In Xanadu did Kubla KhanA stately pleasure-dome decree:Where Alph, the sacred river, ranThrough caverns measureless to manDown to a sunless sea.So twice five miles of fertile groundWith walls and towers were girdled round:And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills,Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree;And here were forests ancient as the hills,Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.
But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slantedDown the green hill athwart a cedarn cover!A savage place! as holy and enchantedAs e'er beneath a waning moon was hauntedBy woman wailing for her demon-lover!And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething,As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing,A mighty fountain momently was forced:Amid whose swift half-intermitted burstHuge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail,Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail:And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and everIt flung up momently the sacred river.Five miles meandering with a mazy motionThrough wood and dale the sacred river ran,Then reached the caverns measureless to man,And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean:And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from farAncestral voices prophesying war!
The shadow of the dome of pleasureFloated midway on the waves;Where was heard the mingled measureFrom the fountain and the caves.It was a miracle of rare device,A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice!
A damsel with a dulcimerIn a vision once I saw:It was an Abyssinian maid;And on her dulcimer she played,Singing of Mount Abora.Could I revive within meHer symphony and song,To such a deep delight 'twould win me,That with music loud and long,I would build that dome in air,That sunny dome! those caves of ice!And all who heard should see them there,And all should cry, Beware! Beware!His flashing eyes, his floating hair!Weave a circle round him thrice,And close your eyes with holy dread,For he on honey-dew hath fed,And drunk the milk of Paradise.
1798.
At midnight by the stream I roved,To forget the form I loved.Image of Lewti! from my mindDepart; for Lewti is not kind.
The Moon was high, the moonlight gleamAnd the shadow of a starHeaved upon Tamaha's stream;But the rock shone brighter far,The rock half sheltered from my viewBy pendent boughs of tressy yew.—So shines my Lewti's forehead fair,Gleaming through her sable hair,Image of Lewti! from my mindDepart; for Lewti is not kind.
I saw a cloud of palest hue,Onward to the moon it passed;Still brighter and more bright it grew,With floating colours not a few,Till it reach'd the moon at last:Then the cloud was wholly bright,With a rich and amber light!And so with many a hope I seekAnd with such joy I find my Lewti;And even so my pale wan cheekDrinks in as deep a flush of beauty!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: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—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—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 flyNow below and now above,Have snatched aloft the lawny shroudOf Lady fair—that died for love.For maids, as well as youths, have perishedFrom fruitless love too fondly cherished.Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind—For Lewti never will be kind.
Hush! my heedless feet from underSlip the crumbling banks for ever:Like echoes to a distant thunder,They plunge into the gentle river.The river-swans have heard my tread,And startle from their reedy bed.O beauteous birds! methinks ye measureYour movements to some heavenly tune!O beauteous birds! 'tis such a pleasureTo see you move beneath the moon,I would it were your true delightTo sleep by day and wake all night.
I know the place where Lewti liesWhen 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 powerThat leafy labyrinth to thread,And creep, like thee, with soundless tread,I then might view her bosom whiteHeaving lovely to my sight,As these two swans together heaveOn the gently-swelling wave.
Oh! that she saw me in a dream,And dreamt that I had died for care;All pale and wasted I would seemYet fair withal, as spirits are!I'd die indeed, if I might seeHer bosom heave, and heave for me!Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind!To-morrow Lewti may be kind.
1794.
Beneath yon birch with silver bark,And boughs so pendulous and fair,The brook falls scatter'd down the rock:And all is mossy there!
And there upon the moss she sits,The Dark Ladié in silent pain;The heavy tear is in her eye,And drops and swells again.
Three times she sends her little pageUp the castled mountain's breast,If he might find the Knight that wearsThe Griffin for his crest.
The sun was sloping down the sky,And she had linger'd there all day,Counting moments, dreaming fears—Oh wherefore can he stay?
She hears a rustling o'er the brook,She sees far off a swinging bough!"'Tis He! 'Tis my betrothed Knight!Lord Falkland, it is Thou!"
She springs, she clasps him round the neck,She sobs a thousand hopes and fears,Her kisses glowing on his cheeksShe quenches with her tears.
* * * * *
"My friends with rude ungentle wordsThey scoff and bid me fly to thee!O give me shelter in thy breast!O shield and shelter me!
"My Henry, I have given thee much,I gave what I can ne'er recall,I gave my heart, I gave my peace,O Heaven! I gave thee all."
The Knight made answer to the Maid,While to his heart he held her hand,"Nine castles hath my noble sire,None statelier in the land.
"The fairest one shall be my love's,The fairest castle of the nine!Wait only till the stars peep out,The fairest shall be thine:
"Wait only till the hand of eveHath wholly closed yon western bars,And through the dark we two will stealBeneath the twinkling stars!"—
"The dark? the dark? No! not the dark?The twinkling stars? How, Henry? How?O God! 'twas in the eye of noonHe pledged his sacred vow!
"And in the eye of noon my loveShall lead me from my mother's door,Sweet boys and girls all clothed in whiteStrewing flowers before:
"But first the nodding minstrels goWith music meet for lordly bowers,The children next in snow-white vests,Strewing buds and flowers!
"And then my love and I shall pace,My jet black hair in pearly braids,Between our comely bachelorsAnd blushing bridal maids."
* * * * * 1798.
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,Whatever stirs this mortal frame,All are but ministers of Love,And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do ILive o'er again that happy hour,When midway on the mount I lay,Beside the ruined tower.
The moonshine, stealing o'er the sceneHad blended with the lights of eve;And she was there, my hope, my joy,My own dear Genevieve!
She leant against the armed man,The statue of the armed knight;She stood and listened to my lay,Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own.My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!She loves me best, whene'er I singThe songs that make her grieve.
I played a soft and doleful air,I sang an old and moving story—An old rude song, that suited wellThat ruin wild and hoary.
She listened with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes and modest grace;For well she knew, I could not chooseBut gaze upon her face.
I told her of the Knight that woreUpon his shield a burning brand;And that for ten long years he wooedThe Lady of the Land.
I told her how he pined: and ah!The deep, the low, the pleading toneWith which I sang another's love,Interpreted my own.
She listened with a flitting blush,With downcast eyes, and modest grace;And she forgave me, that I gazedToo fondly on her face!
But when I told the cruel scornThat crazed that bold and lovely Knight,And that he crossed the mountain-woods,Nor rested day nor night;
That sometimes from the savage den,And sometimes from the darksome shade,And sometimes starting up at onceIn green and sunny glade,—
There came and looked him in the faceAn angel beautiful and bright;And that he knew it was a Fiend,This miserable Knight!
And that unknowing what he did,He leaped amid a murderous band,And saved from outrage worse than deathThe Lady of the Land!
And how she wept, and clasped his knees;And how she tended him in vain—And ever strove to expiateThe scorn that crazed his brain;—
And that she nursed him in a cave;And how his madness went away,When on the yellow forest-leavesA dying man he lay;—
His dying words-but when I reachedThat tenderest strain of all the ditty,My faltering voice and pausing harpDisturbed her soul with pity!
All impulses of soul and senseHad thrilled my guileless Genevieve;The music and the doleful tale,The rich and balmy eve;
And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,An undistinguishable throng,And gentle wishes long subdued,Subdued and cherished long!
She wept with pity and delight,She blushed with love, and virgin-shame;And like the murmur of a dream,I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved—she stepped aside,As conscious of my look she stepped—Then suddenly, with timorous eyeShe fled to me and wept.
She half enclosed me with her arms,She pressed me with a meek embrace;And bending back her head, looked up,And gazed upon my face.
'Twas partly love, and partly fear,And partly 'twas a bashful art,That I might rather feel, than see,The swelling of her heart.
I calmed her fears, and she was calm,And told her love with virgin pride;And so I won my Genevieve,My bright and beauteous Bride.
1798-1799.
The grapes upon the Vicar's wallWere ripe as ripe could be;And yellow leaves in sun and windWere falling from the tree.
On the hedge-elms in the narrow laneStill swung the spikes of corn:Dear Lord! it seems but yesterday—Young Edward's marriage-morn.
Up through that wood behind the church,There leads from Edward's doorA mossy track, all over boughed,For half a mile or more.
And from their house-door by that trackThe bride and bridegroom went;Sweet Mary, though she was not gay,Seemed cheerful and content.
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,Her limbs did creep and freeze;But when they prayed, she thought she sawHer mother on her knees.
And o'er the church-path they returned—I saw poor Mary's back,Just as she stepped beneath the boughsInto the mossy track.
Her feet upon the mossy trackThe married maiden set:That moment—I have heard her say—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.
Beneath the foulest mother's curseNo child could ever thrive:A mother is a mother still,The holiest thing alive.
So five months passed: the mother stillWould 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:O Edward! you are all to me,I wish for your sake I could beMore lifesome and more gay.
"I'm dull and sad! indeed, indeedI know I have no reason!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 daysShe stirred not out, lest she might meetHer mother in the ways.
But Ellen, spite of miry waysAnd weather dark and dreary,Trudged every day to Edward's house,And made them all more cheery.
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.
And now Ash-Wednesday came-that dayBut few to church repair:For on that day you know we readThe Commination prayer.
Our late old Vicar, a kind man,Once, Sir, he said to me,He wished that service was clean outOf our good Liturgy.
The mother walked into the church-To Ellen's seat she went:Though Ellen always kept her churchAll church-days during Lent.
And gentle Ellen welcomed herWith courteous looks and mild:Thought she, "What if her heart should melt,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.
The wind was wild; against the glassThe rain did beat and bicker;The church-tower swinging over head,You scarce could hear the Vicar!
And then and there the mother knelt,And audibly she cried-"Oh! may a clinging curse consumeThis woman by my side!
"O hear me, hear me, Lord in Heaven,Although you take my life—O curse this woman, at whose houseYoung Edward woo'd his wife.
"By night and day, in bed and bower,O let her cursed be!!! "So having prayed, steady and slow,She rose up from her knee!And left the church, nor e'er againThe church-door entered she.
I saw poor Ellen kneeling still,So pale! I guessed not why:When she stood up, there plainly wasA trouble in her eye.
And when the prayers were done, we allCame round and asked her why:Giddy she seemed, and sure, there wasA trouble in her eye.
But ere she from the church-door steppedShe smiled and told us why:"It was a wicked woman's curse,"Quoth she, "and what care I?"
She smiled, and smiled, and passed it offEre from the door she stept—But all agree it would have beenMuch better had she wept.
And if her heart was not at ease,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:"It was a wicked woman's curse,And why should I be troubled?"
These tears will come—I dandled herWhen 'twas the merest fairy—Good creature! and she hid it all:She told it not to Mary.
But Mary heard the tale: her armsRound Ellen's neck she threw;"O Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me,And now she hath cursed you!"
I saw young Edward by himselfStalk fast adown the lee,He snatched a stick from every fence,A twig from every tree.
He snapped them still with hand or knee,And then away they flew!As if with his uneasy limbsHe knew not what to do!
You see, good Sir! that single hill?His farm lies underneath:He heard it there, he heard it all,And only gnashed his teeth.
Now Ellen was a darling loveIn all his joys and cares:And Ellen's name and Mary's nameFast-linked they both together came,Whene'er he said his prayers.
And in the moment of his prayersHe loved them both alike:Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joyUpon his heart did strike!
He reach'd his home, and by his looksThey saw his inward strife:And they clung round him with their arms,Both Ellen and his wife.
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,But closelier did she cling,And turned her face and looked as ifShe saw some frightful thing.
To see a man tread over gravesI hold it no good mark;'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 ageLies there as cold as clay.
Except that grave, you scarce see oneThat was not dug by me;I'd rather dance upon 'em allThan tread upon these three!
"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,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 EllenDid well nigh dote on Mary;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;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 look'd as if he thoughtThat Ellen's mirth was fearful.
When by herself, she to herselfMust sing some merry rhyme;She could not now be glad for hours,Yet silent all the time.
And when she soothed her friend, through allHer soothing words 'twas plainShe had a sore grief of her own,A haunting in her brain.
And oft she said, I'm not grown thin!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 firstShe gently pressed her hand;
Then harder, till her grasp at lengthDid gripe like a convulsion!"Alas!" said she, "we ne'er can beMade happy by compulsion!"
And once her both arms suddenlyRound Mary's neck she flung,And her heart panted, and she feltThe words upon her tongue.
She felt them coming, but no powerHad she the words to smother;And with a kind of shriek she cried,"Oh Christ! you're like your mother!"
So gentle Ellen now no moreCould make this sad house cheery;And Mary's melancholy waysDrove Edward wild and weary.
Lingering he raised his latch at eve,Though tired in heart and limb:He loved no other place, and yetHome was no home to him.
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,And nothing to him said;She tried to smile, and on his armMournfully leaned her head.
And he burst into tears, and fellUpon his knees in prayer:"Her heart is broke! O God! my grief,It is too great to bear!"
'Twas such a foggy time as makesOld sextons, Sir! like me,Rest on their spades to cough; the springWas late uncommonly.
And then the hot days, all at once,They came, we knew not how:You looked about for shade, when scarceA leaf was on a bough.
It happened then ('twas in the bower,A furlong up the wood:Perhaps you know the place, and yetI scarce know how you should,)
No path leads thither, 'tis not nighTo any pasture-plot;But clustered near the chattering brook,Lone hollies marked the spot.
Those hollies of themselves a shapeAs of an arbour took,A close, round arbour; and it standsNot three strides from a brook.
Within this arbour, which was stillWith scarlet berries hung,Were these three friends, one Sunday morn,Just as the first bell rung.
'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweetTo hear the Sabbath-bell,'Tis sweet to hear them both at once,Deep in a woody dell.
His limbs along the moss, his headUpon a mossy heap,With shut-up senses, Edward lay:That brook e'en on a working dayMight chatter one to sleep.
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,See, dearest Ellen! see!'Tis in the leaves, a little sun,No bigger than your ee;
"A tiny sun, and it has gotA perfect glory too;Ten thousand threads and hairs of light,Make up a glory gay and brightRound that small orb, so blue."
And then they argued of those rays,What colour they might be;Says this, "They're mostly green"; says that,"They're amber-like to me."
So they sat chatting, while bad thoughtsWere troubling Edward's rest;But soon they heard his hard quick pants,And the thumping in his breast.
"A mother too!" these self-same wordsDid Edward mutter plain;His face was drawn back on itself,With horror and huge pain.
Both groan'd at once, for both knew wellWhat thoughts were in his mind;When he waked up, and stared like oneThat hath been just struck blind.
He sat upright; and ere the dreamHad had time to depart,"O God, forgive me!" (he exclaimed)"I have torn out her heart."
Then Ellen shrieked, and forthwith burstInto ungentle laughter;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!——[Note of S.T.C.—l8l5.]
Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,With the old Moon in her arms;And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!We shall have a deadly storm.Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.
Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who madeThe grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,This night, so tranquil now, will not go henceUnroused by winds, that ply a busier tradeThan those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,Or the dull sobbing drafty that moans and rakesUpon the strings of this Æolian lute,Which better far were mute.For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!And overspread with phantom light,(With swimming phantom light o'erspreadBut rimmed and circled by a silver thread)I see the old Moon in her lap, foretellingThe, coming-on of rain and squally blast.And oh that even now the gust were swelling,And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,And sent my soul abroad,Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,Might startle this dull pain, and make it moveand live!
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,In word, or sigh, or tear—
O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,
All this long eve, so balmy and serene,Have I been gazing on the western sky,And its peculiar tint of yellow green:And still I gaze—and with how blank an eyeAnd those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,That give away their motion to the stars;Those stars, that glide behind them or between,Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seenYon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grewIn its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;I see them all so excellently fair,I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!
My genial spirits fail;And what can these availTo lift the smothering weight from off my breast?It were a vain endeavour,Though I should gaze for everOn that green light that lingers in the west:I may not hope from outward forms to winThe passion and the life, whose fountains are within.
O Lady! we receive but what we give,And in our life alone does Nature live:Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!And would we aught behold, of higher worth,Than that inanimate cold world allowedTo the poor loveless, ever-anxious crowd,Ah! from the soul itself must issue forthA light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud—Enveloping the Earth—And from the soul itself must there be sentA sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,Of all sweet sounds the life and element!
O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of meWhat this strong music in the soul may be!What, and wherein it doth exist,This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,This beautiful and beauty-making power.Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given,Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower,Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower,A new Earth and new Heaven,Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud—Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud—We in ourselves rejoice!And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,All melodies the echoes of that voice,All colours a suffusion from that light.
There was a time when, though my path was rough,This joy within me dallied with distress,And all misfortunes were but as the stuffWhence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.But now afflictions bow me down to earth:Nor care I that they rob me of my mirthBut oh! each visitationSuspends what nature gave me at my birth,My shaping spirit of Imagination.For not to think of what I needs must feel,But to be still and patient, all I can;And haply by abstruse research to stealFrom my own nature all the natural man—This was my sole resource, my only plan:Till that which suits a part infects the whole,And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.
Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,Reality's dark dream!I turn from you, and listen to the wind,Which long has raved unnoticed. What a screamOf agony by torture lengthened outThat lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without,Bare crag, or mountain-tairn, or blasted tree,Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!Thou mighty Poet, even to frenzy bold!What tell'st thou now about?'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,With groans of trampled men, with smarting wounds—At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,With groans, and tremulous shudderings-all is over—It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!A tale of less affright,And tempered with delight,As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,'Tis of a little childUpon a lonesome wild,Not far from home, but she hath lost her way:And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.
Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!With light heart may she rise,Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;To her may all things live, from pole to pole,Their life the eddying of her living soul!O simple spirit, guided from above,Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.
1802.
Tranquility! thou better nameThan all the family of Fame!Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper ageTo low intrigue, or factious rage;For oh! dear child of thoughtful Truth,To thee I gave my early youth,And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore,Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with its roar.
Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,On him but seldom, Power divine,Thy spirit rests! SatietyAnd Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,Mock the tired worldling. Idle HopeAnd dire Remembrance interlope,To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind:The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind.
But me thy gentle hand will leadAt morning through the accustomed mead;And in the sultry summer's heatWill build me up a mossy seat;And when the gust of Autumn crowds,And breaks the busy moonlight clouds,Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune,Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon.
The feeling heart, the searching soul,To thee I dedicate the whole!And while within myself I traceThe greatness of some future race,Aloof with hermit-eye I scanThe present works of present man—A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile,Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!
1801.
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,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,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!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 adoredThe spirit of divinest Liberty.
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!With what a joy my lofty gratulationUnawed 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,And Britain join'd the dire array;Though dear her shores and circling ocean,Though many friendships, many youthful lovesHad swoln the patriot emotionAnd flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves;Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeatTo all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance,And shame too long delay'd and vain retreat!For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aimI dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame;But blessed the paeans of delivered France,And hung my head and wept at Britain's name.
"And what," I said, "though Blasphemy's loud screamWith that sweet music of deliverance strove!Though all the fierce and drunken passions woveA 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;When France her front deep-scarr'd and goryConcealed with clustering wreaths of glory;When, insupportably advancing,Her arm made mockery of the warrior's ramp;While timid looks of fury glancing,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 loreIn the low huts of them that toil and groan!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."
Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams!I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament,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-snowsWith bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I cherishedOne thought that ever blessed your cruel foes!To scatter rage and traitorous guiltWhere Peace her jealous home had built;A patriot-race to disinheritOf all that made their stormy wilds so dear;And with inexpiable spiritTo 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?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 spoilsFrom freemen torn; to tempt and to betray?
The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain,Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad gameThey burst their manacles and wear the nameOf Freedom, graven on a heavier chain!O Liberty! with profitless endeavourHave I pursued thee, many a weary hour;But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor everDidst 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,And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves,Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions,The guide of homeless winds, and playmate ofthe waves!And there I felt thee!—on that sea-cliff's verge,Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above,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.
February1798.
A Green and silent spot, amid the hills,A small and silent dell! O'er stiller placeNo singing sky-lark ever poised himself.The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope,Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on,All golden with the never-bloomless furze,Which now blooms most profusely: but the dell,Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicateAs vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax,When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve,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 madeHis early manhood more securely wise!Here he might lie on fern or withered heath,While from the singing lark (that sings unseenThe minstrelsy that solitude loves best),And from the sun, and from the breezy air,Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame;And he, with many feelings, many thoughts,Made up a meditative joy, and foundReligious meanings in the forms of Nature!And so, his senses gradually wraptIn 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 thingFor such a man, who would full fain preserveHis soul in calmness, yet perforce must feelFor all his human brethren—O my God!It weighs upon the heart, that he must thinkWhat uproar and what strife may now be stirringThis way or that way o'er these silent hills—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!We have offended, Oh! my countrymen!We have offended very grievously,And been most tyrannous. From east to westA groan of accusation pierces Heaven!The wretched plead against us; multitudesCountless and vehement, the sons of God,Our brethren! Like a cloud that travels on,Steam'd up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence,Even so, my countrymen! have we gone forthAnd borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs,And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taintWith slow perdition murders the whole man,His body and his soul! Meanwhile, at home,All individual dignity and powerEngulf'd in Courts, Committees, Institutions,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;Contemptuous of all honourable rule,Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's lifeFor gold, as at a market! The sweet wordsOf Christian promise, words that even yetMight stem destruction, were they wisely preached,Are muttered o'er by men, whose tones proclaimHow flat and wearisome they feel their trade:Rank scoffers some, but most too indolentTo deem them falsehoods or to know their truth.Oh! blasphemous! the book of life is madeA superstitious instrument, on whichWe 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,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 GodSounds like a juggler's charm; and, bold with joy,Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place,(Portentous sight!) the owlet Atheism,Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon,Drops his blue-fringed lids, and holds them close,And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven,Cries out, "Where is it?"
Thankless too for peace,(Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seas)Secure from actual warfare, we have lovedTo swell the war-whoop, passionate for war!Alas! for ages ignorant of allIts ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague,Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows,)We, this whole people, have been clamorousFor war and bloodshed; animating sports,The which we pay for as a thing to talk of,Spectators and not combatants! No guessAnticipative of a wrong unfelt,No speculation on contingency,However dim and vague, too vague and dimTo yield a justifying cause; and forth,(Stuffed out with big preamble, holy names,And adjurations of the God in Heaven,)We send our mandates for the certain deathOf thousands and ten thousands! Boys and girls,And women, that would groan to see a childPull off an insect's leg, all read of war,The best amusement for our morning meal!The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayersFrom curses, who knows scarcely words enoughTo ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father,Becomes a fluent phraseman, absoluteAnd technical in victories and defeats,And all our dainty terms for fratricide;Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tonguesLike mere abstractions, empty sounds to whichWe join no feeling and attach no form!As if the soldier died without a wound;As if the fibres of this godlike frameWere gored without a pang; as if the wretch,Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds,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 daysAre coming on us, O my countrymen!And what if all-avenging Providence,Strong and retributive, should make us knowThe meaning of our words, force us to feelThe desolation and the agonyOf our fierce doings?
Spare us yet awhile,Father and God! O! spare us yet awhile!Oh! let not English women drag their flightFainting beneath the burthen of their babes,Of the sweet infants, that but yesterdayLaughed at the breast! Sons, brothers, husbands, allWho ever gazed with fondness on the formsWhich grew up with you round the same fire-side,And all who ever heard the sabbath-bellsWithout the infidel's scorn, make yourselves pure!Stand forth! be men! repel an impious foe,Impious and false, a light yet cruel race,Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirthWith deeds of murder; and still promisingFreedom, themselves too sensual to be free,Poison life's amities, and cheat the heartOf faith and quiet hope, and all that soothesAnd all that lifts the spirit! Stand we forth;Render them back upon the insulted ocean,And let them toss as idly on its wavesAs the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blastSwept from our shores! And oh! may we returnNot with a drunken triumph, but with fear,Repenting of the wrongs with which we stungSo fierce a foe to frenzy!
I have told,O Britons! O my brethren! I have toldMost bitter truth, but without bitterness.Nor deem my zeal or factious or mistimed;For never can true courage dwell with them,Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not lookAt their own vices. We have been too longDupes of a deep delusion! Some, belike,Groaning with restless enmity, expectAll change from change of constituted power;As if a Government had been a robe,On which our vice and wretchedness were taggedLike fancy-points and fringes, with the robePulled off at pleasure. Fondly these attachA radical causation to a fewPoor drudges of chastising Providence,Who borrow all their hues and qualitiesFrom our own folly and rank wickedness,Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others, meanwhile,Dote with a mad idolatry; and allWho will not fall before their images.And yield them worship, they are enemiesEven of their country!
Such have I been deemed.—But, O dear Britain! O my Mother Isle!Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holyTo me, a son, a brother, and a friend,A husband, and a father! who revereAll bonds of natural love, and find them allWithin the limits of thy rocky shores.O native Britain! O my Mother Isle!How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holyTo me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills,Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas,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 feelThe joy and greatness of its future being?There lives nor form nor feeling in my soulUnborrowed from my country! O divineAnd beauteous island! thou hast been my soleAnd most magnificent temple, in the whichI 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 vauntsAnd menace of the vengeful enemyPass like the gust, that roared and died awayIn the distant tree: which heard, and only heardIn this low dell, bow'd not the delicate grass.But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroadThe fruit-like perfume of the golden furze:The light has left the summit of the hill,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! recalledFrom bodings that have well-nigh wearied me,I find myself upon the brow, and pauseStartled! And after lonely sojourningIn such a quiet and surrounded nook,This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main,Dim-tinted, there the mighty majestyOf that huge amphitheatre of richAnd elmy fields, seems like society—Conversing with the mind, and giving itA livelier impulse and a dance of thought!And now, beloved Stowey! I beholdThy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elmsClustering, which mark the mansion of my friend;And close behind them, hidden from my view,Is my own lowly cottage, where my babeAnd my babe's mother dwell in peace! With lightAnd quickened footsteps thitherward I tend,Remembering thee, O green and silent dell!And grateful, that by nature's quietnessAnd solitary musings, all my heartIs soften'd, and made worthy to indulgeLove, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind.
NETHER STOWEY,April 2Oth, 1798.
In the June of 1797 some long-expected friends paid a visit to the author's cottage; and on the morning of their arrival, he met with an accident, which disabled him from walking during the whole time of their stay. One evening, when they had left him for a few hours, he composed the following lines in the garden-bower.
Well, they are gone, and here must I remain,This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lostBeauties and feelings, such as would have beenMost sweet to my remembrance even when ageHad dimmed mine eyes to blindness! They, meanwhile,Friends, whom I never more may meet again,On springy heath, along the hill-top edge,Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance,To that still roaring dell, of which I told;The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep,And only speckled by the mid-day sun;Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rockFlings arching like a bridge—that branchless ash,Unsunned and damp, whose few poor yellow-leavesNe'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still,Fanned by the water-fall! and there my friendsBehold the dark green file of long lank weeds,That all at once (a most fantastic sight!)Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edgeOf the blue clay-stone.
Now, my friends emergeBeneath the wide wide Heaven—and view againThe many-steepled tract magnificentOf hilly fields and meadows, and the sea,With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light upThe slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two IslesOf purple shadow! Yes! they wander onIn gladness all; but thou, me thinks, most glad,My gentle-hearted Charles! for thou hast pinedAnd hungered after Nature, many a year,In the great City pent, winning thy wayWith sad yet patient soul, through evil and painAnd strange calamity! Ah! slowly sinkBehind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun!Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb,Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye cloudsLive in the yellow light, ye distant groves!And kindle, thou blue Ocean! So my friendStruck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood,Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing roundOn the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seemLess gross than bodily; and of such huesAs veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makesSpirits perceive his presence.
A delightComes sudden on my heart, and I am gladAs I myself were there! Nor in this bower,This little lime-tree bower, have I not markedMuch that has soothed me. Pale beneath the blazeHung the transparent foliage; and I watchedSome broad and sunny leaf, and loved to seeThe shadow of the leaf and stem above,Dappling its sunshine! And that walnut-treeWas richly tinged, and a deep radiance layFull on the ancient ivy, which usurpsThose fronting elms, and now, with blackest mass—Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hueThrough the late twilight: and though now the batWheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters,Yet still the solitary humble-beeSings in the bean-flower! Henceforth I shall knowThat Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure;No plot so narrow, be but Nature there,No waste so vacant, but. may well employEach faculty of sense, and keep the heart.Awake to Love and Beauty! and sometimes'Tis well to be bereft of promised good,That we may lift the soul, and contemplateWith lively joy the joys we cannot share.My gentle-hearted Charles! when the last rookBeat its straight path along the dusky airHomewards, I blest it! deeming, its black wing(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light)Had cross'd the mighty orb's dilated glory,While thou stood'st gazing; or when all was still,Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a charmFor thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whomNo sound is dissonant which tells of Life.
1797.