my way; now climb, and now descend
  O'er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot
  Crushing the purple whorts;[369:2] while oft unseen,
  Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves,                            5
  The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil,
  I know not, ask not whither! A new joy,
  Lovely as light, sudden as summer gust,
  And gladsome as the first-born of the spring,
  Beckons me on, or follows from behind,                              10
  Playmate, or guide! The master-passion quelled,
  I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark
  The fir-trees, and the unfrequent slender oak,
  Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake
  Soar up, and form a melancholy vault                                15
  High o'er me, murmuring like a distant sea.

  Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remorse;
  Here too the love-lorn man, who, sick in soul,
  And of this busy human heart aweary,
  Worships the spirit of unconscious life                             20
  In tree or wild-flower.--Gentle lunatic!
  If so he might not wholly cease to be,
  He would far rather not be that he is;
  But would be something that he knows not of,
  In winds or waters, or among the rocks!                             25

    But hence, fond wretch! breathe not contagion here!
  No myrtle-walks are these: these are no groves
  Where Love dare loiter! If in sullen mood
  He should stray hither, the low stumps shall gore
  His dainty feet, the briar and the thorn                            30
  Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird
  Easily caught, ensnare him, O ye Nymphs,
  Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades!
  And you, ye Earth-winds! you that make at morn
  The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs!                          35
  You, O ye wingless Airs! that creep between
  The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze,
  Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon,
  The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bed--
  Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless damp,                    40
  Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb.
  Chase, chase him, all ye Fays, and elfin Gnomes!
  With prickles sharper than his darts bemock
  His little Godship, making him perforce
  Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's back.                  45

    This is my hour of triumph! I can now
  With my own fancies play the merry fool,
  And laugh away worse folly, being free.
  Here will I seat myself, beside this old,
  Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy-twine                              50
  Clothes as with net-work: here will I couch my limbs,
  Close by this river, in this silent shade,
  As safe and sacred from the step of man
  As an invisible world--unheard, unseen,
  And listening only to the pebbly brook                              55
  That murmurs with a dead, yet tinkling sound;
  Or to the bees, that in the neighbouring trunk
  Make honey-hoards. The breeze, that visits me,
  Was never Love's accomplice, never raised
  The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow,                        60
  And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek;
  Ne'er played the wanton--never half disclosed
  The maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thence
  Eye-poisons for some love-distempered youth,
  Who ne'er henceforth may see an aspen-grove                         65
  Shiver in sunshine, but his feeble heart
  Shall flow away like a dissolving thing.

  Sweet breeze! thou only, if I guess aright,
  Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast,
  That swells its little breast, so full of song,                     70
  Singing above me, on the mountain-ash.
  And thou too, desert stream! no pool of thine,
  Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve,
  Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe,
  The face, the form divine, the downcast look                        75
  Contemplative! Behold! her open palm
  Presses her cheek and brow! her elbow rests
  On the bare branch of half-uprooted tree,
  That leans towards its mirror! Who erewhile
  Had from her countenance turned, or looked by stealth,
  (For Fear is true-love's cruel nurse), he now                       81
  With steadfast gaze and unoffending eye,
  Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes
  Delicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain,
  E'en as that phantom-world on which he gazed,                       85
  But not unheeded gazed: for see, ah! see,
  The sportive tyrant with her left hand plucks
  The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow,
  Lychnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells:
  And suddenly, as one that toys with time,                           90
  Scatters them on the pool! Then all the charm
  Is broken--all that phantom world so fair
  Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread,
  And each mis-shape the other. Stay awhile,
  Poor youth, who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes!                 95
  The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon
  The visions will return! And lo! he stays:
  And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms
  Come trembling back, unite, and now once more
  The pool becomes a mirror; and behold                              100
  Each wildflower on the marge inverted there,
  And there the half-uprooted tree--but where,
  O where the virgin's snowy arm, that leaned
  On its bare branch? He turns, and she is gone!
  Homeward she steals through many a woodland maze                   105
  Which he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth!
  Go, day by day, and waste thy manly prime
  In mad love-yearning by the vacant brook,
  Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou
  Behold'st her shadow still abiding there,                          110
  The Naiad of the mirror!
                            Not to thee,
  O wild and desert stream! belongs this tale:
  Gloomy and dark art thou--the crowded firs
  Spire from thy shores, and stretch across thy bed,
  Making thee doleful as a cavern-well:                              115
  Save when the shy king-fishers build their nest
  On thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild stream!

    This be my chosen haunt--emancipate
  From Passion's dreams, a freeman, and alone,
  I rise and trace its devious course. O lead,                       120
  Lead me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms.
  Lo! stealing through the canopy of firs,
  How fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock,
  Isle of the river, whose disparted waves
  Dart off asunder with an angry sound,                              125
  How soon to re-unite! And see! they meet,
  Each in the other lost and found: and see
  Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun
  Throbbing within them, heart at once and eye!
  With its soft neighbourhood of filmy clouds,                       130
  The stains and shadings of forgotten tears,
  Dimness o'erswum with lustre! Such the hour
  Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds;
  And hark, the noise of a near waterfall!
  I pass forth into light--I find myself                             135
  Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful
  Of forest trees, the Lady of the Woods),
  Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock
  That overbrows the cataract. How bursts
  The landscape on my sight! Two crescent hills                      140
  Fold in behind each other, and so make
  A circular vale, and land-locked, as might seem,
  With brook and bridge, and grey stone cottages,
  Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet,
  The whortle-berries are bedewed with spray,                        145
  Dashed upwards by the furious waterfall.
  How solemnly the pendent ivy-mass
  Swings in its winnow: All the air is calm.
  The smoke from cottage-chimneys, tinged with light,
  Rises in columns; from this house alone,                           150
  Close by the water-fall, the column slants,
  And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this?
  That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke,
  And close beside its porch a sleeping child,
  His dear head pillowed on a sleeping dog--                         155
  One arm between its fore-legs, and the hand
  Holds loosely its small handful of wild-flowers,
  Unfilletted, and of unequal lengths.
  A curious picture, with a master's haste
  Sketched on a strip of pinky-silver skin,                          160
  Peeled from the birchen bark! Divinest maid!
  Yon bark her canvas, and those purple berries
  Her pencil! See, the juice is scarcely dried
  On the fine skin! She has been newly here;
  And lo! yon patch of heath has been her couch--                    165
  The pressure still remains! O blesséd couch!
  For this may'st thou flower early, and the sun,
  Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long
  Upon thy purple bells! O Isabel!
  Daughter of genius! stateliest of our maids!                       170
  More beautiful than whom Alcaeus wooed,
  The Lesbian woman of immortal song!
  O child of genius! stately, beautiful,
  And full of love to all, save only me,
  And not ungentle e'en to me! My heart,                             175
  Why beats it thus? Through yonder coppice-wood
  Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straightway
  On to her father's house. She is alone!
  The night draws on--such ways are hard to hit--
  And fit it is I should restore this sketch,                        180
  Dropt unawares, no doubt. Why should I yearn
  To keep the relique? 'twill but idly feed
  The passion that consumes me. Let me haste!
  The picture in my hand which she has left;
  She cannot blame me that I followed her:                           185
  And I may be her guide the long wood through.



[369:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, September 6, 1802:
included in the _Poetical Register_ for 1802 (1804), in _Sibylline
Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

It has been pointed out to me (by Mr. Arthur Turnbull) that the
conception of the 'Resolution' that failed was suggested by Gessner's
Idyll _Der feste Vorsatz_ ('The Fixed Resolution'):--_S. Gessner's
Schriften_, i. 104-7; _Works_, 1802, ii. 219-21.

[369:2] _Vaccinium Myrtillus_, known by the different names of Whorts,
Whortle-berries, Bilberries; and in the North of England, Blea-berries
and Bloom-berries. [_Note by S. T. C._ 1802.]


[3] wild] blind M. P., P. R.

[17-26] om. M. P., P. R.

[17-25] Quoted in Letter to Cottle, May 27, 1814.

[18] love-lorn] woe-worn (heart-sick _erased_) Letter, 1814.

[20] _unconscious life_ Letter, 1814.

[22] _wholly cease_ to BE Letter, 1814.

[27] these] here M. P.

[28] For Love to dwell in; the low stumps would gore M. P., P. R.


            till, like wounded bird
  Easily caught, the dusky Dryades
  With prickles sharper than his darts would mock.
  _His little Godship_

M. P., P. R.

[34-42, 44] om. M.P., P.R.

[51] here will couch M. P., P. R., S. L.

[55] brook] stream M. P., P. R., S. L. (for _stream_ read _brook_
_Errata_, S. L., p. [xi]).


                   yet bell-like sound
  Tinkling, or bees

M. P., P. R., S. L. 1828.

[58] The] This M. P., P. R., S. L.

[70] That swells its] Who swells his M. P., P. R., S. L.

[75] the] her downcast M. P., P. R. Her face, her form divine, her
downcast look S. L.


  Contemplative, her cheek upon her palm
  Supported; the white arm and elbow rest

M. P., P. R.

  Contemplative! Ah see! her open palm

S. L.


               He, meanwhile,
  Who from

M. P., P. R., S. L.

[86] om. M. P., P. R., S. L.

[87] The] She M. P., P. R., S. L.

[91-100] These lines are quoted in the prefatory note to _Kubla Khan_.

[94] mis-shape] mis-shapes M. P.

[108] love-yearning by] love-gazing on M. P., P. R.

[114] Spire] Tow'r M. P., P. R., S. L.

[118] my] thy S. L. (for _thy_ read _my_ _Errata_, S. L., p. [xi]).

[121] and] to M. P., P. R.

[124] waves] waters P. R., S. L.


  _How soon to re-unite!_ They meet, they join
  In deep embrace, and open to the sun
  Lie calm and smooth. Such the delicious hour

M. P., P. R., S. L.

[133] Of deep enjoyment, foll'wing Love's brief quarrels M. P., P. R.
Lines 126-33 are supplied in the _Errata_, S. L. 1817 (p. xi).

[134] And] But _Errata_, S. L. (p. xi).

[135] I come out into light M. P., P. R.: I came out into light S. L.
For _came_ read _come_ _Errata_, S. L. (p. xi).

[144] At] Beneath M. P., P. R., S. L. (for _Beneath_ read _At_ _Errata_,
S. L., p. [xi]).

[152] this] _this_ M. P., P. R.: THIS S. L. 1828, 1829.

[162] those] these P. R.

[174] me] one M. P., P. R.

[177] straightway] away M. P., P. R.

[184] The] This M. P., P. R.


['One of our most celebrated poets, who had, I was told, picked out and
praised the little piece 'On a Cloud,' another had quoted (saying it
would have been faultless if I had not used the word _Phoebus_ in it,
which he thought inadmissible in modern poetry), sent me some verses
inscribed "To Matilda Betham, from a Stranger"; and dated "Keswick,
Sept. 9, 1802, S. T. C." I should have guessed whence they came, but
dared not flatter myself so highly as satisfactorily to believe it,
before I obtained the avowal of the lady who had transmitted them.
_Excerpt from 'Autobiographical Sketch'._]

  Matilda! I have heard a sweet tune played
  On a sweet instrument--thy Poesie--
  Sent to my soul by Boughton's pleading voice,
  Where friendship's zealous wish inspirited,
  Deepened and filled the subtle tones of _taste_:                     5
  (So have I heard a Nightingale's fine notes
  Blend with the murmur of a hidden stream!)
  And now the fair, wild offspring of thy genius,
  Those wanderers whom thy fancy had sent forth
  To seek their fortune in this motley world,                         10
  Have found a little home within _my_ heart,
  And brought me, as the quit-rent of their lodging,
  Rose-buds, and fruit-blossoms, and pretty weeds,
  And timorous laurel leaflets half-disclosed,
  Engarlanded with gadding woodbine tendrils!                         15
  A coronal, which, with undoubting hand,
  I twine around the brows of patriot HOPE!

  The Almighty, having first composed a Man,
  Set him to music, framing Woman for him,
  And fitted each to each, and made them one!                         20
  And 'tis my faith, that there's a natural bond
  Between the female mind and measured sounds,
  Nor do I know a sweeter Hope than this,
  That this sweet Hope, by judgment unreproved,
  That our own Britain, our dear mother Isle,                         25
  May boast one Maid, a poetess _indeed_,
  Great as th' impassioned Lesbian, in sweet song,
  And O! of holier mind, and happier fate.

  Matilda! I dare twine _thy_ vernal wreath
  Around the brows of patriot Hope! But thou                          30
  Be wise! be bold! fulfil my auspices!
  Tho' sweet thy measures, stern must be thy thought,
  Patient thy study, watchful thy mild eye!
  Poetic feelings, like the stretching boughs
  Of mighty oaks, pay homage to the gales,                            35
  Toss in the strong winds, drive before the gust,
  Themselves one giddy storm of fluttering leaves;
  Yet, all the while self-limited, remain
  Equally near the fixed and solid trunk
  Of Truth and Nature in the howling storm,                           40
  As in the calm that stills the aspen grove.
  Be bold, meek Woman! but be wisely bold!
  Fly, ostrich-like, firm land beneath thy feet,
  Yet hurried onward by thy wings of fancy
  Swift as the whirlwind, singing in their quills.                    45
  Look round thee! look within thee! think and feel!
  What nobler meed, Matilda! canst thou win,
  Than tears of gladness in a BOUGHTON'S[376:1] eyes,
  And exultation even in strangers' hearts?



[374:1] First printed in a 'privately printed autobiographical sketch of
Miss Matilda Betham', preserved in a volume of tracts arranged and bound
up by Southey, now in the Forster Collection in the Victoria and Albert
Museum: reprinted (by J. Dykes Campbell) in the _Athenaeum_ (March 15,
1890): and, again, in _A House of Letters_, by Ernest Betham [1905], pp.
76-7. First collected in 1893 (see Editor's _Note_, p. 630). Lines 33-41
are quoted in a Letter to Sotheby, September 10, 1802. See _Letters of
S. T. C._, 1895, i. 404.

[376:1] Catherine Rose, wife of Sir Charles William Rouse-Boughton,
Bart. Sir Charles and Lady Boughton visited Greta Hall in September,


[7] murmur] murmurs 1893.

[16] coronal] coronel P. Sketch.

[34] stretching] flexuous MS. Letter, Sept. 10, 1802.

[35] pay] yield MS. Letter, 1802.

[39] solid] parent MS. Letter, 1802.

[40] Of truth in Nature--in the howling blast MS. Letter, 1802.


Besides the Rivers, Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the
foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and
within a few paces of the Glaciers, the Gentiana Major grows in immense
numbers, with its 'flowers of loveliest [liveliest _Friend, 1809_]

  Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star
  In his steep course? So long he seems to pause
  On thy bald awful head, O sovran BLANC,
  The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
  Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form!                         5
  Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
  How silently! Around thee and above
  Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
  An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
  As with a wedge! But when I look again,                             10
  It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
  Thy habitation from eternity!
  O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,
  Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
  Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer                   15
  I worshipped the Invisible alone.

    Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,
  So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,
  Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought,
  Yea, with my Life and Life's own secret joy:                        20
  Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused,
  Into the mighty vision passing--there
  As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven!

    Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
  Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,                         25
  Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,
  Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
  Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.

    Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale!
  O struggling with the darkness all the night,[378:1]                30
  And visited all night by troops of stars,
  Or when they climb the sky or when they sink:
  Companion of the morning-star at dawn,
  Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
  Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!                          35
  Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?
  Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?
  Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

    And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
  Who called you forth from night and utter death,                    40
  From dark and icy caverns called you forth,
  Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
  For ever shattered and the same for ever?
  Who gave you your invulnerable life,
  Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,                 45
  Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?
  And who commanded (and the silence came),
  Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

    Ye Ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow
  Adown enormous ravines slope amain--                                50
  Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
  And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!
  Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!
  Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven
  Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun                        55
  Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers[379:1]
  Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?--
  GOD! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
  Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, GOD!
  GOD! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!                    60
  Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
  And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,
  And in their perilous fall shall thunder, GOD!

    Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!
  Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!                      65
  Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm!
  Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
  Ye signs and wonders of the element!
  Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!

    Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,
  Oft from whose feet the avalanche,[380:1] unheard,                  71
  Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene
  Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast--
  Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou
  That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low                           75
  In adoration, upward from thy base
  Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,
  Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,
  To rise before me--Rise, O ever rise,
  Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth!                        80
  Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,
  Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,
  Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
  And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun
  Earth, with her thousand voices, praises GOD.                       85



[376:2] First published in the _Morning Post_, Sept. 11, 1802: reprinted
in the _Poetical Register_ for 1802 (1803), ii. 308, 311, and in _The
Friend_, No. XI, Oct. 26, 1809: included in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817,
1828, 1829, and 1834. Three MSS. are extant: (1) _MS. A_, sent to Sir
George Beaumont, Oct. 1803 (see _Coleorton Letters_, 1886, i. 26); (2)
_MS. B_, the MS. of the version as printed in _The Friend_, Oct. 26,
1809 (now in the Forster Collection in the Victoria and Albert Museum);
(3) _MS. C_, presented to Mrs. Brabant in 1815 (now in the British
Museum). The _Hymn before Sunrise, &c._, 'Hymn in the manner of the
Psalms,' is an expansion, in part, of a translation of Friederika Brun's
'Ode to Chamouny', addressed to Klopstock, which numbers some twenty
lines. The German original (see the Appendices of this edition) was
first appended to Coleridge's _Poetical Works_ in 1844 (p. 372). A
translation was given in a footnote, _P. W._ (ed. by T. Ashe), 1885, ii.
86, 87. In the _Morning Post_ and _Poetical Register_ the following
explanatory note preceded the poem:--


     '[Chamouni is one of the highest mountain valleys of the
     Barony of Faucigny in the Savoy Alps; and exhibits a kind of
     fairy world, in which the wildest appearances (I had almost
     said horrors) of Nature alternate with the softest and most
     beautiful. The chain of Mont Blanc is its boundary; and
     besides the Arve it is filled with sounds from the Arveiron,
     which rushes from the melted glaciers, like a giant, mad with
     joy, from a dungeon, and forms other torrents of snow-water,
     having their rise in the glaciers which slope down into the
     valley. The beautiful _Gentiana major_, or greater gentian,
     with blossoms of the brightest blue, grows in large companies
     a few steps from the never-melted ice of the glaciers. I
     thought it an affecting emblem of the boldness of human hope,
     venturing near, and, as it were, leaning over the brink of the
     grave. Indeed, the whole vale, its every light, its every
     sound, must needs impress every mind not utterly callous with
     the thought--Who _would_ be, who _could_ be an Atheist in this
     valley of wonders! If any of the readers of the MORNING POST
     [Those who have _P. R._] have visited this vale in their
     journeys among the Alps, I am confident that they [that they
     _om. P. R._] will not find the sentiments and feelings
     expressed, or attempted to be expressed, in the following
     poem, extravagant.]'

[378:1] I had written a much finer line when Sca' Fell was in my
thoughts, viz.:--

  O blacker than the darkness all the night
  And visited
                                  _Note to MS. A._

[379:1] The _Gentiana major_ grows in large companies a stride's
distance from the foot of several of the glaciers. Its _blue_ flower,
the colour of Hope: is it not a pretty emblem of Hope creeping onward
even to the edge of the grave, to the very verge of utter desolation?
_Note to MS. A._

[380:1] The fall of vast masses of snow, so called. _Note MS. (C)._


Title] Chamouny The Hour before Sunrise A Hymn M. P., P. R.: Mount
Blanc, The Summit of the Vale of Chamouny, An Hour before Sunrise: A
Hymn MS. A.

[3] On thy bald awful head O Chamouny M. P., P. R.: On thy bald awful
top O Chamouny MS. A: On thy bald awful top O Sovran Blanc Friend, 1809.

[4] Arve] Arvè M. P., P. R., MS. (C).

[5] dread mountain form M. P., P. R., MS. A. most] dread Friend, 1809.

[6] forth] out MS. A.

[8] Deep is the sky, and black: transpicuous, deep M. P., P. R.: Deep is
the sky, and black! transpicuous, black. MS. A.

[11] is thine] seems thy M. P., P. R.

[13] Mount] form M. P., P. R., MS. A.

[14] the bodily sense] my bodily eye M. P., P. R.: my bodily sense MS.

[16] Invisible] INVISIBLE M. P., P. R., Friend, 1809, MS. A.


  Yet thou meantime, wast working on my soul,
  E'en like some deep enchanting melody

M. P., P. R., MS. A.

[19 foll.]

  But [Now MS. A] I awake, and with a busier mind,
  And active will self-conscious, offer now
  Not as before, involuntary pray'r
  And passive adoration!
                         Hand and voice,
  Awake, awake! and thou, my heart, awake!
  Awake ye rocks! Ye forest pines awake! (Not in MS. A.)
  Green fields

M. P., P. R., MS. A.


  And thou, O silent Mountain, sole and bare
  O blacker than the darkness all the night

M. P., P. R.

[29] And thou, thou silent mountain, lone and bare MS. A. The first and
chief, stern Monarch of the Vale _Errata to 'Hymn', &c._, The Friend,
No. XIII, Nov. 16, 1809.

[38] parent] father M. P., P. R., MS. A.

[41] From darkness let you loose and icy dens M. P., P. R., MS. A.

[46] Eternal thunder and unceasing foam MS. A.

[48] 'Here shall the billows . . .' M. P., P. R.: Here shall your
billows MS. A.

[49] the mountain's brow] yon dizzy heights M. P., P. R.

[50] Adown enormous ravines steeply slope M. P., P. R., MS. A. [A _bad_
line; but I hope to be able to alter it Note to MS. A].


            with lovely flowers
  Of living blue

M. P., P. R., MS. A.

[Between 58-64]

  GOD! GOD! the torrents like a shout of nations
  Utter! the ice-plain bursts and answers GOD!
  GOD, sing the meadow-streams with gladsome voice,
  And pine-groves with their soft and soul-like sound,
  The silent snow-mass, loos'ning thunders God!

M. P., P. R.

These lines were omitted in MS. A.

[64] Ye dreadless flow'rs that fringe M. P., P. R. living] azure MS. A.
livery S. L. (corrected in _Errata_, p. [xi]).

[65] sporting round] bounding by M. P., P. R., MS. A.

[66] mountain-storm] mountain blast M. P., P. R.

[69] God] GOD. M. P., P. R.

[Between 70-80]

  And thou, O silent Form, alone and bare
  Whom, as I lift again my head bow'd low
  In adoration, I again behold,
  And to thy summit upward from thy base
  Sweep slowly with dim eyes suffus'd by tears,
  Awake thou mountain form! rise, like a cloud

M. P., P. R.

  And thou thou silent mountain, lone and bare
  Whom as I lift again my head bow'd low
  In adoration, I again behold!
  And from thy summit upward to the base
  Sweep slowly, with dim eyes suffus'd with tears
  Rise, mighty form! even as thou _seem'st_ to rise.

MS. A.

[70] Thou too] And thou, Errata, Friend, No. XIII. Once more, hoar Mount
MS. (C), S. L. (For _once more_, read _Thou too_ _Errata_, S. L., p.

[72] through] in Friend, 1809. In the blue serene MS. (C).

[74] again] once more MS. (C).

[75] That as once more I raise my Head bow'd low Friend, No. XI, 1809
(see the _Errata_, No. XIII).

[83-4] Tell the blue sky MS. A.

[84] yon] the M. P., P. R., MS. A.

[85] praises] calls on M. P., P. R., MS. A.


  'How seldom, friend! a good great man inherits
    Honour or wealth with all his worth and pains!
  It sounds like stories from the land of spirits
  If any man obtain that which he merits
    Or any merit that which he obtains.'                               5


  For shame, dear friend, renounce this canting strain!
  What would'st thou have a good great man obtain?
  Place? titles? salary? a gilded chain?
  Or throne of corses which his sword had slain?                      10
  Greatness and goodness are not _means_, but _ends_!
  Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
  The good great man? _three_ treasures, LOVE, and LIGHT,
    And CALM THOUGHTS, regular as infant's breath:
  And three firm friends, more sure than day and night,               15
    HIMSELF, his MAKER, and the ANGEL DEATH!



[381:1] First published in the _Morning Post_ (as an 'Epigram', signed
ΕΣΤΗΣΕ), September 23, 1802: reprinted in the _Poetical Register_ for
1802 (1803, p. 246): included in _The Friend_, No. XIX, December 28,
1809, and in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 53. First collected in 1844.


Title] Epigram M. P.: Epigrams P. R.: Complaint Lit. Rem., 1844, 1852:
The Good, &c. 1893.

[6] Reply to the above M. P.: Reply The Friend, 1809: Reproof Lit. Rem.,


  This Sycamore, oft musical with bees,--
  Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long unharmed
  May all its agéd boughs o'er-canopy
  The small round basin, which this jutting stone
  Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring,                 5
  Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath,
  Send up cold waters to the traveller
  With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease
  Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance,[382:1]
  Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's Page,                           10
  As merry and no taller, dances still,
  Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount.
  Here Twilight is and Coolness: here is moss,
  A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.
  Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree.                       15
  Drink, Pilgrim, here; Here rest! and if thy heart
  Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh
  Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,
  Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees!



[381:2] First published in the _Morning Post_, September 24, 1802:
reprinted in the _Poetical Register_ for 1802 (1803, p. 338): included
in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[382:1] Compare _Anima Poetae_, 1895, p. 17: 'The spring with the little
tiny cone of loose sand ever rising and sinking to the bottom, but its
surface without a wrinkle.'


Title] Inscription on a Jutting Stone, over a Spring M. P., P. R.

[3] agéd] darksome M. P., P. R.

[5] Still may this spring M. P., P. R.

[7] waters] water P. R. to] for M. P., P. R.

[9] soundless] noiseless M. P., P. R.

[10] Which] That M. P., P. R.

[13] Here coolness dwell, and twilight M. P., P. R.

[16 foll.]

  Here, stranger, drink! Here rest! And if thy heart
  Be innocent, here too may'st thou renew
  Thy spirits, listening to these gentle sounds,
  The passing gale, or ever-murm'ring bees.

M. P., P. R.




  I know it is dark; and though I have lain,
  Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain,
  I have not once opened the lids of my eyes,
  But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies.
  O Rain! that I lie listening to,                                     5
  You're but a doleful sound at best:
  I owe you little thanks, 'tis true,
  For breaking thus my needful rest!
  Yet if, as soon as it is light,
  O Rain! you will but take your flight,                              10
  I'll neither rail, nor malice keep,
  Though sick and sore for want of sleep.
  But only now, for this one day,
  Do go, dear Rain! do go away!


    O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound,                            15
  The clash hard by, and the murmur all round!
  You know, if you know aught, that we,
  Both night and day, but ill agree:
  For days and months, and almost years,
  Have limped on through this vale of tears,                          20
  Since body of mine, and rainy weather,
  Have lived on easy terms together.
  Yet if, as soon as it is light,
  O Rain! you will but take your flight,
  Though you should come again to-morrow,                             25
  And bring with you both pain and sorrow;
  Though stomach should sicken and knees should swell--
  I'll nothing speak of you but well.
  But only now for this one day,
  Do go, dear Rain! do go away!                                       30


    Dear Rain! I ne'er refused to say
  You're a good creature in your way;
  Nay, I could write a book myself,
  Would fit a parson's lower shelf,
  Showing how very good you are.--                                    35
  What then? sometimes it must be fair
  And if sometimes, why not to-day?
  Do go, dear Rain! do go away!


    Dear Rain! if I've been cold and shy,
  Take no offence! I'll tell you why.                                 40
  A dear old Friend e'en now is here,
  And with him came my sister dear;
  After long absence now first met,
  Long months by pain and grief beset--
  We three dear friends! in truth, we groan                           45
  Impatiently to be alone.
  We three, you mark! and not one more!
  The strong wish makes my spirit sore.
  We have so much to talk about,
  So many sad things to let out;                                      50
  So many tears in our eye-corners,
  Sitting like little Jacky Horners--
  In short, as soon as it is day,
  Do go, dear Rain! do go away.


    And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain!                            55
  Whenever you shall come again,
  Be you as dull as e'er you could
  (And by the bye 'tis understood,
  You're not so pleasant as you're good),
  Yet, knowing well your worth and place,                             60
  I'll welcome you with cheerful face;
  And though you stayed a week or more,
  Were ten times duller than before;
  Yet with kind heart, and right good will,
  I'll sit and listen to you still;                                   65
  Nor should you go away, dear Rain!
  Uninvited to remain.
  But only now, for this one day,
  Do go, dear Rain! do go away.



[382:2] First published in the _Morning Post_ (?), Oct. 7, 1802:
included in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i.
54-6. First collected in 1844. In _Literary Remains_ the poem is dated
1809, but in a letter to J. Wedgwood, Oct. 20, 1802, Coleridge seems to
imply that the _Ode to the Rain_ had appeared recently in the _Morning
Post_. A MS. note of Mrs. H. N. Coleridge, included in other memoranda
intended for publication in _Essays on His Own Times_, gives the date,
'Ode to Rain, October 7'. The issue for October 7 is missing in the
volume for 1802 preserved in the British Museum, and it may be presumed
that it was in that number the _Ode to the Rain_ first appeared. It is
possible that the 'Ode' was written on the morning after the unexpected
arrival of Charles and Mary Lamb at Greta Hall in August, 1802.


[45] We] With L. R, 1844, 1852. [The text was amended in P. W.,

A DAY-DREAM[385:1]

    My eyes make pictures, when they are shut:
      I see a fountain, large and fair,
    A willow and a ruined hut,
      And thee, and me and Mary there.
  O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow!                              5
  Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow!

    A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed,
      And that and summer well agree:
    And lo! where Mary leans her head,
      Two dear names carved upon the tree!                            10
  And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow:
  Our sister and our friend will both be here to-morrow.

    'Twas day! but now few, large, and bright,
      The stars are round the crescent moon!
    And now it is a dark warm night,                                  15
      The balmiest of the month of June!
  A glow-worm fall'n, and on the marge remounting
  Shines, and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet fountain.

    O ever--ever be thou blest!
      For dearly, Asra! love I thee!                                  20
    This brooding warmth across my breast,
      This depth of tranquil bliss--ah, me!
  Fount, tree and shed are gone, I know not whither,
  But in one quiet room we three are still together.

    The shadows dance upon the wall,                                  25
      By the still dancing fire-flames made;
    And now they slumber, moveless all!
      And now they melt to one deep shade!
  But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee:
  I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee!           30

    Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play--
      'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow!
    But let me check this tender lay
      Which none may hear but she and thou!
  Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming.                      35
  Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women!



[385:1] First published in the _Bijou_ for 1828: included in 1828, 1829,
and 1834. Asra is Miss Sarah Hutchinson; 'Our Sister and our Friend,'
William and Dorothy Wordsworth. There can be little doubt that these
lines were written in 1801 or 1802.


[8] well] will Bijou, 1828.

[17] on] in Bijou, 1828.

[20] For Asra, dearly Bijou, 1828.

[28] one] me Bijou, 1828.


  Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove,
  The Linnet and Thrush say, 'I love and I love!'
  In the winter they're silent--the wind is so strong;
  What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song.
  But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,              5
  And singing, and loving--all come back together.
  But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
  The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
  That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he--
  'I love my Love, and my Love loves me!'                             10



[386:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, October 16, 1802:
included in _Sibylline Leaves_, in 1828, 1829, and 1834.


Title] The Language of Birds: Lines spoken extempore, to a little child,
in early spring M. P.

[Between 6-7]

  'I love, and I love,' almost all the birds say
  From sunrise to star-rise, so gladsome are they.

M. P.

[After 10]

  'Tis no wonder that he's full of joy to the brim,
  When He loves his Love, and his Love loves him.

M. P.

Line 10 is adapted from the refrain of Prior's _Song_ ('One morning very
early, one morning in the spring'):--'I love my love, because I know my
love loves me.'



  If thou wert here, these tears were tears of light!
    But from as sweet a vision did I start
  As ever made these eyes grow idly bright!
    And though I weep, yet still around my heart
  A sweet and playful tenderness doth linger,                          5
  Touching my heart as with an infant's finger.

  My mouth half open, like a witless man,
    I saw our couch, I saw our quiet room,
    Its shadows heaving by the fire-light gloom;
  And o'er my lips a subtle feeling ran,                              10
  All o'er my lips a soft and breeze-like feeling--
  I know not what--but had the same been stealing

  Upon a sleeping mother's lips, I guess
    It would have made the loving mother dream
  That she was softly bending down to kiss                            15
    Her babe, that something more than babe did seem,
  A floating presence of its darling father,
  And yet its own dear baby self far rather!

  Across my chest there lay a weight, so warm!
    As if some bird had taken shelter there;                          20
  And lo! I seemed to see a woman's form--
    Thine, Sara, thine? O joy, if thine it were!
  I gazed with stifled breath, and feared to stir it,
  No deeper trance e'er wrapt a yearning spirit!

  And now, when I seemed sure thy face to see,                        25
    Thy own dear self in our own quiet home;
  There came an elfish laugh, and wakened me:
    'Twas Frederic, who behind my chair had clomb,
  And with his bright eyes at my face was peeping.
  I blessed him, tried to laugh, and fell a-weeping!                  30



[386:2] First published in the _Morning Post_, October 19, 1802. First
collected in _Poems_, 1852. A note (p. 384), was affixed:--'This little
poem first appeared in the _Morning Post_ in 1802, but was doubtless
composed in Germany. It seems to have been forgotten by its author, for
this was the only occasion on which it saw the light through him. The
Editors think that it will plead against parental neglect in the mind of
most readers.' Internal evidence seems to point to 1801 or 1802 as the
most probable date of composition.


[Below line 30] ΕΣΤΗΣΕ.



  Oft, oft methinks, the while with thee,
    I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear
    And dedicated name, I hear
  A promise and a mystery,
    A pledge of more than passing life,                                5
    Yea, in that very name of Wife!

  A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep!
    A feeling that upbraids the heart
    With happiness beyond desert,
  That gladness half requests to weep!                                10
    Nor bless I not the keener sense
    And unalarming turbulence

  Of transient joys, that ask no sting
    From jealous fears, or coy denying;
    But born beneath Love's brooding wing,                            15
  And into tenderness soon dying,
    Wheel out their giddy moment, then
    Resign the soul to love again;--

  A more precipitated vein
    Of notes, that eddy in the flow                                   20
    Of smoothest song, they come, they go,
  And leave their sweeter understrain,
    Its own sweet self--a love of Thee
    That seems, yet cannot greater be!

? 1802.


[388:1] First published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: included in 1828,
1829, 1834. There is no evidence as to the date of composition.


[13] ask] fear S. L. (for _fear_ no sting read _ask_ no sting _Errata_,
p. [xi]).


  Ere on my bed my limbs I lay,
  It hath not been my use to pray
  With moving lips or bended knees;
  But silently, by slow degrees,
  My spirit I to Love compose,                                         5
  In humble trust mine eye-lids close,
  With reverential resignation,
  No wish conceived, no thought exprest,
  Only a sense of supplication;
  A sense o'er all my soul imprest                                    10
  That I am weak, yet not unblest,
  Since in me, round me, every where
  Eternal Strength and Wisdom are.

  But yester-night I prayed aloud
  In anguish and in agony,                                            15
  Up-starting from the fiendish crowd
  Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me:
  A lurid light, a trampling throng,
  Sense of intolerable wrong,
  And whom I scorned, those only strong!                              20
  Thirst of revenge, the powerless will
  Still baffled, and yet burning still!
  Desire with loathing strangely mixed
  On wild or hateful objects fixed.
  Fantastic passions! maddening brawl!                                25
  And shame and terror over all!
  Deeds to be hid which were not hid,
  Which all confused I could not know
  Whether I suffered, or I did:
  For all seemed guilt, remorse or woe,                               30
  My own or others still the same
  Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame.

  So two nights passed: the night's dismay
  Saddened and stunned the coming day.
  Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me                              35
  Distemper's worst calamity.
  The third night, when my own loud scream
  Had waked me from the fiendish dream,
  O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild,
  I wept as I had been a child;                                       40
  And having thus by tears subdued
  My anguish to a milder mood,
  Such punishments, I said, were due
  To natures deepliest stained with sin,--
  For aye entempesting anew                                           45
  The unfathomable hell within,
  The horror of their deeds to view,
  To know and loathe, yet wish and do!
  Such griefs with such men well agree,
  But wherefore, wherefore fall on me?                                50
  To be beloved is all I need,
  And whom I love, I love indeed.



[389:1] First published, together with _Christabel_, in 1816: included
in 1828, 1829, i. 334-6 (but not in _Contents_), and 1834. A first draft
of these lines was sent in a Letter to Southey, Sept. 11, 1803 (_Letters
of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 435-7), An amended version of lines 18-32 was
included in an unpublished Letter to Poole, dated Oct. 3, 1803.


[1] Ere] When MS. Letter to Southey, Sept. 11, 1803.

[9] sense] _sense_ MS. Letter to Southey, 1816, 1828, 1829.

[10] sense] _sense_ MS. Letter to Southey.

[12] Since round me, in me, everywhere MS. Letter to Southey.

[13] Wisdom] Goodness MS. Letter to Southey.

[16] Up-starting] Awaking MS. Letter to Southey.

[Between 18-26]

  Desire with loathing strangely mixt,
  On wild or hateful objects fixt.
  Sense of revenge, the powerless will,
  Still baffled and consuming still;
  Sense of intolerable wrong,
  And men whom I despis'd made strong!
  Vain-glorious threats, unmanly vaunting,
  Bad men my boasts and fury taunting:
  Rage, sensual passion, mad'ning Brawl,

MS. Letter to Southey.

[18] trampling] ghastly MS. Letter to Poole, Oct. 3, 1803.

[19] intolerable] insufferable MS. Letter to Poole.

[20] those] they MS. Letter to Poole.

[Between 22-4]

  Tempestuous pride, vain-glorious vaunting
  Base men my vices justly taunting

MS. Letter to Poole.

[27] which] that MS. Letters to Southey and Poole.

[28] could] might MS. Letters to Southey and Poole.

[30] For all was Horror, Guilt, and Woe MS. Letter to Southey: For all
was Guilt, and Shame, and Woe MS. Letter to Poole.

[33] So] Thus MS. Letter to Southey.

[34] coming] boding MS. Letter to Southey.


  I fear'd to sleep: sleep seem'd to be
  Disease's worst malignity

MS. Letter to Southey.

[38] waked] freed MS. Letter to Southey.

[39] O'ercome by sufferings dark and wild MS. Letter to Southey.

[42] anguish] Trouble MS. Letter to Southey.

[43] said] thought MS. Letter to Southey.


  Still to be stirring up anew
  The self-created Hell within

MS. Letter to Southey.

[47] their deeds] the crimes MS. Letter to Southey.

[48] and] to MS. Letter to Southey.

[Between 48-51]

  With such let fiends make mockery--
  But I--Oh, wherefore this _on me_?
  Frail is my soul, yea, strengthless wholly,
  Unequal, restless, melancholy.
  But free from Hate and sensual Folly.

MS. Letter to Southey.

[51] be] live MS. Letter to Southey.

[After 52] And etc., etc., etc., etc. MS. Letter to Southey.


  We pledged our hearts, my love and I,--
    I in my arms the maiden clasping;
  I could not guess the reason why,
    But, oh! I trembled like an aspen.

  Her father's love she bade me gain;                                  5
    I went, but shook like any reed!
  I strove to act the man--in vain!
    We had exchanged our hearts indeed.



[391:1] First published in the _Courier_, April 16, 1804: included in
the _Poetical Register_ for 1804 (1805); reprinted in _Literary
Souvenir_ for 1826, p. 408, and in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 59.
First collected in 1844.


Title] The Exchange of Hearts Courier, 1804.

[2] Me in her arms Courier, 1804.

[3] guess] tell Lit. Souvenir, Lit. Rem., 1844.

[5] Her father's leave Courier, 1804, P. R. 1804, 1893.

[6] but] and Lit. Souvenir, Lit. Rem., 1844.



  This be the meed, that thy song creates a thousand-fold echo!
  Sweet as the warble of woods, that awakes at the gale of the morning!
  List! the Hearts of the Pure, like caves in the ancient mountains
  Deep, deep _in_ the Bosom, and _from_ the Bosom resound it,
  Each with a different tone, complete or in musical fragments--       5
  All have welcomed thy Voice, and receive and retain and prolong it!

  This is the word of the Lord! it is spoken, and Beings Eternal
  Live and are borne as an Infant; the Eternal begets the Immortal:
  Love is the Spirit of Life, and Music the Life of the Spirit!

? 1805.


[391:2] First published in _P. W._, 1893. These lines were found in one
of Coleridge's Notebooks (No. 24). The first draft immediately follows
the transcription of a series of Dante's _Canzoni_ begun at Malta in
1805. If the Hexameters were composed at the same time, it is possible
that they were inspired by a perusal or re-perusal of a MS. copy of
Wordsworth's unpublished poems which had been made for his use whilst he
was abroad. As Mr. Campbell points out (_P. W._, p. 614), Wordsworth
himself was responsible for the Latinization of his name. A _Sonnet on
seeing Miss Helen Maria Williams weeping at a tale of distress_, which
was published in the _European Magazine_ for March, 1787, is signed


[1 foll.]

  What is the meed of thy song? 'Tis the ceaseless the thousandfold
  Which from the welcoming Hearts of the Pure repeats and prolongs it--
  Each with a different Tone, compleat or in musical fragments.


  This be the meed, that thy Song awakes to a thousandfold echo
    Welcoming Hearts; is it their voice or is it thy own?
  Lost! the Hearts of the Pure, like caves in the ancient mountains
  Deep, deep in the bosom, and _from_ the bosom resound it,
  Each with a different tone, compleat or in musical fragments.
  Meet the song they receive, and retain and resound and prolong it!
  Welcoming Souls! is it their voice, sweet Poet, or is it thy own

Drafts in Notebook.

AN EXILE[392:1]

  Friend, Lover, Husband, Sister, Brother!
  Dear names close in upon each other!
  Alas! poor Fancy's bitter-sweet--
  Our names, and but our names can meet.



[392:1] First published, with title 'An Exile', in 1893. These lines,
without title or heading, are inserted in one of Coleridge's Malta



  Lady, to Death we're doom'd, our crime the same!
  Thou, that in me thou kindled'st such fierce heat;
  I, that my heart did of a Sun so sweet
  The rays concentre to so hot a flame.
  I, fascinated by an Adder's eye--                                    5
  Deaf as an Adder thou to all my pain;
  Thou obstinate in Scorn, in Passion I--
  I lov'd too much, too much didst thou disdain.
  Hear then our doom in Hell as just as stern,
  Our sentence equal as our crimes conspire--                         10
  Who living bask'd at Beauty's earthly fire,
  In living flames eternal these must burn--
  Hell for us both fit places too supplies--
  In my heart _thou_ wilt burn, I _roast_ before thine eyes.

? 1805.


[392:2] First published in 1893. For the Italian original, 'Alia Sua
Amico,' _Sonetto_, vide Appendices of this Edition.


  All look and likeness caught from earth,
  All accident of kin and birth,
  Had pass'd away. There was no trace
  Of aught on that illumined face,
  Uprais'd beneath the rifted stone                                    5
  But of one spirit all her own;--
  She, she herself, and only she,
  Shone through her body visibly.



[393:1] These lines, without title or heading, are quoted ('vide . . .
my lines') in an entry in one of Coleridge's Malta Notebooks, dated Feb.
8, 1805, to illustrate the idea that the love-sense can be abstracted
from the accidents of form or person (see _Anima Poetae_, 1895, p. 120).
It follows that they were written before that date. _Phantom_ was first
published in 1834, immediately following (ii. 71) _Phantom or Fact. A
dialogue in Verse_, which was first published in 1828, and was probably
written about that time. Both poems are 'fragments from the life of
dreams'; but it was the reality which lay behind both 'phantom' and
'fact' of which the poet dreamt, having his eyes open. With lines 4, 5
compare the following stanza of one of the _MS._ versions of the _Dark

  Against a grey stone rudely carv'd
  The statue of an armed knight,
  She lean'd in melancholy mood
    To watch ['d] the lingering Light.

A SUNSET[393:2]

  Upon the mountain's edge with light touch resting,
  There a brief while the globe of splendour sits
    And seems a creature of the earth; but soon
      More changeful than the Moon,
  To wane fantastic his great orb submits,                             5
  Or cone or mow of fire: till sinking slowly
  Even to a star at length he lessens wholly.

  Abrupt, as Spirits vanish, he is sunk!
  A soul-like breeze possesses all the wood.
    The boughs, the sprays have stood                                 10
  As motionless as stands the ancient trunk!
  But every leaf through all the forest flutters,
  And deep the cavern of the fountain mutters.



[393:2] First published in 1893. The title 'A Sunset' was prefixed by
the Editor. These lines are inscribed in one of Coleridge's Malta
Notebooks. The following note or comment is attached:--'These lines I
wrote as nonsense verses merely to try a metre; but they are by no means
contemptible; at least in reading them I am surprised at finding them so
good. 16 Aug., 1805, Malta.

'Now will it be a more English music if the first and fourth are double
rhymes and the 5th and 6th single? or all single, or the 2nd and 3rd
double? Try.' They were afterwards sent to William Worship, Esq.,
Yarmouth, in a letter dated April 22, 1819, as an unpublished autograph.


[1] with light touch] all lightly MS.

[4] the] this MS.

[6] A distant Hiss of fire MS. alternative reading.

[7] lessens] lessened MS.

[12] flutters] fluttered MS.

[13] mutters] muttered MS.

WHAT IS LIFE?[394:1]

    Resembles life what once was deem'd of light,
    Too ample in itself for human sight?
  An absolute self--an element ungrounded--
  All that we see, all colours of all shade
      By encroach of darkness made?--                                  5
  Is very life by consciousness unbounded?
  And all the thoughts, pains, joys of mortal breath,
  A war-embrace of wrestling life and death?



[394:1] First published in _Literary Souvenir_, 1829: included in
_Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 60. First collected in 1844. These lines,
'written in the same manner, and for the same purpose, but of course
with more conscious effort than the two stanzas on the preceding leaf,'
are dated '16 August, 1805, the day of the Valetta Horse-racing--bells
jangling, and stupefying music playing all day'. Afterwards, in 1819,
Coleridge maintained that they were written 'between the age of 15 and


[1] deem'd] held Lit. Souvenir, 1829.

[2] ample] simple MS.


  { [*per se*] (in its own Nature)
  { Is Life itself




  I seem to have an indistinct recollection of having read either in one
  of the ponderous tomes of George of Venice, or in some other compilation
  from the uninspired Hebrew writers, an apologue or Rabbinical tradition
  to the following purpose:

  While our first parents stood before their offended Maker, and the
      last                                                                5
  words of the sentence were yet sounding in Adam's ear, the guileful
  serpent, a counterfeit and a usurper from the beginning, presumptuously
  took on himself the character of advocate or mediator, and pretending to
  intercede for Adam, exclaimed: 'Nay, Lord, in thy justice, not so! for
  the man was the least in fault. Rather let the Woman return at once
      to                                                                 10
  the dust, and let Adam remain in this thy Paradise.' And the word of
  the Most High answered Satan: '_The tender mercies of the wicked are
  Treacherous Fiend! if with guilt like thine, it had been possible for
  to have the heart of a Man, and to feel the yearning of a human soul for
  its counterpart, the sentence, which thou now counsellest, should
     have                                                                15
  been inflicted on thyself.'

  The title of the following poem was suggested by a fact mentioned by
  Linnaeus, of a date-tree in a nobleman's garden which year after year
  had put forth a full show of blossoms, but never produced fruit, till a
  branch from another date-tree had been conveyed from a distance of     20
  some hundred leagues. The first leaf of the MS. from which the poem
  has been transcribed, and which contained the two or three introductory
  stanzas, is wanting: and the author has in vain taxed his memory to
  repair the loss. But a rude draught of the poem contains the substance
  of the stanzas, and the reader is requested to receive it as the
      substitute.                                                        25
  It is not impossible, that some congenial spirit, whose years do not
  exceed those of the Author at the time the poem was written, may find
  a pleasure in restoring the Lament to its original integrity by a
  of the thoughts to the requisite metre.                  _S. T. C._


  Beneath the blaze of a tropical sun the mountain peaks are          30
  the Thrones of Frost, through the absence of objects to reflect
  the rays. 'What no one with us shares, seems scarce our own.'
  The presence of a ONE,

    The best belov'd, who loveth me the best,

  is for the heart, what the supporting air from within is for the    35
  hollow globe with its suspended car. Deprive it of this, and all
  without, that would have buoyed it aloft even to the seat of the
  becomes a burthen and crushes it into flatness.


  The finer the sense for the beautiful and the lovely, and the
  fairer and lovelier the object presented to the sense; the more     40
  exquisite the individual's capacity of joy, and the more ample
  his means and opportunities of enjoyment, the more heavily
  will he feel the ache of solitariness, the more unsubstantial
  becomes the feast spread around him. What matters it,
  whether in fact the viands and the ministering graces are           45
  shadowy or real, to him who has not hand to grasp nor arms
  to embrace them?


  Imagination; honourable aims;
  Free commune with the choir that cannot die;
  Science and song; delight in little things,                         50
  The buoyant child surviving in the man;
  Fields, forests, ancient mountains, ocean, sky,
  With all their voices--O dare I accuse
  My earthly lot as guilty of my spleen,
  Or call my destiny niggard! O no! no!                               55
  It is her largeness, and her overflow,
  Which being incomplete, disquieteth me so!


  For never touch of gladness stirs my heart,
  But tim'rously beginning to rejoice
  Like a blind Arab, that from sleep doth start                       60
  In lonesome tent, I listen for thy voice.
  Belovéd! 'tis not thine; thou art not there!
  Then melts the bubble into idle air,
  And wishing without hope I restlessly despair.


  The mother with anticipated glee                                    65
  Smiles o'er the child, that, standing by her chair
  And flatt'ning its round cheek upon her knee,
  Looks up, and doth its rosy lips prepare
  To mock the coming sounds. At that sweet sight
  She hears her own voice with a new delight;                         70
  And if the babe perchance should lisp the notes aright,


  Then is she tenfold gladder than before!
  But should disease or chance the darling take,
  What then avail those songs, which sweet of yore
  Were only sweet for their sweet echo's sake?                        75
  Dear maid! no prattler at a mother's knee
  Was e'er so dearly prized as I prize thee:
  Why was I made for Love and Love denied to me?



[395:1] First published in 1828: included in 1829 and 1834.


[5] stood] were yet standing 1828.

[8] mediator] moderator 1828.

[9] The words 'not so' are omitted in 1828.

[11] _remain_ here all the days of his now mortal life, and enjoy the
respite thou mayest grant him, in this thy Paradise which thou gavest to
him, and hast planted with every tree pleasant to the sight of man and
of delicious fruitage. 1828.

[13 foll.] _Treacherous Fiend!_ guilt deep as thine could not be, yet
the love of kind not extinguished. But if having done what thou hast
done, thou hadst yet the heart of man within thee, and the yearning of
the soul for its answering image and completing counterpart, O spirit,
desperately wicked! the sentence thou counsellest had been thy own!

[20] from a Date tree 1828, 1839.

[48] Hope, Imagination, &c. 1828.

[53] With all their voices mute--O dare I accuse 1838.

[55] Or call my niggard destiny! No! No! 1838.

[61] thy] _thy_ 1828, 1829.

[77] thee] _thee_ 1828, 1829.


  A sworded man whose trade is blood,
    In grief, in anger, and in fear,
  Thro' jungle, swamp, and torrent flood,
    I seek the wealth you hold so dear!

  The dazzling charm of outward form,                                  5
    The power of gold, the pride of birth,
  Have taken Woman's heart by storm--
    Usurp'd the place of inward worth.

  Is not true Love of higher price
    Than outward Form, though fair to see,                            10
  Wealth's glittering fairy-dome of ice,
    Or echo of proud ancestry?--

  O! Asra, Asra! couldst thou see
    Into the bottom of my heart,
  There's such a mine of Love for thee,                               15
    As almost might supply desert!

  (This separation is, alas!
    Too great a punishment to bear;
  O! take my life, or let me pass
    That life, that happy life, with her!)                            20

  The perils, erst with steadfast eye
    Encounter'd, now I shrink to see--
  Oh! I have heart enough to die--
    Not half enough to part from Thee!

? 1805.


[397:1] First published in 1834. In Pickering's one-volume edition of
the issue of 1848 the following note is printed on p. 372:--

'The fourth and last stanzas are adapted from the twelfth and last of
Cotton's _Chlorinda_ [Ode]:--

  'O my Chlorinda! could'st thou see
   Into the bottom of my heart,
   There's such a Mine of Love for thee,
   The Treasure would supply desert.

   Meanwhile my Exit now draws nigh,
   When, sweet Chlorinda, thou shalt see
   That I have heart enough to die,
   Not half enough to part with thee.

'The fifth stanza is the eleventh of Cotton's poem.'

In 1852 (p. 385) the note reads: 'The fourth and last stanzas are from
Cotton's _Chlorinda_, with very slight alteration.'

A first draft of this adaptation is contained in one of Coleridge's
Malta Notebooks:--


           Made worthy by excess of Love
         A wretch thro' power of Happiness,
           And poor from wealth I dare not use.


         This separation etc.


         [*The Pomp of Wealth*]
         [*Stores of Gold, the pomp of Wealth*]
         [*Nor less the Pride of Noble Birth*]
         The dazzling charm etc.
  (l. 4) Supplied the place etc.


         Is not true Love etc.


         O ΑΣΡΑ! ΑΣΡΑ could'st thou see
           Into the bottom of my Heart!
         There's such a Mine of Love for Thee--
           The Treasure would supply desert.


         Death erst contemn'd--O ΑΣΡΑ! why
           Now terror-stricken do I see--
         Oh! I have etc.


  Strong spirit-bidding sounds!
      With deep and hollow voice,
      'Twixt Hope and Dread,
        Seven Times I said
          Iohva Mitzoveh                                               5
  And up came an imp in the shape of a
      I saw, I doubted,
      And seven times spouted                                         10
        Johva Mitzoveh
  When Anti-Christ starting up, butting
                              and bāing,
      In the shape of a mischievous curly                             15
                              black Lamb--
      With a vast flock of Devils behind
                              and beside,
        And before 'em their Shepherdess
              Lucifer's Dam,                                          20
              Riding astride
            On an old black Ram,
  With Tartary stirrups, knees up to her chin.
  And a sleek chrysom imp to her Dugs muzzled in,--
            'Gee-up, my old Belzy! (she cried,                        25
          As she sung to her suckling cub)
  Trit-a-trot, trot! we'll go far and wide
  Trot, Ram-Devil! Trot! Belzebub!'
  Her petticoat fine was of scarlet Brocade,
  And soft in her lap her Baby she lay'd                              30
  With his pretty Nubs of Horns a-
  And his pretty little Tail all curly-twirly--
  St. Dunstan! and this comes of spouting--
    Of Devils what a Hurly-Burly!                                     35
  'Behold we are up! what want'st thou then?'
  'Sirs! only that'--'Say when and what'--
  You'd be so good'--'Say what and when'
  'This moment to get down again!'
  'We do it! we do it! we all get down!                               40
  But we take you with us to swim
                              or drown!
  Down a down to the grim Engulpher!'
  'O me! I am floundering in Fire and Sulphur!
  That the Dragon had scrounched you, squeal                          45
                              and squall--
  Cabbalists! Conjurers! great and small,
  Johva Mitzoveh Evohāen and all!
  Had _I_ never uttered your jaw-breaking words,
  I might now have been sloshing down Junket and Curds,
        Like a Devonshire Christian:                                  51
        But now a Philistine!

  Ye Earthmen! be warned by a judgement so tragic,
  And wipe yourselves cleanly with all books of magic--
  Hark! hark! it is Dives! 'Hold your Bother, you Booby!
  I am burnt ashy white, and you yet are but ruby.'                   56


  We ask and urge (here ends the story)
  All Christian Papishes to pray
  That this unhappy Conjurer may
  Instead of Hell, be but in Purgatory--                              60
      For then there's Hope,--
      Long live the Pope!

? 1805, ? 1814.


[399:1] Now first printed from one of Coleridge's Notebooks. The last
stanza--the Epilogue--was first published by H. N. Coleridge as part of
an 'Uncomposed Poem', in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 52: first
collected in Appendix to _P. and D. W._, 1877-80, ii. 366. There is no
conclusive evidence as to the date of composition. The handwriting, and
the contents of the Notebook might suggest a date between 1813 and 1816.
The verses are almost immediately preceded by a detached note printed at
the close of an essay entitled 'Self-love in Religion' which is included
among the '_Omniana_ of 1809', _Literary Remains_, 1834, i. 354-6: 'O
magical, sympathetic, _anima_! [Archeus, _MS._] _principium
hylarchichum! rationes spermaticæ!_ λόγοι ποιητικοί! O formidable words!
And O Man! thou marvellous beast-angel! thou ambitious beggar! How
pompously dost thou trick out thy very ignorance with such glorious
disguises, that thou mayest seem to hide in order to worship it.'

With this piece as a whole compare Southey's 'Ballad of a Young Man that
would read unlawful Books, and how he was punished'.

[399:2] A cabbalistic invocation of Jehovah, obscure in the original
Hebrew. I am informed that the second word Mitzoveh may stand for 'from


  Ere on my bed my limbs I lay,
  God grant me grace my prayers to say:
  O God! preserve my mother dear
  In strength and health for many a year;
  And, O! preserve my father too,                                      5
  And may I pay him reverence due;
  And may I my best thoughts employ
  To be my parents' hope and joy;
  And O! preserve my brothers both
  From evil doings and from sloth,                                    10
  And may we always love each other
  Our friends, our father, and our mother:
  And still, O Lord, to me impart
  An innocent and grateful heart,
  That after my great sleep I may                                     15
  Awake to thy eternal day! _Amen._



[401:1] First published in 1852. A transcript in the handwriting of Mrs.
S. T. Coleridge is in the possession of the Editor.


[3] mother] father MS.

[5] father] mother MS.

[6] him] her MS.


  And may I still my thoughts employ
  To be her comfort and her joy


[9] O likewise keep MS.

[13] But chiefly, Lord MS.

[15] great] last P. W. 1877-80, 1893.

[After 16] Our father, &c. MS.



  Trōchĕe trīps frŏm lōng tŏ shōrt;
  From long to long in solemn sort
  Slōw Spōndēe stālks; strōng fo͞ot! yet ill able
  Ēvĕr tŏ cōme ŭp wĭth Dācty̆l trĭsȳllăblĕ.
  Ĭāmbĭcs mārch frŏm shōrt tŏ lōng;—           5
  Wĭth ă le͞ap ănd ă bo͞und thĕ swĭft Ānăpæ̆sts thrōng;
  One syllable long, with one short at each side,
  Ămphībrăchy̆s hāstes wĭth ă stātely̆ stride;--
  Fīrst ănd lāst bēĭng lōng, mīddlĕ shōrt, Am̄phĭmācer
  Strīkes hĭs thūndērīng ho͞ofs līke ă pro͞ud hīgh-brĕd Rācer.        10
  If Derwent be innocent, steady, and wise,
  And delight in the things of earth, water, and skies;
  Tender warmth at his heart, with these metres to show it,
  With sound sense in his brains, may make Derwent a poet,--
  May crown him with fame, and must win him the love                  15
  Of his father on earth and his Father above.
            My dear, dear child!
  Could you stand upon Skiddaw, you would not from its whole ridge
  See a man who so loves you as your fond S. T. COLERIDGE.



[401:2] First published in 1834. The metrical lesson was begun for
Hartley Coleridge in 1806 and, afterwards, finished or adapted for the
use of his brother Derwent. The Editor possesses the autograph of a
metrical rendering of the Greek alphabet, entitled 'A Greek Song set to
Music, and sung by Hartley Coleridge, Esq., Graecologian, philometrist
and philomelist'.


Title] The chief and most usual Metrical Feet expressed in metre and
addressed to Hartley Coleridge MS. of Lines 1-7.


  Farewell, sweet Love! yet blame you not my truth;
    More fondly ne'er did mother eye her child
  Than I your form: _yours_ were my hopes of youth,
    And as _you_ shaped my thoughts I sighed or smiled.

  While most were wooing wealth, or gaily swerving                     5
    To pleasure's secret haunts, and some apart
  Stood strong in pride, self-conscious of deserving,
    To you I gave my whole weak wishing heart.

  And when I met the maid that realised
    Your fair creations, and had won her kindness,                    10
  Say, but for her if aught on earth I prized!
    _Your_ dreams alone I dreamt, and caught your blindness.

  O grief!--but farewell, Love! I will go play me
  With thoughts that please me less, and less betray me.



[402:1] First published in the _Courier_, September 27, 1806, and
reprinted in the _Morning Herald_, October 11, 1806, and in the
_Gentleman's Magazine_ for November, 1815, vol. lxxxv, p. 448: included
in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 280, and in _Letters, Conversations,
&c._, [by T. Allsop], 1836, i. 143. First collected, appendix, 1863.
This sonnet is modelled upon and in part borrowed from Lord Brooke's
(Fulke Greville) Sonnet LXXIV of Coelica: and was inscribed on the
margin of Charles Lamb's copy of _Certain Learned and Elegant Works of
the Right Honourable Fulke Lord Brooke_ . . . 1633, p. 284.

_'Cælica'. Sonnet lxxiv._

  Farewell sweet Boy, complaine not of my truth;
  Thy Mother lov'd thee not with more devotion;
  For to thy Boyes play I gave all my youth
  Yong Master, I did hope for your promotion.

  While some sought Honours, Princes thoughts observing,
  Many woo'd _Fame, the child of paine and anguish_,
  Others judg'd inward good a chiefe deserving,
  I in thy wanton Visions joy'd to languish.

  I bow'd not to thy image for succession,
  Nor bound thy bow to shoot reformed kindnesse,
  The playes of hope and feare were my confession
  The spectacles to my life was thy blindnesse:

  But _Cupid_ now farewell, I will goe play me,
  With thoughts that please me lesse, and lesse betray me.

For an adaptation of Sonnet XCIV, entitled 'Lines on a King-and-
Emperor-Making King--altered from the 93rd Sonnet of Fulke Greville',
vide Appendices of this edition.



  Farewell my Love! yet blame ye not my Truth;
  More fondly never mother ey'd her child

MS. 1806.

  Sweet power of Love, farewell! nor blame my truth,
  More fondly never Mother ey'd her Child

Courier, M. H.

[4] And as you wove the dream I sigh'd or smil'd MS. 1806: And as you
wove my thoughts, I sigh'd or smil'd Courier, M. H.


  While some sought Wealth; others to Pleasure swerving,
    Many woo'd Fame: and some stood firm apart
  In joy of pride, self-conscious of deserving

MS. 1806, Courier, M. H.

[6] haunts] haunt L. R., Letters, &c., 1836, 1863.

[8] weak wishing] weak-wishing Courier, M. H.

[9] that] who Courier, M. H.

[13] will] must Courier, M. H.



  Friend of the wise! and Teacher of the Good!
  Into my heart have I received that Lay
  More than historic, that prophetic Lay
  Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright)
  Of the foundations and the building up                               5
  Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell
  What may be told, to the understanding mind
  Revealable; and what within the mind
  By vital breathings secret as the soul
  Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart                         10
  Thoughts all too deep for words!--
                                      Theme hard as high!
  Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears
  (The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth),
  Of tides obedient to external force,
  And currents self-determined, as might seem,                        15
  Or by some inner Power; of moments awful,
  Now in thy inner life, and now abroad,
  When power streamed from thee, and thy soul received
  The light reflected, as a light bestowed--
  Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth,                         20
  Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought
  Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens
  Native or outland, lakes and famous hills!
  Or on the lonely high-road, when the stars
  Were rising; or by secret mountain-streams,                         25
  The guides and the companions of thy way!

  Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense
  Distending wide, and man beloved as man,
  Where France in all her towns lay vibrating
  Like some becalméd bark beneath the burst                           30
  Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud
  Is visible, or shadow on the main.
  For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded,
  Amid the tremor of a realm aglow,
  Amid a mighty nation jubilant,                                      35
  When from the general heart of human kind
  Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity!
  ----Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down,
  So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and sure
  From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute self,                  40
  With light unwaning on her eyes, to look
  Far on--herself a glory to behold,
  The Angel of the vision! Then (last strain)
  Of Duty, chosen Laws controlling choice,
  Action and joy!--An Orphic song indeed,                             45
  A song divine of high and passionate thoughts
  To their own music chaunted!

                               O great Bard!
  Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air,
  With stedfast eye I viewed thee in the choir
  Of ever-enduring men. The truly great                               50
  Have all one age, and from one visible space
  Shed influence! They, both in power and act,
  Are permanent, and Time is not with them,
  Save as it worketh for them, they in it.
  Nor less a sacred Roll, than those of old,                          55
  And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame
  Among the archives of mankind, thy work
  Makes audible a linkéd lay of Truth,
  Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay,
  Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes!                      60
  Ah! as I listened with a heart forlorn,
  The pulses of my being beat anew:
  And even as Life returns upon the drowned,
  Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains--
  Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a babe                             65
  Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart;
  And fears self-willed, that shunned the eye of Hope;
  And Hope that scarce would know itself from Fear;
  Sense of past Youth, and Manhood come in vain,
  And Genius given, and Knowledge won in vain;                        70
  And all which I had culled in wood-walks wild,
  And all which patient toil had reared, and all,
  Commune with thee had opened out--but flowers
  Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier,
  In the same coffin, for the self-same grave!                        75

    That way no more! and ill beseems it me,
  Who came a welcomer in herald's guise,
  Singing of Glory, and Futurity,
  To wander back on such unhealthful road,
  Plucking the poisons of self-harm! And ill                          80
  Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths
  Strew'd before thy advancing!

                                Nor do thou,
  Sage Bard! impair the memory of that hour
  Of thy communion with my nobler mind
  By pity or grief, already felt too long!                            85
  Nor let my words import more blame than needs.
  The tumult rose and ceased: for Peace is nigh
  Where Wisdom's voice has found a listening heart.
  Amid the howl of more than wintry storms,
  The Halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours                         90
  Already on the wing.

                       Eve following eve,
  Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home
  Is sweetest! moments for their own sake hailed
  And more desired, more precious, for thy song,
  In silence listening, like a devout child,                          95
  My soul lay passive, by thy various strain
  Driven as in surges now beneath the stars,
  With momentary stars of my own birth,
  Fair constellated foam,[408:1] still darting off
  Into the darkness; now a tranquil sea,                             100
  Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the moon.

  And when--O Friend! my comforter and guide!
  Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength!--
  Thy long sustainéd Song finally closed,
  And thy deep voice had ceased--yet thou thyself                    105
  Wert still before my eyes, and round us both
  That happy vision of belovéd faces--
  Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close
  I sate, my being blended in one thought
  (Thought was it? or aspiration? or resolve?)                       110
  Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound--
  And when I rose, I found myself in prayer.

_January_, 1807.


[403:1] First published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: included in 1828,
1829, 1834. The poem was sent in a Letter to Sir G. Beaumont dated
January, 1807, and in this shape was first printed by Professor Knight
in _Coleorton Letters_, 1887, i. 213-18; and as Appendix H, pp. 525-6,
of _P. W._, 1893 (_MS. B._). An earlier version of about the same date
was given to Wordsworth, and is now in the possession of his grandson,
Mr. Gordon Wordsworth (_MS. W._). The text of _Sibylline Leaves_ differs
widely from that of the original MSS. Lines 11-47 are quoted in a Letter
to Wordsworth, dated May 30, 1815 (_Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i.
646-7), and lines 65-75 at the end of Chapter X of the _Biographia
Literaria_, 1817, i. 220.

[408:1] 'A beautiful white cloud of Foam at momentary intervals coursed
by the side of the Vessel with a Roar, and little stars of flame danced
and sparkled and went out in it: and every now and then light
detachments of this white cloud-like foam dashed off from the vessel's
side, each with its own small constellation, over the Sea, and scoured
out of sight like a Tartar Troop over a wilderness.' _The Friend_, p.
220. [From Satyrane's First Letter, published in _The Friend_, No. 14,
Nov. 23, 1809.]


Title] To W. Wordsworth. Lines Composed, for the greater part on the
Night, on which he finished the recitation of his Poem (in thirteen
Books) concerning the growth and history of his own Mind, Jan. 7, 1807,
Cole-orton, near Ashby de la Zouch MS. W.: To William Wordsworth.
Composed for the greater part on the same night after the finishing of
his recitation of the Poem in thirteen Books, on the Growth of his own
Mind MS. B.: To a Gentleman, &c. S. L. 1828, 1829.

[1] O Friend! O Teacher! God's great gift to me! MSS. W., B.

[Between 5-13]

  Of thy own Spirit, thou hast lov'd to tell
  What may be told, to th' understanding mind
  Revealable; and what within the mind
  May rise enkindled. Theme as hard as high!
  Of Smiles spontaneous and mysterious Fear.

MS. W.

  Of thy own spirit thou hast loved to tell
  What _may_ be told, by words revealable;
  With heavenly breathings, like the secret soul
  Of vernal growth, oft quickening in the heart,
  Thoughts that obey no mastery of words,
  Pure self-beholdings! theme as hard as high,
  Of _smiles_ spontaneous and mysterious _fear_.

MS. B.

[9] By vital breathings like the secret soul S. L. 1828.

[16] Or by interior power MS. W: Or by some central breath MS. Letter,

[17] inner] hidden MSS. W., B.

[Between 17-41]

  Mid festive crowds, _thy_ Brows too garlanded,
  A Brother of the Feast: of Fancies fair,
  _Hyblaean murmurs of poetic Thought,
  Industrious in its Joy_, by lilied Streams
  _Native or outland, Lakes and famous Hills!
  Of more than Fancy_, of the Hope of Man
  _Amid the tremor of a Realm aglow--
  Where France in all her Towns lay vibrating_
  Ev'n as a Bark becalm'd on sultry seas
  Beneath the voice from Heav'n, the bursting crash
  _Of Heaven's immediate thunder! when no cloud
  Is visible, or Shadow on the Main!_
  Ah! soon night roll'd on night, and every Cloud
  Open'd its eye of Fire: and Hope aloft
  Now flutter'd, and now toss'd upon the storm
  Floating! Of _Hope afflicted and struck down
  Thence summoned homeward_--homeward to thy Heart,
  Oft from the _Watch-tower of Man's absolute self_,
  With light, &c.

MS. W.

[27] _social sense_ MS. B.

[28] Distending, and of man MS. B.


  Even as a bark becalm'd on sultry seas
  Quivers beneath the voice from Heaven, the burst

MS. B.


  Ev'n as a bark becalm'd beneath the burst

MS. Letter, 1815, S. L. 1828.

[33] thine] thy MS. B., MS. Letter, 1815.

[37] a full-born] an arméd MS. B.

[38] Of that dear hope afflicted and amazed MS. Letter, 1815.

[39] So homeward summoned MS. Letter, 1815.

[40] As from the watch-tower MS. B.

[44] controlling] ? impelling, ? directing MS. W.


  Virtue and Love--an Orphic Tale indeed
  A Tale divine

MS. W.

[45] song] tale MS. B.

[46] song] tale MS. B. thoughts] truths MS. Letter, 1815.


                   Ah! great Bard
  Ere yet that last swell dying aw'd the air
  With stedfast ken I viewed thee in the choir

MS. W.

[48] that] the MS. B.

[49] With steadfast eyes I saw thee MS. B.

[52] for they, both power and act MS. B.

[53] them] _them_ S. L. 1828, 1829.

[54] _for_ them, they _in_ it S. L. 1828, 1829.

[58] lay] song MSS. W., B.

[59] lay] song MSS. W., B.

[61 foll.]

  Dear shall it be to every human heart,
  To me how more than dearest! me, on whom
  Comfort from thee, and utterance of thy love,
  Came with such heights and depths of harmony,
  Such sense of wings uplifting, that the storm                        5
  Scatter'd and whirl'd me, till my thoughts became
  A bodily tumult; and thy faithful hopes,
  Thy hopes of me, dear Friend! by me unfelt!
  Were troublous to me, almost as a voice,
  Familiar once, and more than musical;                               10
  To one cast forth, whose hope had seem'd to die
  A wanderer with a worn-out heart
  Mid strangers pining with untended wounds.
  O Friend, too well thou know'st, of what sad years
  The long suppression had benumb'd my soul,                          15
  That even as life returns upon the drown'd,
  The unusual joy awoke a throng of pains--
  _Keen pangs_, &c.


with the following variants:--

ll. 5-6

  Such sense of wings uplifting, that its might
  Scatter'd and quell'd me--

MS. B.

ll. 11, 12

  As a dear woman's voice to one cast forth
  A wanderer with a worn-out heart forlorn.

[73] thee] _thee_ S. L. 1828, 1829.

[74] Strewed] Strewn MS. B., 1828, 1829.

[82] thy] _thy_ S. L. 1828, 1829.


                   Thou too, Friend!
  O injure not the memory of that hour

MS. W.

                   Thou too, Friend!
  Impair thou not the memory of that Hour

MS. B.

[93] Becomes most sweet! hours for their own sake hail'd MS. W.

[96] thy] the MS. B.

[98] my] her MS. B.

[102] and] my MSS. W., B.

[104] Song] lay MS. W.

[106] my] mine MSS. W., B.

[Between 107-8] (All whom I deepliest love--in one room all!) MSS. W.,


  Within these circling hollies woodbine-clad--
  Beneath this small blue roof of vernal sky--
  How warm, how still! Tho' tears should dim mine eye,
  Yet will my heart for days continue glad,
  For here, my love, thou art, and here am I!

? 1801.


[409:1] First published in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 280. First
collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877-80. The title was prefixed to the
_Poems of Coleridge_ (illustrated edition), 1907. This 'exquisite
fragment . . . was probably composed as the opening of _Recollections of
Love_, and abandoned on account of a change of metre.'--_Editor's Note_,
1893 (p. 635). It is in no way a translation, but the thought or idea
was suggested by one of the German stanzas which Coleridge selected and
copied into one of his Notebooks as models or specimens of various
metres. For the original, vide Appendices of this edition.



  How warm this woodland wild Recess!
    Love surely hath been breathing here;
    And this sweet bed of heath, my dear!
  Swells up, then sinks with faint caress,
    As if to have you yet more near.                                   5


  Eight springs have flown, since last I lay
    On sea-ward Quantock's heathy hills,
    Where quiet sounds from hidden rills
  Float here and there, like things astray,
    And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills.                          10


  No voice as yet had made the air
    Be music with your name; yet why
    That asking look? that yearning sigh?
  That sense of promise every where?
    Beloved! flew your spirit by?                                     15


  As when a mother doth explore
    The rose-mark on her long-lost child,
    I met, I loved you, maiden mild!
  As whom I long had loved before--
    So deeply had I been beguiled.                                    20


  You stood before me like a thought,
    A dream remembered in a dream.
    But when those meek eyes first did seem
  To tell me, Love within you wrought--
    O Greta, dear domestic stream!                                    25


  Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep,
    Has not Love's whisper evermore
    Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar?
  Sole voice, when other voices sleep,
    Dear under-song in clamor's hour.                                 30



[409:2] First published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: included in 1828,
1829, and 1834. It is impossible to fix the date of composition, though
internal evidence points to July, 1807, when Coleridge revisited Stowey
after a long absence. The first stanza, a variant of the preceding
fragment, is introduced into a prose fancy, entitled 'Questions and
Answers in the Court of Love', of uncertain date, but perhaps written at
Malta in 1805 (vide Appendices of this edition). A first draft of
stanzas 1-4 (vide supra) is included in the collection of metrical
experiments and metrical schemes, modelled on German and Italian
originals, which seems to have been begun in 1801, with a view to a
projected 'Essay on Metre'. Stanzas 5, 6 are not contemporary with
stanzas 1-4, and, perhaps, date from 1814, 1815, when _Sibylline Leaves_
were being prepared for the press.




  To know, to esteem, to love,--and then to part--
  Makes up life's tale to many a feeling heart;
  Alas for some abiding-place of love,
  O'er which my spirit, like the mother dove,
  Might brood with warming wings!
                                  O fair! O kind!                      5
  Sisters in blood, yet each with each intwined
  More close by sisterhood of heart and mind!
  Me disinherited in form and face
  By nature, and mishap of outward grace;
  Who, soul and body, through one guiltless fault                     10
  Waste daily with the poison of sad thought,
  Me did you soothe, when solace hoped I none!
  And as on unthaw'd ice the winter sun,
  Though stern the frost, though brief the genial day,
  You bless my heart with many a cheerful ray;                        15
  For gratitude suspends the heart's despair,
  Reflecting bright though cold your image there.
  Nay more! its music by some sweeter strain
  Makes us live o'er our happiest hours again,
  Hope re-appearing dim in memory's guise--                           20
  Even thus did you call up before mine eyes
  Two dear, dear Sisters, prized all price above,
  Sisters, like you, with more than sisters' love;
  _So_ like you _they_, and so in _you_ were seen
  Their relative statures, tempers, looks, and mien,                  25
  That oft, dear ladies! you have been to me
  At once a vision and reality.
  Sight seem'd a sort of memory, and amaze
  Mingled a trouble with affection's gaze.

  Oft to my eager soul I whisper blame,                               30
  A Stranger bid it feel the Stranger's shame--
  My eager soul, impatient of the name,
  No strangeness owns, no Stranger's form descries:
  The chidden heart spreads trembling on the eyes.
  First-seen I gazed, as I would look you thro'!                      35
  My best-beloved regain'd their youth in you,--
  And still I ask, though now familiar grown,
  Are you for _their_ sakes dear, or for your own?
  O doubly dear! may Quiet with you dwell!

  In Grief I love you, yet I love you well!                           40
  Hope long is dead to me! an orphan's tear
  Love wept despairing o'er his nurse's bier.
  Yet still she flutters o'er her grave's green slope:
  For Love's despair is but the ghost of Hope!

  Sweet Sisters! were you placed around one hearth                    45
  With those, your other selves in shape and worth,
  Far rather would I sit in solitude,
  Fond recollections all my fond heart's food,
  And dream of _you_, sweet Sisters! (ah! not mine!)
  And only _dream_ of you (ah! dream and pine!)                       50
  Than boast the presence and partake the pride,
  And shine in the eye, of all the world beside.



[410:1] First published in _The Courier_, December 10, 1807, with the
signature SIESTI. First collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877-80. The
following abbreviated and altered version was included in _P. W._, 1834,
1844, and 1852, with the heading 'On taking Leave of ---- 1817':--

  To know, to esteem, to love--and then to part,
  Makes up life's tale to many a feeling heart!
  O for some dear abiding-place of Love,
  O'er which my spirit, like the mother dove
  Might brood with warming wings!--O fair as kind,
  Were but one sisterhood with you combined,
  (Your very image they in shape and mind)
  Far rather would I sit in solitude,
  The forms of memory all my mental food,
  And dream of you, sweet sisters, (ah, not mine!)
  And only dream of you (ah dream and pine!)
  Than have the presence, and partake the pride,
  And shine in the eye of all the world beside!


  The butterfly the ancient Grecians made
  The soul's fair emblem, and its only name--[412:2]
  But of the soul, escaped the slavish trade
  Of mortal life!--For in this earthly frame
  Ours is the reptile's lot, much toil, much blame,                    5
  Manifold motions making little speed,
  And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed.



[412:1] First published with a prefatory note:--'The fact that in Greek
Psyche is the common name for the soul, and the butterfly, is thus
alluded to in the following stanzas from an unpublished poem of the
Author', in the _Biographia Literaria_, 1817, i. 82, n.: included (as
No. II of 'Three Scraps') in _Amulet_, 1833: _Lit. Rem._, 1836, i. 53.
First collected in 1844. In _Lit. Rem._ and 1844 the poem is dated 1808.

[412:2] Psyche means both Butterfly and Soul. _Amulet_, 1833.

In some instances the Symbolic and Onomastic are united as in Psyche =
Anima et papilio. _MS. S. T. C._ (Hence the word 'name' was italicised
in the MS.)


Title] The Butterfly Amulet, 1833, 1877-81, 1893.

[4] Of earthly life. For in this fleshly frame MS. S. T. C.: Of earthly
life! For, in this mortal frame Amulet, 1833, 1893.


  'Tis true, Idoloclastes Satyrane!
  (So call him, for so mingling blame with praise,
  And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends,
  Masking his birth-name, wont to character
  His wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal,)                             5
  'Tis true that, passionate for ancient truths,
  And honouring with religious love the Great
  Of elder times, he hated to excess,
  With an unquiet and intolerant scorn,
  The hollow Puppets of a hollow Age,                                 10
  Ever idolatrous, and changing ever
  Its worthless Idols! Learning, Power, and Time,
  (Too much of all) thus wasting in vain war
  Of fervid colloquy. Sickness, 'tis true,
  Whole years of weary days, besieged him close,                      15
  Even to the gates and inlets of his life!
  But it is true, no less, that strenuous, firm,
  And with a natural gladness, he maintained
  The citadel unconquered, and in joy
  Was strong to follow the delightful Muse.                           20
  For not a hidden path, that to the shades
  Of the beloved Parnassian forest leads,
  Lurked undiscovered by him; not a rill
  There issues from the fount of Hippocrene,
  But he had traced it upward to its source,                          25
  Through open glade, dark glen, and secret dell,
  Knew the gay wild flowers on its banks, and culled
  Its med'cinable herbs. Yea, oft alone,
  Piercing the long-neglected holy cave,
  The haunt obscure of old Philosophy,                                30
  He bade with lifted torch its starry walls
  Sparkle, as erst they sparkled to the flame
  Of odorous lamps tended by Saint and Sage.
  O framed for calmer times and nobler hearts!
  O studious Poet, eloquent for truth!                                35
  Philosopher! contemning wealth and death,
  Yet docile, childlike, full of Life and Love!
  Here, rather than on monumental stone,
  This record of thy worth thy Friend inscribes,
  Thoughtful, with quiet tears upon his cheek.                        40

? 1809.


[413:1] First published in _The Friend_, No. XIV, November 23, 1809.
There is no title or heading to the poem, which occupies the first page
of the number, but a footnote is appended:--'Imitated, though in the
movements rather than the thoughts, from the vii{th}, of _Gli Epitafi_
of Chiabrera:

  Fu ver, che Ambrosio Salinero a torto
  Si pose in pena d'odiose liti,' &c.

Included in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, 1834. Sir Satyrane, 'A
Satyres son yborne in forrest wylde' (Spenser's _Faery Queene_, Bk. I,
C. vi, l. 21) rescues Una from the violence of Sarazin. Coleridge may
have regarded Satyrane as the anonymn of Luther. Idoloclast, as he
explains in the preface to 'Satyrane's Letters', is a 'breaker of


[10] a] an Friend, 1809, S. L. 1828, 1829.

[16] inlets] outlets Friend, 1809.

[37] Life] light The Friend, 1809.



  What now, O Man! thou dost or mean'st to do
  Will help to give thee peace, or make thee rue,
  When hovering o'er the Dot this hand shall tell
  The moment that secures thee Heaven or Hell!



[414:1] Sent in a letter to T. Poole, October 9, 1809, and transferred
to one of Coleridge's Notebooks with the heading 'Inscription proposed
on a Clock in a market place': included in 'Omniana' of 1809-16
(_Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 347) with the erroneous title 'Inscription
on a Clock in Cheapside'. First collected in 1893.

  What now thou do'st, or art about to do,
  Will help to give thee peace, or make thee rue;
  When hov'ring o'er the line this hand will tell
  The last dread moment--'twill be heaven or hell.

Read for the last two lines:--

  When wav'ring o'er the dot this hand shall tell
  The moment that secures thee Heaven or Hell.
                                             _MS. Lit. Rem._



  Quoth Dick to me, as once at College
  We argued on the use of knowledge;--
  'In old King Olim's reign, I've read,
  There lay two patients in one bed.
  The one in fat lethargic trance,                                     5
  Lay wan and motionless as lead:
  The other, (like the Folks in France),
  Possess'd a different disposition--
  In short, the plain truth to confess,
  The man was madder than Mad Bess!                                   10
  But both diseases, none disputed,
  Were unmedicinably rooted;
  Yet, so it chanc'd, by Heaven's permission,
  Each prov'd the other's true physician.

  'Fighting with a ghostly stare                                      15
  Troops of Despots in the air,
  Obstreperously Jacobinical,
  The madman froth'd, and foam'd, and roar'd:
  The other, snoring octaves cynical,
  Like good John Bull, in posture clinical,                           20
  Seem'd living only when he snor'd.
  The _Citizen_ enraged to see
  This fat Insensibility,
  Or, tir'd with solitary labour,
  Determin'd to convert his neighbour;                                25
  So up he sprang and to 't he fell,
  Like devil piping hot from hell,
  With indefatigable fist
  Belabr'ing the poor Lethargist;
  Till his own limbs were stiff and sore,                             30
  And sweat-drops roll'd from every pore:--
  Yet, still, with flying fingers fleet,
  Duly accompanied by feet,
  With some short intervals of biting,
  He executes the self-same strain,                                   35
  Till the Slumberer woke for pain,
  And half-prepared himself for fighting--
  That moment that his mad Colleague
  Sunk down and slept thro' pure fatigue.
  So both were cur'd--and this example                                40
  Gives demonstration full and ample--
  That _Chance_ may bring a thing to bear,
  Where _Art_ sits down in blank despair.'

  'That's true enough, Dick,' answer'd I,
  'But as for the _Example_, 'tis a lie.'                             45

? 1809


[414:2] Now published for the first time from one of Coleridge's
Notebooks. The use of the party catchword 'Citizen' and the allusion to
'Folks in France' would suggest 1796-7 as a probable date, but the point
or interpretation of the 'Example' was certainly in Coleridge's mind
when he put together the first number of _The Friend_, published June 1,
1809:--'Though all men are in error, they are not all in the same error,
nor at the same time . . . each therefore may possibly heal the other
. . . even as two or more physicians, all diseased in their general
health, yet under the immediate action of the disease on different days,
may remove or alleviate the complaints of each other.'


  Sad lot, to have no Hope! Though lowly kneeling
  He fain would frame a prayer within his breast,
  Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing,
  That his sick body might have ease and rest;
  He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest                     5
  Against his will the stifling load revealing,
  Though Nature forced; though like some captive guest,
  Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast,
  An alien's restless mood but half concealing,
  The sternness on his gentle brow confessed,                         10
  Sickness within and miserable feeling:
  Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams,
  And dreaded sleep, each night repelled in vain,
  Each night was scattered by its own loud screams:
  Yet never could his heart command, though fain,                     15
  One deep full wish to be no more in pain.

    That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast,
  Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood,
  Though changed in nature, wander where he would--
  For Love's Despair is but Hope's pining Ghost!                      20
  For this one hope he makes his hourly moan,
  He wishes and can wish for this alone!
  Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams
  (So the love-stricken visionary deems)
  Disease would vanish, like a summer shower,                         25
  Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower!
  Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give
  Such strength that he would bless his pains and live.

? 1810.


[416:1] First published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: included in 1828,
1829, and 1834.


[22] can] _can_ S. L. 1828, 1829.


  Its balmy lips the infant blest
  Relaxing from its Mother's breast,
  How sweet it heaves the happy sigh
  Of innocent satiety!

  And such my Infant's latest sigh!                                    5
  Oh tell, rude stone! the passer by,
  That here the pretty babe doth lie,
  Death sang to sleep with Lullaby.



[417:1] First published, with the signature 'Aphilos,' in the _Courier_,
Wednesday, March 20, 1811: included in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, and in
1828, 1829, and 1834.


[1] balmy] milky Courier, 1811.

[5] Infant's] darling's Courier, 1811.

[6] Tell simple stone Courier, 1811.

[7] the] a Courier, 1811.



  Dormi, Jesu! Mater ridet
  Quae tam dulcem somnum videt,
    Dormi, Jesu! blandule!
  Si non dormis, Mater plorat,
  Inter fila cantans orat,                                             5
   Blande, veni, somnule.


  Sleep, sweet babe! my cares beguiling:
  Mother sits beside thee smiling;
    Sleep, my darling, tenderly!
  If thou sleep not, mother mourneth,                                 10
  Singing as her wheel she turneth:
    Come, soft slumber, balmily!



[417:2] First published as from 'A Correspondent in Germany' in the
_Morning Post_, December 26, 1801.

[417:3] First published with the Latin in the _Courier_, August 30,
1811, with the following introduction:--'About thirteen years ago or
more, travelling through the middle parts of Germany I saw a little
print of the Virgin and Child in the small public house of a Catholic
Village, with the following beautiful Latin lines under it, which I
transcribed. They may be easily adapted to the air of the famous
Sicilian Hymn, _Adeste fideles, laeti triumphantes_, by the omission of
a few notes.' First collected in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: included in
1828, 1829, and 1834.


Title--In a Roman Catholic] In a Catholic S. L., 1828, 1829.

TO A LADY[418:1]


  Nay, dearest Anna! why so grave?
    I said, you had no soul, 'tis true!
  For what you are, you cannot have:
    'Tis I, that have one since I first had you!

? 1811.


[418:1] First published in _Omniana_ (1812), i. 238; 'as a playful
illustration of the distinction between _To_ have _and to_ be.' First
collected in 1828: included in 1829 and 1834.


_To a Lady, &c._--In line 3 'are', 'have', and in line 4 'have', 'you',
are italicized in all editions except 1834.


  I have heard of reasons manifold
    Why Love must needs be blind,
  But this the best of all I hold--
    His eyes are in his mind.

  What outward form and feature are                                    5
    He guesseth but in part;
  But that within is good and fair
    He seeth with the heart.

? 1811.


[418:2] First published in 1828: included in 1829 and 1834.


Title] In 1828, 1829, 1834 these stanzas are printed without a title,
but are divided by a space from _Lines to a Lady_. The title appears
first in 1893.


  Ere the birth of my life, if I wished it or no,
  No question was asked me--it could not be so!
  If the life was the question, a thing sent to try,
  And to live on be Yes; what can No be? to die.


  Is't returned, as 'twas sent? Is't no worse for the wear?            5
  Think first, what you are! Call to mind what you were!
  I gave you innocence, I gave you hope,
  Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope.
  Return you me guilt, lethargy, despair?
  Make out the invent'ry; inspect, compare!                           10
  Then die--if die you dare!



[419:1] First published in 1828: included in 1829 and 1884. In a
Notebook of (?) 1811 these lines are preceded by the following

  Complained of, complaining, there shov'd and here shoving,
  Every one blaming me, ne'er a one loving.


[4] Yes] YES 1828, 1829.

[6] are] ARE 1828, 1829. were] WERE 1828, 1829.



  On the wide level of a mountain's head,
  (I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place)
  Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails out-spread,
  Two lovely children run an endless race,
        A sister and a brother!
        This far outstripp'd the other;
  Yet ever runs she with reverted face.
  And looks and listens for the boy behind:
        For he, alas! is blind!
  O'er rough and smooth with even step he passed,                     10
  And knows not whether he be first or last.

? 1812.


[419:2] First published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, in the preliminary
matter, p. v: included in 1828, 1829, and 1834. In the 'Preface' to
_Sibylline Leaves_, p. iii, an apology is offered for its insertion on
the plea that it was a 'school boy poem' added 'at the request of the
friends of my youth'. The title is explained as follows:--'By imaginary
Time, I meant the state of a school boy's mind when on his return to
school he projects his being in his day dreams, and lives in his next
holidays, six months hence; and this I contrasted with real Time.' In a
Notebook of (?) 1811 there is an attempt to analyse and illustrate the
'sense of Time', which appears to have been written before the lines as
published in _Sibylline Leaves_ took shape: 'How marked the contrast
between troubled manhood and joyously-active youth in the sense of time!
To the former, time like the sun in an empty sky is never seen to move,
but only to have _moved_. There, there it was, and now 'tis here, now
distant! yet all a blank between. To the latter it is as the full moon
in a fine breezy October night, driving on amid clouds of all shapes and
hues, and kindling shifting colours, like an ostrich in its speed, and
yet seems not to have moved at all. This I feel to be a just image of
time real and time as felt, in two different states of being. The title
of the poem therefore (for poem it ought to be) should be time real and
time felt (in the sense of time) in active youth, or activity with hope
and fullness of aim in any period, and in despondent, objectless
manhood--time objective and subjective.' _Anima Poetae_, 1895, pp.



[Act III, Scene i. ll. 69-82.]

  Hear, sweet Spirit, hear the spell,
  Lest a blacker charm compel!
  So shall the midnight breezes swell
  With thy deep long-lingering knell.

  And at evening evermore,                                             5
  In a chapel on the shore,
  Shall the chaunter, sad and saintly,
  Yellow tapers burning faintly,
  Doleful masses chaunt for thee,
      Miserere Domine!                                                10

  Hush! the cadence dies away
    On the quiet moonlight sea:
  The boatmen rest their oars and say,
        Miserere Domine!



[420:1] First published in _Remorse_, 1813. First collected, 1844.


_An Invocation_--7 chaunter] chaunters 1813, 1828, 1839, 1893.

[12] quiet] yellow 1813, 1828, 1829.



  _Sandoval._ You loved the daughter of Don Manrique?

  _Earl Henry._                                       Loved?

  _Sand._ Did you not say you wooed her?

  _Earl H._                              Once I loved
  Her whom I dared not woo!

  _Sand._                   And wooed, perchance,
  One whom you loved not!

  _Earl H._               Oh! I were most base,
  Not loving Oropeza. True, I wooed her,                               5
  Hoping to heal a deeper wound; but she
  Met my advances with impassioned pride,
  That kindled love with love. And when her sire,
  Who in his dream of hope already grasped
  The golden circlet in his hand, rejected                            10
  My suit with insult, and in memory
  Of ancient feuds poured curses on my head,
  Her blessings overtook and baffled them!
  But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance
  Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me.                     15

  _Sand._ Anxiously, Henry! reasoning anxiously.
  But Oropeza--

  _Earl H._     Blessings gather round her!
  Within this wood there winds a secret passage,
  Beneath the walls, which opens out at length
  Into the gloomiest covert of the garden.--                          20
  The night ere my departure to the army,
  She, nothing trembling, led me through that gloom,
  And to that covert by a silent stream,
  Which, with one star reflected near its marge,
  Was the sole object visible around me.                              25
  No leaflet stirred; the air was almost sultry;
  So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us!
  No leaflet stirred;--yet pleasure hung upon
  The gloom and stillness of the balmy night-air.
  A little further on an arbour stood,                                30
  Fragrant with flowering trees--I well remember
  What an uncertain glimmer in the darkness
  Their snow-white blossoms made--thither she led me,
  To that sweet bower! Then Oropeza trembled--
  I heard her heart beat--if 'twere not my own.                       35

  _Sand._ A rude and soaring note, my friend!

  _Earl H._                                   Oh! no!
  I have small memory of aught but pleasure.
  The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams
  Still flowing, still were lost in those of love:
  So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature,                    40
  Fleeing from Pain, sheltered herself in Joy.
  The stars above our heads were dim and steady,
  Like eyes suffused with rapture. Life was in us:
  We were all life, each atom of our frames
  A living soul--I vowed to die for her:                              45
  With the faint voice of one who, having spoken,
  Relapses into blessedness, I vowed it:
  That solemn vow, a whisper scarcely heard,
  A murmur breathed against a lady's ear.
  Oh! there is joy above the name of pleasure.                        50
  Deep self-possession, an intense repose.

  _Sand. (with a sarcastic smile)._ No other than as eastern sages
  The God, who floats upon a Lotos leaf,
  Dreams for a thousand ages; then awaking,
  Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble,                         55
  Relapses into bliss.

  _Earl H._            Ah! was that bliss
  Feared as an alien, and too vast for man?
  For suddenly, impatient of its silence,
  Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead.
  I caught her arms; the veins were swelling on them.                 60
  Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice;--
  'Oh! what if all betray me? what if thou?'
  I swore, and with an inward thought that seemed
  The purpose and the substance of my being,
  I swore to her, that were she red with guilt,                       65
  I would exchange my unblenched state with hers.--
  Friend! by that winding passage, to that bower
  I now will go--all objects there will teach me
  Unwavering love, and singleness of heart.
  Go, Sandoval! I am prepared to meet her--                           70
  Say nothing of me--I myself will seek her--
  Nay, leave me, friend! I cannot bear the torment
  And keen inquiry of that scanning eye.--

                             [_Earl Henry retires into the wood._

  _Sand. (alone)._ O Henry! always striv'st thou to be great
  By thine own act--yet art thou never great                          75
  But by the inspiration of great passion.
  The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up
  And shape themselves; from Earth to Heaven they stand,
  As though they were the pillars of a temple,
  Built by Omnipotence in its own honour!                             80
  But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit
  Is fled: the mighty columns were but sand,
  And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins!



[421:1] First published in its present state in _Sibylline Leaves_,
1817: included in 1828, 1829, and 1834. For an earlier draft, forming
part of an 'Historic Drama in Five Acts' (unfinished) entitled _The
Triumph of Loyalty_, 1801, vide Appendices of this edition. A prose
sketch without title or heading is contained in one of Coleridge's
earliest notebooks.


[14] unkindly] unkindling 1893.

[23] And to the covert by that silent stream S. L., corrected in
_Errata_, p. [xi].

[24] near] o'er S. L., corrected in _Errata_, p. [xi].

A HYMN[423:1]

  My Maker! of thy power the trace
  In every creature's form and face
    The wond'ring soul surveys:
  Thy wisdom, infinite above
  Seraphic thought, a Father's love                                    5
    As infinite displays!

  From all that meets or eye or ear,
  There falls a genial holy fear
  Which, like the heavy dew of morn,
  Refreshes while it bows the heart forlorn!                          10

  Great God! thy works how wondrous fair!
  Yet sinful man didst thou declare
    The whole Earth's voice and mind!
  Lord, ev'n as Thou all-present art,
  O may we still with heedful heart                                   15
    Thy presence know and find!
  Then, come what will, of weal or woe,
  Joy's bosom-spring shall steady flow;
  For though 'tis Heaven THYSELF to see,
  Where but thy _Shadow_ falls, Grief cannot be!--                    20



[423:1] First published in _Poems_, 1852. The MS. was placed in the
hands of the Editors by J. W. Wilkins, Esq., of Trinity Hall, Cambridge.
'The accompanying autograph,' writes Mr. Wilkins, 'dated 1814, and
addressed to Mrs. Hood of Brunswick Square, was given not later than the
year 1817 to a relative of my own who was then residing at Clifton (and
was, at the time at which it passed into his hands, an attendant on Mr.
Coleridge's lectures, which were in course of delivery at that place),
either by the lady to whom it is addressed, or by some other friend of
Mr. Coleridge.' 1852, Notes, p. 385.

TO A LADY[424:1]


  Ah! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams,
    In archéd groves, the youthful poet's choice;
  Nor while half-listening, 'mid delicious dreams,
    To harp and song from lady's hand and voice;

  Not yet while gazing in sublimer mood                                5
    On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell;
  Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strewed.
    Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell;

  Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings,
    And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, hark!
  Now mounts, now totters on the tempest's wings,                     11
    Now groans, and shivers, the replunging bark!

  'Cling to the shrouds!' In vain! The breakers roar--
    Death shrieks! With two alone of all his clan
  Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore,                           15
    No classic roamer, but a shipwrecked man!

  Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains,
    And lit his spirit to so bright a flame?
  The elevating thought of suffered pains,
    Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the name              20

  Of gratitude! remembrances of friend,
    Or absent or no more! shades of the Past,
  Which Love makes substance! Hence to thee I send,
    O dear as long as life and memory last!

  I send with deep regards of heart and head,                         25
    Sweet maid, for friendship formed! this work to thee:
  And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed
    A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me.

? 1814.


[424:1] First published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: included in 1828,
1829, and 1834. A different or emended version headed 'Written in a
Blank Leaf of Faulkner's Shipwreck, presented by a friend to Miss K',
was published in _Felix Farley's Bristol Journal_ of February 21, 1818.
[See Note by G. E. Weare, Weston-super-Mare, January, 1905.]


Title] To a Lady With Falkner's 'Shipwreck' S. L.

[2] archéd] cloyst'ring F. F.

[3] 'mid] midst F. F.

[4] lady's] woman's F. F.

[5] sublimer] diviner F. F.

[6] On torrent falls, on woody mountain dell F. F.

[7] sea-weed] sea-weeds F. F.

[8] Attuning wild tales to the ocean's swell F. F.

[9] this] _this_ F. F.

[10] thee] _thee_ F. F.

[11] It mounts, it totters F. F.

[12] It groans, it quivers F. F.

[14] of] and F. F.

[15] Forlorn the] The toil-worn F. F.


  Say then what power evoked such genial strains
    And beckon'd godlike to the trembling Muse?
  The thought not pleasureless of suffer'd pains
    But _chiefly_ friendship's voice, her holy dues.

F. F.

[21] Demanding dear remembrances of friend F. F.

[22] Which love makes real! Thence F. F.

[24] life] love F. F.

[26] Sweet Maid for friendship framed this song to thee F. F.

[28] Falconer] FALKNER S. L.: Faulkner F. F. me] ME S. L., 1828, 1829.



  If dead, we cease to be; if total gloom
    Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare
  As summer-gusts, of sudden birth and doom,
    Whose sound and motion not alone declare,
  But are their whole of being! If the breath[425:2]                   5
    Be Life itself, and not its task and tent,
  If even a soul like Milton's can know death;
    O Man! thou vessel purposeless, unmeant,
  Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes!
    Surplus of Nature's dread activity,                               10
  Which, as she gazed on some nigh-finished vase,
  Retreating slow, with meditative pause,
    She formed with restless hands unconsciously.
  Blank accident! nothing's anomaly!
    If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state,                   15
  Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy hopes, thy fears,
  The counter-weights!--Thy laughter and thy tears
    Mean but themselves, each fittest to create
  And to repay the other! Why rejoices
    Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good?                        20
    Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's hood?
  Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices,
    Image of Image, Ghost of Ghostly Elf,
  That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold?
  Yet what and whence thy gain, if thou withhold                      25
    These costless shadows of thy shadowy self?
  Be sad! be glad! be neither! seek, or shun!
  Thou hast no reason why! Thou canst have none;
  Thy being's being is contradiction.

? 1815.


[425:1] First published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: included in 1828,
1829, and 1834.

[425:2] Halitus = anima animae tabernaculum _MS. Note_ (? _S. T. C._)


[5] are] _are_ S. L., 1828, 1829. whole] _whole_ S. L., 1828, 1829.

[19] the] each 1887-80, 1893.



  A Sunny shaft did I behold,
    From sky to earth it slanted:
  And poised therein a bird so bold--
    Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted!

  He sank, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled                            5
    Within that shaft of sunny mist;
  His eyes of fire, his beak of gold,
    All else of amethyst!

  And thus he sang: 'Adieu! adieu!
  Love's dreams prove seldom true.                                    10
  The blossoms they make no delay:
  The sparkling dew-drops will not stay.
    Sweet month of May,
      We must away;
        Far, far away!                                                15
          To-day! to-day!'



[426:1] First published in _Zapolya_, 1817 (Act II, Scene i, ll. 65-80).
First collected in 1844. Two MSS. are extant, one in the possession of
Mr. John Murray (_MS. M._), and a second in the possession of the Editor
(_MS. S. T. C._). For a prose version of Glycine's Song, probably a
translation from the German, vide Appendices of this edition.


Title] Sung by Glycine in _Zapolya_ 1893: Glycine's Song MS. M.

[1] A pillar grey did I behold MS. S. T. C.

[4] A faery Bird that chanted MS. S. T. C.

[6] sunny] shiny MS. S. T. C.

[11, 12] om. MS S. T. C., MS. M.



  Up, up! ye dames, and lasses gay!
  To the meadows trip away.
  'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn,
  And scare the small birds from the corn.
      Not a soul at home may stay:                                     5
        For the shepherds must go
        With lance and bow
      To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

  Leave the hearth and leave the house
  To the cricket and the mouse:                                       10
  Find grannam out a sunny seat.
  With babe and lambkin at her feet.
      Not a soul at home may stay:
        For the shepherds must go
        With lance and bow                                            15
      To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.



[427:1] First published in _Zapolya_ (Act IV, Scene ii, ll. 56-71).
First collected, 1844.


Title] Choral Song 1893.




  Let those whose low delights to Earth are given
      Chaunt forth their earthly Loves! but we
      Must make an holier minstrelsy,
  And, heavenly-born, will sing the Things of Heaven.


  But who for us the listening Heart shall gain?                       5
      Inaudible as of the sphere
      Our music dies upon the ear,
  Enchanted with the mortal Syren's strain.


  Yet let our choral songs abound!
      Th' inspiring Power, its living Source,                         10
      May flow with them and give them force,
  If, elsewhere all unheard, in Heaven they sound.


  Aid thou our voice, Great Spirit! thou whose flame
      Kindled the Songster sweet of Israel,
      Who made so high to swell                                       15
  Beyond a mortal strain thy glorious Name.


  Though rapt to Heaven, our mission and our care
      Is still to sojourn on the Earth,
      To shape, to soothe, Man's second Birth,
  And re-ascend to Heaven, Heaven's prodigal Heir!                    20


  What is Man's soul of Love deprived?


      It like a Harp untunéd is,
      That sounds, indeed, but sounds amiss.


  From holy Love all good gifts are derived.


      But 'tis time that every nation                                 25
      Should hear how loftily we sing.


        See, O World, see thy salvation!
        Let the Heavens with praises ring.
        Who would have a Throne above,
        Let him hope, believe and love;                               30
        And whoso loves no earthly song,
        But does for heavenly music long,
        Faith, Hope, and Charity for him,
        Shall sing like wingéd Cherubim.



[427:2] From a hitherto unpublished MS. For the original _Dialogo: Fide,
Speranza, Fide_, included in the 'Madrigali . . .' del Signor Cavalier
Battista Guarini, 1663, vide Appendices of this edition. The translation
in Coleridge's handwriting is preceded by another version transcribed
and, possibly, composed by Hartley Coleridge.

TO NATURE[429:1]

  It may indeed be phantasy, when I
    Essay to draw from all created things
    Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings;
  And trace in leaves and flowers that round me lie
  Lessons of love and earnest piety.                                   5
    So let it be; and if the wide world rings
    In mock of this belief, it brings
  Nor fear, nor grief, nor vain perplexity.
  So will I build my altar in the fields,
    And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be,                        10
  And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields
    Shall be the incense I will yield to Thee,
  Thee only God! and thou shalt not despise
  Even me, the priest of this poor sacrifice.

? 1820.


[429:1] First published in _Letters, Conversations and Recollections_ by
S. T. Coleridge, 1836, i. 144. First collected in _Poems_, 1863,
Appendix, p. 391.


         *       *       *       *       *

  The sole true Something--This! In Limbo's Den
  It frightens Ghosts, as here Ghosts frighten men.
  Thence cross'd unseiz'd--and shall some fated hour
  Be pulveris'd by Demogorgon's power,
  And given as poison to annihilate souls--                            5
  Even now it shrinks them--they shrink in as Moles
  (Nature's mute monks, live mandrakes of the ground)
  Creep back from Light--then listen for its sound;--
  See but to dread, and dread they know not why--
  The natural alien of their negative eye.                            10

  'Tis a strange place, this Limbo!--not a Place,
  Yet name it so;--where Time and weary Space
  Fettered from flight, with night-mare sense of fleeing,
  Strive for their last crepuscular half-being;--
  Lank Space, and scytheless Time with branny hands                   15
  Barren and soundless as the measuring sands,
  Not mark'd by flit of Shades,--unmeaning they
  As moonlight on the dial of the day!
  But that is lovely--looks like Human Time,--
  An Old Man with a steady look sublime,                              20
  That stops his earthly task to watch the skies;
  But he is blind--a Statue hath such eyes;--
  Yet having moonward turn'd his face by chance,
  Gazes the orb with moon-like countenance,
  With scant white hairs, with foretop bald and high,                 25
  He gazes still,--his eyeless face all eye;--
  As 'twere an organ full of silent sight,
  His whole face seemeth to rejoice in light!
  Lip touching lip, all moveless, bust and limb--
  He seems to gaze at that which seems to gaze on him!                30
    No such sweet sights doth Limbo den immure,
  Wall'd round, and made a spirit-jail secure,
  By the mere horror of blank Naught-at-all,
  Whose circumambience doth these ghosts enthral.
  A lurid thought is growthless, dull Privation,                      35
  Yet that is but a Purgatory curse;
  Hell knows a fear far worse,
  A fear--a future state;--'tis positive Negation!



[429:2] First published, in its present shape, from an original MS. in
1893 (inscribed in a notebook). Lines 6-10 ('they shrink . . . negative
eye') were first printed in _The Friend_ (1818, iii. 215), and included
as a separate fragment with the title 'Moles' in _P. W._, 1834, i. 259.
Lines 11-38 were first printed with the title 'Limbo' in _P. W._, 1834,
i. 272-3. The lines as quoted in _The Friend_ were directed against 'the
partisans of a crass and sensual materialism, the advocates of the
_Nihil nisi ab extra_'. The following variants, now first printed, are
from a second MS. (_MS. S. T. C._) in the possession of Miss Edith
Coleridge. In the notebook _Limbo_ is followed by the lines entitled _Ne
Plus Ultra_, vide _post_, p. 431.


Title] Another Fragment, but in a very different style, from a Dream of
Purgatory, alias Limbus MS. S. T. C. [_Note._--In this MS. _Phantom_,
'All Look and Likeness,' &c. precedes _Limbo_.]

[Between 2-3]

  For skimming in the wake it mock'd the care
  Of the old Boat-God for his farthing fare;
  Tho' Irus' Ghost itself he ne'er frown'd blacker on
  The skin and skin-pent Druggist cross'd the Acheron,
  Styx, and with Periphlegeton Cocytus,--
  (The very names, methinks, might frighten us)
  Unchang'd it cross'd--_and shall some fated hour_

MS. Notebook.

[Coleridge marks these lines as 'a specimen of the Sublime dashed to
pieces by cutting too close with the fiery Four-in-Hand round the corner
of Nonsense.']

[6] They, like moles Friend, 1818.

[8] Shrink from the light, then listen for a sound Friend, 1818.

[12] so] such MS. S. T. C.

[16] the] his MS. S. T. C.

[17] Mark'd but by Flit MS. S. T. C.

[30] at] on MS. S. T. C.

[31 foll.]

  In one sole Outlet yawns the Phantom Wall,
  And through this grim road to [a] worser thrall
  Oft homeward scouring from a sick Child's dream
  Old Mother Brownrigg shoots upon a scream;
  And turning back her Face with hideous Leer,
  Leaves Sentry there _Intolerable Fear_!
      A horrid thought is growthless dull Negation:
      Yet that is but a Purgatory Curse,
          SHE knows a fear far worse
      Flee, lest thou hear its Name! Flee, rash Imagination!

         *       *       *       *       *

                                 _S. T. Coleridge,
                   1st Oct. 1827, Grove, Highgate._

_NE PLUS ULTRA_[431:1]

          Sole Positive of Night!
          Antipathist of Light!
  Fate's only essence! primal scorpion rod--
  The one permitted opposite of God!--
  Condenséd blackness and abysmal storm                                5
        Compacted to one sceptre
          Arms the Grasp enorm--
            The Intercepter--
  The Substance that still casts the shadow Death!--
        The Dragon foul and fell--                                    10
          The unrevealable,
  And hidden one, whose breath
  Gives wind and fuel to the fires of Hell!
        Ah! sole despair
      Of both th' eternities in Heaven!                               15
  Sole interdict of all-bedewing prayer,
        The all-compassionate!
      Save to the Lampads Seven
  Reveal'd to none of all th' Angelic State,
      Save to the Lampads Seven,                                      20
      That watch the throne of Heaven!

? 1826.


[431:1] First published in 1834. The MS., which is inscribed in a
notebook, is immediately preceded by that of the first draft of _Limbo_
(_ante_, p. 429). The so-called 'Ne Plus Ultra' may have been intended
to illustrate a similar paradox--the 'positivity of negation'. No date
can be assigned to either of these metaphysical conceits, but there can
be little doubt that they were 'written in later life'.


  Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
  Where may the grave of that good man be?--
  By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
  Under the twigs of a young birch tree!
  The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,                            5
  And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
  And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
  Is gone,--and the birch in its stead is grown.--
  The Knight's bones are dust,
  And his good sword rust;--                                          10
  His soul is with the saints, I trust.

? 1817.


[432:1] First published in _P. W._, 1834. Gillman (_Life_, p. 276) says
that the lines were composed 'as an experiment for a metre', and
repeated by the author to 'a mutual friend', who 'spoke of his visit to
Highgate' and repeated them to Scott on the following day. The last
three lines, 'somewhat altered', are quoted in _Ivanhoe_, chapter viii,
and again in _Castle Dangerous_, chapter ix. They run thus:--

  The knights are dust,
  And their good swords are rust;--
  Their souls are with the saints, we trust.

Gillman says that the _Ivanhoe_ quotation convinced Coleridge that Scott
was the author of the Waverley Novels. In the Appendix to the 'Notes' to
_Castle Dangerous_ (1834), which was edited and partly drawn up by
Lockhart, the poem is quoted in full, with a prefatory note ('The author
has somewhat altered part of a beautiful unpublished fragment of

    Where is the grave of Sir Arthur Orellan,--
  Where may the grave of that good knight be?
    By the marge of a brook, on the slope of Helvellyn,
  Under the boughs of a young birch-tree.
  The Oak that in summer was pleasant to hear,
  That rustled in autumn all wither'd and sear,
  That whistled and groan'd thro' the winter alone,
  He hath gone, and a birch in his place is grown.
    The knight's bones are dust,
    His good sword is rust;
  His spirit is with the saints, we trust.

This version must have been transcribed from a MS. in Lockhart's
possession, and represents a first draft of the lines as published in
1834. These lines are, no doubt, an 'experiment for a metre'. The upward
movement (ll. 1-7) is dactylic: the fall (ll. 8-11) is almost, if not
altogether, spondaic. The whole forms a complete stanza, or metrical
scheme, which may be compared with ll. 264-78 of the First Part of
_Christabel_. Mrs. H. N. Coleridge, who must have been familiar with
Gillman's story, dates the _Knight's Tomb_ 1802.


  With Donne, whose muse on dromedary trots,
  Wreathe iron pokers into true-love knots;
  Rhyme's sturdy cripple, fancy's maze and clue,
  Wit's forge and fire-blast, meaning's press and screw.

? 1818


[433:1] First published in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 148, from 'notes
written by Mr. Coleridge in a volume of "Chalmers's Poets"'. Line 2
finds a place in Hartley Coleridge's couplets on Donne which are written
on the fly-leaves and covers of his copy of Anderson's _British Poets_.
In the original MS. it is enclosed in quotation marks. First collected
in _P. W._, 1885, ii. 409.


'A Hebrew Dirge, chaunted in the Great Synagogue, St. James's Place,
Aldgate, on the day of the Funeral of her Royal Highness the Princess
Charlotte. By Hyman Hurwitz, Master of the Hebrew Academy, Highgate:
with a Translation in English Verse, by S. T. Coleridge, Esq., 1817.'

  Mourn, Israel! Sons of Israel, mourn!
    Give utterance to the inward throe!
  As wails, of her first love forlorn,
    The Virgin clad in robes of woe.

  Mourn the young Mother, snatch'd away                                5
    From Light and Life's ascending Sun!
  Mourn for the Babe, Death's voiceless prey,
    Earn'd by long pangs and lost ere won.

  Mourn the bright Rose that bloom'd and went,
    Ere half disclosed its vernal hue!                                10
  Mourn the green Bud, so rudely rent,
    It brake the stem on which it grew.

  Mourn for the universal woe
    With solemn dirge and fault'ring tongue:
  For England's Lady is laid low,                                     15
    So dear, so lovely, and so young!

  The blossoms on her Tree of Life
    Shone with the dews of recent bliss:
  Transplanted in that deadly strife,
    She plucks its fruits in Paradise.                                20

  Mourn for the widow'd Lord in chief,
    Who wails and will not solaced be!
  Mourn for the childless Father's grief,
    The wedded Lover's agony!

  Mourn for the Prince, who rose at morn                              25
    To seek and bless the firstling bud
  Of his own Rose, and found the thorn,
    Its point bedew'd with tears of blood.

  O press again that murmuring string!
    Again bewail that princely Sire!                                  30
  A destined Queen, a future King,
    He mourns on one funereal pyre.

  Mourn for Britannia's hopes decay'd,
    Her daughters wail their dear defence;
  Their fair example, prostrate laid,                                 35
    Chaste Love and fervid Innocence.

  While Grief in song shall seek repose,
    We will take up a Mourning yearly:
  To wail the blow that crush'd the Rose,
    So dearly priz'd and lov'd so dearly.                             40

  Long as the fount of Song o'erflows
    Will I the yearly dirge renew:
  Mourn for the firstling of the Rose,
    That snapt the stem on which it grew.

  The proud shall pass, forgot; the chill,                            45
    Damp, trickling Vault their only mourner!
  Not so the regal Rose, that still
    Clung to the breast which first had worn her!

  O thou, who mark'st the Mourner's path
    To sad Jeshurun's Sons attend!                                    50
  Amid the Light'nings of thy Wrath
    The showers of Consolation send!

  Jehovah frowns! the Islands bow!
    And Prince and People kiss the Rod!--
  Their dread chastising Judge wert thou!                             55
    Be thou their Comforter, O God!



[433:2] First published, together with the Hebrew, as an octavo pamphlet
(pp. 13) in 1817. An abbreviated version was included in _Literary
Remains_, 1836, i. 57-8 and in the Appendix to _Poems_, 1863. The
_Lament_ as a whole was first collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877-80, ii.


_Title_] Israel's Lament on the death of the Princess Charlotte of
Wales. From the Hebrew of Hyman Hurwitz L. R.

[19] Transplanted] Translated L. R., 1863.

[21-4] om. L. R, 1863.

[29-32] om. L. R., 1863.

[49-56] om. L. R., 1863.

[49] Mourner's] Mourners' L. R., 1863.



  O! it is pleasant, with a heart at ease,
    Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,
  To make the shifting clouds be what you please,
    Or let the easily persuaded eyes
  Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould                      5
    Of a friend's fancy; or with head bent low
  And cheek aslant see rivers flow of gold
    'Twixt crimson banks; and then, a traveller, go
  From mount to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous land!
    Or list'ning to the tide, with closéd sight,                      10
  Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand
    By those deep sounds possessed with inward light,
  Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee
    Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.



[435:1] First published in _Felix Farley's Bristol Journal_ for February
7, 1818: and afterwards in _Blackwood's Magazine_ for November, 1819.
First collected in 1828: included in 1829 and 1834. A MS. in the
possession of Major Butterworth of Carlisle is signed 'S. T. Coleridge,
Little Hampton, Oct. 1818'. In a letter to Coleridge dated Jan. 10,
1820, Lamb asks, 'Who put your marine sonnet [i. e. A Sonnet written on
the Sea Coast, vide _Title_] . . . in _Blackwood_?' F. Freiligrath in
his Introduction to the Tauchnitz edition says that the last five lines
are borrowed from Stolberg's _An das Meer_; vide Appendices of this


Title] Fancy, &c. A Sonnet Composed by the Seaside, October 1817. F. F.:
Fancy in Nubibus. A Sonnet, composed on the Sea Coast 1819.

[4] let] bid 1819.

[5] Own] Owe F. F. 1818. quaint] strange 1819.

[6] head] heart MS.: head bow'd low 1819.

[9] through] o'er 1819.


A Hebrew Dirge and Hymn, chaunted in the Great Synagogue. St. James' pl.
Aldgate, on the Day of the Funeral of King George III. of blessed
memory. By Hyman Hurwitz of Highgate, Translated by a Friend.


  Oppress'd, confused, with grief and pain,
    And inly shrinking from the blow,
  In vain I seek the dirgeful strain,
    The wonted words refuse to flow.

  A fear in every face I find,                                         5
    Each voice is that of one who grieves;
  And all my Soul, to grief resigned,
    Reflects the sorrow it receives.

  The Day-Star of our glory sets!
    Our King has breathed his latest breath!                          10
  Each heart its wonted pulse forgets,
    As if it own'd the pow'r of death.

  Our Crown, our heart's Desire is fled!
    Britannia's glory moults its wing!
  Let us with ashes on our head,                                      15
    Raise up a mourning for our King.

  Lo! of his beams the Day-Star shorn,[436:2]
    Sad gleams the Moon through cloudy veil!
  The Stars are dim! Our Nobles mourn;
    The Matrons weep, their Children wail.                            20

  No age records a King so just,
    His virtues numerous as his days;
  The Lord Jehovah was his trust,
    And truth with mercy ruled his ways.

  His Love was bounded by no Clime;                                   25
    Each diverse Race, each distant Clan
  He govern'd by this truth sublime,
    'God only knows the heart--not man.'

  His word appall'd the sons of pride,
    Iniquity far wing'd her way;                                      30
  Deceit and fraud were scatter'd wide,
    And truth resum'd her sacred sway.

  He sooth'd the wretched, and the prey
    From impious tyranny he tore;
  He stay'd th' Usurper's iron sway,                                  35
    And bade the Spoiler waste no more.

  Thou too, Jeshurun's Daughter! thou,
    Th' oppress'd of nations and the scorn!
  Didst hail on his benignant brow
    A safety dawning like the morn.                                   40

  The scoff of each unfeeling mind,
    Thy doom was hard, and keen thy grief;
  Beneath his throne, peace thou didst find,
    And blest the hand that gave relief.

  E'en when a fatal cloud o'erspread                                  45
    The moonlight splendour of his sway,
  Yet still the light remain'd, and shed
    Mild radiance on the traveller's way.

  But he is gone--the Just! the Good!
    Nor could a Nation's pray'r delay                                 50
  The heavenly meed, that long had stood
    His portion in the realms of day.

  Beyond the mighty Isle's extent
    The mightier Nation mourns her Chief:
  Him Judah's Daughter shall lament,                                  55
    In tears of fervour, love and grief.

  Britannia mourns in silent grief;
    Her heart a prey to inward woe.
  In vain she strives to find relief,
    Her pang so great, so great the blow.                             60

  Britannia! Sister! woe is me!
    Full fain would I console thy woe.
  But, ah! how shall I comfort thee,
    Who need the balm I would bestow?

  United then let us repair,                                          65
    As round our common Parent's grave;
  And pouring out our heart in prayer,
    Our heav'nly Father's mercy crave.

  Until Jehovah from his throne
    Shall heed his suffering people's fears;                          70
  Shall turn to song the Mourner's groan,
    To smiles of joy the Nation's tears.

  Praise to the Lord! Loud praises sing!
    And bless Jehovah's righteous hand!
  Again he bids a George, our King,                                   75
    Dispense his blessings to the Land.


      O thron'd in Heav'n! Sole King of kings,
  Jehovah! hear thy Children's prayers and sighs!
  Thou Binder of the broken heart! with wings
      Of healing on thy people rise!                                  80
          Thy mercies, Lord, are sweet;
          And Peace and Mercy meet,
          Before thy Judgment seat:
          Lord, hear us! we entreat!

      When angry clouds thy throne surround,                          85
  E'en from the cloud thou bid'st thy mercy shine:
  And ere thy righteous vengeance strikes the wound,
      Thy grace prepares the balm divine!
          Thy mercies, Lord, are sweet;

      The Parent tree thy hand did spare--                            90
  It fell not till the ripen'd fruit was won:
  Beneath its shade the Scion flourish'd fair,
      And for the Sire thou gav'st the Son.

      This thy own Vine, which thou didst rear,
  And train up for us from the royal root,                            95
  Protect, O Lord! and to the Nations near
      Long let it shelter yield, and fruit,

      Lord, comfort thou the royal line:
  Let Peace and Joy watch round us hand and hand.
  Our Nobles visit with thy grace divine,                            100
      And banish sorrow from the land!
          Thy mercies, Lord, are sweet;
          And Peace and Mercy meet
          Before thy Judgment seat;
          Lord, hear us! we entreat!                                 105



[436:1] First published with the Hebrew in pamphlet form in 1820. First
collected in 1893.

[436:2] The author, in the spirit of Hebrew Poetry, here represents the
Crown, the Peerage, and the Commonalty, by the figurative expression of
the Sun, Moon, and Stars.


  Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying,
  Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee--
  Both were mine! Life went a-maying
          With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,
                    When I was young!                                  5

  When I was young?--Ah, woful When!
  Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!
  This breathing house not built with hands,
  This body that does me grievous wrong,
  O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,                              10
  How lightly then it flashed along:--
  Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,
  On winding lakes and rivers wide,
  That ask no aid of sail or oar,
  That fear no spite of wind or tide!                                 15
  Nought cared this body for wind or weather
  When Youth and I lived in't together.

  Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;
  Friendship is a sheltering tree;
  O! the joys, that came down shower-like.                            20
  Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
                          Ere I was old!

  Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,
  Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
  O Youth! for years so many and sweet,                               25
  'Tis known, that Thou and I were one,
  I'll think it but a fond conceit--
  It cannot be that Thou art gone!
  Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:--
  And thou wert aye a masker bold!                                    30
  What strange disguise hast now put on,
  To make believe, that thou art gone?
  I see these locks in silvery slips,
  This drooping gait, this altered size:
  But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips.                               35
  And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!
  Life is but thought: so think I will
  That Youth and I are house-mates still.

  Dew-drops are the gems of morning,
  But the tears of mournful eve!                                      40
  Where no hope is, life's a warning
  That only serves to make us grieve,
                          When we are old:

  That only serves to make us grieve
  With oft and tedious taking-leave,                                  45
  Like some poor nigh-related guest,
  That may not rudely be dismist;
  Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while,
  And tells the jest without the smile.



[439:1] First published in its present shape in 1834. Lines 1-38, with
the heading 'Youth and Age', were first published in the _Literary
Souvenir_, 1828, and also in the _Bijou_, 1828: included in 1828, 1829.
Lines 39-49 were first published in _Blackwood's Magazine_ for June
1832, entitled 'An Old Man's Sigh: a Sonnet', as 'an out-slough or
hypertrophic stanza of a certain poem called "Youth and Age".' Of lines
1-43 three MSS. are extant. (1) A fair copy (_MS. 1_) presented to
Derwent Coleridge, and now in the Editor's possession. In _MS. 1_ the
poem is divided into three stanzas: (i) lines 1-17; (ii) lines 18-38;
(iii) lines 39-43. The watermark of this MS. on a quarto sheet of Bath
Post letter-paper is 1822. (2) A rough draft, in a notebook dated Sept.
10, 1823; and (3) a corrected draft of forty-three lines (vide for _MSS.
2_, _3_ Appendices of this edition). A MS. version of _An Old Man's
Sigh_, dated 'Grove, Highgate, April 1832', was contributed to Miss
Rotha Quillinan's Album; and another version numbering only eight lines
was inscribed in an album in 1828 when Coleridge was on his Rhine tour
with Wordsworth. After line 42 this version continues:--

  As we creep feebly down life's slope,
    Yet courteous dame, accept this truth,
  Hope leaves us not, but we leave hope,
    And quench the inward light of youth.
               T. Colley Grattan's _Beaten Paths_,
                                    1862, ii. 139.

There can be little doubt that lines 1-43 were composed in 1823, and
that the last six lines of the text which form part of _An Old Man's
Sigh_ were composed, as an afterthought, in 1832.


[1] Verse, a] Verse is a _with the alternative_ ? Vērse ă breeze MS. 1.

[2] clung] clings MS. 1, Bijou.

[6] When I] _When_ I 1828, 1829.

[8] This house of clay MS. 1, Bijou.

[10] O'er hill and dale and sounding sands MS. 1, Bijou.

[11] then] _then_ 1828, 1829.

[12] skiffs] boats MS. 1, Bijou.

[20] came] come Bijou.

[21] Of Beauty, Truth, and Liberty MS. 1, Bijou.

[23] Ere I] _Ere_ I 1828, 1829. woful] mournful Literary Souvenir.

[25] many] merry Bijou.

[27] fond] false MS. 1, Bijou.

[32] make believe] _make believe_ 1828, 1829.

[34] drooping] dragging MS. 1, Bijou.


  That only serves to make me grieve
                  Now I am old!
  Now I am old,--ah woful Now

MS. 1.


                    In our old age
  Whose bruised wings quarrel with the bars of the still
    narrowing cage.

Inserted in 1832.

[49] Two lines were added in 1832:--

  O might Life cease! and Selfless Mind,
  Whose total Being is Act, alone remain behind.


Or, The Flower-Thief's Apology, for a robbery committed in Mr. and Mrs.
----'s garden, on Sunday morning, 25th of May, 1823, between the hours
of eleven and twelve.

  "Fie, Mr. Coleridge!--and can this be you?
  Break two commandments? and in church-time too!
  Have you not heard, or have you heard in vain,
  The birth-and-parentage-recording strain?--
  Confessions shrill, that out-shrill'd mack'rel drown                 5
  Fresh from the drop--the youth not yet cut down--
  Letter to sweet-heart--the last dying speech--
  And didn't all this begin in Sabbath-breach?
  You, that knew better! In broad open day,
  Steal in, steal out, and steal our flowers away?                    10
  What could possess you? Ah! sweet youth. I fear
  The chap with horns and tail was at your ear!"

  Such sounds of late, accusing fancy brought
  From fair Chisholm to the Poet's thought.
  Now hear the meek Parnassian youth's reply:--                       15
  A bow--a pleading look--a downcast eye,--
  And then:

            "Fair dame! a visionary wight,
  Hard by your hill-side mansion sparkling white,
  His thoughts all hovering round the Muses' home,
  Long hath it been your Poet's wont to roam,                         20
  And many a morn, on his becharméd sense
  So rich a stream of music issued thence,
  He deem'd himself, as it flowed warbling on,
  Beside the vocal fount of Helicon!
  But when, as if to settle the concern,                              25
  A Nymph too he beheld, in many a turn,
  Guiding the sweet rill from its fontal urn,--
  Say, can you blame?--No! none that saw and heard
  Could blame a bard, that he thus inly stirr'd;
  A muse beholding in each fervent trait,                             30
  Took Mary H---- for Polly Hymnia!
  Or haply as there stood beside the maid
  One loftier form in sable stole array'd,
  If with regretful thought he hail'd in _thee_
  Chisholm, his long-lost friend, Mol Pomene!                         35
  But most of _you_, soft warblings, I complain!
  'Twas ye that from the bee-hive of my brain
  Did lure the fancies forth, a freakish rout,
  And witch'd the air with dreams turn'd inside out.

  "Thus all conspir'd--each power of eye and ear,                     40
  And this gay month, th' enchantress of the year,
  To cheat poor me (no conjuror, God wot!)
  And Chisholm's self accomplice in the plot.
  Can you then wonder if I went astray?
  Not bards alone, nor lovers mad as they;--