Coleridge's first account of these sonnets in a letter to Cottle [November, 1797] is much to the same effect:—'I sent to the Monthly Magazine (1797) three mock Sonnets in ridicule of my own Poems, and Charles Lloyd's and Lamb's, etc., etc., exposing that affectation of unaffectedness, of jumping and misplaced accent in common-place epithets, flat lines forced into poetry by italics (signifying how well and mouthishly the author would read them), puny pathos, etc., etc. The instances were almost all taken from myself and Lloyd and Lamb. I signed them "Nehemiah Higginbottom". I think they may do good to our young Bards.' [E. R., i. 289; Rem. 160.]

LINENOTES:

Title] Sonnet I M. M.

[4] darkens] saddens B. L., i. 27.

[6] Which] That B. L., i. 27.

[8] those] the B. L., i. 27. who] that B. L., i. 27.

[9] black] bleak B. L., i. 27.

[14] Ah!] Oh! B. L., i. 27.

II] Sonnet II. To Simplicity M. M.: no title in B. L.

[6] yet, though] and yet B. L., i. 27.

[8] Frown, pout and part then I am very sad B. L., i. 27.

[12] in gener-al Cottle, E. R., i. 288.

III] Sonnet III. To, &c. M. M.

[10] their] his Cottle, E. R., i. 292.

[13] As when] Ah! thus B. L., i. 27.



PARLIAMENTARY OSCILLATORS[211:1]

Almost awake? Why, what is this, and whence, O ye right loyal men, all undefild? Sure, 'tis not possible that Common-Sense Has hitch'd her pullies to each heavy eye-lid?

Yet wherefore else that start, which discomposes 5 The drowsy waters lingering in your eye? And are you really able to descry That precipice three yards beyond your noses?

Yet flatter you I cannot, that your wit Is much improved by this long loyal dozing; 10 And I admire, no more than Mr. Pitt, Your jumps and starts of patriotic prosing—

Now cluttering to the Treasury Cluck, like chicken, Now with small beaks the ravenous Bill opposing;[212:1] With serpent-tongue now stinging, and now licking, 15 Now semi-sibilant, now smoothly glozing—

Now having faith implicit that he can't err, Hoping his hopes, alarm'd with his alarms; And now believing him a sly inchanter, Yet still afraid to break his brittle charms, 20

Lest some mad Devil suddenly unhamp'ring, Slap-dash! the imp should fly off with the steeple, On revolutionary broom-stick scampering.— O ye soft-headed and soft-hearted people,

If you can stay so long from slumber free, 25 My muse shall make an effort to salute 'e: For lo! a very dainty simile Flash'd sudden through my brain, and 'twill just suit 'e!

You know that water-fowl that cries, Quack! Quack!? Full often have I seen a waggish crew 30 Fasten the Bird of Wisdom on its back, The ivy-haunting bird, that cries, Tu-whoo!

Both plung'd together in the deep mill-stream, (Mill-stream, or farm-yard pond, or mountain-lake,) Shrill, as a Church and Constitution scream, 35 Tu-whoo! quoth Broad-face, and down dives the Drake!

The green-neck'd Drake once more pops up to view, Stares round, cries Quack! and makes an angry pother; Then shriller screams the Bird with eye-lids blue, The broad-faced Bird! and deeper dives the other. 40 Ye quacking Statesmen! 'tis even so with you— One Peasecod is not liker to another.

Even so on Loyalty's Decoy-pond, each Pops up his head, as fir'd with British blood, Hears once again the Ministerial screech, 45 And once more seeks the bottom's blackest mud!

1798. (Signed: LABERIUS.)

FOOTNOTES:

[211:1] First published in the Cambridge Intelligencer, January 6, 1798: included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817: Essays on His own Times, 1850, iii. 969-70. First collected in P. and D. W., 1877-80. In Sibylline Leaves the poem is incorrectly dated 1794.

[212:1] Pitt's 'treble assessment at seven millions' which formed part of the budget for 1798. The grant was carried in the House of Commons, Jan. 4, 1798.

LINENOTES:

Title] To Sir John Sinclair, S. Thornton, Alderman Lushington, and the whole Troop of Parliamentary Oscillators C. I.

[2] right] tight C. I.

[3] It's hardly possible C. I.

[9] But yet I cannot flatter you, your wit C. I.

[14] the] his C. I.

[24] O ye soft-hearted and soft-headed, &c. C. I.

[26, 28] 'e] ye C. I.

[29] that cries] which cries C. I.

[30] Full often] Ditch-full oft C. I.

[31] Fasten] Fallen C. I.



CHRISTABEL[213:1]

PREFACE

The first part of the following poem was written in the year 1797, at Stowey, in the county of Somerset. The second part, after my return from Germany, in the year 1800, at Keswick, Cumberland. It is probable that if the poem had been finished at either of the former periods, or 5 if even the first and second part had been published in the year 1800, the impression of its originality would have been much greater than I dare at present expect. But for this I have only my own indolence to blame. The dates are mentioned for the exclusive purpose of precluding charges of 10 plagiarism or servile imitation from myself. For there is amongst us a set of critics, who seem to hold, that every possible thought and image is traditional; who have no notion that there are such things as fountains in the world, small as well as great; and who would therefore charitably 15 derive every rill they behold flowing, from a perforation made in some other man's tank. I am confident, however, that as far as the present poem is concerned, the celebrated poets[215:1] whose writings I might be suspected of having imitated, either in particular passages, or in the tone and 20 the spirit of the whole, would be among the first to vindicate me from the charge, and who, on any striking coincidence, would permit me to address them in this doggerel version of two monkish Latin hexameters.[215:2]

'Tis mine and it is likewise yours; 25 But an if this will not do; Let it be mine, good friend! for I Am the poorer of the two.

I have only to add that the metre of Christabel is not, properly speaking, irregular, though it may seem so from its 30 being founded on a new principle: namely, that of counting in each line the accents, not the syllables. Though the latter may vary from seven to twelve, yet in each line the accents will be found to be only four. Nevertheless, this occasional variation in number of syllables is not introduced wantonly, 35 or for the mere ends of convenience, but in correspondence with some transition in the nature of the imagery or passion.

PART I

'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock, And the owls have awakened the crowing cock; Tu—whit!——Tu—whoo! And hark, again! the crowing cock, How drowsily it crew. 5 Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, Hath a toothless mastiff bitch; From her kennel beneath the rock She maketh answer to the clock, Four for the quarters, and twelve for the hour; 10 Ever and aye, by shine and shower, Sixteen short howls, not over loud; Some say, she sees my lady's shroud.

Is the night chilly and dark? The night is chilly, but not dark. 15 The thin gray cloud is spread on high, It covers but not hides the sky. The moon is behind, and at the full; And yet she looks both small and dull. The night is chill, the cloud is gray: 20 'Tis a month before the month of May, And the Spring comes slowly up this way.

The lovely lady, Christabel, Whom her father loves so well, What makes her in the wood so late, 25 A furlong from the castle gate? She had dreams all yesternight Of her own betrothd knight; And she in the midnight wood will pray For the weal of her lover that's far away. 30

She stole along, she nothing spoke, The sighs she heaved were soft and low, And naught was green upon the oak But moss and rarest misletoe: She kneels beneath the huge oak tree, 35 And in silence prayeth she.

The lady sprang up suddenly, The lovely lady, Christabel! It moaned as near, as near can be, But what it is she cannot tell.— 40 On the other side it seems to be, Of the huge, broad-breasted, old oak tree.

The night is chill; the forest bare; Is it the wind that moaneth bleak? There is not wind enough in the air 45 To move away the ringlet curl From the lovely lady's cheek— There is not wind enough to twirl The one red leaf, the last of its clan, That dances as often as dance it can, 50 Hanging so light, and hanging so high, On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky.

Hush, beating heart of Christabel! Jesu, Maria, shield her well! She folded her arms beneath her cloak, 55 And stole to the other side of the oak. What sees she there?

There she sees a damsel bright, Drest in a silken robe of white, That shadowy in the moonlight shone: 60 The neck that made that white robe wan, Her stately neck, and arms were bare; Her blue-veined feet unsandal'd were, And wildly glittered here and there The gems entangled in her hair. 65 I guess, 'twas frightful there to see A lady so richly clad as she— Beautiful exceedingly!

Mary mother, save me now! (Said Christabel,) And who art thou? 70

The lady strange made answer meet, And her voice was faint and sweet:— Have pity on my sore distress, I scarce can speak for weariness: Stretch forth thy hand, and have no fear! 75 Said Christabel, How camest thou here? And the lady, whose voice was faint and sweet, Did thus pursue her answer meet:—

My sire is of a noble line, And my name is Geraldine: 80 Five warriors seized me yestermorn, Me, even me, a maid forlorn: They choked my cries with force and fright, And tied me on a palfrey white. The palfrey was as fleet as wind, 85 And they rode furiously behind. They spurred amain, their steeds were white: And once we crossed the shade of night. As sure as Heaven shall rescue me, I have no thought what men they be; 90 Nor do I know how long it is (For I have lain entranced I wis) Since one, the tallest of the five, Took me from the palfrey's back, A weary woman, scarce alive. 95 Some muttered words his comrades spoke: Ha placed me underneath this oak; He swore they would return with haste; Whither they went I cannot tell— I thought I heard, some minutes past, 100 Sounds as of a castle bell. Stretch forth thy hand (thus ended she), And help a wretched maid to flee.

Then Christabel stretched forth her hand, And comforted fair Geraldine: 105 O well, bright dame! may you command The service of Sir Leoline; And gladly our stout chivalry Will he send forth and friends withal To guide and guard you safe and free 110 Home to your noble father's hall.

She rose: and forth with steps they passed That strove to be, and were not, fast. Her gracious stars the lady blest, And thus spake on sweet Christabel: 115 All our household are at rest, The hall as silent as the cell; Sir Leoline is weak in health, And may not well awakened be, But we will move as if in stealth, 120 And I beseech your courtesy, This night, to share your couch with me.

They crossed the moat, and Christabel Took the key that fitted well; A little door she opened straight, 125 All in the middle of the gate; The gate that was ironed within and without, Where an army in battle array had marched out. The lady sank, belike through pain, And Christabel with might and main 130 Lifted her up, a weary weight, Over the threshold of the gate: Then the lady rose again, And moved, as she were not in pain.

So free from danger, free from fear, 135 They crossed the court: right glad they were. And Christabel devoutly cried To the lady by her side, Praise we the Virgin all divine Who hath rescued thee from thy distress! 140 Alas, alas! said Geraldine, I cannot speak for weariness. So free from danger, free from fear, They crossed the court: right glad they were.

Outside her kennel, the mastiff old 145 Lay fast asleep, in moonshine cold. The mastiff old did not awake, Yet she an angry moan did make! And what can ail the mastiff bitch? Never till now she uttered yell 150 Beneath the eye of Christabel. Perhaps it is the owlet's scritch: For what can ail the mastiff bitch?

They passed the hall, that echoes still, Pass as lightly as you will! 155 The brands were flat, the brands were dying, Amid their own white ashes lying; But when the lady passed, there came A tongue of light, a fit of flame; And Christabel saw the lady's eye, 160 And nothing else saw she thereby, Save the boss of the shield of Sir Leoline tall, Which hung in a murky old niche in the wall. O softly tread, said Christabel, My father seldom sleepeth well. 165

Sweet Christabel her feet doth bare, And jealous of the listening air They steal their way from stair to stair, Now in glimmer, and now in gloom, And now they pass the Baron's room, 170 As still as death, with stifled breath! And now have reached her chamber door; And now doth Geraldine press down The rushes of the chamber floor.

The moon shines dim in the open air, 175 And not a moonbeam enters here. But they without its light can see The chamber carved so curiously, Carved with figures strange and sweet, All made out of the carver's brain, 180 For a lady's chamber meet: The lamp with twofold silver chain Is fastened to an angel's feet.

The silver lamp burns dead and dim; But Christabel the lamp will trim. 185 She trimmed the lamp, and made it bright, And left it swinging to and fro, While Geraldine, in wretched plight, Sank down upon the floor below.

O weary lady, Geraldine, 190 I pray you, drink this cordial wine! It is a wine of virtuous powers; My mother made it of wild flowers.

And will your mother pity me, Who am a maiden most forlorn? 195 Christabel answered—Woe is me! She died the hour that I was born. I have heard the grey-haired friar tell How on her death-bed she did say, That she should hear the castle-bell 200 Strike twelve upon my wedding-day. O mother dear! that thou wert here! I would, said Geraldine, she were!

But soon with altered voice, said she— 'Off, wandering mother! Peak and pine! 205 I have power to bid thee flee.' Alas! what ails poor Geraldine? Why stares she with unsettled eye? Can she the bodiless dead espy? And why with hollow voice cries she, 210 'Off, woman, off! this hour is mine— Though thou her guardian spirit be, Off, woman, off! 'tis given to me.'

Then Christabel knelt by the lady's side, And raised to heaven her eyes so blue— 215 Alas! said she, this ghastly ride— Dear lady! it hath wildered you! The lady wiped her moist cold brow, And faintly said, ''tis over now!'

Again the wild-flower wine she drank: 220 Her fair large eyes 'gan glitter bright, And from the floor whereon she sank, The lofty lady stood upright: She was most beautiful to see, Like a lady of a far countre. 225

And thus the lofty lady spake— 'All they who live in the upper sky, Do love you, holy Christabel! And you love them, and for their sake And for the good which me befel, 230 Even I in my degree will try, Fair maiden, to requite you well. But now unrobe yourself; for I Must pray, ere yet in bed I lie.'

Quoth Christabel, So let it be! 235 And as the lady bade, did she. Her gentle limbs did she undress, And lay down in her loveliness.

But through her brain of weal and woe So many thoughts moved to and fro, 240 That vain it were her lids to close; So half-way from the bed she rose, And on her elbow did recline To look at the lady Geraldine.

Beneath the lamp the lady bowed, 245 And slowly rolled her eyes around; Then drawing in her breath aloud, Like one that shuddered, she unbound The cincture from beneath her breast: Her silken robe, and inner vest, 250 Dropt to her feet, and full in view, Behold! her bosom and half her side— A sight to dream of, not to tell! O shield her! shield sweet Christabel!

Yet Geraldine nor speaks nor stirs; 255 Ah! what a stricken look was hers! Deep from within she seems half-way To lift some weight with sick assay, And eyes the maid and seeks delay; Then suddenly, as one defied, 260 Collects herself in scorn and pride, And lay down by the Maiden's side!— And in her arms the maid she took, Ah wel-a-day! And with low voice and doleful look 265 These words did say: 'In the touch of this bosom there worketh a spell, Which is lord of thy utterance, Christabel! Thou knowest to-night, and wilt know to-morrow, This mark of my shame, this seal of my sorrow; 270 But vainly thou warrest, For this is alone in Thy power to declare, That in the dim forest Thou heard'st a low moaning, 275 And found'st a bright lady, surpassingly fair; And didst bring her home with thee in love and in charity, To shield her and shelter her from the damp air.'

THE CONCLUSION TO PART I

It was a lovely sight to see The lady Christabel, when she 280 Was praying at the old oak tree. Amid the jaggd shadows Of mossy leafless boughs, Kneeling in the moonlight, To make her gentle vows; 285 Her slender palms together prest, Heaving sometimes on her breast; Her face resigned to bliss or bale— Her face, oh call it fair not pale, And both blue eyes more bright than clear, 290 Each about to have a tear.

With open eyes (ah woe is me!) Asleep, and dreaming fearfully, Fearfully dreaming, yet, I wis, Dreaming that alone, which is— 295 O sorrow and shame! Can this be she, The lady, who knelt at the old oak tree? And lo! the worker of these harms, That holds the maiden in her arms, Seems to slumber still and mild, 300 As a mother with her child.

A star hath set, a star hath risen, O Geraldine! since arms of thine Have been the lovely lady's prison. O Geraldine! one hour was thine— 305 Thou'st had thy will! By tairn and rill, The night-birds all that hour were still. But now they are jubilant anew, From cliff and tower, tu—whoo! tu—whoo! Tu—whoo! tu—whoo! from wood and fell! 310

And see! the lady Christabel Gathers herself from out her trance; Her limbs relax, her countenance Grows sad and soft; the smooth thin lids Close o'er her eyes; and tears she sheds— 315 Large tears that leave the lashes bright! And oft the while she seems to smile As infants at a sudden light!

Yea, she doth smile, and she doth weep, Like a youthful hermitess, 320 Beauteous in a wilderness, Who, praying always, prays in sleep. And, if she move unquietly, Perchance, 'tis but the blood so free Comes back and tingles in her feet. 325 No doubt, she hath a vision sweet. What if her guardian spirit 'twere, What if she knew her mother near? But this she knows, in joys and woes, That saints will aid if men will call: 330 For the blue sky bends over all!

1797.

PART II

Each matin bell, the Baron saith, Knells us back to a world of death. These words Sir Leoline first said, When he rose and found his lady dead: 335 These words Sir Leoline will say Many a morn to his dying day!

And hence the custom and law began That still at dawn the sacristan, Who duly pulls the heavy bell, 340 Five and forty beads must tell Between each stroke—a warning knell, Which not a soul can choose but hear From Bratha Head to Wyndermere.

Saith Bracy the bard, So let it knell! 345 And let the drowsy sacristan Still count as slowly as he can! There is no lack of such, I ween, As well fill up the space between. In Langdale Pike and Witch's Lair, 350 And Dungeon-ghyll so foully rent, With ropes of rock and bells of air Three sinful sextons' ghosts are pent, Who all give back, one after t'other, The death-note to their living brother; 355 And oft too, by the knell offended, Just as their one! two! three! is ended, The devil mocks the doleful tale With a merry peal from Borodale.

The air is still! through mist and cloud 360 That merry peal comes ringing loud; And Geraldine shakes off her dread, And rises lightly from the bed; Puts on her silken vestments white, And tricks her hair in lovely plight, 365 And nothing doubting of her spell Awakens the lady Christabel. 'Sleep you, sweet lady Christabel? I trust that you have rested well.'

And Christabel awoke and spied 370 The same who lay down by her side— O rather say, the same whom she Raised up beneath the old oak tree! Nay, fairer yet! and yet more fair! For she belike hath drunken deep 375 Of all the blessedness of sleep! And while she spake, her looks, her air Such gentle thankfulness declare, That (so it seemed) her girded vests Grew tight beneath her heaving breasts. 380 'Sure I have sinn'd!' said Christabel, 'Now heaven be praised if all be well!' And in low faltering tones, yet sweet, Did she the lofty lady greet With such perplexity of mind 385 As dreams too lively leave behind.

So quickly she rose, and quickly arrayed Her maiden limbs, and having prayed That He, who on the cross did groan, Might wash away her sins unknown, 390 She forthwith led fair Geraldine To meet her sire, Sir Leoline.

The lovely maid and the lady tall Are pacing both into the hall, And pacing on through page and groom, 395 Enter the Baron's presence-room.

The Baron rose, and while he prest His gentle daughter to his breast, With cheerful wonder in his eyes The lady Geraldine espies, 400 And gave such welcome to the same, As might beseem so bright a dame!

But when he heard the lady's tale, And when she told her father's name, Why waxed Sir Leoline so pale, 405 Murmuring o'er the name again, Lord Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine? Alas! they had been friends in youth; But whispering tongues can poison truth; And constancy lives in realms above; 410 And life is thorny; and youth is vain; And to be wroth with one we love Doth work like madness in the brain. And thus it chanced, as I divine, With Roland and Sir Leoline. 415 Each spake words of high disdain And insult to his heart's best brother: They parted—ne'er to meet again! But never either found another To free the hollow heart from paining— 420 They stood aloof, the scars remaining, Like cliffs which had been rent asunder; A dreary sea now flows between;— But neither heat, nor frost, nor thunder, Shall wholly do away, I ween, 425 The marks of that which once hath been.

Sir Leoline, a moment's space, Stood gazing on the damsel's face: And the youthful Lord of Tryermaine Came back upon his heart again. 430

O then the Baron forgot his age, His noble heart swelled high with rage; He swore by the wounds in Jesu's side He would proclaim it far and wide, With trump and solemn heraldry, 435 That they, who thus had wronged the dame, Were base as spotted infamy! 'And if they dare deny the same, My herald shall appoint a week, And let the recreant traitors seek 440 My tourney court—that there and then I may dislodge their reptile souls From the bodies and forms of men!' He spake: his eye in lightning rolls! For the lady was ruthlessly seized; and he kenned 445 In the beautiful lady the child of his friend!

And now the tears were on his face, And fondly in his arms he took Fair Geraldine, who met the embrace, Prolonging it with joyous look. 450 Which when she viewed, a vision fell Upon the soul of Christabel, The vision of fear, the touch and pain! She shrunk and shuddered, and saw again— (Ah, woe is me! Was it for thee, 455 Thou gentle maid! such sights to see?)

Again she saw that bosom old, Again she felt that bosom cold, And drew in her breath with a hissing sound: Whereat the Knight turned wildly round, 460 And nothing saw, but his own sweet maid With eyes upraised, as one that prayed.

The touch, the sight, had passed away, And in its stead that vision blest, Which comforted her after-rest 465 While in the lady's arms she lay, Had put a rapture in her breast, And on her lips and o'er her eyes Spread smiles like light! With new surprise, 'What ails then my belovd child?' 470 The Baron said—His daughter mild Made answer, 'All will yet be well!' I ween, she had no power to tell Aught else: so mighty was the spell.

Yet he, who saw this Geraldine, 475 Had deemed her sure a thing divine: Such sorrow with such grace she blended, As if she feared she had offended Sweet Christabel, that gentle maid! And with such lowly tones she prayed 480 She might be sent without delay Home to her father's mansion. 'Nay! Nay, by my soul!' said Leoline. 'Ho! Bracy the bard, the charge be thine! Go thou, with music sweet and loud, 485 And take two steeds with trappings proud, And take the youth whom thou lov'st best To bear thy harp, and learn thy song, And clothe you both in solemn vest, And over the mountains haste along, 490 Lest wandering folk, that are abroad, Detain you on the valley road.

'And when he has crossed the Irthing flood, My merry bard! he hastes, he hastes Up Knorren Moor, through Halegarth Wood, 495 And reaches soon that castle good Which stands and threatens Scotland's wastes.

'Bard Bracy! bard Bracy! your horses are fleet, Ye must ride up the hall, your music so sweet, More loud than your horses' echoing feet! 500 And loud and loud to Lord Roland call, Thy daughter is safe in Langdale hall! Thy beautiful daughter is safe and free— Sir Leoline greets thee thus through me! He bids thee come without delay 505 With all thy numerous array And take thy lovely daughter home: And he will meet thee on the way With all his numerous array White with their panting palfreys' foam: 510 And, by mine honour! I will say, That I repent me of the day When I spake words of fierce disdain To Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine!— —For since that evil hour hath flown, 515 Many a summer's sun hath shone; Yet ne'er found I a friend again Like Roland de Vaux of Tryermaine.'

The lady fell, and clasped his knees, Her face upraised, her eyes o'erflowing; 520 And Bracy replied, with faltering voice, His gracious Hail on all bestowing!— 'Thy words, thou sire of Christabel, Are sweeter than my harp can tell; Yet might I gain a boon of thee, 525 This day my journey should not be, So strange a dream hath come to me, That I had vowed with music loud To clear yon wood from thing unblest, Warned by a vision in my rest! 530 For in my sleep I saw that dove, That gentle bird, whom thou dost love, And call'st by thy own daughter's name— Sir Leoline! I saw the same Fluttering, and uttering fearful moan, 535 Among the green herbs in the forest alone. Which when I saw and when I heard, I wonder'd what might ail the bird; For nothing near it could I see, Save the grass and green herbs underneath the old tree.

'And in my dream methought I went 541 To search out what might there be found; And what the sweet bird's trouble meant, That thus lay fluttering on the ground. I went and peered, and could descry 545 No cause for her distressful cry; But yet for her dear lady's sake I stooped, methought, the dove to take, When lo! I saw a bright green snake Coiled around its wings and neck. 550 Green as the herbs on which it couched, Close by the dove's its head it crouched; And with the dove it heaves and stirs, Swelling its neck as she swelled hers! I woke; it was the midnight hour, 555 The clock was echoing in the tower; But though my slumber was gone by, This dream it would not pass away— It seems to live upon my eye! And thence I vowed this self-same day 560 With music strong and saintly song To wander through the forest bare, Lest aught unholy loiter there.'

Thus Bracy said: the Baron, the while, Half-listening heard him with a smile; 565 Then turned to Lady Geraldine, His eyes made up of wonder and love; And said in courtly accents fine, 'Sweet maid, Lord Roland's beauteous dove, With arms more strong than harp or song, 570 Thy sire and I will crush the snake!' He kissed her forehead as he spake, And Geraldine in maiden wise Casting down her large bright eyes, With blushing cheek and courtesy fine 575 She turned her from Sir Leoline; Softly gathering up her train, That o'er her right arm fell again; And folded her arms across her chest, And couched her head upon her breast, 580 And looked askance at Christabel— Jesu, Maria, shield her well!

A snake's small eye blinks dull and shy; And the lady's eyes they shrunk in her head, Each shrunk up to a serpent's eye, 585 And with somewhat of malice, and more of dread, At Christabel she looked askance!— One moment—and the sight was fled! But Christabel in dizzy trance Stumbling on the unsteady ground 590 Shuddered aloud, with a hissing sound; And Geraldine again turned round, And like a thing, that sought relief, Full of wonder and full of grief, She rolled her large bright eyes divine 595 Wildly on Sir Leoline.

The maid, alas! her thoughts are gone, She nothing sees—no sight but one! The maid, devoid of guile and sin, I know not how, in fearful wise, 600 So deeply had she drunken in That look, those shrunken serpent eyes, That all her features were resigned To this sole image in her mind: And passively did imitate 605 That look of dull and treacherous hate! And thus she stood, in dizzy trance, Still picturing that look askance With forced unconscious sympathy Full before her father's view—— 610 As far as such a look could be In eyes so innocent and blue!

And when the trance was o'er, the maid Paused awhile, and inly prayed: Then falling at the Baron's feet, 615 'By my mother's soul do I entreat That thou this woman send away!' She said: and more she could not say: For what she knew she could not tell, O'er-mastered by the mighty spell. 620

Why is thy cheek so wan and wild, Sir Leoline? Thy only child Lies at thy feet, thy joy, thy pride, So fair, so innocent, so mild; The same, for whom thy lady died! 625 O by the pangs of her dear mother Think thou no evil of thy child! For her, and thee, and for no other, She prayed the moment ere she died: Prayed that the babe for whom she died, 630 Might prove her dear lord's joy and pride! That prayer her deadly pangs beguiled, Sir Leoline! And wouldst thou wrong thy only child, Her child and thine? 635

Within the Baron's heart and brain If thoughts, like these, had any share, They only swelled his rage and pain, And did but work confusion there. His heart was cleft with pain and rage, 640 His cheeks they quivered, his eyes were wild, Dishonoured thus in his old age; Dishonoured by his only child, And all his hospitality To the wronged daughter of his friend 645 By more than woman's jealousy Brought thus to a disgraceful end— He rolled his eye with stern regard Upon the gentle minstrel bard, And said in tones abrupt, austere— 650 'Why, Bracy! dost thou loiter here? I bade thee hence!' The bard obeyed; And turning from his own sweet maid, The agd knight, Sir Leoline, Led forth the lady Geraldine! 655

1800.

THE CONCLUSION TO PART II

A little child, a limber elf, Singing, dancing to itself, A fairy thing with red round cheeks, That always finds, and never seeks, Makes such a vision to the sight 660 As fills a father's eyes with light; And pleasures flow in so thick and fast Upon his heart, that he at last Must needs express his love's excess With words of unmeant bitterness. 665 Perhaps 'tis pretty to force together Thoughts so all unlike each other; To mutter and mock a broken charm, To dally with wrong that does no harm. Perhaps 'tis tender too and pretty 670 At each wild word to feel within A sweet recoil of love and pity. And what, if in a world of sin (O sorrow and shame should this be true!) Such giddiness of heart and brain 675 Comes seldom save from rage and pain, So talks as it's most used to do.

1801.

FOOTNOTES:

[213:1] First published, together with Kubla Khan and The Pains of Sleep, 1816: included in 1828, 1829, and 1834. Three MSS. of Christabel have passed through my hands. The earliest, which belonged to Wordsworth, is partly in Coleridge's handwriting and partly in that of Mary Hutchinson (Mrs. Wordsworth). The probable date of this MS., now in the possession of the poet's grandson, Mr. Gordon Wordsworth, is April-October, 1800. Later in the same year, or perhaps in 1801, Coleridge made a copy of the First Part (or Book), the Conclusion to the First Book, and the Second Book, and presented it to Mrs. Wordsworth's sister, Sarah Hutchinson. A facsimile of the MS., now in the possession of Miss Edith Coleridge, was issued in collotype in the edition of Christabel published in 1907, under the auspices of the Royal Society of Literature. In 1801, or at some subsequent period (possibly not till 1815), Miss Hutchinson transcribed Coleridge's MS. The water-mark of the paper is 1801. Her transcript, now in the possession of Mr. A. H. Hallam Murray, was sent to Lord Byron in October, 1815. It is possible that this transcription was the 'copy' for the First Edition published in 1816; but, if so, Coleridge altered the text whilst the poem was passing through the press.

The existence of two other MSS. rests on the authority of John Payne Collier (see Seven Lectures on Shakespeare and Milton. By S. T. Coleridge, 1856, pp. xxxix-xliii).

The first, which remained in his possession for many years, was a copy in the handwriting of Sarah Stoddart (afterwards Mrs. Hazlitt). J. P. Collier notes certain differences between this MS., which he calls the 'Salisbury Copy', and the text of the First Edition. He goes on to say that before Christabel was published Coleridge lent him an MS. in his own handwriting, and he gives two or three readings from the second MS. which differ from the text of the 'Salisbury Copy' and from the texts of those MSS. which have been placed in my hands.

The copy of the First Edition of Christabel presented to William Stewart Rose's valet, David Hinves, on November 11, 1816, which Coleridge had already corrected, is now in the possession of Mr. John Murray. The emendations and additions inscribed on the margin of this volume were included in the collected edition of Coleridge's Poetical Works, published by William Pickering in 1828. The editions of 1829 and 1834 closely followed the edition of 1828, but in 1834 there was in one particular instance (Part I, lines 6-10) a reversion to the text of the First Edition. The MS. of the 'Conclusion of Part II' forms part of a letter to Southey dated May 6, 1801. (Letters of S. T. C., 1895, i. 355.) The following abbreviations have been employed to note the MSS. and transcriptions of Christabel:—

1. The Wordsworth MS., partly in Coleridge's (lines 1-295), and partly in Mary Hutchinson's (lines 295-655) handwriting = MS. W.

2. The Salisbury MS., copied by Sarah Stoddart = S. T. C. (a).

3. The MS. lent by Coleridge to Payne Collier = S. T. C. (b).

4. Autograph MS. in possession of Miss Edith Coleridge (reproduced in facsimile in 1907) = S. T. C. (c).

5. Transcription made by Sarah Hutchinson = S. H.

6. Corrections made by Coleridge in the Copy of the First Edition presented to David Hinves = H. 1816.

[215:1] Sir Walter Scott and Lord Byron.

[215:2] The 'Latin hexameters', 'in the lame and limping metre of a barbarous Latin poet', ran thus:

'Est meum et est tuum, amice! at si amborum nequit esse, Sit meum, amice, precor: quia certe sum magi' pauper.'

It is interesting to note that Coleridge translated these lines in November, 1801, long before the 'celebrated poets' in question had made, or seemed to make, it desirable to 'preclude a charge of plagiarism'.

LINENOTES:

PREFACE] Prefixed to the three issues of 1816, and to 1828, 1829, 1834.

Christabel—Preface. 2 The year one thousand seven hundred and ninety seven 1816, 1828, 1829.

[3, 4] The year one thousand eight hundred 1816, 1828, 1829.

[4] after 'Cumberland'] Since the latter date, my poetic powers have been, till very lately, in a state of suspended animation. But as, in my very first conception of the tale, I had the whole present to my mind, with the wholeness, no less than the liveliness of a vision; I trust that I shall be able to embody in verse the three parts yet to come, in the course of the present year. It is probable, &c. 1816, 1828, 1829: om. 1834.

[23] doggrel 1816, 1828, 1829.

PART I] Book the First MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.: Part the First 1828, 1829.

[3] Tu-u-whoo! Tu-u-whoo! MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[6-7]

Sir Leoline the Baron [*bold*] Hath a toothless mastiff old

H. 1816.

Sir Leoline, the Baron rich, Hath a toothless mastiff which

H. 1816, 1828, 1829, 1893.

[9] She makes MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition: Maketh H. 1816, 1828, 1829.

[11] moonshine or shower MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition: by shine or shower H. 1816.

[Between 28-9]

Dreams, that made her moan and leap, As on her bed she lay in sleep.

First Edition: Erased H. 1816: Not in any MS.

[32] The breezes they were whispering low S. T. C. (a): The breezes they were still also MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.

[34] But the moss and misletoe MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[35] kneels] knelt MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[37] sprang] leaps MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.

[39] can] could H. 1816.

[45-7] om. MS. W.

[52] up] out MS. W., S. H.

[54] Jesu Maria MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[58-66]

A damsel bright Clad in a silken robe of white, Her neck, her feet, her arms were bare, And the jewels were tumbled in her hair. I guess, &c.

MS. W.

[60] om. MS. S. T. C.

[61-6]

Her neck, her feet, her arms were bare, And the jewels were tumbled in her hair. I guess, &c.

S. T. C. (a), S. T. C. (c), S. H.

Her neck, her feet, her arms were bare, And the jewels disorder'd in her hair. I guess, &c.

First Edition.

[65]

And the jewels were tangled in her hair.

S. T. C. (b).

[In the Hinves copy (Nov., 1816), ll. 60-5 are inserted in the margin and the two lines 'Her neck . . . her hair' are erased. This addition was included in 1828, 1829, 1834, &c.]

[74] scarce can] cannot H. 1816.

[76] Said Christabel] Alas! but say H. 1816.

[81-3]

Five ruffians seized me yestermorn, Me, even me, a maid forlorn; They chok'd my cries with wicked might.

MS. W., S. T. C. (a); MS. S. T. C. (c); S. H.

Five warriors, &c. as in the text

S. T. C. (b)

[Lines 82, 83, 84-1/2 are erased in H. 1816. Lines 81-4, 89, 90, which Scott prefixed as a motto to Chapter XI of The Black Dwarf (1818), run thus:—

Three ruffians seized me yestermorn, Alas! a maiden most forlorn; They choked my cries with wicked might, And bound me on a palfrey white: As sure as Heaven shall pity me, I cannot tell what men they be.

Christabel.

The motto to Chapter XXIV of The Betrothed (1825) is slightly different:—

Four Ruffians . . . palfrey white.]

[88] once] twice MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[92] For I have lain in fits, I wis MS. W., S. T. C. (a), S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition. [Text, which follows S. T. C. (b), H. 1816, was first adopted in 1828.]

[96] comrades] comrade MS. W.

[98] He] They MS. W.

[106-11]

Saying that she should command The service of Sir Leoline; And straight be convoy'd, free from thrall, Back to her noble father's hall.

MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.

[Text, which follows H. 1816, was first adopted in 1828.]

[112-22]

So up she rose and forth they pass'd With hurrying steps yet nothing fast. Her lucky stars the lady blest, And Christabel she sweetly said— All our household are at rest, Each one sleeping in his bed; Sir Leoline is weak in health, And may not awakened be, So to my room we'll creep in stealth, And you to-night must sleep with me.

MS. W., S. T. C. (a), S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[So, too, First Edition, with the sole variant, 'And may not well awakened be'.]

[114-17]

Her smiling stars the lady blest, And thus bespake sweet Christabel: All our household is at rest, The hall as silent as a cell.

S. T. C. (b).

[In H. 1816 ll. 112-22 of the text are inserted in Coleridge's handwriting. Line 113 reads: 'yet were not fast'. Line 122 reads: 'share your bed with me'. In 1828, ll. 117-22 were added to the text, and 'Her gracious stars' (l. 114) was substituted for 'Her lucky stars'.]

[137] And Christabel she sweetly cried MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[139] Praise we] O praise MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[145] Outside] Beside MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[146] Lay fast] Was stretch'd H. 1816. [Not in S. T. C.'s handwriting.]

[160] om. S. T. C. (a).

[161] And nothing else she saw thereby MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[163] niche] nitch all MSS. and First Edition.

[166-9]

Sweet Christabel her feet she bares, And they are creeping up the stairs, Now in glimmer, and now in gloom,

MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.

[167] Added in 1828.

[171] With stifled breath, as still as death H. 1816. [Not in S. T. C.'s handwriting.]

[173-4]

And now they with their feet press down The rushes of her chamber floor.

MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

And now with eager feet press down The rushes of her chamber floor.

First Edition, H. 1816. [Not in S. T. C.'s handwriting.]

[191] cordial] spicy MS. W., S. T. C. (a), S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[Between 193-4]

Nay, drink it up, I pray you do, Believe me it will comfort you.

MS. W., S. T. C. (a), S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[The omission was made in the First Edition.]

[205-10, 212] om. MS. W.

[219] And faintly said I'm better now MS. W., S. T. C. (a): I am better now S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[225] far] fair MS. W.

[Between 252-3] Are lean and old and foul of hue. MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[254] And she is to sleep with Christabel. MS. W.: And she is to sleep by Christabel. S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition: And must she sleep by Christabel. H. 1816 [not in S. T. C.'s handwriting]: And she is alone with Christabel. H. 1816 erased [not in S. T. C.'s handwriting]: And must she sleep with Christabel. H. 1816 erased [not in S. T. C.'s handwriting].

[255-61] om. MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition: included in H. 1816. [Not in S. T. C.'s handwriting.] First published in 1828.

[Between 254 and 263]

She took two paces and a stride, And lay down by the maiden's side,

MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.

She gaz'd upon the maid, [*she sigh'd*] [*She took two paces and a stride,*] Then [*And lay down by the Maiden's side.*]

H. 1816 erased.

[265] low] sad MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[267] this] my MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[270] The mark of my shame, the seal of my sorrow. MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[277] And didst bring her home with thee, with love and with charity. MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[278] To shield her, and shelter her, and shelter far from the damp air. MS. W.

The Conclusion to Part I] The Conclusion of Book the First MS. W.: The Conclusion to Book the First S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[294] Here in MS. W. the handwriting changes. 'Dreaming' was written by S. T. C., 'yet' by Mary Hutchinson.

[295] is] is H. 1816.

[297] who] that MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., H. 1816.

[306] Tairn or Tarn (derived by Lye from the Icelandic Tiorn, stagnum, palus) is rendered in our dictionaries as synonymous with Mere or Lake; but it is properly a large Pool or Reservoir in the Mountains, commonly the Feeder of some Mere in the valleys. Tarn Watling and Blellum Tarn, though on lower ground than other Tarns, are yet not exceptions, for both are on elevations, and Blellum Tarn feeds the Wynander Mere. Note to S. T. C. (c).

[324] A query is attached to this line H. 1816.

Part II] Book the Second MS. W.: Christabel Book the Second S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[344] Wyndermere] Wyn'dermere MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.

[353] sinful] simple MS. W.

[354] A query is attached to this line H. 1816.

[356] the] their MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[359] Borodale] Borrowdale MS. W., S. H., First Edition, 1828, 1829: Borrodale S. T. C. (c).

[360] The air is still through many a cloud MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[363] the] her MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[364] silken] simple MS. W.

[414] thus] so MS. Letter to Poole, Feb. 1813.

[418] They] And MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[419] But] And MS. W.

[424-5]

But neither frost nor heat nor thunder Can wholly, &c.,

MS. Letter to Poole, Feb. 1813.

[441] tourney] Tournay MS. W., S. T. C. (c), First Edition.

[453] The vision foul of fear and pain MS. W., S. T. C. (a), S. T. C. (c), S. H.: The vision of fear, the touch of pain S. T. C. (b).

[463] The pang, the sight was passed away S. T. C. (a): The pang, the sight, had passed away MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[490] om. MS. W.

[503] beautiful] beauteous MS. W.

[507] take] fetch MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[516] Many a summer's suns have shone MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[559] seems] seem'd MS. W., S. T. C. (c).

[560] vowed] swore MS. W.

[563] loiter] wander MS. W.

[582] Jesu, Maria] Jesu Maria MS. W.

[591] Shuddered aloud with hissing sound MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H.

[596] on] o'er MS. W.

[613] And] But MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition.

[615] her Father's Feet MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition, 1828.

[620] the] that MS. W.

[639] but] not MS. W.

[645] wronged] insulted MS. W., S. T. C. (c), S. H., First Edition, 1828, 1829.

The Conclusion to Part II] Not in any of the MSS. or in S. H. For the first manuscript version see Letter to Southey, May 6, 1801. (Letters of S. T. C., 1895, i. 355.)

[659] 'finds' and 'seeks' are italicized in the letters.

[660-1]

Doth make a vision to the sight Which fills a father's eyes with light.

Letter, 1801.

[664] In H. 1816 there is a direction (not in S. T. C.'s handwriting) to print line 664 as two lines.

[665] In words of wrong and bitterness. Letter, 1801.



LINES TO W. L.[236:1]

WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC

While my young cheek retains its healthful hues, And I have many friends who hold me dear, L——[236:2]! methinks, I would not often hear Such melodies as thine, lest I should lose All memory of the wrongs and sore distress 5 For which my miserable brethren weep! But should uncomforted misfortunes steep My daily bread in tears and bitterness; And if at Death's dread moment I should lie With no belovd face at my bed-side, 10 To fix the last glance of my closing eye, Methinks such strains, breathed by my angel-guide, Would make me pass the cup of anguish by, Mix with the blest, nor know that I had died!

1797.

FOOTNOTES:

[236:1] First published in the Annual Anthology for 1800: included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. A MS. is extant dated Sept. 14, 1797.

[236:2] [Transcriber's Note: Footnote 2 is missing from original.]

LINENOTES:

Title] To Mr. William Linley MS. 1797: Sonnet XII, To W. L.——[236:2]! Esq., while he sung &c. An. Anth.: To W. L. Esq. &c. S. L. 1828, 1829: Lines to W. Linley, Esq. 1893.

[3] L——[236:2]!] Linley! MS. 1893.

[10] at] by An. Anth.

[12] Methinks] O God! An. Anth.



FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER[237:1]

A WAR ECLOGUE

The Scene a desolated Tract in La Vende. FAMINE is discovered lying on the ground; to her enter FIRE and SLAUGHTER.

Fam. Sisters! sisters! who sent you here?

Slau. [to Fire]. I will whisper it in her ear.

Fire. No! no! no! Spirits hear what spirits tell: 'Twill make a holiday in Hell. 5 No! no! no! Myself, I named him once below, And all the souls, that damnd be. Leaped up at once in anarchy, Clapped their hands and danced for glee. 10 They no longer heeded me; But laughed to hear Hell's burning rafters Unwillingly re-echo laughters! No! no! no! Spirits hear what spirits tell: 15 'Twill make a holiday in Hell!

Fam. Whisper it, sister! so and so! In a dark hint, soft and slow.

Slau. Letters four do form his name— And who sent you?

Both. The same! the same! 20

Slau. He came by stealth, and unlocked my den, And I have drunk the blood since then Of thrice three hundred thousand men.

Both. Who bade you do 't?

Slau. The same! the same! Letters four do form his name. 25 He let me loose, and cried Halloo! To him alone the praise is due.

Fam. Thanks, sister, thanks! the men have bled, Their wives and their children faint for bread. I stood in a swampy field of battle; 30 With bones and skulls I made a rattle, To frighten the wolf and carrion-crow And the homeless dog—but they would not go. So off I flew: for how could I bear To see them gorge their dainty fare? 35 I heard a groan and a peevish squall, And through the chink of a cottage-wall— Can you guess what I saw there?

Both. Whisper it, sister! in our ear.

Fam. A baby beat its dying mother: 40 I had starved the one and was starving the other!

Both. Who bade you do 't?

Fam. The same! the same! Letters four do form his name. He let me loose, and cried, Halloo! To him alone the praise is due. 45

Fire. Sisters! I from Ireland came! Hedge and corn-fields all on flame, I triumph'd o'er the setting sun! And all the while the work was done, On as I strode with my huge strides, 50 I flung back my head and I held my sides, It was so rare a piece of fun To see the sweltered cattle run With uncouth gallop through the night, Scared by the red and noisy light! 55 By the light of his own blazing cot Was many a naked Rebel shot: The house-stream met the flame and hissed, While crash! fell in the roof, I wist, On some of those old bed-rid nurses, 60 That deal in discontent and curses.

Both. Who bade you do't?

Fire. The same! the same! Letters four do form his name. He let me loose, and cried Halloo! To him alone the praise is due. 65

All. He let us loose, and cried Halloo! How shall we yield him honour due?

Fam. Wisdom comes with lack of food. I'll gnaw, I'll gnaw the multitude, Till the cup of rage o'erbrim: 70 They shall seize him and his brood—

Slau. They shall tear him limb from limb!

Fire. O thankless beldames and untrue! And is this all that you can do For him, who did so much for you? 75 Ninety months he, by my troth! Hath richly catered for you both; And in an hour would you repay An eight years' work?—Away! away! I alone am faithful! I 80 Cling to him everlastingly.

1798.

FOOTNOTES:

[237:1] First published in the Morning Post, January 8, 1798: included in Annual Anthology, 1800, and (with an Apologetic Preface, vide Appendices) in Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The poem was probably written in 1796. See Watchman, passim.

LINENOTES:

Title] Scene: A depopulated Tract in La Vende. Famine is discovered stretched on the ground; to her enter Slaughter and Fire M. P., Jan. 8, 1798.

[2] SLAUGHTER. I will name him in your ear. M. P.

[5] a] an all editions to 1834.

[11] me] me M. P.

[16] a] an all editions to 1834.

[17-18]

FAMINE. Then sound it not, yet let me know; Darkly hint it—soft and low!

M. P.

In a dark hint, soft and low.

An. Anth.

[19] Four letters form his name. M. P.

[20] Both] FAMINE M. P.

[22-3]

And I have spill'd the blood since then Of thrice ten hundred thousand men.

M. P.

[22] drunk] drank An. Anth., S. L. 1828, 1829.

[24] Both] FIRE and FAMINE M. P.

[25] Four letters form his name. M. P.

[29] Their wives and children M. P.

[32] and the carrion crow M. P., An. Anth.

[39] Both] SLAUGHTER and FIRE M. P.

[42] Both] SLAUGHTER and FIRE M. P.

[43] Four letters form his name. M. P.

[47] Hedge] Huts M. P.

[48] om. An. Anth.

[49] Halloo! Halloo! the work was done An. Anth.

[50] As on I strode with monstrous strides M. P.: And on as I strode with my great strides An. Anth.

[51] and held M. P., An. Anth.

[54] through] all M. P.

[58] flame] fire M. P.: flames An. Anth.

[59] While crash the roof fell in I wish M. P.

[62] Both] SLAUGHTER and FAMINE M. P.

[63] Four letters form his name. M. P.

[65] How shall I give him honour due? M. P.

[67] we] I M. P.

[71] and] of M. P.

[75 foll.]

For him that did so much for you.

[To Slaughter. For you he turn'd the dust to mud With his fellow creatures' blood!

[To Famine. And hunger scorch'd as many more, To make your cup of joy run o'er.

[To Both. Full ninety moons, he by my troth! Hath richly cater'd for you both! And in an hour would you repay An eight years' debt? Away! away! I alone am faithful! I Cling to him everlastingly. LABERIUS.

M. P.

[Below 81] 1798] 1796 S. L. 1828, 1829, and 1834.



FROST AT MIDNIGHT[240:1]

The Frost performs its secret ministry, Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry Came loud—and hark, again! loud as before. The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, Have left me to that solitude, which suits 5 Abstruser musings: save that at my side My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 'Tis calm indeed! so calm that it disturbs And vexes meditation with its strange And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, 10 This populous village! Sea, and hill, and wood, With all the numberless goings-on of life, Inaudible as dreams! the thin blue flame Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not; Only that film,[240:2] which fluttered on the grate, 15 Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, Making it a companionable form, Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling Spirit 20 By its own moods interprets, every where Echo or mirror seeking of itself, And makes a toy of Thought. But O! how oft, How oft, at school, with most believing mind, Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars, 25 To watch that fluttering stranger! and as oft With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower, Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, 30 So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear Most like articulate sounds of things to come! So gazed I, till the soothing things, I dreamt, Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams! 35 And so I brooded all the following morn, Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye Fixed with mock study on my swimming book: Save if the door half opened, and I snatched A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, 40 For still I hoped to see the stranger's face, Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, My play-mate when we both were clothed alike!

Dear Babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, 45 Fill up the interspersd vacancies And momentary pauses of the thought! My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, And think that thou shalt learn far other lore, 50 And in far other scenes! For I was reared In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim, And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. But thou, my babe! shalt wander like a breeze By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 55 Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds, Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores And mountain crags: so shalt thou see and hear The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible Of that eternal language, which thy God 60 Utters, who from eternity doth teach Himself in all, and all things in himself. Great universal Teacher! he shall mould Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask.

Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, 65 Whether the summer clothe the general earth With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch Smokes in the sun-thaw; whether the eave-drops fall 70 Heard only in the trances of the blast, Or if the secret ministry of frost Shall hang them up in silent icicles, Quietly shining to the quiet Moon.

February, 1798.[242:1]

FOOTNOTES:

[240:1] First published in a quarto pamphlet 'printed by Johnson in S. Paul's Churchyard, 1798': included in Poetical Register, 1808-9 (1812): in Fears in Solitude, &c., printed by Law and Gilbert, (?) 1812: in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[240:2] Only that film. In all parts of the kingdom these films are called strangers and supposed to portend the arrival of some absent friend. 4{o}, P. R.

[242:1] The date is omitted in 1829 and in 1834.

LINENOTES:

[Between 19-25]

With which I can hold commune. Idle thought! But still the living spirit in our frame, That loves not to behold a lifeless thing, Transfuses into all its own delights, Its own volition, sometimes with deep faith And sometimes with fantastic playfulness. Ah me! amus'd by no such curious toys Of the self-watching subtilizing mind, How often in my early school-boy days With most believing superstitious wish.

4{o}.

With which I can hold commune: haply hence, That still the living spirit in our frame, Which loves not to behold a lifeless thing, Transfuses into all things its own Will, And its own pleasures; sometimes with deep faith, And sometimes with a wilful playfulness That stealing pardon from our common sense Smiles, as self-scornful, to disarm the scorn For these wild reliques of our childish Thought, That flit about, oft go, and oft return Not uninvited. Ah there was a time, When oft amused by no such subtle toys Of the self-watching mind, a child at school, With most believing superstitious wish.

P. R.

[Between 20-4]

To which the living spirit in our frame, That loves not to behold a lifeless thing, Transfuses its own pleasures, its own will.

S. L. 1828.

[26] To watch the stranger there! and oft belike 4{o}, P. R.

[27] had] have P. R.

[32] wild] sweet S. L. (for sweet read wild. Errata, S. L., p. [xii]).

[45] deep] dead 4{o}, P. R., S. L. (for dead read deep. Errata, S. L., p. [xii]).

[46] Fill] Fill'd S. L. (for Fill'd read Fill. Errata, S. L., p. [xii]).

[48] thrills] fills 4{o}, P. R., S. L. (for fills read thrills. Errata, S. L., p. [xii]).

[67] redbreast] redbreasts 4{o}, P. R.

[69] the nigh] all the 4{o}.

[71] trances] traces S. L. (for traces read trances. Errata, S. L., p. [xii]).

[72-end]

Or whether the secret ministery of cold Shall hang them up in silent icicles, Quietly shining to the quiet moon, Like those, my babe! which ere tomorrow's warmth Have capp'd their sharp keen points with pendulous drops, Will catch thine eye, and with their novelty Suspend thy little soul; then make thee shout, And stretch and flutter from thy mother's arms As thou wouldst fly for very eagerness.

4{o}.



FRANCE: AN ODE[243:1]

I

Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause, Whose pathless march no mortal may controul! Ye Ocean-Waves! that, wheresoe'er ye roll, Yield homage only to eternal laws! Ye Woods! that listen to the night-birds singing, 5 Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined, Save when your own imperious branches swinging, Have made a solemn music of the wind! Where, like a man beloved of God, Through glooms, which never woodman trod, 10 How oft, pursuing fancies holy, My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound, Inspired, beyond the guess of folly, By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound! O ye loud Waves! and O ye Forests high! 15 And O ye Clouds that far above me soared! Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky! Yea, every thing that is and will be free! Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be, With what deep worship I have still adored 20 The spirit of divinest Liberty.

II

When France in wrath her giant-limbs upreared, And with that oath, which smote air, earth, and sea, Stamped her strong foot and said she would be free, Bear witness for me, how I hoped and feared! 25 With what a joy my lofty gratulation Unawed I sang, amid a slavish band: And when to whelm the disenchanted nation, Like fiends embattled by a wizard's wand, The Monarchs marched in evil day, 30 And Britain joined the dire array; Though dear her shores and circling ocean, Though many friendships, many youthful loves Had swoln the patriot emotion And flung a magic light o'er all her hills and groves; 35 Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance, And shame too long delayed and vain retreat! For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame; 40 But blessed the paeans of delivered France, And hung my head and wept at Britain's name.

III

'And what,' I said, 'though Blasphemy's loud scream With that sweet music of deliverance strove! Though all the fierce and drunken passions wove 45 A dance more wild than e'er was maniac's dream! Ye storms, that round the dawning East assembled, The Sun was rising, though ye hid his light!' And when, to soothe my soul, that hoped and trembled, The dissonance ceased, and all seemed calm and bright; 50 When France her front deep-scarr'd and gory Concealed with clustering wreaths of glory; When, insupportably advancing, Her arm made mockery of the warrior's ramp; While timid looks of fury glancing, 55 Domestic treason, crushed beneath her fatal stamp, Writhed like a wounded dragon in his gore; Then I reproached my fears that would not flee; 'And soon,' I said, 'shall Wisdom teach her lore In the low huts of them that toil and groan! 60 And, conquering by her happiness alone, Shall France compel the nations to be free, Till Love and Joy look round, and call the Earth their own.'

IV

Forgive me, Freedom! O forgive those dreams! I hear thy voice, I hear thy loud lament, 65 From bleak Helvetia's icy caverns sent— I hear thy groans upon her blood-stained streams! Heroes, that for your peaceful country perished, And ye that, fleeing, spot your mountain-snows With bleeding wounds; forgive me, that I cherished 70 One thought that ever blessed your cruel foes! To scatter rage, and traitorous guilt, Where Peace her jealous home had built; A patriot-race to disinherit Of all that made their stormy wilds so dear; 75 And with inexpiable spirit To taint the bloodless freedom of the mountaineer— O France, that mockest Heaven, adulterous, blind, And patriot only in pernicious toils! Are these thy boasts, Champion of human kind? 80 To mix with Kings in the low lust of sway, Yell in the hunt, and share the murderous prey; To insult the shrine of Liberty with spoils From freemen torn; to tempt and to betray?

V

The Sensual and the Dark rebel in vain, 85 Slaves by their own compulsion! In mad game They burst their manacles and wear the name Of Freedom, graven on a heavier chain! O Liberty! with profitless endeavour Have I pursued thee, many a weary hour; 90 But thou nor swell'st the victor's strain, nor ever Didst breathe thy soul in forms of human power. Alike from all, howe'er they praise thee, (Nor prayer, nor boastful name delays thee) Alike from Priestcraft's harpy minions, 95 And factious Blasphemy's obscener slaves, Thou speedest on thy subtle pinions, The guide of homeless winds, and playmate of the waves! And there I felt thee!—on that sea-cliff's verge, Whose pines, scarce travelled by the breeze above, 100 Had made one murmur with the distant surge! Yes, while I stood and gazed, my temples bare, And shot my being through earth, sea, and air, Possessing all things with intensest love, O Liberty! my spirit felt thee there. 105

February, 1798.

FOOTNOTES:

[243:1] First published in the Morning Post, April 16, 1798: included in quarto pamphlet published by J. Johnson, 1798: reprinted in Morning Post, Oct. 14, 1802: included in Poetical Register for 1808-9 (1812); in Fears in Solitude, &c., printed by Law and Gilbert, (?) 1812; in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. Lines 85, 98 are quoted from 'France, a Palinodia', in Biog. Lit., 1817, i. 195. To the first Morning Post version (1798) an editorial note was prefixed:—

ORIGINAL POETRY.

The following excellent Ode will be in unison with the feelings of every friend to Liberty and foe to Oppression; of all who, admiring the French Revolution, detest and deplore the conduct of France towards Switzerland. It is very satisfactory to find so zealous and steady an advocate for Freedom as Mr. COLERIDGE concur with us in condemning the conduct of France towards the Swiss Cantons. Indeed his concurrence is not singular; we know of no Friend to Liberty who is not of his opinion. What we most admire is the avowal of his sentiments, and public censure of the unprincipled and atrocious conduct of France. The Poem itself is written with great energy. The second, third, and fourth stanzas contain some of the most vigorous lines we have ever read. The lines in the fourth stanza:—

'To scatter rage and trait'rous guilt Where Peace her jealous home had built,'

to the end of the stanza are particularly expressive and beautiful.

To the second Morning Post version (1802) a note and Argument were prefixed:—

The following ODE was first published in this paper (in the beginning of the year 1798) in a less perfect state. The present state of France and Switzerland give it so peculiar an interest at the present time that we wished to re-publish it and accordingly have procured from the Author a corrected copy.

ARGUMENT.

'First Stanza. An invocation to those objects in Nature the contemplation of which had inspired the Poet with a devotional love of Liberty. Second Stanza. The exultation of the Poet at the commencement of the French Revolution, and his unqualified abhorrence of the Alliance against the Republic. Third Stanza. The blasphemies and horrors during the domination of the Terrorists regarded by the Poet as a transient storm, and as the natural consequence of the former despotism and of the foul superstition of Popery. Reason, indeed, began to suggest many apprehensions; yet still the Poet struggled to retain the hope that France would make conquests by no other means than by presenting to the observation of Europe a people more happy and better instructed than under other forms of Government. Fourth Stanza. Switzerland, and the Poet's recantation. Fifth Stanza. An address to Liberty, in which the Poet expresses his conviction that those feelings and that grand ideal of Freedom which the mind attains by its contemplation of its individual nature, and of the sublime surrounding objects (see Stanza the First) do not belong to men, as a society, nor can possibly be either gratified or realised, under any form of human government; but belong to the individual man, so far as he is pure, and inflamed with the love and adoration of God in Nature.'

LINENOTES:

Title] The Recantation: an Ode. By S. T. Coleridge. 1798.

[1] and] or 1802.

[2] Veering your pathless march without controul 1802.

[5] night-birds] night bird's 1798, 4{o}, 1802: night-birds' S. L., 1828, 1829.

[6] slope] steep 1798, 4{o}, 1802, P. R.

[12] way] path 1802.

[23] smote air, earth, and sea] smote earth, air, and sea 1798, 4{o}, P. R.: shook earth, air, and sea 1802.

[24] foot] feet 1798.

[26] lofty] eager 1802.

[27] sang] sung 1798, 4{o}, P. R.

[30] marched] mov'd 1802.

[34] the] that 1802.

[35] flung] spread 1802.

[41] But] I 1802.

[44] that sweet music] those sweet Pans 1802.

[46] e'er was] ever 1798, 4{o}, P. R.

[51] deep-scarr'd] deep-scar'd 1798, 4{o}, P. R., S. L.

[53] insupportably] irresistibly 1802.

[54] ramp] tramp 1828, 1829, 1834, 1852. [Text of 1834 is here corrected.]

[58] reproached] rebuk'd 1802.

[59] said] cried 1802.

[62] compel] persuade 1802.

[63] call the Earth] lo! the earth's 1802.

[64] those] these 4{o}, P. R.

[66] caverns] cavern 1834, 1852. [Text of 1834 is here corrected.]

[69] And ye that flying spot the [your 1802] mountain-snows 1798: And ye that fleeing spot the mountain-snows 4{o}, P. R.

[75] stormy] native 1802.

[77] taint] stain 1802.

[79] patriot] patient 1798, 1802.

[80] Was this thy boast 1802.

[81] Kings in the low lust] monarchs in the lust 1802.

[85-9] The fifth stanza, which alluded to the African Slave Trade as conducted by this Country, and to the present Ministry and their supporters, has been omitted, and would have been omitted without remark if the commencing lines of the sixth stanza had not referred to it.

VI

Shall I with these my patriot zeal combine? No, Afric, no! they stand before my ken Loath'd as th' Hyaenas, that in murky den Whine o'er their prey and mangle while they whine, Divinest Liberty! with vain endeavour

1798.

[87] burst] break 1802. and] to B. L., i. 194. name] name B. L.

[91] strain] pomp B. L.

[92] in] on 1802.

[95] Priestcraft's] priesthood's 4{o}, P. R.: superstition's B. L.

[97] subtle] cherub B. L.

[98]

To live amid the winds and move upon the waves

1798, 4{o}, P. R.

To live among the winds and brood upon the waves

1802.

[99] there] there 1798: then 4{o}, P. R. that] yon 1802.

[100] scarce] just 1802.

[102] Yes, as I stood and gazed my forehead bare 1802.

[104] with] by 1802.



THE OLD MAN OF THE ALPS[248:1]

Stranger! whose eyes a look of pity shew, Say, will you listen to a tale of woe? A tale in no unwonted horrors drest; But sweet is pity to an agd breast. This voice did falter with old age before; 5 Sad recollections make it falter more. Beside the torrent and beneath a wood, High in these Alps my summer cottage stood; One daughter still remain'd to cheer my way, The evening-star of life's declining day: 10 Duly she hied to fill her milking-pail, Ere shout of herdsmen rang from cliff or vale; When she return'd, before the summer shiel, On the fresh grass she spread the dairy meal; Just as the snowy peaks began to lose 15 In glittering silver lights their rosy hues. Singing in woods or bounding o'er the lawn, No blither creature hail'd the early dawn; And if I spoke of hearts by pain oppress'd. When every friend is gone to them that rest; 20 Or of old men that leave, when they expire, Daughters, that should have perish'd with their sire— Leave them to toil all day through paths unknown, And house at night behind some sheltering stone; Impatient of the thought, with lively cheer 25 She broke half-closed the tasteless tale severe. She play'd with fancies of a gayer hue, Enamour'd of the scenes her wishes drew; And oft she prattled with an eager tongue Of promised joys that would not loiter long, 30 Till with her tearless eyes so bright and fair, She seem'd to see them realis'd in air! In fancy oft, within some sunny dell, Where never wolf should howl or tempest yell, She built a little home of joy and rest, 35 And fill'd it with the friends whom she lov'd best: She named the inmates of her fancied cot, And gave to each his own peculiar lot; Which with our little herd abroad should roam, And which should tend the dairy's toil at home, 40 And now the hour approach'd which should restore Her lover from the wars, to part no more. Her whole frame fluttered with uneasy joy; I long'd myself to clasp the valiant boy; And though I strove to calm her eager mood, 45 It was my own sole thought in solitude. I told it to the Saints amid my hymns— For O! you know not, on an old man's limbs How thrillingly the pleasant sun-beams play, That shine upon his daughter's wedding-day. 50 I hoped, that those fierce tempests, soon to rave Unheard, unfelt, around my mountain grave, Not undelightfully would break her rest, While she lay pillow'd on her lover's breast; Or join'd his pious prayer for pilgrims driven 55 Out to the mercy of the winds of heaven. Yes! now the hour approach'd that should restore Her lover from the wars to part no more. Her thoughts were wild, her soul was in her eye, She wept and laugh'd as if she knew not why; 60 And she had made a song about the wars, And sang it to the sun and to the stars! But while she look'd and listen'd, stood and ran, And saw him plain in every distant man, By treachery stabbed, on NANSY'S murderous day, 65 A senseless corse th' expected husband lay. A wounded man, who met us in the wood, Heavily ask'd her where my cottage stood, And told us all: she cast her eyes around As if his words had been but empty sound. 70 Then look'd to Heav'n, like one that would deny That such a thing could be beneath the sky. Again he ask'd her if she knew my name, And instantly an anguish wrench'd her frame, And left her mind imperfect. No delight 75 Thenceforth she found in any cheerful sight, Not ev'n in those time-haunted wells and groves, Scenes of past joy, and birth-place of her loves. If to her spirit any sound was dear, 'Twas the deep moan that spoke the tempest near; 80 Or sighs which chasms of icy vales outbreathe, Sent from the dark, imprison'd floods beneath. She wander'd up the crag and down the slope, But not, as in her happy days of hope, To seek the churning-plant of sovereign power, 85 That grew in clefts and bore a scarlet flower! She roam'd, without a purpose, all alone, Thro' high grey vales unknowing and unknown.

Kind-hearted stranger! patiently you hear A tedious tale: I thank you for that tear. 90 May never other tears o'ercloud your eye, Than those which gentle Pity can supply! Did you not mark a towering convent hang, Where the huge rocks with sounds of torrents rang? Ev'n yet, methinks, its spiry turrets swim 95 Amid yon purple gloom ascending dim! For thither oft would my poor child repair, To ease her soul by penitence and prayer. I knew that peace at good men's prayers returns Home to the contrite heart of him that mourns, 100 And check'd her not; and often there she found A timely pallet when the evening frown'd. And there I trusted that my child would light On shelter and on food, one dreadful night, When there was uproar in the element, 105 And she was absent. To my rest I went: I thought her safe, yet often did I wake And felt my very heart within me ache. No daughter near me, at this very door, Next morn I listen'd to the dying roar. 110 Above, below, the prowling vulture wail'd, And down the cliffs the heavy vapour sail'd. Up by the wide-spread waves in fury torn, Homestalls and pines along the vale were borne. The Dalesmen in thick crowds appear'd below 115 Clearing the road, o'erwhelm'd with hills of snow. At times to the proud gust's ascending swell, A pack of blood-hounds flung their doleful yell: For after nights of storm, that dismal train The pious convent sends, with hope humane, 120 To find some out-stretch'd man—perchance to save, Or give, at least, that last good gift, a grave! But now a gathering crowd did I survey, That slowly up the pasture bent their way; Nor could I doubt but that their care had found 125 Some pilgrim in th' unchannel'd torrent drown'd. And down the lawn I hasten'd to implore That they would bring the body to my door; But soon exclaim'd a boy, who ran before, 'Thrown by the last night's waters from their bed, 130 Your daughter has been found, and she is dead!'

The old man paused—May he who, sternly just, Lays at his will his creatures in the dust; Some ere the earliest buds of hope be blown, And some, when every bloom of joy is flown; 135 May he the parent to his child restore In that unchanging realm, where Love reigns evermore!

March 8, 1798. NICIAS ERYTHRAEUS.

FOOTNOTES:

[248:1] First published in the Morning Post, March 8, 1798: first collected P. and D. W., 1877-80: not included in P. W., 1893. Coleridge affixed the signature Nicias Erythraeus to these lines and to Lewti, which was published in the Morning Post five weeks later, April 13, 1798. For a biographical notice of Janus Nicius Erythraeus (Giovanni Vittorio d'Rossi, 1577-1647) by the late Richard Garnett, see Literature, October 22, 1898.



TO A YOUNG LADY[252:1]

[MISS LAVINIA POOLE]

ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER

Why need I say, Louisa dear! How glad I am to see you here, A lovely convalescent; Risen from the bed of pain and fear, And feverish heat incessant. 5

The sunny showers, the dappled sky, The little birds that warble high, Their vernal loves commencing, Will better welcome you than I With their sweet influencing. 10

Believe me, while in bed you lay, Your danger taught us all to pray: You made us grow devouter! Each eye looked up and seemed to say, How can we do without her? 15

Besides, what vexed us worse, we knew, They have no need of such as you In the place where you were going: This World has angels all too few, And Heaven is overflowing! 20

March 31, 1798.

FOOTNOTES:

[252:1] First published in the Morning Post, Dec. 9, 1799, included in the Annual Anthology, 1800, in Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

LINENOTES:

Title] To a Young Lady, on Her First Appearance After A Dangerous Illness. Written in the Spring of 1799 [1799 must be a slip for 1798]. M. P., An. Anth.

[1] Louisa] Ophelia M. P., An. Anth.

[6-7]

The breezy air, the sun, the sky, The little birds that sing on high

M. P., An. Anth.

[12] all] how M. P., An. Anth.

[13] grow] all M. P., An. Anth.

[16] what] which M. P., An. Anth.

[17] have] had M. P., An. Anth.

[19] This] The M. P.

[Below 20] Laberius M. P., An. Anth.



LEWTI[253:1]

OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHAUNT

At midnight by the stream I roved, To forget the form I loved. Image of Lewti! from my mind Depart; for Lewti is not kind. The Moon was high, the moonlight gleam 5 And the shadow of a star Heaved upon Tamaha's stream; But the rock shone brighter far, The rock half sheltered from my view By pendent boughs of tressy yew.— 10 So shines my Lewti's forehead fair, Gleaming through her sable hair. Image of Lewti! from my mind Depart; for Lewti is not kind.

I saw a cloud of palest hue, 15 Onward to the moon it passed; Still brighter and more bright it grew, With floating colours not a few, Till it reached the moon at last: Then the cloud was wholly bright, 20 With a rich and amber light! And so with many a hope I seek, And with such joy I find my Lewti; And even so my pale wan cheek Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty! 25 Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind, If Lewti never will be kind.

The little cloud—it floats away Away it goes; away so soon! Alas! it has no power to stay: 30 Its hues are dim, its hues are grey— Away it passes from the moon! How mournfully it seems to fly, Ever fading more and more, To joyless regions of the sky— 35 And now 'tis whiter than before! As white as my poor cheek will be, When, Lewti! on my couch I lie, A dying man for love of thee. Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind— 40 And yet, thou didst not look unkind.

I saw a vapour in the sky, Thin, and white, and very high; I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud: Perhaps the breezes that can fly 45 Now below and now above, Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud[255:1] Of Lady fair—that died for love. For maids, as well as youths, have perished From fruitless love too fondly cherished. 50 Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind— For Lewti never will be kind.

Hush! my heedless feet from under Slip the crumbling banks for ever: Like echoes to a distant thunder, 55 They plunge into the gentle river. The river-swans have heard my tread. And startle from their reedy bed. O beauteous birds! methinks ye measure Your movements to some heavenly tune! 60 O beauteous birds! 'tis such a pleasure To see you move beneath the moon, I would it were your true delight To sleep by day and wake all night.

I know the place where Lewti lies, 65 When silent night has closed her eyes: It is a breezy jasmine-bower, The nightingale sings o'er her head: Voice of the Night! had I the power That leafy labyrinth to thread, 70 And creep, like thee, with soundless tread, I then might view her bosom white Heaving lovely to my sight, As these two swans together heave On the gently-swelling wave. 75

Oh! that she saw me in a dream, And dreamt that I had died for care; All pale and wasted I would seem, Yet fair withal, as spirits are! I'd die indeed, if I might see 80 Her bosom heave, and heave for me! Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind! To-morrow Lewti may be kind.

1798.

FOOTNOTES:

[253:1] First published in the Morning Post (under the signature Nicias Erythraeus), April 18, 1798: included in the Annual Anthology, 1800; Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. For MS. versions vide Appendices. 'Lewti was to have been included in the Lyrical Ballads of 1798, but at the last moment the sheets containing it were cancelled and The Nightingale substituted.' (Note to reprint of L. B. (1898), edited by T. Hutchinson.) A copy which belonged to Southey, with the new Table of Contents and The Nightingale bound up with the text as at first printed, is in the British Museum. Another copy is extant which contains the first Table of Contents only, and Lewti without the addition of The Nightingale. In the M. P. the following note accompanies the poem:—'It is not amongst the least pleasing of our recollections, that we have been the means of gratifying the public taste with some exquisite pieces of Original Poetry. For many of them we have been indebted to the author of the Circassian's Love Chant. Amidst images of war and woe, amidst scenes of carnage and horror of devastation and dismay, it may afford the mind a temporary relief to wander to the magic haunts of the Muses, to bowers and fountains which the despoiling powers of war have never visited, and where the lover pours forth his complaint, or receives the recompense of his constancy. The whole of the subsequent Love Chant is in a warm and impassioned strain. The fifth and last stanzas are, we think, the best.'

[255:1] This image was borrowed by Miss Bailey (sic) in her Basil as the dates of the poems prove. MS. Note by S. T. C.

LINENOTES:

Title] Lewti; or the Circassian's Love Chant M. P.

[Between lines 14-15]

I saw the white waves, o'er and o'er, Break against the distant shore. All at once upon the sight, All at once they broke in light; I heard no murmur of their roar, Nor ever I beheld them flowing, Neither coming, neither going; But only saw them o'er and o'er, Break against the curved shore: Now disappearing from the sight, Now twinkling regular and white, And LEWTI'S smiling mouth can shew As white and regular a row. Nay, treach'rous image from my mind Depart; for LEWTI is not kind.

M. P.

[52] For] Tho' M. P.

[Between lines 52-3]

This hand should make his life-blood flow, That ever scorn'd my LEWTI so.

I cannot chuse but fix my sight On that small vapour, thin and white! So thin it scarcely, I protest, Bedims the star that shines behind it! And pity dwells in LEWTI'S breast Alas! if I knew how to find it. And O! how sweet it were, I wist, To see my LEWTI'S eyes to-morrow Shine brightly thro' as thin a mist Of pity and repentant sorrow! Nay treach'rous image! leave my mind— Ah, LEWTI! why art thou unkind?

[53] Hush!] Slush! Sibylline Leaves (Errata, S. L., p. [xi], for Slush r. Hush).

[69-71]

Had I the enviable power To creep unseen with noiseless tread Then should I view

M. P., An. Anth.

O beating heart had I the power.

MS. Corr. An. Anth. by S. T. C.

[73] my] the M. P., An. Anth.

[Below 83] Signed Nicias Erythraeus. M. P.



FEARS IN SOLITUDE[256:1]

WRITTEN IN APRIL 1798, DURING THE ALARM OF AN INVASION

A green and silent spot, amid the hills, A small and silent dell! O'er stiller place No singing sky-lark ever poised himself. The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope, Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on, 5 All golden with the never-bloomless furze, Which now blooms most profusely: but the dell, Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax, When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve, 10 The level sunshine glimmers with green light. Oh! 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook! Which all, methinks, would love; but chiefly he, The humble man, who, in his youthful years, Knew just so much of folly, as had made 15 His early manhood more securely wise! Here he might lie on fern or withered heath, While from the singing lark (that sings unseen The minstrelsy that solitude loves best), And from the sun, and from the breezy air, 20 Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame; And he, with many feelings, many thoughts, Made up a meditative joy, and found Religious meanings in the forms of Nature! And so, his senses gradually wrapt 25 In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds, And dreaming hears thee still, O singing lark, That singest like an angel in the clouds!

My God! it is a melancholy thing For such a man, who would full fain preserve 30 His soul in calmness, yet perforce must feel For all his human brethren—O my God! It weighs upon the heart, that he must think What uproar and what strife may now be stirring This way or that way o'er these silent hills— 35 Invasion, and the thunder and the shout, And all the crash of onset; fear and rage, And undetermined conflict—even now, Even now, perchance, and in his native isle: Carnage and groans beneath this blessed sun! 40 We have offended, Oh! my countrymen! We have offended very grievously, And been most tyrannous. From east to west A groan of accusation pierces Heaven! The wretched plead against us; multitudes 45 Countless and vehement, the sons of God, Our brethren! Like a cloud that travels on. Steamed up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence, Even so, my countrymen! have we gone forth And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs, 50 And, deadlier far, our vices, whose deep taint With slow perdition murders the whole man, His body and his soul! Meanwhile, at home, All individual dignity and power Engulfed in Courts, Committees, Institutions, 55 Associations and Societies, A vain, speech-mouthing, speech-reporting Guild, One Benefit-Club for mutual flattery, We have drunk up, demure as at a grace, Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth; 60 Contemptuous of all honourable rule, Yet bartering freedom and the poor man's life For gold, as at a market! The sweet words Of Christian promise, words that even yet Might stem destruction, were they wisely preached, 65 Are muttered o'er by men, whose tones proclaim How flat and wearisome they feel their trade: Rank scoffers some, but most too indolent To deem them falsehoods or to know their truth. Oh! blasphemous! the Book of Life is made 70 A superstitious instrument, on which We gabble o'er the oaths we mean to break; For all must swear—all and in every place, College and wharf, council and justice-court; All, all must swear, the briber and the bribed, 75 Merchant and lawyer, senator and priest, The rich, the poor, the old man and the young; All, all make up one scheme of perjury, That faith doth reel; the very name of God Sounds like a juggler's charm; and, bold with joy, 80 Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place, (Portentous sight!) the owlet Atheism, Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon, Drops his blue-fringd lids, and holds them close, And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven, 85 Cries out, 'Where is it?'

Thankless too for peace, (Peace long preserved by fleets and perilous seas) Secure from actual warfare, we have loved To swell the war-whoop, passionate for war! Alas! for ages ignorant of all 90 Its ghastlier workings, (famine or blue plague, Battle, or siege, or flight through wintry snows,) We, this whole people, have been clamorous For war and bloodshed; animating sports, The which we pay for as a thing to talk of, 95 Spectators and not combatants! No guess Anticipative of a wrong unfelt, No speculation on contingency, However dim and vague, too vague and dim To yield a justifying cause; and forth, 100 (Stuffed out with big preamble, holy names. And adjurations of the God in Heaven.) We send our mandates for the certain death Of thousands and ten thousands! Boys and girls, And women, that would groan to see a child 105 Pull off an insect's leg, all read of war, The best amusement for our morning meal! The poor wretch, who has learnt his only prayers From curses, who knows scarcely words enough To ask a blessing from his Heavenly Father, 110 Becomes a fluent phraseman, absolute And technical in victories and defeats, And all our dainty terms for fratricide; Terms which we trundle smoothly o'er our tongues Like mere abstractions, empty sounds to which 115 We join no feeling and attach no form! As if the soldier died without a wound; As if the fibres of this godlike frame Were gored without a pang; as if the wretch, Who fell in battle, doing bloody deeds, 120 Passed off to Heaven, translated and not killed; As though he had no wife to pine for him, No God to judge him! Therefore, evil days Are coming on us, O my countrymen! And what if all-avenging Providence, 125 Strong and retributive, should make us know The meaning of our words, force us to feel The desolation and the agony Of our fierce doings?

Spare us yet awhile, Father and God! O! spare us yet awhile! 130 Oh! let not English women drag their flight Fainting beneath the burthen of their babes, Of the sweet infants, that but yesterday Laughed at the breast! Sons, brothers, husbands, all Who ever gazed with fondness on the forms 135 Which grew up with you round the same fire-side, And all who ever heard the sabbath-bells Without the infidel's scorn, make yourselves pure! Stand forth! be men! repel an impious foe, Impious and false, a light yet cruel race, 140 Who laugh away all virtue, mingling mirth With deeds of murder; and still promising Freedom, themselves too sensual to be free, Poison life's amities, and cheat the heart Of faith and quiet hope, and all that soothes, 145 And all that lifts the spirit! Stand we forth; Render them back upon the insulted ocean, And let them toss as idly on its waves As the vile sea-weed, which some mountain-blast Swept from our shores! And oh! may we return 150 Not with a drunken triumph, but with fear, Repenting of the wrongs with which we stung So fierce a foe to frenzy!

I have told, O Britons! O my brethren! I have told Most bitter truth, but without bitterness. 155 Nor deem my zeal or factious or mistimed; For never can true courage dwell with them, Who, playing tricks with conscience, dare not look At their own vices. We have been too long Dupes of a deep delusion! Some, belike, 160 Groaning with restless enmity, expect All change from change of constituted power; As if a Government had been a robe, On which our vice and wretchedness were tagged Like fancy-points and fringes, with the robe 165 Pulled off at pleasure. Fondly these attach A radical causation to a few Poor drudges of chastising Providence, Who borrow all their hues and qualities From our own folly and rank wickedness, 170 Which gave them birth and nursed them. Others, meanwhile, Dote with a mad idolatry; and all Who will not fall before their images, And yield them worship, they are enemies Even of their country!

Such have I been deemed.— 175 But, O dear Britain! O my Mother Isle! Needs must thou prove a name most dear and holy To me, a son, a brother, and a friend, A husband, and a father! who revere All bonds of natural love, and find them all 180 Within the limits of thy rocky shores. O native Britain! O my Mother Isle! How shouldst thou prove aught else but dear and holy To me, who from thy lakes and mountain-hills, Thy clouds, thy quiet dales, thy rocks and seas, 185 Have drunk in all my intellectual life, All sweet sensations, all ennobling thoughts, All adoration of the God in nature, All lovely and all honourable things. Whatever makes this mortal spirit feel 190 The joy and greatness of its future being? There lives nor form nor feeling in my soul Unborrowed from my country! O divine And beauteous island! thou hast been my sole And most magnificent temple, in the which 195 I walk with awe, and sing my stately songs, Loving the God that made me!—

May my fears, My filial fears, be vain! and may the vaunts And menace of the vengeful enemy Pass like the gust, that roared and died away 200 In the distant tree: which heard, and only heard In this low dell, bowed not the delicate grass.

But now the gentle dew-fall sends abroad The fruit-like perfume of the golden furze: The light has left the summit of the hill, 205 Though still a sunny gleam lies beautiful, Aslant the ivied beacon. Now farewell, Farewell, awhile, O soft and silent spot! On the green sheep-track, up the heathy hill, Homeward I wind my way; and lo! recalled 210 From bodings that have well-nigh wearied me, I find myself upon the brow, and pause Startled! And after lonely sojourning In such a quiet and surrounded nook, This burst of prospect, here the shadowy main, 215 Dim-tinted, there the mighty majesty Of that huge amphitheatre of rich And elmy fields, seems like society— Conversing with the mind, and giving it A livelier impulse and a dance of thought! 220 And now, beloved Stowey! I behold Thy church-tower, and, methinks, the four huge elms Clustering, which mark the mansion of my friend; And close behind them, hidden from my view, Is my own lowly cottage, where my babe 225 And my babe's mother dwell in peace! With light And quickened footsteps thitherward I tend, Remembering thee, O green and silent dell! And grateful, that by nature's quietness And solitary musings, all my heart 230 Is softened, and made worthy to indulge Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind.

NETHER STOWEY, April 20, 1798.

FOOTNOTES:

[256:1] First published in a quarto pamphlet 'printed by J. Johnson in S. Paul's Churchyard, 1798': included in Poetical Register, 1808-9 (1812), and, with the same text, in an octavo pamphlet printed by Law and Gilbert in (?) 1812: in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. Lines 129-97 were reprinted in the Morning Post, Oct. 14, 1802. They follow the reprint of France: an Ode, and are thus prefaced:—'The following extracts are made from a Poem by the same author, written in April 1798 during the alarm respecting the threatened invasion. They were included in The Friend, No. II (June 8, 1809), as Fears of Solitude.' An autograph MS. (in the possession of Professor Dowden), undated but initialled S. T. C., is subscribed as follows:—'N. B. The above is perhaps not Poetry,—but rather a sort of middle thing between Poetry and Oratory—sermoni propriora.—Some parts are, I am conscious, too tame even for animated prose.' An autograph MS. dated (as below 232) is in the possession of Mr. Gordon Wordsworth.

LINENOTES:

Title] Fears &c. Written, April 1798, during the Alarms of an Invasion MS. W., 4{o}: Fears &c. Written April 1798, &c. P. R.

[19] that] which 4{o}, P. R.

[33]

It is indeed a melancholy thing And weighs upon the heart

4{o}, P. R., S. L.

[40] groans] screams 4{o}, P. R.

[43] And have been tyrannous 4{o}, P. R.

[44-60]

The groan of accusation pleads against us.

* * * * *

Desunt aliqua . . . Meanwhile at home We have been drinking with a riotous thirst Pollutions, &c.

MS. D.

[53-9]

Meanwhile at home We have been drinking with a riotous thirst. Pollutions from the brimming cup of wealth A selfish, lewd, effeminated race.

MS. W., 4{o}, P. R.

[Lines 54-8 of the text were added in Sibylline Leaves, 1817.]

[69] know] know MS. W., 4{o}, P. R.

[110] from] of 4{o}, P. R.

[112] defeats] deceit S. L. [Probably a misprint].

[121] translated] translated 4{o}, P. R.

[131] drag] speed 1809.

[133] that] who 1802, 1809.

[134] Laugh'd at the bosom! Husbands, fathers, all 1802: Smil'd at the bosom! Husbands, Brothers, all The Friend, 1809.

[136] Which] That 1802.

[138] pure] strong 1809.

[139] foe] race 1809.

[138-9]

Without the Infidel's scorn, stand forth, be men, Make yourselves strong, repel an impious foe

1802.

[140] yet] and MS. W.

[141] Who] That 4{o}, P. R., 1802, 1809.

[146] we] ye 1809.

[148] toss] float 1809.

[149] sea-weed] sea-weeds MS. W., 4{o}, 1802. some] the 1809.

[150] Swept] Sweeps 1809.

[151] fear] awe 1802.

[151-3]

Not in a drunken triumph, but with awe Repentant of the wrongs, with which we stung So fierce a race to Frenzy.

1809.

[154] O men of England! Brothers! I have told 1809.

[155] truth] truths 1802, 1809.

[156] factious] factitious 1809.

[157] courage] freedom 1802.

[159-61] At their own vices. Fondly some expect [We have been . . . enmity om.] 1802.

[161-4]

Restless in enmity have thought all change Involv'd in change of constituted power. As if a Government were but a robe On which our vice and wretchedness were sewn.

1809.

[162] constituted] delegated 1802.

[163] had been] were but 1809.

[163-75]

As if a government were but a robe To which our crimes and miseries were affix'd, Like fringe, or epaulet, and with the robe Pull'd off at pleasure. Others, the meantime, Doat with a mad idolatry, and all Who will not bow their heads, and close their eyes, And worship blindly—these are enemies Even of their country. Such have they deemed me.

1802.

[166-71] Fondly . . . nursed them om. 1809.

[171] nursed] nurse 4{o}, S. L. meanwhile] meantime 1809.

[175] Such have I been deemed 1809.

[177] prove] be 1802, 1809.

[179] father] parent 1809.

[180] All natural bonds of 1802.

[181] limits] circle 1802, 1809.

[183] couldst thou be 1802: shouldst thou be 1809.

[184-5]

To me who from thy brooks and mountain-hills, Thy quiet fields, thy clouds, thy rocks, thy seas

1802.

To me who from thy seas and rocky shores Thy quiet fields thy streams and wooded hills

1809.

[207] Aslant the ivied] On the long-ivied MS. W., 4{o}.

[214] nook] scene MS. W., 4{o}, P. R.



THE NIGHTINGALE[264:1]

A CONVERSATION POEM, APRIL, 1798

No cloud, no relique of the sunken day Distinguishes the West, no long thin slip Of sullen light, no obscure trembling hues. Come, we will rest on this old mossy bridge! You see the glimmer of the stream beneath, 5 But hear no murmuring: it flows silently, O'er its soft bed of verdure. All is still, A balmy night! and though the stars be dim, Yet let us think upon the vernal showers That gladden the green earth, and we shall find 10 A pleasure in the dimness of the stars. And hark! the Nightingale begins its song, 'Most musical, most melancholy' bird![264:2] A melancholy bird? Oh! idle thought! In Nature there is nothing melancholy. 15 But some night-wandering man whose heart was pierced With the remembrance of a grievous wrong, Or slow distemper, or neglected love, (And so, poor wretch! filled all things with himself, And made all gentle sounds tell back the tale 20 Of his own sorrow) he, and such as he, First named these notes a melancholy strain. And many a poet echoes the conceit; Poet who hath been building up the rhyme When he had better far have stretched his limbs 25 Beside a brook in mossy forest-dell, By sun or moon-light, to the influxes Of shapes and sounds and shifting elements Surrendering his whole spirit, of his song And of his fame forgetful! so his fame 30 Should share in Nature's immortality, A venerable thing! and so his song Should make all Nature lovelier, and itself Be loved like Nature! But 'twill not be so; And youths and maidens most poetical, 35 Who lose the deepening twilights of the spring In ball-rooms and hot theatres, they still Full of meek sympathy must heave their sighs O'er Philomela's pity-pleading strains.