Sibylline Leaves Read Online

And when her sire,

Who in his dream of hope already grasped

The golden circlet in his hand, rejected

My suit with insult, and in memory

Of ancient feuds poured curses on my head,

Her blessings overtook and baffled them!

But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance

Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me.

Sandoval. Anxiously, Henry! reasoning anxiously.

But Oropeza –

Earl Henry. Blessings gather round her!

Within this wood there winds a secret passage,

Beneath the walls, which opens out at length

Into the gloomiest covert of the garden. –

The night ere my departure to the army,

She, nothing trembling, led me through that gloom,

And to that covert by a silent stream,

Which, with one star reflected near its marge,

Was the sole object visible around me.

No leaflet stirred; the air was almost sultry;

So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us!

No leaflet stirred; – yet pleasure hung upon

The gloom and stillness of the balmy night-air.

A little further on an arbour stood,

Fragrant with flowering trees – I well remember

What an uncertain glimmer in the darkness

Their snow-white blossoms made – thither she led me,

To that sweet bower! Then Oropeza trembled –

I heard her heart beat – if 'twere not my own.

Sandoval. A rude and scaring note, my friend!

Earl Henry. Oh! no!

I have small memory of aught but pleasure.

The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams

Still flowing, still were lost in those of love:

So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature,

Fleeing from pain, sheltered herself in joy.

The stars above our heads were dim and steady,

Like eyes suffused with rapture. – Life was in us:

We were all life, each atom of our frames

A living soul – I vowed to die for her:

With the faint voice of one who, having spoken,

Relapses into blessedness, I vowed it:

That solemn vow, a whisper scarcely heard,

A murmur breathed against a lady's ear.

Oh! there is joy above the name of pleasure,

Deep self-possession, an intense repose.

Sandoval [with a sarcastic smile]. No other than as eastern sages paint,

The God, who floats upon a lotos leaf,

Dreams for a thousand ages; then awaking,

Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble,

Relapses into bliss.

Earl Henry. Ah! was that bliss

Feared as an alien, and too vast for man?

For suddenly, impatient of its silence,

Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead.

I caught her arms; the veins were swelling on them.

Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice; –

»Oh! what if all betray me? what if thou?«

I swore, and with an inward thought that seemed

The purpose and the substance of my being,

I swore to her, that were she red with guilt,

I would exchange my unblenched state with hers. –

Friend! by that winding passage, to that bower

I now will go – all objects there will teach me

Unwavering love, and singleness of heart.

Go, Sandoval! I am prepared to meet her –

Say nothing of me – I myself will seek her –

Nay, leave me, friend! I cannot bear the torment

And keen inquiry of that scanning eye. –

[Earl Henry retires into the wood.]

Sandoval [alone]. O Henry! always striv'st thou to be great

By thine own act – yet art thou never great

But by the inspiration of great passion.

The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up

And shape themselves: from earth to heaven they stand,

As though they were the pillars of a temple,

Built by Omnipotence in its own honour!

But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit

Is fled: the mighty columns were but sand,

And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins!

[1813]

To an Unfortunate Woman,

Whom the Author Had Known in the Days of Her Innocence

Myrtle-leaf that, ill besped,

Pinest in the gladsome ray,

Soiled beneath the common tread,

Far from thy protecting spray!

When the partridge o'er the sheaf

Whirred along the yellow vale,

Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf!

Love the dalliance of the gale.

Lightly didst thou, foolish thing!

Heave and flutter to his sighs,

While the flatterer, on his wing,

Wooed and whispered thee to rise.

Gaily from thy mother-stalk

Wert thou danced and wafted high –

Soon on this unsheltered walk

Flung to fade, to rot and die.

[1797]

To an Unfortunate Woman at the Theatre

Maiden, that with sullen brow

Sitt'st behind those virgins gay,

Like a scorched and mildewed bough,

Leafless 'mid the blooms of May!

Him who lured thee and forsook,

Oft I watched with angry gaze,

Fearful saw his pleading look,

Anxious heard his fervid phrase.

Soft the glances of the youth,

Soft his speech, and soft his sigh;

But no sound like simple truth,

But no true love in his eye.

Loathing thy polluted lot,

Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence!

Seek thy weeping Mother's cot,

With a wiser innocence.

Thou hast known deceit and folly,

Thou hast felt that vice is woe:

With a musing melancholy

Inly armed, go, Maiden! go.

Mother sage of self-dominion,

Firm thy steps, O Melancholy!

The strongest plume in wisdom's pinion

Is the memory of past folly.

Mute the sky-lark and forlorn,

While she moults the firstling plumes,

That had skimmed the tender corn,

Or the beanfield's odorous blooms.

Soon with renovated wing

Shall she dare a loftier flight,

Upward to the day-star spring,

And embathe in heavenly light.

[1797]

Lines Composed in a Concert-Room

Nor cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest

These scented rooms, where, to a gaudy throng,

Heaves the proud harlot her distended breast

In intricacies of laborious song.

These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign

To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint;

But when the long-breathed singer's uptrilled strain

Bursts in a squall – they gape for wonderment.

Hark! the deep buzz of vanity and hate!

Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer

My lady eyes some maid of humbler state,

While the pert captain, or the primmer priest,

Prattles accordant scandal in her ear.

O give me, from this heartless scene released,

To hear our old musician, blind and gray,

(Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kissed,)

His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play,

By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night,

The while I dance amid the tedded hay

With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light.

Or lies the purple evening on the bay

Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide

Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees,

For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied,

On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease,

And while the lazy boat sways to and fro,

Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow,

That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears.

But O, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers,

And the gust pelting on the out-house shed

Makes the cock shrilly on the rain storm crow,

To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe,

Ballad of ship-wrecked sailor floating dead,

Whom his own true-love buried in the sands!

Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice re-measures

Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures

The things of Nature utter; birds or trees

Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves,

Or where the stiff grass mid the heath-plant waves,

Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze.

[1799?]

The Keepsake

The tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil,

The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field,

Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall

Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust,

Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark,

Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose

(In vain the darling of successful love)

Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years,

The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone.

Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk

By rivulet, or spring, or wet road-side,

That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook,

Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not!23

So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline

With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk

Has worked, (the flowers which most she knew I loved,)

And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair.

In the cool morning twilight, early waked

By her full bosom's joyous restlessness,

Softly she rose, and lightly stole along,

Down the slope coppice to the woodbine bower,

Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze,

Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung,

Making a quiet image of disquiet

In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool.

There, in that bower where first she owned her love,

And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy

From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretched

The silk upon the frame, and worked her name

Between the Moss-Rose and Forget-me-not –

Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair!

That forced to wander till sweet spring return,

I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look,

Her voice, (that even in her mirthful mood

Has made me wish to steal away and weep,)

Nor yet the entrancement of that maiden kiss

With which she promised, that when spring returned,

She would resign one half of that dear name,

And own henceforth no other name but mine!

[1800?]

To a Lady

With Falconer's »Shipwreck«

Ah! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams,

In arched groves, the youthful poet's choice;

Nor while half-listening, mid delicious dreams,

To harp and song from lady's hand and voice;

Nor yet while gazing in sublimer mood

On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell;

Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strewed,

Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell;

Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings,

And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, hark!

Now mounts, now totters on the tempest's wings,

Now groans, and shivers, the replunging bark!

»Cling to the shrouds!« In vain! The breakers roar –

Death shrieks! With two alone of all his clan

Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore,

No classic roamer, but a ship-wrecked man!

Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains,

And lit his spirit to so bright a flame?

The elevating thought of suffered pains,

Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the name

Of gratitude! remembrances of friend,

Or absent or no more! shades of the Past,

Which Love makes substance! Hence to thee I send,

O dear as long as life and memory last!

I send with deep regards of heart and head,

Sweet maid, for friendship formed! this work to thee:

And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed

A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me.

[1814?]

To a Young Lady

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.

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.

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?

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!

[1798]

Something Childish, but Very Natural

Written in Germany

If I had but two little wings,

And were a little feathery bird,

To you I'd fly, my dear!

But thoughts like these are idle things,

And I stay here.

But in my sleep to you I fly:

I'm always with you in my sleep!

The world is all one's own.

But then one wakes, and where am I?

All, all alone.

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids:

So I love to wake ere break of day:

For though my sleep be gone,

Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids,

And still dreams on.

[1799]

Home-Sick

Written in Germany

'Tis sweet to him, who all the week

Through city-crowds must push his way,

To stroll alone through fields and woods,

And hallow thus the Sabbath-day.

And sweet it is, in summer bower,

Sincere, affectionate and gay,

One's own dear children feasting round,

To celebrate one's marriage-day.

But what is all, to his delight,

Who having long been doomed to roam,

Throws off the bundle from his back,

Before the door of his own home?

Home-sickness is a wasting pang;

This feel I hourly more and more:

There's healing only in thy wings,

Thou Breeze that play'st on Albion's shore!

[1799]

Answer to a Child's Question

Do you ask what the birds say? The sparrow, the dove,

The linnet and thrush say, »I love and I love!«

In the winter they're silent – the wind is so strong;

What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song.

But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,

And singing, and loving – all come back together.

But the lark is so brimful of gladness and love,

The green fields below him, the blue sky above,

That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he –

»I love my Love, and my Love loves me!«

[1802]

A Child's Evening Prayer

Ere on my bed my limbs I lay,

God grant me grace my prayers to say:

O God! preserve my mother dear

In strength and health for many a year;

And, O! preserve my father too,

And may I pay him reverence due;

And may I my best thoughts employ

To be my parents' hope and joy;

And, O! preserve my brothers both

From evil doings and from sloth,

And may we always love each other,

Our friends, our father, and our mother:

And still, O Lord, to me impart

An innocent and grateful heart,

That after my last sleep I may

Awake to thy eternal day!

Amen.

[1806]

The Visionary Hope

Sad lot, to have no hope! Though lowly kneeling

He fain would frame a prayer within his breast,

Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing,

That his sick body might have ease and rest;

He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest

Against his will the stifling load revealing,

Though Nature forced; though like some captive guest,

Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast,

An alien's restless mood but half concealing,

The sternness on his gentle brow confessed,

Sickness within and miserable feeling:

Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams,

And dreaded sleep, each night repelled in vain,

Each night was scattered by its own loud screams:

Yet never could his heart command, though fain,

One deep full wish to be no more in pain.

That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast,

Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood,

Though changed in nature, wander where he would –

For Love's despair is but Hope's pining ghost!

For this one hope he makes his hourly moan,

He wishes and can wish for this alone!

Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams

(So the love-stricken visionary deems)

Disease would vanish, like a summer shower,

Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower!

Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give

Such strength that he would bless his pains and live.

[1810?]

The Happy Husband

Oft, oft methinks, the while with Thee

I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear

And dedicated name, I hear

A promise and a mystery,

A pledge of more than passing life,

Yea, in that very name of Wife!

A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep!

A feeling that upbraids the heart

With happiness beyond desert,

That gladness half requests to weep!

Nor bless I not the keener sense

And unalarming turbulence.

Of transient joys, that ask no sting

From jealous fears, or coy denying;

But born beneath Love's brooding wing,

And into tenderness soon dying,

Wheel out their giddy moment, then

Resign the soul to love again; –

A more precipitated vein

Of notes, that eddy in the flow

Of smoothest song, they come, they go,

And leave their sweeter understrain

Its own sweet self – a love of Thee

That seems, yet cannot greater be!

[1802?]

Recollections of Love

I

How warm this woodland wild Recess!

Love surely hath been breathing here;

And this sweet bed of heath, my dear!

Swells up, then sinks with faint caress,

As if to have you yet more near.

II

Eight springs have flown, since last I lay

On sea ward Quantock's heathy hills,

Where quiet sounds from hidden rills

Float here and there, like things astray,

And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills.

III

No voice as yet had made the air

Be music with your name; yet why

That asking look? that yearning sigh?

That sense of promise every where?

Beloved! flew your spirit by?

IV

As when a mother doth explore

The rose-mark on her long lost child,

I met, I loved you, maiden mild!

As whom I long had loved before –

So deeply, had I been beguiled.

V

You stood before me like a thought,

A dream remembered in a dream.

But when those meek eyes first did seem

To tell me, Love within you wrought –

O Greta, dear domestic stream!

VI

Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep,

Has not Love's whisper evermore

Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar?

Sole voice, when other voices sleep,

Dear under-song in clamor's hour.

[1807]

On Revisiting the Sea-Shore

After Long Absence, Under Strong Medical Recommendation not to Bathe

God be with thee, gladsome Ocean!

How gladly greet I thee once more!

Ships and waves, and ceaseless motion,

And men rejoicing on thy shore.

Dissuading spake the mild physician,

»Those briny waves for thee are death!«

But my soul fulfilled her mission,

And lo! I breathe untroubled breath!

Fashion's pining sons and daughters,

That seek the crowd they seem to fly,

Trembling they approach thy waters;

And what cares Nature, if they die?

Me a thousand hopes and pleasures,

A thousand recollections bland,

Thoughts sublime, and stately measures,

Revisit on thy echoing strand:

Dreams, (the soul herself forsaking,)

Tearful raptures, boyish mirth;

Silent adorations, making

A blessed shadow of this Earth!

O ye hopes, that stir within me,

Health comes with you from above!

God is with me, God is in me!

I cannot die, if Life be Love.

[1801]

III. Meditative Poems

In Blank Verse

Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived,

Who seeks a Heart in the unthinking Man.

Like shadows on a stream, the forms of life

Impress their characters on the smooth forehead:

Nought sinks into the bosom's silent depth.

Quick sensibility of pain and pleasure

Moves the light fluids lightly; but no soul

Warmeth the inner frame.

Schiller.

Hymn

Before Sun-Rise, in the Vale of Chamouni

Besides the Rivers, Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and within a few paces of the Glaciers, the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its ›flowers of loveliest blue.‹

Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star

In his steep course? So long he seems to pause

On thy bald awful head, O sovran Blanc!

The Arve and Arveiron at thy base

Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form!

Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,

How silently! Around thee and above

Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,

An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,

As with a wedge! But when I look again,

It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,

Thy habitation from eternity!

O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,

Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,

Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer

I worshipped the Invisible alone.

Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,

So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,

Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought,

Yea, with my life and life's own secret joy:

Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused,

Into the mighty vision passing – there

As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven!

Awake, my soul! not only passive praise

Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,

Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,

Voice of sweet song! Awake, my Heart, awake!

Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.

Thou first and chief, sole sovran of the Vale!

O struggling with the darkness all the night,

And visited all night by troops of stars,

Or when they climb the sky or when they sink:

Companion of the morning-star at dawn,

Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn

Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!

Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?

Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?

Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!

Who called you forth from night and utter death,

From dark and icy caverns called you forth,

Down those precipitous, black, jagged Rocks,

For ever shattered and the same for ever?

Who gave you your invulnerable life,

Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,

Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?

And who commanded (and the silence came),

Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow

Adown enormous ravines slope amain –

Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,

And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!

Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!

Who made you glorious as the gates of Heaven

Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun

Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers

Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet? –

God! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,

Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, God!

God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!

Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!

And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,

And in their perilous fall shall thunder, God!

Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!

Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!

Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm!

Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!

Ye signs and wonders of the element!

Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!

Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,

Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard,

Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene

Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast –

Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou

That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low

In adoration, upward from thy base

Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,

Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,

To rise before me – Rise, O ever rise,

Rise like a cloud of incense, from the Earth!

Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,

Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,

Great hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,

And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun,

Earth, with her thousand voices, praises God.

[1802]

Lines

Written in the Album at Elbingerode, in the Hartz Forest

I stood on Brocken's24 sovran height, and saw

Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills,

A surging scene, and only limited

By the blue distance. Heavily my way

Downward I dragged through fir groves evermore,

Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms

Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard,

The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound;

And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly,

Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct

From many a note of many a waterfall,

And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet stones

The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell

Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat

Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on

In low and languid mood:25 for I had found

That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive

Their finer influence from the Life within; –

Fair cyphers else: fair, but of import vague

Or unconcerning, where the heart not finds

History or prophecy of friend, or child,

Or gentle maid, our first and early love,

Or father, or the venerable name

Of our adored country! O thou Queen,

Thou delegated Deity of Earth,

O dear, dear England! how my longing eye

Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds

Thy sands and high white cliffs!

My native Land!

Filled with the thought of thee this heart was proud,

Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the view

From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills,

Floated away, like a departing dream,

Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses

Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane,

With hasty judgment or injurious doubt,

That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel

That God is everywhere! the God who framed

Mankind to be one mighty family,

Himself our Father, and the World our Home.

[1799]

On Observing a Blossom on the First of February, 1796

Sweet Flower! that peeping from thy russet stem

Unfoldest timidly, (for in strange sort

This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering Month

Hath borrowed Zephyr's voice, and gazed upon thee

With blue voluptuous eye) alas, poor Flower!

These are but flatteries of the faithless year.

Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave,

E'en now the keen North-East is on its way.

Flower that must perish! shall I liken thee

To some sweet girl of too too rapid growth

Nipped by consumption mid untimely charms?

Or to Bristowa's bard,26 the wondrous boy!

An amaranth, which Earth scarce seemed to own,

Till disappointment came, and pelting wrong

Beat it to Earth? or with indignant grief

Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's hope,

Bright flower of Hope killed in the opening bud?

Farewell, sweet blossom! better fate be thine

And mock my boding! Dim similitudes

Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour

From anxious self, Life's cruel task-master!

And the warm wooings of this sunny day

Tremble along my frame, and harmonize

The attempered organ, that even saddest thoughts

Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes

Played deftly on a soft-toned instrument.

The Eolian Harp

Composed at Clevedon, Somersetshire

My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined

Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is

To sit beside our cot, our cot o'ergrown

With white-flowered jasmin, and the broad-leaved myrtle,

(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!)

And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,

Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve

Serenely brilliant (such should wisdom be)

Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents

Snatched from yon bean-field! and the world so hushed!

The stilly murmur of the distant sea

Tells us of silence.

And that simplest lute,

Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark!

How by the desultory breeze caressed,

Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover,

It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs

Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now, its strings

Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes

Over delicious surges sink and rise,

Such a soft floating witchery of sound

As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve

Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,

Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers,

Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,

Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing!

O the one life within us and abroad,

Which meets all motion and becomes its soul,

A light in sound, a sound-like power in light

Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every where –

Methinks, it should have been impossible

Not to love all things in a world so filled;

Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air

Is Music slumbering on her instrument.

And thus, my love! as on the midway slope

Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon,

Whilst through my half-closed eye-lids I behold

The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main,

And tranquil muse upon tranquillity;

Full many a thought uncalled and undetained,

And many idle flitting phantasies,

Traverse my indolent and passive brain,

As wild and various as the random gales

That swell and flutter on this subject lute!

And what if all of animated nature

Be but organic harps diversely framed,

That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps

Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,

At once the Soul of each, and God of All?

But thy more serious eye a mild reproof

Darts, O beloved woman! nor such thoughts

Dim and unhallowed dost thou not reject,

And biddest me walk humbly with my God.

Meek daughter in the family of Christ!

Well hast thou said and holily dispraised

These shapings of the unregenerate mind;

Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break

On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring.

For never guiltless may I speak of him,

The Incomprehensible! save when with awe

I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels;

Who with his saving mercies healed me,

A sinful and most miserable man,

Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess

Peace, and this cot, and thee, heart-honoured Maid!

[1795]

Reflections

On Having Left a Place of Retirement

Sermoni propriora.

Hor.

Low was our pretty Cot: our tallest rose

Peeped at the chamber-window. We could hear

At silent noon, and eve, and early morn,

The sea's faint murmur. In the open air

Our myrtles blossomed; and across the porch

Thick jasmins twined: the little landscape round

Was green and woody, and refreshed the eye.

It was a spot which you might aptly call

The Valley of Seclusion! Once I saw

(Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness)

A wealthy son of commerce saunter by,

Bristowa's citizen: methought, it calmed

His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse

With wiser feelings: for he paused, and looked

With a pleased sadness, and gazed all around,

Then eyed our Cottage, and gazed round again,

And sighed, and said, it was a Blessed Place.

And we were blessed. Oft with patient ear

Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note

(Viewless, or haply for a moment seen

Gleaming on sunny wings) in whispered tones

I've said to my beloved, »Such, sweet girl!

The inobtrusive song of happiness,

Unearthly minstrelsy! then only heard

When the soul seeks to hear; when all is hushed,

And the heart listens!«

But the time, when first

From that low dell, steep up the stony mount

I climbed with perilous toil and reached the top,

Oh! what a goodly scene! Here the bleak mount,

The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep;

Gray clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields;

And river, now with bushy rocks o'erbrowed,

Now winding bright and full, with naked banks;

And seats, and lawns, the Abbey and the wood,

And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-spire;

The Channel there, the Islands and white sails,

Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless Ocean –

It seemed like Omnipresence! God, methought,

Had built him there a temple: the whole World

Seemed imaged in its vast circumference,

No wish profaned my overwhelmed heart.

Blest hour! It was a luxury, – to be!

Ah! quiet dell! dear cot, and mount sublime!

I was constrained to quit you. Was it right,

While my unnumbered brethren toiled and bled,

That I should dream away the entrusted hours

On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart

With feelings all too delicate for use?

Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye

Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth:

And he that works me good with unmoved face,

Does it but half: he chills me while he aids,

My benefactor, not my brother man!

Yet even this, this cold beneficence

Praise, praise it, O my Soul! oft as thou scann'st

The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe!

Who sigh for wretchedness, yet shun the wretched,

Nursing in some delicious solitude

Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies!

I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand,

Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight

Of science, freedom, and the truth in Christ.

Yet oft when after honourable toil

Rests the tired mind, and waking loves to dream,

My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot!

Thy jasmin and thy window-peeping rose,

And myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air.

And I shall sigh fond wishes – sweet abode!

Ah! – had none greater! And that all had such!

It might be so – but the time is not yet.

Speed it, O Father! Let thy kingdom come!

[1795]

To the Rev. George Coleridge

Of Ottery St. Mary, Devon, with Some Poems

Notus in fratres animi paterni.

Hor. Carm. lib. II. 2.

A blessed lot hath he, who having passed

His youth and early manhood in the stir

And turmoil of the world, retreats at length,

With cares that move, not agitate the heart,

To the same dwelling where his father dwelt;

And haply views his tottering little ones

Embrace those aged knees and climb that lap,

On which first kneeling his own infancy

Lisped its brief prayer. Such, O my earliest Friend!

Thy lot, and such thy brothers too enjoy.

At distance did ye climb life's upland road,

Yet cheered and cheering: now fraternal love

Hath drawn you to one centre.