The works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, prose and verse ...

Front matter

Book

THE WORKS

OF

Contents

The Nightingale ; a Conversation Poem . . 42

Frost at Midnight .' • ' ^^

To a Friend, together with an unfinished

Appendix

Apologetic Preface to " Fire, Famine, and

Slaughter ib.

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER 60

CHRISTABEL 66

REMORSE ; a Tragedy, in Five Acts 73

Z A POLY A ; a Christmas Tale.

Part I. the prelude, entitled " the usurper's fortune" 96

Page Part II. the sequel, entitled "the usurper's fate" 102

THE PICCOLOMINI, OR THE FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEIN ; a Drama, translated from the German of Schiller . . 121

THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN ; a Tragedy, in Five Acts 1 1>8

THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE ; an Historic

Drama 203

PROSE IN RHYME ; OR EPIGRAMS, MORALITIES, AND THINGS WITHOUT A NAME.

Love 212

Duty surviving Self-love, the only Sure Friend of Declining Life ; a Soliloquy .213

Phantom or Fact? a Dialogue in Verse . . ib.

Work without Hope ib.

Youth and Age ib.

A Day-dream 214

To a Lady, offended by a sportive observation that women have no souls .... ih.

" I have heard of reasons manifold" .... ?i.

Lines suggested by the Last Words of Berengarius ib.

The Devil's Thoughts ih.

Constancy to an Ideal Object 215

The Suicide's Argument, and Nature's Answer ib

The Blossoming of the Solitary Date-tree; a Lament 216

Fancy in Nubibus, or the Poet in the Clouds ib

The Two Founts ; Stanzas addressed to a Lady on her recovery, with unblemished looks, from a severe attack of pain . . ih.

What is Life ? 217

The Exchange ib.

Sonnet, composed by the Sea-side, October, 1817 rh.

Epigrams ih.

The Wanderings of Cain 218

Allegoric Vision i-'"Ji)

The Improvisatore, or " John Anderson, my jo, John" 22?

The Garden of Boccaccio 224

THE

POETICAL AVORKS

OF

Preface

Compositions resembling Uiose here collected are not unfreqiienlly condemned for their querulous Egotism. But Egotism is to be condemned then only when it oflends against time and place, as in a Ilistor)' or an Epic Poem. To censure it in a Monody or Sonnet is almost as absurd as to dislike a circle for being round. Why then vvriic Sonnets or Monodies ? Because they give me pleasure when perhaps riolhir\g else could. Afler the more violent emotions of S<jrro\v, the mind demands amusement, and can find it in employment alone : but, full of its late siilferings, it can endure no employment not in .some measure coimected wilh them. Forcibly to turn away our altenlion to general subjects is a paiiil'ul and most ofien an unavailing effort.

But O ! how grateful to n wounded heart The tale of AJisery to imparl — From others' eyes bid aniens sorrows flow, And raise esteem upon the base of Woe '.

Shaw.

The communicativeness of our Nature leads us to describe our own sorrows ; in the endeavor to describe them, inlellectual activitj- is exerted ; and from inlellectual activity there results a pleasure, which is gradually associated, and mingles as a corrective, with the painful subject of the description. " True ! "' (it may be answered) " but how are the Public interested in your sorrows or your Dcscri|> lion 1." We are for ever attributing personal lenities to imaginary Aggregates. What is the Public, but a term lor a number of scattered individuals ? of whom as many will be interested in these sorrows, as have experienced the same or similar.

Holy be the Iny Which mourning Boollics the mourner on his way.

If I could judge of others by myself, I should not hesiiale to affirm, that the most interesting pa.ssages are those in which the Author develops his own fecling.s ? Tlio sweet voice of Cona* never sounds so sweetly, as when it speaks of ilself; and I should almost suspect that man of an unkindly heart, who could read the opening of the third liook of the Paradise Lost without peculiar emotion. By a Law of our Kature, he, who labors under a strong feeling, is

* Ossian.

BS impelled to seek for sympathy; but a Poet's feelings are all strong. Quicquid amel valde aviat. Akenside therefore speaks with philosophical accuracy when he classes Love and Poetry, as producing the same eflods :

Love and the wisli of Poets when their tongue Would ti'acli to others' bosoms, what so charms Their own.

Pleasures of Imagination.

There is one species of Egotism whicli is iruly disgusting ; not that which leads us to communicate our feelings to others but that which would reduce the feehngs of others to an identity wilh our own. 'J'he Atheist, who exclaims " pshaw ! " when he glances his eye on the praises of Deity, is an J^golisl : an old man, when he speaks contemptuously of Loveverses, is an J'".golist: and the sleek Favorites of Forlune are Egotists, when they condemn :>.ll " melancholy, disconlented " verses. Surely, it would be candid not merely to ask whether the poem pleases ourselves, btit to consider whether or no there may not be others, to whom it is well calculated to give an innocent pleasure.

I shall only add, that each of my readere will, I hope, remember, that these Poems on various subjects, which he reads at one time and under tlie influence of one set of feelings, were written at different times and prompted by verj' difl'erent feelings ; and therefore that the supposed inferiority of one Poem lo another may sometimes be owing lo tho temper of mind in which he happens to peruse it.

Mv poems have been rightly charged with a pro fusion of (loul)l('-('|)iihols, and a general turgidne.ss I have ()runed Ihe double-cpiihcis with no sparing hand ; and used my best eliorts to tame the swell and glitter botli of iliought and diction.* This latter

• Without any feeling of anger, I may yet be allowed lo express some degree of surprise, that alter having run the critical gauntli^t for a certain class of faults, wliiirh I bail, viz. a too ornate and elaborately poetic dictiim, and nothing having come before the judgment-seat of the Reviewers during tho long interval, I should for at least seventeen years, iiuarler afler (lu.irtcr, have been placed by them in the forcniosl rank of tho proscribed, and made to abide the brunt of abuse and ridicule for faults directly opposite, viz. bald and prosaic language, and an afTeeted simplicity both of matter and manner — faults which assuredly did not enter into tho cbariictor of my cumpusitiuDS. — Literary Lije, i 51. Published 1817

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL VrORKS.

fault however had insinuated itself into my Religious Musings with such intricacy of union, that sometimes I have omitted to disentangle the weed from the fear of snapping the flower. A third and heavier accusation has been brought against me, that of obscurity ; but not, I think, with equal justice. An Author is obscure, when his conceptions are dim and imperfect, and his language incorrect, or unappropriate, or involved. A poem that abounds in allusions, like the Bard of Gray, or one that impersonates high and abstract truths, like CoUins's Ode on the poetical character, claims not to be popular — but should be acquitted of obscurity. The deficiency IS in the Reader. But this is a charge which every I Kiel, whose imagination is warm and rapid, must expect from his contemporaries. Milton did not escape it ; and it was adduced with virulence against (Jray and Collins. We now hear no more of it: not that their poems are better understood at present, I ban they were at their first publication; but their iiime is established ; and a critic would accuse himself of frigidity or inattention, who should profess not to understand them. But a living writer is yet siibjudice; and if we cannot follow his conceptions (M- enter into his feelings, it is more consoling to our pride to consider him as lost beneath, than as soaring above us. If any man expect from my poems the same easiness of style which he admires in a drinkuig-song, for him I have not written. Inlelligibilia, lion infelleclum adfero.

I expect neither profit nor general fame by my writings ; and I consider myself as having been amply repaid without either. Poetry has been to me its own " exceeding great reward : " it has soothed my afflictions; it has multiplied and refined my enjoyments ; it has endeared solitude : and it has given me the habit of wishing to discover the Good and the Beautiful in all diat meets and surrounds me.

S. T. C.

JUVENILE POEMS.

GENEVIEVE.

Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve !

In beauty's light you glide along :

Your eye is like the star of eve,

And sweet your voice, as seraph's song.

Yet not your heavenly beauty gives

This heart with passion soft to glow :

Within your soul a voice there lives!

It bids you hear the tale of woe.

When sinking low the sufferer wan

Beholds no hand outstreteh'd to save,

Fair, as the bosom of the swan

That rises graceful o'er the wave,

[ 've seen your breast with pity heave,

And iherefore love I you, sweet Genevieve !

SONNET.

TO THli: AUTUMNAL MOOX.

Mild Splendor of the various-vested Night ! Mother of wildly-working visions ! hail ! I watch thy gliding, while with watery light Thy weak eye glimmers through a fleecy veil ;

And when thou lovest thy pale orb to shroud Behind the gatlier'd blackness lost on high ; And when thou dartest from the wind-rent cloud Thy placid lightning o'er the awaken'd sky Ah such is Hope ' as changeful and as fair I Now dimly peering on the wistful sight ; Now hid behind the dragon-wing'd Despiiir • But soon emerging in her radiant might. She o'er the sorrow-clouded breast of Care Sails, like a meteor kindling in its flight.

TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY.

AN ALLEGORY.

On the wide level of a mountain's head (I knew not where, but 't was some faery place Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outs[iread, Two lovely children run an endless race,

A sister and a brother !

This far outstript the other ; Yet ever runs she with reverted face. And looks and listens for the boy behind :

For he, alas ! is blind !

O'er rough and smooth with even step he pass'd, And knows not whether he be first or last.

MONODY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON.

O WHAT a wonder seems the fear of death, Seeing how gladly we all sink to sleep. Babes, Children, Youths and Men, Night following night for threescore years and ten But doubly strange, where life is l/at a breath To sigh and pant wilh, up Want's rugged steep.

Away, Grim Phantom! Scorpion King, away

Reserve thy terrors and thy stings display

For coward Wealth and Guilt in robes of state

Lo ! by the grave I stand of one, for whom

A prodigal Nature and a niggard Doom

[That all bestowing, this withholding all)

Made each chance knell from distant spire or tioitio

Sound like a seeking Mother's anxious call.

Return, poor Child ! Home, weary Truant, home !

Thee, Chatterton ! these unblest stones protect From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect. Too long before the vexing Storm-blast driven. Here hast thou found repose ! beneath this sod ! Thou! Ovain word! thou dwell'st not with the clod Amid the shining Host of the Forgiven Thou at the throne of Mercy and thy God The triumph of rcdeoming Love dost hymn (Believe it, O my soul !) to harps of Seraphim.

Yet oft, perforce ('t is suffering Nature's call,) I weep, that heaven-born Genius so shall fall ; And off, in Fancy's saddest hour, my soul Averted shudders at the poison'd bowl. Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view

Thy corse of livid hue ; Now indignation checks the feeble sigh. Or flashes through the tear that glistens in mine eyo .

JUVENILE POEMS.

Is this the land of song-ennobled line ?

Is tills the land, where Genius ne'er in vain

Pour'd forth his lofty strain ?

Ah me ! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine, Beneath chill Disapiwintment's shade His weary linilxs in lonely anguisli laid.

And o'er her darling dead

Pity hopeless hung her head, While " 'niid the pelting of that merciless storm," unk to the cold earth Otways famish'd form !

Sublime of thought, and confident of fame,

From vales where Avon winds, the Rlinstrel* came.

Light-hearted youth I aye, as he ha.stes along,

He meditates the future song, How daimtlcss ^lla fray'd the Dacian foe ;

And while the numbers flowing strong

In eddies wliirl, in surges throng. Exulting in the spirits' genial throe, In tides of power his lii'e-blood seems to flow.

And now his cheeks with deeper ardors flame, His eyes have glorious meanings, that declare More than the light of outward day shines there, A holier triumph and a sterner aim ! Wings grow within him ; and he soars above Or Bard's, or Minstrel's lay of war or love. Friend to the friendless, to the Suflferer health, He hears the widow's prayer, the good man's praise ; To scenes of bliss transmutes his fancied wealth. And young and old shall now see happy days. On many a waste he bids trim gardens rise. Gives the blue sky to many a prisoner's eyes; And now in wrath he grasps the patriot steel. And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel.

Sweet Flower of Hope ! free Nature's genial child ! Tliat didst so fair disclose thy early bloom. Filling the wide air with a rich perfume ! For thee in vain all heavenly aspects smiled ; From the hard v^orld brief respite could they win — The frost nipp'd sharp without, the canker prey'd

within!

Ah ' where are fled the charms of vernal Grace, And Joy's wild gleams that lighten'd o'er thy face ? Youth of tumultuous soul, anil haggard eye ! Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps, I view, On thy wan forehead starts the letlial dew, And oh ! the anguish of that shuddering sigh !

Such were the struggles of the gloomy hour,

'When Care, of wither'd brow, Prepar'd the poison's death-cold power; Already to thy lips was raised the bowl. When near thee stood Affection meek (Her bosom bare, and wildly pale her cheek,) Thy sullen gaze she bade thee roll On scenes that well might melt thy soul ; Thy native cot she flash d upon thy view. Thy native cot, where still, at close of day, , cace smiling sate, and listen'd to thy lay ; Thy Sister's shrielcs she b.ade thee hear. And mark thy Mother's tiirilling tear;

See, see her breast's convulsive throe, Her silent agony of woe !

Ah ! dash tlie poison'd chalice from thy hand ! And thou hadst dash'd it, at her soft command,

Avon, a river near Bristol ; the birth-place of Chatterton

But that Despair and Indignation rose, .\nd told again the story of thy woes ; Told the keen insult of the unfeeling heart ; The dread dependence on the low-ljorn mind ; Told every pang, with which thy soul must sinarl, JNcglcot, and grinning Scorn, and Want combined I Recoiling quick, thou bad'st the friend of pain Roll the black tide of Death Uirough every freezing vein !

Ye woods ! that wave o'er Avon's rocky steep. To F'ancy's ear sweet is your murmuring deep ! For here she loves the cyi)ress wreath to weave. Watching, witli wistful eye, the saddening tints of eve Here, far from men, amid this pathless grove. In solemn thought the Minstrel wont to rove, Like star-beam on the slow sequester'd tide Lone-glittering, through the high tree branching wide And here, in Inspiration's eager hour. When most the big soul feels the mastering power, These v^'ilds, these caverns roaming o'er. Round which the screaming sea-gul's soar. With wild unequal steps he pass'd along. Oft pouring on the winds a broken song : Anon, upon some rough rock's fearful brow Would pause abrupt — and gaze upon the waves below.

Poor Chatterton ! he sorrows for thy fate

Who would have praised and loved thee, ere too

late.

Poor Chatterton ! farewell ! of darkest hues This chaplet cast I on thy unshaped tomb ; But dare no longer on the sad theme muse, Lest kindred Wf)es persuade a kindred doom : For oh ! big gall-drops, shook from Folly's wing. Have blacken'd the fair promise of my spring ; And the stern Fate transpierced with viewless dart The last pale Hope that shiver'd at my heart !

Hence, gloomy thoughts ! no more my soul shai3

dwell On joys that were ! No more endure to weigh The shame and anguish of the evil day, Wisely forgetful ! O'er the ocean swell Sublime of Hope I seek the coitaged dell. Where Virtue calm with careless step may stray And, dancing to the moon-light roundelay. The wizard Passions weave a holy spell !

O Chatterton ! that thou wert yet alive ! Sure thou wouldst spread the canvas to the gale And love with us the tinkling team to drive O'er peaceful Freedom's undivided dale ; And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng. Hanging, enraptured, on thy stately song I And greet with smiles the young-eyed Poesy All deftly mask'd, as hoar Antiquity.

Alas vain Phantasies ! the fleeting brood Of Woe self-solaced in her dreamy mood ! Yet will I love to follow the sweet dreaii. Where Susquehannah pours his untamed strean: And on some hill, whose forest-frowning side Waves o'er the murmurs of his calmer tide Will raise a solemn Cenotaph to thee. Sweet Harper of lime-shrouilcd Minstrelsy ! And there, soothed sadly l)y the dirgeful wind. Muse on the sore ills I had left beliind

3 iS

COLERIDGE'S POETICAL WORKS.

SONGS OF THE PIXIES.

The Pixies, in the superslitinn of Devonshire, are a race of beings invisibly small, and harmless or friendly to man. At a small distance from a village in that county, half-way up a wood-covered hill, is an excavation called the Pixies' Parlor. The roots of old trees form its ceiling ; and on iis sides are innumerable ciphers, among which the author discovered his own cipher and those of his brothers, cut by the hand of tlieir childhood. At the foot of the hill flows the river Otter.

To this place the Author conducted a party of young Ladies, during the Summer months of the year 1793 ; one of whom, of stature elegantly small, and of complexion colorless yet clear, was proclaimed the Faery Queen. On which occasion the following irregular Ode was written.

I. Whom the untaught Sheplierds call

Pixies in their madrigal, Fancy's children, here we dwell :

Welcome, Ladies ! to our cell.

Here the wren of softest note

Builds its nest and warbles well ; Here the blackbird straiiLs his throat ;

Welcome, Ladies ! to our cell.

II

\Vlien fades the moon all shadowy-pale, And scuds the cloud before the gale, Ere Mom with living gems bedight Purples the East with streaky light. We sip the furze-flower's fragrant dews Clad in robes of rainbow hues : Or sport amid the rosy gleam, Soothed by the distant-tinkling team, While lusty Labor scouting sorrow Bids the Dame a glad good-morrow.

Who jogs the accustom'd road along. And paces cheery to her cheering song.

III

But not our filmy pinion We scorch amid the blaze of day, When Noontide's fiery-tressed minion Flashes the fervid ray.

Aye from the sultry heat We to the cave retreat O'ercanopied by huge roots intertwined With wildest texture, blacken'd o'er with age : llound them their mantle green the ivies bind, Beneath whose foliage pale, Fa'nn'd by the unfrequent gale, We shield us from the Tyrant's mid-day rage.

IV

Thither, while the murmuring throng Of wild-bees hum their drowsy song. By Indolence and Fancy brought, Al youthful Bard, " unlmown to Fame," VVooes the Queen of Solemn Thought, Aud heaves the gentle misery of a sigh. Gazing with tearful eye, As round our sandy grot appear Many a rudely-scujptiu'ed name To pensive Memory dear I Weaving gay dreams of sunny-iinctured hue, We glance before his view :

O'er his hush'd soul our soothing witcheries shed. And twine our faery garlands roiuid liis head.

Wlien Evening's dusky car,

Crown'd with her dewy star.

Steals o'er the fading sky in shadowy flight

On leaves of aspen trees

We tremble to the breeze, Veil'd from the grosser ken of mortal sight

Or, haply, at the visionary hour.

Along our vvildly-bov.er'd sequester'd walk. We listen to the enamour'd rustic's talk ; Heave with the heavings of the maiden's breast. Where young-eyed Loves have built the'r turtle

nest ; Or guide of soul-subduing power The electric flash, that from the melting eye Darts the Ibnd question and the soft reply.

VI

Or through the mystic ringlets of the vale We flash our faery feet in gamesome prank , Or, silent-sandall'd, pay our defter court Circling the Spirit of the Western Gale, Where w'earied with his flower-caressing sport Supine he slumbers on a violet bank ; Then with quaint music hymn the parting gleam By lonely Otter's sleep-persuading stream ; Or where his waves with loud unquiet song Dash'd o'er the rocky channel froth along Or where, his silver waters smoothed to rest. The tall tree's shadow sleeps upon his breast

VII

Hence, thou lingerer. Light!

Eve saddens mlo Night.

Mother of wildly-working dreams ! we ^•iew The sombre hours, that roimd thee stand With downcast eyes (a duteous band!) Their dark robes dripping with the heavy dew Sorceress of the ebon throne !

Thy power the Pixies ov4T1, Wlien round thy raven brow Heaven's lucent roses glow.

And clouds, in watery colors drest. Float i-ri light drapeiy o'er thy sable vest : Wliat time the pale moon sheds a softer day, Mellowing the woods beneath its pensive beara : For 'mid the quivermg light 't is ours to play. Aye dancing to the cadence of the stream.

VIII

Welcome, Ladies ! to the cell Where the blameless Pixies dwell : But thou, sweet Nymph ! proclaim'd our Faery Queen, With what obeisance meet Thy presence shall we greet ?

For lo ! attendant on thy steps are seen Graceful Ease in artless stole, And while-robed Purity of soul.

With Honor's sollor mien ; Mirth of the loosely-flowing hair.

And meek-eyed Pity eloquently fair,

Wliose tearful cheeks are lovely to the view Aa snow-drop wet with dew.

U

JUVENILE POEMS.