[Sidenote: The Hermit of the Wood,]
This Hermit good lives in that wood
Which slopes down to the sea. 515
How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
He loves to talk with marineres
That come from a far countree.
He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve--
He hath a cushion plump: 520
It is the moss that wholly hides
The rotted old oak-stump.
The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,
'Why, this is strange, I trow!
Where are those lights so many and fair, 525
That signal made but now?'
[Sidenote: Approacheth the ship with wonder.]
'Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said--
'And they answered not our cheer!
The planks looked warped! and see those sails,
How thin they are and sere! 530
I never saw aught like to them,
Unless perchance it were
Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
My forest-brook along;
When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow, 535
And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,
That eats the she-wolf's young.'
'Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look--
(The Pilot made reply)
I am a-feared'--'Push on, push on!' 540
Said the Hermit cheerily.
The boat came closer to the ship,
But I nor spake nor stirred;
The boat came close beneath the ship,
And straight a sound was heard. 545
[Sidenote: The ship suddenly sinketh.]
Under the water it rumbled on,
Still louder and more dread:
It reached the ship, it split the bay;
The ship went down like lead.
[Sidenote: The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat.]
Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound, 550
Which sky and ocean smote,
Like one that hath been seven days drowned
My body lay afloat;
But swift as dreams, myself I found
Within the Pilot's boat. 555
Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,
The boat spun round and round;
And all was still, save that the hill
Was telling of the sound.
I moved my lips--the Pilot shrieked 560
And fell down in a fit;
The holy Hermit raised his eyes,
And prayed where he did sit.
I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,
Who now doth crazy go, 565
Laughed loud and long, and all the while
His eyes went to and fro.
'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I see.
The Devil knows how to row.'
And now, all in my own countree, 570
I stood on the firm land!
The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,
And scarcely he could stand.
[Sidenote: The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to
shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him.]
'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!'
The Hermit crossed his brow. 575
'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say--
What manner of man art thou?'
Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
With a woful agony,
Which forced me to begin my tale; 580
And then it left me free.
[Sidenote: And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony
constraineth him to travel from land to land;]
Since then, at an uncertain hour,
That agony returns:
And till my ghastly tale is told,
This heart within me burns. 585
I pass, like night, from land to land;
I have strange power of speech;
That moment that his face I see,
I know the man that must hear me:
To him my tale I teach. 590
What loud uproar bursts from that door!
The wedding-guests are there:
But in the garden-bower the bride
And bride-maids singing are:
And hark the little vesper bell, 595
Which biddeth me to prayer!
O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
Alone on a wide wide sea:
So lonely 'twas, that God himself
Scarce seeméd there to be. 600
O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
'Tis sweeter far to me,
To walk together to the kirk
With a goodly company!--
To walk together to the kirk, 605
And all together pray,
While each to his great Father bends,
Old men, and babes, and loving friends
And youths and maidens gay!
[Sidenote: And to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all
things that God made and loveth.]
Farewell, farewell! but this I tell 610
To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
He prayeth well, who loveth well
Both man and bird and beast.
He prayeth best, who loveth best
All things both great and small; 615
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.
The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
Whose beard with age is hoar,
Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest 620
Turned from the bridegroom's door.
He went like one that hath been stunned,
And is of sense forlorn:
A sadder and a wiser man,
He rose the morrow morn. 625
1797-1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[186:1] The _Ancient Mariner_ was first published in the _Lyrical
Ballads_, 1798. It was reprinted in the succeeding editions of 1800,
1802, and 1805. It was first published under the Author's name in
_Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, and included in 1828, 1829, and 1834. For the
full text of the poem as published in 1798, vide Appendices. The
marginal glosses were added in 1815-1816, when a collected edition of
Coleridge's poems was being prepared for the press, and were first
published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, but it is possible that they were
the work of a much earlier period. The text of the _Ancient Mariner_ as
reprinted in _Lyrical Ballads_, 1802, 1805 follows that of 1800.
[186:2] The text of the original passage is as follows: 'Facilè credo,
plures esse naturas invisibiles quam visibiles, in rerum universitate:
pluresque Angelorum ordines in cælo, quam sunt pisces in mari: Sed horum
omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit? Et gradus, et cognationes, et
discrimina, et singulorum munera? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit
ingenium humanum, nunquam attigit . . . Juvat utique non etc.:
_Archaeologiae Philosophicae sive Doctrina Antiqua De Rerum Originibus._
Libri Duo: Londini, MDCXCII, p. 68.'
[186:3] How a Ship, having first sailed to the Equator, was driven by
Storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole; how the Ancient
Mariner cruelly and in contempt of the laws of hospitality killed a
Sea-bird and how he was followed by many and strange Judgements: and in
what manner he came back to his own Country, [_L. B._ 1800.]
[195:1] _Om._ in _Sibylline Leaves, 1817_.
[196:1] For the last two lines of this stanza, I am indebted to Mr.
WORDSWORTH. It was on a delightful walk from Nether Stowey to Dulverton,
with him and his sister, in the Autumn of 1797, that this Poem was
planned, and in part composed. [Note by S. T. C., first printed in
_Sibylline Leaves_.]
LINENOTES:
Title] The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere. In Seven Parts L. B. 1798: The
Ancient Mariner. A Poet's Reverie L. B. 1800, 1802, 1805.
[Note.--The 'Argument' was omitted in L. B. 1802, 1805, Sibylline
Leaves, 1817, and in 1828, 1829, and 1834.]
PART I] I L. B. 1798, 1800. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. In Seven
Parts. S. L., 1828, 1829.
[1] It is an ancyent Marinere L. B. 1798 [ancient is spelled 'ancyent'
and Mariner 'Marinere' through out L. B. 1798].
[3] thy glittering eye L. B. 1798, 1800.
[4] stopp'st thou] stoppest L. B. 1798, 1800.
[Between 8 and 13]
But still he holds the wedding guest--
There was a Ship, quoth he--
'Nay, if thou'st got a laughsome tale,
Marinere, [Mariner! 1800] come with me.'
He holds him with his skinny hand--
Quoth he, there was a Ship--
Now get thee hence thou greybeard Loon!
Or my Staff shall make thee skip.
L. B. 1798, 1800.
[Between 40 and 55]
Listen, Stranger! Storm and Wind,
A Wind and Tempest strong!
For days and weeks it play'd us freaks--
Like chaff we drove along.
Listen Stranger! Mist and Snow,
And it grew wondrous cauld;
And Ice mast-high came floating by
As green as Emerauld.
L. B. 1798.
[Between 40 and 51]
But now the Northwind came more fierce,
There came a Tempest strong!
And Southward still for days and weeks
Like Chaff we drove along.
L. B. 1800.
Lines 41-50 of the text were added in Sibylline Leaves, 1817. [_Note._
The emendation in the marginal gloss, 'driven' for 'drawn' first appears
in 1893.]
[55] clifts] clift S. L. [probably a misprint. It is not corrected in
the _Errata_.]
[57] Nor . . . nor] Ne . . . ne L. B. 1798.
[62] Like noises of a swound L. B. 1798: A wild and ceaseless sound L.
B. 1800.
[65] And an it were L. B. 1798: As if MS. Corr. S. T. C.
[67] The Mariners gave it biscuit-worms L. B. 1798, 1800.
[77] fog-smoke white] fog smoke-white L. B. 1798 (_corr. in Errata_).
PART II] II L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part the
Second, S. L. 1828, 1829.
[83] The Sun came up L. B. 1798.
[85] And broad as a weft upon the left L. B. 1798.
[89] Nor] Ne L. B. 1798.
[90] mariners'] Marinere's L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L. 1817:
Mariner's L. B. 1800.
[91] a] an all editions to 1834.
[95-6] om. L. B. 1798, 1800: were added in Sibylline Leaves.
[97] Nor . . . nor] ne . . . ne L. B. 1798. like an Angel's head L. B.
1800.
[103] The breezes blew L. B. 1798, 1800.
[104] [190:A]The furrow stream'd off free S. L. 1817.
[190:A] In the former editions the line was,
The furrow follow'd free:
But I had not been long on board a ship, before I perceived
that this was the image as seen by a spectator from the shore,
or from another vessel. From the ship itself, the _Wake_
appears like a brook flowing off from the stern. _Note to S.
L. 1817._
[116] nor . . . nor] ne . . . ne L. B. 1798.
[122] Nor] Ne L. B. 1798.
[123] deep] deeps L. B. 1798, 1800.
[139] well a-day] wel-a-day L. B. 1798, 1800.
[Between 143 and 149]
I saw a something in the sky
No bigger than my fist;
At first it seem'd, &c.
L. B. 1798.
[Between 143 and 147]
So past a weary time, each throat
Was parch'd and glaz'd each eye,
When looking westward, &c.
L. B. 1800.
[Lines 143-8 of the text in their present shape were added in Sibylline
Leaves, 1817.]
PART III] III L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part
the Third, S. L. 1828, 1829.
[154] And still it ner'd and ner'd. L. B. 1798, 1800.
[155] And, an it dodg'd L. B. 1798: And, as if it dodg'd L. B. 1800, S.
L. 1817.
[157-60]
With throat unslack'd with black lips baked
Ne could we laugh, ne wail,
Then while thro' drouth all dumb they stood
I bit my arm, and suck'd the blood
L. B. 1798.
[157] With throat unslack'd, &c. L. B. 1800, 1802, S. L. 1817.
[160] Till I bit my arm and suck'd the blood L. B. 1800.
[162] With throat unslack'd, &c. L. B. 1798, 1800, 1802, S. L. 1817.
[167-70]
She doth not tack from side to side--
Hither to work us weal.
Withouten wind, withouten tide
She steddies with upright keel.
L. B. 1798.
[170] She steddies L. B. 1800, S. L. 1817.
[177] straight] strait L. B. 1798, 1800.
[182] neres and neres L. B. 1798, 1800.
[183] _her_] her 1834, _and also in_ 185 _and_ 190.
[Between 184-90]
Are those her naked ribs, which fleck'd
The sun that did behind them peer?
And are those two all, all the crew,[193:A]
That woman and her fleshless Pheere?
_His_ bones were black with many a crack,
All black and bare I ween;
Jet-black and bare, save where with rust
Of mouldy damps and charnel crust
They're patch'd with purple and green.
L. B. 1798.
Are those _her_ ribs which fleck'd the Sun
Like the bars of a dungeon grate?
And are those two all, all the crew
That woman and her mate?
MS. Correction of S. T. C. in L. B. 1798.
Are those _her_ Ribs, thro' which the Sun
Did peer as thro' a grate?
And are those two all, all her crew,
That Woman, and her Mate?
_His_ bones were black with many a crack
* * * * *
They were patch'd with purple and green.
L. B. 1800.
This Ship it was a plankless thing,
--A bare Anatomy!
A plankless spectre--and it mov'd
Like a Being of the Sea!
The woman and a fleshless man
Therein sate merrily.
His bones were black, &c. (as in 1800).
This stanza was found added in the handwriting of the Poet in the margin
of a copy of the Bristol Edition [1798] of Lyrical Ballads. It is here
printed for the first time. _Note P. and D. W., 1877-80, ii. 36._
[193:A] those] these _Errata, L. B. 1798_.
[190-4]
_Her_ lips are red, _her_ looks are free,
_Her_ locks are yellow as gold:
Her skin is as white as leprosy,
And she is far liker Death than he;
Her flesh makes the still air cold.
L. B. 1798.
_Her_ lips were red, _her_ looks were free,
_Her_ locks were as yellow as gold:
Her skin was as white as leprosy,
And she was far liker Death than he;
Her flesh made the still air cold.
L. B. 1800.
[196] casting] playing L. B. 1798, 1800.
[197] The game is done, I've, I've won S. L. 1817, 1828, 1839, 1834,
1844. The restoration of the text of 1798 and 1800 dates from 1852.
[198] whistles] whistled L. B. 1798, 1800.
[Between 198-218]
A gust of wind sterte up behind
And whistled thro' his bones;
Thro the { holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth
{ hole L. B. 1802, 1805
Half-whistles and half-groans.
With never a whisper in the Sea
Off darts the Spectre-ship;
While clombe above the Eastern bar
The horned Moon with one bright Star
Almost atween the tips.
[Almost between the tips. L. B. 1800.]
One after one by the horned Moon
(Listen, O Stranger! to me)
Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang
And curs'd me with his ee.
Four times fifty living men,
With never a sigh or groan,
L. B. 1798, 1800.
[Between 198-9] A gust of wind . . . half groans. S. L. (Page 15 erase
the second stanza. Errata_, S. L., p. [xi].)
[Between 201-12]
With never a whisper on the main
Off shot the spectre ship;
And stifled words and groans of pain
Mix'd on each murmuring} lip.
trembling}
And we look'd round, and we look'd up,
And fear at our hearts, as at a cup,
The Life-blood seem'd to sip--
The sky was dull, and dark the night,
The helmsman's face by his lamp gleam'd bright,
From the sails the dews did drip--
Till clomb above the Eastern Bar,
The horned Moon, with one bright star
Within its nether tip.
Undated MS. correction of S. T. C. (first published 1893).
[208] dew] dews S. L. 1817.
[209] clomb] clombe S. L. 1817, 1828.
PART IV] IV. L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part the
Fourth S. L. 1828, 1829.
[220] The] Their L. B. 1798, 1800.
[224] ancyent Marinere L. B. 1798.
[233-4]
Alone on the wide wide sea;
And Christ would take no pity on
L. B. 1798, 1800.
[238] And a million, million slimy things L. B. 1798, 1800.
[242] rotting] eldritch L. B. 1798: ghastly L. B. 1800.
[249] And] Till L. B. 1798, 1800.
[251] load] cloud S. L. (for _cloud_ read _load_. _Errata_, S. L., p.
[xi]).
[254] Ne rot, ne reek L. B. 1798.
[260] the curse] a curse 1828, 1829.
[268] Like morning frosts yspread L. B. 1798.
PART V] V. L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part the
Fifth S. L. 1828, 1829.
[294] To Mary-queen L. B. 1798, 1800. given] yeven L. B. 1798.
[300] awoke] woke (a pencilled correction in 1828, ? by S. T. C.).
[309] The roaring wind! it roar'd far off L. B. 1798.
[313] burst] bursts L. B. 1798.
[315] were] are L. B. 1798.
[317] The stars dance on between. L. B. 1798.
[317-24]
The coming wind doth roar more loud;
The sails do sigh, like sedge:
The rain pours down from one black cloud
And the Moon is at its edge.
Hark! hark! the thick black cloud is cleft,
And the Moon is at its side
L. B. 1798.
[325] fell] falls L. B. 1798.
[327-8]
The strong wind reach'd the ship: it roar'd
And dropp'd down like a stone!
L. B. 1798.
[332] nor . . . nor] ne . . . ne L. B. 1798.
[Between 344-5]
And I quak'd to think of my own voice
How frightful it would be!
L. B. 1798.
[345-9] om. in L. B. 1798, added in L. B. 1800.
[350] The daylight dawn'd L. B. 1798.
[359] sky-lark] Lavrock L. B. 1798.
[Between 372-3]
Listen, O listen, thou Wedding-guest!
'Marinere! thou hast thy will:
For that, which comes out of thine eye, doth make
My body and soul to be still.'
Never sadder tale was told
To a man of woman born:
Sadder and wiser thou wedding-guest!
Thoul't rise to-morrow morn.
Never sadder tale was heard
By a man of woman born:
The Marineres all return'd to work
As silent as beforne.
The Marineres all 'gan pull the ropes,
But look at me they n'old;
Thought I, I am as thin as air--
They cannot me behold.
L. B. 1798.
[373] quietly] silently L. B. 1798, 1800.
[392] down in] into L. B. 1798, 1800.
PART VI] VI. L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Part the
Sixth S. L. 1828, 1829.
[423] Withouten wave L. B. 1798.
[440-1] een from theirs; Ne turn L. B. 1798.
[442-6]
And in its time the spell was snapt,
And I could move my een:
I look'd far-forth, but little saw
Of what might else be seen.
L. B. 1798.
[446] lonesome] lonely L. B. 1798.
[453] Nor . . . nor] Ne . . . ne L. B. 1798.
[464] O dream L. B. 1798, 1800.
[Between 475-80]
The moonlight bay was white all o'er,
Till rising from the same,
Full many shapes, that shadows were,
Like as of torches came.
A little distance from the prow
Those dark-red shadows were;
But soon I saw that my own flesh
Was red as in a glare.
I turn'd my head in fear and dread,
And by the holy rood,
The bodies had advanc'd, and now
Before the mast they stood.
They lifted up their stiff right arms,
They held them strait and tight;
And each right-arm burnt like a torch,
A torch that's borne upright.
Their stony eye-balls glitter'd on
In the red and smoky light.
I pray'd and turn'd my head away
Forth looking as before.
There was no breeze upon the bay,
No wave against the shore.
L. B. 1798.
[487] Oh, Christ!] O Christ L. B. 1798, 1800.
[498] oh!] O L. B. 1798, 1800.
[500] But soon] Eftsones L. B. 1798.
[Between 503-4]
Then vanish'd all the lovely lights;[205:A]
The bodies rose anew:
With silent pace, each to his place,
Came back the ghastly crew,
The wind, that shade nor motion made,
On me alone it blew.
L. B. 1798.
[205:A]
Then vanish'd all the lovely lights,
The spirits of the air,
No souls of mortal men were they,
But spirits bright and fair.
_MS. Correction by S. T. C. in a copy of L. B. 1798._
[511] makes] maketh (a pencilled correction in 1828, ? by S. T. C.).
PART VII] VII. L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part
the Seventh S. L. 1829: The Ancient Mariner. Part the Seventh 1828.
[517] marineres] mariners L. B. 1800.
[518] That come from a far Contrée. L. B. 1798.
[523] neared] ner'd L. B. 1798, 1800.
[529] looked] look L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L.
[533] Brown] The L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L. [for _The_ read _Brown_.
_Errata_, S. L. 1817, p. (xi)].
[543] nor . . . nor] ne . . . ne L. B. 1798.
[577] What manner man L. B. 1798, 1800.
[582-5]
Since then at an uncertain hour,
Now ofttimes and now fewer,
That anguish comes and makes me tell
My ghastly aventure.
L. B. 1798.
[583] agony] agency [_a misprint_] L. B. 1800.
[588] That] The L. B. 1798, 1800.
[610] Farewell, farewell] _The comma to be omitted._ _Errata_, L. B.
1798.
[618] The Marinere L. B. 1798.
SONNETS ATTEMPTED IN THE MANNER OF CONTEMPORARY WRITERS[209:1]
[SIGNED 'NEHEMIAH HIGGINBOTTOM']
I
Pensive at eve on the _hard_ world I mus'd,
And _my poor_ heart was sad: so at the Moon
I gaz'd--and sigh'd, and sigh'd!--for, ah! how soon
Eve darkens into night. Mine eye perus'd
With tearful vacancy the _dampy_ grass 5
Which wept and glitter'd in the _paly_ ray;
And _I did pause me_ on my lonely way,
And _mused me_ on those _wretched ones_ who pass
_O'er the black heath_ of Sorrow. But, alas!
Most of _Myself_ I thought: when it befell 10
That the _sooth_ Spirit of the breezy wood
Breath'd in mine ear--'All this is very well;
But much of _one_ thing is for _no_ thing good.'
Ah! my _poor heart's_ INEXPLICABLE SWELL!
II
TO SIMPLICITY
O! I do love thee, meek _Simplicity_!
For of thy lays the lulling simpleness
Goes to my heart and soothes each small distress,
Distress though small, yet haply great to me!
'Tis true on Lady Fortune's gentlest pad 5
I amble on; yet, though I know not why,
_So_ sad I am!--but should a friend and I
Grow cool and _miff_, O! I am _very_ sad!
And then with sonnets and with sympathy
My dreamy bosom's mystic woes I pall; 10
Now of my false friend plaining plaintively,
Now raving at mankind in general;
But, whether sad or fierce, 'tis simple all,
All very simple, meek Simplicity!
III
ON A RUINED HOUSE IN A ROMANTIC COUNTRY
And this reft house is that the which he built,
Lamented Jack! And here his malt he pil'd,
Cautious in vain! These rats that squeak so wild,
Squeak, not unconscious of their father's guilt.
Did ye not see her gleaming thro' the glade?
Belike, 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn.
What though she milk no cow with crumpled horn,
Yet _aye_ she haunts the dale where _erst_ she stray'd;
And _aye_ beside her stalks her amorous knight!
Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn, 10
And thro' those brogues, still tatter'd and betorn,
His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white;
As when thro' broken clouds at night's high noon
Peeps in fair fragments forth the full-orb'd harvest-moon!
1797.
FOOTNOTES:
[209:1] First published in the _Monthly Magazine_ for November, 1797.
They were reprinted in the _Poetical Register_ for 1803 (1805); by
Coleridge in the _Biographia Literaria_, 1817, i. 26-8[A]; and by Cottle
in _Early Recollections_, i. 290-2; and in _Reminiscences_, p. 160. They
were first collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877-80, i. 211-13.
[A] 'Under the name of Nehemiah Higginbottom I contributed three
sonnets, the first of which had for its object to excite a good-natured
laugh at the spirit of doleful egotism and at the recurrence of
favourite phrases, with the double defect of being at once trite and
licentious. The second was on low creeping language and thoughts under
the pretence of _simplicity_. The third, the phrases of which were
borrowed entirely from my own poems, on the indiscriminate use of
elaborate and swelling language and imagery. . . . So general at the
time and so decided was the opinion concerning the characteristic vices
of my style that a celebrated physician (now alas! no more) speaking of
me in other respects with his usual kindness to a gentleman who was
about to meet me at a dinner-party could not, however, resist giving him
a hint not to mention _The House that Jack Built_ in my presence, for
that I was as sore as a boil about that sonnet, he not knowing that I
was myself the author of it.'
Coleridge's first account of these sonnets in a letter to Cottle
[November, 1797] is much to the same effect:--'I sent to the _Monthly
Magazine_ (1797) three mock Sonnets in ridicule of my own Poems, and
Charles Lloyd's and Lamb's, etc., etc., exposing that affectation of
unaffectedness, of jumping and misplaced accent in common-place
epithets, flat lines forced into poetry by italics (signifying how well
and mouthishly the author would read them), puny pathos, etc., etc. The
instances were almost all taken from myself and Lloyd and Lamb. I signed
them "Nehemiah Higginbottom". I think they may do good to our young
Bards.' [_E. R._, i. 289; _Rem._ 160.]
LINENOTES:
Title] Sonnet I M. M.
[4] darkens] saddens B. L., i. 27.
[6] Which] That B. L., i. 27.
[8] those] the B. L., i. 27. who] that B. L., i. 27.
[9] black] bleak B. L., i. 27.
[14] Ah!] Oh! B. L., i. 27.
II] Sonnet II. To Simplicity M. M.: no title in B. L.
[6] yet, though] and yet B. L., i. 27.
[8] Frown, pout and part then I am _very_ sad B. L., i. 27.
[12] in gener-al Cottle, E. R., i. 288.
III] Sonnet III. To, &c. M. M.
[10] their] his Cottle, E. R., i. 292.
[13] As when] Ah! thus B. L., i. 27.
PARLIAMENTARY OSCILLATORS[211:1]
Almost awake? Why, what is this, and whence,
O ye right loyal men, all undefiléd?
Sure, 'tis not possible that Common-Sense
Has hitch'd her pullies to each heavy eye-lid?
Yet wherefore else that start, which discomposes 5
The drowsy waters lingering in your eye?
And are you _really_ able to descry
That precipice three yards beyond your noses?
Yet flatter you I cannot, that your wit
Is much improved by this long loyal dozing; 10
And I admire, no more than Mr. Pitt,
Your jumps and starts of patriotic prosing--
Now cluttering to the Treasury Cluck, like chicken,
Now with small beaks the ravenous _Bill_ opposing;[212:1]
With serpent-tongue now stinging, and now licking, 15
Now semi-sibilant, now smoothly glozing--
Now having faith implicit that he can't err,
Hoping his hopes, alarm'd with his alarms;
And now believing him a sly inchanter,
Yet still afraid to break his brittle charms, 20
Lest some mad Devil suddenly unhamp'ring,
Slap-dash! the imp should fly off with the steeple,
On revolutionary broom-stick scampering.--
O ye soft-headed and soft-hearted people,
If you can stay so long from slumber free, 25
My muse shall make an effort to salute 'e:
For lo! a very dainty simile
Flash'd sudden through my brain, and 'twill just suit 'e!
You know that water-fowl that cries, Quack! Quack!?
Full often have I seen a waggish crew 30
Fasten the Bird of Wisdom on its back,
The ivy-haunting bird, that cries, Tu-whoo!
Both plung'd together in the deep mill-stream,
(Mill-stream, or farm-yard pond, or mountain-lake,)
Shrill, as a _Church and Constitution_ scream, 35
Tu-whoo! quoth Broad-face, and down dives the Drake!
The green-neck'd Drake once more pops up to view,
Stares round, cries Quack! and makes an angry pother;
Then shriller screams the Bird with eye-lids blue,
The broad-faced Bird! and deeper dives the other. 40
Ye _quacking_ Statesmen! 'tis even so with you--
One Peasecod is not liker to another.
Even so on Loyalty's Decoy-pond, each
Pops up his head, as fir'd with British blood,
Hears once again the Ministerial screech, 45
And once more seeks the bottom's blackest mud!
1798.
(_Signed:_ LABERIUS.)
FOOTNOTES:
[211:1] First published in the _Cambridge Intelligencer_, January 6,
1798: included in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: _Essays on His own Times_,
1850, iii. 969-70. First collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877-80. In
_Sibylline Leaves_ the poem is incorrectly dated 1794.
[212:1] Pitt's 'treble assessment at seven millions' which formed part
of the budget for 1798. The grant was carried in the House of Commons,
Jan. 4, 1798.
LINENOTES:
Title] To Sir John Sinclair, S. Thornton, Alderman Lushington, and the
whole Troop of Parliamentary Oscillators C. I.
[2] right] tight C. I.
[3] It's hardly possible C. I.
[9] But yet I cannot flatter you, your wit C. I.
[14] the] his C. I.
[24] O ye soft-hearted and soft-headed, &c. C. I.
[26, 28] 'e] ye C. I.
[29] that cries] which cries C. I.
[30] Full often] Ditch-full oft C. I.
[31] Fasten] Fallen C. I.
CHRISTABEL[213:1]
PREFACE
The first part of the following poem was written in the
year 1797, at Stowey, in the county of Somerset. The
second part, after my return from Germany, in the year
1800, at Keswick, Cumberland. It is probable that if the
poem had been finished at either of the former periods, or 5
if even the first and second part had been published in the
year 1800, the impression of its originality would have been
much greater than I dare at present expect. But for this
I have only my own indolence to blame. The dates are
mentioned for the exclusive purpose of precluding charges of 10
plagiarism or servile imitation from myself. For there is
amongst us a set of critics, who seem to hold, that every
possible thought and image is traditional; who have no
notion that there are such things as fountains in the world,
small as well as great; and who would therefore charitably 15
derive every rill they behold flowing, from a perforation
made in some other man's tank. I am confident, however,
that as far as the present poem is concerned, the celebrated
poets[215:1] whose writings I might be suspected of having
imitated, either in particular passages, or in the tone and 20
the spirit of the whole, would be among the first to vindicate
me from the charge, and who, on any striking coincidence,
would permit me to address them in this doggerel version
of two monkish Latin hexameters.[215:2]
'Tis mine and it is likewise yours; 25
But an if this will not do;
Let it be mine, good friend! for I
Am the poorer of the two.
I have only to add that the metre of Christabel is not,
properly speaking, irregular, though it may seem so from its 30
being founded on a new principle: namely, that of counting
in each line the accents, not the syllables. Though the latter
may vary from seven to twelve, yet in each line the accents
will be found to be only four. Nevertheless, this occasional
variation in number of syllables is not introduced wantonly, 35
or for the mere ends of convenience, but in correspondence
with some transition in the nature of the imagery or passion.
PART I
'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. 5
Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
Hath a toothless mastiff bitch;
From her kennel beneath the rock
She maketh answer to the clock,
Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; 10
Ever and aye, by shine and shower,
Sixteen short howls, not over loud;
Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.
Is the night chilly and dark?
The night is chilly, but not dark. 15
The thin gray cloud is spread on high,
It covers but not hides the sky.
The moon is behind, and at the full;
And yet she looks both small and dull.
The night is chill, the cloud is gray: 20
'Tis a month before the month of May,
And the Spring comes slowly up this way.
The lovely lady, Christabel,
Whom her father loves so well,
What makes her in the wood so late, 25
A furlong from the castle gate?
She had dreams all yesternight
Of her own betrothéd knight;
And she in the midnight wood will pray
For the weal of her lover that's far away. 30
She stole along, she nothing spoke,
The sighs she heaved were soft and low,
And naught was green upon the oak
But moss and rarest misletoe:
She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, 35
And in silence prayeth she.
The lady sprang up suddenly,
The lovely lady, Christabel!
It moaned as near, as near can be,
But what it is she cannot tell.-- 40
On the other side it seems to be,
Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.
The night is chill; the forest bare;
Is it the wind that moaneth bleak?
There is not wind enough in the air 45
To move away the ringlet curl
From the lovely lady's cheek--
There is not wind enough to twirl
The one red leaf, the last of its clan,
That dances as often as dance it can, 50
Hanging so light, and hanging so high,
On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.
Hush, beating heart of Christabel!
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
She folded her arms beneath her cloak, 55
And stole to the other side of the oak.
What sees she there?
There she sees a damsel bright,
Drest in a silken robe of white,
That shadowy in the moonlight shone: 60
The neck that made that white robe wan,
Her stately neck, and arms were bare;
Her blue-veined feet unsandal'd were,
And wildly glittered here and there
The gems entangled in her hair. 65
I guess, 'twas frightful there to see
A lady so richly clad as she--
Beautiful exceedingly!
Mary mother, save me now!
(Said Christabel,) And who art thou? 70
The lady strange made answer meet,
And her voice was faint and sweet:--
Have pity on my sore distress,
I scarce can speak for weariness:
Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear! 75
Said Christabel, How camest thou here?
And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet,
Did thus pursue her answer meet:--
My sire is of a noble line,
And my name is Geraldine: 80
Five warriors seized me yestermorn,
Me, even me, a maid forlorn:
They choked my cries with force and fright,
And tied me on a palfrey white.
The palfrey was as fleet as wind, 85
And they rode furiously behind.
They spurred amain, their steeds were white:
And once we crossed the shade of night.
As sure as Heaven shall rescue me,
I have no thought what men they be; 90
Nor do I know how long it is
(For I have lain entranced I wis)
Since one, the tallest of the five,
Took me from the palfrey's back,
A weary woman, scarce alive. 95
Some muttered words his comrades spoke:
Ha placed me underneath this oak;
He swore they would return with haste;
Whither they went I cannot tell--
I thought I heard, some minutes past, 100
Sounds as of a castle bell.
Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she),
And help a wretched maid to flee.
Then Christabel stretched forth her hand,
And comforted fair Geraldine: 105
O well, bright dame! may you command
The service of Sir Leoline;
And gladly our stout chivalry
Will he send forth and friends withal
To guide and guard you safe and free 110
Home to your noble father's hall.
She rose: and forth with steps they passed
That strove to be, and were not, fast.
Her gracious stars the lady blest,
And thus spake on sweet Christabel: 115
All our household are at rest,
The hall as silent as the cell;
Sir Leoline is weak in health,
And may not well awakened be,
But we will move as if in stealth, 120
And I beseech your courtesy,
This night, to share your couch with me.
They crossed the moat, and Christabel
Took the key that fitted well;
A little door she opened straight, 125
All in the middle of the gate;
The gate that was ironed within and without,
Where an army in battle array had marched out.
The lady sank, belike through pain,
And Christabel with might and main 130
Lifted her up, a weary weight,
Over the threshold of the gate:
Then the lady rose again,
And moved, as she were not in pain.
So free from danger, free from fear, 135
They crossed the court: right glad they were.
And Christabel devoutly cried
To the lady by her side,
Praise we the Virgin all divine
Who hath rescued thee from thy distress! 140
Alas, alas! said Geraldine,
I cannot speak for weariness.
So free from danger, free from fear,
They crossed the court: right glad they were.
Outside her kennel, the mastiff old 145
Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold.
The mastiff old did not awake,
Yet she an angry moan did make!
And what can ail the mastiff bitch?
Never till now she uttered yell 150
Beneath the eye of Christabel.
Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch:
For what can ail the mastiff bitch?
They passed the hall, that echoes still,
Pass as lightly as you will! 155
The brands were flat, the brands were dying,
Amid their own white ashes lying;
But when the lady passed, there came
A tongue of light, a fit of flame;
And Christabel saw the lady's eye, 160
And nothing else saw she thereby,
Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall,
Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall.
O softly tread, said Christabel,
My father seldom sleepeth well. 165
Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare,
And jealous of the listening air
They steal their way from stair to stair,
Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,
And now they pass the Baron's room, 170
As still as death, with stifled breath!
And now have reached her chamber door;
And now doth Geraldine press down
The rushes of the chamber floor.
The moon shines dim in the open air, 175
And not a moonbeam enters here.
But they without its light can see
The chamber carved so curiously,
Carved with figures strange and sweet,
All made out of the carver's brain, 180
For a lady's chamber meet:
The lamp with twofold silver chain
Is fastened to an angel's feet.
The silver lamp burns dead and dim;
But Christabel the lamp will trim. 185
She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright,
And left it swinging to and fro,
While Geraldine, in wretched plight,
Sank down upon the floor below.
O weary lady, Geraldine, 190
I pray you, drink this cordial wine!
It is a wine of virtuous powers;
My mother made it of wild flowers.
And will your mother pity me,
Who am a maiden most forlorn? 195
Christabel answered--Woe is me!
She died the hour that I was born.
I have heard the grey-haired friar tell
How on her death-bed she did say,
That she should hear the castle-bell 200
Strike twelve upon my wedding-day.
O mother dear! that thou wert here!
I would, said Geraldine, she were!
But soon with altered voice, said she--
'Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine! 205
I have power to bid thee flee.'
Alas! what ails poor Geraldine?
Why stares she with unsettled eye?
Can she the bodiless dead espy?
And why with hollow voice cries she, 210
'Off, woman, off! this hour is mine--
Though thou her guardian spirit be,
Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me.'
Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side,
And raised to heaven her eyes so blue-- 215
Alas! said she, this ghastly ride--
Dear lady! it hath wildered you!
The lady wiped her moist cold brow,
And faintly said, ''tis over now!'
Again the wild-flower wine she drank: 220
Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright,
And from the floor whereon she sank,
The lofty lady stood upright:
She was most beautiful to see,
Like a lady of a far countrée. 225
And thus the lofty lady spake--
'All they who live in the upper sky,
Do love you, holy Christabel!
And you love them, and for their sake
And for the good which me befel, 230
Even I in my degree will try,
Fair maiden, to requite you well.
But now unrobe yourself; for I
Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.'
Quoth Christabel, So let it be! 235
And as the lady bade, did she.
Her gentle limbs did she undress,
And lay down in her loveliness.
But through her brain of weal and woe
So many thoughts moved to and fro, 240
That vain it were her lids to close;
So half-way from the bed she rose,
And on her elbow did recline
To look at the lady Geraldine.
Beneath the lamp the lady bowed, 245
And slowly rolled her eyes around;
Then drawing in her breath aloud,
Like one that shuddered, she unbound
The cincture from beneath her breast:
Her silken robe, and inner vest, 250
Dropt to her feet, and full in view,
Behold! her bosom and half her side--
A sight to dream of, not to tell!
O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!
Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs; 255
Ah! what a stricken look was hers!
Deep from within she seems half-way
To lift some weight with sick assay,
And eyes the maid and seeks delay;
Then suddenly, as one defied, 260
Collects herself in scorn and pride,
And lay down by the Maiden's side!--
And in her arms the maid she took,
Ah wel-a-day!
And with low voice and doleful look 265
These words did say:
'In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell,
Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel!
Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow,
This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow; 270
But vainly thou warrest,
For this is alone in
Thy power to declare,
That in the dim forest
Thou heard'st a low moaning, 275
And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair;
And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity,
To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.'
THE CONCLUSION TO PART I
It was a lovely sight to see
The lady Christabel, when she 280
Was praying at the old oak tree.
Amid the jaggéd shadows
Of mossy leafless boughs,
Kneeling in the moonlight,
To make her gentle vows; 285
Her slender palms together prest,
Heaving sometimes on her breast;
Her face resigned to bliss or bale--
Her face, oh call it fair not pale,
And both blue eyes more bright than clear, 290
Each about to have a tear.
With open eyes (ah woe is me!)
Asleep, and dreaming fearfully,
Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis,
Dreaming that alone, which is-- 295
O sorrow and shame! Can this be she,
The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree?
And lo! the worker of these harms,
That holds the maiden in her arms,
Seems to slumber still and mild, 300
As a mother with her child.
A star hath set, a star hath risen,
O Geraldine! since arms of thine
Have been the lovely lady's prison.
O Geraldine! one hour was thine-- 305
Thou'st had thy will! By tairn and rill,
The night-birds all that hour were still.
But now they are jubilant anew,
From cliff and tower, tu--whoo! tu--whoo!
Tu--whoo! tu--whoo! from wood and fell! 310
And see! the lady Christabel
Gathers herself from out her trance;
Her limbs relax, her countenance
Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids
Close o'er her eyes; and tears she sheds-- 315
Large tears that leave the lashes bright!
And oft the while she seems to smile
As infants at a sudden light!
Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep,
Like a youthful hermitess, 320
Beauteous in a wilderness,
Who, praying always, prays in sleep.
And, if she move unquietly,
Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free
Comes back and tingles in her feet. 325
No doubt, she hath a vision sweet.
What if her guardian spirit 'twere,
What if she knew her mother near?
But this she knows, in joys and woes,
That saints will aid if men will call: 330
For the blue sky bends over all!
1797.
PART II
Each matin bell, the Baron saith,
Knells us back to a world of death.
These words Sir Leoline first said,
When he rose and found his lady dead: 335
These words Sir Leoline will say
Many a morn to his dying day!
And hence the custom and law began
That still at dawn the sacristan,
Who duly pulls the heavy bell, 340
Five and forty beads must tell
Between each stroke--a warning knell,
Which not a soul can choose but hear
From Bratha Head to Wyndermere.
Saith Bracy the bard, So let it knell! 345
And let the drowsy sacristan
Still count as slowly as he can!
There is no lack of such, I ween,
As well fill up the space between.
In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, 350
And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent,
With ropes of rock and bells of air
Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent,
Who all give back, one after t'other,
The death-note to their living brother; 355
And oft too, by the knell offended,
Just as their one! two! three! is ended,
The devil mocks the doleful tale
With a merry peal from Borodale.
The air is still! through mist and cloud 360
That merry peal comes ringing loud;
And Geraldine shakes off her dread,
And rises lightly from the bed;
Puts on her silken vestments white,
And tricks her hair in lovely plight, 365
And nothing doubting of her spell
Awakens the lady Christabel.
'Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel?
I trust that you have rested well.'
And Christabel awoke and spied 370
The same who lay down by her side--
O rather say, the same whom she
Raised up beneath the old oak tree!
Nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair!
For she belike hath drunken deep 375
Of all the blessedness of sleep!
And while she spake, her looks, her air
Such gentle thankfulness declare,
That (so it seemed) her girded vests
Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 380
'Sure I have sinn'd!' said Christabel,
'Now heaven be praised if all be well!'
And in low faltering tones, yet sweet,
Did she the lofty lady greet
With such perplexity of mind 385
As dreams too lively leave behind.
So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed
Her maiden limbs, and having prayed
That He, who on the cross did groan,
Might wash away her sins unknown, 390
She forthwith led fair Geraldine
To meet her sire, Sir Leoline.
The lovely maid and the lady tall
Are pacing both into the hall,
And pacing on through page and groom, 395
Enter the Baron's presence-room.
The Baron rose, and while he prest
His gentle daughter to his breast,
With cheerful wonder in his eyes
The lady Geraldine espies, 400
And gave such welcome to the same,
As might beseem so bright a dame!
But when he heard the lady's tale,
And when she told her father's name,
Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale, 405
Murmuring o'er the name again,
Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine?
Alas! they had been friends in youth;
But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above; 410
And life is thorny; and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness in the brain.
And thus it chanced, as I divine,
With Roland and Sir Leoline. 415
Each spake words of high disdain
And insult to his heart's best brother:
They parted--ne'er to meet again!
But never either found another
To free the hollow heart from paining-- 420
They stood aloof, the scars remaining,
Like cliffs which had been rent asunder;
A dreary sea now flows between;--
But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder,
Shall wholly do away, I ween, 425
The marks of that which once hath been.
Sir Leoline, a moment's space,
Stood gazing on the damsel's face:
And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine
Came back upon his heart again. 430
O then the Baron forgot his age,
His noble heart swelled high with rage;
He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side
He would proclaim it far and wide,
With trump and solemn heraldry, 435
That they, who thus had wronged the dame,
Were base as spotted infamy!
'And if they dare deny the same,
My herald shall appoint a week,
And let the recreant traitors seek 440
My tourney court--that there and then
I may dislodge their reptile souls
From the bodies and forms of men!'
He spake: his eye in lightning rolls!
For the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he kenned 445
In the beautiful lady the child of his friend!
And now the tears were on his face,
And fondly in his arms he took
Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace,
Prolonging it with joyous look. 450
Which when she viewed, a vision fell
Upon the soul of Christabel,
The vision of fear, the touch and pain!
She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again--
(Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee, 455
Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?)
Again she saw that bosom old,
Again she felt that bosom cold,
And drew in her breath with a hissing sound:
Whereat the Knight turned wildly round, 460
And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid
With eyes upraised, as one that prayed.
The touch, the sight, had passed away,
And in its stead that vision blest,
Which comforted her after-rest 465
While in the lady's arms she lay,
Had put a rapture in her breast,
And on her lips and o'er her eyes
Spread smiles like light!
With new surprise,
'What ails then my belovéd child?' 470
The Baron said--His daughter mild
Made answer, 'All will yet be well!'
I ween, she had no power to tell
Aught else: so mighty was the spell.
Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, 475
Had deemed her sure a thing divine:
Such sorrow with such grace she blended,
As if she feared she had offended
Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid!
And with such lowly tones she prayed 480
She might be sent without delay
Home to her father's mansion.
'Nay!
Nay, by my soul!' said Leoline.
'Ho! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine!
Go thou, with music sweet and loud, 485
And take two steeds with trappings proud,
And take the youth whom thou lov'st best
To bear thy harp, and learn thy song,
And clothe you both in solemn vest,
And over the mountains haste along, 490
Lest wandering folk, that are abroad,
Detain you on the valley road.
'And when he has crossed the Irthing flood,
My merry bard! he hastes, he hastes
Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood, 495
And reaches soon that castle good
Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes.
'Bard Bracy! bard Bracy! your horses are fleet,
Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet,
More loud than your horses' echoing feet! 500
And loud and loud to Lord Roland call,
Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall!
Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free--
Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me!
He bids thee come without delay 505
With all thy numerous array
And take thy lovely daughter home:
And he will meet thee on the way
With all his numerous array
White with their panting palfreys' foam: 510
And, by mine honour! I will say,
That I repent me of the day
When I spake words of fierce disdain
To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!--
--For since that evil hour hath flown, 515
Many a summer's sun hath shone;
Yet ne'er found I a friend again
Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine.'
The lady fell, and clasped his knees,
Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing; 520
And Bracy replied, with faltering voice,
His gracious Hail on all bestowing!--
'Thy words, thou sire of Christabel,
Are sweeter than my harp can tell;
Yet might I gain a boon of thee, 525
This day my journey should not be,
So strange a dream hath come to me,
That I had vowed with music loud
To clear yon wood from thing unblest,
Warned by a vision in my rest! 530
For in my sleep I saw that dove,
That gentle bird, whom thou dost love,
And call'st by thy own daughter's name--
Sir Leoline! I saw the same
Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan, 535
Among the green herbs in the forest alone.
Which when I saw and when I heard,
I wonder'd what might ail the bird;
For nothing near it could I see,
Save the grass and green herbs underneath the old tree.
'And in my dream methought I went 541
To search out what might there be found;
And what the sweet bird's trouble meant,
That thus lay fluttering on the ground.
I went and peered, and could descry 545
No cause for her distressful cry;
But yet for her dear lady's sake
I stooped, methought, the dove to take,
When lo! I saw a bright green snake
Coiled around its wings and neck. 550
Green as the herbs on which it couched,
Close by the dove's its head it crouched;
And with the dove it heaves and stirs,
Swelling its neck as she swelled hers!
I woke; it was the midnight hour, 555
The clock was echoing in the tower;
But though my slumber was gone by,
This dream it would not pass away--
It seems to live upon my eye!
And thence I vowed this self-same day 560
With music strong and saintly song
To wander through the forest bare,
Lest aught unholy loiter there.'
Thus Bracy said: the Baron, the while,
Half-listening heard him with a smile; 565
Then turned to Lady Geraldine,
His eyes made up of wonder and love;
And said in courtly accents fine,
'Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove,
With arms more strong than harp or song, 570
Thy sire and I will crush the snake!'
He kissed her forehead as he spake,
And Geraldine in maiden wise
Casting down her large bright eyes,
With blushing cheek and courtesy fine 575
She turned her from Sir Leoline;
Softly gathering up her train,
That o'er her right arm fell again;
And folded her arms across her chest,
And couched her head upon her breast, 580
And looked askance at Christabel--
Jesu, Maria, shield her well!
A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy;
And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head,
Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye, 585
And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread,
At Christabel she looked askance!--
One moment--and the sight was fled!
But Christabel in dizzy trance
Stumbling on the unsteady ground 590
Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound;
And Geraldine again turned round,
And like a thing, that sought relief,
Full of wonder and full of grief,
She rolled her large bright eyes divine 595
Wildly on Sir Leoline.
The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone,
She nothing sees--no sight but one!
The maid, devoid of guile and sin,
I know not how, in fearful wise, 600
So deeply had she drunken in
That look, those shrunken serpent eyes,
That all her features were resigned
To this sole image in her mind:
And passively did imitate 605
That look of dull and treacherous hate!
And thus she stood, in dizzy trance,
Still picturing that look askance
With forced unconscious sympathy
Full before her father's view---- 610
As far as such a look could be
In eyes so innocent and blue!
And when the trance was o'er, the maid
Paused awhile, and inly prayed:
Then falling at the Baron's feet, 615
'By my mother's soul do I entreat
That thou this woman send away!'
She said: and more she could not say:
For what she knew she could not tell,
O'er-mastered by the mighty spell. 620
Why is thy cheek so wan and wild,
Sir Leoline? Thy only child
Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride,
So fair, so innocent, so mild;
The same, for whom thy lady died! 625
O by the pangs of her dear mother
Think thou no evil of thy child!
For her, and thee, and for no other,
She prayed the moment ere she died:
Prayed that the babe for whom she died, 630
Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride!
That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled,
Sir Leoline!
And wouldst thou wrong thy only child,
Her child and thine? 635
Within the Baron's heart and brain
If thoughts, like these, had any share,
They only swelled his rage and pain,
And did but work confusion there.
His heart was cleft with pain and rage, 640
His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild,
Dishonoured thus in his old age;
Dishonoured by his only child,
And all his hospitality
To the wronged daughter of his friend 645
By more than woman's jealousy
Brought thus to a disgraceful end--
He rolled his eye with stern regard
Upon the gentle minstrel bard,
And said in tones abrupt, austere-- 650
'Why, Bracy! dost thou loiter here?
I bade thee hence!' The bard obeyed;
And turning from his own sweet maid,
The agéd knight, Sir Leoline,
Led forth the lady Geraldine! 655
1800.
THE CONCLUSION TO PART II
A little child, a limber elf,
Singing, dancing to itself,
A fairy thing with red round cheeks,
That always finds, and never seeks,
Makes such a vision to the sight 660
As fills a father's eyes with light;
And pleasures flow in so thick and fast
Upon his heart, that he at last
Must needs express his love's excess
With words of unmeant bitterness. 665
Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together
Thoughts so all unlike each other;
To mutter and mock a broken charm,
To dally with wrong that does no harm.
Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty 670
At each wild word to feel within
A sweet recoil of love and pity.
And what, if in a world of sin
(O sorrow and shame should this be true!)
Such giddiness of heart and brain 675
Comes seldom save from rage and pain,
So talks as it's most used to do.
1801.
FOOTNOTES:
[213:1] First published, together with _Kubla Khan_ and _The Pains of
Sleep_, 1816: included in 1828, 1829, and 1834. Three MSS. of
_Christabel_ have passed through my hands. The earliest, which belonged
to Wordsworth, is partly in Coleridge's handwriting and partly in that
of Mary Hutchinson (Mrs. Wordsworth). The probable date of this MS., now
in the possession of the poet's grandson, Mr. Gordon Wordsworth, is
April-October, 1800. Later in the same year, or perhaps in 1801,
Coleridge made a copy of the First Part (or Book), the Conclusion to the
First Book, and the Second Book, and presented it to Mrs. Wordsworth's
sister, Sarah Hutchinson. A facsimile of the MS., now in the possession
of Miss Edith Coleridge, was issued in collotype in the edition of
_Christabel_ published in 1907, under the auspices of the Royal Society
of Literature. In 1801, or at some subsequent period (possibly not till
1815), Miss Hutchinson transcribed Coleridge's MS. The water-mark of the
paper is 1801. Her transcript, now in the possession of Mr. A. H. Hallam
Murray, was sent to Lord Byron in October, 1815. It is possible that
this transcription was the 'copy' for the First Edition published in
1816; but, if so, Coleridge altered the text whilst the poem was passing
through the press.
The existence of two other MSS. rests on the authority of John Payne
Collier (see _Seven Lectures on Shakespeare and Milton_. By S. T.
Coleridge, 1856, pp. xxxix-xliii).
The first, which remained in his possession for many years, was a copy
in the handwriting of Sarah Stoddart (afterwards Mrs. Hazlitt). J. P.
Collier notes certain differences between this MS., which he calls the
'Salisbury Copy', and the text of the First Edition. He goes on to say
that before _Christabel_ was published Coleridge lent him an MS. in his
own handwriting, and he gives two or three readings from the second MS.
which differ from the text of the 'Salisbury Copy' and from the texts of
those MSS. which have been placed in my hands.
The copy of the First Edition of _Christabel_ presented to William
Stewart Rose's valet, David Hinves, on November 11, 1816, which
Coleridge had already corrected, is now in the possession of Mr. John
Murray. The emendations and additions inscribed on the margin of this
volume were included in the collected edition of Coleridge's _Poetical
Works_, published by William Pickering in 1828. The editions of 1829 and
1834 closely followed the edition of 1828, but in 1834 there was in one
particular instance (Part I, lines 6-10) a reversion to the text of the
First Edition. The MS. of the 'Conclusion of Part II' forms part of a
letter to Southey dated May 6, 1801. (_Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i.
355.) The following abbreviations have been employed to note the MSS.
and transcriptions of Christabel:--
1. The Wordsworth MS., partly in Coleridge's (lines 1-295), and partly
in Mary Hutchinson's (lines 295-655) handwriting = _MS. W_.
2. The Salisbury MS., copied by Sarah Stoddart = _S. T. C. (a)_.
3. The MS. lent by Coleridge to Payne Collier = _S. T. C. (b)_.
4. Autograph MS. in possession of Miss Edith Coleridge (reproduced in
facsimile in 1907) = _S. T. C. (c)_.
5. Transcription made by Sarah Hutchinson = _S. H._
6. Corrections made by Coleridge in the Copy of the First Edition
presented to David Hinves = _H. 1816_.
[215:1] Sir Walter Scott and Lord Byron.
[215:2] The 'Latin hexameters', 'in the lame and limping metre of a
barbarous Latin poet', ran thus:
'Est meum et est tuum, amice! at si amborum nequit esse,
Sit meum, amice, precor: quia certe sum magi' pauper.'
It is interesting to note that Coleridge translated these lines in
November, 1801, long before the 'celebrated poets' in question had made,
or seemed to make, it desirable to 'preclude a charge of plagiarism'.
LINENOTES:
PREFACE] Prefixed to the three issues of 1816, and to 1828, 1829, 1834.
_Christabel_--Preface. 2 The year one thousand seven hundred and ninety
seven 1816, 1828, 1829.
[3, 4] The year one thousand eight hundred 1816, 1828, 1829.
[4] _after_ 'Cumberland'] Since the latter date, my poetic powers have
been, till very lately, in a state of suspended animation. But as, in my
very first conception of the tale, I had the whole present to my mind,
with the wholeness, no less than the liveliness of a vision; I trust
that I shall be able to embody in verse the three parts yet to come, in
the course of the present year. _It is probable_, &c. 1816, 1828, 1829:
om. 1834.
[23] doggrel 1816, 1828, 1829.
PART I] Book the First MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.: _Part the First_
1828, 1829.
[3] Tu-u-whoo! Tu-u-whoo! MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[6-7]
Sir Leoline the Baron [*bold*]
Hath a toothless mastiff old
H. 1816.
Sir Leoline, the Baron rich,
Hath a toothless mastiff which
H. 1816, 1828, 1829, 1893.
[9] She makes MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition: Maketh H.
1816, 1828, 1829.
[11] moonshine or shower MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition: by
shine or shower H. 1816.
[Between 28-9]
Dreams, that made her moan and leap,
As on her bed she lay in sleep.
First Edition: Erased H. 1816: Not in any MS.
[32] The breezes they were whispering low S. T. C. (a): The breezes they
were still also MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.
[34] But the moss and misletoe MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[35] kneels] knelt MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[37] sprang] leaps MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.
[39] can] could H. 1816.
[45-7] om. MS. W.
[52] up] out MS. W., S. H.
[54] Jesu Maria MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[58-66]
A damsel bright
Clad in a silken robe of white,
Her neck, her feet, her arms were bare,
And the jewels were tumbled in her hair.
I guess, &c.
MS. W.
[60] om. MS. S. T. C.
[61-6]
Her neck, her feet, her arms were bare,
And the jewels were tumbled in her hair.
I guess, &c.
S. T. C. (a), S. T. C. (c), S. H.
Her neck, her feet, her arms were bare,
And the jewels disorder'd in her hair.
I guess, &c.
First Edition.
[65]
And the jewels were tangled in her hair.
S. T. C. (b).
[In the Hinves copy (Nov., 1816), ll. 60-5 are inserted in the margin
and the two lines 'Her neck . . . her hair' are erased. This addition
was included in 1828, 1829, 1834, &c.]
[74] scarce can] cannot H. 1816.
[76] Said Christabel] Alas! but say H. 1816.
[81-3]
Five ruffians seized me yestermorn,
Me, even me, a maid forlorn;
They chok'd my cries with wicked might.
MS. W., S. T. C. (a); MS. S. T. C. (c); S. H.
Five warriors, &c. as in the text
S. T. C. (b)
[Lines 82, 83, 84-1/2 are erased in H. 1816. Lines 81-4, 89, 90, which
Scott prefixed as a motto to Chapter XI of _The Black Dwarf_ (1818), run
thus:--
Three ruffians seized me yestermorn,
Alas! a maiden most forlorn;
They choked my cries with wicked might,
And bound me on a palfrey white:
As sure as Heaven shall pity me,
I cannot tell what men they be.
Christabel.
The motto to Chapter XXIV of _The Betrothed_ (1825) is slightly
different:--
Four Ruffians . . . palfrey white.]
[88] once] twice MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[92] For I have lain in fits, I wis MS. W., S. T. C. (a), S. T. C. (c),
S. H., First Edition. [Text, which follows S. T. C. (b), H. 1816, was
first adopted in 1828.]
[96] comrades] comrade MS. W.
[98] He] They MS. W.
[106-11]
Saying that she should command
The service of Sir Leoline;
And straight be convoy'd, free from thrall,
Back to her noble father's hall.
MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.
[Text, which follows H. 1816, was first adopted in 1828.]
[112-22]
So up she rose and forth they pass'd
With hurrying steps yet nothing fast.
Her lucky stars the lady blest,
And Christabel she sweetly said--
All our household are at rest,
Each one sleeping in his bed;
Sir Leoline is weak in health,
And may not awakened be,
So to my room we'll creep in stealth,
And you to-night must sleep with me.
MS. W., S. T. C. (a), S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[So, too, First Edition, with the sole variant, 'And may not well
awakened be'.]
[114-17]
Her smiling stars the lady blest,
And thus bespake sweet Christabel:
All our household is at rest,
The hall as silent as a cell.
S. T. C. (b).
[In H. 1816 ll. 112-22 of the text are inserted in Coleridge's
handwriting. Line 113 reads: 'yet were not fast'. Line 122 reads: 'share
your bed with me'. In 1828, ll. 117-22 were added to the text, and 'Her
gracious stars' (l. 114) was substituted for 'Her lucky stars'.]
[137] And Christabel she sweetly cried MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[139] Praise we] O praise MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[145] Outside] Beside MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[146] Lay fast] Was stretch'd H. 1816. [Not in S. T. C.'s handwriting.]
[160] om. S. T. C. (a).
[161] And nothing else she saw thereby MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[163] niche] nitch all MSS. and First Edition.
[166-9]
Sweet Christabel her feet she bares,
And they are creeping up the stairs,
Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,
MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.
[167] Added in 1828.
[171] With stifled breath, as still as death H. 1816. [Not in S. T. C.'s
handwriting.]
[173-4]
And now they with their feet press down
The rushes of her chamber floor.
MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
And now with eager feet press down
The rushes of her chamber floor.
First Edition, H. 1816. [Not in S. T. C.'s handwriting.]
[191] cordial] spicy MS. W., S. T. C. (a), S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[Between 193-4]
Nay, drink it up, I pray you do,
Believe me it will comfort you.
MS. W., S. T. C. (a), S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[The omission was made in the First Edition.]
[205-10, 212] om. MS. W.
[219] And faintly said I'm better now MS. W., S. T. C. (a): I am better
now S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[225] far] fair MS. W.
[Between 252-3] Are lean and old and foul of hue. MS. W., S. T. C. (c),
S. H.
[254] And she is to sleep with Christabel. MS. W.: And she is to sleep
by Christabel. S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition: And must she sleep by
Christabel. H. 1816 [not in S. T. C.'s handwriting]: And she is alone
with Christabel. H. 1816 erased [not in S. T. C.'s handwriting]: And
must she sleep with Christabel. H. 1816 erased [not in S. T. C.'s
handwriting].
[255-61] om. MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition: included in H.
1816. [Not in S. T. C.'s handwriting.] First published in 1828.
[Between 254 and 263]
She took two paces and a stride,
And lay down by the maiden's side,
MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.
She gaz'd upon the maid, [*she sigh'd*]
[*She took two paces and a stride,*]
Then
[*And lay down by the Maiden's side.*]
H. 1816 erased.
[265] low] sad MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[267] this] my MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[270] The mark of my shame, the seal of my sorrow. MS. W.,
S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[277] And didst bring her home with thee, with love and with
charity. MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[278] To shield her, and shelter her, and shelter far from the
damp air. MS. W.
The Conclusion to Part I] The Conclusion of Book the First MS. W.: The
Conclusion to Book the First S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[294] _Here in MS. W. the handwriting changes._ 'Dreaming' _was written
by S. T. C._, 'yet' _by Mary Hutchinson_.
[295] is] _is_ H. 1816.
[297] who] that MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., H. 1816.
[306] Tairn or Tarn (derived by Lye from the Icelandic _Tiorn_, stagnum,
palus) is rendered in our dictionaries as synonymous with Mere or Lake;
but it is properly a large Pool or Reservoir in the Mountains, commonly
the Feeder of some Mere in the valleys. Tarn Watling and Blellum Tarn,
though on lower ground than other Tarns, are yet not exceptions, for
both are on elevations, and Blellum Tarn feeds the Wynander Mere. Note
to S. T. C. (c).
[324] A query is attached to this line H. 1816.
Part II] Book the Second MS. W.: Christabel Book the Second S. T. C.
(c), S. H.
[344] Wyndermere] Wyn'dermere MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First
Edition.
[353] sinful] simple MS. W.
[354] A query is attached to this line H. 1816.
[356] the] their MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[359] Borodale] Borrowdale MS. W., S. H., First Edition, 1828, 1829:
Borrodale S. T. C. (c).
[360] The air is still through many a cloud MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[363] the] her MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[364] silken] simple MS. W.
[414] thus] so MS. Letter to Poole, Feb. 1813.
[418] They] And MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[419] But] And MS. W.
[424-5]
But neither frost nor heat nor thunder
Can wholly, &c.,
MS. Letter to Poole, Feb. 1813.
[441] tourney] Tournay MS. W., S. T. C. (c), First Edition.
[453] The vision foul of fear and pain MS. W., S. T. C. (a), S. T. C.
(c), S. H.: The vision of fear, the touch of pain S. T. C. (b).
[463] The pang, the sight was passed away S. T. C. (a): The pang, the
sight, had passed away MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[490] om. MS. W.
[503] beautiful] beauteous MS. W.
[507] take] fetch MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[516] Many a summer's suns have shone MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[559] seems] seem'd MS. W., S. T. C. (c).
[560] vowed] swore MS. W.
[563] loiter] wander MS. W.
[582] Jesu, Maria] Jesu Maria MS. W.
[591] Shuddered aloud with hissing sound MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[596] on] o'er MS. W.
[613] And] But MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.
[615] her Father's Feet MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition,
1828.
[620] the] that MS. W.
[639] but] not MS. W.
[645] wronged] insulted MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition,
1828, 1829.
The Conclusion to Part II] Not in any of the MSS. or in S. H. For the
first manuscript version see Letter to Southey, May 6, 1801. (Letters of
S. T. C., 1895, i. 355.)
[659] 'finds' and 'seeks' are italicized in the letters.
[660-1]
Doth make a vision to the sight
Which fills a father's eyes with light.
Letter, 1801.
[664] In H. 1816 there is a direction (not in S. T. C.'s handwriting) to
print line 664 as two lines.
[665] In words of wrong and bitterness. Letter, 1801.
LINES TO W. L.[236:1]
WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC
While my young cheek retains its healthful hues,
And I have many friends who hold me dear,
L----[236:2]! methinks, I would not often hear
Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose
All memory of the wrongs and sore distress 5
For which my miserable brethren weep!
But should uncomforted misfortunes steep
My daily bread in tears and bitterness;
And if at Death's dread moment I should lie
With no belovéd face at my bed-side, 10
To fix the last glance of my closing eye,
Methinks such strains, breathed by my angel-guide,
Would make me pass the cup of anguish by,
Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died!
1797.
FOOTNOTES:
[236:1] First published in the _Annual Anthology_ for 1800: included in
_Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. A MS. is extant dated
Sept. 14, 1797.
[236:2] [Transcriber's Note: Footnote 2 is missing from original.]
LINENOTES:
Title] To Mr. William Linley MS. 1797: Sonnet XII, To W. L.----[236:2]!
Esq., while he sung &c. An. Anth.: To W. L. Esq. &c. S. L. 1828, 1829:
Lines to W. Linley, Esq. 1893.
[3] L----[236:2]!] Linley! MS. 1893.
[10] at] by An. Anth.
[12] Methinks] O God! An. Anth.
FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER[237:1]
A WAR ECLOGUE
_The Scene a desolated Tract in La Vendée. FAMINE is discovered lying
on the ground; to her enter FIRE and SLAUGHTER._
_Fam._ Sisters! sisters! who sent you here?
_Slau._ [_to Fire_]. I will whisper it in her ear.
_Fire._ No! no! no!
Spirits hear what spirits tell:
'Twill make a holiday in Hell. 5
No! no! no!
Myself, I named him once below,
And all the souls, that damnéd be.
Leaped up at once in anarchy,
Clapped their hands and danced for glee. 10
They no longer heeded me;
But laughed to hear Hell's burning rafters
Unwillingly re-echo laughters!
No! no! no!
Spirits hear what spirits tell: 15
'Twill make a holiday in Hell!
_Fam._ Whisper it, sister! so and so!
In a dark hint, soft and slow.
_Slau._ Letters four do form his name--
And who sent you?
_Both._ The same! the same! 20
_Slau._ He came by stealth, and unlocked my den,
And I have drunk the blood since then
Of thrice three hundred thousand men.
_Both._ Who bade you do 't?
_Slau._ The same! the same!
Letters four do form his name. 25
He let me loose, and cried Halloo!
To him alone the praise is due.
_Fam._ Thanks, sister, thanks! the men have bled,
Their wives and their children faint for bread.
I stood in a swampy field of battle; 30
With bones and skulls I made a rattle,
To frighten the wolf and carrion-crow
And the homeless dog--but they would not go.
So off I flew: for how could I bear
To see them gorge their dainty fare? 35
I heard a groan and a peevish squall,
And through the chink of a cottage-wall--
Can you guess what I saw there?
_Both._ Whisper it, sister! in our ear.
_Fam._ A baby beat its dying mother: 40
I had starved the one and was starving the other!
_Both._ Who bade you do 't?
_Fam._ The same! the same!
Letters four do form his name.
He let me loose, and cried, Halloo!
To him alone the praise is due. 45
_Fire._ Sisters! I from Ireland came!
Hedge and corn-fields all on flame,
I triumph'd o'er the setting sun!
And all the while the work was done,
On as I strode with my huge strides, 50
I flung back my head and I held my sides,
It was so rare a piece of fun
To see the sweltered cattle run
With uncouth gallop through the night,
Scared by the red and noisy light! 55
By the light of his own blazing cot
Was many a naked Rebel shot:
The house-stream met the flame and hissed,
While crash! fell in the roof, I wist,
On some of those old bed-rid nurses, 60
That deal in discontent and curses.
_Both._ Who bade you do't?
_Fire._ The same! the same!
Letters four do form his name.
He let me loose, and cried Halloo!
To him alone the praise is due. 65
_All._ He let us loose, and cried Halloo!
How shall we yield him honour due?
_Fam._ Wisdom comes with lack of food.
I'll gnaw, I'll gnaw the multitude,
Till the cup of rage o'erbrim: 70
They shall seize him and his brood--
_Slau._ They shall tear him limb from limb!
_Fire._ O thankless beldames and untrue!
And is this all that you can do
For him, who did so much for you? 75
Ninety months he, by my troth!
Hath richly catered for you both;
And in an hour would you repay
An eight years' work?--Away! away!
I alone am faithful! I 80
Cling to him everlastingly.
1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[237:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, January 8, 1798: included
in _Annual Anthology_, 1800, and (with an Apologetic Preface, vide
_Appendices_) in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The poem was
probably written in 1796. See _Watchman_, _passim_.
LINENOTES:
Title] Scene: A depopulated Tract in La Vendée. Famine is discovered
stretched on the ground; to her enter Slaughter and Fire M. P., Jan. 8,
1798.
[2] SLAUGHTER. I will name him in your ear. M. P.
[5] a] an all editions to 1834.
[11] me] _me_ M. P.
[16] a] an all editions to 1834.
[17-18]
FAMINE. Then sound it not, yet let me know;
Darkly hint it--soft and low!
M. P.
In a dark hint, soft and low.
An. Anth.
[19] Four letters form his name. M. P.
[20] _Both_] FAMINE M. P.
[22-3]
And I have spill'd the blood since then
Of thrice ten hundred thousand men.
M. P.
[22] drunk] drank An. Anth., S. L. 1828, 1829.
[24] _Both_] FIRE and FAMINE M. P.
[25] Four letters form his name. M. P.
[29] Their wives and children M. P.
[32] and the carrion crow M. P., An. Anth.
[39] _Both_] SLAUGHTER and FIRE M. P.
[42] _Both_] SLAUGHTER and FIRE M. P.
[43] Four letters form his name. M. P.
[47] Hedge] Huts M. P.
[48] om. An. Anth.
[49] Halloo! Halloo! the work was done An. Anth.
[50] As on I strode with monstrous strides M. P.: And on as I strode
with my great strides An. Anth.
[51] and held M. P., An. Anth.
[54] through] all M. P.
[58] flame] fire M. P.: flames An. Anth.
[59] While crash the roof fell in I wish M. P.
[62] _Both_] SLAUGHTER and FAMINE M. P.
[63] Four letters form his name. M. P.
[65] How shall I give him honour due? M. P.
[67] we] I M. P.
[71] and] of M. P.
[75 foll.]
For him that did so much for you.
[To _Slaughter_.
For _you_ he turn'd the dust to mud
With his fellow creatures' blood!
[To _Famine_.
And hunger scorch'd as many more,
To make _your_ cup of joy run o'er.
[To _Both_.
Full ninety moons, he by my troth!
Hath richly cater'd for you both!
And in an hour would you repay
An eight years' debt? Away! away!
I alone am faithful! I
Cling to him everlastingly.
LABERIUS.
M. P.
[Below 81] 1798] 1796 S. L. 1828, 1829, and 1834.
FROST AT MIDNIGHT[240:1]
The Frost performs its secret ministry,
Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry
Came loud--and hark, again! loud as before.
The inmates of my cottage, all at rest,
Have left me to that solitude, which suits 5
Abstruser musings: save that at my side
My cradled infant slumbers peacefully.
'Tis calm indeed! so calm that it disturbs
And vexes meditation with its strange
And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, 10
This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood,
With all the numberless goings-on of life,
Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame
Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not;
Only that film,[240:2] which fluttered on the grate, 15
Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing.
Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature
Gives it dim sympathies with me who live,
Making it a companionable form,
Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit 20
By its own moods interprets, every where
Echo or mirror seeking of itself,
And makes a toy of Thought.
But O! how oft,
How oft, at school, with most believing mind,
Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, 25
To watch that fluttering _stranger_! and as oft
With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt
Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower,
Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang
From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, 30
So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me
With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear
Most like articulate sounds of things to come!
So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt,
Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams! 35
And so I brooded all the following morn,
Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye
Fixed with mock study on my swimming book:
Save if the door half opened, and I snatched
A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, 40
For still I hoped to see the _stranger's_ face,
Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved,
My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!
Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side,
Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, 45
Fill up the intersperséd vacancies
And momentary pauses of the thought!
My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart
With tender gladness, thus to look at thee,
And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, 50
And in far other scenes! For I was reared
In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim,
And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars.
But _thou_, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze
By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 55
Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds,
Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores
And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear
The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible
Of that eternal language, which thy God 60
Utters, who from eternity doth teach
Himself in all, and all things in himself.
Great universal Teacher! he shall mould
Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, 65
Whether the summer clothe the general earth
With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing
Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch
Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch
Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall 70
Heard only in the trances of the blast,
Or if the secret ministry of frost
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.
_February_, 1798.[242:1]
FOOTNOTES:
[240:1] First published in a quarto pamphlet 'printed by Johnson in S.
Paul's Churchyard, 1798': included in _Poetical Register_, 1808-9
(1812): in _Fears in Solitude_, &c., printed by Law and Gilbert, (?)
1812: in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834.
[240:2] _Only that film._ In all parts of the kingdom these films are
called _strangers_ and supposed to portend the arrival of some absent
friend. _4{o}_, _P. R._
[242:1] The date is omitted in _1829_ and in _1834_.
LINENOTES:
[Between 19-25]
With which I can hold commune. Idle thought!
But still the living spirit in our frame,
That loves not to behold a lifeless thing,
Transfuses into all its own delights,
Its own volition, sometimes with deep faith
And sometimes with fantastic playfulness.
Ah me! amus'd by no such curious toys
Of the self-watching subtilizing mind,
How often in my early school-boy days
With most believing superstitious wish.
4{o}.
With which I can hold commune: haply hence,
That still the living spirit in our frame,
Which loves not to behold a lifeless thing,
Transfuses into all things its own Will,
And its own pleasures; sometimes with deep faith,
And sometimes with a wilful playfulness
That stealing pardon from our common sense
Smiles, as self-scornful, to disarm the scorn
For these wild reliques of our childish Thought,
That flit about, oft go, and oft return
Not uninvited.
Ah there was a time,
When oft amused by no such subtle toys
Of the self-watching mind, a child at school,
With most believing superstitious wish.
P. R.
[Between 20-4]
To which the living spirit in our frame,
That loves not to behold a lifeless thing,
Transfuses its own pleasures, its own will.
S. L. 1828.
[26] To watch the _stranger_ there! and oft belike 4{o}, P. R.
[27] had] have P. R.
[32] wild] sweet S. L. (for _sweet_ read _wild_. _Errata_, S. L., p.
[xii]).
[45] deep] dead 4{o}, P. R., S. L. (for _dead_ read _deep_. _Errata_, S.
L., p. [xii]).
[46] Fill] Fill'd S. L. (for _Fill'd_ read _Fill_. _Errata_, S. L., p.
[xii]).
[48] thrills] fills 4{o}, P. R., S. L. (for _fills_ read _thrills_.
_Errata_, S. L., p. [xii]).
[67] redbreast] redbreasts 4{o}, P. R.
[69] the nigh] all the 4{o}.
[71] trances] traces S. L. (for _traces_ read _trances_. _Errata_, S.
L., p. [xii]).
[72-end]
Or whether the secret ministery of cold
Shall hang them up in silent icicles,
Quietly shining to the quiet moon,
Like those, my babe! which ere tomorrow's warmth
Have capp'd their sharp keen points with pendulous drops,
Will catch thine eye, and with their novelty
Suspend thy little soul; then make thee shout,
And stretch and flutter from thy mother's arms
As thou wouldst fly for very eagerness.
4{o}.
FRANCE: AN ODE[243:1]
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, 5
Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined,
Save when your own imperious branches swinging,
Have made a solemn music of the wind!
Where, like a man beloved of God,
Through glooms, which never woodman trod, 10
How oft, pursuing fancies holy,
My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound,
Inspired, beyond the guess of folly,
By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound!
O ye loud Waves! and O ye Forests high! 15
And O ye Clouds that far above me soared!
Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky!
Yea, every thing that is and will be free!
Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be,
With what deep worship I have still adored 20
The spirit of divinest Liberty.
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! 25
With what a joy my lofty gratulation
Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band:
And when to whelm the disenchanted nation,
Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand,
The Monarchs marched in evil day, 30
And Britain joined the dire array;
Though dear her shores and circling ocean,
Though many friendships, many youthful loves
Had swoln the patriot emotion
And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves; 35
Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat
To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance,
And shame too long delayed and vain retreat!
For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim
I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame; 40
But blessed the paeans of delivered France,
And hung my head and wept at Britain's name.
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 45
A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream!
Ye storms, that round the dawning East assembled,
The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light!'
And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled,
The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright; 50
When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory
Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory;
When, insupportably advancing,
Her arm made mockery of the warrior's ramp;
While timid looks of fury glancing, 55
Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp,
Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore;
Then I reproached my fears that would not flee;
'And soon,' I said, 'shall Wisdom teach her lore
In the low huts of them that toil and groan! 60
And, conquering by her happiness alone,
Shall France compel the nations to be free,
Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Earth their own.'
IV
Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams!
I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, 65
From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent--
I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams!
Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished,
And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows
With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I cherished 70
One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes!
To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt,
Where Peace her jealous home had built;
A patriot-race to disinherit
Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear; 75
And with inexpiable spirit
To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer--
O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind,
And patriot only in pernicious toils!
Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind? 80
To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway,
Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey;
To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils
From freemen torn; to tempt and to betray?
V
The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, 85
Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game
They burst their manacles and wear the name
Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain!
O Liberty! with profitless endeavour
Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; 90
But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever
Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power.
Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee,
(Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee)
Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, 95
And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves,
Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions,
The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves!
And there I felt thee!--on that sea-cliff's verge,
Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above, 100
Had made one murmur with the distant surge!
Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare,
And shot my being through earth, sea, and air,
Possessing all things with intensest love,
O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there. 105
_February_, 1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[243:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, April 16, 1798: included
in quarto pamphlet published by J. Johnson, 1798: reprinted in _Morning
Post_, Oct. 14, 1802: included in _Poetical Register_ for 1808-9 (1812);
in _Fears in Solitude, &c._, printed by Law and Gilbert, (?) 1812; in
_Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. Lines 85, 98 are quoted
from 'France, _a Palinodia_', in _Biog. Lit._, 1817, i. 195. To the
first _Morning Post_ version (1798) an editorial note was prefixed:--
ORIGINAL POETRY.
The following excellent Ode will be in unison with the feelings of every
friend to Liberty and foe to Oppression; of all who, admiring the French
Revolution, detest and deplore the conduct of France towards
Switzerland. It is very satisfactory to find so zealous and steady an
advocate for Freedom as Mr. COLERIDGE concur with us in condemning the
conduct of France towards the Swiss Cantons. Indeed his concurrence is
not singular; we know of no Friend to Liberty who is not of his opinion.
What we most admire is the _avowal_ of his sentiments, and public
censure of the unprincipled and atrocious conduct of France. The Poem
itself is written with great energy. The second, third, and fourth
stanzas contain some of the most vigorous lines we have ever read. The
lines in the fourth stanza:--
'To scatter rage and trait'rous guilt
Where Peace her jealous home had built,'
to the end of the stanza are particularly expressive and beautiful.
To the second _Morning Post_ version (1802) a note and Argument were
prefixed:--
The following ODE was first published in this paper (in the beginning of
the year 1798) in a less perfect state. The present state of France and
Switzerland give it so peculiar an interest at the present time that we
wished to re-publish it and accordingly have procured from the Author a
corrected copy.
ARGUMENT.
'_First Stanza._ An invocation to those objects in Nature the
contemplation of which had inspired the Poet with a devotional love of
Liberty. _Second Stanza._ The exultation of the Poet at the commencement
of the French Revolution, and his unqualified abhorrence of the Alliance
against the Republic. _Third Stanza._ The blasphemies and horrors during
the domination of the Terrorists regarded by the Poet as a transient
storm, and as the natural consequence of the former despotism and of the
foul superstition of Popery. Reason, indeed, began to suggest many
apprehensions; yet still the Poet struggled to retain the hope that
France would make conquests by no other means than by presenting to the
observation of Europe a people more happy and better instructed than
under other forms of Government. _Fourth Stanza._ Switzerland, and the
Poet's recantation. _Fifth Stanza._ An address to Liberty, in which the
Poet expresses his conviction that those feelings and that grand _ideal_
of Freedom which the mind attains by its contemplation of its individual
nature, and of the sublime surrounding objects (see Stanza the First) do
not belong to men, as a society, nor can possibly be either gratified or
realised, under any form of human government; but belong to the
individual man, so far as he is pure, and inflamed with the love and
adoration of God in Nature.'
LINENOTES:
Title] The Recantation: an Ode. By S. T. Coleridge. 1798.
[1] and] or 1802.
[2] Veering your pathless march without controul 1802.
[5] night-birds] night bird's 1798, 4{o}, 1802: night-birds' S. L.,
1828, 1829.
[6] slope] steep 1798, 4{o}, 1802, P. R.
[12] way] path 1802.
[23] smote air, earth, and sea] smote earth, air, and sea 1798, 4{o}, P.
R.: shook earth, air, and sea 1802.
[24] foot] feet 1798.
[26] lofty] eager 1802.
[27] sang] sung 1798, 4{o}, P. R.
[30] marched] mov'd 1802.
[34] the] that 1802.
[35] flung] spread 1802.
[41] But] I 1802.
[44] that sweet music] those sweet Pæans 1802.
[46] e'er was] ever 1798, 4{o}, P. R.
[51] deep-scarr'd] deep-scar'd 1798, 4{o}, P. R., S. L.
[53] insupportably] irresistibly 1802.
[54] ramp] tramp 1828, 1829, 1834, 1852. [Text of 1834 is here
corrected.]
[58] reproached] rebuk'd 1802.
[59] said] cried 1802.
[62] compel] persuade 1802.
[63] call the Earth] lo! the earth's 1802.
[64] those] these 4{o}, P. R.
[66] caverns] cavern 1834, 1852. [Text of 1834 is here corrected.]
[69] And ye that flying spot the [your 1802] mountain-snows 1798: And ye
that fleeing spot the mountain-snows 4{o}, P. R.
[75] stormy] native 1802.
[77] taint] stain 1802.
[79] patriot] patient 1798, 1802.
[80] Was this thy boast 1802.
[81] Kings in the low lust] monarchs in the lust 1802.
[85-9] The fifth stanza, which alluded to the African Slave Trade as
conducted by this Country, and to the present Ministry and their
supporters, has been omitted, and would have been omitted without remark
if the commencing lines of the sixth stanza had not referred to it.
VI
Shall I with _these_ my patriot zeal combine?
No, Afric, no! they stand before my ken
Loath'd as th' Hyaenas, that in murky den
Whine o'er their prey and mangle while they whine,
Divinest Liberty! with vain endeavour
1798.
[87] burst] break 1802. and] to B. L., _i. 194_. name] name B. L.
[91] strain] pomp B. L.
[92] in] on 1802.
[95] Priestcraft's] priesthood's 4{o}, P. R.: superstition's B. L.
[97] subtle] cherub B. L.
[98]
To live amid the winds and move upon the waves
1798, 4{o}, P. R.
To live among the winds and brood upon the waves
1802.
[99] there] there 1798: then 4{o}, P. R. that] yon 1802.
[100] scarce] just 1802.
[102] Yes, as I stood and gazed my forehead bare 1802.
[104] with] by 1802.
THE OLD MAN OF THE ALPS[248:1]
Stranger! whose eyes a look of pity shew,
Say, will you listen to a tale of woe?
A tale in no unwonted horrors drest;
But sweet is pity to an agéd breast.
This voice did falter with old age before; 5
Sad recollections make it falter more.
Beside the torrent and beneath a wood,
High in these Alps my summer cottage stood;
One daughter still remain'd to cheer my way,
The evening-star of life's declining day: 10
Duly she hied to fill her milking-pail,
Ere shout of herdsmen rang from cliff or vale;
When she return'd, before the summer shiel,
On the fresh grass she spread the dairy meal;
Just as the snowy peaks began to lose 15
In glittering silver lights their rosy hues.
Singing in woods or bounding o'er the lawn,
No blither creature hail'd the early dawn;
And if I spoke of hearts by pain oppress'd.
When every friend is gone to them that rest; 20
Or of old men that leave, when they expire,
Daughters, that should have perish'd with their sire--
Leave them to toil all day through paths unknown,
And house at night behind some sheltering stone;
Impatient of the thought, with lively cheer 25
She broke half-closed the tasteless tale severe.
_She_ play'd with fancies of a gayer hue,
Enamour'd of the scenes her _wishes_ drew;
And oft she prattled with an eager tongue
Of promised joys that would not loiter long, 30
Till with her tearless eyes so bright and fair,
She seem'd to see them realis'd in air!
In fancy oft, within some sunny dell,
Where never wolf should howl or tempest yell,
She built a little home of joy and rest, 35
And fill'd it with the friends whom she lov'd best:
She named the inmates of her fancied cot,
And gave to each his own peculiar lot;
Which with our little herd abroad should roam,
And which should tend the dairy's toil at home, 40
And now the hour approach'd which should restore
Her lover from the wars, to part no more.
Her whole frame fluttered with uneasy joy;
I long'd myself to clasp the valiant boy;
And though I strove to calm _her_ eager mood, 45
It was my own sole thought in solitude.
I told it to the Saints amid my hymns--
For O! you know not, on an old man's limbs
How thrillingly the pleasant sun-beams play,
That shine upon his daughter's wedding-day. 50
I hoped, that those fierce tempests, soon to rave
Unheard, unfelt, around _my_ mountain grave,
Not undelightfully would break _her_ rest,
While she lay pillow'd on her lover's breast;
Or join'd his pious prayer for pilgrims driven 55
Out to the mercy of the winds of heaven.
Yes! now the hour approach'd that should restore
Her lover from the wars to part no more.
Her thoughts were wild, her soul was in her eye,
She wept and laugh'd as if she knew not why; 60
And she had made a song about the wars,
And sang it to the sun and to the stars!
But while she look'd and listen'd, stood and ran,
And saw him plain in every distant man,
By treachery stabbed, on NANSY'S murderous day, 65
A senseless corse th' expected husband lay.
A wounded man, who met us in the wood,
Heavily ask'd her where _my_ cottage stood,
And told us all: she cast her eyes around
As if his words had been but empty sound. 70
Then look'd to Heav'n, like one that would deny
That such a thing _could be_ beneath the sky.
_Again_ he ask'd her if she knew my name,
And instantly an anguish wrench'd her frame,
And left her mind imperfect. No delight 75
Thenceforth she found in any cheerful sight,
Not ev'n in those time-haunted wells and groves,
Scenes of past joy, and birth-place of her loves.
If to her spirit any sound was dear,
'Twas the deep moan that spoke the tempest near; 80
Or sighs which chasms of icy vales outbreathe,
Sent from the dark, imprison'd floods beneath.
She wander'd up the crag and down the slope,
But not, as in her happy days of hope,
To seek the churning-plant of sovereign power, 85
That grew in clefts and bore a scarlet flower!
She roam'd, without a purpose, all alone,
Thro' high grey vales unknowing and unknown.
Kind-hearted stranger! patiently you hear
A tedious tale: I thank you for that tear. 90
May never other tears o'ercloud your eye,
Than those which gentle Pity can supply!
Did you not mark a towering convent hang,
Where the huge rocks with sounds of torrents rang?
Ev'n yet, methinks, its spiry turrets swim 95
Amid yon purple gloom ascending dim!
For thither oft would my poor child repair,
To ease her soul by penitence and prayer.
I knew that peace at good men's prayers returns
Home to the contrite heart of him that mourns, 100
And check'd her not; and often there she found
A timely pallet when the evening frown'd.
And there I trusted that my child would light
On shelter and on food, one dreadful night,
When there was uproar in the element, 105
And she was absent. To my rest I went:
I thought her safe, yet often did I wake
And felt my very heart within me ache.
No daughter near me, at this very door,
Next morn I listen'd to the dying roar. 110
Above, below, the prowling vulture wail'd,
And down the cliffs the heavy vapour sail'd.
Up by the wide-spread waves in fury torn,
Homestalls and pines along the vale were borne.
The Dalesmen in thick crowds appear'd below 115
Clearing the road, o'erwhelm'd with hills of snow.
At times to the proud gust's ascending swell,
A pack of blood-hounds flung their doleful yell:
For after nights of storm, that dismal train
The pious convent sends, with hope humane, 120
To find some out-stretch'd man--perchance to save,
Or give, at least, that last good gift, a grave!
But now a gathering crowd did I survey,
That slowly up the pasture bent their way;
Nor could I doubt but that their care had found 125
Some pilgrim in th' unchannel'd torrent drown'd.
And down the lawn I hasten'd to implore
That they would bring the body to my door;
But soon exclaim'd a boy, who ran before,
'Thrown by the last night's waters from their bed, 130
Your daughter has been found, and she is dead!'
The old man paused--May he who, sternly just,
Lays at his will his creatures in the dust;
Some ere the earliest buds of hope be blown,
And some, when every bloom of joy is flown; 135
May he the parent to his child restore
In that unchanging realm, where Love reigns evermore!
_March_ 8, 1798.
NICIAS ERYTHRAEUS.
FOOTNOTES:
[248:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, March 8, 1798: first
collected _P. and D. W._, 1877-80: not included in _P. W._, 1893.
Coleridge affixed the signature Nicias Erythraeus to these lines and to
_Lewti_, which was published in the _Morning Post_ five weeks later,
April 13, 1798. For a biographical notice of Janus Nicius Erythraeus
(Giovanni Vittorio d'Rossi, 1577-1647) by the late Richard Garnett, see
_Literature_, October 22, 1898.
TO A YOUNG LADY[252:1]
[MISS LAVINIA POOLE]
ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER
Why need I say, Louisa dear!
How glad I am to see you here,
A lovely convalescent;
Risen from the bed of pain and fear,
And feverish heat incessant. 5
The sunny showers, the dappled sky,
The little birds that warble high,
Their vernal loves commencing,
Will better welcome you than I
With their sweet influencing. 10
Believe me, while in bed you lay,
Your danger taught us all to pray:
You made us grow devouter!
Each eye looked up and seemed to say,
How can we do without her? 15
Besides, what vexed us worse, we knew,
They have no need of such as you
In the place where you were going:
This World has angels all too few,
And Heaven is overflowing! 20
_March_ 31, 1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[252:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, Dec. 9, 1799, included in
the _Annual Anthology_, 1800, in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1828, 1829, and
1834.
LINENOTES:
Title] To a Young Lady, on Her First Appearance After A Dangerous
Illness. Written in the Spring of 1799 [1799 must be a slip for 1798].
M. P., An. Anth.
[1] Louisa] Ophelia M. P., An. Anth.
[6-7]
The breezy air, the sun, the sky,
The little birds that sing on high
M. P., An. Anth.
[12] all] how M. P., An. Anth.
[13] grow] all M. P., An. Anth.
[16] what] which M. P., An. Anth.
[17] have] had M. P., An. Anth.
[19] This] The M. P.
[Below 20] Laberius M. P., An. Anth.
LEWTI[253:1]
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 5
And the shadow of a star
Heaved upon Tamaha's stream;
But the rock shone brighter far,
The rock half sheltered from my view
By pendent boughs of tressy yew.-- 10
So shines my Lewti's forehead fair,
Gleaming through her sable hair.
Image of Lewti! from my mind
Depart; for Lewti is not kind.
I saw a cloud of palest hue, 15
Onward to the moon it passed;
Still brighter and more bright it grew,
With floating colours not a few,
Till it reached the moon at last:
Then the cloud was wholly bright, 20
With a rich and amber light!
And so with many a hope I seek,
And with such joy I find my Lewti;
And even so my pale wan cheek
Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty! 25
Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind,
If Lewti never will be kind.
The little cloud--it floats away
Away it goes; away so soon!
Alas! it has no power to stay: 30
Its hues are dim, its hues are grey--
Away it passes from the moon!
How mournfully it seems to fly,
Ever fading more and more,
To joyless regions of the sky-- 35
And now 'tis whiter than before!
As white as my poor cheek will be,
When, Lewti! on my couch I lie,
A dying man for love of thee.
Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind-- 40
And yet, thou didst not look unkind.
I saw a vapour in the sky,
Thin, and white, and very high;
I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud:
Perhaps the breezes that can fly 45
Now below and now above,
Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud[255:1]
Of Lady fair--that died for love.
For maids, as well as youths, have perished
From fruitless love too fondly cherished. 50
Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind--
For Lewti never will be kind.
Hush! my heedless feet from under
Slip the crumbling banks for ever:
Like echoes to a distant thunder, 55
They plunge into the gentle river.
The river-swans have heard my tread.
And startle from their reedy bed.
O beauteous birds! methinks ye measure
Your movements to some heavenly tune! 60
O beauteous birds! 'tis such a pleasure
To see you move beneath the moon,
I would it were your true delight
To sleep by day and wake all night.
I know the place where Lewti lies, 65
When silent night has closed her eyes:
It is a breezy jasmine-bower,
The nightingale sings o'er her head:
Voice of the Night! had I the power
That leafy labyrinth to thread, 70
And creep, like thee, with soundless tread,
I then might view her bosom white
Heaving lovely to my sight,
As these two swans together heave
On the gently-swelling wave. 75
Oh! that she saw me in a dream,
And dreamt that I had died for care;
All pale and wasted I would seem,
Yet fair withal, as spirits are!
I'd die indeed, if I might see 80
Her bosom heave, and heave for me!
Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind!
To-morrow Lewti may be kind.
1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[253:1] First published in the _Morning Post_ (under the signature
_Nicias Erythraeus_), April 18, 1798: included in the _Annual
Anthology_, 1800; _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. For
MS. versions vide Appendices. '_Lewti_ was to have been included in the
_Lyrical Ballads_ of 1798, but at the last moment the sheets containing
it were cancelled and _The Nightingale_ substituted.' (Note to reprint
of _L. B._ (1898), edited by T. Hutchinson.) A copy which belonged to
Southey, with the new _Table of Contents_ and _The Nightingale_ bound up
with the text as at first printed, is in the British Museum. Another
copy is extant which contains the first _Table of Contents_ only, and
_Lewti_ without the addition of _The Nightingale_. In the _M. P._ the
following note accompanies the poem:--'It is not amongst the least
pleasing of our recollections, that we have been the means of gratifying
the public taste with some exquisite pieces of Original Poetry. For many
of them we have been indebted to the author of the Circassian's Love
Chant. Amidst images of war and woe, amidst scenes of carnage and horror
of devastation and dismay, it may afford the mind a temporary relief to
wander to the magic haunts of the Muses, to bowers and fountains which
the despoiling powers of war have never visited, and where the lover
pours forth his complaint, or receives the recompense of his constancy.
The whole of the subsequent Love Chant is in a warm and impassioned
strain. The fifth and last stanzas are, we think, the best.'
[255:1] This image was borrowed by Miss Bailey (_sic_) in her Basil as
the dates of the poems prove. _MS. Note by S. T. C._
LINENOTES:
Title] Lewti; or the Circassian's Love Chant M. P.
[Between lines 14-15]
I saw the white waves, o'er and o'er,
Break against the distant shore.
All at once upon the sight,
All at once they broke in light;
I heard no murmur of their roar,
Nor ever I beheld them flowing,
Neither coming, neither going;
But only saw them o'er and o'er,
Break against the curved shore:
Now disappearing from the sight,
Now twinkling regular and white,
And LEWTI'S smiling mouth can shew
As white and regular a row.
Nay, treach'rous image from my mind
Depart; for LEWTI is not kind.
M. P.
[52] For] Tho' M. P.
[Between lines 52-3]
This hand should make his life-blood flow,
That ever scorn'd my LEWTI so.
I cannot chuse but fix my sight
On that small vapour, thin and white!
So thin it scarcely, I protest,
Bedims the star that shines behind it!
And pity dwells in LEWTI'S breast
Alas! if I knew how to find it.
And O! how sweet it were, I wist,
To see my LEWTI'S eyes to-morrow
Shine brightly thro' as thin a mist
Of pity and repentant sorrow!
Nay treach'rous image! leave my mind--
Ah, LEWTI! why art thou unkind?
[53] Hush!] Slush! Sibylline Leaves (_Errata_, S. L., p. [xi], for
_Slush_ r. _Hush_).
[69-71]
Had I the enviable power
To creep unseen with noiseless tread
Then should I view
M. P., An. Anth.
O beating heart had I the power.
MS. Corr. An. Anth. by S. T. C.
[73] my] the M. P., An. Anth.
[Below 83] Signed Nicias Erythraeus. M. P.
FEARS IN SOLITUDE[256:1]
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, 5
All golden with the never-bloomless furze,
Which now blooms most profusely: but the dell,
Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate
As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax,
When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve, 10
The level sunshine glimmers with green light.
Oh! 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook!
Which all, methinks, would love; but chiefly he,
The humble man, who, in his youthful years,
Knew just so much of folly, as had made 15
His early manhood more securely wise!
Here he might lie on fern or withered heath,
While from the singing lark (that sings unseen
The minstrelsy that solitude loves best),
And from the sun, and from the breezy air, 20
Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame;
And he, with many feelings, many thoughts,
Made up a meditative joy, and found
Religious meanings in the forms of Nature!
And so, his senses gradually wrapt 25
In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds,
And dreaming hears thee still, O singing lark,
That singest like an angel in the clouds!
My God! it is a melancholy thing
For such a man, who would full fain preserve 30
His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel
For all his human brethren--O my God!
It weighs upon the heart, that he must think
What uproar and what strife may now be stirring
This way or that way o'er these silent hills-- 35
Invasion, and the thunder and the shout,
And all the crash of onset; fear and rage,
And undetermined conflict--even now,
Even now, perchance, and in his native isle:
Carnage and groans beneath this blessed sun! 40
We have offended, Oh! my countrymen!
We have offended very grievously,
And been most tyrannous. From east to west
A groan of accusation pierces Heaven!
The wretched plead against us; multitudes 45
Countless and vehement, the sons of God,
Our brethren! Like a cloud that travels on.
Steamed up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence,
Even so, my countrymen! have we gone forth
And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs, 50
And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint
With slow perdition murders the whole man,
His body and his soul! Meanwhile, at home,
All individual dignity and power
Engulfed in Courts, Committees, Institutions, 55
Associations and Societies,
A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting Guild,
One Benefit-Club for mutual flattery,
We have drunk up, demure as at a grace,
Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth; 60
Contemptuous of all honourable rule,
Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life
For gold, as at a market! The sweet words
Of Christian promise, words that even yet
Might stem destruction, were they wisely preached, 65
Are muttered o'er by men, whose tones proclaim
How flat and wearisome they feel their trade:
Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent
To deem them falsehoods or to know their truth.
Oh! blasphemous! the Book of Life is made 70
A superstitious instrument, on which
We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break;
For all must swear--all and in every place,
College and wharf, council and justice-court;
All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed, 75
Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest,
The rich, the poor, the old man and the young;
All, all make up one scheme of perjury,
That faith doth reel; the very name of God
Sounds like a juggler's charm; and, bold with joy, 80
Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place,
(Portentous sight!) the owlet Atheism,
Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon,
Drops his blue-fringéd lids, and holds them close,
And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven, 85
Cries out, 'Where is it?'
Thankless too for peace,
(Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seas)
Secure from actual warfare, we have loved
To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war!
Alas! for ages ignorant of all 90
Its ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague,
Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows,)
We, this whole people, have been clamorous
For war and bloodshed; animating sports,
The which we pay for as a thing to talk of, 95
Spectators and not combatants! No guess
Anticipative of a wrong unfelt,
No speculation on contingency,
However dim and vague, too vague and dim
To yield a justifying cause; and forth, 100
(Stuffed out with big preamble, holy names.
And adjurations of the God in Heaven.)
We send our mandates for the certain death
Of thousands and ten thousands! Boys and girls,
And women, that would groan to see a child 105
Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war,
The best amusement for our morning meal!
The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers
From curses, who knows scarcely words enough
To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father, 110
Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute
And technical in victories and defeats,
And all our dainty terms for fratricide;
Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues
Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which 115
We join no feeling and attach no form!
As if the soldier died without a wound;
As if the fibres of this godlike frame
Were gored without a pang; as if the wretch,
Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds, 120
Passed off to Heaven, translated and not killed;
As though he had no wife to pine for him,
No God to judge him! Therefore, evil days
Are coming on us, O my countrymen!
And what if all-avenging Providence, 125
Strong and retributive, should make us know
The meaning of our words, force us to feel
The desolation and the agony
Of our fierce doings?
Spare us yet awhile,
Father and God! O! spare us yet awhile! 130
Oh! let not English women drag their flight
Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes,
Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday
Laughed at the breast! Sons, brothers, husbands, all
Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms 135
Which grew up with you round the same fire-side,
And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells
Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves pure!
Stand forth! be men! repel an impious foe,
Impious and false, a light yet cruel race, 140
Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth
With deeds of murder; and still promising
Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free,
Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart
Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes, 145
And all that lifts the spirit! Stand we forth;
Render them back upon the insulted ocean,
And let them toss as idly on its waves
As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blast
Swept from our shores! And oh! may we return 150
Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear,
Repenting of the wrongs with which we stung
So fierce a foe to frenzy!
I have told,
O Britons! O my brethren! I have told
Most bitter truth, but without bitterness. 155
Nor deem my zeal or factious or mistimed;
For never can true courage dwell with them,
Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look
At their own vices. We have been too long
Dupes of a deep delusion! Some, belike, 160
Groaning with restless enmity, expect
All change from change of constituted power;
As if a Government had been a robe,
On which our vice and wretchedness were tagged
Like fancy-points and fringes, with the robe 165
Pulled off at pleasure. Fondly these attach
A radical causation to a few
Poor drudges of chastising Providence,
Who borrow all their hues and qualities
From our own folly and rank wickedness, 170
Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others, meanwhile,
Dote with a mad idolatry; and all
Who will not fall before their images,
And yield them worship, they are enemies
Even of their country!
Such have I been deemed.-- 175
But, O dear Britain! O my Mother Isle!
Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy
To me, a son, a brother, and a friend,
A husband, and a father! who revere
All bonds of natural love, and find them all 180
Within the limits of thy rocky shores.
O native Britain! O my Mother Isle!
How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holy
To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills,
Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas, 185
Have drunk in all my intellectual life,
All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts,
All adoration of the God in nature,
All lovely and all honourable things.
Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel 190
The joy and greatness of its future being?
There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul
Unborrowed from my country! O divine
And beauteous island! thou hast been my sole
And most magnificent temple, in the which 195
I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs,
Loving the God that made me!--
May my fears,
My filial fears, be vain! and may the vaunts
And menace of the vengeful enemy
Pass like the gust, that roared and died away 200
In the distant tree: which heard, and only heard
In this low dell, bowed not the delicate grass.
But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad
The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze:
The light has left the summit of the hill, 205
Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful,
Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell,
Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot!
On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill,
Homeward I wind my way; and lo! recalled 210
From bodings that have well-nigh wearied me,
I find myself upon the brow, and pause
Startled! And after lonely sojourning
In such a quiet and surrounded nook,
This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main, 215
Dim-tinted, there the mighty majesty
Of that huge amphitheatre of rich
And elmy fields, seems like society--
Conversing with the mind, and giving it
A livelier impulse and a dance of thought! 220
And now, beloved Stowey! I behold
Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms
Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend;
And close behind them, hidden from my view,
Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe 225
And my babe's mother dwell in peace! With light
And quickened footsteps thitherward I tend,
Remembering thee, O green and silent dell!
And grateful, that by nature's quietness
And solitary musings, all my heart 230
Is softened, and made worthy to indulge
Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind.
NETHER STOWEY, _April_ 20, 1798.
FOOTNOTES: