S. Paul's Churchyard, 1798': included in _Poetical Register_, 1808-9
(1812), and, with the same text, in an octavo pamphlet printed by Law
and Gilbert in (?) 1812: in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and
1834. Lines 129-97 were reprinted in the _Morning Post_, Oct. 14, 1802.
They follow the reprint of _France: an Ode_, and are thus
prefaced:--'The following extracts are made from a Poem by the same
author, written in April 1798 during the alarm respecting the threatened
invasion. They were included in _The Friend_, No. II (June 8, 1809), as
_Fears of Solitude_.' An autograph MS. (in the possession of Professor
Dowden), undated but initialled S. T. C., is subscribed as follows:--'N.
B. The above is perhaps not Poetry,--but rather a sort of middle thing
between Poetry and Oratory--sermoni propriora.--Some parts are, I am
conscious, too tame even for animated prose.' An autograph MS. dated (as
below 232) is in the possession of Mr. Gordon Wordsworth.
LINENOTES:
Title] Fears &c. Written, April 1798, during the Alarms of an Invasion
MS. W., 4{o}: Fears &c. Written April 1798, &c. P. R.
[19] that] which 4{o}, P. R.
[33]
It is indeed a melancholy thing
And weighs upon the heart
4{o}, P. R., S. L.
[40] groans] screams 4{o}, P. R.
[43] And have been tyrannous 4{o}, P. R.
[44-60]
The groan of accusation pleads against us.
* * * * *
Desunt aliqua
. . . Meanwhile at home
We have been drinking with a riotous thirst
Pollutions, &c.
MS. D.
[53-9]
Meanwhile at home
We have been drinking with a riotous thirst.
Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth
A selfish, lewd, effeminated race.
MS. W., 4{o}, P. R.
[Lines 54-8 of the text were added in Sibylline Leaves, 1817.]
[69] know] _know_ MS. W., 4{o}, P. R.
[110] from] of 4{o}, P. R.
[112] defeats] deceit S. L. [_Probably a misprint_].
[121] translated] _translated_ 4{o}, P. R.
[131] drag] speed 1809.
[133] that] who 1802, 1809.
[134] Laugh'd at the bosom! Husbands, fathers, all 1802: Smil'd at the
bosom! Husbands, Brothers, all The Friend, 1809.
[136] Which] That 1802.
[138] pure] strong 1809.
[139] foe] race 1809.
[138-9]
Without the Infidel's scorn, stand forth, be men,
Make yourselves strong, repel an impious foe
1802.
[140] yet] and MS. W.
[141] Who] That 4{o}, P. R., 1802, 1809.
[146] we] ye 1809.
[148] toss] float 1809.
[149] sea-weed] sea-weeds MS. W., 4{o}, 1802. some] the 1809.
[150] Swept] Sweeps 1809.
[151] fear] awe 1802.
[151-3]
Not in a drunken triumph, but with awe
Repentant of the wrongs, with which we stung
So fierce a race to Frenzy.
1809.
[154] O men of England! Brothers! I have told 1809.
[155] truth] truths 1802, 1809.
[156] factious] factitious 1809.
[157] courage] freedom 1802.
[159-61] At their own vices. Fondly some expect [We have been . . .
enmity _om._] 1802.
[161-4]
Restless in enmity have thought all change
Involv'd in change of constituted power.
As if a Government were but a robe
On which our vice and wretchedness were sewn.
1809.
[162] constituted] delegated 1802.
[163] had been] were but 1809.
[163-75]
As if a government were but a robe
To which our crimes and miseries were affix'd,
Like fringe, or epaulet, and with the robe
Pull'd off at pleasure. Others, the meantime,
Doat with a mad idolatry, and all
Who will not bow their heads, and close their eyes,
And worship blindly--these are enemies
Even of their country. Such have they deemed _me_.
1802.
[166-71] Fondly . . . nursed them om. 1809.
[171] nursed] nurse 4{o}, S. L. meanwhile] meantime 1809.
[175] _Such have I been deemed_ 1809.
[177] prove] be 1802, 1809.
[179] father] parent 1809.
[180] All natural bonds of 1802.
[181] limits] circle 1802, 1809.
[183] couldst thou be 1802: shouldst thou be 1809.
[184-5]
To me who from thy brooks and mountain-hills,
Thy quiet fields, thy clouds, thy rocks, thy seas
1802.
To me who from thy seas and rocky shores
Thy quiet fields thy streams and wooded hills
1809.
[207] Aslant the ivied] On the long-ivied MS. W., 4{o}.
[214] nook] scene MS. W., 4{o}, P. R.
THE NIGHTINGALE[264:1]
A CONVERSATION POEM, APRIL, 1798
No cloud, no relique of the sunken day
Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip
Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues.
Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge!
You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, 5
But hear no murmuring: it flows silently,
O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still,
A balmy night! and though the stars be dim,
Yet let us think upon the vernal showers
That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 10
A pleasure in the dimness of the stars.
And hark! the Nightingale begins its song,
'Most musical, most melancholy' bird![264:2]
A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought!
In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 15
But some night-wandering man whose heart was pierced
With the remembrance of a grievous wrong,
Or slow distemper, or neglected love,
(And so, poor wretch! filled all things with himself,
And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 20
Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he,
First named these notes a melancholy strain.
And many a poet echoes the conceit;
Poet who hath been building up the rhyme
When he had better far have stretched his limbs 25
Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell,
By sun or moon-light, to the influxes
Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements
Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song
And of his fame forgetful! so his fame 30
Should share in Nature's immortality,
A venerable thing! and so his song
Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself
Be loved like Nature! But 'twill not be so;
And youths and maidens most poetical, 35
Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring
In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still
Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs
O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.
My Friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt 40
A different lore: we may not thus profane
Nature's sweet voices, always full of love
And joyance! 'Tis the merry Nightingale
That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates
With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 45
As he were fearful that an April night
Would be too short for him to utter forth
His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul
Of all its music!
And I know a grove
Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 50
Which the great lord inhabits not; and so
This grove is wild with tangling underwood,
And the trim walks are broken up, and grass,
Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths.
But never elsewhere in one place I knew 55
So many nightingales; and far and near,
In wood and thicket, over the wide grove,
They answer and provoke each other's song,
With skirmish and capricious passagings,
And murmurs musical and swift jug jug, 60
And one low piping sound more sweet than all--
Stirring the air with such a harmony,
That should you close your eyes, you might almost
Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes,
Whose dewy leaflets are but half-disclosed. 65
You may perchance behold them on the twigs,
Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full,
Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade
Lights up her love-torch.
A most gentle Maid,
Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 70
Hard by the castle, and at latest eve
(Even like a Lady vowed and dedicate
To something more than Nature in the grove)
Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes,
That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment's space, 75
What time the moon was lost behind a cloud,
Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moon
Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky
With one sensation, and those wakeful birds
Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, 80
As if some sudden gale had swept at once
A hundred airy harps! And she hath watched
Many a nightingale perch giddily
On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze,
And to that motion tune his wanton song 85
Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.
Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve,
And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell!
We have been loitering long and pleasantly,
And now for our dear homes.--That strain again! 90
Full fain it would delay me! My dear babe,
Who, capable of no articulate sound,
Mars all things with his imitative lisp,
How he would place his hand beside his ear,
His little hand, the small forefinger up, 95
And bid us listen! And I deem it wise
To make him Nature's play-mate. He knows well
The evening-star; and once, when he awoke
In most distressful mood (some inward pain
Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream--) 100
I hurried with him to our orchard-plot,
And he beheld the moon, and, hushed at once,
Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently,
While his fair eyes, that swam with undropped tears,
Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well!-- 105
It is a father's tale: But if that Heaven
Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up
Familiar with these songs, that with the night
He may associate joy.--Once more, farewell,
Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell. 110
1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[264:1] First published in _Lyrical Ballads_, 1798, reprinted in
_Lyrical Ballads_, 1800, 1802, and 1805: included in _Sibylline Leaves_,
1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834.
[264:2] '_Most musical, most melancholy._' This passage in Milton
possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere description; it is
spoken in the character of the melancholy Man, and has therefore a
_dramatic_ propriety. The Author makes this remark, to rescue himself
from the charge of having alluded with levity to a line in Milton; a
charge than which none could be more painful to him, except perhaps that
of having ridiculed his Bible. _Footnote_ to l. 13 _L. B._ 1798, _L. B._
1800, _S. L._ 1817, 1828, 1829. In 1834 the footnote ends with the word
'Milton', the last sentence being omitted.
LINENOTES:
_Note._ In the Table of Contents of 1828 and 1829 'The Nightingale' is
omitted.
Title] The Nightingale; a Conversational Poem, written in April, 1798 L.
B. 1798: The Nightingale, written in April, 1798 L. B. 1800: The
Nightingale A Conversation Poem, written in April, 1798 S. L., 1828,
1829.
[21] sorrow] sorrows L. B. 1798, 1800.
[40] My Friend, and my Friend's sister L. B. 1798, 1800.
[58] song] songs L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L.
[61] And one, low piping, sounds more sweet than all--S. L. 1817:
(punctuate thus, reading _Sound_ for _sounds_:--And one low piping Sound
more sweet than all--_Errata_, S. L., p. [xii]).
[62] a] an all editions to 1884.
[64-9] On moonlight . . . her love-torch om. L. B. 1800.
[79] those] these S. L. 1817.
[81] As if one quick and sudden gale had swept L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L.
1817.
[82] A] An all editions to 1834.
[84] blossomy] blosmy L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L. 1817.
[102] beheld] beholds L. B. 1798, 1800.
THE THREE GRAVES[267:1]
A FRAGMENT OF A SEXTON'S TALE
'The Author has published the following humble fragment,
encouraged by the decisive recommendation of more than one of
our most celebrated living Poets. The language was intended to
be dramatic; that is, suited to the narrator; and the metre
corresponds to the homeliness of the diction. It is therefore
presented as the fragment, not of a Poem, but of a common
Ballad-tale.[268:1] Whether this is sufficient to justify the
adoption of such a style, in any metrical composition not
professedly ludicrous, the Author is himself in some doubt. At
all events, it is not presented as poetry, and it is in no way
connected with the Author's judgment concerning poetic
diction. Its merits, if any, are exclusively psychological.
The story which must be supposed to have been narrated in the
first and second parts is as follows:--
'Edward, a young farmer, meets at the house of Ellen her
bosom-friend Mary, and commences an acquaintance, which ends
in a mutual attachment. With her consent, and by the advice of
their common friend Ellen, he announces his hopes and
intentions to Mary's mother, a widow-woman bordering on her
fortieth year, and from constant health, the possession of a
competent property, and from having had no other children but
Mary and another daughter (the father died in their infancy),
retaining for the greater part her personal attractions and
comeliness of appearance; but a woman of low education and
violent temper. The answer which she at once returned to
Edward's application was remarkable--"Well, Edward! you are a
handsome young fellow, and you shall have my daughter." From
this time all their wooing passed under the mother's eye; and,
in fine, she became herself enamoured of her future
son-in-law, and practised every art, both of endearment and of
calumny, to transfer his affections from her daughter to
herself. (The outlines of the Tale are positive facts, and of
no very distant date, though the author has purposely altered
the names and the scene of action, as well as invented the
characters of the parties and the detail of the incidents.)
Edward, however, though perplexed by her strange detractions
from her daughter's good qualities, yet in the innocence of
his own heart still mistook[268:2] her increasing fondness for
motherly affection; she at length, overcome by her miserable
passion, after much abuse of Mary's temper and moral
tendencies, exclaimed with violent emotion--"O Edward! indeed,
indeed, she is not fit for you--she has not a heart to love
you as you deserve. It is I that love you! Marry me, Edward!
and I will this very day settle all my property on you." The
Lover's eyes were now opened; and thus taken by surprise,
whether from the effect of the horror which he felt, acting as
it were hysterically on his nervous system, or that at the
first moment he lost the sense of the guilt of the proposal in
the feeling of its strangeness and absurdity, he flung her
from him and burst into a fit of laughter. Irritated by this
almost to frenzy, the woman fell on her knees, and in a loud
voice that approached to a scream, she prayed for a curse both
on him and on her own child. Mary happened to be in the room
directly above them, heard Edward's laugh, and her mother's
blasphemous prayer, and fainted away. He, hearing the fall,
ran upstairs, and taking her in his arms, carried her off to
Ellen's home; and after some fruitless attempts on her part
toward a reconciliation with her mother, she was married to
him.--And here the third part of the Tale begins.
'I was not led to choose this story from any partiality to
tragic, much less to monstrous events (though at the time that
I composed the verses, somewhat more than twelve years ago, I
was less averse to such subjects than at present), but from
finding in it a striking proof of the possible effect on the
imagination, from an idea violently and suddenly impressed on
it. I had been reading Bryan Edwards's account of the effects
of the _Oby_ witchcraft on the Negroes in the West Indies, and
Hearne's deeply interesting anecdotes of similar workings on
the imagination of the Copper Indians (those of my readers who
have it in their power will be well repaid for the trouble of
referring to those works for the passages alluded to); and I
conceived the design of shewing that instances of this kind
are not peculiar to savage or barbarous tribes, and of
illustrating the mode in which the mind is affected in these
cases, and the progress and symptoms of the morbid action on
the fancy from the beginning.
'The Tale is supposed to be narrated by an old Sexton, in a
country church-yard, to a traveller whose curiosity had been
awakened by the appearance of three graves, close by each
other, to two only of which there were grave-stones. On the
first of these was the name, and dates, as usual: on the
second, no name, but only a date, and the words, "The Mercy of
God is infinite.[269:1]"' _S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829._
[PART I--FROM MS.]
Beneath this thorn when I was young,
This thorn that blooms so sweet,
We loved to stretch our lazy limbs
In summer's noon-tide heat.
And hither too the old man came, 5
The maiden and her feer,
'Then tell me, Sexton, tell me why
The toad has harbour here.
'The Thorn is neither dry nor dead,
But still it blossoms sweet; 10
Then tell me why all round its roots
The dock and nettle meet.
'Why here the hemlock, &c. [_sic in MS._]
'Why these three graves all side by side,
Beneath the flow'ry thorn, 15
Stretch out so green and dark a length,
By any foot unworn.'
There, there a ruthless mother lies
Beneath the flowery thorn;
And there a barren wife is laid, 20
And there a maid forlorn.
The barren wife and maid forlorn
Did love each other dear;
The ruthless mother wrought the woe,
And cost them many a tear. 25
Fair Ellen was of serious mind,
Her temper mild and even,
And Mary, graceful as the fir
That points the spire to heaven.
Young Edward he to Mary said, 30
'I would you were my bride,'
And she was scarlet as he spoke,
And turned her face to hide.
'You know my mother she is rich,
And you have little gear; 35
And go and if she say not Nay,
Then I will be your fere.'
Young Edward to the mother went.
To him the mother said:
'In truth you are a comely man; 40
You shall my daughter wed.'
[271:1][In Mary's joy fair Eleanor
Did bear a sister's part;
For why, though not akin in blood,
They sisters were in heart.] 45
Small need to tell to any man
That ever shed a tear
What passed within the lover's heart
The happy day so near.
The mother, more than mothers use, 50
Rejoiced when they were by;
And all the 'course of wooing' passed[271:2]
Beneath the mother's eye.
And here within the flowering thorn
How deep they drank of joy: 55
The mother fed upon the sight,
Nor . . . [_sic in MS._]
[PART II--FROM MS.][271:3]
And now the wedding day was fix'd,
The wedding-ring was bought;
The wedding-cake with her own hand 60
The ruthless mother brought.
'And when to-morrow's sun shines forth
The maid shall be a bride';
Thus Edward to the mother spake
While she sate by his side. 65
Alone they sate within the bower:
The mother's colour fled,
For Mary's foot was heard above--
She decked the bridal bed.
And when her foot was on the stairs 70
To meet her at the door,
With steady step the mother rose,
And silent left the bower.
She stood, her back against the door,
And when her child drew near-- 75
'Away! away!' the mother cried,
'Ye shall not enter here.
'Would ye come here, ye maiden vile,
And rob me of my mate?'
And on her child the mother scowled 80
A deadly leer of hate.
Fast rooted to the spot, you guess,
The wretched maiden stood,
As pale as any ghost of night
That wanteth flesh and blood. 85
She did not groan, she did not fall,
She did not shed a tear,
Nor did she cry, 'Oh! mother, why
May I not enter here?'
But wildly up the stairs she ran, 90
As if her sense was fled,
And then her trembling limbs she threw
Upon the bridal bed.
The mother she to Edward went
Where he sate in the bower, 95
And said, 'That woman is not fit
To be your paramour.
'She is my child--it makes my heart
With grief and trouble swell;
I rue the hour that gave her birth, 100
For never worse befel.
'For she is fierce and she is proud,
And of an envious mind;
A wily hypocrite she is,
And giddy as the wind. 105
'And if you go to church with her,
You'll rue the bitter smart;
For she will wrong your marriage-bed,
And she will break your heart.
'Oh God, to think that I have shared 110
Her deadly sin so long;
She is my child, and therefore I
As mother held my tongue.
'She is my child, I've risked for her
My living soul's estate: 115
I cannot say my daily prayers,
The burthen is so great.
'And she would scatter gold about
Until her back was bare;
And should you swing for lust of hers 120
In truth she'd little care.'
Then in a softer tone she said,
And took him by the hand:
'Sweet Edward, for one kiss of your's
I'd give my house and land. 125
'And if you'll go to church with me,
And take me for your bride,
I'll make you heir of all I have--
Nothing shall be denied.'
Then Edward started from his seat, 130
And he laughed loud and long--
'In truth, good mother, you are mad,
Or drunk with liquor strong.'
To him no word the mother said,
But on her knees she fell, 135
And fetched her breath while thrice your hand
Might toll the passing-bell.
'Thou daughter now above my head,
Whom in my womb I bore,
May every drop of thy heart's blood 140
Be curst for ever more.
'And curséd be the hour when first
I heard thee wawl and cry;
And in the Church-yard curséd be
The grave where thou shalt lie!' 145
And Mary on the bridal-bed
Her mother's curse had heard;
And while the cruel mother spake
The bed beneath her stirred.
In wrath young Edward left the hall, 150
And turning round he sees
The mother looking up to God
And still upon her knees.
Young Edward he to Mary went
When on the bed she lay: 155
'Sweet love, this is a wicked house--
Sweet love, we must away.'
He raised her from the bridal-bed,
All pale and wan with fear;
'No Dog,' quoth he, 'if he were mine, 160
No Dog would kennel here.'
He led her from the bridal-bed,
He led her from the stairs.
[Had sense been hers she had not dar'd
To venture on her prayers. _MS. erased._]
The mother still was in the bower,
And with a greedy heart 165
She _drank perdition_ on her knees,
Which never may depart.
But when their steps were heard below
On God she did not call;
She did forget the God of Heaven, 170
For they were in the hall.
She started up--the servant maid
Did see her when she rose;
And she has oft declared to me
The blood within her froze. 175
As Edward led his bride away
And hurried to the door,
The ruthless mother springing forth
Stopped midway on the floor.
What did she mean? What did she mean? 180
For with a smile she cried:
'Unblest ye shall not pass my door,
The bride-groom and his bride.
'Be blithe as lambs in April are,
As flies when fruits are red; 185
May God forbid that thought of me
Should haunt your marriage-bed.
'And let the night be given to bliss,
The day be given to glee:
I am a woman weak and old, 190
Why turn a thought on me?
'What can an agéd mother do,
And what have ye to dread?
A curse is wind, it hath no shape
To haunt your marriage-bed.' 195
When they were gone and out of sight
She rent her hoary hair,
And foamed like any Dog of June
When sultry sun-beams glare.
* * * * *
Now ask you why the barren wife, 200
And why the maid forlorn,
And why the ruthless mother lies
Beneath the flowery thorn?
Three times, three times this spade of mine,
In spite of bolt or bar, 205
Did from beneath the belfry come,
When spirits wandering are.
And when the mother's soul to Hell
By howling fiends was borne,
This spade was seen to mark her grave 210
Beneath the flowery thorn.
And when the death-knock at the door
Called home the maid forlorn,
This spade was seen to mark her grave
Beneath the flowery thorn. 215
And 'tis a fearful, fearful tree;
The ghosts that round it meet,
'Tis they that cut the rind at night,
Yet still it blossoms sweet.
* * * * *
[_End of MS._]
PART III[276:1]
The grapes upon the Vicar's wall 220
Were ripe as ripe could be;
And yellow leaves in sun and wind
Were falling from the tree.
On the hedge-elms in the narrow lane
Still swung the spikes of corn: 225
Dear Lord! it seems but yesterday--
Young Edward's marriage-morn.
Up through that wood behind the church,
There leads from Edward's door
A mossy track, all over boughed, 230
For half a mile or more.
And from their house-door by that track
The bride and bridegroom went;
Sweet Mary, though she was not gay,
Seemed cheerful and content. 235
But when they to the church-yard came,
I've heard poor Mary say,
As soon as she stepped into the sun,
Her heart it died away.
And when the Vicar join'd their hands, 240
Her limbs did creep and freeze:
But when they prayed, she thought she saw
Her mother on her knees.
And o'er the church-path they returned--
I saw poor Mary's back, 245
Just as she stepped beneath the boughs
Into the mossy track.
Her feet upon the mossy track
The married maiden set:
That moment--I have heard her say-- 250
She wished she could forget.
The shade o'er-flushed her limbs with heat--
Then came a chill like death:
And when the merry bells rang out,
They seemed to stop her breath. 255
Beneath the foulest mother's curse
No child could ever thrive:
A mother is a mother still,
The holiest thing alive.
So five months passed: the mother still 260
Would never heal the strife;
But Edward was a loving man
And Mary a fond wife.
'My sister may not visit us,
My mother says her nay: 265
O Edward! you are all to me,
I wish for your sake I could be
More lifesome and more gay.
'I'm dull and sad! indeed, indeed
I know I have no reason! 270
Perhaps I am not well in health,
And 'tis a gloomy season.'
'Twas a drizzly time--no ice, no snow!
And on the few fine days
She stirred not out, lest she might meet 275
Her mother in the ways.
But Ellen, spite of miry ways
And weather dark and dreary,
Trudged every day to Edward's house,
And made them all more cheery. 280
Oh! Ellen was a faithful friend.
More dear than any sister!
As cheerful too as singing lark;
And she ne'er left them till 'twas dark,
And then they always missed her. 285
And now Ash-Wednesday came--that day
But few to church repair:
For on that day you know we read
The Commination prayer.
Our late old Vicar, a kind man, 290
Once, Sir, he said to me,
He wished that service was clean out
Of our good Liturgy.
The mother walked into the church--
To Ellen's seat she went: 295
Though Ellen always kept her church
All church-days during Lent.
And gentle Ellen welcomed her
With courteous looks and mild:
Thought she, 'What if her heart should melt, 300
And all be reconciled!'
The day was scarcely like a day--
The clouds were black outright:
And many a night, with half a moon,
I've seen the church more light. 305
The wind was wild; against the glass
The rain did beat and bicker;
The church-tower swinging over head,
You scarce could hear the Vicar!
And then and there the mother knelt, 310
And audibly she cried--
'Oh! may a clinging curse consume
This woman by my side!
'O hear me, hear me, Lord in Heaven.
Although you take my life-- 315
O curse this woman, at whose house
Young Edward woo'd his wife.
'By night and day, in bed and bower,
O let her curséd be!!!'
So having prayed, steady and slow, 320
She rose up from her knee!
And left the church, nor e'er again
The church-door entered she.
I saw poor Ellen kneeling still,
So pale! I guessed not why: 325
When she stood up, there plainly was
A trouble in her eye.
And when the prayers were done, we all
Came round and asked her why:
Giddy she seemed, and sure, there was 330
A trouble in her eye.
But ere she from the church-door stepped
She smiled and told us why:
'It was a wicked woman's curse,'
Quoth she, 'and what care I?' 335
She smiled, and smiled, and passed it off
Ere from the door she stept--
But all agree it would have been
Much better had she wept.
And if her heart was not at ease, 340
This was her constant cry--
'It was a wicked woman's curse--
God's good, and what care I?'
There was a hurry in her looks,
Her struggles she redoubled: 345
'It was a wicked woman's curse,
And why should I be troubled?'
These tears will come--I dandled her
When 'twas the merest fairy--
Good creature! and she hid it all: 350
She told it not to Mary.
But Mary heard the tale: her arms
Round Ellen's neck she threw;
'O Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me,
And now she hath cursed you!' 355
I saw young Edward by himself
Stalk fast adown the lee,
He snatched a stick from every fence,
A twig from every tree.
He snapped them still with hand or knee, 360
And then away they flew!
As if with his uneasy limbs
He knew not what to do!
You see, good sir! that single hill?
His farm lies underneath: 365
He heard it there, he heard it all,
And only gnashed his teeth.
Now Ellen was a darling love
In all his joys and cares:
And Ellen's name and Mary's name 370
Fast-linked they both together came,
Whene'er he said his prayers.
And in the moment of his prayers
He loved them both alike:
Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy 375
Upon his heart did strike!
He reach'd his home, and by his looks
They saw his inward strife:
And they clung round him with their arms,
Both Ellen and his wife. 380
And Mary could not check her tears,
So on his breast she bowed;
Then frenzy melted into grief,
And Edward wept aloud.
Dear Ellen did not weep at all, 385
But closelier did she cling,
And turned her face and looked as if
She saw some frightful thing.
PART IV
To see a man tread over graves
I hold it no good mark; 390
'Tis wicked in the sun and moon,
And bad luck in the dark!
You see that grave? The Lord he gives,
The Lord, he takes away:
O Sir! the child of my old age 395
Lies there as cold as clay.
Except that grave, you scarce see one
That was not dug by me;
I'd rather dance upon 'em all
Than tread upon these three! 400
'Aye, Sexton! 'tis a touching tale.'
You, Sir! are but a lad;
This month I'm in my seventieth year,
And still it makes me sad.
And Mary's sister told it me, 405
For three good hours and more;
Though I had heard it, in the main,
From Edward's self, before.
Well! it passed off! the gentle Ellen
Did well nigh dote on Mary; 410
And she went oftener than before,
And Mary loved her more and more:
She managed all the dairy.
To market she on market-days,
To church on Sundays came; 415
All seemed the same: all seemed so, Sir!
But all was not the same!
Had Ellen lost her mirth? Oh! no!
But she was seldom cheerful;
And Edward looked as if he thought 420
That Ellen's mirth was fearful.
When by herself, she to herself
Must sing some merry rhyme;
She could not now be glad for hours,
Yet silent all the time. 425
And when she soothed her friend, through all
Her soothing words 'twas plain
She had a sore grief of her own,
A haunting in her brain.
And oft she said, I'm not grown thin! 430
And then her wrist she spanned;
And once when Mary was down-cast,
She took her by the hand,
And gazed upon her, and at first
She gently pressed her hand; 435
Then harder, till her grasp at length
Did gripe like a convulsion!
'Alas!' said she, 'we ne'er can be
Made happy by compulsion!'
And once her both arms suddenly 440
Round Mary's neck she flung,
And her heart panted, and she felt
The words upon her tongue.
She felt them coming, but no power
Had she the words to smother: 445
And with a kind of shriek she cried,
'Oh Christ! you're like your mother!'
So gentle Ellen now no more
Could make this sad house cheery;
And Mary's melancholy ways 450
Drove Edward wild and weary.
Lingering he raised his latch at eve,
Though tired in heart and limb:
He loved no other place, and yet
Home was no home to him. 455
One evening he took up a book,
And nothing in it read;
Then flung it down, and groaning cried,
'O! Heaven! that I were dead.'
Mary looked up into his face, 460
And nothing to him said;
She tried to smile, and on his arm
Mournfully leaned her head.
And he burst into tears, and fell
Upon his knees in prayer: 465
'Her heart is broke! O God! my grief,
It is too great to bear!'
'Twas such a foggy time as makes
Old sextons, Sir! like me,
Rest on their spades to cough; the spring 470
Was late uncommonly.
And then the hot days, all at once,
They came, we knew not how:
You looked about for shade, when scarce
A leaf was on a bough. 475
It happened then ('twas in the bower,
A furlong up the wood:
Perhaps you know the place, and yet
I scarce know how you should,)
No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh 480
To any pasture-plot;
But clustered near the chattering brook,
Lone hollies marked the spot.
Those hollies of themselves a shape
As of an arbour took, 485
A close, round arbour; and it stands
Not three strides from a brook.
Within this arbour, which was still
With scarlet berries hung,
Were these three friends, one Sunday morn, 490
Just as the first bell rung.
'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet
To hear the Sabbath-bell,
'Tis sweet to hear them both at once,
Deep in a woody dell. 495
His limbs along the moss, his head
Upon a mossy heap,
With shut-up senses, Edward lay:
That brook e'en on a working day
Might chatter one to sleep. 500
And he had passed a restless night.
And was not well in health;
The women sat down by his side,
And talked as 'twere by stealth.
'The Sun peeps through the close thick leaves, 505
See, dearest Ellen! see!
'Tis in the leaves, a little sun,
No bigger than your ee;
'A tiny sun, and it has got
A perfect glory too; 510
Ten thousand threads and hairs of light,
Make up a glory gay and bright
Round that small orb, so blue.'
And then they argued of those rays,
What colour they might be; 515
Says this, 'They're mostly green'; says that,
'They're amber-like to me.'
So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts
Were troubling Edward's rest;
But soon they heard his hard quick pants, 520
And the thumping in his breast.
'A mother too!' these self-same words
Did Edward mutter plain;
His face was drawn back on itself,
With horror and huge pain. 525
Both groaned at once, for both knew well
What thoughts were in his mind;
When he waked up, and stared like one
That hath been just struck blind.
He sat upright; and ere the dream 530
Had had time to depart,
'O God, forgive me!' (he exclaimed)
'I have torn out her heart.'
Then Ellen shrieked, and forthwith burst
Into ungentle laughter; 535
And Mary shivered, where she sat,
And never she smiled after.
1797-1809.
_Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum._ To-morrow! and To-morrow!
and To-morrow!
FOOTNOTES:
[267:1] Parts III and IV of the _Three Graves_ were first published in
_The Friend_, No. VI, September 21, 1809. They were included in
_Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. Parts I and II, which
were probably written in the spring of 1798, at the same time as Parts
III and IV, were first published, from an autograph MS. copy, in
_Poems_, 1893. [For evidence of date compare ll. 255-8 with Dorothy
Wordsworth's _Alfoxden Journal_ for March 20, 24, and April 6, 8.] The
original MS. of Parts III and IV is not forthcoming. The MS. of the poem
as published in _The Friend_ is in the handwriting of Miss Sarah
Stoddart (afterwards Mrs. Hazlitt), and is preserved with other 'copy'
of _The Friend_ (of which the greater part is in the handwriting of Miss
Sarah Hutchinson) in the Forster Collection which forms part of the
Victoria and Albert Museum, South Kensington. The preface and
emendations are in the handwriting of S. T. C. The poem was reprinted in
the _British Minstrel_, Glasgow, 1821 as 'a modern ballad of the very
first rank'. In a marginal note in Mr. Samuel's copy of _Sibylline
Leaves_ Coleridge writes:--'This very poem was selected, notwithstanding
the preface, as a proof of my judgment and poetic diction, and a fair
specimen of the style of my poems generally (see the _Mirror_): nay! the
very words of the preface were used, omitting the _not_,' &c. See for
this and other critical matter, _Lyrical Ballads_, 1798, edited by
Thomas Hutchinson, 1898. _Notes_, p. 257.
[268:1] in the common ballad metre _MS._
[268:2] mistaking _The Friend_.
[269:1] In the first issue of _The Friend_, No. VI, September 21, 1809,
the poem was thus introduced:--'As I wish to commence the important
Subject of--_The Principles_ of political Justice with a separate number
of THE FRIEND, and shall at the same time comply with the wishes
communicated to me by one of my female Readers, who writes as the
representative of many others, I shall conclude this Number with the
following Fragment, or the third and fourth [second and third _MS. S. T.
C._] parts of a Tale consisting of six. The two last parts may be given
hereafter, if the present should appear to have afforded pleasure, and
to have answered the purpose of a relief and amusement to my Readers.
The story as it is contained in the first and second parts is as
follows: _Edward a young farmer_, etc.'
[271:1] It is uncertain whether this stanza is erased, or merely blotted
in the MS.
[271:2] _Othello_ iii. 3.
[271:3] The words 'Part II' are not in the MS.
[276:1] In the MS. of _The Friend_, Part III is headed:--'The Three
Graves. A Sexton's Tale. A Fragment.' A MS. note _erased_ in the
handwriting of S. T. C. is attached:--'N. B. Written for me by Sarah
Stoddart before her brother was an entire Blank. I have not
_voluntarily_ been guilty of any desecration of holy _Names_.' In _The
Friend_, in _Sibylline Leaves_, in 1828, 1829, and 1834, the poem is
headed 'The Three Graves, &c.' The heading 'Part III' first appeared in
1893.
LINENOTES:
[4] In the silent summer heat MS. alternative reading.
[14]
Why these three graves all in a row
MS. alternative reading.
Stretch out their dark and gloomy length
MS. erased.
[33] turned] strove MS. erased.
[49] happy] wedding MS. variant.
[81] A deadly] The ghastly MS. erased.
Part III] III MS. erased.
[220 foll.] In _The Friend_ the lines were printed continuously. The
division into stanzas (as in the MS.) dates from the republication of
the poem in Sibylline Leaves, 1817.
[221] as ripe] as they MS.
[224] High on the hedge-elms in the lane MS. erased.
[225] spikes] strikes Sibylline Leaves, 1817. [_Note._ It is possible
that 'strikes'--a Somersetshire word--(compare 'strikes of flax') was
deliberately substituted for 'spikes'. It does not appear in the long
list of _Errata_ prefixed to Sibylline Leaves. Wagons passing through
narrow lanes leave on the hedge-rows not single 'spikes', but little
swathes or fillets of corn.]
[230] over boughed] over-bough'd MS.
[242] they] he MS. The Friend, 1809.
[260] So five months passed: this mother foul MS. erased.
[278] dark] dank MS. The Friend, 1809.
[308] swinging] singing MS. The Friend, 1809: swaying S. L.
[309] You could not hear the Vicar. MS. The Friend, 1809.
[315] you] thou The Friend, 1809.
Part IV] The Three Graves, a Sexton's Tale, Part the IVth MS.
[395] O Sir!] Oh! 'tis S. L.
[447] you're] how MS.
[473] we] one MS. The Friend, 1809.
[483] Lone] Some MS. The Friend, 1809.
[487] a] the MS. The Friend, 1809.
[490] friends] dears MS. erased.
[507] in] in MS. The Friend, 1809.
[511] _inserted by S. T. C._ MS.
[530-1]
He sat upright; and with quick voice
While his eyes seem'd to start
MS. erased.
THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN[285:1]
PREFATORY NOTE
A prose composition, one not in metre at least, seems _primâ facie_ to
require explanation or apology. It was written in the year 1798, near
Nether Stowey, in Somersetshire, at which place (_sanctum et amabile
nomen!_ rich by so many associations and recollections) the author had
taken up his residence in order to enjoy the society and close
neighbourhood of a dear and honoured friend, T. Poole, Esq. The work was
to have been written in concert with another [Wordsworth], whose name is
too venerable within the precincts of genius to be unnecessarily brought
into connection with such a trifle, and who was then residing at a small
distance from Nether Stowey. The title and subject were suggested by
myself, who likewise drew out the scheme and the contents for each of
the three books or cantos, of which the work was to consist, and which,
the reader is to be informed, was to have been finished in one night! My
partner undertook the first canto: I the second: and which ever had
_done first_, was to set about the third. Almost thirty years have
passed by; yet at this moment I cannot without something more than a
smile moot the question which of the two things was the more
impracticable, for a mind so eminently original to compose another man's
thoughts and fancies, or for a taste so austerely pure and simple to
imitate the Death of Abel? Methinks I see his grand and noble
countenance as at the moment when having despatched my own portion of
the task at full finger-speed, I hastened to him with my
manuscript--that look of humourous despondency fixed on his almost blank
sheet of paper, and then its silent mock-piteous admission of failure
struggling with the sense of the exceeding ridiculousness of the whole
scheme--which broke up in a laugh: and the Ancient Mariner was written
instead.
Years afterward, however, the draft of the plan and proposed incidents,
and the portion executed, obtained favour in the eyes of more than one
person, whose judgment on a poetic work could not but have weighed with
me, even though no parental partiality had been thrown into the same
scale, as a make-weight: and I determined on commencing anew, and
composing the whole in stanzas, and made some progress in realising this
intention, when adverse gales drove my bark off the 'Fortunate Isles' of
the Muses: and then other and more momentous interests prompted a
different voyage, to firmer anchorage and a securer port. I have in vain
tried to recover the lines from the palimpsest tablet of my memory: and
I can only offer the introductory stanza, which had been committed to
writing for the purpose of procuring a friend's judgment on the metre,
as a specimen:--
Encinctured with a twine of leaves,
That leafy twine his only dress!
A lovely Boy was plucking fruits,
By moonlight, in a wilderness.
(In a moonlight wilderness _Aids to Reflection, 1825_.)
The moon was bright, the air was free,
And fruits and flowers together grew
On many a shrub and many a tree:
And all put on a gentle hue,
Hanging in the shadowy air
Like a picture rich and rare.
It was a climate where, they say,
The night is more belov'd than day.
But who that beauteous Boy beguil'd,
That beauteous Boy to linger here?
Alone, by night, a little child,
In place so silent and so wild--
Has he no friend, no loving mother near?
I have here given the birth, parentage, and premature decease of the
'Wanderings of Cain, a poem',--intreating, however, my Readers, not to
think so meanly of my judgment as to suppose that I either regard or
offer it as any excuse for the publication of the following fragment
(and I may add, of one or two others in its neighbourhood) in its
primitive crudity. But I should find still greater difficulty in
forgiving myself were I to record pro _taedio_ publico a set of petty
mishaps and annoyances which I myself wish to forget. I must be content
therefore with assuring the friendly Reader, that the less he attributes
its appearance to the Author's will, choice, or judgment, the nearer to
the truth he will be.
S. T. COLERIDGE (1828).
THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN
CANTO II
'A little further, O my father, yet a little further, and
we shall come into the open moonlight.' Their road was
through a forest of fir-trees; at its entrance the trees stood
at distances from each other, and the path was broad, and
the moonlight and the moonlight shadows reposed upon it, 5
and appeared quietly to inhabit that solitude. But soon the
path winded and became narrow; the sun at high noon
sometimes speckled, but never illumined it, and now it was
dark as a cavern.
'It is dark, O my father!' said Enos, 'but the path under 10
our feet is smooth and soft, and we shall soon come out into
the open moonlight.'
'Lead on, my child!' said Cain; 'guide me, little child!'
And the innocent little child clasped a finger of the hand
which had murdered the righteous Abel, and he guided his 15
father. 'The fir branches drip upon thee, my son.' 'Yea,
pleasantly, father, for I ran fast and eagerly to bring thee
the pitcher and the cake, and my body is not yet cool. How
happy the squirrels are that feed on these fir-trees! they leap
from bough to bough, and the old squirrels play round their 20
young ones in the nest. I clomb a tree yesterday at noon,
O my father, that I might play with them, but they leaped
away from the branches, even to the slender twigs did they
leap, and in a moment I beheld them on another tree. Why,
O my father, would they not play with me? I would be good 25
to them as thou art good to me: and I groaned to them
even as thou groanest when thou givest me to eat, and when
thou coverest me at evening, and as often as I stand at thy
knee and thine eyes look at me?' Then Cain stopped, and
stifling his groans he sank to the earth, and the child Enos 30
stood in the darkness beside him.
And Cain lifted up his voice and cried bitterly, and said,
'The Mighty One that persecuteth me is on this side and on
that; he pursueth my soul like the wind, like the sand-blast
he passeth through me; he is around me even as the air! 35
O that I might be utterly no more! I desire to die--yea,
the things that never had life, neither move they upon the
earth--behold! they seem precious to mine eyes. O that
a man might live without the breath of his nostrils. So
I might abide in darkness, and blackness, and an empty 40
space! Yea, I would lie down, I would not rise, neither
would I stir my limbs till I became as the rock in the den
of the lion, on which the young lion resteth his head whilst he
sleepeth. For the torrent that roareth far off hath a voice:
and the clouds in heaven look terribly on me; the Mighty One 45
who is against me speaketh in the wind of the cedar grove;
and in silence am I dried up.' Then Enos spake to his father,
'Arise, my father, arise, we are but a little way from the place
where I found the cake and the pitcher.' And Cain said,
'How knowest thou!' and the child answered:--'Behold the 50
bare rocks are a few of thy strides distant from the forest;
and while even now thou wert lifting up thy voice, I heard
the echo.' Then the child took hold of his father, as if he
would raise him: and Cain being faint and feeble rose slowly
on his knees and pressed himself against the trunk of a fir, 55
and stood upright and followed the child.
The path was dark till within three strides' length of its
termination, when it turned suddenly; the thick black trees
formed a low arch, and the moonlight appeared for a moment
like a dazzling portal. Enos ran before and stood in the open 60
air; and when Cain, his father, emerged from the darkness,
the child was affrighted. For the mighty limbs of Cain were
wasted as by fire; his hair was as the matted curls on the
bison's forehead, and so glared his fierce and sullen eye
beneath: and the black abundant locks on either side, a rank 65
and tangled mass, were stained and scorched, as though the
grasp of a burning iron hand had striven to rend them; and his
countenance told in a strange and terrible language of agonies
that had been, and were, and were still to continue to be.
The scene around was desolate; as far as the eye could 70
reach it was desolate: the bare rocks faced each other, and
left a long and wide interval of thin white sand. You might
wander on and look round and round, and peep into the
crevices of the rocks and discover nothing that acknowledged
the influence of the seasons. There was no spring, no summer, 75
no autumn: and the winter's snow, that would have been
lovely, fell not on these hot rocks and scorching sands. Never
morning lark had poised himself over this desert; but the huge
serpent often hissed there beneath the talons of the vulture, and
the vulture screamed, his wings imprisoned within the coils of 80
the serpent. The pointed and shattered summits of the ridges
of the rocks made a rude mimicry of human concerns, and
seemed to prophecy mutely of things that then were not;
steeples, and battlements, and ships with naked masts. As far
from the wood as a boy might sling a pebble of the brook, there 85
was one rock by itself at a small distance from the main ridge.
It had been precipitated there perhaps by the groan which the
Earth uttered when our first father fell. Before you approached,
it appeared to lie flat on the ground, but its base slanted from
its point, and between its point and the sands a tall man might 90
stand upright. It was here that Enos had found the pitcher
and cake, and to this place he led his father. But ere they
had reached the rock they beheld a human shape: his back was
towards them, and they were advancing unperceived, when they
heard him smite his breast and cry aloud, 'Woe is me! woe is 95
me! I must never die again, and yet I am perishing with
thirst and hunger.'
Pallid, as the reflection of the sheeted lightning on the
heavy-sailing night-cloud, became the face of Cain; but the
child Enos took hold of the shaggy skin, his father's robe, and 100
raised his eyes to his father, and listening whispered, 'Ere
yet I could speak, I am sure, O my father, that I heard that
voice. Have not I often said that I remembered a sweet voice?
O my father! this is it': and Cain trembled exceedingly.
The voice was sweet indeed, but it was thin and querulous, 105
like that of a feeble slave in misery, who despairs altogether,
yet can not refrain himself from weeping and lamentation.
And, behold! Enos glided forward, and creeping softly round
the base of the rock, stood before the stranger, and looked up
into his face. And the Shape shrieked, and turned round, 110
and Cain beheld him, that his limbs and his face were those
of his brother Abel whom he had killed! And Cain stood
like one who struggles in his sleep because of the exceeding
terribleness of a dream.
Thus as he stood in silence and darkness of soul, the 115
Shape fell at his feet, and embraced his knees, and cried
out with a bitter outcry, 'Thou eldest born of Adam, whom
Eve, my mother, brought forth, cease to torment me! I was
feeding my flocks in green pastures by the side of quiet rivers,
and thou killedst me; and now I am in misery.' Then Cain 120
closed his eyes, and hid them with his hands; and again he
opened his eyes, and looked around him, and said to Enos,
'What beholdest thou? Didst thou hear a voice, my son?'
'Yes, my father, I beheld a man in unclean garments, and
he uttered a sweet voice, full of lamentation.' Then Cain 125
raised up the Shape that was like Abel, and said:--'The
Creator of our father, who had respect unto thee, and unto
thy offering, wherefore hath he forsaken thee?' Then the
Shape shrieked a second time, and rent his garment, and
his naked skin was like the white sands beneath their feet; 130
and he shrieked yet a third time, and threw himself on his
face upon the sand that was black with the shadow of the
rock, and Cain and Enos sate beside him; the child by his
right hand, and Cain by his left. They were all three under
the rock, and within the shadow. The Shape that was like 135
Abel raised himself up, and spake to the child, 'I know where
the cold waters are, but I may not drink, wherefore didst
thou then take away my pitcher?' But Cain said, 'Didst
thou not find favour in the sight of the Lord thy God?'
The Shape answered, 'The Lord is God of the living only, 140
the dead have another God.' Then the child Enos lifted up
his eyes and prayed; but Cain rejoiced secretly in his heart.
'Wretched shall they be all the days of their mortal life,'
exclaimed the Shape, 'who sacrifice worthy and acceptable
sacrifices to the God of the dead; but after death their toil 145
ceaseth. Woe is me, for I was well beloved by the God of
the living, and cruel wert thou, O my brother, who didst
snatch me away from his power and his dominion.' Having
uttered these words, he rose suddenly, and fled over the sands:
and Cain said in his heart, 'The curse of the Lord is on me; 150
but who is the God of the dead?' and he ran after the Shape,
and the Shape fled shrieking over the sands, and the sands
rose like white mists behind the steps of Cain, but the feet
of him that was like Abel disturbed not the sands. He greatly
outrun Cain, and turning short, he wheeled round, and came 155
again to the rock where they had been sitting, and where Enos
still stood; and the child caught hold of his garment as he
passed by, and he fell upon the ground. And Cain stopped,
and beholding him not, said, 'he has passed into the dark
woods,' and he walked slowly back to the rocks; and when he 160
reached it the child told him that he had caught hold of his
garment as he passed by, and that the man had fallen upon
the ground: and Cain once more sate beside him, and said,
'Abel, my brother, I would lament for thee, but that the spirit
within me is withered, and burnt up with extreme agony. 165
Now, I pray thee, by thy flocks, and by thy pastures, and
by the quiet rivers which thou lovedst, that thou tell me all
that thou knowest. Who is the God of the dead? where doth
he make his dwelling? what sacrifices are acceptable unto him?
for I have offered, but have not been received; I have prayed, 170
and have not been heard; and how can I be afflicted more than
I already am?' The Shape arose and answered, 'O that thou
hadst had pity on me as I will have pity on thee. Follow me,
Son of Adam! and bring thy child with thee!'
And they three passed over the white sands between the 175
rocks, silent as the shadows.
1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[285:1] _The Wanderings of Cain_ in its present shape was first
published in 1828: included in 1829, and (with the omission of that part
of the Prefatory Note which follows the verses) in 1834. The verses
('Encinctured', &c.) were first published in the 'Conclusion' of _Aids
to Reflection_, 1825, p. 383, with the following apologetic note:--'Will
the Reader forgive me if I attempt at once to illustrate and relieve the
subject ["the enthusiastic Mystics"] by annexing the first stanza of the
Poem, composed in the same year in which I wrote the Ancient Mariner and
the first Book of Christabel.' The _prose_ was first published without
the verses or 'Prefatory Note' in the _Bijou_ for 1828. [See _Poems_,
1893, _Notes_, p. 600.]
A rough draft of a continuation or alternative version of the
_Wanderings of Cain_ was found among Coleridge's papers. The greater
portion of these fragmentary sheets was printed by the Editor, in the
_Athenaeum_ of January 27, 1894, p. 114. The introduction of
'alligators' and an 'immense meadow' help to fix the date of _The
Wanderings of Cain_. The imagery is derived from William Bartram's
_Travels in Florida and Carolina_, which Coleridge and Wordsworth
studied in 1798. Mr. Hutchinson, who reprints (_Lyrical Ballads of
1798_, Notes, pp. 259-60) a selected passage from the MS. fragment,
points out 'that Coleridge had for a time thought of shaping the poem as
a narrative addressed by Cain to his wife'.
'He falls down in a trance--when he awakes he sees a luminous body
coming before him. It stands before him an orb of fire. It goes on, he
moves not. It returns to him again, again retires as if wishing him to
follow it. It then goes on and he follows: they are led to near the
bottom of the wild woods, brooks, forests etc. etc. The Fire gradually
shapes itself, retaining its luminous appearance, into the lineaments of
a man. A dialogue between the fiery shape and Cain, in which the being
presses upon him the enormity of his guilt and that he must make some
expiation to the true deity, who is a severe God, and persuades him to
burn out his eyes. Cain opposes this idea, and says that God himself who
had inflicted this punishment upon him, had done it because he neglected
to make a proper use of his senses, etc. The evil spirit answers him
that God is indeed a God of mercy, and that an example must be given to
mankind, that this end will be answered by his terrible appearance, at
the same time he will be gratified with the most delicious sights and
feelings. Cain, over-persuaded, consents to do it, but wishes to go to
the top of the rocks to take a farewell of the earth. His farewell
speech concluding with an abrupt address to the promised redeemer, and
he abandons the idea on which the being had accompanied him, and turning
round to declare this to the being he sees him dancing from rock to rock
in his former shape down those interminable precipices.
'Child affeared by his father's ravings, goes out to pluck the fruits in
the moonlight wildness. Cain's soliloquy. Child returns with a pitcher
of water and a cake. Cain wonders what kind of beings dwell in that
place--whether any created since man or whether this world had any
beings rescued from the Chaos, wandering like shipwrecked beings from
another world etc.
'Midnight on the Euphrates. Cedars, palms, pines. Cain discovered
sitting on the upper part of the ragged rock, where is cavern
overlooking the Euphrates, the moon rising on the horizon. His
soliloquy. The Beasts are out on the ramp--he hears the screams of a
woman and children surrounded by tigers. Cain makes a soliloquy debating
whether he shall save the woman. Cain advances, wishing death, and the
tigers rush off. It proves to be Cain's wife with her two children,
determined to follow her husband. She prevails upon him at last to tell
his story. Cain's wife tells him that her son Enoch was placed suddenly
by her side. Cain addresses all the elements to cease for a while to
persecute him, while he tells his story. He begins with telling her that
he had first after his leaving her found out a dwelling in the desart
under a juniper tree etc., etc., how he meets in the desart a young man
whom upon a nearer approach he perceives to be Abel, on whose
countenance appears marks of the greatest misery . . . of another being
who had power after this life, greater than Jehovah. He is going to
offer sacrifices to this being, and persuades Cain to follow him--he
comes to an immense gulph filled with water, whither they descend
followed by alligators etc. They go till they come to an immense meadow
so surrounded as to be inaccessible, and from its depth so vast that you
could not see it from above. Abel offers sacrifice from the blood of his
arm. A gleam of light illumines the meadow--the countenance of Abel
becomes more beautiful, and his arms glistering--he then persuades Cain
to offer sacrifice, for himself and his son Enoch by cutting his child's
arm and letting the blood fall from it. Cain is about to do it when Abel
himself in his angelic appearance, attended by Michael, is seen in the
heavens, whence they sail slowly down. Abel addresses Cain with terror,
warning him not to offer up his innocent child. The evil spirit throws
off the countenance of Abel, assumes its own shape, flies off pursuing a
flying battle with Michael. Abel carries off the child.'
LINENOTES:
[12] _moonlight_. Ah, why dost thou groan so deeply? MS. Bijou, 1828.
[25] _with me?_ Is it because we are not so happy, as they? Is it
because I groan sometimes even as thou groanest? _Then Cain stopped_,
&c. MS. Bijou, 1828.
[63-8] _by fire_: his hair was black, and matted into loathly curls, and
his countenance was dark and wild, and _told_, &c. MS. Bijou, 1828.
[87] _by the_ terrible groan the Earth gave _when_, &c. MS. Bijou, 1828.
[92-3] _But ere they_ arrived there _they beheld_, MS. Bijou, 1828.
[94] advancing] coming up MS. Bijou, 1828.
[98-101] The face of Cain turned pale, but Enos said, '_Ere yet_, &c.
MS. Bijou, 1828.
[108-9] _Enos_ crept softly round the base of the rock and _stood
before_ MS. Bijou, 1828.
[114-16] _of a dream_; and ere he had recovered himself from the tumult
of his agitation, _the Shape_, &c. MS. Bijou, 1828.
[160] and walked Bijou, 1828. rocks] rock MS.
[170] but] and MS.
[176] the] their MS.
TO ----[292:1]
I mix in life, and labour to seem free,
With common persons pleas'd and common things,
While every thought and action tends to thee,
And every impulse from thy influence springs.
? 1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[292:1] First published without title in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i.
280 (among other short pieces and fragments 'communicated by Mr.
Gutch'). First collected, again without title, in _P. and D. W._,
1877-80.
LINENOTES:
Title] To ---- 1893. The heading _Ubi Thesaurus Ibi Cor_ was prefixed to
the illustrated edition of The Poems of Coleridge, 1907.
THE BALLAD OF THE DARK LADIÉ[293:1]
A FRAGMENT
Beneath yon birch with silver bark,
And boughs so pendulous and fair,
The brook falls scatter'd down the rock:
And all is mossy there!
And there upon the moss she sits, 5
The Dark Ladié in silent pain;
The heavy tear is in her eye,
And drops and swells again.
Three times she sends her little page
Up the castled mountain's breast, 10
If he might find the Knight that wears
The Griffin for his crest.
The sun was sloping down the sky,
And she had linger'd there all day,
Counting moments, dreaming fears-- 15
Oh wherefore can he stay?
She hears a rustling o'er the brook,
She sees far off a swinging bough!
'Tis He! 'Tis my betrothéd Knight!
Lord Falkland, it is Thou!' 20
She springs, she clasps him round the neck,
She sobs a thousand hopes and fears,
Her kisses glowing on his cheeks
She quenches with her tears.
* * * * *
'My friends with rude ungentle words 25
They scoff and bid me fly to thee!
O give me shelter in thy breast!
O shield and shelter me!
'My Henry, I have given thee much,
I gave what I can ne'er recall, 30
I gave my heart, I gave my peace,
O Heaven! I gave thee all.'
The Knight made answer to the Maid,
While to his heart he held her hand,
'Nine castles hath my noble sire, 35
None statelier in the land.
'The fairest one shall be my love's,
The fairest castle of the nine!
Wait only till the stars peep out,
The fairest shall be thine: 40
'Wait only till the hand of eve
Hath wholly closed yon western bars,
And through the dark we two will steal
Beneath the twinkling stars!'--
'The dark? the dark? No! not the dark? 45
The twinkling stars? How, Henry? How?'
O God! 'twas in the eye of noon
He pledged his sacred vow!
And in the eye of noon my love
Shall lead me from my mother's door, 50
Sweet boys and girls all clothed in white
Strewing flowers before:
But first the nodding minstrels go
With music meet for lordly bowers,
The children next in snow-white vests, 55
Strewing buds and flowers!
And then my love and I shall pace.
My jet black hair in pearly braids,
Between our comely bachelors
And blushing bridal maids. 60
* * * * *
1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[293:1] First published in 1834. 'In a manuscript list (undated) of the
poems drawn up by Coleridge appear these items together: _Love_ 96 lines
. . . _The Black Ladié_ 190 lines.' _Note_ to _P. W._, 1893, p. 614. A
MS. of the three last stanzas is extant. In Chapter XIV of the
_Biographia Literaria_, 1817, ii. 3 Coleridge synchronizes the _Dark
Ladié_ (a poem which he was 'preparing' with the _Christabel_). It would
seem probable that it belongs to the spring or early summer of 1798, and
that it was anterior to _Love_, which was first published in the
_Morning Post_, December 21, 1799, under the heading 'Introduction to
the Tale of the Dark Ladié'. If the MS. List of Poems is the record of
poems actually written, two-thirds of the _Dark Ladié_ must have
perished long before 1817, when _Sibylline Leaves_ was passing through
the press, and it was found necessary to swell the Contents with 'two
School-boy Poems' and 'with a song modernized with some additions from
one of our elder poets'.
LINENOTES:
[53-6]
And first the nodding Minstrels go
With music fit for lovely Bowers,
The children then in snowy robes,
Strewing Buds and Flowers.
MS. S. T. C.
[57] pace] go MS. S. T. C.
KUBLA KHAN[295:1]:
OR, A VISION IN A DREAM. A FRAGMENT.
The following fragment is here published at the request
of a poet of great and deserved celebrity [Lord Byron], and,
as far as the Author's own opinions are concerned, rather as
a psychological curiosity, than on the ground of any supposed
_poetic_ merits. 5
In the summer of the year 1797[295:2], the Author, then in ill
health, had retired to a lonely farm-house between Porlock
and Linton, on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire.
In consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne
had been prescribed, from the effects of which he fell asleep 10
in his chair at the moment that he was reading the following
sentence, or words of the same substance, in 'Purchas's
Pilgrimage': 'Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace
to be built, and a stately garden thereunto. And thus ten
miles of fertile ground were inclosed with a wall.'[296:1] The
Author continued for about three hours in a profound sleep,
at least of the external senses, during which time he has the
most vivid confidence, that he could not have composed less
than from two to three hundred lines; if that indeed can
be called composition in which all the images rose up before 20
him as _things_, with a parallel production of the correspondent
expressions, without any sensation or consciousness of effort.
On awaking he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection
of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly
and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At
this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on
business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour,
and on his return to his room, found, to his no small surprise
and mortification, that though he still retained some vague
and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, 30
with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and
images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the
surface of a stream into which a stone has been cast, but, alas!
without the after restoration of the latter!
Then all the charm
Is broken--all that phantom-world so fair
Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread,
And each mis-shape['s] the other. Stay awhile,
Poor youth! who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes--
The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon 40
The visions will return! And lo, he stays,
And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms
Come trembling back, unite, and now once more
The pool becomes a mirror.
[From _The Picture; or, the Lover's Resolution_, II. 91-100.]
Yet from the still surviving recollections in his mind, the
Author has frequently purposed to finish for himself what had
been originally, as it were, given to him. Σαμερον αδιον ασω[297:1]
[Αὔριον ἅδιον ἄσω _1834_]: but the to-morrow is yet to come.
As a contrast to this vision, I have annexed a fragment of a
very different character, describing with equal fidelity the 50
dream of pain and disease.[297:2]
KUBLA KHAN
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea. 5
So twice five miles of fertile ground
With walls and towers were girdled round:
And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills,
Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;
And here were forests ancient as the hills, 10
Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted
Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!
A savage place! as holy and enchanted
As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 15
By woman wailing for her demon-lover![297:3]
[297:4]And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,
As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,
A mighty fountain momently was forced:
Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 20
Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,
Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:
And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever
It flung up momently the sacred river.
Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 25
Through wood and dale the sacred river ran,
Then reached the caverns measureless to man,
And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:
And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far
Ancestral voices prophesying war! 30
The shadow of the dome of pleasure
Floated midway on the waves;
Where was heard the mingled measure
From the fountain and the caves.
It was a miracle of rare device, 35
A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice![298:1]
A damsel with a dulcimer
In a vision once I saw:
It was an Abyssinian maid,
And on her dulcimer she played, 40
Singing of Mount Abora.
Could I revive within me
Her symphony and song,
To such a deep delight 'twould win me,
That with music loud and long, 45
I would build that dome in air,
That sunny dome! those caves of ice![298:2]
And all who heard should see them there,
And all should cry, Beware! Beware!
His flashing eyes, his floating hair!
Weave a circle round him thrice,
And close your eyes with holy dread,
For he on honey-dew hath fed,
And drunk the milk of Paradise.
1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[295:1] First published together with _Christabel_ and _The Pains of
Sleep_, 1816: included in 1828, 1829, and 1834.
[295:2] There can be little doubt that Coleridge should have written
'the summer of 1798'. In an unpublished MS. note dated November 3, 1810,
he connects the retirement between 'Linton and Porlock' and a recourse
to opium with his quarrel with Charles Lloyd, and consequent distress of
mind. That quarrel was at its height in May 1798. He alludes to distress
of mind arising from 'calumny and ingratitude from men who have been
fostered in the bosom of my confidence' in a letter to J. P. Estlin,
dated May 14, 1798; and, in a letter to Charles Lamb, dated [Spring]
1798, he enlarges on his quarrel with Lloyd and quotes from Lloyd's
novel of _Edmund Oliver_ which was published in 1798. See _Letters of
Samuel Taylor Coleridge_, 1895, i. 245, note 1. I discovered and read
for the first time the unpublished note of November 3, 1810, whilst the
edition of 1893 was in the press, and in a footnote to p. xlii of his
_Introduction_ the editor, J. D. Campbell, explains that it is too late
to alter the position and date of _Kubla Khan_, but accepts the later
date (May, 1798) on the evidence of the MS. note.
[296:1] 'In Xamdu did Cublai Can build a stately Palace, encompassing
sixteene miles of plaine ground with a wall, wherein are fertile
Meddowes, pleasant Springs, delightfull Streames, and all sorts of
beasts of chase and game, and in the middest thereof a sumptuous house
of pleasure.'--_Purchas his Pilgrimage_: Lond. fol. 1626, Bk. IV, chap.
xiii, p. 418.
[297:1] The quotation is from Theocritus, i. 145:--ἐς ὕστερον ἅδιον ᾀσῶ.
[297:2] _The Pains of Sleep._
[297:3] And woman wailing for her Demon Lover. Motto to Byron's _Heaven
and Earth_, published in _The Liberal_, No. II, January 1, 1823.
[297:4] With lines 17-24 compare William Bartram's description of the
'Alligator-Hole.' _Travels in North and South Carolina_, 1794, pp.
286-8.
[298:1] Compare Thomas Maurice's _History of Hindostan_, 1795, i. 107.
The reference is supplied by Coleridge in the _Gutch Memorandum Note
Book_ (B. M. Add. MSS., No. 27, 901), p. 47: 'In a cave in the mountains
of Cashmere an Image of Ice,' &c.
[298:2] In her 'Lines to S. T. Coleridge, Esq.,' Mrs. Robinson (Perdita)
writes:--
'I'll mark thy "sunny domes" and view
Thy "caves of ice", and "fields of dew".'
It is possible that she had seen a MS. copy of _Kubla Khan_ containing
these variants from the text.
LINENOTES:
Title of Introduction:--Of the Fragment of Kubla Khan 1816, 1828, 1829.
[1-5] om. 1834.
[8] there] here S. L. 1828, 1829.
[11] Enfolding] And folding 1816. The word 'Enfolding' is a pencil
emendation in David Hinves's copy of Christabel. ? by S. T. C.
[19] In the early copies of 1893 this line was accidentally omitted.
[54] drunk] drank 1816, 1828, 1829.
RECANTATION[299:1]
ILLUSTRATED IN THE STORY OF THE MAD OX
I
An Ox, long fed with musty hay,
And work'd with yoke and chain,
Was turn'd out on an April day,
When fields are in their best array,
And growing grasses sparkle gay 5
At once with Sun and rain.
II
The grass was fine, the Sun was bright--
With truth I may aver it;
The ox was glad, as well, he might,
Thought a green meadow no bad sight, 10
And frisk'd,--to shew his huge delight,
Much like a beast of spirit.
III
'_Stop, neighbours, stop, why these alarms?
The ox is only glad!_'
But still they pour from cots and farms-- 15
'Halloo!' the parish is up in arms,
(A _hoaxing_-hunt has always charms)
'Halloo! the ox is mad.'
IV
The frighted beast scamper'd about--
Plunge! through the hedge he drove: 20
The mob pursue with hideous rout,
A bull-dog fastens on his snout;
'He gores the dog! his tongue hangs out!
He's mad, he's mad, by Jove!'
V
'STOP, NEIGHBOURS, STOP!' aloud did call 25
A sage of sober hue.
But all at once, on him they fall,
And women squeak and children squall,
'What? would you have him toss us all?
And dam'me, who are you?' 30
VI
Oh! hapless sage! his ears they stun,
And curse him o'er and o'er!
'You bloody-minded dog! (cries one,)
To slit your windpipe were good fun,
'Od blast you for an _impious_ son[300:1] 35
Of a Presbyterian wh--re!'
VII
'You'd have him gore the Parish-priest,
And run against the altar!
You fiend!' the sage his warnings ceas'd,
And north and south, and west and east, 40
Halloo! they follow the poor beast,
Mat, Dick, Tom, Bob and Walter.
VIII
Old Lewis ('twas his evil day),
Stood trembling in his shoes;
The ox was his--what cou'd he say?
His legs were stiffen'd with dismay, 45
The ox ran o'er him mid the fray,
And gave him his death's bruise.
IX
The frighted beast ran on--(but here,
No tale, (tho' in print, more true is) 50
My Muse stops short in mid career--
Nay, gentle Reader, do not sneer!
I cannot chuse but drop a tear,
A tear for good old Lewis!)
X
The frighted beast ran through the town, 55
All follow'd, boy and dad,
Bull-dog, parson, shopman, clown:
The publicans rush'd from the Crown,
'Halloo! hamstring him! cut him down!'
THEY DROVE THE POOR OX MAD. 60
XI
Should you a Rat to madness tease
Why ev'n a Rat may plague you:
There's no Philosopher but sees
That Rage and Fear are one disease--
Though that may burn, and this may freeze, 65
They're both alike the Ague.
XII
And so this Ox, in frantic mood,
Fac'd round like any Bull!
The mob turn'd tail, and he pursued,
Till they with heat and fright were stew'd, 70
And not a chick of all this brood
But had his belly full!
XIII
Old Nick's astride the beast, 'tis clear!
Old Nicholas, to a tittle!
But all agree he'd disappear, 75
Would but the Parson venture near,
And through his teeth,[302:1] right o'er the steer,
Squirt out some fasting-spittle.
XIV
Achilles was a warrior fleet,
The Trojans he could worry: 80
Our Parson too was swift of feet,
But shew'd it chiefly in retreat:
The victor Ox scour'd down the street,
The mob fled hurry-scurry.
XV
Through gardens, lanes and fields new-plough'd, 85
Through _his_ hedge, and through _her_ hedge,
He plung'd and toss'd and bellow'd loud--
Till in his madness he grew proud
To see this helter-skelter crowd
That had more wrath than courage! 90
XVI
Alas! to mend the breaches wide
He made for these poor ninnies,
They all must work, whate'er betide,
Both days and months, and pay beside
(Sad news for Av'rice and for Pride), 95
A _sight_ of golden guineas!
XVII
But here once more to view did pop
The man that kept his senses--
And now he cried,--'Stop, neighbours, stop!
The Ox is mad! I would not swop, 100
No! not a school-boy's farthing top
For all the parish-fences.'
XVIII
'The Ox is mad! Ho! Dick, Bob, Mat!
'What means this coward fuss?
Ho! stretch this rope across the plat-- 105
'Twill trip him up--or if not that,
Why, dam'me! we must lay him flat--
See! here's my blunderbuss.'
XIX
'_A lying dog! just now he said
The Ox was only glad-- 110
Let's break his Presbyterian head!_'
'Hush!' quoth the sage, 'you've been misled;
No quarrels now! let's all make head,
YOU DROVE THE POOR OX MAD.'
XX
As thus I sat, in careless chat, 115
With the morning's wet newspaper,
In eager haste, without his hat,
As blind and blund'ring as a bat,
In came that fierce Aristocrat,
Our pursy woollen-draper. 120
XXI
And so my Muse per force drew bit;
And in he rush'd and panted!
'Well, have you heard?' No, not a whit.
'What, _ha'nt_ you heard?' Come, out with it!
'That Tierney votes for Mister PITT, 125
And Sheridan's _recanted_!'
1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[299:1] First published in the _Morning Post_ for July 30, 1798, with
the following title and introduction:--'ORIGINAL POETRY. A TALE. The
following amusing Tale gives a very humourous description of the French
Revolution, which is represented as an Ox': included in _Annual
Anthology_, 1800, and _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817; reprinted in _Essays on
His Own Times_, 1880, iii 963-9. First collected in _P. and D. W._,
1877-80. In a copy of the _Annual Anthology_ of 1800 Coleridge writes
over against the heading of this poem, 'Written when fears were
entertained of an invasion, and Mr. Sheridan and Mr. Tierney were
absurdly represented as having _recanted_ because to [The French
Revolution (?)] in its origin they, [having been favourable, changed
their opinion when the Revolutionists became unfaithful to their
principles (?)].' See _Note to P. W._, 1893.
The text is that of _Sibylline Leaves_ and _Essays on his Own Times_.
[300:1] One of the many fine words which the most uneducated had about
this time a constant opportunity of acquiring, from the sermons in the
pulpit and the proclamations on [in _S. L._] the ---- corners. _An.
Anth._, _S. L._
[302:1] According to the common superstition there are two ways of
fighting with the Devil. You may cut him in half with a straw, or he
will vanish if you spit over his horns with a fasting spittle. _Note by
S. T. C. in M. P._ According to the superstition of the West-Countries,
if you meet the Devil, you may either cut him in half with a straw, or
force him to disappear by spitting over his horns. _An. Anth._, _S. L._
LINENOTES:
[3] turn'd out] loosen'd M. P.
[9] ox] beast M. P.
[19] beast] ox M. P.
[22] fastens] fasten'd M. P.
[27] 'You cruel dog!' at once they bawl. M. P.
[31] Oh] Ah! M. P., An. Anth.
[35-6] om. Essays, &c.
[38] run] drive M. P.
[39] fiend] rogue M. P.
[42] Mat, Tom, Bob, Dick M. P.
[49] The baited ox drove on M. P., An. Anth.
[50] No . . . print] The Gospel scarce M. P., An. Anth.
[53] cannot] could M. P.
[55] The ox drove on, right through the town M. P.
[62] may] might M. P., An. Anth.
[68] any] a mad M. P.
[70] heat and fright] flight and fear M. P., An. Anth.
[71] this] the M. P.
[73] beast] ox M. P.
[75] agree] agreed M. P.
[83] scour'd] drove M. P.
[91] Alas] Alack M. P.
[99] cried] bawl'd M. P.
[103] Tom! Walter! Mat! M. P.
[109] _lying_] _bare-faced_ M. P.
[115] But lo! to interrupt my chat M. P.
[119] In came] In rush'd M. P.
[122] And he rush'd in M. P.
[125-6]
That Tierney's wounded Mister PITT,
And his fine tongue enchanted!
M. P.
HEXAMETERS[304:1]
William, my teacher, my friend! dear William and dear Dorothea!
Smooth out the folds of my letter, and place it on desk or on table;
Place it on table or desk; and your right hands loosely
half-closing,[304:2]
Gently sustain them in air, and extending the digit didactic,
Rest it a moment on each of the forks of the five-forkéd left hand, 5
Twice on the breadth of the thumb, and once on the tip of each
finger;
Read with a nod of the head in a humouring recitativo;
And, as I live, you will see my hexameters hopping before you.
This is a galloping measure; a hop, and a trot, and a gallop!
All my hexameters fly, like stags pursued by the stag-hounds, 10
Breathless and panting, and ready to drop, yet flying still
onwards,[304:3]
I would full fain pull in my hard-mouthed runaway hunter;
But our English Spondeans are clumsy yet impotent curb-reins;
And so to make him go slowly, no way left have I but to lame him.
William, my head and my heart! dear Poet that feelest and
thinkest! 15
Dorothy, eager of soul, my most affectionate sister!
Many a mile, O! many a wearisome mile are ye distant,
Long, long comfortless roads, with no one eye that doth know us.
O! it is all too far to send you mockeries idle:
Yea, and I feel it not right! But O! my friends, my beloved! 20
Feverish and wakeful I lie,--I am weary of feeling and thinking.
Every thought is worn _down_, I am weary yet cannot be vacant.
Five long hours have I tossed, rheumatic heats, dry and flushing,
Gnawing behind in my head, and wandering and throbbing about me,
Busy and tiresome, my friends, as the beat of the boding
night-spider.[305:1] 25
_I forget the beginning of the line:_
. . . my eyes are a burthen,
Now unwillingly closed, now open and aching with darkness.
O! what a life is the eye! what a strange and inscrutable essence!
Him that is utterly blind, nor glimpses the fire that warms him;
Him that never beheld the swelling breast of his mother; 30
Him that smiled in his gladness as a babe that smiles in its
slumber;
Even for him it exists, it moves and stirs in its prison;
Lives with a separate life, and 'Is it a Spirit?' he murmurs:
'Sure it has thoughts of its own, and to see is only a language.'
_There was a great deal more, which I have forgotten. . . . The last
line which I wrote, I remember, and write it for the truth of the
sentiment, scarcely less true in company than in pain and solitude:--_
William, my head and my heart! dear William and dear Dorothea! 35
You have all in each other; but I am lonely, and want you!
1798-9.
FOOTNOTES:
[304:1] First published in _Memoirs of W. Wordsworth_, 1851, i. 139-41:
reprinted in _Life_ by Prof. Knight, 1889, i. 185. First collected as a
whole in _P. W._ [ed. T. Ashe], 1885. lines 30-6, 'O what a life is the
eye', &c., were first published in _Friendship's Offering_, and are
included in _P. W._, 1834. They were reprinted by Cottle in _E. R._,
1837, i. 226. The 'Hexameters' were sent in a letter, written in the
winter of 1798-9 from Ratzeburg to the Wordsworths at Goslar.
[304:2] False metre. _S. T. C._
[304:3] '_Still_ flying onwards' were perhaps better. _S. T. C._
[305:1] False metre. _S. T. C._
LINENOTES:
[28] strange] fine Letter, 1798-9, Cottle, 1837.
[29] Him] He Cottle, 1837.
[30] Him] He Cottle, 1837.
[31] Him that ne'er smiled at the bosom as babe Letter, 1798-9: He that
smiled at the bosom, the babe Cottle, 1837.
[32] Even to him it exists, it stirs and moves Letter, 1798-9: Even to
him it exists, it moves and stirs Cottle, 1837.
[33] a Spirit] the Spirit Letter, 1798-9.
[34] a] its Letter, 1798-9.
TRANSLATION OF A PASSAGE IN OTTFRIED'S METRICAL PARAPHRASE OF THE
GOSPEL
[This paraphrase, written about the time of Charlemagne, is by no means
deficient in occasional passages of considerable poetic merit. There is
a flow and a tender enthusiasm in the following lines which even in the
translation will not, I flatter myself, fail to interest the reader.
Ottfried is describing the circumstances immediately following the birth
of our Lord. Most interesting is it to consider the effect when the
feelings are wrought above the natural pitch by the belief of something
mysterious, while all the images are purely natural. Then it is that
religion and poetry strike deepest. _Biog. Lit._, 1817, i.
203-4.[306:1]]
She gave with joy her virgin breast;
She hid it not, she bared the breast
Which suckled that divinest babe!
Blessed, blessed were the breasts
Which the Saviour infant kiss'd; 5
And blessed, blessed was the mother
Who wrapp'd his limbs in swaddling clothes,
Singing placed him on her lap,
Hung o'er him with her looks of love,
And soothed him with a lulling motion. 10
Blessed! for she shelter'd him
From the damp and chilling air;
Blessed, blessed! for she lay
With such a babe in one blest bed,
Close as babes and mothers lie! 15
Blessed, blessed evermore,
With her virgin lips she kiss'd,
With her arms, and to her breast,
She embraced the babe divine,
Her babe divine the virgin mother! 20
There lives not on this ring of earth
A mortal that can sing her praise.
Mighty mother, virgin pure,
In the darkness and the night
For us she _bore_ the heavenly Lord! 25
? 1799.
FOOTNOTES:
[306:1] First published as a footnote to Chapter X of the _Biographia
Literaria_ (ed. 1817, i. 203-4). First collected in 1863 (Appendix, pp.
401-2). The translation is from _Otfridi Evang._, lib. i, cap. xi, ll.
73-108 (included in Schilter's _Thesaurus Antiquitatum Teutonicarum_,
pp. 50-1, _Biog. Lit._, 1847, i. 213). Otfrid, 'a monk at Weissenburg in
Elsass', composed his _Evangelienbuch_ about 870 A.D. (Note by J.
Shawcross, _Biog. Lit._, 1907, ii. 259). As Coleridge says that 'he read
through Ottfried's metrical paraphrase of the Gospel' when he was at
Göttingen, it may be assumed that the translation was made in 1799.
LINENOTES:
[5] Saviour infant] infant Saviour 1863.
CATULLIAN HENDECASYLLABLES[307:1]
Hear, my belovéd, an old Milesian story!--
High, and embosom'd in congregated laurels,
Glimmer'd a temple upon a breezy headland;
In the dim distance amid the skiey billows
Rose a fair island; the god of flocks had blest it. 5
From the far shores of the bleat-resounding island
Oft by the moonlight a little boat came floating,
Came to the sea-cave beneath the breezy headland,
Where amid myrtles a pathway stole in mazes
Up to the groves of the high embosom'd temple. 10
There in a thicket of dedicated roses,
Oft did a priestess, as lovely as a vision,
Pouring her soul to the son of Cytherea,
Pray him to hover around the slight canoe-boat,
And with invisible pilotage to guide it 15
Over the dusk wave, until the nightly sailor
Shivering with ecstasy sank upon her bosom.
? 1799.
FOOTNOTES:
[307:1] First published in 1834. These lines, which are not
'Hendecasyllables', are a translation of part of Friedrich von
Matthisson's _Milesisches Mährchen_. For the original see Note to
_Poems_, 1852, and Appendices of this edition. There is no evidence as
to the date of composition. The emendations in lines 5 and 6 were first
printed in _P. W._, 1893.
LINENOTES:
[5] blest] plac'd 1834, 1844, 1852.
[6] bleat-resounding] bleak-resounding 1834, 1852.
[16] nightly] mighty 1834, 1844.
THE HOMERIC HEXAMETER[307:2]
DESCRIBED AND EXEMPLIFIED
Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows,
Nothing before and nothing behind but the sky and the ocean.
? 1799.
FOOTNOTES:
[307:2] First published (together with the 'Ovidian Elegiac Metre', &c.)
in _Friendship's Offering_, 1834: included in _P. W._, 1834. An
acknowledgement that these 'experiments in metre' are translations from
Schiller was first made in a Note to _Poems_, 1844, p. 371. The
originals were given on p. 372. See Appendices of this edition. There is
no evidence as to the date of composition.
THE OVIDIAN ELEGIAC METRE
DESCRIBED AND EXEMPLIFIED
In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column;
In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.
? 1799.
ON A CATARACT[308:1]
FROM A CAVERN NEAR THE SUMMIT OF A MOUNTAIN PRECIPICE
STROPHE
Unperishing youth!
Thou leapest from forth
The cell of thy hidden nativity;
Never mortal saw
The cradle of the strong one; 5
Never mortal heard
The gathering of his voices;
The deep-murmured charm of the son of the rock,
That is lisp'd evermore at his slumberless fountain.
There's a cloud at the portal, a spray-woven veil 10
At the shrine of his ceaseless renewing;
It embosoms the roses of dawn,
It entangles the shafts of the noon,
And into the bed of its stillness
The moonshine sinks down as in slumber, 15
That the son of the rock, that the nursling of heaven
May be born in a holy twilight!
ANTISTROPHE
The wild goat in awe
Looks up and beholds
Above thee the cliff inaccessible;-- 20
Thou at once full-born
Madd'nest in thy joyance,
Whirlest, shatter'st, splitt'st,
Life invulnerable.
? 1799.
FOOTNOTES:
[308:1] First published in 1834. For the original (_Unsterblicher
Jüngling_) by Count F. L. Stolberg see Note to _Poems_, 1844, pp. 371-2,
and Appendices of this edition.
LINENOTES:
Title] Improved from Stolberg. On a Cataract, &c. 1844, 1852.
[2-3]
Thou streamest from forth
The cleft of thy ceaseless Nativity
MS. S. T. C.
[Between 7 and 13.]
The murmuring songs of the Son of the Rock,
When he feeds evermore at the slumberless Fountain.
There abideth a Cloud,
At the Portal a Veil,
At the shrine of thy self-renewing;
It embodies the Visions of Dawn,
It entangles, &c.
MS. S. T. C.
[20] Below thee the cliff inaccessible MS. S. T. C.
[22-3]
Flockest in thy Joyance,
Wheelest, shatter'st, start'st.
MS. S. T. C.
TELL'S BIRTH-PLACE[309:1]
IMITATED FROM STOLBERG
I
Mark this holy chapel well!
The birth-place, this, of William Tell.
Here, where stands God's altar dread,
Stood his parents' marriage-bed.
II
Here, first, an infant to her breast, 5
Him his loving mother prest;
And kissed the babe, and blessed the day,
And prayed as mothers use to pray.
III
'Vouchsafe him health, O God! and give
The child thy servant still to live!' 10
But God had destined to do more
Through him, than through an arméd power.
IV
God gave him reverence of laws,
Yet stirring blood in Freedom's cause--
A spirit to his rocks akin, 15
The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein!
V
To Nature and to Holy Writ
Alone did God the boy commit:
Where flashed and roared the torrent, oft
His soul found wings, and soared aloft! 20
VI
The straining oar and chamois chase
Had formed his limbs to strength and grace:
On wave and wind the boy would toss,
Was great, nor knew how great he was!
VII
He knew not that his chosen hand, 25
Made strong by God, his native land
Would rescue from the shameful yoke
Of Slavery----the which he broke!
? 1799.
FOOTNOTES:
[309:1] First published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: included in 1828,
1829, and 1834. For the original (_Bei Wilhelm Tells Geburtsstätte im
Kanton Uri_) by Count F. L. Stolberg see Appendices of this edition.
There is no evidence as to the date of composition.
LINENOTES:
[28] Slavery] _Slavery_, all editions to 1834.
THE VISIT OF THE GODS[310:1]
IMITATED FROM SCHILLER
Never, believe me,
Appear the Immortals,
Never alone:
Scarce had I welcomed the Sorrow-beguiler,
Iacchus! but in came Boy Cupid the Smiler; 5
Lo! Phoebus the Glorious descends from his throne!
They advance, they float in, the Olympians all!
With Divinities fills my
Terrestrial hall!
How shall I yield you 10
Due entertainment,
Celestial quire?
Me rather, bright guests! with your wings of upbuoyance
Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of joyance,
That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre! 15
Hah! we mount! on their pinions they waft up my soul!
O give me the nectar!
O fill me the bowl!
Give him the nectar!
Pour out for the poet, 20
Hebe! pour free!
Quicken his eyes with celestial dew,
That Styx the detested no more he may view,
And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be!
Thanks, Hebe! I quaff it! Io Paean, I cry! 25
The wine of the Immortals
Forbids me to die!
? 1799.
FOOTNOTES:
[310:1] First published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: included in 1828,
1829 ('Vision of the Gods', Contents, vol. i, pp. 322-3 of both
editions), and in 1834. For Schiller's original (_Dithyrambe_) see
Appendices of this edition.
FROM THE GERMAN[311:1]
Know'st thou the land where the pale citrons grow,
The golden fruits in darker foliage glow?
Soft blows the wind that breathes from that blue sky!
Still stands the myrtle and the laurel high!
Know'st thou it well, that land, beloved Friend? 5
Thither with thee, O, thither would I wend!
? 1799.
FOOTNOTES:
[311:1] First published in 1834. For the original ('Mignon's Song') in
Goethe's _Wilhelm Meister_ see Appendices of this edition.
WATER BALLAD[311:2]
[FROM THE FRENCH]
'Come hither, gently rowing,
Come, bear me quickly o'er
This stream so brightly flowing
To yonder woodland shore.
But vain were my endeavour 5
To pay thee, courteous guide;
Row on, row on, for ever
I'd have thee by my side.
'Good boatman, prithee haste thee,
I seek my father-land.'-- 10
'Say, when I there have placed thee,
Dare I demand thy hand?'
'A maiden's head can never
So hard a point decide;
Row on, row on, for ever 15
I'd have thee by my side.'
The happy bridal over
The wanderer ceased to roam,
For, seated by her lover,
The boat became her home. 20
And still they sang together
As steering o'er the tide:
'Row on through wind and weather
For ever by my side.'
? 1799.
FOOTNOTES:
[311:2] First published in _The Athenaeum_, October 29, 1831. First
collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877-80. For the original ('Barcarolle de
Marie') of François Antoine Eugène de Planard see Appendices of this
edition.
ON AN INFANT[312:1]
WHICH DIED BEFORE BAPTISM
'Be, rather than be called, a child of God,'
Death whispered! With assenting nod,
Its head upon its mother's breast,
The Baby bowed, without demur--
Of the kingdom of the Blest
Possessor, not Inheritor.
_April_ 8, 1799.
FOOTNOTES:
[312:1] First published in _P. W._, 1834. These lines were sent in a
letter from Coleridge to his wife, dated Göttingen, April 6, 1799:--'Ah,
my poor Berkeley!' [b. May 15, 1798, d. Feb. 10, 1799] he writes, 'A few
weeks ago an Englishman desired me to write an epitaph on an infant who
had died before its Christening. While I wrote it, my heart with a deep
misgiving turned my thoughts homeward. "On an Infant", &c. It refers to
the second question in the Church Catechism.' _Letters of S. T. C._
1895, i. 287.
LINENOTES:
[1] called] _call'd_ MS. Letter, 1799.
[3] its] the MS. letter, 1799.
[4] bow'd and went without demur MS. Letter, 1799.
SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL[313:1]
WRITTEN IN GERMANY
If I had but two little wings
And were a little feathery bird,
To you I'd fly, my dear!
But thoughts like these are idle things,
And I stay here. 5
But in my sleep to you I fly:
I'm always with you in my sleep!
The world is all one's own.
But then one wakes, and where am I?
All, all alone. 10
Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:
So I love to wake ere break of day:
For though my sleep be gone,
Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,
And still dreams on. 15
_April_ 23, 1799.
FOOTNOTES:
[313:1] First published in the Annual Anthology (1800), with the
signature 'Cordomi': included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and
1834. The lines, without title or heading, were sent in a letter from
Coleridge to his wife, dated Göttingen, April 23, 1799 (Letters of S. T.
C., 1895, i. 294-5). They are an imitation (see F. Freiligrath's
Biographical Memoir to the Tauchnitz edition of 1852) of the German
Folk-song Wenn ich ein Vöglein wär. For the original see Appendices of
this edition. The title 'Something Childish', &c., was prefixed in the
Annual Anthology, 1800.
LINENOTES:
[3] you] _you_ MS. Letter, 1799.
[6] you] _you_ MS. Letter, 1799.
HOME-SICK[314:1]
WRITTEN IN GERMANY
'Tis sweet to him who all the week
Through city-crowds must push his way,
To stroll alone through fields and woods,
And hallow thus the Sabbath-day.
And sweet it is, in summer bower, 5
Sincere, affectionate and gay,
One's own dear children feasting round,
To celebrate one's marriage-day.
But what is all to his delight,
Who having long been doomed to roam, 10
Throws off the bundle from his back,
Before the door of his own home?
Home-sickness is a wasting pang;
This feel I hourly more and more:
There's healing only in thy wings, 15
Thou breeze that play'st on Albion's shore!
_May_ 6, 1799.
FOOTNOTES:
[314:1] First published in the _Annual Anthology_ (1800), with the
signature 'Cordomi': included in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829,
1834. The lines, without title or heading, were sent in a letter from
Coleridge to Poole, dated May 6, 1799 (_Letters of S. T.C._, 1895, i.
298). Dr. Carlyon in his _Early Years_, &c. (1856, i. 66), prints
stanzas 1, 3, and 4. He says that they were written from Coleridge's
dictation, in the Brockenstammbuch at the little inn on the Brocken. The
title 'Home-Sick', &c., was prefixed in the _Annual Anthology_, 1800.
LINENOTES:
[13] a wasting pang] no baby-pang MS. Letter, 1799, An.
Anth.
[15] There's only music in thy wings MS. Letter, 1799.
LINES[315:1]
WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE, IN THE HARTZ FOREST
I stood on Brocken's[315:2] sovran height, and saw
Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills,
A surging scene, and only limited
By the blue distance. Heavily my way
Downward I dragged through fir groves evermore, 5
Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms
Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard,
The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound;
And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly,
Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct 10
From many a note of many a waterfall,
And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet-stones
The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell
Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat
Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on 15
In low and languid mood:[315:3] for I had found
That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive
Their finer influence from the Life within;--
Fair cyphers else: fair, but of import vague
Or unconcerning, where the heart not finds 20
History or prophecy of friend, or child,
Or gentle maid, our first and early love,
Or father, or the venerable name
Of our adoréd country! O thou Queen,
Thou delegated Deity of Earth, 25
O dear, dear England! how my longing eye
Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds
Thy sands and high white cliffs!
My native Land!
Filled with the thought of thee this heart was proud,
Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the view 30
From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills,
Floated away, like a departing dream,
Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses
Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane,
With hasty judgment or injurious doubt, 35
That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel
That God is everywhere! the God who framed
Mankind to be one mighty family,
Himself our Father, and the World our Home.
_May_ 17, 1799.
FOOTNOTES:
[315:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, September 17, 1799:
included in the _Annual Anthology_ (1800) [signed C.], in _Sibylline
Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The lines were sent in a letter
from Coleridge to his wife, dated May 17, 1799. Part of the letter was
printed in the _Amulet_, 1829, and the whole in the _Monthly Magazine_
for October, 1835. A long extract is given in Gillman's _Life of S. T.
C._, 1838, pp. 125-38.
[315:2] The highest Mountain in the Harz, and indeed in North Germany.
[315:3]
----When I have gaz'd
From some high eminence on goodly vales,
And cots and villages embower'd below,
The thought would rise that all to me was strange
Amid the scenes so fair, nor one small spot
Where my tired mind might rest and call it home.
SOUTHEY'S _Hymn to the Penates_.
LINENOTES:
[3] _surging_] _surging_ M. P.
[4] Heavily] Wearily MS. Letter.
[6] heaves] mov'd MS. Letter.
[8] a] an all editions to 1834.
[9] breeze] gale MS. Letter.
[11] waterfall] waterbreak MS. Letter.
[12] 'mid] on MS. Letter.
[16] With low and languid thought, for I had found MS. Letter.
[17] That grandest scenes have but imperfect charms MS. Letter, M. P.,
An. Anth.
[18]
Where the eye vainly wanders nor beholds
MS. Letter.
Where the sight, &c.
M. P., An. Anth.
[19] One spot with which the heart associates MS. Letter, M. P., An.
Anth.
[19-21]
Fair cyphers of vague import, where the Eye
Traces no spot, in which the Heart may read
History or Prophecy
S. L. 1817, 1828.
[20]
Holy Remembrances of Child or Friend
MS. Letter.
Holy Remembrances of Friend or Child
M. P., An. Anth.
[26] eye] eyes MS. Letter.
[28-30]
Sweet native Isle
This heart was proud, yea mine eyes swam with tears
To think of thee: and all the goodly view
MS. Letter.
[28] O native land M. P., An. Anth.
[34] I] _I_ MS. Letter.
[38] family] brother-hood MS. Letter.
THE BRITISH STRIPLING'S WAR-SONG[317:1]
IMITATED FROM STOLBERG
Yes, noble old Warrior! this heart has beat high,
Since you told of the deeds which our countrymen wrought;
O lend me the sabre that hung by thy thigh,
And I too will fight as my forefathers fought.
Despise not my youth, for my spirit is steel'd, 5
And I know there is strength in the grasp of my hand;
Yea, as firm as thyself would I march to the field,
And as proudly would die for my dear native land.
In the sports of my childhood I mimick'd the fight,
The sound of a trumpet suspended my breath; 10
And my fancy still wander'd by day and by night,
Amid battle and tumult, 'mid conquest and death.
My own shout of onset, when the Armies advance,
How oft it awakes me from visions of glory;
When I meant to have leapt on the Hero of France, 15
And have dash'd him to earth, pale and breathless and gory.
As late thro' the city with banners all streaming
To the music of trumpets the Warriors flew by,
With helmet and scimitars naked and gleaming,
On their proud-trampling, thunder-hoof'd steeds did they fly; 20
I sped to yon heath that is lonely and bare,
For each nerve was unquiet, each pulse in alarm;
And I hurl'd the mock-lance thro' the objectless air,
And in open-eyed dream proved the strength of my arm.
Yes, noble old Warrior! this heart has beat high, 25
Since you told of the deeds that our countrymen wrought;
O lend me the sabre that hung by thy thigh,
And I too will fight as my forefathers fought!
? 1799.
FOOTNOTES:
[317:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, August 24, 1799: included
in the _Annual Anthology_ for 1800: reprinted in _Literary Remains_,
1836, i. 276, in the _Gentleman's Magazine_, 1848. ('Communicated to the
_Bath Herald_ during the Volunteer Frenzy of 1803') (N. S. xxix, p. 60),
and in _Essays on His Own Times_, iii. 988-9. First collected in _P.
W._, 1877-80, ii. 200-1. The MS. is preserved in the British Museum. The
text follows that of the _Annual Anthology_, 1800, pp. 173-4. For the
original by Count F. L. Stolberg (_Lied eines deutschen Knaben_) see
Appendices of this edition.
LINENOTES:
Title] The Stripling's War-Song. Imitated from the German of Stolberg
MS. The Stripling's, &c. Imitated from Stolberg L. R. The British
Stripling's War Song M. P., An. Anth., Essays, &c. The Volunteer
Stripling. A Song G. M.
[1] Yes] My MS., L. R.
[2] Since] When G. M. which] that MS., L. R. our] your M. P., Essays,
&c.
[3] Ah! give me the sabre [[*Falchion*]] that [which L. R.] MS., Essays,
&c.
[5] O despise MS., L. R., Essays, &c.
[7] march] move MS., L. R.
[8] would] could Essays, &c. native land] fatherland L. R.
[9] fight] sight G. M.
[10] sound] shrill [[*sound*]] MS., L. R. a] the M. P., Essays, &c.
[12] Amid tumults [tumult L. R.] and perils MS. 'mid] and Essays, &c.
Mid battle and bloodshed G. M.
[13]
My own eager shout in the heat of my trance
MS., MS. correction in An. Anth., L. R.
My own shout of onset, { in the heat of my trance G. M., 1893.
{ [*when the armies advance*] MS.
[14] visions] dreams full MS., L. R. How oft it has wak'd G. M.
[15] When I dreamt that I rush'd G. M.
[16] breathless] deathless L. R. pale, breathless G. M.
[17] city] town G. M.
[17-18]
{ with bannerets streaming
{ [*with a terrible beauty*]
To [And L. R.] the music
MS.
[19] scimitars] scymetar MS., L.R., Essays, &c., G. M.: scymeter M. P.
[Between 20-1]
And the Host pacing after in gorgeous parade
All mov'd to one measure in front and in rear;
And the Pipe, Drum and Trumpet, such harmony made
As the souls of the Slaughter'd would loiter to hear.
MS. erased.
[21] that] which L. R.
[22] For my soul MS. erased.
[23] I hurl'd my MS., L. R., Essays, &c. objectless] mind-peopled G. M.
[26] Since] When G. M.
[27] Ah! give me the falchion MS., L. R.
NAMES[318:1]
[FROM LESSING]
I ask'd my fair one happy day,
What I should call her in my lay;
By what sweet name from Rome or Greece;
Lalage, Neaera, Chloris,
Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, 5
Arethusa or Lucrece.
'Ah!' replied my gentle fair,
'Belovéd, what are names but air?
Choose thou whatever suits the line;
Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, 10
Call me Lalage or Doris,
Only, only call me Thine.'
1799.
FOOTNOTES:
[318:1] First published in the _Morning Post_: reprinted in the
_Poetical Register_ for 1803 (1805) with the signature HARLEY.
PHILADELPHIA, in the _Keepsake_ for 1829, in Cottle's _Early
Recollections_ (two versions) 1837, ii. 67, and in _Essays on His Own
Times_, iii. 990, 'As it first appeared' in the _Morning Post_. First
collected in 1834. For the original (_Die Namen_) see Appendices of this
edition.
LINENOTES:
Title] Song from Lessing M. P., Essays, &c.: From the German of Lessing
P. R.: Epigram Keepsake, 1829, Cottle's Early Recollections.
[1] fair] love Cottle, E. R.
[4]
Iphigenia, Clelia, Chloris,
M. P., Cottle, E. R., P. R.
Neaera, Laura, Daphne, Chloris,
Keepsake.
[5]
Laura, Lesbia, or Doris,
MS. 1799, M. P., Cottle, E. R.
Carina, Lalage, or Doris,
Keepsake.
[6] Dorimene, or Lucrece, MS. 1799, M. P., Cottle, E. R., P. R.,
Keepsake.
[8] Belovéd.] Dear one Keepsake.
[9] Choose thou] Take thou M. P., P. R.: Take Cottle, E. R.
[10] Call me Laura, call me Chloris MS. 1799, Keepsake.
[10-11]
Call me Clelia, call me Chloris,
Laura, Lesbia or Doris
M. P., Cottle, E. R.
[10-12]
Clelia, Iphigenia, Chloris,
Laura, Lesbia, Delia, Doris,
But don't forget to call me _thine_.
P. R.
THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS[319:1]
I
From his brimstone bed at break of day
A walking the Devil is gone,
To visit his snug little farm the earth,
And see how his stock goes on.
II
Over the hill and over the dale, 5
And he went over the plain,
And backward and forward he switched his long tail
As a gentleman switches his cane.
III
And how then was the Devil drest?
Oh! he was in his Sunday's best: 10
His jacket was red and his breeches were blue,
And there was a hole where the tail came through.
IV
He saw a Lawyer killing a Viper
On a dunghill hard by his own stable;
And the Devil smiled, for it put him in mind 15
Of Cain and his brother, Abel.
V
He saw an Apothecary on a white horse
Ride by on his vocations,
And the Devil thought of his old Friend
Death in the Revelations.[320:1] 20
VI
He saw a cottage with a double coach-house,
A cottage of gentility;
And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin
Is pride that apes humility.
VII
He peep'd into a rich bookseller's shop, 25
Quoth he! we are both of one college!
For I sate myself, like a cormorant, once
Hard by the tree of knowledge.[321:1]
VIII
Down the river did glide, with wind and tide,
A pig with vast celerity; 30
And the Devil look'd wise as he saw how the while,
It cut its own throat. 'There!' quoth he with a smile,
'Goes "England's commercial prosperity."'
IX
As he went through Cold-Bath Fields he saw
A solitary cell; 35
And the Devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint
For improving his prisons in Hell.
X
He saw a Turnkey in a trice
Fetter a troublesome blade;
'Nimbly,' quoth he, 'do the fingers move 40
If a man be but used to his trade.'
XI
He saw the same Turnkey unfetter a man,
With but little expedition,
Which put him in mind of the long debate
On the Slave-trade abolition. 45
XII
He saw an old acquaintance
As he passed by a Methodist meeting;--
She holds a consecrated key,
And the devil nods her a greeting.
XIII
She turned up her nose, and said, 50
'Avaunt! my name's Religion,'
And she looked to Mr. ----
And leered like a love-sick pigeon.
XIV
He saw a certain minister
(A minister to his mind) 55
Go up into a certain House,
With a majority behind.
XV
The Devil quoted Genesis
Like a very learnéd clerk,
How 'Noah and his creeping things 60
Went up into the Ark.'
XVI
He took from the poor,
And he gave to the rich,
And he shook hands with a Scotchman,
For he was not afraid of the ---- 65
XVII
General ----[323:1] burning face
He saw with consternation,
And back to hell his way did he take,
For the Devil thought by a slight mistake
It was general conflagration. 70
1799.
FOOTNOTES:
[319:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, September 6, 1799:
included in 1828, 1829, and 1834. It is printed separately as the
_Devil's Walk_, a Poem, By Professor Porson, London, Marsh and Miller,
&c., 1830. In 1827, by way of repudiating Porson's alleged authorship of
_The Devil's Thoughts_, Southey expanded the _Devil's Thoughts_ of 1799
into a poem of fifty-seven stanzas entitled _The Devil's Walk_. See _P.
W._, 1838, iii. pp. 87-100. In the _Morning Post_ the poem numbered
fourteen stanzas; in 1828, 1829 it is reduced to ten, and in 1834
enlarged to seventeen stanzas. Stanzas iii and xiv-xvi of the text are
not in the _M. P._ Stanzas iv and v appeared as iii, iv; stanza vi as
ix; stanza vii as v; stanza viii as x; stanza ix as viii; stanza x as
vi; stanza xi as vii; stanza xvii as xiv. In 1828, 1829, the poem
consists of stanzas i-ix of the text, and of the concluding stanzas
stanza xi ('Old Nicholas', &c.) of the _M. P._ version was not
reprinted. Stanzas xiv-xvi of the text were first acknowledged by
Coleridge in 1834.
[320:1] And I looked, and behold a pale horse, and his name that sat on
him was Death, Rev. vi. 8. _M. P._
[321:1] This anecdote is related by that most interesting of the Devil's
Biographers, Mr. John Milton, in his _Paradise Lost_, and we have here
the Devil's own testimony to the truth and accuracy of it. _M. P._
'And all amid them stood the TREE OF LIFE
High, eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit
Of vegetable gold (query _paper-money_), and next to Life
_Our_ Death, the TREE OF KNOWLEDGE, grew fast by.--
* * * * *
* * * * *
So clomb this first grand thief--
Thence up he flew, and on the tree of life
Sat like a cormorant.'--_Par. Lost_, iv.
The allegory here is so apt, that in a catalogue of _various readings_
obtained from collating the MSS. one might expect to find it noted, that
for 'LIFE' _Cod. quid. habent_, 'TRADE.' Though indeed THE TRADE, _i.
e._ the bibliopolic, so called κατ' ἐξοχήν, may be regarded as LIFE
sensu _eminentiori_; a suggestion, which I owe to a young retailer in
the hosiery line, who on hearing a description of the net profits,
dinner parties, country houses, etc., of the trade, exclaimed, 'Ay!
that's what I call LIFE now!'--This 'Life, _our_ Death,' is thus happily
contrasted with the fruits of Authorship.--Sic nos non nobis
mellificamus Apes.
Of this poem, which with the 'Fire, Famine, and Slaughter' first
appeared in the _Morning Post_ [6th Sept. 1799], the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 9th,
and 16th stanzas[321:A] were dictated by Mr. Southey. See Apologetic
Preface [to _Fire, Famine and Slaughter_]. [Between the ninth and the
concluding stanza, two or three are omitted, as grounded on subjects
which have lost their interest--and for better reasons. _1828_, _1829_.]
If any one should ask who General ---- meant, the Author begs leave to
inform him, that he did once see a red-faced person in a dream whom by
the dress he took for a General; but he might have been mistaken, and
most certainly he did not hear any names mentioned. In simple verity,
the author never meant any one, or indeed any thing but to put a
concluding stanza to his doggerel.
[321:A] The three first stanzas, which are worth all the rest,
and the ninth _1828_, _1829_.
[323:1] In a MS. copy in the B. M. and in some pirated versions the
blank is filled up by the word 'Gascoigne's'; but in a MS. copy taken at
Highgate, in June, 1820, by Derwent Coleridge the line runs 'General
Tarleton's', &c.
LINENOTES:
[3-4]
{ To look at his little snug farm of the Earth
{ To visit, &c.
1828, 1829.
And see how his stock went on.
M. P., 1828, 1829.
[7] switched] swish'd M. P., 1828, 1829.
[8] switches] swishes M. P., 1828, 1829.
[9-12] Not in M. P.
[14] On the dunghill beside his stable M. P.: On a dung-heap beside his
stable 1828, 1829.
[15-16]
Oh! oh; quoth he, for it put him in mind
Of the story of Cain and Abel
M. P.
[16] his] _his_ 1828, 1829.
[17] He . . . on] An Apothecary on M. P.: A Pothecary on 1828, 1829.
[18] Ride] Rode M.P., 1828, 1829. vocations] vocation M. P.
[20] Revelations] Revelation M. P.
[21] saw] past M. P.
[23] And he grinn'd at the sight, for his favourite vice M. P.
[25] peep'd] went M. P., 1828, 1829.
[27] sate myself] myself sate 1828, 1829.
[28] Hard by] Upon M. P.: Fast by 1828, 1829.
[29-33]
He saw a pig right rapidly
Adown the river float,
The pig swam well, but every stroke
Was cutting his own throat.
M. P.
[29] did glide] there plied 1828, 1829.
[Between 33-4]
Old Nicholas grinn'd and swish'd his tail
For joy and admiration;
And he thought of his daughter, Victory,
And his darling babe, Taxation.
M. P.
[34-5]
As he went through ---- ---- fields he look'd
At a
M. P.
[37] his] the M. P. in] of M. P.
[39] Fetter] Hand-cuff M. P.: Unfetter 1834.
[40-1]
'Nimbly', quoth he, 'the fingers move
If a man is but us'd to his trade.'
M. P.
[42] unfetter] unfettering M. P.
[44] And he laugh'd for he thought of the long debates M. P.
[46] saw] met M. P.
[47] Just by the Methodist meeting. M. P.
[48] holds] held M. P. key] flag[323:A] M. P.
[323:A] The allusion is to Archbishop Randolph consecrating
the Duke of York's banners. See S. T. Coleridge's _Notizbuch
aus den Jahren 1795-8_ . . . von A. Brandl, 1896, p. 354 (p.
25 _a_, l. 18 of _Gutch Memorandum Book_, B. M. Add. MSS.
27,901).
[49] And the Devil nods a greeting. M. P.
[50-2]
She tip'd him the wink, then frown'd and cri'd
'Avaunt! my name's ----
And turn'd to Mr. W----
M. P.
[66] General ----] General ----'s M. P.
[68] way did take M. P.
[70] general] General M. P.
LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM[324:1]
Nor cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest
These scented Rooms, where, to a gaudy throng,
Heaves the proud Harlot her distended breast,
In intricacies of laborious song.
These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign 5
To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint;
But when the long-breathed singer's uptrilled strain
Bursts in a squall--they gape for wonderment.
Hark! the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate!
Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer 10
My lady eyes some maid of humbler state,
While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest,
Prattles accordant scandal in her ear.
O give me, from this heartless scene released,
To hear our old Musician, blind and grey, 15
(Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kissed,)
His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play,
By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night,
The while I dance amid the tedded hay
With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light. 20
Or lies the purple evening on the bay
Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide
Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees,
For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied,
On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease, 25
And while the lazy boat sways to and fro,
Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow,
That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears.
But O, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers,
And the gust pelting on the out-house shed 30
Makes the cock shrilly in the rainstorm crow,
To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe,
Ballad of ship-wreck'd sailor floating dead,
Whom his own true-love buried in the sands!
Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures 35
Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures
The things of Nature utter; birds or trees,
Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves,
Or where the stiff grass mid the heath-plant waves,
Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze. 40