John Beer’s brief discussion of ‘Coleridge and His Critics’ in the Everyman edition of the Poems, pp. 497–513 offers a helpful guide to some of the important nineteenth-century criticism.
J. A. Appleyard, Coleridge’s Philosophy of Literature: The Development of a Concept of Poetry 1791–1819, Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 1965
Rosemary Ashton, The Life of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Oxford, Blackwell, 1996
Owen Barfield, What Coleridge Thought, 2nd edition, London, Oxford University Press, 1965
J. Robert Barth, Coleridge and Christian Doctrine, Cambridge, MA, Harvard University Press, 1969
John Beer, Coleridge’s Poetic Intelligence, London, Macmillan, 1977
Alan Bewell, Romanticism and Colonial Disease, Baltimore, The Johns Hopkins University Press, 2000
Julie Carlson, In the Theatre of Romanticism: Coleridge, Nationalism, Women, Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1994
Jerome Christensen, Coleridge’s Blessed Machine of Language, Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1981
Timothy Corrigan, Coleridge, Language, and Criticism, Athens, University of Georgia Press, 1982
Susan Eilenberg, Strange Powers of Speech: Wordsworth, Coleridge, and Literary Possession (New York, Oxford University Press, 1992)
Kelvin Everest, Coleridge’s Secret Ministry, Sussex, Harvester Press; New York, Barnes & Noble, 1979
Richard Harter Fogle, The Idea of Coleridge’s Criticism, Berkeley and Los Angeles, University of California Press, 1962
Jennifer Ford, Coleridge on Dreaming: Dreams and the Medical Imagination. Cambridge, Cambridge University Press, 1997
Norman Fruman, Coleridge the Damaged Archangel, New York, George Braziller, 1971
A. C. Goodson, Verbal Imagination: Coleridge and the Language of Modern Criticism, New York, Oxford University Press, 1988
Paul Hamilton, Coleridge’s Poetics, Stanford, Stanford University Press, 1983
John A. Hodgson, Coleridge, Shelley, and Transcendental Inquiry, Lincoln and London, University of Nebraska Press, 1989
Humphry House, Coleridge, London, Rupert Hart-Davis, 1953
Edward Kessler, Coleridge’s Metaphors of Being, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1979
Nigel Leask, The Politics of Imagination in Coleridge’s Thought, London, Macmillan, 1988
T. H. Levere, Poetry Realized in Nature: Samuel Taylor Coleridge and Early Nineteenth-Century Science, Cambridge University Press, 1981
Laurence S. Lockridge, Coleridge the Moralist, Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1977
J. L. Lowes, The Road to Xanadu: A Study in the Ways of the Imagination, London, Constable, 1927
Thomas McFarland, Coleridge and the Pantheist Tradition, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1969
James C. McKusick, Coleridge’s Philosophy of Language, New Haven, Yale University Press, 1986
Emerson R. Marks, Coleridge on the Language of Verse, Princeton, Princeton University Press, 1981
Raimonda Modiano, Coleridge and the Concept of Nature, Tallahassee, Florida State University Press, 1985
Lucy Newlyn, Coleridge, Wordsworth and the Language of Allusion, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1986
Reeve Parker, Coleridge’s Meditative Art, Ithaca, Cornell University Press, 1975
Stephen Prickett, Coleridge and Wordsworth: The Poetry of Growth, Cambridge University Press, 1977
Arden Reed, Romantic Weather: The Climates of Coleridge and Baudelaire, Hanover and London, University Press of New England, 1983
I. A. Richards, Coleridge on Imagination, London, Routledge & Kegan Paul, 1934
Elisabeth Schneider, Coleridge, Opium and ‘Kubla Khan’, Chicago, University of Chicago Press, 1953
M. F. Schultz, The Poetic Voice of Coleridge, Detroit, Wayne State University Press, 1963
Marshall Suther, Visions of Xanadu, New York and London, Columbia University Press, 1965
Jeanie Watson, Risking Enchantment: Coleridge’s Symbolic World of Faery, Lincoln and London, University of Nebraska Press, 1990
Carl Woodring, Politics in the Poetry of Coleridge, Madison, University of Wisconsin Press, 1961
Ian Wylie, Young Coleridge and the Philosophers of Nature, Oxford, Clarendon Press, 1989
Geoffrey Yarlott, Coleridge and the Abyssinian Maid, London, Methuen, 1967
THE POEMS
Easter Holidays
I
Hail! festal Easter, that dost bring
Approach of sweetly smiling spring,
When Nature’s clad in green:
When feather’d songsters through the grove
With beasts confess the power of love,
And brighten all the scene.
II
Now Youths the breaking stages load,
That swiftly rattling o’er the road
To Greenwich haste away;
10 While some with sounding oars divide
Of smoothly flowing Thames the tide:
All sing the festive lay.
III
With mirthful dance they beat the ground,
Their shouts of joy the hills resound
And catch the jocund noise:
Without a tear, without a sigh,
Their moments all in transport fly
Till evening ends their joys.
IV
But little think their joyous hearts
20 Of dire Misfortune’s varied smarts,
Which youthful years conceal;
Thoughtless of bitter smiling woe,
Which all mankind are born to know,
And they themselves must feel.
V
Yet he, who wisdom’s paths shall keep,
And virtue firm, that scorns to weep
At ills in fortune’s power;
Through this life’s variegated scene,
In raging storms – or calms serene,
30 Shall cheerful spend the hour.
VI
While steady virtue guides his mind,
Heav’n born content he still shall find,
That never sheds a tear:
Without respect to any tide,
His hours away in bliss shall glide,
Like Easter all the year.
Dura navis
To tempt the dangerous deep, too venturous youth,
Why does thy breast with fondest wishes glow?
No tender parent there thy cares shall sooth,
No much-lov’d Friend shall share thy every woe.
Why does thy mind with hopes delusive burn?
Vain are thy Schemes by heated Fancy plann’d:
Thy promis’d joy thou’lt see to Sorrow turn
Exil’d from Bliss, and from thy native land.
Hast thou foreseen the Storm’s impending rage,
10 When to the Clouds the Waves ambitious rise,
And seem with Heaven a doubtful war to wage,
Whilst total darkness overspreads the skies;
Save when the lightnings darting wingèd Fate
Quick bursting from the pitchy clouds between
In forkèd Terror, and destructive state
Shall show with double gloom the horrid scene?
Shalt thou be at this hour from danger free?
Perhaps with fearful force some falling Wave
Shall wash thee in the wild tempestuous Sea,
20 And in some monster’s belly fix thy grave;
Or (woful hap!) against some wave-worn rock
Which long a Terror to each Bark had stood
Shall dash thy mangled limbs with furious shock
And stain its craggy sides with human blood.
Yet not the Tempest, or the Whirlwind’s roar
Equal the horrors of a Naval Fight,
When thundering Cannons spread a sea of Gore
And varied deaths now fire and now affright:
The impatient shout, that longs for closer war,
30 Reaches from either side the distant shores;
Whilst frighten’d at His streams ensanguin’d far
Loud on his troubled bed huge Ocean roars.
What dreadful scenes appear before my eyes!
Ah! see how each with frequent slaughter red,
Regardless of his dying fellows’ cries
O’er their fresh wounds with impious order tread!
From the dread place does soft Compassion fly!
The Furies fell each alter’d breast command;
Whilst Vengeance drunk with human blood stands by
40 And smiling fires each heart and arms each hand.
Should’st thou escape the fury of that day
A fate more cruel still, unhappy, view.
Opposing winds may stop thy luckless way,
And spread fell famine through the suffering crew,
Canst thou endure th’ extreme of raging
Thirst Which soon may scorch thy throat, ah! thoughtless Youth?
Or ravening hunger canst thou bear which erst
On its own flesh hath fix’d the deadly tooth?
Dubious and fluttering ’twixt hope and fear
50 With trembling hands the lot I see thee draw,
Which shall, or sentence thee a victim drear,
To that gaunt Plague which savage knows no law:
Or, deep thy dagger in the friendly heart,
Whilst each strong passion agitates thy breast,
Though oft with Horror back I see thee start,
Lo! Hunger drives thee to th’ inhuman feast.
These are the ills, that may the course attend –
Then with the joys of home contented rest –
Here, meek-eyed Peace with humble Plenty lend
60 Their aid united still, to make thee blest.
To ease each pain, and to increase each joy –
Here mutual Love shall fix thy tender wife,
Whose offspring shall thy youthful care employ
And gild with brightest rays the evening of thy Life.
Nil pejus est caelibe vita
I
What pleasures shall he ever find?
What joys shall ever glad his heart?
Or who shall heal his wounded mind,
If tortur’d by Misfortune’s smart?
Who Hymeneal bliss will never prove,
That more than friendship, friendship mix’d with love.
II
Then without child or tender wife,
To drive away each care, each sigh,
Lonely he treads the paths of life
10 A stranger to Affection’s tie:
And when from Death he meets his final doom
No mourning wife with tears of love shall wet his tomb.
III
Tho’ Fortune, Riches, Honours, Pow’r,
Had giv’n with every other toy,
Those gilded trifles of the hour,
Those painted nothings sure to cloy:
He dies forgot, his name no son shall bear
To show the man so blest once breath’d the vital air.
Sonnet
TO THE AUTUMNAL MOON
Mild Splendour of the various-vested Night!
Mother of wildly-working visions! hail!
I watch thy gliding, while with watery light
Thy weak eye glimmers through a fleecy veil;
And when thou lovest thy pale orb to shroud
Behind the gathered blackness lost on high;
And when thou dartest from the wind-rent cloud
Thy placid lightning o’er the awakened sky.
Ah such is Hope! as changeful and as fair!
10 Now dimly peering on the wistful sight;
Now hid behind the dragon-winged Despair:
But soon emerging in her radiant might
She o’er the sorrow-clouded breast of Care
Sails, like a meteor kindling in its flight.
Julia
Medio de fonte leporum
Surgit amari aliquid.
Julia was blest with beauty, wit, and grace:
Small poets lov’d to sing her blooming face.
Before her altars, lo! a numerous train
Preferr’d their vows; yet all preferr’d in vain,
Till charming Florio, born to conquer, came
And touch’d the fair one with an equal flame.
The flame she felt, and ill could she conceal
What every look and action would reveal.
With boldness then, which seldom fails to move,
10 He pleads the cause of Marriage and of Love:
The course of Hymeneal joys he rounds,
The fair one’s eyes danc’d pleasure at the sounds.
Nought now remain’d but ‘Noes’ – how little meant!
And the sweet coyness that endears consent.
The youth upon his knees enraptur’d fell:
The strange misfortune, oh! what words can tell?
Tell! ye neglected sylphs! who lap-dogs guard,
Why snatch’d ye not away your precious ward?
Why suffer’d ye the lover’s weight to fall
20 On the ill-fated neck of much-lov’d Ball?
The favourite on his mistress casts his eyes,
Gives a short melancholy howl, and – dies.
Sacred his ashes lie, and long his rest!
Anger and grief divide poor Julia’s breast.
Her eyes she fixt on guilty Florio first:
On him the storm of angry grief must burst.
That storm he fled: he wooes a kinder fair,
Whose fond affections no dear puppies share.
’Twere vain to tell, how Julia pin’d away:
30 Unhappy Fair! that in one luckless day –
From future Almanacks the day be crost! –
At once her Lover and her Lap-dog lost.
Quae nocent docent
O! mihi praeteritos referat si Jupiter annos!
Oh! might my ill-passed hours return again!
No more, as then, should Sloth around me throw
Her soul-enslaving, leaden chain!
No more the precious time would I employ
In giddy revels, or in thoughtless joy,
A present joy producing future woe.
But o’er the midnight Lamp I’d love to pore,
I’d seek with care fair Learning’s depths to sound,
And gather scientific Lore:
10 Or to mature the embryo thoughts inclin’d,
That half-conceiv’d lay struggling in my mind,
The cloisters’ solitary gloom I’d round.
’Tis vain to wish, for Time has ta’en his flight –
For follies past be ceas’d the fruitless tears:
Let follies past to future care incite.
Averse maturer judgements to obey
Youth owns, with pleasure owns, the Passions’ sway,
But sage Experience only comes with years.
The Nose
Ye souls unus’d to lofty verse,
Who sweep the earth with lowly wing,
Like sand before the blast disperse –
A Nose! a mighty Nose I sing!
As erst Prometheus stole from heaven the fire
To animate the wonder of his hand;
Thus with unhallow’d hands, O muse, aspire,
And from my subject snatch a burning brand!
So like the Nose I sing – my verse shall glow –
10 Like Phlegethon my verse in waves of fire shall flow!
Light of this once all darksome spot
Where now their glad course mortals run,
First-born of Sirius begot
Upon the focus of the sun –
I’ll call thee ——! for such thy earthly name –
What name so high, but what too low must be?
Comets, when most they drink the solar flame
Are but faint types and images of thee!
Burn madly Fire! o’er earth in ravage run,
20 Then blush for shame more red by fiercer —— outdone!
I saw when from the turtle feast
The thick dark smoke in volumes rose!
I saw the darkness of the mist
Encircle thee, O Nose!
Shorn of thy rays thou shott’st a fearful gleam
(The turtle quiver’d with prophetic fright)
Gloomy and sullen thro’ the night of steam:–
So Satan’s Nose when Dunstan urg’d to flight,
Glowing from gripe of red hot pincers dread
30 Athwart the smokes of Hell disastrous twilight shed!
The furies to madness my brain devote –
In robes of ice my body wrap!
On billowy flames of fire I float,
Hear ye my entrails how they snap?
Some power unseen forbids my lungs to breathe!
What fire-clad meteors round me whizzing fly!
I vitrify thy torrid zone beneath,
Proboscis fierce! I am calcin’d! I die!
Thus, like great Pliny, in Vesuvius’ fire,
40 I perish in the blaze while I the blaze admire.
Life
As late I journied o’er the extensive plain
Where native Otter sports his scanty stream,
Musing in torpid woe a sister’s pain,
The glorious prospect woke me from the dream.
At every step it widen’d to my sight,
Wood, Meadow, verdant Hill, and dreary Steep,
Following in quick succession of delight,
Till all – at once – did my eye ravish’d sweep!
May this (I cried) my course through Life portray!
10 New scenes of wisdom may each step display,
And knowledge open as my days advance!
Till what time Death shall pour the undarken’d ray,
My eye shall dart thro’ infinite expanse,
And thought suspended lie in rapture’s blissful
Trance.
To the Muse
Tho’ no bold flights to thee belong;
And tho’ thy lays with conscious fear,
Shrink from Judgment’s eye severe,
Yet much I thank thee, Spirit of my song!
For, lovely Muse! thy sweet employ
Exalts my soul, refines my breast,
Gives each pure pleasure keener zest,
And softens sorrow into pensive Joy.
From thee I learn’d the wish to bless,
10 From thee to commune with my heart;
From thee, dear Muse! the gayer part,
To laugh with Pity at the crowds that press
Where Fashion flaunts her robes by Folly spun,
Whose hues gay-varying wanton in the sun.
Destruction of the Bastile
I
Heard’st thou yon universal cry,
And dost thou linger still on Gallia’s shore?
Go, Tyranny! beneath some barbarous sky
Thy terrors lost, and ruin’d power deplore!
What tho’ through many a groaning age
Was felt thy keen suspicious rage,
Yet Freedom rous’d by fierce Disdain
Has wildly broke thy triple chain,
And like the storm which earth’s deep entrails hide,
10 At length has burst its way and spread the ruins wide.
* * *
IV
In sighs their sickly breath was spent; each gleam
Of Hope had cease’d the long long day to cheer;
Or if delusive, in some flitting dream,
It gave them to their friends and children dear –
Awak’d by lordly Insult’s sound
To all the doubled horrors round,
Oft shrunk they from Oppression’s band
While anguish rais’d the desperate hand
For silent death; or lost the mind’s control,
20 Thro’ every burning vein would tides of Frenzy roll.
V
But cease, ye pitying bosoms, cease to bleed!
Such scenes no more demand the tear humane;
I see, I see! glad Liberty succeed
With every patriot virtue in her train!
And mark yon peasant’s raptured eyes;
Secure he views his harvests rise;
No fetter vile the mind shall know,
And Eloquence shall fearless glow.
Yes! Liberty the soul of Life shall reign,
30 Shall throb in every pulse, shall flow thro’ every vein!
VI
Shall France alone a Despot spurn?
Shall she alone, O Freedom, boast thy care?
Lo, round thy standard Belgia’s heroes burn,
Tho’ Power’s blood-stain’d streamers fire the air,
And wider yet thy influence spread,
Nor e’er recline thy weary head,
Till every land from pole to pole
Shall boast one independent soul!
And still, as erst, let favour’d Britain be
40 First ever of the first and freest of the free!
Anthem
FOR THE CHILDREN OF CHRIST’S HOSPITAL
Seraphs! around th’ Eternal’s seat who throng
With tuneful ecstacies of praise:
O! teach our feeble tongues like yours the song
Of fervent gratitude to raise –
Like you, inspir’d with holy flame
To dwell on that Almighty name
Who bade the child of woe no longer sigh,
And Joy in tears o’erspread the Widow’s eye.
Th’ all-gracious Parent hears the wretch’s prayer;
10 The meek tear strongly pleads on high;
Wan Resignation struggling with despair
The Lord beholds with pitying eye;
Sees cheerless want unpitied pine,
Disease on earth its head recline,
And bids compassion seek the realms of woe
To heal the wounded, and to raise the low.
She comes! she comes! the meek-eyed power I see
With liberal hand that loves to bless;
The clouds of sorrow at her presence flee;
20 Rejoice! rejoice! ye children of distress!
The beams that play around her head
Thro’ want’s dark vale their radiance spread:
The young uncultur’d mind imbibes the ray,
And vice reluctant quits th’ expected prey.
Cease, thou lorn mother! cease thy wailings drear;
Ye babes! the unconscious sob forego;
Or let full gratitude now prompt the tear
Which erst did sorrow force to flow.
Unkindly cold and tempest shrill
30 In life’s morn oft the traveller chill,
But soon his path the sun of Love shall warm;
And each glad scene look brighter for the storm!
Progress of Vice
Deep in the gulph of Vice and Woe
Leaps man at once with headlong throw?
Him inborn Truth and Virtue guide,
Whose guards are shame and conscious pride;
In some gay hour Vice steals into the breast;
Perchance she wears some softer Virtue’s vest.
By unperceiv’d degrees she tempts to stray,
Till far from Virtue’s path she leads the feet away.
Then swift the soul to disenthrall
10 Will Memory the past recall,
And fear before the Victim’s eyes
Bid future ills and dangers rise.
But hark! the voice, the lyre, their charms combine –
Gay sparkles in the cup the generous wine;
Th’ inebriate dance the fair frail nymph inspires,
And Virtue vanquish’d – scorn’d – with hasty flight retires.
But soon to tempt the pleasures cease;
Yet shame forbids return to peace,
And stern necessity will force
20 Still to urge on the desperate course.
The drear black paths of Vice the wretch must try,
Where Conscience flashes horror on each eye,
Where Hate – where Murder scowl – where starts Affright!
Ah! close the scene – ah! close – for dreadful is the sight.
Monody on the Death of Chatterton
[FIRST VERSION]
Cold penury repress’d his noble rage,
And froze the genial current of his soul.
Now prompts the Muse poetic lays,
And high my bosom beats with love of Praise!
But, Chatterton! methinks I hear thy name,
For cold my Fancy grows, and dead each Hope of Fame.
When Want and cold Neglect had chill’d thy soul,
Athirst for Death I see thee drench the bowl!
Thy corpse of many a livid hue
On the bare ground I view,
Whilst various passions all my mind engage;
10 Now is my breast distended with a sigh,
And now a flash of Rage
Darts through the tear, that glistens in my eye.
Is this the land of liberal Hearts!
Is this the land, where Genius ne’er in vain
Pour’d forth her soul-enchanting strain?
Ah me! yet Butler ’gainst the bigot foe
Well-skill’d to aim keen Humour’s dart,
Yet Butler felt Want’s poignant sting;
And Otway, Master of the Tragic art,
20 Whom Pity’s self had taught to sing,
Sank beneath a load of Woe;
This ever can the generous Briton hear,
And starts not in his eye th’ indignant Tear?
Elate of Heart and confident of Fame,
From vales where Avon sports, the Minstrel came,
Gay as the Poet hastes along
He meditates the future song,
How Ælla battled with his country’s foes,
And whilst Fancy in the air
30 Paints him many a vision fair
His eyes dance rapture and his bosom glows.
With generous joy he views th’ ideal gold:
He listens to many a Widow’s prayers,
And many an Orphan’s thanks he hears;
He soothes to peace the care-worn breast,
He bids the Debtor’s eyes know rest,
And Liberty and Bliss behold:
And now he punishes the heart of steel,
And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel.
40 Fated to heave sad Disappointment’s sigh,
To feel the Hope now rais’d, and now deprest,
To feel the burnings of an injur’d breast,
From all thy Fate’s deep sorrow keen
In vain, O Youth, I turn th’ affrighted eye;
For powerful Fancy evernigh
The hateful picture forces on my sight.
There, Death of every dear delight,
Frowns Poverty of Giant mien!
In vain I seek the charms of youthful grace,
50 Thy sunken eye, thy haggard cheeks it shows,
The quick emotions struggling in the Face
Faint index of thy mental Throes,
When each strong Passion spurn’d controll,
And not a Friend was nigh to calm thy stormy soul.
Such was the sad and gloomy hour
When anguish’d Care of sullen brow
Prepared the Poison’s death-cold power.
Already to thy lips was rais’d the bowl,
When filial Pity stood thee by,
60 Thy fixèd eyes she bade thee roll
On scenes that well might melt thy soul –
Thy native cot she held to view,
Thy native cot, where Peace ere long
Had listen’d to thy evening song;
Thy sister’s shrieks she bade thee hear,
And mark thy mother’s thrilling tear,
She made thee feel her deep-drawn sigh,
And all her silent agony of Woe.
And from thy Fate shall such distress ensue?
70 Ah! dash the poison’d chalice from thy hand!
And thou had’st dash’d it at her soft command;
But that Despair and Indignation rose,
And told again the story of thy Woes,
Told the keen insult of th’ unfeeling Heart,
The dread dependence on the low-born mind,
Told every Woe, for which thy breast might smart,
Neglect and grinning scorn and Want combin’d –
Recoiling back, thou sent’st the friend of Pain
To roll a tide of Death thro’ every freezing vein.
80 O Spirit blest!
Whether th’ eternal Throne around,
Amidst the blaze of Cherubim,
Thou pourest forth the grateful hymn,
Or, soaring through the blest Domain,
Enraptur’st Angels with thy strain, –
Grant me, like thee, the lyre to sound,
Like thee, with fire divine to glow –
But ah! when rage the Waves of Woe,
Grant me with firmer breast t’oppose their hate,
90 And soar beyond the storms with upright eye elate!
Monody on the Death of Chatterton
[SECOND VERSION]
O what a wonder seems the fear of death,
Seeing how gladly we all sink to sleep,
Babes, Children, Youths, and Men,
Night following night for threescore years and ten!
But doubly strange, where life is but a breath
To sigh and pant with, up Want’s rugged steep.
Away, Grim Phantom! Scorpion King, away!
Reserve thy terrors and thy stings display
For coward Wealth and Guilt in robes of State!
10 Lo! by the grave I stand of one, for whom
A prodigal Nature and a niggard Doom
(That all bestowing, this withholding all)
Made each chance knell from distant spire or dome
Sound like a seeking Mother’s anxious call,
Return, poor Child! Home, weary Truant, home!
Thee, Chatterton! these unblest stones protect
From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect.
Too long before the vexing Storm-blast driven
Here hast thou found repose! beneath this sod!
20 Thou! O vain word! thou dwell’st not with the clod!
Amid the shining Host of the Forgiven
Thou at the throne of Mercy and thy God
The triumph of redeeming Love dost hymn
(Believe it, O my Soul!) to harps of Seraphim.
Yet oft, perforce (’tis suffering Nature’s call),
I weep, that heaven-born Genius so should fall;
And oft, in Fancy’s saddest hour, my soul
Averted shudders at the poisoned bowl.
Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view
30 Thy corse of livid hue;
Now indignation checks the feeble sigh,
Or flashes through the tear that glistens in mine eye!
Is this the land of song-ennobled line?
Is this the land, where Genius ne’er in vain
Poured forth his lofty strain?
Ah me! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine,
Beneath chill Disappointment’s shade,
His weary limbs in lonely anguish laid;
And o’er her darling dead
40 Pity hopeless hung her head,
While ‘mid the pelting of that merciless storm’,
Sunk to the cold earth Otway’s famished form!
Sublime of thought, and confident of fame,
From vales where Avon winds the Minstrel came.
Light-hearted youth! aye, as he hastes along,
He meditates the future song,
How dauntless Ælla fray’d the Dacyan foe;
And while the numbers flowing strong
In eddies whirl, in surges throng,
50 Exulting in the spirit’s genial throe
In tides of power his life-blood seems to flow.
And now his cheeks with deeper ardours flame,
His eyes have glorious meanings, that declare
More than the light of outward day shines there,
A holier triumph and a sterner aim!
Wings grow within him; and he soars above
Or Bard’s or Minstrel’s lay of war or love.
Friends to the friendless, to the Sufferer health,
He hears the widow’s prayer, the good man’s praise;
60 To scenes of bliss transmutes his fancied wealth,
And young and old shall now see happy days.
On many a waste he bids trim Gardens rise,
Gives the blue sky to many a prisoner’s eyes;
And now in wrath he grasps the patriot steel,
And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel.
Sweet Flower of Hope! free Nature’s genial child!
That didst so fair disclose thy early bloom,
Filling the wide air with a rich perfume!
For thee in vain all heavenly aspects smil’d;
70 From the hard world brief respite they could win –
The frost nipp’d sharp without, the canker prey’d within!
Ah! where are fled the charms of vernal Grace,
And Joy’s wild gleams that lighten’d o’er thy face?
Youth of tumultuous soul, and haggard eye!
Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps I view,
On thy wan forehead starts the lethal dew,
And oh! the anguish of that shuddering sigh!
Such were the struggles of the gloomy hour,
When Care, of withered brow,
80 Prepared the poison’s death-cold power:
Already to thy lips was raised the bowl,
When near thee stood Affection meek
(Her bosom bare, and wildly pale her cheek)
Thy sullen gaze she bade thee roll
On scenes that well might melt thy soul;
Thy native cot she flashed upon thy view,
Thy native cot, where still, at close of day,
Peace smiling sate, and listened to thy lay;
Thy Sister’s shrieks she bade thee hear,
90 And mark thy mother’s thrilling tear;
See, see her breast’s convulsive throe,
Her silent agony of woe!
Ah, dash the poisoned chalice from thy hand!
And thou hadst dashed it, at her soft command,
But that Despair and Indignation rose,
And told again the story of thy woes;
Told the keen insult of the unfeeling heart;
The dread dependence on the low-born mind;
Told every pang, with which thy soul must smart,
100 Neglect, and grinning Scorn, and Want combined!
Recoiling quick, thou badst the friend of pain
Roll the black tide of Death through every freezing vein!
O Spirit blest!
Whether the Eternal’s throne around,
Amidst the blaze of Seraphim,
Thou pourest forth the grateful hymn;
Or soaring thro’ the blest domain
Enrapturest Angels with thy strain –
Grant me, like thee, the lyre to sound,
110 Like thee with fire divine to glow;
But ah! when rage the waves of woe,
Grant me with firmer breast to meet their hate,
And soar beyond the storm with upright eye elate!
Ye woods! that wave o’er Avon’s rocky steep,
To Fancy’s ear sweet is your murmuring deep!
For here she loves the cypress wreath to weave
Watching, with wistful eye, the saddening tints of eve.
Here, far from men, amid this pathless grove,
In solemn thought the Minstrel wont to rove,
120 Like star-beam on the slow sequestered tide
Long-glittering, through the high tree branching wide.
And here, in Inspiration’s eager hour,
When most the big soul feels the mastering power,
These wilds, these caverns roaming o’er,
Round which the screaming sea-gulls soar,
With wild unequal steps he passed along,
Oft pouring on the winds a broken song:
Anon, upon some rough rock’s fearful brow
Would pause abrupt – and gaze upon the waves below.
130 Poor Chatterton! he sorrows for thy fate
Who would have praised and loved thee, ere too late.
Poor Chatterton! farewell! of darkest hues
This chaplet cast I on thy unshaped tomb;
But dare no longer on the sad theme muse,
Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom:
For oh! big gall-drops, shook from Folly’s wing,
Have blackened the fair promise of my spring;
And the stern Fate transpierced with viewless dart
The last pale Hope that shivered at my heart!
140 Hence, gloomy thoughts! no more my soul shall dwell
On joys that were! No more endure to weigh
The shame and anguish of the evil day.
Wisely forgetful! O’er the ocean swell
Sublime of Hope I seek the cottaged dell
Where Virtue calm with careless step may stray;
And, dancing to the moon-light roundelay,
The wizard passions weave a holy spell!
O Chatterton! that thou wert yet alive!
Sure thou would’st spread the canvass to the gale,
150 And love with us the tinkling team to drive
O’er peaceful Freedom’s undivided dale;
And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng,
Would hang, enraptured, on thy stately song,
And greet with smiles the young-eyed Poesy
All deftly masked, as hoar Antiquity.
Alas, vain Phantasies! the fleeting brood
Of Woe self-solaced in her dreamy mood!
Yet will I love to follow the sweet dream,
Where Susquehana pours his untamed stream;
160 And on some hill, whose forest-frowning side
Waves o’er the murmurs of his calmer tide,
Will raise a solemn Cenotaph to thee,
Sweet Harper of time-shrouded Minstrelsy!
And there, soothed sadly by the dirgeful wind,
Muse on the sore ills I had left behind.
An Invocation
Sweet Muse! companion of my every hour!
Voice of my Joy! Sure soother of the sigh!
Now plume thy pinions, now exert each power,
And fly to him who owns the candid eye.
And if a smile of Praise thy labour hail
(Well shall thy labours then my mind employ)
Fly fleetly back, sweet Muse! and with the tale
O’erspread my Features with a flush of Joy!
Anna and Harland
Within these wilds was Anna wont to rove
While Harland told his love in many a sigh,
But stern on Harland roll’d her brother’s eye,
They fought, they fell – her brother and her love!
To Death’s dark house did grief-worn Anna haste,
Yet here her pensive ghost delights to stay;
Oft pouring on the winds the broken lay –
And hark, I hear her – ’twas the passing blast.
I love to sit upon her tomb’s dark grass,
10 Then Memory backward rolls Time’s shadowy tide;
The tales of other days before me glide:
With eager thought I seize them as they pass;
For fair, tho’ faint, the forms of Memory gleam,
Like Heaven’s bright beauteous bow reflected in the stream.
To the Evening Star
O meek attendant of Sol’s setting blaze,
I hail, sweet star, thy chaste effulgent glow;
On thee full oft with fixèd eye I gaze
Till I, methinks, all spirit seem to grow.
O first and fairest of the starry choir,
O loveliest ’mid the daughters of the night,
Must not the maid I love like thee inspire
Pure joy and calm Delight?
Must she not be, as is thy placid sphere,
10 Serenely brilliant? Whilst to gaze a while
Be all my wish ’mid Fancy’s high career
E’en till she quit this scene of earthly toil;
Then Hope perchance might fondly sigh to join
Her spirit in thy kindred orb, O Star benign!
Pain
Once could the Morn’s first beams, the healthful breeze,
All nature charm, and gay was every hour –
But ah! not Music’s self, nor fragrant bower
Can glad the trembling sense of wan disease.
Now that the frequent pangs my frame assail,
Now that my sleepless eyes are sunk and dim,
And seas of pain seem waving through each limb –
Ah what can all Life’s gilded scenes avail?
I view the crowd, whom youth and health inspire,
10 Hear the loud laugh, and catch the sportive lay,
Then sigh and think – I too could laugh and play
And gaily sport it on the Muse’s lyre,
Ere Tyrant Pain had chas’d away delight,
Ere the wild pulse throbb’d anguish thro’ the night!
On a Lady Weeping
Lovely gems of radiance meek
Trembling down my Laura’s cheek,
As the streamlets silent glide
Thro’ the Mead’s enamell’d pride,
Pledges sweet of pious woe,
Tears which Friendship taught to flow,
Sparkling in yon humid light
Love embathes his pinions bright:
There amid the glitt’ring shower
10 Smiling sits th’ insidious Power;
As some wingèd Warbler oft
When Spring-clouds shed their treasures soft
Joyous tricks his plumes anew,
And flutters in the fost’ring dew.
Monody on a Tea-Kettle
O muse who sangest late another’s pain,
To griefs domestic turn thy coal-black steed!
With slowest steps thy funeral steed must go,
Nodding his head in all the pomp of woe:
Wide scatter round each dark and deadly weed,
And let the melancholy dirge complain,
(While Bats shall shriek and Dogs shall howling run)
The tea-kettle is spoilt and Coleridge is undone!
Your cheerful songs, ye unseen crickets cease!
10 Let songs of grief your alter’d minds engage!
For he who sang responsive to your lay,
What time the joyous bubbles ’gan to play,
The sooty swain has felt the fire’s fierce rage –
Yes he is gone, and all my woes increase;
I heard the Water issuing from the Wound –
No more the Tea shall pour its flagrant steams around!
O Goddess best beloved, delightful Tea!
With thee compar’d what yields the madd’ning vine?
Sweet power! who know’st to spread the calm delight,
20 And the pure joy prolong to midmost night!
Ah! must I all thy varied sweets resign?
Enfolded close in grief thy form I see
No more wilt thou extend thy willing arms,
Receive the fervent Jove and yield him all thy charms!
How sink the mighty low by Fate opprest!
Perhaps O Kettle! thou by scornful toe
Rude urg’d t’ ignoble place with plaintive din,
May’st rust obscure midst heaps of vulgar tin –
As if no joy had ever seiz’d my breast
30 When from thy spout the streams did arching fly –
As if infus’d thou ne’er hadst known t’ inspire
All the warm raptures of poetic fire!
But hark! or do I fancy the glad voice –
‘What tho’ the swain did wondrous charms disclose –
(Not such did Memnon’s sister sable drest)
Take these bright arms with royal face imprest.
A better Kettle shall thy soul rejoice,
And with Oblivion’s wings o’erspread thy woes!’
Thus Fairy Hope can soothe distress and toil;
40 On empty Trivets she bids fancied Kettles boil!
Genevieve
Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve!
In Beauty’s light you glide along:
Your eye is like the star of eve,
And sweet your Voice, as Seraph’s song.
Yet not your heavenly Beauty gives
This heart with passion soft to glow:
Within your soul a Voice there lives!
It bids you hear the tale of Woe.
When sinking low the Sufferer wan
10 Beholds no hand outstretcht to save,
Fair, as the bosom of the Swan.
That rises graceful o’er the wave,
I’ve seen your breast with pity heave,
And therefore love I you, sweet Genevieve!
On Receiving an Account
THAT HIS ONLY SISTER’S DEATH WAS INEVITABLE
The tear which mourn’d a brother’s fate scarce dry –
Pain after pain, and woe succeeding woe –
Is my heart destin’d for another blow?
O my sweet sister! and must thou too die?
Ah! how has Disappointment pour’d the tear
O’er infant Hope destroy’d by early frost!
How are ye gone, whom most my soul held dear!
Scarce had I lov’d you, ere I mourn’d you lost;
Say, is this hollow eye, this heartless pain,
10 Fated to rove thro’ Life’s wide cheerless plain –
Nor father, brother, sister meets its ken –
My woes, my joys unshar’d! Ah! long ere then
On me thy icy dart, stern Death, be prov’d –
Better to die, than live and not be lov’d!
On Seeing a Youth
AFFECTIONATELY WELCOMED BY A SISTER
I too a sister had! too cruel Death!
How sad remembrance bids my bosom heave!
Tranquil her soul, as sleeping Infant’s breath;
Meek were her manners as a vernal Eve.
Knowledge, that frequent lifts the bloated mind,
Gave her the treasure of a lowly breast,
And Wit, to venom’d Malice oft assign’d,
Dwelt in her bosom in a Turtle’s nest.
Cease, busy Memory! cease to urge the dart;
10 Nor on my soul her love to me impress!
For oh I mourn in anguish – and my heart
Feels the keen pang, th’ unutterable distress.
Yet wherefore grieve I that her sorrows cease,
For Life was misery, and the Grave is Peace!
A Mathematical Problem
If Pegasus will let thee only ride him,
Spurning my clumsy efforts to o’erstride him,
Some fresh expedient the Muse will try,
And walk on stilts, although she cannot fly.
Dear Brother,
I have often been surprised that Mathematics, the quintessence of Truth, should have found admirers so few and so languid. Frequent consideration and minute scrutiny have at length unravelled the case; viz. that though Reason is feasted, Imagination is starved; whilst Reason is luxuriating in its proper Paradise, Imagination is wearily travelling on a dreary desart. To assist Reason by the stimulus of Imagination is the design of the following production. In the execution of it much may be objectionable. The verse (particularly in the introduction of the ode) may be accused of unwarrantable liberties, but they are liberties equally homogeneal with the exactness of Mathematical disquisition, and the boldness of Pindaric daring. I have three strong champions to defend me against the attacks of Criticism; the Novelty, the Difficulty, and the Utility of the work. I may justly plume myself, that I first have drawn the nymph Mathesis from the visionary caves of abstracted Idea, and caused her to unite with Harmony. The first-born of this Union I now present to you; with interested motives indeed – as I expect to receive in return the more valuable offspring of your Muse.
March 31, 1791. Thine ever,
To the Rev. G. C. S.
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