PART VII

This Hermit good lives in that wood

Which slopes down to the sea.

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:

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,

That signal made but now?"

"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!

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,

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!"

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.

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.

Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,

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.

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

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,

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,

I stood on the firm land!

The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,

And scarcely he could stand.

"O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!"

The Hermit crossed his brow.

"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;

And then it left me free.

Since then, at an uncertain hour,

That agony returns:

And till my ghastly tale is told,

This heart within me burns.

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.

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,

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 seemed there to be.

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,

And all together pray,

While each to his great Father bends,

Old men, and babes, and loving friends,

And youths and maidens gay!

Farewell, farewell! but this I tell

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;

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

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.

1797-1798.

[Footnote 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 of

S. T. C., first printed in _Sibylline Leaves_.]]

CHRISTABEL

PART THE FIRST

'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock,

And the owls have awakened the crowing cock,"

Tu--whit!--Tu--whoo!

And hark, again! the crowing cock,

How drowsily it crew.

Sir Leoline; the Baron rich,

Hath a toothless mastiff, which

From her kennel beneath the rock

Maketh answer to the clock,

Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour;

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.

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:

'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,

A furlong from the castle gate?

She had dreams all yesternight

Of her own betrothed knight;

And she in the midnight wood will pray

For the weal of her lover that's far away.

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,

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.--

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

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,

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,

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:

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.

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?

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!

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:

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,

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;

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.

Some muttered words his comrades spoke:

He 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,

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:

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

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:

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,

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,

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

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,

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!

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

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

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!

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,

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.

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,

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,

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,

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.

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,

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?

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

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!

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,

"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--,

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:

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.

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,

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!

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,

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,

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,

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;

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,

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

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;

But vainly thou warrest,

For his is alone in

Thy power to declare,

That in the dim forest

Thou heard'st a low moaning,

And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair;

And didst bring her home with thee in love and

in charity,

To shield her and shelter her from the damp

air."

THE CONCLUSION

TO PART THE FIRST

It was a lovely sight to see

The lady Christabel, when she

Was praying at the old oak tree.

Amid the jagged shadows

Of mossy leafless boughs,

Kneeling in the moonlight,

To make her gentle vows;

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,

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--

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,

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

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!

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

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,

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.

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:

For the blue sky bends over all!

1797.

PART THE SECOND

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:

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,

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!

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,

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;

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 Borrowdale.

The air is still! through mist and cloud

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,

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

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

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.

"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

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,

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,

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,

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,

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;

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.

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--

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,

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.

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,

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

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

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.

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,

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,

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,

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 beloved child?"

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,

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

She might be sent without delay

Home to her father's mansion.

"Nay!

Nay, by my soul!" said Leoline.

"Ho! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine!

Go thou, with music sweet and loud,

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,

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,

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!

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

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:

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,

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;

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,

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,

Warn'd by a vision in my rest!

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,

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

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

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.

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,

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

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;

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,

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

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,

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,

And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread,

At Christabel she look'd askance!--

One moment--and the sight was fled!

But Christabel in dizzy trance

Stumbling on the unsteady ground

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

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,

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

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--

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,

"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.

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!

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,

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?

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,

His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild,

Dishonour'd thus in his old age;

Dishonour'd by his only child,

And all his hospitality

To the insulted daughter of his friend

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--

"Why, Bracy! dost thou loiter here?

I bade thee hence!" The bard obeyed;

And turning from his own sweet maid,

The aged knight, Sir Leoline,

Led forth the lady Geraldine!

1801.

THE CONCLUSION

TO PART THE SECOND

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

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.

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

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

Comes seldom save from rage and pain,

So talks as it's most used to do.

?1801.

KUBLA KHAN

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan

A stately pleasure-dome decree:

Where Alph, the sacred river, ran

Through caverns measureless to man

Down to a sunless sea.

So twice five miles of fertile ground

With walls and towers were girdled round:

And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills,

Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;

And here were forests ancient as the hills,

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

By woman wailing for her demon-lover!

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

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

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!

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,

A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!

A damsel with a dulcimer

In a vision once I saw:

It was an Abyssinian maid;

And on her dulcimer she played,

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,

I would build that dome in air,

That sunny dome! those caves of ice!

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.

1798.

LEWTI

OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHAUNT

At midnight by the stream I roved,

To forget the form I loved.

Image of Lewti! from my mind

Depart; for Lewti is not kind.

The Moon was high, the moonlight gleam

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.--

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,

Onward to the moon it passed;

Still brighter and more bright it grew,

With floating colours not a few,

Till it reach'd the moon at last:

Then the cloud was wholly bright,

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!

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:

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--

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--

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

Now below and now above,

Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud

Of Lady fair--that died for love.

For maids, as well as youths, have perished

From fruitless love too fondly cherished.

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,

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!

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

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,

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.

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

Her bosom heave, and heave for me!

Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind!

To-morrow Lewti may be kind.

1794.

THE BALLAD OF THE DARK LADIE

A FRAGMENT

Beneath yon birch with silver bark,

And boughs so pendulous and fair,

The brook falls scatter'd down the rock:

And all is mossy there!

And there upon the moss she sits,

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,

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--

Oh wherefore can he stay?

She hears a rustling o'er the brook,

She sees far off a swinging bough!

"'Tis He! 'Tis my betrothed Knight!

Lord Falkland, it is Thou!"

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

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,

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,

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:

"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?

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,

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,

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."

* * * * *

1798.

LOVE

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

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;

And she was there, my hope, my joy,

My own dear Genevieve!

She leant against the armed man,

The statue of the armed knight;

She stood and listened to my lay,

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.

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,

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;

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,

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!

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,

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;

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

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;--

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

That tenderest strain of all the ditty,

My faltering voice and pausing harp

Disturbed her soul with pity!

All impulses of soul and sense

Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;

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,

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.

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,

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,

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,

My bright and beauteous Bride.

1798-1799.

THE THREE GRAVES

A FRAGMENT OF A SEXTON'S TALE

PART I

The grapes upon the Vicar's wall

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:

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,

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.

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,

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,

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--

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.

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

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:

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!

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

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.

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.

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,

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:

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,

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.

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,

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--

O curse this woman, at whose house

Young Edward woo'd his wife.

"By night and day, in bed and bower,

O let her cursed be!!! "

So having prayed, steady and slow,

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:

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

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?"

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,

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:

"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:

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!"

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,

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:

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

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

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.

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,

But closelier did she cling,

And turned her face and looked as if

She saw some frightful thing.

PART II

To see a man tread over graves

I hold it no good mark;

'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

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!

"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,

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;

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;

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 look'd as if he thought

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.

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!

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;

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

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;

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

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.

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,

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:

"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

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.

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

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,

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,

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.

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.

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,

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;

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;

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,

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.

Both groan'd 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

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;

And Mary shivered, where she sat,

And never she smiled after.

1797-1809.

_Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum._ To-morrow!

and To-morrow! and To-morrow!----[Note of S.T.C.--l8l5.]

DEJECTION: AN ODE

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._

I

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,

Or the dull sobbing drafty 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,

(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,

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!

II

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,

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

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

In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;

I see them all so excellently fair,

I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!

III

My genial spirits fail;

And what can these avail

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

The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.

IV

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,

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--

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!

V

O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me

What this strong music in the soul may be!

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,

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--

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.

VI

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,

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,

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--

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.

VII

Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,

Reality's dark dream!

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, or blasted tree,

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,

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, even to frenzy bold!

What tell'st thou now about?

'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,

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,

'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.

VIII

Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:

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,

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,

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.

1802.

ODE TO TRANQUILLITY

Tranquility! 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,

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,

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:

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;

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,

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--

A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile,

Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!

1801.

FRANCE: AN ODE

I

Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause,

Whose pathless march no mortal may controul!

Ye Ocean-Waves! that, wheresoe'er ye roll,

Yield homage only to eternal laws!

Ye Woods! that listen to the night-birds' singing,

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,

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!

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

The spirit of divinest Liberty.

II

When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared,

And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea,

Stamped her strong foot and said she would be free,

Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared!

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,

And Britain join'd 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;

Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat

To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance,

And shame too long delay'd and vain retreat!

For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim

I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame;

But blessed the paeans of delivered France,

And hung my head and wept at Britain's name.

III

"And what," I said, "though Blasphemy's loud scream

With that sweet music of deliverance strove!

Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove

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;

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,

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!

And, conquering by her happiness alone,

Shall France compel the nations to be free,

Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Earth their own."

IV

Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams!

I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament,

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

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;

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?

To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway,

Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey;

To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils

From freemen torn; to tempt and to betray?

V

The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain,

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;

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,

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,

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.

_February_ 1798.

FEARS IN SOLITUDE

WRITTEN IN APRIL 1798, DURING THE

ALARM OF AN INVASION

A Green and silent spot, amid the hills,

A small and silent dell! O'er stiller place

No singing sky-lark ever poised himself.

The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope,

Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on,

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,

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

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,

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

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

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--

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!

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

Countless and vehement, the sons of God,

Our brethren! Like a cloud that travels on,

Steam'd up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence,

Even so, my countrymen! have we gone forth

And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs,

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

Engulf'd in Courts, Committees, Institutions,

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;

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,

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

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,

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,

Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place,

(Portentous sight!) the owlet Atheism,

Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon,

Drops his blue-fringed lids, and holds them close,

And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven,

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

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,

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,

(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

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,

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

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,

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,

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!

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

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,

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

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

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.

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,

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

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,

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.--

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

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,

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

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

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

In the distant tree: which heard, and only heard

In this low dell, bow'd 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,

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

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,

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!

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

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

Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge

Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind.

NETHER STOWEY, _April 2Oth_, 1798.

THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON

ADDRESSED TO CHARLES LAMB, OF THE

INDIA HOUSE, LONDON

In the June of 1797 some long-expected friends paid a visit to the author's

cottage; and on the morning of their arrival, he met with an accident,

which disabled him from walking during the whole time of their stay. One

evening, when they had left him for a few hours, he composed the following

lines in the garden-bower.

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 dimmed mine eyes to blindness! They, meanwhile,

Friends, whom I never more may meet again,

On springy 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,

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,

Unsunned and damp, whose few poor yellow-leaves

Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still,

Fanned by the water-fall! and there my friends

Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds,

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

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

Of purple shadow! Yes! they wander on

In gladness all; but thou, me thinks, most glad,

My gentle-hearted Charles! for thou hast pined

And hungered after Nature, many a year,

In the great City pent, winning thy way

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

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

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,

This little lime-tree bower, have I not marked

Much that has soothed me. Pale beneath the blaze

Hung the transparent foliage; and I watched

Some broad and sunny leaf, and loved to see

The shadow of the leaf and stem above,

Dappling its sunshine! And that walnut-tree

Was richly tinged, 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

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;

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 promised good,

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

(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

For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom

No sound is dissonant which tells of Life.

1797.

TO A GENTLEMAN

[WILLIAM WORDSWORTH]

COMPOSED ON THE NIGHT AFTER HIS RECITATION

OF A POEM ON THE GROWTH OF AN INDIVIDUAL

MIND.

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

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

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,

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,

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,

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 becalmed bark beneath the burst

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,

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,

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,

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 steadfast eye I viewed thee in the choir

Of ever-enduring men. The truly great

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,

And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame

Among the archives of mankind, thy work

Makes audible a linked lay of Truth,

Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay,

Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes

Ah! as I listen'd with a heart forlorn,

The pulses of my being beat anew:

And even as life retains upon the drowned,

Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains--

Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a babe

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;

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!

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

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!

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

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,

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, still darting off

Into the darkness; now a tranquil sea,

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 sustained Song finally closed,

And thy deep voice had ceased--yet thou thyself

Wert still before my eyes, and round us both

That happy vision of beloved faces--

Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close

I sate, my being blended in one thought

(Thought was it? or aspiration? or resolve?)

Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound--

And when I rose, I found myself in prayer.

_January_ 1807.

HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE, IN THE

VALE OF CHAMOUNI

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 blue."

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!

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,

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

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:

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,

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,

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!

Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?

Who fill'd 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,

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.

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--

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

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!

Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!

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, unheard,

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

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!

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.

1802

FROST AT MIDNIGHT

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

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,

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, which fluttered on the grate,

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

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,

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,

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!

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,

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,

Fill up the interspersed 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,

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

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

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,

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

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.

THE NIGHTINGALE

A CONVERSATION POEM, WRITTEN IN APRIL 1798

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day

Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip

Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.

Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!

You see the glimmer of the stream beneath,

Bur* 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

A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.

And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,

"Most musical, most melancholy" bird!

A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought!

In Nature there is nothing melancholy.

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! fill'd all things with himself,

And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale

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

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

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,

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

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,

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,

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

So many nightingales; and far and near,

In wood and thicket, over the wide grove,

They answer and provoke each other's songs,

With skirmish and capricious passagings,

And murmurs musical and swift jug jug,

And one low piping sound more sweet than all--

Stirring the air with such an 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,

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

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,

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,

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

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!

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,

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),

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!--

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.

THE EOLIAN HARP

COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE

My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined

Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is

To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown

With white-flowered Jasmin, and the broad-leaved

Myrtle,

(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!),

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

Snatched from yon bean-field! and the world

so hushed!

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 caressed,

Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover,

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

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 untamed

wing!

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

Not to love all things in a world so filled;

Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still

air

In Music slumbering on her instrument.

And thus, my love! as on the midway slope

Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon,

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 uncalled and undetained,

And many idle flitting phantasies,

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 framed,

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 beloved woman! nor such thoughts

Dim and unhallowed 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 dispraised

These shapings of the unregenerate mind;

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;

Who with his saving mercies healed me,

A sinful and most miserable man,

Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess

Peace, and this cot, and thee, dear honoured

Maid!

1795.

THE PICTURE

OR THE LOVER'S RESOLUTION

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;[1] while oft unseen,

Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves,

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,

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

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

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!

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

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!

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,

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.

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

Clothes as with net-work: here will 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

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,

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

Shiver in sunshine, but his feeble heart

Shall flow away like a dissolving thing.