"Late, late yestreen I saw the new MoonWith the Old Moon in her arms;And I fear, I fear, my Master dear,We shall have a deadly storm."[1076:2]
"Late, late yestreen I saw the new MoonWith the Old Moon in her arms;And I fear, I fear, my Master dear,We shall have a deadly storm."[1076:2]
Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence.
Motto—2 Moon] oneLetter to S.
Motto—2 Moon] oneLetter to S.
[4]There will be, &c.Letter to S.
There will be, &c.Letter to S.
Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who madeThe grand Old ballad ofSir Patrick Spence,This night; so tranquil now, will not go henceUnrous'd by winds, that ply a busier tradeThan those, which mould yon cloud, in lazy flakes,5Or the dull sobbing draft, that drones and rakesUpon the strings of this Œolian lute,Which better far were mute.For lo! the New Moon, winter-bright!And overspread with phantom light,10[1077](With swimming phantom light o'erspread,But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread)I see the Old Moon in her lap, foretellingThe coming on of rain and squally blast:And O! that even now the gust were swelling,15And the slant night-show'r driving loud and fast!Those sounds which oft have rais'd me, while they aw'd,And sent my soul abroad,Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!20
Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who madeThe grand Old ballad ofSir Patrick Spence,This night; so tranquil now, will not go henceUnrous'd by winds, that ply a busier tradeThan those, which mould yon cloud, in lazy flakes,5Or the dull sobbing draft, that drones and rakesUpon the strings of this Œolian lute,Which better far were mute.For lo! the New Moon, winter-bright!And overspread with phantom light,10[1077](With swimming phantom light o'erspread,But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread)I see the Old Moon in her lap, foretellingThe coming on of rain and squally blast:And O! that even now the gust were swelling,15And the slant night-show'r driving loud and fast!Those sounds which oft have rais'd me, while they aw'd,And sent my soul abroad,Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!20
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief,Which finds no nat'ral outlet, no relief,In word, or sigh, or tear—OEdmund! in this wan and heartless mood,25To 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 eye!30And 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 bedimm'd, but always seen;Yon crescent moon, as fix'd as if it grew,35In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue,A boat becalm'd! a lovely sky-canoe!I see them all so excellently fair—Isee, notfeelhow beautiful they are!
A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief,Which finds no nat'ral outlet, no relief,In word, or sigh, or tear—OEdmund! in this wan and heartless mood,25To 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 eye!30And 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 bedimm'd, but always seen;Yon crescent moon, as fix'd as if it grew,35In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue,A boat becalm'd! a lovely sky-canoe!I see them all so excellently fair—Isee, notfeelhow beautiful they are!
My genial spirits fail;40And what can these avail,To lift the smoth'ring weight from off my breast?It were a vain endeavour,Though I should gaze for everOn that green light that lingers in the west:45I may not hope from outward forms to winThe passion and the life, whose fountains are within.
My genial spirits fail;40And what can these avail,To lift the smoth'ring weight from off my breast?It were a vain endeavour,Though I should gaze for everOn that green light that lingers in the west:45I may not hope from outward forms to winThe passion and the life, whose fountains are within.
OEdmund! we receive but what we give,And inourlife alone does Nature live:Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!50And would we aught behold, of higher worth,Than that inanimate cold world,allow'dTo the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth,A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud55Enveloping 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 me60What 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 pow'r?Joy, virtuousEdmund! joy that ne'er was given,65Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,Joy,Edmund! is the spirit and the pow'r,Which wedding Nature to us gives in dow'r,A new Earth and new Heaven,Undream'd of by the sensual and the proud—70Joyis the sweet voice,Joythe luminous cloud—We, we 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.75
OEdmund! we receive but what we give,And inourlife alone does Nature live:Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!50And would we aught behold, of higher worth,Than that inanimate cold world,allow'dTo the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth,A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud55Enveloping 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 me60What 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 pow'r?Joy, virtuousEdmund! joy that ne'er was given,65Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,Joy,Edmund! is the spirit and the pow'r,Which wedding Nature to us gives in dow'r,A new Earth and new Heaven,Undream'd of by the sensual and the proud—70Joyis the sweet voice,Joythe luminous cloud—We, we 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.75
Yes, dearestEdmund, yes!There was a time that, tho' 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:80For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine.But now afflictions bow me down to earth:Nor care I, that they rob me of my mirth,But oh! each visitation85Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,My shaping spirit of imagination.
Yes, dearestEdmund, yes!There was a time that, tho' 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:80For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine.But now afflictions bow me down to earth:Nor care I, that they rob me of my mirth,But oh! each visitation85Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,My shaping spirit of imagination.
[The Sixth and Seventh Stanzas omitted.]
* * * * ** * * * ** * * * *
* * * * ** * * * ** * * * *
O wherefore did I let it haunt my mindThis dark distressful dream?I turn from it, and listen to the wind90Which long has rav'd unnotic'd. What a screamOf agony, by torture, lengthen'd out,That lute sent forth! O wind, that rav'st without,Bare crag, or mountain-tairn[1079:1], or blasted tree,Or pine-grove, whither woodman never clomb,95Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,Mad Lutanist! who, in this month of show'rs,Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flow'rs,Mak'st devil's yule, with worse than wintry song,100The blossoms, buds, and tim'rous leaves among.Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!Thou mighty Poet, ev'n to frenzy bold![1080]What tell'st thou now about?'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout,105With many groans of 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!110It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud—A tale of less affright.And temper'd with delight,AsEdmund'sself had fram'd the tender lay—'Tis of a little child,115Upon a lonesome wildNot far from home; but she hath lost her way—And now moans low, in utter grief and fear;And now screams loud, and hopes to make her motherhear!
O wherefore did I let it haunt my mindThis dark distressful dream?I turn from it, and listen to the wind90Which long has rav'd unnotic'd. What a screamOf agony, by torture, lengthen'd out,That lute sent forth! O wind, that rav'st without,Bare crag, or mountain-tairn[1079:1], or blasted tree,Or pine-grove, whither woodman never clomb,95Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,Mad Lutanist! who, in this month of show'rs,Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flow'rs,Mak'st devil's yule, with worse than wintry song,100The blossoms, buds, and tim'rous leaves among.Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!Thou mighty Poet, ev'n to frenzy bold![1080]What tell'st thou now about?'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout,105With many groans of 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!110It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud—A tale of less affright.And temper'd with delight,AsEdmund'sself had fram'd the tender lay—'Tis of a little child,115Upon a lonesome wildNot far from home; but she hath lost her way—And now moans low, in utter grief and fear;And now screams loud, and hopes to make her motherhear!
'Tis midnight, and small thoughts have I of sleep;120Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!Visit him, gentle Sleep, with wings of healing,And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,May all the stars hang bright above his dwelling,Silent, as though theywatch'dthe sleeping Earth!125With light heart may he rise,Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,And sing his lofty song, and teach me to rejoice!OEdmund, friend of my devoutest choice,O rais'd from anxious dread and busy care,130By the immenseness of the good and fairWhich thou see'st everywhere,Joy lifts thy spirit, joy attunes thy voice,[1081]To thee do all things live from pole to pole,Their life the eddying of thy living soul!135O simple spirit, guided from above,O lofty Poet, full of life and love,Brother and friend of my devoutest choice,Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice!
'Tis midnight, and small thoughts have I of sleep;120Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!Visit him, gentle Sleep, with wings of healing,And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,May all the stars hang bright above his dwelling,Silent, as though theywatch'dthe sleeping Earth!125With light heart may he rise,Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,And sing his lofty song, and teach me to rejoice!OEdmund, friend of my devoutest choice,O rais'd from anxious dread and busy care,130By the immenseness of the good and fairWhich thou see'st everywhere,Joy lifts thy spirit, joy attunes thy voice,[1081]To thee do all things live from pole to pole,Their life the eddying of thy living soul!135O simple spirit, guided from above,O lofty Poet, full of life and love,Brother and friend of my devoutest choice,Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice!
ΕΣΤΗΣΕ.
[1076:1]Collated with the text of the poem as sent to W. Sotheby in a letter dated July 19, 1802 (Letters of S. T. C., 1895, i. 379-84).
[1076:1]Collated with the text of the poem as sent to W. Sotheby in a letter dated July 19, 1802 (Letters of S. T. C., 1895, i. 379-84).
[1076:2]In the letter of July 19, 1802, the Ode is broken up and quoted in parts or fragments, illustrative of the mind and feelings of the writer. 'Sickness,' he explains, 'first forced me intodownright metaphysics. For I believe that by nature I have more of the poet in me. In a poem written during that dejection, to Wordsworth, I thus expressed the thought in language more forcible than harmonious.' Then follow lines 76-87 of the text, followed by lines 87-98 of the text first published inSibylline Leaves('For not to think of what I needs must feel,' &c.). He then reverts to the 'introduction of the poem':—'The first lines allude to a stanza in the Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence: "Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon with the old one in her arms: and I fear, I fear, my master dear, there will be a deadly Storm."' This serves as a motto to lines 1-75 and 129-39 of the first draft of the text. Finally he 'annexes as afragmenta few lines (ll. 88-119) on the "Œolian Lute", it having been introduced in its dronings in the first stanzas.'
[1076:2]In the letter of July 19, 1802, the Ode is broken up and quoted in parts or fragments, illustrative of the mind and feelings of the writer. 'Sickness,' he explains, 'first forced me intodownright metaphysics. For I believe that by nature I have more of the poet in me. In a poem written during that dejection, to Wordsworth, I thus expressed the thought in language more forcible than harmonious.' Then follow lines 76-87 of the text, followed by lines 87-98 of the text first published inSibylline Leaves('For not to think of what I needs must feel,' &c.). He then reverts to the 'introduction of the poem':—'The first lines allude to a stanza in the Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence: "Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon with the old one in her arms: and I fear, I fear, my master dear, there will be a deadly Storm."' This serves as a motto to lines 1-75 and 129-39 of the first draft of the text. Finally he 'annexes as afragmenta few lines (ll. 88-119) on the "Œolian Lute", it having been introduced in its dronings in the first stanzas.'
[1079:1]Tairn, a small lake, generally, if not always, applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the vallies. This address to the wind will not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, in a mountainous country. [Note inM. P.]
[1079:1]Tairn, a small lake, generally, if not always, applied to the lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the vallies. This address to the wind will not appear extravagant to those who have heard it at night, in a mountainous country. [Note inM. P.]
[2]grand] dearLetter to S.
grand] dearLetter to S.
[5]those] thatLetter to S.cloud] cloudsLetter to S.
those] thatLetter to S.cloud] cloudsLetter to S.
[12]by] withLetter to S.
by] withLetter to S.
[17-20]om. Letter to S.
om. Letter to S.
[22]stifled] stiflingLetter to S.
stifled] stiflingLetter to S.
Between24and25.This William, well thou knowest,Is that sore evil which I dread the most,And oftnest suffer. In this heartless mood,To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,That pipes within the larch-tree, not unseen,The larch, that pushes out in tassels greenIts bundled leafits, woo'd to mild delights,By all the tender sounds and gentle sights,Of this sweet primrose-month, and vainly woo'dO dearest Poet, in this heartless mood.Letter to S.
Between24and25.
This William, well thou knowest,Is that sore evil which I dread the most,And oftnest suffer. In this heartless mood,To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,That pipes within the larch-tree, not unseen,The larch, that pushes out in tassels greenIts bundled leafits, woo'd to mild delights,By all the tender sounds and gentle sights,Of this sweet primrose-month, and vainly woo'dO dearest Poet, in this heartless mood.
This William, well thou knowest,Is that sore evil which I dread the most,And oftnest suffer. In this heartless mood,To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,That pipes within the larch-tree, not unseen,The larch, that pushes out in tassels greenIts bundled leafits, woo'd to mild delights,By all the tender sounds and gentle sights,Of this sweet primrose-month, and vainly woo'dO dearest Poet, in this heartless mood.
Letter to S.
[37]a lovely sky-canoe] thy own sweet sky-canoeLetter to S.[Note.The reference is to the Prologue to 'Peter Bell'.]
a lovely sky-canoe] thy own sweet sky-canoeLetter to S.[Note.The reference is to the Prologue to 'Peter Bell'.]
[48]Edmund] WordsworthLetter to S.
Edmund] WordsworthLetter to S.
[58]potent] powerfulLetter to S.
potent] powerfulLetter to S.
[65]virtuous Edmund] blameless poetLetter to S.
virtuous Edmund] blameless poetLetter to S.
[67]Edmund] WilliamLetter to S.
Edmund] WilliamLetter to S.
[71]om. Letter to S.
om. Letter to S.
[74]the echoes] an echoLetter to S.
the echoes] an echoLetter to S.
[76]Edmund] poetLetter to S.
Edmund] poetLetter to S.
[77]that] whenLetter to S.
that] whenLetter to S.
[78]This] TheLetter to S.
This] TheLetter to S.
[82]fruits] fruitLetter to S.
fruits] fruitLetter to S.
After 87 six lines 'For not to think', &c., are inserted after a row of asterisks. The direction as to the omission of the Sixth and Seventh Stanzas is only found in theM. P.
After 87 six lines 'For not to think', &c., are inserted after a row of asterisks. The direction as to the omission of the Sixth and Seventh Stanzas is only found in theM. P.
[88]O] NayLetter to S.
O] NayLetter to S.
[93]That lute sent out! O thou wild storm withoutLetter to S.
That lute sent out! O thou wild storm withoutLetter to S.
[98]who] thatLetter to S.
who] thatLetter to S.
[106]of] fromLetter to S.
of] fromLetter to S.
[109]Again! but all that noiseLetter to S.
Again! but all that noiseLetter to S.
[111]And it has other sounds, less fearful and less loudLetter to S.
And it has other sounds, less fearful and less loudLetter to S.
[114]Edmund's self] thou thyselfLetter to S.
Edmund's self] thou thyselfLetter to S.
[120-8]om. Letter to S.
om. Letter to S.
[129-39]Calm steadfast spirit, guided from above,O Wordsworth! friend of my devoutest choice,Great son of genius! full of light and love,Thus, thus, dost thou rejoice.To thee do all things live, from pole to pole,Their life the eddying of thy living Soul!Brother and friend of my devoutest choice,Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice!Letter to S.[Note.In the letter these lines follow line 75 of the text of theM. P.]
Calm steadfast spirit, guided from above,O Wordsworth! friend of my devoutest choice,Great son of genius! full of light and love,Thus, thus, dost thou rejoice.To thee do all things live, from pole to pole,Their life the eddying of thy living Soul!Brother and friend of my devoutest choice,Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice!
Calm steadfast spirit, guided from above,O Wordsworth! friend of my devoutest choice,Great son of genius! full of light and love,Thus, thus, dost thou rejoice.To thee do all things live, from pole to pole,Their life the eddying of thy living Soul!Brother and friend of my devoutest choice,Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice!
Letter to S.
[Note.In the letter these lines follow line 75 of the text of theM. P.]
(Vide ante, p. 403.)
LINES COMPOSED, FOR THE GREATER PART ON THE NIGHT,ON WHICH HE FINISHED THE RECITATION OF HIS POEM(IN THIRTEEN BOOKS) CONCERNING THE GROWTHAND HISTORY OF HIS OWN MIND
Janry, 1807. Cole-orton, near Ashby de la Zouch.
O friend! O Teacher! God's great Gift to me!Into my heart have I receiv'd that Lay,More than historic, that prophetic Lay,Wherein (high theme by Thee first sung aright)Of the Foundations and the Building-up5Of thy own Spirit, thou hast lov'd to tellWhat may be told, to th' understanding mindRevealable; and what within the mindMay rise enkindled. Theme as hard as high!Of Smiles spontaneous, and mysterious Feard;10(The First-born they of Reason, and Twin-birth)Of Tides obedient to external Force,Andcurrentsself-determin'd, as might seem,Or by interior Power: of Moments aweful,Now in thy hidden Life; and now abroad,15Mid festive Crowds,thyBrows too garlanded,A Brother of the Feast: ofFanciesfair,Hyblæan Murmurs of poetic Thought,Industrious in its Joy, by lilied StreamsNative or outland, Lakes and famous Hills!20[1082]Of more than Fancy, of the Hope of ManAmid the tremor of a Realm aglow—Where France in all her Towns lay vibrating,Ev'n as a Bark becalm'd on sultry seasBeneath the voice from Heaven, the bursting Crash25Of Heaven's immediate thunder! when no CloudIs visible, or Shadow on the Main!Ah! soon night roll'd on night, and every CloudOpen'd its eye of Fire: and Hope aloftNow flutter'd, and now toss'd upon the Storm30Floating! Of Hope afflicted, and struck down,Thence summon'd homeward—homeward to thy Heart,Oft from the Watch-tower of Man's absolute Self,With Light unwaning on her eyes, to lookFar on—herself a Glory to behold,35The Angel of the Vision! Then (last strain!)OfDuty, chosen Laws controlling choice,Virtue and Love! An Orphic Tale indeed,A Tale divine of high and passionate ThoughtsTo their own music chaunted!Ah great Bard!40Ere yet that last Swell dying aw'd the Air,With stedfast ken I view'd thee in the ChoirOf ever-enduring Men. The truly GreatHave all one Age, and from one visible spaceShed influence: for they, both power and act,45Are permanent, and Time is not with them,Save as it worketh for them, they in it.Nor less a sacred Roll, than those of old,And to be plac'd, as they, with gradual fameAmong the Archives of mankind, thy Work50Makes audible a linked Song of Truth,Of Truth profound a sweet continuous SongNot learnt, but native, her own natural Notes!Dear shall it be to every human Heart.To me how more than dearest! Me, on whom55Comfort from Thee and utterance of thy LoveCame with such heights and depths of HarmonySuch sense of Wings uplifting, that the StormScatter'd and whirl'd me, till my Thoughts becameA bodily Tumult! and thy faithful Hopes,60[1083]Thy Hopes of me, dear Friend! by me unfeltWere troublous to me, almost as a VoiceFamiliar once and more than musicalTo one cast forth, whose hope had seem'd to die,A Wanderer with a worn-out heart, [sic]65Mid Strangers pining with untended Wounds!O Friend! too well thou know'st, of what sad yearsThe long suppression had benumb'd my soul,That even as Life returns upon the Drown'd,Th' unusual Joy awoke a throng of Pains—70Keen Pangs ofLove, awakening, as a Babe,Turbulent, with an outcry in the Heart:And Fears self-will'd, that shunn'd the eye of Hope,And Hope, that would not know itself from Fear:Sense of pass'd Youth, and Manhood come in vain;75And Genius given, and knowledge won in vain;And all, which I had cull'd in Wood-walks wild,And all, which patient Toil had rear'd, and all,Commune with Thee had open'd out, but FlowersStrew'd on my Corse, and borne upon my Bier,80In the same Coffin, for the self-same Grave!That way no more! and ill beseems it me,Who came a Welcomer in Herald's guiseSinging of Glory and Futurity,To wander back on such unhealthful Road85Plucking the Poisons of Self-harm! and illSuch Intertwine beseems triumphal wreathsStrew'd before thy Advancing! Thou too, Friend!O injure not the memory of that HourOf thy communion with my nobler mind90By pity or grief, already felt too long!Nor let my words import more blame than needs.The Tumult rose and ceas'd: for Peace is nighWhere Wisdom's Voice has found a list'ning Heart.Amid the howl of more than wintry Storms95The Halcyon hears the voice of vernal Hours,Already on the wing!Eve following eve,Dear tranquil Time, when the sweet sense of HomeBecomes most sweet! hours for their own sake hail'd,And more desir'd, more precious, for thy song!100In silence list'ning, like a devout Child,[1084]My soul lay passive; by thy various strainDriven as in surges now, beneath the stars,With momentary Stars of my own Birth,Fair constellated Foam still darting off105Into the darkness! now a tranquil SeaOutspread and bright, yet swelling to the Moon!And when O Friend! my Comforter! my Guide!Strong in thyself and powerful to give strength!Thy long sustained Lay finally clos'd,110And thy deep Voice had ceas'd (yet thou thyselfWert still before mine eyes, and round us bothThat happy Vision of beloved Faces!All, whom I deepliest love, in one room all!),Scarce conscious and yet conscious of it's Close,115I sate, my Being blended in one Thought,(Thought was it? or aspiration? or Resolve?)Absorb'd, yet hanging still upon the sound:And when I rose, I found myself in Prayer!
O friend! O Teacher! God's great Gift to me!Into my heart have I receiv'd that Lay,More than historic, that prophetic Lay,Wherein (high theme by Thee first sung aright)Of the Foundations and the Building-up5Of thy own Spirit, thou hast lov'd to tellWhat may be told, to th' understanding mindRevealable; and what within the mindMay rise enkindled. Theme as hard as high!Of Smiles spontaneous, and mysterious Feard;10(The First-born they of Reason, and Twin-birth)Of Tides obedient to external Force,Andcurrentsself-determin'd, as might seem,Or by interior Power: of Moments aweful,Now in thy hidden Life; and now abroad,15Mid festive Crowds,thyBrows too garlanded,A Brother of the Feast: ofFanciesfair,Hyblæan Murmurs of poetic Thought,Industrious in its Joy, by lilied StreamsNative or outland, Lakes and famous Hills!20[1082]Of more than Fancy, of the Hope of ManAmid the tremor of a Realm aglow—Where France in all her Towns lay vibrating,Ev'n as a Bark becalm'd on sultry seasBeneath the voice from Heaven, the bursting Crash25Of Heaven's immediate thunder! when no CloudIs visible, or Shadow on the Main!Ah! soon night roll'd on night, and every CloudOpen'd its eye of Fire: and Hope aloftNow flutter'd, and now toss'd upon the Storm30Floating! Of Hope afflicted, and struck down,Thence summon'd homeward—homeward to thy Heart,Oft from the Watch-tower of Man's absolute Self,With Light unwaning on her eyes, to lookFar on—herself a Glory to behold,35The Angel of the Vision! Then (last strain!)OfDuty, chosen Laws controlling choice,Virtue and Love! An Orphic Tale indeed,A Tale divine of high and passionate ThoughtsTo their own music chaunted!
Ah great Bard!40Ere yet that last Swell dying aw'd the Air,With stedfast ken I view'd thee in the ChoirOf ever-enduring Men. The truly GreatHave all one Age, and from one visible spaceShed influence: for they, both power and act,45Are permanent, and Time is not with them,Save as it worketh for them, they in it.Nor less a sacred Roll, than those of old,And to be plac'd, as they, with gradual fameAmong the Archives of mankind, thy Work50Makes audible a linked Song of Truth,Of Truth profound a sweet continuous SongNot learnt, but native, her own natural Notes!Dear shall it be to every human Heart.To me how more than dearest! Me, on whom55Comfort from Thee and utterance of thy LoveCame with such heights and depths of HarmonySuch sense of Wings uplifting, that the StormScatter'd and whirl'd me, till my Thoughts becameA bodily Tumult! and thy faithful Hopes,60[1083]Thy Hopes of me, dear Friend! by me unfeltWere troublous to me, almost as a VoiceFamiliar once and more than musicalTo one cast forth, whose hope had seem'd to die,A Wanderer with a worn-out heart, [sic]65Mid Strangers pining with untended Wounds!
O Friend! too well thou know'st, of what sad yearsThe long suppression had benumb'd my soul,That even as Life returns upon the Drown'd,Th' unusual Joy awoke a throng of Pains—70Keen Pangs ofLove, awakening, as a Babe,Turbulent, with an outcry in the Heart:And Fears self-will'd, that shunn'd the eye of Hope,And Hope, that would not know itself from Fear:Sense of pass'd Youth, and Manhood come in vain;75And Genius given, and knowledge won in vain;And all, which I had cull'd in Wood-walks wild,And all, which patient Toil had rear'd, and all,Commune with Thee had open'd out, but FlowersStrew'd on my Corse, and borne upon my Bier,80In the same Coffin, for the self-same Grave!
That way no more! and ill beseems it me,Who came a Welcomer in Herald's guiseSinging of Glory and Futurity,To wander back on such unhealthful Road85Plucking the Poisons of Self-harm! and illSuch Intertwine beseems triumphal wreathsStrew'd before thy Advancing! Thou too, Friend!O injure not the memory of that HourOf thy communion with my nobler mind90By pity or grief, already felt too long!Nor let my words import more blame than needs.The Tumult rose and ceas'd: for Peace is nighWhere Wisdom's Voice has found a list'ning Heart.Amid the howl of more than wintry Storms95The Halcyon hears the voice of vernal Hours,Already on the wing!
Eve following eve,Dear tranquil Time, when the sweet sense of HomeBecomes most sweet! hours for their own sake hail'd,And more desir'd, more precious, for thy song!100In silence list'ning, like a devout Child,[1084]My soul lay passive; by thy various strainDriven as in surges now, beneath the stars,With momentary Stars of my own Birth,Fair constellated Foam still darting off105Into the darkness! now a tranquil SeaOutspread and bright, yet swelling to the Moon!
And when O Friend! my Comforter! my Guide!Strong in thyself and powerful to give strength!Thy long sustained Lay finally clos'd,110And thy deep Voice had ceas'd (yet thou thyselfWert still before mine eyes, and round us bothThat happy Vision of beloved Faces!All, whom I deepliest love, in one room all!),Scarce conscious and yet conscious of it's Close,115I sate, my Being blended in one Thought,(Thought was it? or aspiration? or Resolve?)Absorb'd, yet hanging still upon the sound:And when I rose, I found myself in Prayer!
S. T. Coleridge.
[1081:1]Now first printed from an original MS. in the possession of Mr. Gordon Wordsworth.
[1081:1]Now first printed from an original MS. in the possession of Mr. Gordon Wordsworth.
[37]controlling] ? impelling, ? directing.
controlling] ? impelling, ? directing.
[Videante, p. 439.]
10 Sept. 1823. Wednesday Morning, 10 o'clock
On the Tenth Day of September,Eighteen hundred Twenty Three,Wednesday morn, and I rememberTen on the Clock the Hour to be[The Watch and Clock do both agree]5
On the Tenth Day of September,Eighteen hundred Twenty Three,Wednesday morn, and I rememberTen on the Clock the Hour to be[The Watch and Clock do both agree]5
AnAirthat whizzedδιὰ ἐγκεφάλου(right across the diameterof my Brain) exactly like a Hummel Bee,aliasDumbeldore,the gentleman with Rappee Spenser (sic), with bands of Red, andOrange Plush Breeches, close by my ear, at once sharp andburry, right over the summit of Quantock [item of Skiddaw10(erased)] at earliest Dawn just between the Nightingale thatI stopt to hear in the Copse at the Foot of Quantock, and thefirst Sky-Lark that was a Song-Fountain, dashing up andsparkling to the Ear's eye, in full column, or ornamented Shaft ofsound in the order of Gothic Extravaganza, out of Sight, over15the Cornfields on the Descent of the Mountain on the otherside—out of sight, tho' twice I beheld itsmuteshoot downward inthe sunshine like a falling star of silver:—
AnAirthat whizzedδιὰ ἐγκεφάλου(right across the diameterof my Brain) exactly like a Hummel Bee,aliasDumbeldore,the gentleman with Rappee Spenser (sic), with bands of Red, andOrange Plush Breeches, close by my ear, at once sharp andburry, right over the summit of Quantock [item of Skiddaw10(erased)] at earliest Dawn just between the Nightingale thatI stopt to hear in the Copse at the Foot of Quantock, and thefirst Sky-Lark that was a Song-Fountain, dashing up andsparkling to the Ear's eye, in full column, or ornamented Shaft ofsound in the order of Gothic Extravaganza, out of Sight, over15the Cornfields on the Descent of the Mountain on the otherside—out of sight, tho' twice I beheld itsmuteshoot downward inthe sunshine like a falling star of silver:—
Flowers are lovely, Love is flower-like,Friendship is a shelt'ring tree—20O the Joys, that came down shower-like,Of Beauty, Truth, and Liberty,When I was young, ere I was old![O Youth that wert so glad, so bold,What quaint disguise hast thou put on?25Would'st make-believe that thou art gone?O Youth! thy Vesper Bell] has not yet toll'd.Thou always were a Masker bold—What quaint Disguise hast now put on?To make believe that thou art gone!30O Youth, so true, so fair, so free,Thy Vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd,Thou always, &c.
Flowers are lovely, Love is flower-like,Friendship is a shelt'ring tree—20O the Joys, that came down shower-like,Of Beauty, Truth, and Liberty,When I was young, ere I was old![O Youth that wert so glad, so bold,What quaint disguise hast thou put on?25Would'st make-believe that thou art gone?O Youth! thy Vesper Bell] has not yet toll'd.
Thou always were a Masker bold—What quaint Disguise hast now put on?To make believe that thou art gone!30
O Youth, so true, so fair, so free,Thy Vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd,Thou always, &c.
Ah! was it not enough, that ThouIn Thy eternal Glory should outgo me?35Would'st thou not Grief's sad Victory allow* * * * *Hope's a Breeze that robs the BlossomsFancy feeds, and murmurs the Bee——* * * * *
Ah! was it not enough, that ThouIn Thy eternal Glory should outgo me?35Would'st thou not Grief's sad Victory allow
* * * * *
Hope's a Breeze that robs the BlossomsFancy feeds, and murmurs the Bee——
* * * * *
When I was young—ere I was oldAh! happy ere, ah! woeful When25When I was young, ah woeful whenWhich says that Youth and I are twain!O Youth! for years so many and sweet'Tis known that Thou and I were oneI'll think it but a false conceit30Tis but a gloomyIt cannot be,I'll not believethat thou art goneThy Vesper Bell has not yet toll'dalwaysAndthou wertstilla masker boldWhathastSomestrange disguisethou'stnow put onTo make believe that thou art gone?35I see these Locks in silvery slips,This dragging gait, this alter'd sizeBut spring-tide blossoms on thy LipsAndthe young Heartis in thy eyestears take sunshine fromLife is but Thought so think I will40That Youth and I are Housemates still.Ere I was oldEre I was old! ah woeful ereWhich tells me youth's no longer here!O Youth, &c.45Dewdrops are the Gems of Morning,But the Tears of mournful Eve:Where no Hope is Life's a WarningmeThat only serves to makeusgrieve,Now I am old.50
When I was young—ere I was oldAh! happy ere, ah! woeful When25When I was young, ah woeful whenWhich says that Youth and I are twain!O Youth! for years so many and sweet'Tis known that Thou and I were oneI'll think it but a false conceit30Tis but a gloomyIt cannot be,I'll not believethat thou art goneThy Vesper Bell has not yet toll'dalwaysAndthou wertstilla masker boldWhathastSomestrange disguisethou'stnow put onTo make believe that thou art gone?35I see these Locks in silvery slips,This dragging gait, this alter'd sizeBut spring-tide blossoms on thy LipsAndthe young Heartis in thy eyestears take sunshine fromLife is but Thought so think I will40That Youth and I are Housemates still.
Ere I was oldEre I was old! ah woeful ereWhich tells me youth's no longer here!O Youth, &c.45Dewdrops are the Gems of Morning,But the Tears of mournful Eve:Where no Hope is Life's a WarningmeThat only serves to makeusgrieve,Now I am old.50
[Videante, p. 488.]