SCENE continues.
COLLOT D'HERBOIS.
Caesar is fallen! The baneful tree of Java,
Whose death-distilling boughs dropt poisonous dew,
Is rooted from its base. This worse than Cromwell,
The austere, the self-denying Robespierre,
Even in this hall, where once with terror mute
We listen'd to the hypocrite's harangues,
Has heard his doom.
BILLAUD VARENNES.
Yet must we not suppose
The tyrant will fall tamely. His sworn hireling
Henriot, the daring desperate Henriot
Commands the force of Paris. I denounce him.
FRERON.
I denounce Fleuriot too, the mayor of Paris.
[Enter DUBOIS CRANCE.]
DUBOIS CRANCE.
Robespierre is rescued. Henriot, at the head
Of the arm'd force, has rescued the fierce tyrant.
COLLOT D'HERBOIS.
Ring the tocsin--call all the citizens
To save their country--never yet has Paris
Forsook the representatives of France.
TALLIEN.
It is the hour of danger. I propose
This sitting be made permanent.
[Loud Applauses.]
COLLOT D'HERBOIS.
The national Convention shall remain
Firm at its post.
[Enter a MESSENGER.]
MESSENGER.
Robespierre has reach'd the Commune. They espouse
The tyrant's cause. St. Just is up in arms!
St. Just--the young, ambitious, bold St. Just
Harangues the mob. The sanguinary Couthon
Thirsts for your blood.
[Tocsin rings.]
TALLIEN.
These tyrants are in arms against the law:
Outlaw the rebels.
[Enter MERLIN OF DOUAY.]
MERLIN.
Health to the representatives of France!
I pass'd this moment through the armed force--
They ask'd my name--and when they heard a delegate,
Swore I was not the friend of France.
COLLOT D'HERBOIS.
The tyrants threaten us as when they turn'd
The cannon's mouth on Brissot.
[Enter another MESSENGER.]
SECOND MESSENGER.
Vivier harangues the Jacobins--the club
Espouse the cause of Robespierre.
[Enter another MESSENGER.]
THIRD MESSENGER.
All's lost--the tyrant triumphs. Henriot leads
The soldiers to his aid.--Already I hear
The rattling cannon destin'd to surround
This sacred hall.
TALLIEN.
Why, we will die like men then.
The representatives of France dare death,
When duty steels their bosoms.
[Loud Applauses.]
TALLIEN [addressing the galleries.]
Citizens! France is insulted in her delegates--
The majesty of the Republic is insulted--
Tyrants are up in arms. An armed force
Threats the Convention. The Convention swears
To die, or save the country!
[Violent Applauses from the galleries.]
CITIZEN [from above.]
We too swear
To die, or save the country. Follow me.
[All the men quit the galleries.]
[Enter another MESSENGER.]
FOURTH MESSENGER.
Henriot is taken!--
[Loud Applauses.]
Henriot is taken. Three of your brave soldiers
Swore they would seize the rebel slave of tyrants,
Or perish in the attempt. As he patroll'd
The streets of Paris, stirring up the mob,
They seized him.
[Applauses.]
BILLAUD VARENNES.
Let the names of these brave men
Live to the future day.
[Enter BOURDON L'OISE, sword in hand.]
BOURDON L'OISE.
I have clear'd the Commune.
[Applauses.]
Through the throng I rush'd,
Brandishing my good sword to drench its blade
Deep in the tyrant's heart. The timid rebels
Gave way. I met the soldiery--I spake
Of the dictator's crimes--of patriots chain'd
In dark deep dungeons by his lawless rage--
Of knaves secure beneath his fostering power.
I spake of Liberty. Their honest hearts
Caught the warm flame. The general shout burst forth,
"Live the Convention--Down with Robespierre!"
[Applauses. Shouts from without
--Down with the tyrant!]
TALLIEN.
I hear, I hear the soul-inspiring sounds,
France shall be saved! her generous sons attach'd
To principles, not persons, spurn the idol
They worshipp'd once. Yes, Robespierre shall fall
As Capet fell! Oh! never let us deem
That France shall crouch beneath a tyrant's throne,
That the almighty people who have broke
On their oppressors' heads the oppressive chain,
Will court again their fetters! easier were it
To hurl the cloud-capt mountain from its base,
Than force the bonds of slavery upon men
Determined to be free!
[Applauses.]
[Enter LEGENDRE, a Pistol in one hand, Keys in the other.]
LEGENDRE, [flinging down the Keys.]
So--let the mutinous Jacobins meet now In the open air.
[Loud Applauses.]
A factious, turbulent party,
Lording it o'er the state since Danton died,
And with him the Cordeliers.--A hireling band
Of loud-tongued orators controll'd the club,
And bade them bow the knee to Robespierre.
Vivier has 'scap'd me. Curse his coward heart--
This fate-fraught tube of Justice in my hand,
I rush'd into the hall. He mark'd mine eye,
That beam'd its patriot anger, and flash'd full
With death-denouncing meaning. 'Mid the throng
He mingled. I pursued--but staid my hand,
Lest haply I might shed the innocent blood.
[Applauses.]
FRERON.
They took from me my ticket of admission--
Expell'd me from their sittings.--Now, forsooth,
Humbled and trembling re-insert my name.
But Freron enters not the club again
Till it be purged of guilt--till, purified
Of tyrants and of traitors, honest men
May breathe the air in safety.
[Shouts from without.]
BARRERE.
What means this uproar! if the tyrant band
Should gain the people once again to rise--
We are as dead!
TALLIEN.
And wherefore fear we death?
Did Brutus fear it? or the Grecian friends
Who buried in Hipparchus' breast the sword,
And died triumphant? Caesar should fear death,
Brutus must scorn the bugbear.
[Shouts from without:
Live the Convention--Down with the tyrants!]
TALLIEN.
Hark! again
The sounds of honest Freedom!
[Enter DEPUTIES from the SECTIONS.]
CITIZEN.
Citizens! representatives of France!
Hold on your steady course. The men of Paris
Espouse your cause. The men of Paris swear
They will defend the delegates of Freedom.
TALLIEN.
Hear ye this, colleagues? hear ye this, my brethren?
And does no thrill of joy pervade your breasts?
My bosom bounds to rapture. I have seen
The sons of France shake off the tyrant yoke;
I have, as much as lies in mine own arm,
Hurl'd down the usurper.--Come death when it will,
I have lived long enough.
[Shouts without.]
BARRERE.
Hark! how the noise increases! through the gloom
Of the still evening--harbinger of death
Rings the tocsin! the dreadful generale
Thunders through Paris--
[Cry without
--Down with the tyrant!]
[Enter LECOINTRE.]
LECOINTRE.
So may eternal justice blast the foes
Of France! so perish all the tyrant brood,
As Robespierre has perish'd! Citizens,
Caesar is taken.
[Loud and repeated Applauses.]
I marvel not, that, with such fearless front,
He braved our vengeance, and with angry eye
Scowl'd round the hall defiance. He relied
On Henriot's aid--the Commune's villain friendship,
And Henriot's boughten succours. Ye have heard
How Henriot rescued him--how with open arms
The Commune welcomed in the rebel tyrant--
How Fleuriot aided, and seditious Vivier
Stirr'd up the Jacobins. All had been lost--
The representatives of France had perish'd--
Freedom had sunk beneath the tyrant arm
Of this foul parricide, but that her spirit
Inspired the men of Paris. Henriot call'd
"To arms" in vain, whilst Bourdon's patriot voice
Breathed eloquence, and o'er the Jacobins
Legendre frown'd dismay. The tyrants fled--
They reach'd the Hotel. We gather'd round--we call'd
For vengeance! Long time, obstinate in despair,
With knives they hack'd around them. Till foreboding
The sentence of the law, the clamorous cry
Of joyful thousands hailing their destruction,
Each sought by suicide to escape the dread
Of death. Lebas succeeded. From the window
Leap'd the younger Robespierre; but his fractur'd limb
Forbade to escape. The self-will'd dictator
Plung'd often the keen knife in his dark breast,
Yet impotent to die. He lives, all mangled
By his own tremulous hand! All gash'd and gored,
He lives to taste the bitterness of death.
Even now they meet their doom. The bloody Couthon,
The fierce St. Just, even now attend their tyrant
To fall beneath the axe. I saw the torches
Flash on their visages a dreadful light--
I saw them whilst the black blood roll'd adown
Each stern face, even then with dauntless eye
Scowl round contemptuous, dying as they lived,
Fearless of fate!
[Loud and repeated Applauses.]
BARRERE [mounts the Tribune.]
For ever hallow'd be this glorious day,
When Freedom, bursting her oppressive chain,
Tramples on the oppressor. When the tyrant,
Hurl'd from his blood-cemented throne by the arm
Of the almighty people, meets the death
He plann'd for thousands. Oh! my sickening heart
Has sunk within me, when the various woes
Of my brave country crowded o'er my brain
In ghastly numbers--when assembled hordes,
Dragg'd from their hovels by despotic power,
Rush'd o'er her frontiers, plunder'd her fair hamlets,
And sack'd her populous towns, and drench'd with blood
The reeking fields of Flanders.--When within,
Upon her vitals prey'd the rankling tooth
Of treason; and oppression, giant form,
Trampling on freedom, left the alternative
Of slavery, or of death. Even from that day,
When, on the guilty Capet, I pronounced
The doom of injured France, has faction rear'd
Her hated head amongst us. Roland preach'd
Of mercy--the uxorious, dotard Roland,
The woman-govern'd Roland durst aspire
To govern France; and Petion talk'd of virtue,
And Vergniaud's eloquence, like the honey'd tongue
Of some soft Syren wooed us to destruction.
We triumph'd over these. On the same scaffold
Where the last Louis pour'd his guilty blood,
Fell Brissot's head, the womb of darksome treasons,
And Orleans, villain kinsman of the Capet,
And Hebert's atheist crew, whose maddening hand
Hurl'd down the altars of the living God,
With all the infidel's intolerance.
The last worst traitor triumph'd--triumph'd long,
Secured by matchless villany. By turns
Defending and deserting each accomplice
As interest prompted. In the goodly soil
Of Freedom, the foul tree of treason struck
Its deep-fix'd roots, and dropt the dews of death
On all who slumber'd in its specious shade.
He wove the web of treachery. He caught
The listening crowd by his wild eloquence,
His cool ferocity that persuaded murder,
Even whilst it spake of mercy!--never, never
Shall this regenerated country wear
The despot yoke. Though myriads round assail,
And with worse fury urge this new crusade
Than savages have known; though the leagued despots
Depopulate all Europe, so to pour
The accumulated mass upon our coasts,
Sublime amid the storm shall France arise,
And like the rock amid surrounding waves
Repel the rushing ocean.--She shall wield
The thunder-bolt of vengeance--she shall blast
The despot's pride, and liberate the world!
POEMS
--medio de fonte leporum Surgit amari aliquid.--- LUCRET.
"JULIA WAS BLEST WITH BEAUTY, WIT AND GRACE..."
Julia was blest with beauty, wit, and grace:
Small poets loved to sing her blooming face.
Before her altars, lo! a numerous train
Preferr'd their vows; yet all preferr'd in vain:
Till charming Florio, born to conquer, came,
And touch'd the fair one with an equal flame.
The flame she felt, and ill could she conceal
What every look and action would reveal.
With boldness then, which seldom fails to move,
He pleads the cause of marriage and of love;
The course of hymeneal joys he rounds,
The fair one's eyes dance pleasure at the sounds.
Nought now remain'd but "Noes"--how little meant--
And the sweet coyness that endears consent.
The youth upon his knees enraptur'd fell:--
The strange misfortune, oh! what words can tell?
Tell! ye neglected sylphs! who lap-dogs guard,
Why snatch'd ye not away your precious ward?
Why suffer'd ye the lover's weight to fall
On the ill-fated neck of much-loved Ball?
The favourite on his mistress cast his eyes,
Gives a short melancholy howl, and--dies!
Sacred his ashes lie, and long his rest!
Anger and grief divide poor Julia's breast.
Her eyes she fix'd on guilty Florio first,
On him the storm of angry grief must burst.
That storm he fled:--he wooes a kinder fair,
Whose fond affections no dear puppies share.
'Twere vain to tell how Julia pined away;--
Unhappy fair, that in one luckless day
(From future almanacks the day be crost!)
At once her lover and her lap-dog lost!
1789. [1]
[Footnote 1: This copy of verses was written at Christ's Hospital, and
transcribed, 'honoris causa', into the book kept by the head-master, Mr.
Bowyer, for that purpose. They are printed by Mr. Trollope in p. 192 of
his 'History of the Hospital', published in 1834. Ed.]
"I YET REMAIN..."
--I yet remain
To mourn the hours of youth (yet mourn in vain)
That fled neglected: wisely thou hast trod
The better path--and that high meed which God
Assign'd to virtue, tow'ring from the dust,
Shall wait thy rising, Spirit pure and just.
O God! how sweet it were to think, that all
Who silent mourn around this gloomy ball
Might hear the voice of joy;--but 'tis the will
Of man's great Author, that through good and ill
Calm he should hold his course, and so sustain
His varied lot of pleasure, toil, and pain!
1793. [1]
[Footnote 1: These lines were found in Mr. Coleridge's hand-writing in
one of the Prayer Books in the chapel of Jesus College, Cambridge. Ed.]
TO THE REV. W. J. HORT. [1]
Hush! ye clamorous cares, be mute!
Again, dear harmonist! again
Through the hollow of thy flute
Breathe that passion-warbled strain;
Till memory back each form shall bring
The loveliest of her shadowy throng,
And hope, that soars on sky-lark wing,
Shall carol forth her gladdest song!
O skill'd with magic spell to roll
The thrilling tones that concentrate the soul!
Breathe through thy flute those tender notes again,
While near thee sits the chaste-eyed maiden mild;
And bid her raise the poet's kindred strain
In soft impassion'd voice, correctly wild.
In freedom's undivided dell,
Where toil and health with mellow'd love shall dwell--
Far from folly, far from men,
In the rude romantic glen,
Up the cliff, and through the glade,
Wand'ring with the dear-loved maid,
I shall listen to the lay,
And ponder on thee far away;--
Still as she bids those thrilling notes aspire
(Making my fond attuned heart her lyre),
Thy honour'd form, my friend! shall reappear,
And I will thank thee with a raptured tear!
1794.
[Footnote 1: Mr. Hort was a Unitarian clergyman, and in 1794 second
master in Mr. (afterwards Dr.) Estlin's school on St. Michael's Hill,
Bristol. Ed.]
TO CHARLES LAMB,
WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM.
Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme
Elaborate and swelling;--yet the heart
Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers
I ask not now, my friend! the aiding verse
Tedious to thee, and from thy anxious thought
Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know)
From business wand'ring far and local cares,
Thou creepest round a dear-loved sister's bed
With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look,
Soothing each pang with fond solicitude,
And tenderest tones medicinal of love.
I, too, a sister had, an only sister--[1]
She loved me dearly, and I doted on her;
To her I pour'd forth all my puny sorrows;
(As a sick patient in a nurse's arms,)
And of the heart those hidden maladies--
That e'en from friendship's eye will shrink ashamed.
O! I have waked at midnight, and have wept
Because she was not!--Cheerily, dear Charles!
Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year;
Such warm presages feel I of high hope!
For not uninterested the dear maid
I've view'd--her soul affectionate yet wise,
Her polish'd wit as mild as lambent glories
That play around a sainted infant's head.
He knows (the Spirit that in secret sees,
Of whose omniscient and all-spreading love
Aught to implore were impotence of mind!) [2]
That my mute thoughts are sad before his throne,--
Prepared, when He his healing ray vouchsafes,
Thanksgiving to pour forth with lifted heart,
And praise him gracious with a brother's joy!
1794.
[Footnote 1: This line and the six and a half which follow are printed,
by mistake, as a fragment in the first volume of the 'Poetical Works',
1834, p. 35. Ed.]
[Footnote 2: "I utterly recant the sentiment contained in the line
Of whose omniscient and all-spreading love
Aught to 'implore' were impotence of mind,--
it being written in Scripture, 'Ask,' and it shall be given you! and my
human reason being, moreover, convinced of the propriety of offering
'petitions' as well as thanksgivings to Deity." S. T. C. 1797. "I will
add, at the risk of appearing to dwell too long on religious topics,
that on this my first introduction to Coleridge, he reverted with strong
compunction to a sentiment which he had expressed in earlier days upon
prayer. In one of his youthful poems, speaking of God, he had said,--
--'Of whose all-seeing eye
Aught to demand were impotence of mind.'
This sentiment he now so utterly condemned, that, on the contrary, he
told me, as his own peculiar opinion, that the act of praying was the
highest energy of which the human heart was capable--praying, that is,
with the total concentration of the faculties; and the great mass of
worldly men and of learned men he pronounced absolutely incapable of
praying." 'Mr. De Quincey in Tait's Magazine, September, 1834, p.515.'
"Mr. Coleridge, within two years of his death, very solemnly declared to
me his conviction upon the same subject. I was sitting by his bed-side
one afternoon, and he fell--an unusual thing for him--into a long
account of many passages of his past life, lamenting some things,
condemning others, but complaining withal, though very gently, of the
way in which many of his most innocent acts had been cruelly
misrepresented. 'But I have no difficulty,' said he, 'in forgiveness;
indeed, I know not how to say with sincerity the clause in the Lord's
Prayer, which asks forgiveness 'as we forgive'. I feel nothing answering
to it in my heart. Neither do I find, or reckon, the most solemn faith
in God as a real object, the most arduous act of the reason and will;--O
no! my dear, it is 'to pray', to pray as God would have us; this is what
at times makes me turn cold to my soul. Believe me, to pray with all
your heart and strength, with the reason and the will, to believe
vividly that God will listen to your voice through Christ, and verily do
the thing he pleaseth thereupon--this is the last, the greatest
achievement of the Christian's warfare on earth. 'Teach' us to pray, O
Lord!' And then he burst into a flood of tears, and begged me to pray
for him. O what a sight was there!" 'Table Talk,' vol. i. p. 162. Ed.]
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
Sister of lovelorn poets, Philomel!
How many bards in city garret spent,
While at their window they with downward eye
Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell'd mud,
And listen to the drowsy cry of watchmen,
(Those hoarse, unfeather'd nightingales of time!)
How many wretched bards address thy name,
And hers, the full-orb'd queen, that shines above.
But I do hear thee, and the high bough mark,
Within whose mild moou-mellow'd foliage hid,
Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains.
O I have listen'd, till my working soul,
Waked by those strains to thousand phantasies,
Absorb'd, hath ceas'd to listen! Therefore oft
I hymn thy name; and with a proud delight
Oft will I tell thee, minstrel of the moon,
Most musical, most melancholy bird!
That all thy soft diversities of tone,
Though sweeter far than the delicious airs
That vibrate from a white-arm'd lady's harp,
What time the languishment of lonely love
Melts in her eye, and heaves her breast of snow,
Are not so sweet, as is the voice of her,
My Sara--best beloved of human kind!
When breathing the pure soul of tenderness,
She thrills me with the husband's promised name!
1794.
TO SARA.
The stream with languid murmur creeps
In Lumin's flowery vale;
Beneath the dew the lily weeps,
Slow waving to the gale.
"Cease, restless gale," it seems to say,
"Nor wake me with thy sighing:
The honours of my vernal day
On rapid wings are flying.
"To-morrow shall the traveller come,
That erst beheld me blooming,
His searching eye shall vainly roam
The dreary vale of Lumin."
With eager gaze and wetted cheek
My wonted haunts along,
Thus, lovely maiden, thou shalt seek
The youth of simplest song.
But I along the breeze will roll
The voice of feeble power,
And dwell, the moon-beam of thy soul,
In slumber's nightly hour.
1794
TO JOSEPH COTTLE,
Unboastful Bard! whose verse concise, yet clear,
Tunes to smooth melody unconquer'd sense,
May your fame fadeless live, as never-sere
The ivy wreathes yon oak, whose broad defence
Embowers me from noon's sultry influence!
For, like that nameless rivulet stealing by,
Your modest verse to musing quiet dear,
Is rich with tints heaven-borrow'd;--the charm'd eye
Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the soften'd sky.
Circling the base of the poetic mount,
A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow
Its coal-black waters from oblivion's fount:
The vapour-poison'd birds, that fly too low,
Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go.
Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet
Beneath the mountain's lofty-frowning brow,
Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet,
A mead of mildest charm delays th' unlabouring feet.
Not there the cloud-climb'd rock, sublime and vast,
That, like some giant king, o'er-glooms the hill;
Nor there the pine-grove to the midnight blast
Makes solemn music! but th' unceasing rill
To the soft wren or lark's descending trill,
Murmurs sweet undersong mid jasmine bowers.
In this same pleasant meadow, at your will,
I ween, you wander'd--there collecting flowers
Of sober tint, and herbs of med'cinable powers!
There for the monarch-murder'd soldier's tomb
You wove th' unfinish'd wreath of saddest hues;
And to that holier chaplet added bloom,
Besprinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews.
But lo! your Henderson awakes the Muse--
His spirit beckon'd from the mountain's height!
You left the plain, and soar'd mid richer views.
So Nature mourn'd, when sank the first day's light,
With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of night!
Still soar, my friend! those richer views among,
Strong, rapid, fervent, flashing fancy's beam!
Virtue and truth shall love your gentler song;
But poesy demands th' impassion'd theme.
Wak'd by heaven's silent dews at eve's mild gleam,
What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around!
But if the vext air rush a stormy stream,
Or autumn's shrill gust moan in plaintive sound,
With fruits and flowers she loads the tempest-honour'd ground!
1795.
CASIMIR.
If we except Lucretius and Statius, I know no Latin poet, ancient or
modern, who has equalled Casimir in boldness of conception, opulence of
fancy, or beauty of versification. The Odes of this illustrious Jesuit
were translated into English about 150 years ago, by a G. Hils, I think.
[1] I never saw the translation. A few of the Odes have been translated
in a very animated manner by Watts. I have subjoined the third Ode of
the second Book, which, with the exception of the first line, is an
effusion of exquisite elegance. In the imitation attempted, I am
sensible that I have destroyed the effect of suddenness, by translating
into two stanzas what is one in the original. 1796.
AD LYRAM.
Sonora buxi filia sutilis,
Pendebis alta, barbite, populo,
Dum ridet aer, et supinas
Solicitat levis aura frondes.
Te sibilantis lenior halitus
Perflabit Euri: me juvet interim
Collum reclinasse, et virenti
Sic temere [2] jacuisse ripa.
Eheu! serenum quæ nebulæ tegunt
Repente cælum! quis sonus imbrium!
Surgamus--heu semper fugaci
Gaudia præteritura passu!
IMITATION.
The solemn-breathing air is ended--
Cease, O Lyre! thy kindred lay!
From the poplar branch suspended,
Glitter to the eye of day!
On thy wires, hov'ring, dying,
Softly sighs the summer wind:
I will slumber, careless lying,
By yon waterfall reclin'd.
In the forest hollow-roaring,
Hark! I hear a deep'ning sound--
Clouds rise thick with heavy low'ring!
See! th' horizon blackens round!
Parent of the soothing measure,
Let me seize thy wetted string!
Swiftly flies the flatterer, pleasure,
Headlong, ever on the wing!
[Footnote 1: The Odes of Casimire translated by G.H. [G. Hils.] London,
1646. 12mo. Ed.]
[Footnote 2: Had Casimir any better authority for this quantity than
Tertullian's line,--
Immemor ille Dei temere committere tale--?
In the classic poets the last syllable is, I believe, uniformly cut off.
Ed.]
DARWINIANA.
THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET AGAIN. (COMPOSED DURING ILLNESS AND IN
ABSENCE.)
Dim Hour! that sleep'st on pillowing clouds afar,
O rise, and yoke the turtles to thy car!
Bend o'er the traces, blame each lingering dove,
And give me to the bosom of my love!
My gentle love! caressing and carest,
With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest;
Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes,
Lull with fond woe, and med'cine me with sighs;
While finely-flushing float her kisses meek,
Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid cheek.
Chill'd by the night, the drooping rose of May
Mourns the long absence of the lovely day:
Young Day returning at her promised hour,
Weeps o'er the sorrows of the fav'rite flower,--
Weeps the soft dew, the balmy gale she sighs,
And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes.
New life and joy th' expanding flow'ret feels:
His pitying mistress mourns, and mourning heals!
1796.
In my calmer moments I have the firmest faith that all things work
together for good. But, alas! it seems a long and a dark process:--
"THE EARLY YEAR'S FAST-FLYING VAPOURS STRAY..."
The early year's fast-flying vapours stray
In shadowing trains across the orb of day;
And we, poor insects of a few short hours,
Deem it a world of gloom.
Were it not better hope, a nobler doom,
Proud to believe, that with more active powers
On rapid many-colour'd wing,
We thro' one bright perpetual spring
Shall hover round the fruits and flowers,
Screen'd by those clouds, and cherish'd by those showers!
1796.
COUNT RUMFORB'S ESSAYS.
These, Virtue, are thy triumphs, that adorn
Fitliest our nature, and bespeak us born
For loftiest action;--not to gaze and run
From clime to clime; or batten in the sun,
Dragging a drony flight from flower to flower,
Like summer insects in a gaudy hour;
Nor yet o'er lovesick tales with fancy range,
And cry, ''Tis pitiful,'tis passing strange!'
But on life's varied views to look around,
And raise expiring sorrow from the ground:--
And he--who thus hath borne his part assign'd
In the sad fellowship of human kind,
Or for a moment soothed the bitter pain
Of a poor brother--has not lived in vain.
1796
EPIGRAMS.
ON A LATE MARRIAGE BETWEEN AN OLD MAID AND A FRENCH PETIT MAîTRE.
Tho' Miss----'s match is a subject of mirth
She consider'd the matter full well,
And wisely preferr'd leading one ape on earth
To perhaps a whole dozen in hell.
1796.
ON AN AMOROUS DOCTOR.
From Rufa's eye sly Cupid shot his dart,
And left it sticking in Sangrado's heart.
No quiet from that moment has he known,
And peaceful sleep has from his eyelids flown;
And opium's force, and what is more, alack!
His own orations cannot bring it back.
In short, unless she pities his afflictions,
Despair will make him take his own prescriptions.
1796.
"THERE COMES FROM OLD AVARO'S GRAVE..."
There comes from old Avaro's grave
A deadly stench;--why, sure, they have
Immured his soul within his grave!
1796.
"LAST MONDAY ALL THE PAPERS SAID..."
Last Monday all the papers said
That Mr.---- was dead;
Why, then, what said the city?
The tenth part sadly shook their head,
And shaking sigh'd, and sighing said,
"Pity, indeed, 'tis pity!"
But when the said report was found
A rumour wholly without ground,
Why, then, what said the city?
The other nine parts shook their head,
Repeating what the tenth had said,
"Pity, indeed, 'tis pity!"
1796.
TO A PRIMROSE,
(THE FIRST SEEN IN THE SEASON.)
--nitens, et roboris expers Turget et insolida est: at spe delectat.
(Ovid).
Thy smiles I note, sweet early flower,
That peeping from thy rustic bower,
The festive news to earth dost bring,
A fragrant messenger of spring!
But tender blossom, why so pale?
Dost hear stern winter in the gale?
And didst them tempt th' ungentle sky
To catch one vernal glance and die?
Such the wan lustre sickness wears,
When health's first feeble beam appears;
So languid are the smiles that seek
To settle on the care-worn cheek,
When timorous hope the head uprears,
Still drooping and still moist with tears,
If, through dispersing grief, be seen
Of bliss the heavenly spark serene.
1796.
ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S CHILD.
This day among the faithful placed,
And fed with fontal manna,
O with maternal title graced
Dear Anna's dearest Anna!--
While others wish thee wise and fair,
A maid of spotless fame,
I'll breathe this more compendious prayer--
May'st thou deserve thy name!
Thy mother's name--a potent spell,
That bids the virtues hie
From mystic grove and living cell
Confess'd to fancy's eye;--
Meek quietness without offence;
Content in homespun kirtle;
True love; and true love's innocence,
White blossom of the myrtle!
Associates of thy name, sweet child!
These virtues may'st thou win;
With face as eloquently mild
To say, they lodge within.
So, when her tale of days all flown,
Thy mother shall be mist here;
When Heaven at length shall claim its own,
And angels snatch their sister;
Some hoary-headed friend, perchance,
May gaze with stifled breath;
And oft, in momentary trance,
Forget the waste of death.
Ev'n thus a lovely rose I view'd,
In summer-swelling pride;
Nor mark'd the bud, that green and rude
Peep'd at the rose's side.
It chanced, I pass'd again that way
In autumn's latest hour,
And wond'ring saw the selfsame spray
Rich with the selfsame flower.
Ah, fond deceit! the rude green bud
Alike in shape, place, name,
Had bloom'd, where bloom'd its parent stud,
Another and the same!
1796.
EPIGRAM.
Hoarse Maevius reads his hobbling verse
To all, and at all times;
And finds them both divinely smooth,
His voice, as well as rhymes.
Yet folks say--"Maevius is no ass:"--
But Maevius makes it clear,
That he's a monster of an ass,
An ass without an ear.
1797.
INSCRIPTION BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES
IN NETHER STOWEY CHURCH.
Lætus abi! mundi strepitu curisque remotus;
Lætus abi! cæli qua vocat alma quies.
Ipsa Fides loquitur, lacrymamque incusat inanem,
Quae cadit in vestros, care pater, cineres.
Heu! tantum liceat meritos hos solvere ritus,
Et longum tremula dicere voce, Vale!
TRANSLATION.
Depart in joy from this world's noise and strife
To the deep quiet of celestial life!
Depart!--Affection's self reproves the tear
Which falls, O honour'd Parent! on thy bier;--
Yet Nature will be heard, the heart will swell,
And the voice tremble with a last Farewell!
INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE DARK LADIE.
The following poem is intended as the introduction to a somewhat longer
one. The use of the old ballad word 'Ladie' for Lady, is the only piece
of obsoleteness in it; and as it is professedly a tale of ancient times,
I trust that the affectionate lovers of venerable antiquity, as Camden
says, will grant me their pardon, and perhaps may be induced to admit a
force and propriety in it. A heavier objection may be adduced against
the author, that in these times of fear and expectation, when novelties
explode around us in all directions, he should presume to offer to the
public a silly tale of old-fashioned love: and five years ago, I own I
should have allowed and felt the force of this objection. But alas!
explosion has succeeded explosion so rapidly, that novelty itself ceases
to appear new; and it is possible that now, even a simple story, wholly
uninspired with politics or personality, may find some attention amid
the hubbub of revolutions, as to those who have remained a long time by
the falls of Niagara, the lowest whispering becomes distinctly audible.
1799.
O leave the lily on its stem;
O leave the rose upon the spray;
O leave the elder-bloom, fair maids!
And listen to my lay.
A cypress and a myrtle-bough
This morn around my harp you twin'd,
Because it fashion'd mournfully
Its murmurs in the wind.
And now a tale of love and woe,
A woful tale of love I sing;
Hark, gentle maidens, hark! it sighs
And trembles on the string.
But most, my own dear Genevieve,
It sighs and trembles most for thee!
O come and hear the cruel wrongs
Befell the Dark Ladie! [1]
...
And now once more a tale of woe,
A woful tale of love I sing;
For thee, my Genevieve! it sighs,
And trembles on the string.
When last I sang the cruel scorn
That craz'd this bold and lovely knight,
And how he roam'd the mountain-woods,
Nor rested day or night;
I promised thee a sister tale
Of man's perfidious cruelty;
Come, then, and hear what cruel wrong
Befell the Dark Ladie.
[Footnote 1: Here followed the stanzas, afterwards published separately
under the title "Love." (Poet. Works, vol. i. p. 145. Pickering, 1834.)
and after them came the other three stanzas printed above; the whole
forming the introduction to the intended Dark Ladie, of which all that
exists is to be found ibid. p. 150. Ed.]
EPILOGUE TO THE RASH CONJUROR.
AN UNCOMPOSED POEM.
We ask and urge--(here ends the story!)
All Christian Papishes to pray
That this unhappy Conjuror may,
Instead of Hell, be but in Purgatory,--
For then there's hope;--Long live the Pope!
1805.
PSYCHE
The butterfly the ancient Grecians made
The soul's fair emblem, and its only name--
But of the soul, escap'd the slavish trade
Of mortal life!--For in this earthly frame
Ours is the reptile's lot, much toil, much blame,
Manifold motions making little speed,
And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed.
1808.
COMPLAINT
How seldom, Friend! a good great man inherits
Honour or wealth, with all his worth and pains!
It sounds like stories from the land of spirits,
If any man obtain that which he merits,
Or any merit that which he obtains.
REPROOF.
For shame, dear Friend! renounce this canting strain!
What would'st thou have a good great man obtain?
Place--titles--salary--a gilded chain--
Or throne of corses which his sword hath slain?--
Greatness and goodness are not means, but ends!
Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
The good great man?--three treasures, love and light,
And calm thoughts, regular as infants' breath;--
And three firm friends, more sure than day and night--
Himself, his Maker, and the angel Death.
1809.
AN ODE TO THE RAIN
Composed Before Day-Light on the Morning Appointed for the Departure of
a Very Worthy, But Not Very Pleasant Visitor, Whom It Was Feared The
Rain Might Detain.
I know it is dark; and though I have lain
Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain,
I have not once open'd the lids of my eyes,
But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies.
O Rain! that I lie listening to,
You're but a doleful sound at best:
I owe you little thanks, 'tis true,
For breaking thus my needful rest!
Yet if, as soon as it is light,
O Rain! you will but take your flight,
I'll neither rail, nor malice keep,
Though sick and sore for want of sleep.
But only now, for this one day,
Do go, dear Rain! do go away!
O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound,
The clash hard by, and the murmur all round!
You know, if you know aught, that we,
Both night and day, but ill agree:
For days, and months, and almost years,
Have limped on through this vale of tears,
Since body of mine, and rainy weather,
Have lived on easy terms together.
Yet if, as soon as it is light,
O Rain! you will but take your flight,
Though you should come again to-morrow,
And bring with you both pain and sorrow;
Though stomach should sicken, and knees should swell--
I'll nothing speak of you but well.
But only now for this one day,
Do go, dear Rain! do go away!
Dear Rain! I ne'er refused to say
You're a good creature in your way.
Nay, I could write a book myself,
Would fit a parson's lower shelf,
Showing, how very good you are.--
What then? sometimes it must be fair!
And if sometimes, why not to-day?
Do go, dear Rain! do go away!
Dear Rain! if I've been cold and shy,
Take no offence! I'll tell you why.
A dear old Friend e'en now is here,
And with him came my sister dear;
After long absence now first met,
Long months by pain and grief beset--
With three dear friends! in truth, we groan
Impatiently to be alone.
We three, you mark! and not one more!
The strong wish makes my spirit sore.
We have so much to talk about,
So many sad things to let out;
So many tears in our eye-corners,
Sitting like little Jacky Horners--
In short, as soon as it is day,
Do go, dear Rain! do go away.
And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain!
Whenever you shall come again,
Be you as dull as e'er you could;
(And by the bye 'tis understood,
You're not so pleasant, as you're good;)
Yet, knowing well your worth and place,
I'll welcome you with cheerful face;
And though you stay'd a week or more,
Were ten times duller than before;
Yet with kind heart, and right good will,
I'll sit and listen to you still;
Nor should you go away, dear Rain!
Uninvited to remain.
But only now, for this one day,
Do go, dear Rain! do go away.
1809.
TRANSLATION
Of a Passage in Ottfried's Metrical Paraphrase of the Gospels.
"This Paraphrase, written about the time of Charlemagne, is by no means
deficient in occasional passages of considerable poetic merit. There is
a flow, and a tender enthusiasm in the following lines (at the
conclusion of Chapter V.), which even in the translation will not, I
flatter myself, fail to interest the reader. Ottfried is describing the
circumstances immediately following the birth of our Lord."--'Biog.
Lit.' vol. i. p. 203.
She gave with joy her virgin breast;
She hid it not, she bared the breast,
Which suckled that divinest babe!
Blessed, blessed were the breasts
Which the Saviour infant kiss'd;
And blessed, blessed was the mother
Who wrapp'd his limbs in swaddling clothes,
Singing placed him on her lap,
Hung o'er him with her looks of love,
And soothed him with a lulling motion.
Blessed! for she shelter'd him
From the damp and chilling air;--
Blessed, blessed! for she lay
With such a babe in one blest bed,
Close as babes and mothers lie!
Blessed, blessed evermore,
With her virgin lips she kiss'd,
With her arms, and to her breast,
She embraced the babe divine,
Her babe divine the virgin mother!
There lives not on this ring of earth
A mortal that can sing her praise.
Mighty mother, virgin pure,
In the darkness and the night
For us she bore the heavenly Lord.
1810
"Most interesting is it to consider the effect, when the feelings are
wrought above the natural pitch by the belief of something mysterious,
while all the images are purely natural: then it is that religion and
poetry strike deepest."--'Biog. Lit.' vol. i. p. 204.
ISRAEL'S LAMENT
ON THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE OF WALES. FROM THE HEBREW OF
HYMAN HURWITZ.
Mourn, Israel! Sons of Israel, mourn!
Give utterance to the inward throe,
As wails of her first love forlorn
The virgin clad in robes of woe!
Mourn the young mother snatch'd away
From light and life's ascending sun!
Mourn for the babe, death's voiceless prey,
Earn'd by long pangs, and lost ere won!
Mourn the bright rose that bloom'd and went,
Ere half disclosed its vernal hue!
Mourn the green bud, so rudely rent,
It brake the stem on which it grew!
Mourn for the universal woe,
With solemn dirge and falt'ring tongue;
For England's Lady is laid low,
So dear, so lovely, and so young!
The blossoms on her tree of life
Shone with the dews of recent bliss;--
Translated in that deadly strife
She plucks its fruit in Paradise.
Mourn for the prince, who rose at morn
To seek and bless the firstling bud
Of his own rose, and found the thorn,
Its point bedew'd with tears of blood.
Mourn for Britannia's hopes decay'd;--
Her daughters wail their dear defence,
Their fair example, prostrate laid,
Chaste love, and fervid innocence!
O Thou! who mark'st the monarch's path,
To sad Jeshurun's sons attend!
Amid the lightnings of thy wrath
The showers of consolation send!
Jehovah frowns!--The Islands bow,
And prince and people kiss the rod!
Their dread chastising judge wert Thou--
Be Thou their comforter, O God!
1817.
SENTIMENTAL.
The rose that blushes like the morn
Bedecks the valleys low;
And so dost thou, sweet infant corn,
My Angelina's toe.
But on the rose there grows a thorn
That breeds disastrous woe;
And so dost thou, remorseless corn,
On Angelina's toe.
1825.
THE ALTERNATIVE.
This way or that, ye Powers above me!
I of my grief were rid--
Did Enna either really love me,
Or cease to think she did.
1826.
THE EXCHANGE.
We pledged our hearts, my love and I,--
I in my arms the maiden clasping;
I could not tell the reason why,
But, oh! I trembled like an aspen.
Her father's love she bade me gain;
I went, and shook like any reed!
I strove to act the man--in vain!
We had exchanged our hearts indeed.
1826
WHAT IS LIFE?
Resembles life what once was deem'd of light,
Too ample in itself for human sight?
An absolute self--an element ungrounded--
All that we see, all colours of all shade
By encroach of darkness made?--
Is very life by consciousness unbounded?
And all the thoughts, pains, joys of mortal breath,
A war-embrace of wrestling life and death?
1829.
INSCRIPTION FOR A TIME-PIECE.
Now! It is gone.--Our brief hours travel post,
Each with its thought or deed, its Why or How:--
But know, each parting hour gives up a ghost
To dwell within thee--an eternal Now!
1830.
EPITAPHION AUTOGRAPHTON
Quae linquam, aut nihil, aut nihili, aut vix sunt mea;--
Do Morti;--reddo caetera, Christe! tibi. [sordes.]
A COURSE OF LECTURES
PROSPECTUS.
There are few families, at present, in the higher and middle classes of
English society, in which literary topics and the productions of the
Fine Arts, in some one or other of their various forms, do not
occasionally take their turn in contributing to the entertainment of the
social board, and the amusement of the circle at the fire side. The
acquisitions and attainments of the intellect ought, indeed, to hold a
very inferior rank in our estimation, opposed to moral worth, or even to
professional and specific skill, prudence, and industry. But why should
they be opposed, when they may be made subservient merely by being
subordinated? It can rarely happen, that a man of social disposition,
altogether a stranger to subjects of taste, (almost the only ones on
which persons of both sexes can converse with a common interest) should
pass through the world without at times feeling dissatisfied with
himself. The best proof of this is to be found in the marked anxiety
which men, who have succeeded in life without the aid of these
accomplishments, shew in securing them to their children. A young man of
ingenuous mind will not wilfully deprive himself of any species of
respect. He will wish to feel himself on a level with the average of the
society in which he lives, though he may be ambitious of distinguishing
himself only in his own immediate pursuit or occupation.
Under this conviction, the following Course of Lectures was planned. The
several titles will best explain the particular subjects and purposes of
each: but the main objects proposed, as the result of all, are the two
following.
1. To convey, in a form best fitted to render them impressive at the
time, and remembered afterwards, rules and principles of sound judgment,
with a kind and degree of connected information, such as the hearers
cannot generally be supposed likely to form, collect, and arrange for
themselves, by their own unassisted studies. It might be presumption to
say, that any important part of these Lectures could not be derived from
books; but none, I trust, in supposing, that the same information could
not be so surely or conveniently acquired from such books as are of
commonest occurrence, or with that quantity of time and attention which
can be reasonably expected, or even wisely desired, of men engaged in
business and the active duties of the world.
2. Under a strong persuasion that little of real value is derived by
persons in general from a wide and various reading; but still more
deeply convinced as to the actual mischief of unconnected and
promiscuous reading, and that it is sure, in a greater or less degree,
to enervate even where it does not likewise inflate; I hope to satisfy
many an ingenuous mind, seriously interested in its own development and
cultivation, how moderate a number of volumes, if only they be
judiciously chosen, will suffice for the attainment of every wise and
desirable purpose; that is, in addition to those which he studies for
specific and professional purposes. It is saying less than the truth to
affirm, that an excellent book (and the remark holds almost equally good
of a Raphael as of a Milton) is like a well chosen and well tended fruit
tree. Its fruits are not of one season only. With the due and natural
intervals, we may recur to it year after year, and it will supply the
same nourishment and the same gratification, if only we ourselves return
to it with the same healthful appetite.
The subjects of the Lectures are indeed very different, but not (in the
strict sense of the term) diverse; they are various, rather than
miscellaneous. There is this bond of connexion common to them all,--that
the mental pleasure which they are calculated to excite is not dependent
on accidents of fashion, place, or age, or the events or the customs of
the day; but commensurate with the good sense, taste, and feeling, to
the cultivation of which they themselves so largely contribute, as being
all in kind, though not all in the same degree, productions of genius.
What it would be arrogant to promise, I may yet be permitted to
hope,--that the execution will prove correspondent and adequate to the
plan. Assuredly, my best efforts have not been wanting so to select and
prepare the materials, that, at the conclusion of the Lectures, an
attentive auditor, who should consent to aid his future recollection by
a few notes taken either during each Lecture or soon after, would rarely
feel himself, for the time to come, excluded, from taking an intelligent
interest in any general conversation likely to occur in mixed society.
'Syllabus of the Course'.
I. January 27, 1818.--On the manners, morals, literature, philosophy,
religion, and the state of society in general, in European Christendom,
from the eighth to the fifteenth century, (that is from A.D. 700, to
A.D. 1400), more particularly in reference to England, France, Italy and
Germany; in other words, a portrait of the so called dark ages of
Europe.
II. January 30.--On the tales and metrical romances common, for the most
part, to England, Germany, and the north of France, and on the English
songs and ballads, continued to the reign of Charles I. A few selections
will be made from the Swedish, Danish, and German languages, translated
for the purpose by the Lecturer.
III. February 3.--Chaucer and Spenser; of Petrarch; of Ariosto, Pulci,
and Boiardo.
IV. V. VI. February 6, 10, l3.--On the dramatic works of Shakspeare. In
these Lectures will be comprised the substance of Mr. Coleridge's former
courses on the same subject, enlarged and varied by subsequent study and
reflection.
VII. February l7.--On Ben Jonson, Beaumont and Fletcher, and Massinger;
with the probable causes of the cessation of dramatic poetry in England
with Shirley and Otway, soon after the restoration of Charles II.
VIII. February 20.--Of the life and all the works of Cervantes, but
chiefly of his Don Quixote. The ridicule of knight errantry shewn to
have been but a secondary object in the mind of the author, and not the
principal cause of the delight which the work continues to give to all
nations, and under all the revolutions of manners and opinions.
IX. February 24.--On Rabelais, Swift, and Sterne: on the nature and
constituents of genuine Humour, and on the distinctions of the Humorous
from the Witty, the Fanciful, the Droll, and the Odd.
X. February 27.--Of Donne, Dante, and Milton.
XI. March 3.--On the Arabian Nights' Entertainments, and on the romantic
use of the supernatural in poetry, and in works of fiction not poetical.
On the conditions and regulations under which such books may be employed
advantageously in the earlier periods of education.
XII. March 6.--On tales of witches, apparitions, &c. as distinguished
from the magic and magicians of Asiatic origin. The probable sources of
the former, and of the belief in them in certain ages and classes of
men. Criteria by which mistaken and exaggerated facts may be
distinguished from absolute falsehood and imposture. Lastly, the causes
of the terror and interest which stories of ghosts and witches inspire,
in early life at least, whether believed or not.
XIII. March 10.--On colour, sound, and form in Nature, as connected with
poesy: the word "Poesy" used as the generic or class term, including
poetry, music, painting, statuary, and ideal architecture, as its
species. The reciprocal relations of poetry and philosophy to each
other; and of both to religion, and the moral sense.
XIV. March 13.--On the corruptions of the English language since the
reign of Queen Ann, in our style of writing prose. A few easy rules for
the attainment of a manly, unaffected and pure language, in our genuine
mother tongue, whether for the purpose of writing, oratory, or
conversation.
LECTURE I. [1]
GENERAL CHARACTER OF THE GOTHIC MIND IN THE MIDDLE AGES.
Mr. Coleridge began by treating of the races of mankind as descended
from Shem, Ham, and Japhet, and therein of the early condition of man in
his antique form. He then dwelt on the pre-eminence of the Greeks in Art
and Philosophy, and noticed the suitableness of polytheism to small
insulated states, in which patriotism acted as a substitute for
religion, in destroying or suspending self. Afterwards, in consequence
of the extension of the Roman empire, some universal or common spirit
became necessary for the conservation of the vast body, and this common
spirit was, in fact, produced in Christianity. The causes of the decline
of the Roman empire were in operation long before the time of the actual
overthrow; that overthrow had been foreseen by many eminent Romans,
especially by Seneca. In fact, there was under the empire an Italian and
a German party in Rome, and in the end the latter prevailed.
He then proceeded to describe the generic character of the Northern
nations, and defined it as an independence of the whole in the freedom
of the individual, noticing their respect for women, and their
consequent chivalrous spirit in war; and how evidently the participation
in the general council laid the foundation of the representative form of
government, the only rational mode of preserving individual liberty in
opposition to the licentious democracy of the ancient republics.
He called our attention to the peculiarity of their art, and showed how
it entirely depended on a symbolical expression of the infinite,--which
is not vastness, nor immensity, nor perfection, but whatever cannot be
circumscribed within the limits of actual sensuous being. In the ancient
art, on the contrary, every thing was finite and material. Accordingly,
sculpture was not attempted by the Gothic races till the ancient
specimens were discovered, whilst painting and architecture were of
native growth amongst them. In the earliest specimens of the paintings
of modern ages, as in those of Giotto and his associates in the cemetery
at Pisa, this complexity, variety, and symbolical character are evident,
and are more fully developed in the mightier works of Michel Angelo and
Raffael. The contemplation of the works of antique art excites a feeling
of elevated beauty, and exalted notions of the human self; but the
Gothic architecture impresses the beholder with a sense of
self-annihilation; he becomes, as it were, a part of the work
contemplated. An endless complexity and variety are united into one
whole, the plan of which is not distinct from the execution. A Gothic
cathedral is the petrefaction of our religion. The only work of truly
modern sculpture is the Moses of Michel Angelo.
The Northern nations were prepared by their own previous religion for
Christianity; they, for the most part, received it gladly, and it took
root as in a native soil. The deference to woman, characteristic of the
Gothic races, combined itself with devotion in the idea of the Virgin
Mother, and gave rise to many beautiful associations.
Mr. C. remarked how Gothic an instrument in origin and character the
organ was.
He also enlarged on the influence of female character on our education,
the first impressions of our childhood being derived from women. Amongst
oriental nations, he said, the only distinction was between lord and
slave. With the antique Greeks, the will of every one conflicting with
the will of all, produced licentiousness; with the modern descendants
from the northern stocks, both these extremes were shut out, to reappear
mixed and condensed into this principle or temper;--submission, but with
free choice,--illustrated in chivalrous devotion to women as such, in
attachment to the sovereign, &c.
[Footnote 1: From Mr. Green's note taken at the delivery. Ed.]
LECTURE II. [1]
GENERAL CHARACTER OP THE GOTHIC LITERATURE AND ART.
In my last lecture I stated that the descendants of Japhet and Shem
peopled Europe and Asia, fulfilling in their distribution the prophecies
of Scripture, while the descendants of Ham passed into Africa, there
also actually verifying the interdiction pronounced against them. The
Keltic and Teutonic nations occupied that part of Europe, which is now
France, Britain, Germany, Sweden, Denmark, &c. They were in general a
hardy race, possessing great fortitude, and capable of great endurance.
The Romans slowly conquered the more southerly portion of their tribes,
and succeeded only by their superior arts, their policy, and better
discipline. After a time, when the Goths,--to use the name of the
noblest and most historical of the Teutonic tribes,--had acquired some
knowledge of these arts from mixing with their conquerors, they invaded
the Roman territories. The hardy habits, the steady perseverance, the
better faith of the enduring Goth rendered him too formidable an enemy
for the corrupt Roman, who was more inclined to purchase the subjection
of his enemy, than to go through the suffering necessary to secure it.
The conquest of the Romans gave to the Goths the Christian religion as
it was then existing in Italy; and the light and graceful building of
Grecian, or Roman-Greek order, became singularly combined with the massy
architecture of the Goths, as wild and varied as the forest vegetation
which it resembled. The Greek art is beautiful. When I enter a Greek
church, my eye is charmed, and my mind elated; I feel exalted, and proud
that I am a man. But the Gothic art is sublime. On entering a cathedral,
I am filled with devotion and with awe; I am lost to the actualities
that surround me, and my whole being expands into the infinite; earth
and air, nature and art, all swell up into eternity, and the only
sensible impression left, is, 'that I am nothing!' This religion, while
it tended to soften the manners of the Northern tribes, was at the same
time highly congenial to their nature. The Goths are free from the stain
of hero worship. Gazing on their rugged mountains, surrounded by
impassable forests, accustomed to gloomy seasons, they lived in the
bosom of nature, and worshipped an invisible and unknown deity. Firm in
his faith, domestic in his habits, the life of the Goth was simple and
dignified, yet tender and affectionate.
The Greeks were remarkable for complacency and completion; they
delighted in whatever pleased the eye; to them it was not enough to have
merely the idea of a divinity, they must have it placed before them,
shaped in the most perfect symmetry, and presented with the nicest
judgment; and if we look upon any Greek production of art, the beauty of
its parts, and the harmony of their union, the complete and complacent
effect of the whole, are the striking characteristics. It is the same in
their poetry. In Homer you have a poem perfect in its form, whether
originally so, or from the labour of after critics, I know not; his
descriptions are pictures brought vividly before you, and as far as the
eye and understanding are concerned, I am indeed gratified. But if I
wish my feelings to be affected, if I wish my heart to be touched, if I
wish to melt into sentiment and tenderness, I must turn to the heroic
songs of the Goths, to the poetry of the middle ages. The worship of
statues in Greece had, in a civil sense, its advantage, and
disadvantage; advantage, in promoting statuary and the arts;
disadvantage, in bringing their gods too much on a level with human
beings, and thence depriving them of their dignity, and gradually giving
rise to scepticism and ridicule. But no statue, no artificial emblem,
could satisfy the Northman's mind; the dark wild imagery of nature,
which surrounded him, and the freedom of his life, gave his mind a
tendency to the infinite, so that he found rest in that which presented
no end, and derived satisfaction from that which was indistinct.
We have few and uncertain vestiges of Gothic literature till the time of
Theodoric, who encouraged his subjects to write, and who made a
collection of their poems. These consisted chiefly of heroic songs, sung
at the Court; for at that time this was the custom. Charlemagne, in the
beginning of the ninth century, greatly encouraged letters, and made a
further collection of the poems of his time, among which were several
epic poems of great merit; or rather in strictness there was a vast
cycle of heroic poems, or minstrelsies, from and out of which separate
poems were composed. The form of poetry was, however, for the most part,
the metrical romance and heroic tale. Charlemagne's army, or a large
division of it, was utterly destroyed in the Pyrenees, when returning
from a successful attack on the Arabs of Navarre and Arragon; yet the
name of Roncesvalles became famous in the songs of the Gothic poets. The
Greeks and Romans would not have done this; they would not have recorded
in heroic verse the death and defeat of their fellow-countrymen. But the
Goths, firm in their faith, with a constancy not to be shaken,
celebrated those brave men who died for their religion and their
country! What, though they had been defeated, they died without fear, as
they had lived without reproach; they left no stain on their names, for
they fell fighting for their God, their liberty, and their rights; and
the song that sang that day's reverse animated them to future victory
and certain vengeance.
I must now turn to our great monarch, Alfred, one of the most august
characters that any age has ever produced; and when I picture him after
the toils of government and the dangers of battle, seated by a solitary
lamp, translating the holy scriptures into the Saxon tongue,--when I
reflect on his moderation in success, on his fortitude and perseverance
in difficulty and defeat, and on the wisdom and extensive nature of his
legislation, I am really at a loss which part of this great man's
character most to admire. Yet above all, I see the grandeur, the
freedom, the mildness, the domestic unity, the universal character of
the middle ages condensed into Alfred's glorious institution of the
trial by jury. I gaze upon it as the immortal symbol of that age;--an
age called indeed dark;--but how could that age be considered dark,
which solved the difficult problem of universal liberty, freed man from
the shackles of tyranny, and subjected his actions to the decision of
twelve of his fellow countrymen? The liberty of the Greeks was a
phenomenon, a meteor, which blazed for a short time, and then sank into
eternal darkness. It was a combination of most opposite materials,
slavery and liberty. Such can neither be happy nor lasting. The Goths on
the other hand said, You shall be our Emperor; but we must be Princes on
our own estates, and over them you shall have no power! The Vassals said
to their Prince, We will serve you in your wars, and defend your castle;
but we must have liberty in our own circle, our cottage, our cattle, our
proportion of land. The Cities said, We acknowledge you for our Emperor;
but we must have our walls and our strong holds, and be governed by our
own laws. Thus all combined, yet all were separate; all served, yet all
were free. Such a government could not exist in a dark age. Our
ancestors may not indeed have been deep in the metaphysics of the
schools; they may not have shone in the fine arts; but much knowledge of
human nature, much practical wisdom must have existed amongst them, when
this admirable constitution was formed; and I believe it is a decided
truth, though certainly an awful lesson, that nations are not the most
happy at the time when literature and the arts flourish the most among
them.
The translations I had promised in my syllabus I shall defer to the end
of the course, when I shall give a single lecture of recitations
illustrative of the different ages of poetry. There is one Northern tale
I will relate, as it is one from which Shakspeare derived that strongly
marked and extraordinary scene between Richard III. and the Lady Anne.
It may not be equal to that in strength and genius, but it is,
undoubtedly, superior in decorum and delicacy.
A Knight had slain a Prince, the lord of a strong castle, in combat. He
afterwards contrived to get into the castle, where he obtained an
interview with the Princess's attendant, whose life he had saved in some
encounter; he told her of his love for her mistress, and won her to his
interest. She then slowly and gradually worked on her mistress's mind,
spoke of the beauty of his person, the fire of his eyes, the sweetness
of his voice, his valour in the field, his gentleness in the court; in
short, by watching her opportunities, she at last filled the Princess's
soul with this one image; she became restless; sleep forsook her; her
curiosity to see this Knight became strong; but her maid still deferred
the interview, till at length she confessed she was in love with
him;--the Knight is then introduced, and the nuptials are quickly
celebrated.
In this age there was a tendency in writers to the droll and the
grotesque, and in the little dramas which at that time existed, there
were singular instances of these. It was the disease of the age. It is a
remarkable fact that Luther and Melancthon, the great religious
reformers of that day, should have strongly recommended for the
education of children, dramas, which at present would be considered
highly indecorous, if not bordering on a deeper sin. From one which they
particularly recommended, I will give a few extracts; more I should not
think it right to do. The play opens with:
Adam and Eve washing and dressing their children to appear before the
Lord, who is coming from heaven to hear them repeat the Lord's Prayer,
Belief, &c. In the next scene the Lord appears seated like a
schoolmaster, with the children standing round, when Cain, who is behind
hand, and a sad pickle, comes running in with a bloody nose and his hat
on. Adam says, "What, with your hat on!" Cain then goes up to shake
hands with the Almighty, when Adam says (giving him a cuff), "Ah, would
you give your left hand to the Lord?" At length Cain takes his place in
the class, and it becomes his turn to say the Lord's Prayer. At this
time the Devil (a constant attendant at that time) makes his appearance,
and getting behind Cain, whispers in his ear; instead of the Lord's
Prayer, Cain gives it so changed by the transposition of the words, that
the meaning is reversed; yet this is so artfully done by the author,
that it is exactly as an obstinate child would answer, who knows his
lesson, yet does not choose to say it. In the last scene, horses in rich
trappings and carriages covered with gold are introduced, and the good
children are to ride in them and be Lord Mayors, Lords, &c.; Cain and
the bad ones are to be made cobblers and tinkers, and only to associate
with such.
This, with numberless others, was written by Hans Sachs. Our simple
ancestors, firm in their faith, and pure in their morals, were only
amused by these pleasantries, as they seemed to them, and neither they
nor the reformers feared their having any influence hostile to religion.
When I was many years back in the north of Germany, there were several
innocent superstitions in practice. Among others at Christmas, presents
used to be given to the children by the parents, and they were delivered
on Christmas day by a person who personated, and was supposed by the
children to be, Christ: early on Christmas morning he called, knocking
loudly at the door, and (having received his instructions) left presents
for the good and a rod for the bad. Those who have since been in Germany
have found this custom relinquished; it was considered profane and
irrational. Yet they have not found the children better, nor the mothers
more careful of their offspring; they have not found their devotion more
fervent, their faith more strong, nor their morality more pure. [2]
[Footnote 1: From Mr. William Hammond's note taken at the delivery. Ed.]
[Footnote 2: See this custom of Knecht Rupert more minutely described in
Mr. Coleridge's own letter from Germany, published in the 2nd vol. of
the 'Friend', p. 320. Ed.; also in the 1st vol. of the 'Bibliographia
Epistolaris', currently also available in .txt and .html form, free for
download from Project Gutenberg
http://promo.net/pg,
(text Ed.)]
LECTURE III.
THE TROUBADOURS--BOCCACCIO--PETRARCH--PULC--CHAUCER--SPENSER.
The last Lecture was allotted to an investigation into the origin and
character of a species of poetry, the least influenced of any by the
literature of Greece and Rome,--that in which the portion contributed by
the Gothic conquerors, the predilections and general tone or habit of
thought and feeling, brought by our remote ancestors with them from the
forests of Germany, or the deep dells and rocky mountains of Norway, are
the most prominent. In the present Lecture I must introduce you to a
species of poetry, which had its birth-place near the centre of Roman
glory, and in which, as might be anticipated, the influences of the
Greek and Roman muse are far more conspicuous,--as great, indeed, as the
efforts of intentional imitation on the part of the poets themselves
could render them. But happily for us and for their own fame, the
intention of the writers as men is often at complete variance with the
genius of the same men as poets. To the force of their intention we owe
their mythological ornaments, and the greater definiteness of their
imagery; and their passion for the beautiful, the voluptuous, and the
artificial, we must in part attribute to the same intention, but in part
likewise to their natural dispositions and tastes. For the same climate
and many of the same circumstances were acting on them, which had acted
on the great classics, whom they were endeavouring to imitate. But the
love of the marvellous, the deeper sensibility, the higher reverence for
womanhood, the characteristic spirit of sentiment and courtesy,--these
were the heir-looms of nature, which still regained the ascendant,
whenever the use of the living mother-language enabled the inspired poet
to appear instead of the toilsome scholar.
From this same union, in which the soul (if I may dare so express
myself) was Gothic, while the outward forms and a majority of the words
themselves, were the reliques of the Roman, arose the Romance, or
romantic language, in which the Troubadours or Love-singers of Provence
sang and wrote, and the different dialects of which have been modified
into the modern Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese; while the language of
the Trouveurs, Trouveres, or Norman-French poets, forms the intermediate
link between the Romance or modified Roman, and the Teutonic, including
the Dutch, Danish, Swedish, and the upper and lower German, as being the
modified Gothic. And as the northernmost extreme of the Norman-French,
or that part of the link in which it formed on the Teutonic, we must
take the Norman-English minstrels and metrical romances, from the
greater predominance of the Anglo-Saxon Gothic in the derivation of the
words. I mean, that the language of the English metrical romance is less
romanized, and has fewer words, not originally of a northern origin,
than the same romances in the Norman-French; which is the more
striking, because the former were for the most part translated from the
latter; the authors of which seem to have eminently merited their name
of Trouveres, or inventors. Thus then we have a chain with two rings or
staples:--at the southern end there is the Roman, or Latin; at the
northern end the Keltic, Teutonic, or Gothic; and the links beginning
with the southern end, are the Romance, including the Provençal, the
Italian, Spanish, and Portuguese, with their different dialects, then
the Norman-French, and lastly the English.
My object in adverting to the Italian poets, is not so much for their
own sakes, in which point of view Dante and Ariosto alone would have
required separate Lectures, but for the elucidation of the merits of our
countrymen, as to what extent we must consider them as fortunate
imitators of their Italian predecessors, and in what points they have
the higher claims of original genius. Of Dante, I am to speak elsewhere.
Of Boccaccio, who has little interest as a metrical poet in any respect,
and none for my present purpose, except, perhaps, as the reputed
inventor or introducer of the octave stanza in his 'Teseide', it will be
sufficient to say, that we owe to him the subjects of numerous poems
taken from his famous tales, the happy art of narration, and the still
greater merit of a depth and fineness in the workings of the passions,
in which last excellence, as likewise in the wild and imaginative
character of the situations, his almost neglected romances appear to me
greatly to excel his far famed 'Decameron'. To him, too, we owe the more
doubtful merit of having introduced into the Italian prose, and by the
authority of his name and the influence of his example, more or less
throughout Europe, the long interwoven periods, and architectural
structure which arose from the very nature of their language in the
Greek writers, but which already in the Latin orators and historians,
had betrayed a species of effort, a foreign something, which had been
superinduced on the language, instead of growing out of it; and which
was far too alien from that individualizing and confederating, yet not
blending, character of the North, to become permanent, although its
magnificence and stateliness were objects of admiration and occasional
imitation. This style diminished the control of the writer over the
inner feelings of men, and created too great a charm between the body
and the life; and hence especially it was abandoned by Luther.
But lastly, to Boccaccio's sanction we must trace a large portion of the
mythological pedantry and incongruous paganisms, which for so long a
period deformed the poetry, even of the truest poets. To such an
extravagance did Boccaccio himself carry this folly, that in a romance
of chivalry, he has uniformly styled God the Father Jupiter, our Saviour
Apollo, and the Evil Being Pluto. But for this there might be some
excuse pleaded. I dare make none for the gross and disgusting
licentiousness, the daring profaneness, which rendered the 'Decameron'
of Boccaccio the parent of a hundred worse children, fit to be classed
among the enemies of the human race; which poisons 'Ariosto'--(for that
I may not speak oftener than necessary of so odious a subject, I mention
it here once for all)--which interposes a painful mixture in the humour
of Chaucer, and which has once or twice seduced even our pure-minded
Spenser into a grossness, as heterogeneous from the spirit of his great
poem, as it was alien to the delicacy of his morals.
PETRARCH.
Born at Arezzo, 1304.--Died 1374.
Petrarch was the final blossom and perfection of the Troubadours. See
Biog. Lit. vol. ii. p.27, &c.
NOTES ON PETRARCH'S [1] SONNETS,
CANZONES, &c.
VOL. I.
Good:
SONNET. 1. Voi, ch' ascoltate, &c.
7. La gola, e 'l sonno, &c.
11. Se la mia vita, &c.
12. Quando fra l'altre, &c.
18. Vergognando talor, &c.
25. Quanto più m' avvicino, &c.
28. Solo e pensoso, &c.
29. S' io credessi, &c.
CANZ. 14. Sì è debile il filo, &c.
Pleasing:
BALL. 1. Lassare il velo, &c.
CANZ. 1. Nel dolce tempo, &c.
This poem was imitated by our old Herbert; [2] it is ridiculous in the
thoughts, but simple and sweet in diction.
Dignified:
CANZ. 2. O aspettata in ciel, &c.
9. Gentil mia Donna, &c.
The first half of this ninth canzone is exquisite; and in Canzone 8, the
nine lines beginning:
O poggi, o valli, &c.
to 'cura', are expressed with vigour and chastity.
CANZ. 9.
Daquel dì innanzi a me medesmo piacqui,
Empiendo d'un pensier' alto, e soave
Quel core, "ond' hanno i begli occhi la chiave."
Note. O that the Pope would take these eternal keys, which so for ever
turn the bolts on the finest passages of true passion!
VOL. II.
CANZ. 1. Che debb' io far? &c.
Very good; but not equal, I think, to Canzone 2,
Amor, se vuoi ch' i' torni, &c.
though less faulty. With the omission of half-a-dozen conceits and
Petrarchisms of 'hooks, baits, flames,' and 'torches', this second
canzone is a bold and impassioned lyric, and leaves no doubt in my mind
of Petrarch's having possessed a true poetic genius.
'Utinam deleri possint sequentia':--
L. 17-19.
--e la soave fiamma
Ch' ancor, lasso! m' infiamma
Essendo spenta, or che fea dunque ardendo?
L. 54-56.
--ov' erano a tutt' ore
Disposti gli ami ov' io fui preso, e l'esca
Ch' i' bramo sempre.
L. 76-79.
--onde l' accese
Saette uscivan d' invisibil foco,
E ragion temean poco;
Chè contra 'l ciel non val difesa umana.
And the lines 86, 87.
Poser' in dubbio, a cui
Devesse il pregio di più laude darsi
--are rather flatly worded.
[Footnote 1: These notes, by Mr. C., are written in a Petrarch in my
possession, and are of some date before 1812. It is hoped that they will
not seem ill placed here. Ed.]
[Footnote 2: If George Herbert is meant, I can find nothing like an
imitation of this canzone in his poems. Ed.]
LUIGI PULCI.
Born at Florence, 1431.--Died about 1487.
Pulci was of one of the noblest families in Florence, reported to be one
of the Frankish stocks which remained in that city after the departure
of Charlemagne:--
Pulcia Gallorum soboles descendit in urbem,
Clara quidem bello, sacris nec inhospita Musis.
Verino 'De illustrat. Cort. Flor.' III. v. 118.
Members of this family were five times elected to the Priorate, one of
the highest honours of the republic. Pulci had two brothers, and one of
their wives, Antonia, who were all poets:--
Carminibus patriis notissima Pulcia proles;
Quis non hanc urbem Musarum dicat arnicam,
Si tres producat fratres domus una poetas?
'Ib.' II. v. 241.
Luigi married Lucrezia di Uberto, of the Albizzi family, and was
intimate with the great men of his time, but more especially with Angelo
Politian, and Lorenzo the Magnificent. His Morgante has been attributed,
in part at least,[1] to the assistance of Marsilius Ficinus, and by
others the whole has been attributed to Politian. The first conjecture
is utterly improbable; the last is possible, indeed, on account of the
licentiousness of the poem; but there are no direct grounds for
believing it. The 'Morgante Maggiore' [2] is the first proper romance;
although, perhaps, Pulci had the 'Teseide' before him. The story is
taken from the fabulous history of Turpin; and if the author had any
distinct object, it seems to have been that of making himself merry with
the absurdities of the old romancers. The 'Morgante' sometimes makes you
think of Rabelais. It contains the most remarkable guess or allusion
upon the subject of America that can be found in any book published
before the discovery. [3] The well known passage in the tragic Seneca is
not to be compared with it. The 'copia verborum' of the mother
Florentine tongue, and the easiness of his style, afterwards brought to
perfection by Berni, are the chief merits of Pulci; his chief demerit is
his heartless spirit of jest and buffoonery, by which sovereigns and
their courtiers were flattered by the degradation of nature, and the
'impossibilification' of a pretended virtue.
[Footnote: 1 Meaning the 25th canto. Ed.]
[Footnote 2: The 'Morgante' was printed in 1488. Ed.]
[Footnote 3: The reference is, of course, to the following stanzas:--
Disse Astarotte: un error lungo e fioco
Per molti secol non ben conosciuto,
Fa che si dice d' Ercol le colonne,
E che più là molti periti sonne.
Sappi che questa opinione è vana;
Perchè più oltre navicar si puote,
Però che l' acqua in ogni parte è piana,
Benchè la terra abbi forma di ruote:
Era più grossa allor la gente humana;
Falche potrebbe arrosirne le gote
Ercule ancor d' aver posti que' segni,
Perchè più oltre passeranno i legni.
E puossi andar giù ne l' altro emisperio,
Però che al centro ogni cosa reprime;
Sì che la terra per divin misterio
Sospesa sta fra le stelle sublime,
E là giù son città, castella, e imperio;
Ma nol cognobbon quelle genti prime:
Vedi che il sol di camminar s' affretta,
Dove io ti dico che là giù s' aspetta.
E come un segno surge in Oriente,
Un altro cade con mirabil arte,
Come si vede qua ne l' Occidente,
Però che il ciel giustamente comparte;
Antipodi appellata è quella gente;
Adora il sole e Jupiterre e Marte,
E piante e animal come voi hanno,
E spesso insieme gran battaglie fanno.
C. XXV. st. 228, &c.]
CHAUCER.
Born in London, 1328.--Died 1400. [1]
Chaucer must be read with an eye to the Norman-French Trouveres, of whom
he is the best representative in English. He had great powers of
invention. As in Shakspeare, his characters represent classes, but in a
different manner; Shakspeare's characters are the representatives of the
interior nature of humanity, in which some element has become so
predominant as to destroy the health of the mind; whereas Chaucer's are
rather representatives of classes of manners. He is therefore more led
to individualize in a mere personal sense. Observe Chaucer's love of
nature; and how happily the subject of his main work is chosen. When you
reflect that the company in the Decameron have retired to a place of
safety from the raging of a pestilence, their mirth provokes a sense of
their unfeelingness; whereas in Chaucer nothing of this sort occurs, and
the scheme of a party on a pilgrimage, with different ends and
occupations, aptly allows of the greatest variety of expression in the
tales.
...
[Footnote 1: From Mr. Green's note. Ed.]
SPENSER.
Born in London, 1553.--Died 1599.
There is this difference, among many others, between Shakspeare and
Spenser:--Shakspeare is never coloured by the customs of his age; what
appears of contemporary character in him is merely negative; it is just
not something else. He has none of the fictitious realities of the
classics, none of the grotesquenesses of chivalry, none of the allegory
of the middle ages; there is no sectarianism either of politics or
religion, no miser, no witch,--no common witch,--no astrology--nothing
impermanent of however long duration; but he stands like the yew tree in
Lorton vale, which has known so many ages that it belongs to none in
particular; a living image of endless self-reproduction, like the
immortal tree of Malabar. In Spenser the spirit of chivalry is entirely
predominant, although with a much greater infusion of the poet's own
individual self into it than is found in any other writer. He has the
wit of the southern with the deeper inwardness of the northern genius.