II. ] Book the Second MS. W.: Christabel Book the Second S. T. C. (c), S. H
[344] Wyndermere] Wyn'dermere MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.
[353] sinful] simple MS. W.
[354] A query is attached to this line H. 1816.
[356] the] their MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[359] Borodale] Borrowdale MS. W., S. H., First Edition, 1828, 1829: Borrodale S. T. C. (c).
[360] The air is still through many a cloud MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[363] the] her MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[364] silken] simple MS. W.
[414] thus] so MS. Letter to Poole, Feb. 1813.
[418] They] And MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[419] But] And MS. W.
[424-5]
But neither frost nor heat nor thunder Can wholly, &c.,
MS. Letter to Poole, Feb. 1813.
[441] tourney] Tournay MS. W., S. T. C. (c), First Edition.
[453] The vision foul of fear and pain MS. W., S. T. C. (a), S. T. C. (c), S. H.: The vision of fear, the touch of pain S. T. C. (b).
[463] The pang, the sight was passed away S. T. C. (a): The pang, the sight, had passed away MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[490] om. MS. W.
[503] beautiful] beauteous MS. W.
[507] take] fetch MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[516] Many a summer's suns have shone MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[559] seems] seem'd MS. W., S. T. C. (c).
[560] vowed] swore MS. W.
[563] loiter] wander MS. W.
[582] Jesu, Maria] Jesu Maria MS. W.
[591] Shuddered aloud with hissing sound MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.
[596] on] o'er MS. W.
[613] And] But MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.
[615] her Father's Feet MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition, 1828.
[620] the] that MS. W.
[639] but] not MS. W.
[645] wronged] insulted MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition, 1828, 1829.
The Conclusion to Part II] Not in any of the MSS. or in S. H. For the first manuscript version see Letter to Southey, May 6, 1801. (Letters of S. T. C., 1895, i. 355.)
[659] 'finds' and 'seeks' are italicized in the letters.
[660-1]
Doth make a vision to the sight Which fills a father's eyes with light.
Letter, 1801.
[664] In H. 1816 there is a direction (not in S. T. C.'s handwriting) to print line 664 as two lines.
[665] In words of wrong and bitterness. Letter, 1801.
LINES TO W. L.[236:1]
WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC
While my young cheek retains its healthful hues, And I have many friends who hold me dear, L----[236:2]! methinks, I would not often hear Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose All memory of the wrongs and sore distress 5 For which my miserable brethren weep! But should uncomforted misfortunes steep My daily bread in tears and bitterness; And if at Death's dread moment I should lie With no belovéd face at my bed-side, 10 To fix the last glance of my closing eye, Methinks such strains, breathed by my angel-guide, Would make me pass the cup of anguish by, Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died!
1797.
FOOTNOTES:
[236:1] First published in the Annual Anthology for 1800: included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. A MS. is extant dated Sept. 14, 1797.
[236:2] [Transcriber's Note: Footnote 2 is missing from original.]
LINENOTES:
Title] To Mr. William Linley MS. 1797: Sonnet XII, To W. L.----[236:2]! Esq., while he sung &c. An. Anth.: To W. L. Esq. &c. S. L. 1828, 1829: Lines to W. Linley, Esq. 1893.
[3] L----[236:2]!] Linley! MS. 1893.
[10] at] by An. Anth.
[12] Methinks] O God! An. Anth.
FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER[237:1]
A WAR ECLOGUE
The Scene a desolated Tract in La Vendée. FAMINE is discovered lying on the ground; to her enter FIRE and SLAUGHTER.
Fam. Sisters! sisters! who sent you here?
Slau. [to Fire]. I will whisper it in her ear.
Fire. No! no! no! Spirits hear what spirits tell: 'Twill make a holiday in Hell. 5 No! no! no! Myself, I named him once below, And all the souls, that damnéd be. Leaped up at once in anarchy, Clapped their hands and danced for glee. 10 They no longer heeded me; But laughed to hear Hell's burning rafters Unwillingly re-echo laughters! No! no! no! Spirits hear what spirits tell: 15 'Twill make a holiday in Hell!
Fam. Whisper it, sister! so and so! In a dark hint, soft and slow.
Slau. Letters four do form his name-- And who sent you?
Both. The same! the same! 20
Slau. He came by stealth, and unlocked my den, And I have drunk the blood since then Of thrice three hundred thousand men.
Both. Who bade you do 't?
Slau. The same! the same! Letters four do form his name. 25 He let me loose, and cried Halloo! To him alone the praise is due.
Fam. Thanks, sister, thanks! the men have bled, Their wives and their children faint for bread. I stood in a swampy field of battle; 30 With bones and skulls I made a rattle, To frighten the wolf and carrion-crow And the homeless dog--but they would not go. So off I flew: for how could I bear To see them gorge their dainty fare? 35 I heard a groan and a peevish squall, And through the chink of a cottage-wall-- Can you guess what I saw there?
Both. Whisper it, sister! in our ear.
Fam. A baby beat its dying mother: 40 I had starved the one and was starving the other!
Both. Who bade you do 't?
Fam. The same! the same! Letters four do form his name. He let me loose, and cried, Halloo! To him alone the praise is due. 45
Fire. Sisters! I from Ireland came! Hedge and corn-fields all on flame, I triumph'd o'er the setting sun! And all the while the work was done, On as I strode with my huge strides, 50 I flung back my head and I held my sides, It was so rare a piece of fun To see the sweltered cattle run With uncouth gallop through the night, Scared by the red and noisy light! 55 By the light of his own blazing cot Was many a naked Rebel shot: The house-stream met the flame and hissed, While crash! fell in the roof, I wist, On some of those old bed-rid nurses, 60 That deal in discontent and curses.
Both. Who bade you do't?
Fire. The same! the same! Letters four do form his name. He let me loose, and cried Halloo! To him alone the praise is due. 65
All. He let us loose, and cried Halloo! How shall we yield him honour due?
Fam. Wisdom comes with lack of food. I'll gnaw, I'll gnaw the multitude, Till the cup of rage o'erbrim: 70 They shall seize him and his brood--
Slau. They shall tear him limb from limb!
Fire. O thankless beldames and untrue! And is this all that you can do For him, who did so much for you? 75 Ninety months he, by my troth! Hath richly catered for you both; And in an hour would you repay An eight years' work?--Away! away! I alone am faithful! I 80 Cling to him everlastingly.
1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[237:1] First published in the Morning Post, January 8, 1798: included in Annual Anthology, 1800, and (with an Apologetic Preface, vide Appendices) in Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The poem was probably written in 1796. See Watchman, passim.
LINENOTES:
Title] Scene: A depopulated Tract in La Vendée. Famine is discovered stretched on the ground; to her enter Slaughter and Fire M. P., Jan. 8, 1798.
[2] SLAUGHTER. I will name him in your ear. M. P.
[5] a] an all editions to 1834.
[11] me] me M. P.
[16] a] an all editions to 1834.
[17-18]
FAMINE. Then sound it not, yet let me know; Darkly hint it--soft and low!
M. P.
In a dark hint, soft and low.
An. Anth.
[19] Four letters form his name. M. P.
[20] Both] FAMINE M. P.
[22-3]
And I have spill'd the blood since then Of thrice ten hundred thousand men.
M. P.
[22] drunk] drank An. Anth., S. L. 1828, 1829.
[24] Both] FIRE and FAMINE M. P.
[25] Four letters form his name. M. P.
[29] Their wives and children M. P.
[32] and the carrion crow M. P., An. Anth.
[39] Both] SLAUGHTER and FIRE M. P.
[42] Both] SLAUGHTER and FIRE M. P.
[43] Four letters form his name. M. P.
[47] Hedge] Huts M. P.
[48] om. An. Anth.
[49] Halloo! Halloo! the work was done An. Anth.
[50] As on I strode with monstrous strides M. P.: And on as I strode with my great strides An. Anth.
[51] and held M. P., An. Anth.
[54] through] all M. P.
[58] flame] fire M. P.: flames An. Anth.
[59] While crash the roof fell in I wish M. P.
[62] Both] SLAUGHTER and FAMINE M. P.
[63] Four letters form his name. M. P.
[65] How shall I give him honour due? M. P.
[67] we] I M. P.
[71] and] of M. P.
[75 foll.]
For him that did so much for you.
[To Slaughter. For you he turn'd the dust to mud With his fellow creatures' blood!
[To Famine. And hunger scorch'd as many more, To make your cup of joy run o'er.
[To Both. Full ninety moons, he by my troth! Hath richly cater'd for you both! And in an hour would you repay An eight years' debt? Away! away! I alone am faithful! I Cling to him everlastingly. LABERIUS.
M. P.
[Below 81] 1798] 1796 S. L. 1828, 1829, and 1834.
FROST AT MIDNIGHT[240:1]
The Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud--and hark, again! loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits 5 Abstruser musings: save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 'Tis calm indeed! so calm that it disturbs And vexes meditation with its strange And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, 10 This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood, With all the numberless goings-on of life, Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not; Only that film,[240:2] which fluttered on the grate, 15 Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, Making it a companionable form, Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit 20 By its own moods interprets, every where Echo or mirror seeking of itself, And makes a toy of Thought. But O! how oft, How oft, at school, with most believing mind, Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, 25 To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower, Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, 30 So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear Most like articulate sounds of things to come! So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt, Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams! 35 And so I brooded all the following morn, Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye Fixed with mock study on my swimming book: Save if the door half opened, and I snatched A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, 40 For still I hoped to see the stranger's face, Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!
Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, 45 Fill up the intersperséd vacancies And momentary pauses of the thought! My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, 50 And in far other scenes! For I was reared In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 55 Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds, Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible Of that eternal language, which thy God 60 Utters, who from eternity doth teach Himself in all, and all things in himself. Great universal Teacher! he shall mould Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.
Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, 65 Whether the summer clothe the general earth With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall 70 Heard only in the trances of the blast, Or if the secret ministry of frost Shall hang them up in silent icicles, Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.
February, 1798.[242:1]
FOOTNOTES:
[240:1] First published in a quarto pamphlet 'printed by Johnson in S. Paul's Churchyard, 1798': included in Poetical Register, 1808-9 (1812): in Fears in Solitude, &c., printed by Law and Gilbert, (?) 1812: in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834.
[240:2] Only that film. In all parts of the kingdom these films are called strangers and supposed to portend the arrival of some absent friend. 4{o}, P. R.
[242:1] The date is omitted in 1829 and in 1834.
LINENOTES:
[Between 19-25]
With which I can hold commune. Idle thought! But still the living spirit in our frame, That loves not to behold a lifeless thing, Transfuses into all its own delights, Its own volition, sometimes with deep faith And sometimes with fantastic playfulness. Ah me! amus'd by no such curious toys Of the self-watching subtilizing mind, How often in my early school-boy days With most believing superstitious wish.
4{o}.
With which I can hold commune: haply hence, That still the living spirit in our frame, Which loves not to behold a lifeless thing, Transfuses into all things its own Will, And its own pleasures; sometimes with deep faith, And sometimes with a wilful playfulness That stealing pardon from our common sense Smiles, as self-scornful, to disarm the scorn For these wild reliques of our childish Thought, That flit about, oft go, and oft return Not uninvited. Ah there was a time, When oft amused by no such subtle toys Of the self-watching mind, a child at school, With most believing superstitious wish.
P. R.
[Between 20-4]
To which the living spirit in our frame, That loves not to behold a lifeless thing, Transfuses its own pleasures, its own will.
S. L. 1828.
[26] To watch the stranger there! and oft belike 4{o}, P. R.
[27] had] have P. R.
[32] wild] sweet S. L. (for sweet read wild. Errata, S. L., p. [xii]).
[45] deep] dead 4{o}, P. R., S. L. (for dead read deep. Errata, S. L., p. [xii]).
[46] Fill] Fill'd S. L. (for Fill'd read Fill. Errata, S. L., p. [xii]).
[48] thrills] fills 4{o}, P. R., S. L. (for fills read thrills. Errata, S. L., p. [xii]).
[67] redbreast] redbreasts 4{o}, P. R.
[69] the nigh] all the 4{o}.
[71] trances] traces S. L. (for traces read trances. Errata, S. L., p. [xii]).
[72-end]
Or whether the secret ministery of cold Shall hang them up in silent icicles, Quietly shining to the quiet moon, Like those, my babe! which ere tomorrow's warmth Have capp'd their sharp keen points with pendulous drops, Will catch thine eye, and with their novelty Suspend thy little soul; then make thee shout, And stretch and flutter from thy mother's arms As thou wouldst fly for very eagerness.
4{o}.
FRANCE: AN ODE[243:1]
I
Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause, Whose pathless march no mortal may controul! Ye Ocean-Waves! that, wheresoe'er ye roll, Yield homage only to eternal laws! Ye Woods! that listen to the night-birds singing, 5 Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined, Save when your own imperious branches swinging, Have made a solemn music of the wind! Where, like a man beloved of God, Through glooms, which never woodman trod, 10 How oft, pursuing fancies holy, My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound, Inspired, beyond the guess of folly, By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound! O ye loud Waves! and O ye Forests high! 15 And O ye Clouds that far above me soared! Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky! Yea, every thing that is and will be free! Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be, With what deep worship I have still adored 20 The spirit of divinest Liberty.
II
When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared, And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea, Stamped her strong foot and said she would be free, Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared! 25 With what a joy my lofty gratulation Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band: And when to whelm the disenchanted nation, Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand, The Monarchs marched in evil day, 30 And Britain joined the dire array; Though dear her shores and circling ocean, Though many friendships, many youthful loves Had swoln the patriot emotion And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves; 35 Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance, And shame too long delayed and vain retreat! For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame; 40 But blessed the paeans of delivered France, And hung my head and wept at Britain's name.
III
'And what,' I said, 'though Blasphemy's loud scream With that sweet music of deliverance strove! Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove 45 A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream! Ye storms, that round the dawning East assembled, The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light!' And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled, The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright; 50 When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory; When, insupportably advancing, Her arm made mockery of the warrior's ramp; While timid looks of fury glancing, 55 Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp, Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore; Then I reproached my fears that would not flee; 'And soon,' I said, 'shall Wisdom teach her lore In the low huts of them that toil and groan! 60 And, conquering by her happiness alone, Shall France compel the nations to be free, Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Earth their own.'
IV
Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams! I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, 65 From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent-- I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams! Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished, And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I cherished 70 One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes! To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt, Where Peace her jealous home had built; A patriot-race to disinherit Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear; 75 And with inexpiable spirit To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer-- O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind, And patriot only in pernicious toils! Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind? 80 To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway, Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey; To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils From freemen torn; to tempt and to betray?
V
The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, 85 Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game They burst their manacles and wear the name Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain! O Liberty! with profitless endeavour Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; 90 But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee, (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee) Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, 95 And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves, Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves! And there I felt thee!--on that sea-cliff's verge, Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above, 100 Had made one murmur with the distant surge! Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare, And shot my being through earth, sea, and air, Possessing all things with intensest love, O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there. 105
February, 1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[243:1] First published in the Morning Post, April 16, 1798: included in quarto pamphlet published by J. Johnson, 1798: reprinted in Morning Post, Oct. 14, 1802: included in Poetical Register for 1808-9 (1812); in Fears in Solitude, &c., printed by Law and Gilbert, (?) 1812; in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. Lines 85, 98 are quoted from 'France, a Palinodia', in Biog. Lit., 1817, i. 195. To the first Morning Post version (1798) an editorial note was prefixed:--
ORIGINAL POETRY.
The following excellent Ode will be in unison with the feelings of every friend to Liberty and foe to Oppression; of all who, admiring the French Revolution, detest and deplore the conduct of France towards Switzerland. It is very satisfactory to find so zealous and steady an advocate for Freedom as Mr. COLERIDGE concur with us in condemning the conduct of France towards the Swiss Cantons. Indeed his concurrence is not singular; we know of no Friend to Liberty who is not of his opinion. What we most admire is the avowal of his sentiments, and public censure of the unprincipled and atrocious conduct of France. The Poem itself is written with great energy. The second, third, and fourth stanzas contain some of the most vigorous lines we have ever read. The lines in the fourth stanza:--
'To scatter rage and trait'rous guilt Where Peace her jealous home had built,'
to the end of the stanza are particularly expressive and beautiful.
To the second Morning Post version (1802) a note and Argument were prefixed:--
The following ODE was first published in this paper (in the beginning of the year 1798) in a less perfect state. The present state of France and Switzerland give it so peculiar an interest at the present time that we wished to re-publish it and accordingly have procured from the Author a corrected copy.
ARGUMENT.
'First Stanza. An invocation to those objects in Nature the contemplation of which had inspired the Poet with a devotional love of Liberty. Second Stanza. The exultation of the Poet at the commencement of the French Revolution, and his unqualified abhorrence of the Alliance against the Republic. Third Stanza. The blasphemies and horrors during the domination of the Terrorists regarded by the Poet as a transient storm, and as the natural consequence of the former despotism and of the foul superstition of Popery. Reason, indeed, began to suggest many apprehensions; yet still the Poet struggled to retain the hope that France would make conquests by no other means than by presenting to the observation of Europe a people more happy and better instructed than under other forms of Government. Fourth Stanza. Switzerland, and the Poet's recantation. Fifth Stanza. An address to Liberty, in which the Poet expresses his conviction that those feelings and that grand ideal of Freedom which the mind attains by its contemplation of its individual nature, and of the sublime surrounding objects (see Stanza the First) do not belong to men, as a society, nor can possibly be either gratified or realised, under any form of human government; but belong to the individual man, so far as he is pure, and inflamed with the love and adoration of God in Nature.'
LINENOTES:
Title] The Recantation: an Ode. By S. T. Coleridge. 1798.
[1] and] or 1802.
[2] Veering your pathless march without controul 1802.
[5] night-birds] night bird's 1798, 4{o}, 1802: night-birds' S. L., 1828, 1829.
[6] slope] steep 1798, 4{o}, 1802, P. R.
[12] way] path 1802.
[23] smote air, earth, and sea] smote earth, air, and sea 1798, 4{o}, P. R.: shook earth, air, and sea 1802.
[24] foot] feet 1798.
[26] lofty] eager 1802.
[27] sang] sung 1798, 4{o}, P. R.
[30] marched] mov'd 1802.
[34] the] that 1802.
[35] flung] spread 1802.
[41] But] I 1802.
[44] that sweet music] those sweet Pæans 1802.
[46] e'er was] ever 1798, 4{o}, P. R.
[51] deep-scarr'd] deep-scar'd 1798, 4{o}, P. R., S. L.
[53] insupportably] irresistibly 1802.
[54] ramp] tramp 1828, 1829, 1834, 1852. [Text of 1834 is here corrected.]
[58] reproached] rebuk'd 1802.
[59] said] cried 1802.
[62] compel] persuade 1802.
[63] call the Earth] lo! the earth's 1802.
[64] those] these 4{o}, P. R.
[66] caverns] cavern 1834, 1852. [Text of 1834 is here corrected.]
[69] And ye that flying spot the [your 1802] mountain-snows 1798: And ye that fleeing spot the mountain-snows 4{o}, P. R.
[75] stormy] native 1802.
[77] taint] stain 1802.
[79] patriot] patient 1798, 1802.
[80] Was this thy boast 1802.
[81] Kings in the low lust] monarchs in the lust 1802.
[85-9] The fifth stanza, which alluded to the African Slave Trade as conducted by this Country, and to the present Ministry and their supporters, has been omitted, and would have been omitted without remark if the commencing lines of the sixth stanza had not referred to it.
VI
Shall I with these my patriot zeal combine? No, Afric, no! they stand before my ken Loath'd as th' Hyaenas, that in murky den Whine o'er their prey and mangle while they whine, Divinest Liberty! with vain endeavour
1798.
[87] burst] break 1802. and] to B. L., i. 194. name] name B. L.
[91] strain] pomp B. L.
[92] in] on 1802.
[95] Priestcraft's] priesthood's 4{o}, P. R.: superstition's B. L.
[97] subtle] cherub B. L.
[98]
To live amid the winds and move upon the waves
1798, 4{o}, P. R.
To live among the winds and brood upon the waves
1802.
[99] there] there 1798: then 4{o}, P. R. that] yon 1802.
[100] scarce] just 1802.
[102] Yes, as I stood and gazed my forehead bare 1802.
[104] with] by 1802.
THE OLD MAN OF THE ALPS[248:1]
Stranger! whose eyes a look of pity shew, Say, will you listen to a tale of woe? A tale in no unwonted horrors drest; But sweet is pity to an agéd breast. This voice did falter with old age before; 5 Sad recollections make it falter more. Beside the torrent and beneath a wood, High in these Alps my summer cottage stood; One daughter still remain'd to cheer my way, The evening-star of life's declining day: 10 Duly she hied to fill her milking-pail, Ere shout of herdsmen rang from cliff or vale; When she return'd, before the summer shiel, On the fresh grass she spread the dairy meal; Just as the snowy peaks began to lose 15 In glittering silver lights their rosy hues. Singing in woods or bounding o'er the lawn, No blither creature hail'd the early dawn; And if I spoke of hearts by pain oppress'd. When every friend is gone to them that rest; 20 Or of old men that leave, when they expire, Daughters, that should have perish'd with their sire-- Leave them to toil all day through paths unknown, And house at night behind some sheltering stone; Impatient of the thought, with lively cheer 25 She broke half-closed the tasteless tale severe. She play'd with fancies of a gayer hue, Enamour'd of the scenes her wishes drew; And oft she prattled with an eager tongue Of promised joys that would not loiter long, 30 Till with her tearless eyes so bright and fair, She seem'd to see them realis'd in air! In fancy oft, within some sunny dell, Where never wolf should howl or tempest yell, She built a little home of joy and rest, 35 And fill'd it with the friends whom she lov'd best: She named the inmates of her fancied cot, And gave to each his own peculiar lot; Which with our little herd abroad should roam, And which should tend the dairy's toil at home, 40 And now the hour approach'd which should restore Her lover from the wars, to part no more. Her whole frame fluttered with uneasy joy; I long'd myself to clasp the valiant boy; And though I strove to calm her eager mood, 45 It was my own sole thought in solitude. I told it to the Saints amid my hymns-- For O! you know not, on an old man's limbs How thrillingly the pleasant sun-beams play, That shine upon his daughter's wedding-day. 50 I hoped, that those fierce tempests, soon to rave Unheard, unfelt, around my mountain grave, Not undelightfully would break her rest, While she lay pillow'd on her lover's breast; Or join'd his pious prayer for pilgrims driven 55 Out to the mercy of the winds of heaven. Yes! now the hour approach'd that should restore Her lover from the wars to part no more. Her thoughts were wild, her soul was in her eye, She wept and laugh'd as if she knew not why; 60 And she had made a song about the wars, And sang it to the sun and to the stars! But while she look'd and listen'd, stood and ran, And saw him plain in every distant man, By treachery stabbed, on NANSY'S murderous day, 65 A senseless corse th' expected husband lay. A wounded man, who met us in the wood, Heavily ask'd her where my cottage stood, And told us all: she cast her eyes around As if his words had been but empty sound. 70 Then look'd to Heav'n, like one that would deny That such a thing could be beneath the sky. Again he ask'd her if she knew my name, And instantly an anguish wrench'd her frame, And left her mind imperfect. No delight 75 Thenceforth she found in any cheerful sight, Not ev'n in those time-haunted wells and groves, Scenes of past joy, and birth-place of her loves. If to her spirit any sound was dear, 'Twas the deep moan that spoke the tempest near; 80 Or sighs which chasms of icy vales outbreathe, Sent from the dark, imprison'd floods beneath. She wander'd up the crag and down the slope, But not, as in her happy days of hope, To seek the churning-plant of sovereign power, 85 That grew in clefts and bore a scarlet flower! She roam'd, without a purpose, all alone, Thro' high grey vales unknowing and unknown.
Kind-hearted stranger! patiently you hear A tedious tale: I thank you for that tear. 90 May never other tears o'ercloud your eye, Than those which gentle Pity can supply! Did you not mark a towering convent hang, Where the huge rocks with sounds of torrents rang? Ev'n yet, methinks, its spiry turrets swim 95 Amid yon purple gloom ascending dim! For thither oft would my poor child repair, To ease her soul by penitence and prayer. I knew that peace at good men's prayers returns Home to the contrite heart of him that mourns, 100 And check'd her not; and often there she found A timely pallet when the evening frown'd. And there I trusted that my child would light On shelter and on food, one dreadful night, When there was uproar in the element, 105 And she was absent. To my rest I went: I thought her safe, yet often did I wake And felt my very heart within me ache. No daughter near me, at this very door, Next morn I listen'd to the dying roar. 110 Above, below, the prowling vulture wail'd, And down the cliffs the heavy vapour sail'd. Up by the wide-spread waves in fury torn, Homestalls and pines along the vale were borne. The Dalesmen in thick crowds appear'd below 115 Clearing the road, o'erwhelm'd with hills of snow. At times to the proud gust's ascending swell, A pack of blood-hounds flung their doleful yell: For after nights of storm, that dismal train The pious convent sends, with hope humane, 120 To find some out-stretch'd man--perchance to save, Or give, at least, that last good gift, a grave! But now a gathering crowd did I survey, That slowly up the pasture bent their way; Nor could I doubt but that their care had found 125 Some pilgrim in th' unchannel'd torrent drown'd. And down the lawn I hasten'd to implore That they would bring the body to my door; But soon exclaim'd a boy, who ran before, 'Thrown by the last night's waters from their bed, 130 Your daughter has been found, and she is dead!'
The old man paused--May he who, sternly just, Lays at his will his creatures in the dust; Some ere the earliest buds of hope be blown, And some, when every bloom of joy is flown; 135 May he the parent to his child restore In that unchanging realm, where Love reigns evermore!
March 8, 1798. NICIAS ERYTHRAEUS.
FOOTNOTES:
[248:1] First published in the Morning Post, March 8, 1798: first collected P. and D. W., 1877-80: not included in P. W., 1893. Coleridge affixed the signature Nicias Erythraeus to these lines and to Lewti, which was published in the Morning Post five weeks later, April 13, 1798. For a biographical notice of Janus Nicius Erythraeus (Giovanni Vittorio d'Rossi, 1577-1647) by the late Richard Garnett, see Literature, October 22, 1898.
TO A YOUNG LADY[252:1]
[MISS LAVINIA POOLE]
ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER
Why need I say, Louisa dear! How glad I am to see you here, A lovely convalescent; Risen from the bed of pain and fear, And feverish heat incessant. 5
The sunny showers, the dappled sky, The little birds that warble high, Their vernal loves commencing, Will better welcome you than I With their sweet influencing. 10
Believe me, while in bed you lay, Your danger taught us all to pray: You made us grow devouter! Each eye looked up and seemed to say, How can we do without her? 15
Besides, what vexed us worse, we knew, They have no need of such as you In the place where you were going: This World has angels all too few, And Heaven is overflowing! 20
March 31, 1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[252:1] First published in the Morning Post, Dec. 9, 1799, included in the Annual Anthology, 1800, in Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829, and 1834.
LINENOTES:
Title] To a Young Lady, on Her First Appearance After A Dangerous Illness. Written in the Spring of 1799 [1799 must be a slip for 1798]. M. P., An. Anth.
[1] Louisa] Ophelia M. P., An. Anth.
[6-7]
The breezy air, the sun, the sky, The little birds that sing on high
M. P., An. Anth.
[12] all] how M. P., An. Anth.
[13] grow] all M. P., An. Anth.
[16] what] which M. P., An. Anth.
[17] have] had M. P., An. Anth.
[19] This] The M. P.
[Below 20] Laberius M. P., An. Anth.
LEWTI[253:1]
OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHAUNT
At midnight by the stream I roved, To forget the form I loved. Image of Lewti! from my mind Depart; for Lewti is not kind. The Moon was high, the moonlight gleam 5 And the shadow of a star Heaved upon Tamaha's stream; But the rock shone brighter far, The rock half sheltered from my view By pendent boughs of tressy yew.-- 10 So shines my Lewti's forehead fair, Gleaming through her sable hair. Image of Lewti! from my mind Depart; for Lewti is not kind.
I saw a cloud of palest hue, 15 Onward to the moon it passed; Still brighter and more bright it grew, With floating colours not a few, Till it reached the moon at last: Then the cloud was wholly bright, 20 With a rich and amber light! And so with many a hope I seek, And with such joy I find my Lewti; And even so my pale wan cheek Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty! 25 Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind, If Lewti never will be kind.
The little cloud--it floats away Away it goes; away so soon! Alas! it has no power to stay: 30 Its hues are dim, its hues are grey-- Away it passes from the moon! How mournfully it seems to fly, Ever fading more and more, To joyless regions of the sky-- 35 And now 'tis whiter than before! As white as my poor cheek will be, When, Lewti! on my couch I lie, A dying man for love of thee. Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind-- 40 And yet, thou didst not look unkind.
I saw a vapour in the sky, Thin, and white, and very high; I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud: Perhaps the breezes that can fly 45 Now below and now above, Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud[255:1] Of Lady fair--that died for love. For maids, as well as youths, have perished From fruitless love too fondly cherished. 50 Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind-- For Lewti never will be kind.
Hush! my heedless feet from under Slip the crumbling banks for ever: Like echoes to a distant thunder, 55 They plunge into the gentle river. The river-swans have heard my tread. And startle from their reedy bed. O beauteous birds! methinks ye measure Your movements to some heavenly tune! 60 O beauteous birds! 'tis such a pleasure To see you move beneath the moon, I would it were your true delight To sleep by day and wake all night.
I know the place where Lewti lies, 65 When silent night has closed her eyes: It is a breezy jasmine-bower, The nightingale sings o'er her head: Voice of the Night! had I the power That leafy labyrinth to thread, 70 And creep, like thee, with soundless tread, I then might view her bosom white Heaving lovely to my sight, As these two swans together heave On the gently-swelling wave. 75
Oh! that she saw me in a dream, And dreamt that I had died for care; All pale and wasted I would seem, Yet fair withal, as spirits are! I'd die indeed, if I might see 80 Her bosom heave, and heave for me! Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind! To-morrow Lewti may be kind.
1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[253:1] First published in the Morning Post (under the signature Nicias Erythraeus), April 18, 1798: included in the Annual Anthology, 1800; Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. For MS. versions vide Appendices. 'Lewti was to have been included in the Lyrical Ballads of 1798, but at the last moment the sheets containing it were cancelled and The Nightingale substituted.' (Note to reprint of L. B. (1898), edited by T. Hutchinson.) A copy which belonged to Southey, with the new Table of Contents and The Nightingale bound up with the text as at first printed, is in the British Museum. Another copy is extant which contains the first Table of Contents only, and Lewti without the addition of The Nightingale. In the M. P. the following note accompanies the poem:--'It is not amongst the least pleasing of our recollections, that we have been the means of gratifying the public taste with some exquisite pieces of Original Poetry. For many of them we have been indebted to the author of the Circassian's Love Chant. Amidst images of war and woe, amidst scenes of carnage and horror of devastation and dismay, it may afford the mind a temporary relief to wander to the magic haunts of the Muses, to bowers and fountains which the despoiling powers of war have never visited, and where the lover pours forth his complaint, or receives the recompense of his constancy. The whole of the subsequent Love Chant is in a warm and impassioned strain. The fifth and last stanzas are, we think, the best.'
[255:1] This image was borrowed by Miss Bailey (sic) in her Basil as the dates of the poems prove. MS. Note by S. T. C.
LINENOTES:
Title] Lewti; or the Circassian's Love Chant M. P.
[Between lines 14-15]
I saw the white waves, o'er and o'er, Break against the distant shore. All at once upon the sight, All at once they broke in light; I heard no murmur of their roar, Nor ever I beheld them flowing, Neither coming, neither going; But only saw them o'er and o'er, Break against the curved shore: Now disappearing from the sight, Now twinkling regular and white, And LEWTI'S smiling mouth can shew As white and regular a row. Nay, treach'rous image from my mind Depart; for LEWTI is not kind.
M. P.
[52] For] Tho' M. P.
[Between lines 52-3]
This hand should make his life-blood flow, That ever scorn'd my LEWTI so.
I cannot chuse but fix my sight On that small vapour, thin and white! So thin it scarcely, I protest, Bedims the star that shines behind it! And pity dwells in LEWTI'S breast Alas! if I knew how to find it. And O! how sweet it were, I wist, To see my LEWTI'S eyes to-morrow Shine brightly thro' as thin a mist Of pity and repentant sorrow! Nay treach'rous image! leave my mind-- Ah, LEWTI! why art thou unkind?
[53] Hush!] Slush! Sibylline Leaves (Errata, S. L., p. [xi], for Slush r. Hush).
[69-71]
Had I the enviable power To creep unseen with noiseless tread Then should I view
M. P., An. Anth.
O beating heart had I the power.
MS. Corr. An. Anth. by S. T. C.
[73] my] the M. P., An. Anth.
[Below 83] Signed Nicias Erythraeus. M. P.
FEARS IN SOLITUDE[256:1]
WRITTEN IN APRIL 1798, DURING THE ALARM OF AN INVASION
A green and silent spot, amid the hills, A small and silent dell! O'er stiller place No singing sky-lark ever poised himself. The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope, Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on, 5 All golden with the never-bloomless furze, Which now blooms most profusely: but the dell, Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax, When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve, 10 The level sunshine glimmers with green light. Oh! 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook! Which all, methinks, would love; but chiefly he, The humble man, who, in his youthful years, Knew just so much of folly, as had made 15 His early manhood more securely wise! Here he might lie on fern or withered heath, While from the singing lark (that sings unseen The minstrelsy that solitude loves best), And from the sun, and from the breezy air, 20 Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame; And he, with many feelings, many thoughts, Made up a meditative joy, and found Religious meanings in the forms of Nature! And so, his senses gradually wrapt 25 In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds, And dreaming hears thee still, O singing lark, That singest like an angel in the clouds!
My God! it is a melancholy thing For such a man, who would full fain preserve 30 His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel For all his human brethren--O my God! It weighs upon the heart, that he must think What uproar and what strife may now be stirring This way or that way o'er these silent hills-- 35 Invasion, and the thunder and the shout, And all the crash of onset; fear and rage, And undetermined conflict--even now, Even now, perchance, and in his native isle: Carnage and groans beneath this blessed sun! 40 We have offended, Oh! my countrymen! We have offended very grievously, And been most tyrannous. From east to west A groan of accusation pierces Heaven! The wretched plead against us; multitudes 45 Countless and vehement, the sons of God, Our brethren! Like a cloud that travels on. Steamed up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence, Even so, my countrymen! have we gone forth And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs, 50 And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint With slow perdition murders the whole man, His body and his soul! Meanwhile, at home, All individual dignity and power Engulfed in Courts, Committees, Institutions, 55 Associations and Societies, A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting Guild, One Benefit-Club for mutual flattery, We have drunk up, demure as at a grace, Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth; 60 Contemptuous of all honourable rule, Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life For gold, as at a market! The sweet words Of Christian promise, words that even yet Might stem destruction, were they wisely preached, 65 Are muttered o'er by men, whose tones proclaim How flat and wearisome they feel their trade: Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent To deem them falsehoods or to know their truth. Oh! blasphemous! the Book of Life is made 70 A superstitious instrument, on which We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break; For all must swear--all and in every place, College and wharf, council and justice-court; All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed, 75 Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest, The rich, the poor, the old man and the young; All, all make up one scheme of perjury, That faith doth reel; the very name of God Sounds like a juggler's charm; and, bold with joy, 80 Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place, (Portentous sight!) the owlet Atheism, Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon, Drops his blue-fringéd lids, and holds them close, And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven, 85 Cries out, 'Where is it?'
Thankless too for peace, (Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seas) Secure from actual warfare, we have loved To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war! Alas! for ages ignorant of all 90 Its ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague, Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows,) We, this whole people, have been clamorous For war and bloodshed; animating sports, The which we pay for as a thing to talk of, 95 Spectators and not combatants! No guess Anticipative of a wrong unfelt, No speculation on contingency, However dim and vague, too vague and dim To yield a justifying cause; and forth, 100 (Stuffed out with big preamble, holy names. And adjurations of the God in Heaven.) We send our mandates for the certain death Of thousands and ten thousands! Boys and girls, And women, that would groan to see a child 105 Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war, The best amusement for our morning meal! The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers From curses, who knows scarcely words enough To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father, 110 Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute And technical in victories and defeats, And all our dainty terms for fratricide; Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which 115 We join no feeling and attach no form! As if the soldier died without a wound; As if the fibres of this godlike frame Were gored without a pang; as if the wretch, Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds, 120 Passed off to Heaven, translated and not killed; As though he had no wife to pine for him, No God to judge him! Therefore, evil days Are coming on us, O my countrymen! And what if all-avenging Providence, 125 Strong and retributive, should make us know The meaning of our words, force us to feel The desolation and the agony Of our fierce doings?
Spare us yet awhile, Father and God! O! spare us yet awhile! 130 Oh! let not English women drag their flight Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes, Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday Laughed at the breast! Sons, brothers, husbands, all Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms 135 Which grew up with you round the same fire-side, And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves pure! Stand forth! be men! repel an impious foe, Impious and false, a light yet cruel race, 140 Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth With deeds of murder; and still promising Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free, Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes, 145 And all that lifts the spirit! Stand we forth; Render them back upon the insulted ocean, And let them toss as idly on its waves As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blast Swept from our shores! And oh! may we return 150 Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear, Repenting of the wrongs with which we stung So fierce a foe to frenzy!
I have told, O Britons! O my brethren! I have told Most bitter truth, but without bitterness. 155 Nor deem my zeal or factious or mistimed; For never can true courage dwell with them, Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look At their own vices. We have been too long Dupes of a deep delusion! Some, belike, 160 Groaning with restless enmity, expect All change from change of constituted power; As if a Government had been a robe, On which our vice and wretchedness were tagged Like fancy-points and fringes, with the robe 165 Pulled off at pleasure. Fondly these attach A radical causation to a few Poor drudges of chastising Providence, Who borrow all their hues and qualities From our own folly and rank wickedness, 170 Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others, meanwhile, Dote with a mad idolatry; and all Who will not fall before their images, And yield them worship, they are enemies Even of their country!
Such have I been deemed.-- 175 But, O dear Britain! O my Mother Isle! Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy To me, a son, a brother, and a friend, A husband, and a father! who revere All bonds of natural love, and find them all 180 Within the limits of thy rocky shores. O native Britain! O my Mother Isle! How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holy To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills, Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas, 185 Have drunk in all my intellectual life, All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts, All adoration of the God in nature, All lovely and all honourable things. Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel 190 The joy and greatness of its future being? There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul Unborrowed from my country! O divine And beauteous island! thou hast been my sole And most magnificent temple, in the which 195 I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs, Loving the God that made me!--
May my fears, My filial fears, be vain! and may the vaunts And menace of the vengeful enemy Pass like the gust, that roared and died away 200 In the distant tree: which heard, and only heard In this low dell, bowed not the delicate grass.
But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze: The light has left the summit of the hill, 205 Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful, Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell, Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot! On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill, Homeward I wind my way; and lo! recalled 210 From bodings that have well-nigh wearied me, I find myself upon the brow, and pause Startled! And after lonely sojourning In such a quiet and surrounded nook, This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main, 215 Dim-tinted, there the mighty majesty Of that huge amphitheatre of rich And elmy fields, seems like society-- Conversing with the mind, and giving it A livelier impulse and a dance of thought! 220 And now, beloved Stowey! I behold Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend; And close behind them, hidden from my view, Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe 225 And my babe's mother dwell in peace! With light And quickened footsteps thitherward I tend, Remembering thee, O green and silent dell! And grateful, that by nature's quietness And solitary musings, all my heart 230 Is softened, and made worthy to indulge Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind.
NETHER STOWEY, April 20, 1798.
FOOTNOTES:
[256:1] First published in a quarto pamphlet 'printed by J. Johnson in 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.]
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.
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.
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