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Its own sweet self-a love of Thee That seems, yet cannot greater be!
But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE.
THE VISIONARY HOPE.
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.
Sad lot, to have no Hope! Though lowly kneeling
Eight springs have flown, since last I lay
On seaward Quantock's heathy hills, "Where quiet sounds from hidden rills Float here and there, like things astray,
And high o'erhead the sky-lark shrills.
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?
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.
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 wouldFor Love's Despair is but Hope's pining Ghost ! 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, 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.
You stood before me like a thought,
A dream remember'd in a dream.
But when those meek eyes first did seem To tell me, Love within you wrought
O Greta, dear domestic stream!
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.
THE HAPPY HUSBAND.
A more precipitated vein
Of notes, that eddy in the flow
Of smoothest song, they come, they go, And leave the sweeter under-strain
Me a thousand hopes and pleasures,
A thousand recollections bland, Thoughts sublime, and stately measures, Revisit on thy echoing strand :
Dreams (the soul herself forsaking),
On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!
The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form!
Risest from forth thy silent Sea of Pines,
How silently! Around thee and above Oye hopes, that stir within me,
Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
As with a wedge! But when I look again,
It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer
I worshipp'd the Invisible alone.
Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,
So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,
Yea with my Life and Life's own secret Joy :
Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused,
Into the mighty vision passing-there
Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,
Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.
Thou first and chief, sole Sovereign of the Vale!
And visited all night by troops of stars,
Companion of the Morning-Star at dawn,
Thyself earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
Co-herald: wake, 0 wake, and utter praise' Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived,
Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? Who seeks a heart in the unthinking Man.
Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light?
Who made thee Parent of perpetual streams?
And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
Who call’d you forth from night and utter death, Warmoth the inner frame.
From dark and icy caverns call'd you forth,
For ever shatter'd and the same for ever?
Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,
sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents And who commanded (and the silence came),
Ye Ice-falls ! ye that from the mountain's brow
Adown enormous ravines slope amainHast thou a charm to stay the Morning-Star
Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty Voice,
And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge!
Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven * Effinxit quondam blandum meditata laborem
Benealh the keen full Moon? Who bade the Sun
Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers
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!
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!
My native land! Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest ! Fillid with the thought of thee this heart was proud, Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm! Yea, mine eye swam with tears : that all the view Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds ! From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills, Ye signs and wonders of the element !
Floated away, like a departing dream, Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise ! Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses
Blame thou not lightly ; nor will I profane, Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,
With hasty judgment or injurious doubt, Oft from whose feet the Avalanche, unheard,
That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene
That God is everywhere! the God who framed Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast
Mankind to be one mighty Family,
Himself our Father, and the World our Home.
ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST OF Solemnly seemest, like a vapory cloud,
FEBRUARY, 1796. To rise before me-Rise, O ever rise, Rise like a cloud of incense, from the earth! SWEET Flower! that peeping from thy russet stem Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,
Unfoldest timidly (for in strange sort Thou dread Ambassador from Earth to Heaven, This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
month And tell the Stars, and tell yon rising sun
Hath borrow'd Zephyr's voice, and gazed upon thee Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God. With blue voluptuous eye), alas, poor Flower!
These are but flatteries of the faithless year.
E'en 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,
Nipp'd by Consumption ’mid untimely charms! WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE, IN THE An Amaranth, which earth scarce seem'd to own,
Or to Bristowa's Bard,* the wondrous boy!
Till Disappointment came, and pelting wrong
Beat it to earth? or with indignant grief I STOOD on Brocken's* sovran height, and saw
Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's Hope, Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills,
Bright flower of Hope kill'd in the opening bud ? A surging scene, and only limited By the blue distance. Heavily my way
Farewell, sweet blossom! better fate be thine, Downward I dragg'd through fir-groves evermore,
And mock my boding ! Dim similitudes
Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms From anxious Self, Life's cruel Task-Master! Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard,
And the warm wooings of this sunny day
Tremble along my frame, and harmonize
The attemper'd organ, that even saddest thoughts
Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes
Play'd destly on a soft-toned instrument.
THE EOLIAN HARP.
COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE. Their finer influence from the Life within :
My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined Fair ciphers else: fair, but of import vague Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is Or unconcerning, where the Heart not finds To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown History or prophecy of Friend, or Child,
With white-flower'd Jasmin, and the broad-leaved Or gentle Maid, our first and early love,
Myrtle, Or Father, or the venerable name
(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!) Of our adored Country! O thou Queen,
And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light, Thou delegated Deity of Earth,
Slow caddening round, and mark the star of eve O dear, dear England ! how my longing eye
Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be) Turn'd westward, shaping in the steady clouds
Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents * Thy sands and high white cliffs !
Snatch'd from you bean-field! and the world so
The stilly murmur of the distant Sea
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,
It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs Was green and woody, and refresh'd the eye.
The Valley of Seclusion! once I saw
(Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness) Such a soft floating witchery of sound
A wealthy son of commerce saunter by, As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve
Bristowa's citizen: methought, it calm d Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,
His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers, With wiser feelings; for he paused, and look'd Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,
With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around, Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing! Then eyed our cottage, and gazed round again, O the one life within us and abroad,
And sigh’d, and said, it was a blessed place. Which meets all motion and becomes its soul, And we were bless'd. Oft with patient ear A light in sound, a sound-like power in light, Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note Rhythm in all thought, and joyance everywhere- (Viewless or haply for a moment seen Methinks, it should have been impossible
Gleaming on sunny wings), in whisper'd tones
I've said to my beloved, “ Such, sweet girl!
Unearthly minstrelsy! then only heard
When the soul seeks to hear; when all is hush'd, And thus, my love! as on the midway slope And the Heart listens !” Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon, Whilst through my half-closed eye-lids I behold
But the time, when first The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main, From that low dell, steep up the stony Mount And tranquil muse upon tranquillity;
I climb'd with perilous toil, and reach'd the top, Full many a thought uncall'd and undetain'd,
Oh! what a goodly scene! Here the bleak Mount, And many idle flitting phantasies,
The bare bleak Mountain speckled thin with sheep; Traverse my indolent and passive brain,
Gray clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields; As wild and various as the random gales
And River, now with bushy rocks o'erbrow'd, That swell and Autter on this subject lute !
Now winding bright and full, with naked banks;
And Seats, and Lawns, the Abbey and the Wood, And what if all of animated nature
And Cots, and Hamlets, and faint City-spire ; Be but organic harps diversely framed,
The Channel there, the Islands and white Sails, That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps, Dim Coasts, and cloud-like Hills, and shoreless Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,
Ocean At once the Soul of each, and God of All ?
It seem'd like Omnipresence! God, methought,
Had built him there a Temple: the whole World
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 toild and bled,
That I should dream away the intrusted hours On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring.
On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart For never guiltless may I speak of him,
With feelings all too delicate for use ?
Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye Who with his saving mercies healed me,
Drops on the cheek of One he lifts from Earth:
And He that works me good with unmoved face, A sinful and most miserable Man, Wilder'd and dark, and gave me to possess
Does it but half: he chills me while he aids,
My Benefactor, not my Brother Man!
Yet even this, this cold beneficence,
Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched, REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE Nursing in some delicious solitude
Their slothful loves and dainty Sympathies !
I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand,
Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight
Of Science, Freedom, and the Truth in Christ.
Low was our pretty Cot: our tallest rose
Yet oft, when after honorable toil
My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot!
Ahhad none greater! And that all had such !
Loved as a brother, as a son revered thee!
Endears the cleanly hearth and social bowl;
Stirr'd by the faint gale of departing May,
70 THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE OF
OTTERY ST. MARY, DEVON.
WITH SOME POEMS.
Nor dost not thou sometimes recall those hours, Notus in fratres animi paterni.
When with the joy of hope thou gavest thine ear Hor. Carm. lib. i. 2. To my wild firstling-lays. Since then my song
Hath sounded deeper notes, such as beseem A BLESSED lot hath he, who having pass'd
Or that sad wisdom folly leaves behind, His youth and early manhood in the stir
Or such as, tuned to these tumultuous times,
Copo with the tempest's swell!
These various strains, And haply views his tottering little ones
Which I have framed in many a various mood, Embrace those aged knees and climb that lap,
Accept, my Brother! and (for some perchance On which first kneeling his own infancy
Will strike discordant on thy milder mind) Lisp'd its brief prayer. Such, O my earliest Friend! If aught of Error or intemperate Truth Thy lot, and such thy brothers too enjoy.
Should meet thine ear, think thou that riper age At distance did ye climb Lite's upland road,
Will calm it down, and let thy love forgive it! 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!
INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH. To me th' Eternal Wisdom hath dispensed A different fortune and more different mind This Sycamore, oft musical with bees,Me from the spot where first I sprang to light Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long unharm'd Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fix'd May all its aged boughs o'er-canopy Its first domestic loves; and hence through life The small round basin, which this jutting stone Chasing chance-started Friendships. A brief while Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring, Some have preserved me from Life's pelting ills; Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath, But, like a tree with leaves of feeble stem, Send up cold waters to the traveller If the clouds lasted, and a sudden breeze
With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease Ruffled the boughs, they on my head at once Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance, Dropp'd the collected shower; and some most false, Which at the bottom, like a fairy's page, False and fair foliaged as the Manchineel, As merry and no taller, dances still, Have tempted me to slumber in their shade Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount. E'en 'mid the storm; thèn breathing subtlest damps, Here twilight is and coolness : here is moss, Mix'd their own venom with the rain from Ileaven, A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade. That I woke poison'd! But, all praise to Him Thou mayst toil far and find no second tree. Who gives us all things, more have yielded me Drink, Pilgrim, here! Here rest! and if thy heart Permanent shelter; and beside one Friend, Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh Beneath th' impervious covert of one Oak, Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound, I've raised a lowly shed, and know the names Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees! Of Husband and of Father; nor unhearing Of that divine and nightly-whispering Voice, Which from my childhood to maturer years Spake to me of predestinated wreaths,
A TOMBLESS EPITAPH. Bright with no fading colors!
"T is true, Idoloclastes Satyrane!
Yet at times (So call him, for so mingling blame with praise, My soul is sad, that I have roam'd through life And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends, Still most a stranger, most with naked heart Masking his birth-name, wont to character At mine own home and birth-place: chiefly then, His wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal) When I remember thee, my earliest Friend ! "T is true that, passionate for ancient truths, Thee, who didst watch my boyhood and my youth ; And honoring with religious love the Great Didst trace my wanderings with a Father's eye; Of elder times, he hated to excess, And boding evil, yet still hoping good,
With an unquiet and intolerant scorn, Rebuked each fault, and over all my woes
The hollow puppets of a hollow age, Sorrow'd in silence! He who counts alone Ever idolatrous, and changing ever The beatings of the solitary heart,
Its worthless Idols! Learning, Power, and Time. That Being knows, how I have loved thee ever, (Too much of ail) thus wasting in vain war