My Friend, and thou, our Sister! we have learnt 40 A different lore: we may not thus profane Nature's sweet voices, always full of love And joyance! 'Tis the merry Nightingale That crowds, and hurries, and precipitates With fast thick warble his delicious notes, 45 As he were fearful that an April night Would be too short for him to utter forth His love-chant, and disburthen his full soul Of all its music!

And I know a grove Of large extent, hard by a castle huge, 50 Which the great lord inhabits not; and so This grove is wild with tangling underwood, And the trim walks are broken up, and grass, Thin grass and king-cups grow within the paths. But never elsewhere in one place I knew 55 So many nightingales; and far and near, In wood and thicket, over the wide grove, They answer and provoke each other's song, With skirmish and capricious passagings, And murmurs musical and swift jug jug, 60 And one low piping sound more sweet than all— Stirring the air with such a harmony, That should you close your eyes, you might almost Forget it was not day! On moonlight bushes, Whose dewy leaflets are but half-disclosed. 65 You may perchance behold them on the twigs, Their bright, bright eyes, their eyes both bright and full, Glistening, while many a glow-worm in the shade Lights up her love-torch.

A most gentle Maid, Who dwelleth in her hospitable home 70 Hard by the castle, and at latest eve (Even like a Lady vowed and dedicate To something more than Nature in the grove) Glides through the pathways; she knows all their notes, That gentle Maid! and oft, a moment's space, 75 What time the moon was lost behind a cloud, Hath heard a pause of silence; till the moon Emerging, hath awakened earth and sky With one sensation, and those wakeful birds Have all burst forth in choral minstrelsy, 80 As if some sudden gale had swept at once A hundred airy harps! And she hath watched Many a nightingale perch giddily On blossomy twig still swinging from the breeze, And to that motion tune his wanton song 85 Like tipsy Joy that reels with tossing head.

Farewell, O Warbler! till to-morrow eve, And you, my friends! farewell, a short farewell! We have been loitering long and pleasantly, And now for our dear homes.—That strain again! 90 Full fain it would delay me! My dear babe, Who, capable of no articulate sound, Mars all things with his imitative lisp, How he would place his hand beside his ear, His little hand, the small forefinger up, 95 And bid us listen! And I deem it wise To make him Nature's play-mate. He knows well The evening-star; and once, when he awoke In most distressful mood (some inward pain Had made up that strange thing, an infant's dream—) 100 I hurried with him to our orchard-plot, And he beheld the moon, and, hushed at once, Suspends his sobs, and laughs most silently, While his fair eyes, that swam with undropped tears, Did glitter in the yellow moon-beam! Well!— 105 It is a father's tale: But if that Heaven Should give me life, his childhood shall grow up Familiar with these songs, that with the night He may associate joy.—Once more, farewell, Sweet Nightingale! once more, my friends! farewell. 110

1798.

FOOTNOTES:

[264:1] First published in Lyrical Ballads, 1798, reprinted in Lyrical Ballads, 1800, 1802, and 1805: included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[264:2] 'Most musical, most melancholy.' This passage in Milton possesses an excellence far superior to that of mere description; it is spoken in the character of the melancholy Man, and has therefore a dramatic propriety. The Author makes this remark, to rescue himself from the charge of having alluded with levity to a line in Milton; a charge than which none could be more painful to him, except perhaps that of having ridiculed his Bible. Footnote to l. 13 L. B. 1798, L. B. 1800, S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829. In 1834 the footnote ends with the word 'Milton', the last sentence being omitted.

LINENOTES:

Note. In the Table of Contents of 1828 and 1829 'The Nightingale' is omitted.

Title] The Nightingale; a Conversational Poem, written in April, 1798 L. B. 1798: The Nightingale, written in April, 1798 L. B. 1800: The Nightingale A Conversation Poem, written in April, 1798 S. L., 1828, 1829.

[21] sorrow] sorrows L. B. 1798, 1800.

[40] My Friend, and my Friend's sister L. B. 1798, 1800.

[58] song] songs L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L.

[61] And one, low piping, sounds more sweet than all—S. L. 1817: (punctuate thus, reading Sound for sounds:—And one low piping Sound more sweet than all—Errata, S. L., p. [xii]).

[62] a] an all editions to 1884.

[64-9] On moonlight . . . her love-torch om. L. B. 1800.

[79] those] these S. L. 1817.

[81] As if one quick and sudden gale had swept L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L. 1817.

[82] A] An all editions to 1834.

[84] blossomy] blosmy L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L. 1817.

[102] beheld] beholds L. B. 1798, 1800.



THE THREE GRAVES[267:1]

A FRAGMENT OF A SEXTON'S TALE

'The Author has published the following humble fragment, encouraged by the decisive recommendation of more than one of our most celebrated living Poets. The language was intended to be dramatic; that is, suited to the narrator; and the metre corresponds to the homeliness of the diction. It is therefore presented as the fragment, not of a Poem, but of a common Ballad-tale.[268:1] Whether this is sufficient to justify the adoption of such a style, in any metrical composition not professedly ludicrous, the Author is himself in some doubt. At all events, it is not presented as poetry, and it is in no way connected with the Author's judgment concerning poetic diction. Its merits, if any, are exclusively psychological. The story which must be supposed to have been narrated in the first and second parts is as follows:—

'Edward, a young farmer, meets at the house of Ellen her bosom-friend Mary, and commences an acquaintance, which ends in a mutual attachment. With her consent, and by the advice of their common friend Ellen, he announces his hopes and intentions to Mary's mother, a widow-woman bordering on her fortieth year, and from constant health, the possession of a competent property, and from having had no other children but Mary and another daughter (the father died in their infancy), retaining for the greater part her personal attractions and comeliness of appearance; but a woman of low education and violent temper. The answer which she at once returned to Edward's application was remarkable—"Well, Edward! you are a handsome young fellow, and you shall have my daughter." From this time all their wooing passed under the mother's eye; and, in fine, she became herself enamoured of her future son-in-law, and practised every art, both of endearment and of calumny, to transfer his affections from her daughter to herself. (The outlines of the Tale are positive facts, and of no very distant date, though the author has purposely altered the names and the scene of action, as well as invented the characters of the parties and the detail of the incidents.) Edward, however, though perplexed by her strange detractions from her daughter's good qualities, yet in the innocence of his own heart still mistook[268:2] her increasing fondness for motherly affection; she at length, overcome by her miserable passion, after much abuse of Mary's temper and moral tendencies, exclaimed with violent emotion—"O Edward! indeed, indeed, she is not fit for you—she has not a heart to love you as you deserve. It is I that love you! Marry me, Edward! and I will this very day settle all my property on you." The Lover's eyes were now opened; and thus taken by surprise, whether from the effect of the horror which he felt, acting as it were hysterically on his nervous system, or that at the first moment he lost the sense of the guilt of the proposal in the feeling of its strangeness and absurdity, he flung her from him and burst into a fit of laughter. Irritated by this almost to frenzy, the woman fell on her knees, and in a loud voice that approached to a scream, she prayed for a curse both on him and on her own child. Mary happened to be in the room directly above them, heard Edward's laugh, and her mother's blasphemous prayer, and fainted away. He, hearing the fall, ran upstairs, and taking her in his arms, carried her off to Ellen's home; and after some fruitless attempts on her part toward a reconciliation with her mother, she was married to him.—And here the third part of the Tale begins.

'I was not led to choose this story from any partiality to tragic, much less to monstrous events (though at the time that I composed the verses, somewhat more than twelve years ago, I was less averse to such subjects than at present), but from finding in it a striking proof of the possible effect on the imagination, from an idea violently and suddenly impressed on it. I had been reading Bryan Edwards's account of the effects of the Oby witchcraft on the Negroes in the West Indies, and Hearne's deeply interesting anecdotes of similar workings on the imagination of the Copper Indians (those of my readers who have it in their power will be well repaid for the trouble of referring to those works for the passages alluded to); and I conceived the design of shewing that instances of this kind are not peculiar to savage or barbarous tribes, and of illustrating the mode in which the mind is affected in these cases, and the progress and symptoms of the morbid action on the fancy from the beginning.

'The Tale is supposed to be narrated by an old Sexton, in a country church-yard, to a traveller whose curiosity had been awakened by the appearance of three graves, close by each other, to two only of which there were grave-stones. On the first of these was the name, and dates, as usual: on the second, no name, but only a date, and the words, "The Mercy of God is infinite.[269:1]"' S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[PART I—FROM MS.]

Beneath this thorn when I was young, This thorn that blooms so sweet, We loved to stretch our lazy limbs In summer's noon-tide heat.

And hither too the old man came, 5 The maiden and her feer, 'Then tell me, Sexton, tell me why The toad has harbour here.

'The Thorn is neither dry nor dead, But still it blossoms sweet; 10 Then tell me why all round its roots The dock and nettle meet.

'Why here the hemlock, &c. [sic in MS.]

'Why these three graves all side by side, Beneath the flow'ry thorn, 15 Stretch out so green and dark a length, By any foot unworn.'

There, there a ruthless mother lies Beneath the flowery thorn; And there a barren wife is laid, 20 And there a maid forlorn.

The barren wife and maid forlorn Did love each other dear; The ruthless mother wrought the woe, And cost them many a tear. 25

Fair Ellen was of serious mind, Her temper mild and even, And Mary, graceful as the fir That points the spire to heaven.

Young Edward he to Mary said, 30 'I would you were my bride,' And she was scarlet as he spoke, And turned her face to hide.

'You know my mother she is rich, And you have little gear; 35 And go and if she say not Nay, Then I will be your fere.'

Young Edward to the mother went. To him the mother said: 'In truth you are a comely man; 40 You shall my daughter wed.'

[271:1][In Mary's joy fair Eleanor Did bear a sister's part; For why, though not akin in blood, They sisters were in heart.] 45

Small need to tell to any man That ever shed a tear What passed within the lover's heart The happy day so near.

The mother, more than mothers use, 50 Rejoiced when they were by; And all the 'course of wooing' passed[271:2] Beneath the mother's eye.

And here within the flowering thorn How deep they drank of joy: 55 The mother fed upon the sight, Nor . . . [sic in MS.]

[PART II—FROM MS.][271:3]

And now the wedding day was fix'd, The wedding-ring was bought; The wedding-cake with her own hand 60 The ruthless mother brought.

'And when to-morrow's sun shines forth The maid shall be a bride'; Thus Edward to the mother spake While she sate by his side. 65

Alone they sate within the bower: The mother's colour fled, For Mary's foot was heard above— She decked the bridal bed.

And when her foot was on the stairs 70 To meet her at the door, With steady step the mother rose, And silent left the bower.

She stood, her back against the door, And when her child drew near— 75 'Away! away!' the mother cried, 'Ye shall not enter here.

'Would ye come here, ye maiden vile, And rob me of my mate?' And on her child the mother scowled 80 A deadly leer of hate.

Fast rooted to the spot, you guess, The wretched maiden stood, As pale as any ghost of night That wanteth flesh and blood. 85

She did not groan, she did not fall, She did not shed a tear, Nor did she cry, 'Oh! mother, why May I not enter here?'

But wildly up the stairs she ran, 90 As if her sense was fled, And then her trembling limbs she threw Upon the bridal bed.

The mother she to Edward went Where he sate in the bower, 95 And said, 'That woman is not fit To be your paramour.

'She is my child—it makes my heart With grief and trouble swell; I rue the hour that gave her birth, 100 For never worse befel.

'For she is fierce and she is proud, And of an envious mind; A wily hypocrite she is, And giddy as the wind. 105

'And if you go to church with her, You'll rue the bitter smart; For she will wrong your marriage-bed, And she will break your heart.

'Oh God, to think that I have shared 110 Her deadly sin so long; She is my child, and therefore I As mother held my tongue.

'She is my child, I've risked for her My living soul's estate: 115 I cannot say my daily prayers, The burthen is so great.

'And she would scatter gold about Until her back was bare; And should you swing for lust of hers 120 In truth she'd little care.'

Then in a softer tone she said, And took him by the hand: 'Sweet Edward, for one kiss of your's I'd give my house and land. 125

'And if you'll go to church with me, And take me for your bride, I'll make you heir of all I have— Nothing shall be denied.'

Then Edward started from his seat, 130 And he laughed loud and long— 'In truth, good mother, you are mad, Or drunk with liquor strong.'

To him no word the mother said, But on her knees she fell, 135 And fetched her breath while thrice your hand Might toll the passing-bell.

'Thou daughter now above my head, Whom in my womb I bore, May every drop of thy heart's blood 140 Be curst for ever more.

'And cursd be the hour when first I heard thee wawl and cry; And in the Church-yard cursd be The grave where thou shalt lie!' 145

And Mary on the bridal-bed Her mother's curse had heard; And while the cruel mother spake The bed beneath her stirred.

In wrath young Edward left the hall, 150 And turning round he sees The mother looking up to God And still upon her knees.

Young Edward he to Mary went When on the bed she lay: 155 'Sweet love, this is a wicked house— Sweet love, we must away.'

He raised her from the bridal-bed, All pale and wan with fear; 'No Dog,' quoth he, 'if he were mine, 160 No Dog would kennel here.'

He led her from the bridal-bed, He led her from the stairs. [Had sense been hers she had not dar'd To venture on her prayers. MS. erased.]

The mother still was in the bower, And with a greedy heart 165 She drank perdition on her knees, Which never may depart.

But when their steps were heard below On God she did not call; She did forget the God of Heaven, 170 For they were in the hall.

She started up—the servant maid Did see her when she rose; And she has oft declared to me The blood within her froze. 175

As Edward led his bride away And hurried to the door, The ruthless mother springing forth Stopped midway on the floor.

What did she mean? What did she mean? 180 For with a smile she cried: 'Unblest ye shall not pass my door, The bride-groom and his bride.

'Be blithe as lambs in April are, As flies when fruits are red; 185 May God forbid that thought of me Should haunt your marriage-bed.

'And let the night be given to bliss, The day be given to glee: I am a woman weak and old, 190 Why turn a thought on me?

'What can an agd mother do, And what have ye to dread? A curse is wind, it hath no shape To haunt your marriage-bed.' 195

When they were gone and out of sight She rent her hoary hair, And foamed like any Dog of June When sultry sun-beams glare.

* * * * *

Now ask you why the barren wife, 200 And why the maid forlorn, And why the ruthless mother lies Beneath the flowery thorn?

Three times, three times this spade of mine, In spite of bolt or bar, 205 Did from beneath the belfry come, When spirits wandering are.

And when the mother's soul to Hell By howling fiends was borne, This spade was seen to mark her grave 210 Beneath the flowery thorn.

And when the death-knock at the door Called home the maid forlorn, This spade was seen to mark her grave Beneath the flowery thorn. 215

And 'tis a fearful, fearful tree; The ghosts that round it meet, 'Tis they that cut the rind at night, Yet still it blossoms sweet.

* * * * *

[End of MS.]

PART III[276:1]

The grapes upon the Vicar's wall 220 Were ripe as ripe could be; And yellow leaves in sun and wind Were falling from the tree.

On the hedge-elms in the narrow lane Still swung the spikes of corn: 225 Dear Lord! it seems but yesterday— Young Edward's marriage-morn.

Up through that wood behind the church, There leads from Edward's door A mossy track, all over boughed, 230 For half a mile or more.

And from their house-door by that track The bride and bridegroom went; Sweet Mary, though she was not gay, Seemed cheerful and content. 235

But when they to the church-yard came, I've heard poor Mary say, As soon as she stepped into the sun, Her heart it died away.

And when the Vicar join'd their hands, 240 Her limbs did creep and freeze: But when they prayed, she thought she saw Her mother on her knees.

And o'er the church-path they returned— I saw poor Mary's back, 245 Just as she stepped beneath the boughs Into the mossy track.

Her feet upon the mossy track The married maiden set: That moment—I have heard her say— 250 She wished she could forget.

The shade o'er-flushed her limbs with heat— Then came a chill like death: And when the merry bells rang out, They seemed to stop her breath. 255

Beneath the foulest mother's curse No child could ever thrive: A mother is a mother still, The holiest thing alive.

So five months passed: the mother still 260 Would never heal the strife; But Edward was a loving man And Mary a fond wife.

'My sister may not visit us, My mother says her nay: 265 O Edward! you are all to me, I wish for your sake I could be More lifesome and more gay.

'I'm dull and sad! indeed, indeed I know I have no reason! 270 Perhaps I am not well in health, And 'tis a gloomy season.'

'Twas a drizzly time—no ice, no snow! And on the few fine days She stirred not out, lest she might meet 275 Her mother in the ways.

But Ellen, spite of miry ways And weather dark and dreary, Trudged every day to Edward's house, And made them all more cheery. 280

Oh! Ellen was a faithful friend. More dear than any sister! As cheerful too as singing lark; And she ne'er left them till 'twas dark, And then they always missed her. 285

And now Ash-Wednesday came—that day But few to church repair: For on that day you know we read The Commination prayer.

Our late old Vicar, a kind man, 290 Once, Sir, he said to me, He wished that service was clean out Of our good Liturgy.

The mother walked into the church— To Ellen's seat she went: 295 Though Ellen always kept her church All church-days during Lent.

And gentle Ellen welcomed her With courteous looks and mild: Thought she, 'What if her heart should melt, 300 And all be reconciled!'

The day was scarcely like a day— The clouds were black outright: And many a night, with half a moon, I've seen the church more light. 305

The wind was wild; against the glass The rain did beat and bicker; The church-tower swinging over head, You scarce could hear the Vicar!

And then and there the mother knelt, 310 And audibly she cried— 'Oh! may a clinging curse consume This woman by my side!

'O hear me, hear me, Lord in Heaven. Although you take my life— 315 O curse this woman, at whose house Young Edward woo'd his wife.

'By night and day, in bed and bower, O let her cursd be!!!' So having prayed, steady and slow, 320 She rose up from her knee! And left the church, nor e'er again The church-door entered she.

I saw poor Ellen kneeling still, So pale! I guessed not why: 325 When she stood up, there plainly was A trouble in her eye.

And when the prayers were done, we all Came round and asked her why: Giddy she seemed, and sure, there was 330 A trouble in her eye.

But ere she from the church-door stepped She smiled and told us why: 'It was a wicked woman's curse,' Quoth she, 'and what care I?' 335

She smiled, and smiled, and passed it off Ere from the door she stept— But all agree it would have been Much better had she wept.

And if her heart was not at ease, 340 This was her constant cry— 'It was a wicked woman's curse— God's good, and what care I?'

There was a hurry in her looks, Her struggles she redoubled: 345 'It was a wicked woman's curse, And why should I be troubled?'

These tears will come—I dandled her When 'twas the merest fairy— Good creature! and she hid it all: 350 She told it not to Mary.

But Mary heard the tale: her arms Round Ellen's neck she threw; 'O Ellen, Ellen, she cursed me, And now she hath cursed you!' 355

I saw young Edward by himself Stalk fast adown the lee, He snatched a stick from every fence, A twig from every tree.

He snapped them still with hand or knee, 360 And then away they flew! As if with his uneasy limbs He knew not what to do!

You see, good sir! that single hill? His farm lies underneath: 365 He heard it there, he heard it all, And only gnashed his teeth.

Now Ellen was a darling love In all his joys and cares: And Ellen's name and Mary's name 370 Fast-linked they both together came, Whene'er he said his prayers.

And in the moment of his prayers He loved them both alike: Yea, both sweet names with one sweet joy 375 Upon his heart did strike!

He reach'd his home, and by his looks They saw his inward strife: And they clung round him with their arms, Both Ellen and his wife. 380

And Mary could not check her tears, So on his breast she bowed; Then frenzy melted into grief, And Edward wept aloud.

Dear Ellen did not weep at all, 385 But closelier did she cling, And turned her face and looked as if She saw some frightful thing.

PART IV

To see a man tread over graves I hold it no good mark; 390 'Tis wicked in the sun and moon, And bad luck in the dark!

You see that grave? The Lord he gives, The Lord, he takes away: O Sir! the child of my old age 395 Lies there as cold as clay.

Except that grave, you scarce see one That was not dug by me; I'd rather dance upon 'em all Than tread upon these three! 400

'Aye, Sexton! 'tis a touching tale.' You, Sir! are but a lad; This month I'm in my seventieth year, And still it makes me sad.

And Mary's sister told it me, 405 For three good hours and more; Though I had heard it, in the main, From Edward's self, before.

Well! it passed off! the gentle Ellen Did well nigh dote on Mary; 410 And she went oftener than before, And Mary loved her more and more: She managed all the dairy.

To market she on market-days, To church on Sundays came; 415 All seemed the same: all seemed so, Sir! But all was not the same!

Had Ellen lost her mirth? Oh! no! But she was seldom cheerful; And Edward looked as if he thought 420 That Ellen's mirth was fearful.

When by herself, she to herself Must sing some merry rhyme; She could not now be glad for hours, Yet silent all the time. 425

And when she soothed her friend, through all Her soothing words 'twas plain She had a sore grief of her own, A haunting in her brain.

And oft she said, I'm not grown thin! 430 And then her wrist she spanned; And once when Mary was down-cast, She took her by the hand, And gazed upon her, and at first She gently pressed her hand; 435

Then harder, till her grasp at length Did gripe like a convulsion! 'Alas!' said she, 'we ne'er can be Made happy by compulsion!'

And once her both arms suddenly 440 Round Mary's neck she flung, And her heart panted, and she felt The words upon her tongue.

She felt them coming, but no power Had she the words to smother: 445 And with a kind of shriek she cried, 'Oh Christ! you're like your mother!'

So gentle Ellen now no more Could make this sad house cheery; And Mary's melancholy ways 450 Drove Edward wild and weary.

Lingering he raised his latch at eve, Though tired in heart and limb: He loved no other place, and yet Home was no home to him. 455

One evening he took up a book, And nothing in it read; Then flung it down, and groaning cried, 'O! Heaven! that I were dead.'

Mary looked up into his face, 460 And nothing to him said; She tried to smile, and on his arm Mournfully leaned her head.

And he burst into tears, and fell Upon his knees in prayer: 465 'Her heart is broke! O God! my grief, It is too great to bear!'

'Twas such a foggy time as makes Old sextons, Sir! like me, Rest on their spades to cough; the spring 470 Was late uncommonly.

And then the hot days, all at once, They came, we knew not how: You looked about for shade, when scarce A leaf was on a bough. 475

It happened then ('twas in the bower, A furlong up the wood: Perhaps you know the place, and yet I scarce know how you should,)

No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh 480 To any pasture-plot; But clustered near the chattering brook, Lone hollies marked the spot.

Those hollies of themselves a shape As of an arbour took, 485 A close, round arbour; and it stands Not three strides from a brook.

Within this arbour, which was still With scarlet berries hung, Were these three friends, one Sunday morn, 490 Just as the first bell rung.

'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet To hear the Sabbath-bell, 'Tis sweet to hear them both at once, Deep in a woody dell. 495

His limbs along the moss, his head Upon a mossy heap, With shut-up senses, Edward lay: That brook e'en on a working day Might chatter one to sleep. 500

And he had passed a restless night. And was not well in health; The women sat down by his side, And talked as 'twere by stealth.

'The Sun peeps through the close thick leaves, 505 See, dearest Ellen! see! 'Tis in the leaves, a little sun, No bigger than your ee;

'A tiny sun, and it has got A perfect glory too; 510 Ten thousand threads and hairs of light, Make up a glory gay and bright Round that small orb, so blue.'

And then they argued of those rays, What colour they might be; 515 Says this, 'They're mostly green'; says that, 'They're amber-like to me.'

So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts Were troubling Edward's rest; But soon they heard his hard quick pants, 520 And the thumping in his breast.

'A mother too!' these self-same words Did Edward mutter plain; His face was drawn back on itself, With horror and huge pain. 525

Both groaned at once, for both knew well What thoughts were in his mind; When he waked up, and stared like one That hath been just struck blind.

He sat upright; and ere the dream 530 Had had time to depart, 'O God, forgive me!' (he exclaimed) 'I have torn out her heart.'

Then Ellen shrieked, and forthwith burst Into ungentle laughter; 535 And Mary shivered, where she sat, And never she smiled after.

1797-1809.

Carmen reliquum in futurum tempus relegatum. To-morrow! and To-morrow! and To-morrow!

FOOTNOTES:

[267:1] Parts III and IV of the Three Graves were first published in The Friend, No. VI, September 21, 1809. They were included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. Parts I and II, which were probably written in the spring of 1798, at the same time as Parts III and IV, were first published, from an autograph MS. copy, in Poems, 1893. [For evidence of date compare ll. 255-8 with Dorothy Wordsworth's Alfoxden Journal for March 20, 24, and April 6, 8.] The original MS. of Parts III and IV is not forthcoming. The MS. of the poem as published in The Friend is in the handwriting of Miss Sarah Stoddart (afterwards Mrs. Hazlitt), and is preserved with other 'copy' of The Friend (of which the greater part is in the handwriting of Miss Sarah Hutchinson) in the Forster Collection which forms part of the Victoria and Albert Museum, South Kensington. The preface and emendations are in the handwriting of S. T. C. The poem was reprinted in the British Minstrel, Glasgow, 1821 as 'a modern ballad of the very first rank'. In a marginal note in Mr. Samuel's copy of Sibylline Leaves Coleridge writes:—'This very poem was selected, notwithstanding the preface, as a proof of my judgment and poetic diction, and a fair specimen of the style of my poems generally (see the Mirror): nay! the very words of the preface were used, omitting the not,' &c. See for this and other critical matter, Lyrical Ballads, 1798, edited by Thomas Hutchinson, 1898. Notes, p. 257.

[268:1] in the common ballad metre MS.

[268:2] mistaking The Friend.

[269:1] In the first issue of The Friend, No. VI, September 21, 1809, the poem was thus introduced:—'As I wish to commence the important Subject of—The Principles of political Justice with a separate number of THE FRIEND, and shall at the same time comply with the wishes communicated to me by one of my female Readers, who writes as the representative of many others, I shall conclude this Number with the following Fragment, or the third and fourth [second and third MS. S. T. C.] parts of a Tale consisting of six. The two last parts may be given hereafter, if the present should appear to have afforded pleasure, and to have answered the purpose of a relief and amusement to my Readers. The story as it is contained in the first and second parts is as follows: Edward a young farmer, etc.'

[271:1] It is uncertain whether this stanza is erased, or merely blotted in the MS.

[271:2] Othello iii. 3.

[271:3] The words 'Part II' are not in the MS.

[276:1] In the MS. of The Friend, Part III is headed:—'The Three Graves. A Sexton's Tale. A Fragment.' A MS. note erased in the handwriting of S. T. C. is attached:—'N. B. Written for me by Sarah Stoddart before her brother was an entire Blank. I have not voluntarily been guilty of any desecration of holy Names.' In The Friend, in Sibylline Leaves, in 1828, 1829, and 1834, the poem is headed 'The Three Graves, &c.' The heading 'Part III' first appeared in 1893.

LINENOTES:

[4] In the silent summer heat MS. alternative reading.

[14]

Why these three graves all in a row

MS. alternative reading.

Stretch out their dark and gloomy length

MS. erased.

[33] turned] strove MS. erased.

[49] happy] wedding MS. variant.

[81] A deadly] The ghastly MS. erased.

Part III] III MS. erased.

[220 foll.] In The Friend the lines were printed continuously. The division into stanzas (as in the MS.) dates from the republication of the poem in Sibylline Leaves, 1817.

[221] as ripe] as they MS.

[224] High on the hedge-elms in the lane MS. erased.

[225] spikes] strikes Sibylline Leaves, 1817. [Note. It is possible that 'strikes'—a Somersetshire word—(compare 'strikes of flax') was deliberately substituted for 'spikes'. It does not appear in the long list of Errata prefixed to Sibylline Leaves. Wagons passing through narrow lanes leave on the hedge-rows not single 'spikes', but little swathes or fillets of corn.]

[230] over boughed] over-bough'd MS.

[242] they] he MS. The Friend, 1809.

[260] So five months passed: this mother foul MS. erased.

[278] dark] dank MS. The Friend, 1809.

[308] swinging] singing MS. The Friend, 1809: swaying S. L.

[309] You could not hear the Vicar. MS. The Friend, 1809.

[315] you] thou The Friend, 1809.

Part IV] The Three Graves, a Sexton's Tale, Part the IVth MS.

[395] O Sir!] Oh! 'tis S. L.

[447] you're] how MS.

[473] we] one MS. The Friend, 1809.

[483] Lone] Some MS. The Friend, 1809.

[487] a] the MS. The Friend, 1809.

[490] friends] dears MS. erased.

[507] in] in MS. The Friend, 1809.

[511] inserted by S. T. C. MS.

[530-1]

He sat upright; and with quick voice While his eyes seem'd to start

MS. erased.



THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN[285:1]

PREFATORY NOTE

A prose composition, one not in metre at least, seems prim facie to require explanation or apology. It was written in the year 1798, near Nether Stowey, in Somersetshire, at which place (sanctum et amabile nomen! rich by so many associations and recollections) the author had taken up his residence in order to enjoy the society and close neighbourhood of a dear and honoured friend, T. Poole, Esq. The work was to have been written in concert with another [Wordsworth], whose name is too venerable within the precincts of genius to be unnecessarily brought into connection with such a trifle, and who was then residing at a small distance from Nether Stowey. The title and subject were suggested by myself, who likewise drew out the scheme and the contents for each of the three books or cantos, of which the work was to consist, and which, the reader is to be informed, was to have been finished in one night! My partner undertook the first canto: I the second: and which ever had done first, was to set about the third. Almost thirty years have passed by; yet at this moment I cannot without something more than a smile moot the question which of the two things was the more impracticable, for a mind so eminently original to compose another man's thoughts and fancies, or for a taste so austerely pure and simple to imitate the Death of Abel? Methinks I see his grand and noble countenance as at the moment when having despatched my own portion of the task at full finger-speed, I hastened to him with my manuscript—that look of humourous despondency fixed on his almost blank sheet of paper, and then its silent mock-piteous admission of failure struggling with the sense of the exceeding ridiculousness of the whole scheme—which broke up in a laugh: and the Ancient Mariner was written instead.

Years afterward, however, the draft of the plan and proposed incidents, and the portion executed, obtained favour in the eyes of more than one person, whose judgment on a poetic work could not but have weighed with me, even though no parental partiality had been thrown into the same scale, as a make-weight: and I determined on commencing anew, and composing the whole in stanzas, and made some progress in realising this intention, when adverse gales drove my bark off the 'Fortunate Isles' of the Muses: and then other and more momentous interests prompted a different voyage, to firmer anchorage and a securer port. I have in vain tried to recover the lines from the palimpsest tablet of my memory: and I can only offer the introductory stanza, which had been committed to writing for the purpose of procuring a friend's judgment on the metre, as a specimen:—

Encinctured with a twine of leaves, That leafy twine his only dress! A lovely Boy was plucking fruits, By moonlight, in a wilderness. (In a moonlight wilderness Aids to Reflection, 1825.) The moon was bright, the air was free, And fruits and flowers together grew On many a shrub and many a tree: And all put on a gentle hue, Hanging in the shadowy air Like a picture rich and rare. It was a climate where, they say, The night is more belov'd than day. But who that beauteous Boy beguil'd, That beauteous Boy to linger here? Alone, by night, a little child, In place so silent and so wild— Has he no friend, no loving mother near?

I have here given the birth, parentage, and premature decease of the 'Wanderings of Cain, a poem',—intreating, however, my Readers, not to think so meanly of my judgment as to suppose that I either regard or offer it as any excuse for the publication of the following fragment (and I may add, of one or two others in its neighbourhood) in its primitive crudity. But I should find still greater difficulty in forgiving myself were I to record pro taedio publico a set of petty mishaps and annoyances which I myself wish to forget. I must be content therefore with assuring the friendly Reader, that the less he attributes its appearance to the Author's will, choice, or judgment, the nearer to the truth he will be.

S. T. COLERIDGE (1828).

THE WANDERINGS OF CAIN

CANTO II

'A little further, O my father, yet a little further, and we shall come into the open moonlight.' Their road was through a forest of fir-trees; at its entrance the trees stood at distances from each other, and the path was broad, and the moonlight and the moonlight shadows reposed upon it, 5 and appeared quietly to inhabit that solitude. But soon the path winded and became narrow; the sun at high noon sometimes speckled, but never illumined it, and now it was dark as a cavern.

'It is dark, O my father!' said Enos, 'but the path under 10 our feet is smooth and soft, and we shall soon come out into the open moonlight.'

'Lead on, my child!' said Cain; 'guide me, little child!' And the innocent little child clasped a finger of the hand which had murdered the righteous Abel, and he guided his 15 father. 'The fir branches drip upon thee, my son.' 'Yea, pleasantly, father, for I ran fast and eagerly to bring thee the pitcher and the cake, and my body is not yet cool. How happy the squirrels are that feed on these fir-trees! they leap from bough to bough, and the old squirrels play round their 20 young ones in the nest. I clomb a tree yesterday at noon, O my father, that I might play with them, but they leaped away from the branches, even to the slender twigs did they leap, and in a moment I beheld them on another tree. Why, O my father, would they not play with me? I would be good 25 to them as thou art good to me: and I groaned to them even as thou groanest when thou givest me to eat, and when thou coverest me at evening, and as often as I stand at thy knee and thine eyes look at me?' Then Cain stopped, and stifling his groans he sank to the earth, and the child Enos 30 stood in the darkness beside him.

And Cain lifted up his voice and cried bitterly, and said, 'The Mighty One that persecuteth me is on this side and on that; he pursueth my soul like the wind, like the sand-blast he passeth through me; he is around me even as the air! 35 O that I might be utterly no more! I desire to die—yea, the things that never had life, neither move they upon the earth—behold! they seem precious to mine eyes. O that a man might live without the breath of his nostrils. So I might abide in darkness, and blackness, and an empty 40 space! Yea, I would lie down, I would not rise, neither would I stir my limbs till I became as the rock in the den of the lion, on which the young lion resteth his head whilst he sleepeth. For the torrent that roareth far off hath a voice: and the clouds in heaven look terribly on me; the Mighty One 45 who is against me speaketh in the wind of the cedar grove; and in silence am I dried up.' Then Enos spake to his father, 'Arise, my father, arise, we are but a little way from the place where I found the cake and the pitcher.' And Cain said, 'How knowest thou!' and the child answered:—'Behold the 50 bare rocks are a few of thy strides distant from the forest; and while even now thou wert lifting up thy voice, I heard the echo.' Then the child took hold of his father, as if he would raise him: and Cain being faint and feeble rose slowly on his knees and pressed himself against the trunk of a fir, 55 and stood upright and followed the child.

The path was dark till within three strides' length of its termination, when it turned suddenly; the thick black trees formed a low arch, and the moonlight appeared for a moment like a dazzling portal. Enos ran before and stood in the open 60 air; and when Cain, his father, emerged from the darkness, the child was affrighted. For the mighty limbs of Cain were wasted as by fire; his hair was as the matted curls on the bison's forehead, and so glared his fierce and sullen eye beneath: and the black abundant locks on either side, a rank 65 and tangled mass, were stained and scorched, as though the grasp of a burning iron hand had striven to rend them; and his countenance told in a strange and terrible language of agonies that had been, and were, and were still to continue to be.

The scene around was desolate; as far as the eye could 70 reach it was desolate: the bare rocks faced each other, and left a long and wide interval of thin white sand. You might wander on and look round and round, and peep into the crevices of the rocks and discover nothing that acknowledged the influence of the seasons. There was no spring, no summer, 75 no autumn: and the winter's snow, that would have been lovely, fell not on these hot rocks and scorching sands. Never morning lark had poised himself over this desert; but the huge serpent often hissed there beneath the talons of the vulture, and the vulture screamed, his wings imprisoned within the coils of 80 the serpent. The pointed and shattered summits of the ridges of the rocks made a rude mimicry of human concerns, and seemed to prophecy mutely of things that then were not; steeples, and battlements, and ships with naked masts. As far from the wood as a boy might sling a pebble of the brook, there 85 was one rock by itself at a small distance from the main ridge. It had been precipitated there perhaps by the groan which the Earth uttered when our first father fell. Before you approached, it appeared to lie flat on the ground, but its base slanted from its point, and between its point and the sands a tall man might 90 stand upright. It was here that Enos had found the pitcher and cake, and to this place he led his father. But ere they had reached the rock they beheld a human shape: his back was towards them, and they were advancing unperceived, when they heard him smite his breast and cry aloud, 'Woe is me! woe is 95 me! I must never die again, and yet I am perishing with thirst and hunger.'

Pallid, as the reflection of the sheeted lightning on the heavy-sailing night-cloud, became the face of Cain; but the child Enos took hold of the shaggy skin, his father's robe, and 100 raised his eyes to his father, and listening whispered, 'Ere yet I could speak, I am sure, O my father, that I heard that voice. Have not I often said that I remembered a sweet voice? O my father! this is it': and Cain trembled exceedingly. The voice was sweet indeed, but it was thin and querulous, 105 like that of a feeble slave in misery, who despairs altogether, yet can not refrain himself from weeping and lamentation. And, behold! Enos glided forward, and creeping softly round the base of the rock, stood before the stranger, and looked up into his face. And the Shape shrieked, and turned round, 110 and Cain beheld him, that his limbs and his face were those of his brother Abel whom he had killed! And Cain stood like one who struggles in his sleep because of the exceeding terribleness of a dream.

Thus as he stood in silence and darkness of soul, the 115 Shape fell at his feet, and embraced his knees, and cried out with a bitter outcry, 'Thou eldest born of Adam, whom Eve, my mother, brought forth, cease to torment me! I was feeding my flocks in green pastures by the side of quiet rivers, and thou killedst me; and now I am in misery.' Then Cain 120 closed his eyes, and hid them with his hands; and again he opened his eyes, and looked around him, and said to Enos, 'What beholdest thou? Didst thou hear a voice, my son?' 'Yes, my father, I beheld a man in unclean garments, and he uttered a sweet voice, full of lamentation.' Then Cain 125 raised up the Shape that was like Abel, and said:—'The Creator of our father, who had respect unto thee, and unto thy offering, wherefore hath he forsaken thee?' Then the Shape shrieked a second time, and rent his garment, and his naked skin was like the white sands beneath their feet; 130 and he shrieked yet a third time, and threw himself on his face upon the sand that was black with the shadow of the rock, and Cain and Enos sate beside him; the child by his right hand, and Cain by his left. They were all three under the rock, and within the shadow. The Shape that was like 135 Abel raised himself up, and spake to the child, 'I know where the cold waters are, but I may not drink, wherefore didst thou then take away my pitcher?' But Cain said, 'Didst thou not find favour in the sight of the Lord thy God?' The Shape answered, 'The Lord is God of the living only, 140 the dead have another God.' Then the child Enos lifted up his eyes and prayed; but Cain rejoiced secretly in his heart. 'Wretched shall they be all the days of their mortal life,' exclaimed the Shape, 'who sacrifice worthy and acceptable sacrifices to the God of the dead; but after death their toil 145 ceaseth. Woe is me, for I was well beloved by the God of the living, and cruel wert thou, O my brother, who didst snatch me away from his power and his dominion.' Having uttered these words, he rose suddenly, and fled over the sands: and Cain said in his heart, 'The curse of the Lord is on me; 150 but who is the God of the dead?' and he ran after the Shape, and the Shape fled shrieking over the sands, and the sands rose like white mists behind the steps of Cain, but the feet of him that was like Abel disturbed not the sands. He greatly outrun Cain, and turning short, he wheeled round, and came 155 again to the rock where they had been sitting, and where Enos still stood; and the child caught hold of his garment as he passed by, and he fell upon the ground. And Cain stopped, and beholding him not, said, 'he has passed into the dark woods,' and he walked slowly back to the rocks; and when he 160 reached it the child told him that he had caught hold of his garment as he passed by, and that the man had fallen upon the ground: and Cain once more sate beside him, and said, 'Abel, my brother, I would lament for thee, but that the spirit within me is withered, and burnt up with extreme agony. 165 Now, I pray thee, by thy flocks, and by thy pastures, and by the quiet rivers which thou lovedst, that thou tell me all that thou knowest. Who is the God of the dead? where doth he make his dwelling? what sacrifices are acceptable unto him? for I have offered, but have not been received; I have prayed, 170 and have not been heard; and how can I be afflicted more than I already am?' The Shape arose and answered, 'O that thou hadst had pity on me as I will have pity on thee. Follow me, Son of Adam! and bring thy child with thee!'

And they three passed over the white sands between the 175 rocks, silent as the shadows.

1798.

FOOTNOTES:

[285:1] The Wanderings of Cain in its present shape was first published in 1828: included in 1829, and (with the omission of that part of the Prefatory Note which follows the verses) in 1834. The verses ('Encinctured', &c.) were first published in the 'Conclusion' of Aids to Reflection, 1825, p. 383, with the following apologetic note:—'Will the Reader forgive me if I attempt at once to illustrate and relieve the subject ["the enthusiastic Mystics"] by annexing the first stanza of the Poem, composed in the same year in which I wrote the Ancient Mariner and the first Book of Christabel.' The prose was first published without the verses or 'Prefatory Note' in the Bijou for 1828. [See Poems, 1893, Notes, p. 600.]

A rough draft of a continuation or alternative version of the Wanderings of Cain was found among Coleridge's papers. The greater portion of these fragmentary sheets was printed by the Editor, in the Athenaeum of January 27, 1894, p. 114. The introduction of 'alligators' and an 'immense meadow' help to fix the date of The Wanderings of Cain. The imagery is derived from William Bartram's Travels in Florida and Carolina, which Coleridge and Wordsworth studied in 1798. Mr. Hutchinson, who reprints (Lyrical Ballads of 1798, Notes, pp. 259-60) a selected passage from the MS. fragment, points out 'that Coleridge had for a time thought of shaping the poem as a narrative addressed by Cain to his wife'.

'He falls down in a trance—when he awakes he sees a luminous body coming before him. It stands before him an orb of fire. It goes on, he moves not. It returns to him again, again retires as if wishing him to follow it. It then goes on and he follows: they are led to near the bottom of the wild woods, brooks, forests etc. etc. The Fire gradually shapes itself, retaining its luminous appearance, into the lineaments of a man. A dialogue between the fiery shape and Cain, in which the being presses upon him the enormity of his guilt and that he must make some expiation to the true deity, who is a severe God, and persuades him to burn out his eyes. Cain opposes this idea, and says that God himself who had inflicted this punishment upon him, had done it because he neglected to make a proper use of his senses, etc. The evil spirit answers him that God is indeed a God of mercy, and that an example must be given to mankind, that this end will be answered by his terrible appearance, at the same time he will be gratified with the most delicious sights and feelings. Cain, over-persuaded, consents to do it, but wishes to go to the top of the rocks to take a farewell of the earth. His farewell speech concluding with an abrupt address to the promised redeemer, and he abandons the idea on which the being had accompanied him, and turning round to declare this to the being he sees him dancing from rock to rock in his former shape down those interminable precipices.

'Child affeared by his father's ravings, goes out to pluck the fruits in the moonlight wildness. Cain's soliloquy. Child returns with a pitcher of water and a cake. Cain wonders what kind of beings dwell in that place—whether any created since man or whether this world had any beings rescued from the Chaos, wandering like shipwrecked beings from another world etc.

'Midnight on the Euphrates. Cedars, palms, pines. Cain discovered sitting on the upper part of the ragged rock, where is cavern overlooking the Euphrates, the moon rising on the horizon. His soliloquy. The Beasts are out on the ramp—he hears the screams of a woman and children surrounded by tigers. Cain makes a soliloquy debating whether he shall save the woman. Cain advances, wishing death, and the tigers rush off. It proves to be Cain's wife with her two children, determined to follow her husband. She prevails upon him at last to tell his story. Cain's wife tells him that her son Enoch was placed suddenly by her side. Cain addresses all the elements to cease for a while to persecute him, while he tells his story. He begins with telling her that he had first after his leaving her found out a dwelling in the desart under a juniper tree etc., etc., how he meets in the desart a young man whom upon a nearer approach he perceives to be Abel, on whose countenance appears marks of the greatest misery . . . of another being who had power after this life, greater than Jehovah. He is going to offer sacrifices to this being, and persuades Cain to follow him—he comes to an immense gulph filled with water, whither they descend followed by alligators etc. They go till they come to an immense meadow so surrounded as to be inaccessible, and from its depth so vast that you could not see it from above. Abel offers sacrifice from the blood of his arm. A gleam of light illumines the meadow—the countenance of Abel becomes more beautiful, and his arms glistering—he then persuades Cain to offer sacrifice, for himself and his son Enoch by cutting his child's arm and letting the blood fall from it. Cain is about to do it when Abel himself in his angelic appearance, attended by Michael, is seen in the heavens, whence they sail slowly down. Abel addresses Cain with terror, warning him not to offer up his innocent child. The evil spirit throws off the countenance of Abel, assumes its own shape, flies off pursuing a flying battle with Michael. Abel carries off the child.'

LINENOTES:

[12] moonlight. Ah, why dost thou groan so deeply? MS. Bijou, 1828.

[25] with me? Is it because we are not so happy, as they? Is it because I groan sometimes even as thou groanest? Then Cain stopped, &c. MS. Bijou, 1828.

[63-8] by fire: his hair was black, and matted into loathly curls, and his countenance was dark and wild, and told, &c. MS. Bijou, 1828.

[87] by the terrible groan the Earth gave when, &c. MS. Bijou, 1828.

[92-3] But ere they arrived there they beheld, MS. Bijou, 1828.

[94] advancing] coming up MS. Bijou, 1828.

[98-101] The face of Cain turned pale, but Enos said, 'Ere yet, &c. MS. Bijou, 1828.

[108-9] Enos crept softly round the base of the rock and stood before MS. Bijou, 1828.

[114-16] of a dream; and ere he had recovered himself from the tumult of his agitation, the Shape, &c. MS. Bijou, 1828.

[160] and walked Bijou, 1828. rocks] rock MS.

[170] but] and MS.

[176] the] their MS.



TO ——[292:1]

I mix in life, and labour to seem free, With common persons pleas'd and common things, While every thought and action tends to thee, And every impulse from thy influence springs.

? 1798.

FOOTNOTES:

[292:1] First published without title in Literary Remains, 1836, i. 280 (among other short pieces and fragments 'communicated by Mr. Gutch'). First collected, again without title, in P. and D. W., 1877-80.

LINENOTES:

Title] To —— 1893. The heading Ubi Thesaurus Ibi Cor was prefixed to the illustrated edition of The Poems of Coleridge, 1907.



THE BALLAD OF THE DARK LADI[293:1]

A FRAGMENT

Beneath yon birch with silver bark, And boughs so pendulous and fair, The brook falls scatter'd down the rock: And all is mossy there!

And there upon the moss she sits, 5 The Dark Ladi in silent pain; The heavy tear is in her eye, And drops and swells again.

Three times she sends her little page Up the castled mountain's breast, 10 If he might find the Knight that wears The Griffin for his crest.

The sun was sloping down the sky, And she had linger'd there all day, Counting moments, dreaming fears— 15 Oh wherefore can he stay?

She hears a rustling o'er the brook, She sees far off a swinging bough! 'Tis He! 'Tis my betrothd Knight! Lord Falkland, it is Thou!' 20

She springs, she clasps him round the neck, She sobs a thousand hopes and fears, Her kisses glowing on his cheeks She quenches with her tears.

* * * * *

'My friends with rude ungentle words 25 They scoff and bid me fly to thee! O give me shelter in thy breast! O shield and shelter me!

'My Henry, I have given thee much, I gave what I can ne'er recall, 30 I gave my heart, I gave my peace, O Heaven! I gave thee all.'

The Knight made answer to the Maid, While to his heart he held her hand, 'Nine castles hath my noble sire, 35 None statelier in the land.

'The fairest one shall be my love's, The fairest castle of the nine! Wait only till the stars peep out, The fairest shall be thine: 40

'Wait only till the hand of eve Hath wholly closed yon western bars, And through the dark we two will steal Beneath the twinkling stars!'—

'The dark? the dark? No! not the dark? 45 The twinkling stars? How, Henry? How?' O God! 'twas in the eye of noon He pledged his sacred vow!

And in the eye of noon my love Shall lead me from my mother's door, 50 Sweet boys and girls all clothed in white Strewing flowers before:

But first the nodding minstrels go With music meet for lordly bowers, The children next in snow-white vests, 55 Strewing buds and flowers!

And then my love and I shall pace. My jet black hair in pearly braids, Between our comely bachelors And blushing bridal maids. 60

* * * * *

1798.

FOOTNOTES:

[293:1] First published in 1834. 'In a manuscript list (undated) of the poems drawn up by Coleridge appear these items together: Love 96 lines . . . The Black Ladi 190 lines.' Note to P. W., 1893, p. 614. A MS. of the three last stanzas is extant. In Chapter XIV of the Biographia Literaria, 1817, ii. 3 Coleridge synchronizes the Dark Ladi (a poem which he was 'preparing' with the Christabel). It would seem probable that it belongs to the spring or early summer of 1798, and that it was anterior to Love, which was first published in the Morning Post, December 21, 1799, under the heading 'Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladi'. If the MS. List of Poems is the record of poems actually written, two-thirds of the Dark Ladi must have perished long before 1817, when Sibylline Leaves was passing through the press, and it was found necessary to swell the Contents with 'two School-boy Poems' and 'with a song modernized with some additions from one of our elder poets'.

LINENOTES:

[53-6]

And first the nodding Minstrels go With music fit for lovely Bowers, The children then in snowy robes, Strewing Buds and Flowers.

MS. S. T. C.

[57] pace] go MS. S. T. C.



KUBLA KHAN[295:1]:

OR, A VISION IN A DREAM. A FRAGMENT.

The following fragment is here published at the request of a poet of great and deserved celebrity [Lord Byron], and, as far as the Author's own opinions are concerned, rather as a psychological curiosity, than on the ground of any supposed poetic merits. 5

In the summer of the year 1797[295:2], the Author, then in ill health, had retired to a lonely farm-house between Porlock and Linton, on the Exmoor confines of Somerset and Devonshire. In consequence of a slight indisposition, an anodyne had been prescribed, from the effects of which he fell asleep 10 in his chair at the moment that he was reading the following sentence, or words of the same substance, in 'Purchas's Pilgrimage': 'Here the Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a stately garden thereunto. And thus ten miles of fertile ground were inclosed with a wall.'[296:1] The Author continued for about three hours in a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during which time he has the most vivid confidence, that he could not have composed less than from two to three hundred lines; if that indeed can be called composition in which all the images rose up before 20 him as things, with a parallel production of the correspondent expressions, without any sensation or consciousness of effort. On awaking he appeared to himself to have a distinct recollection of the whole, and taking his pen, ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour, and on his return to his room, found, to his no small surprise and mortification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollection of the general purport of the vision, yet, 30 with the exception of some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed away like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone has been cast, but, alas! without the after restoration of the latter!

Then all the charm Is broken—all that phantom-world so fair Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread, And each mis-shapeś the other. Stay awhile, Poor youth! who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes— The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon 40 The visions will return! And lo, he stays, And soon the fragments dim of lovely forms Come trembling back, unite, and now once more The pool becomes a mirror.

[From The Picture; or, the Lover's Resolution, II. 91-100.]

Yet from the still surviving recollections in his mind, the Author has frequently purposed to finish for himself what had been originally, as it were, given to him. Sameron adion as[297:1] [Aurion hadion as 1834]: but the to-morrow is yet to come.

As a contrast to this vision, I have annexed a fragment of a very different character, describing with equal fidelity the 50 dream of pain and disease.[297:2]

KUBLA KHAN

In Xanadu did Kubla Khan A stately pleasure-dome decree: Where Alph, the sacred river, ran Through caverns measureless to man Down to a sunless sea. 5 So twice five miles of fertile ground With walls and towers were girdled round: And there were gardens bright with sinuous rills, Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree; And here were forests ancient as the hills, 10 Enfolding sunny spots of greenery.

But oh! that deep romantic chasm which slanted Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover! A savage place! as holy and enchanted As e'er beneath a waning moon was haunted 15 By woman wailing for her demon-lover![297:3] [297:4]And from this chasm, with ceaseless turmoil seething, As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, A mighty fountain momently was forced: Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 20 Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher's flail: And 'mid these dancing rocks at once and ever It flung up momently the sacred river. Five miles meandering with a mazy motion 25 Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, Then reached the caverns measureless to man, And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean: And 'mid this tumult Kubla heard from far Ancestral voices prophesying war! 30 The shadow of the dome of pleasure Floated midway on the waves; Where was heard the mingled measure From the fountain and the caves. It was a miracle of rare device, 35 A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice![298:1]

A damsel with a dulcimer In a vision once I saw: It was an Abyssinian maid, And on her dulcimer she played, 40 Singing of Mount Abora. Could I revive within me Her symphony and song, To such a deep delight 'twould win me, That with music loud and long, 45 I would build that dome in air, That sunny dome! those caves of ice![298:2] And all who heard should see them there, And all should cry, Beware! Beware! His flashing eyes, his floating hair! Weave a circle round him thrice, And close your eyes with holy dread, For he on honey-dew hath fed, And drunk the milk of Paradise.

1798.

FOOTNOTES:

[295:1] First published together with Christabel and The Pains of Sleep, 1816: included in 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[295:2] There can be little doubt that Coleridge should have written 'the summer of 1798'. In an unpublished MS. note dated November 3, 1810, he connects the retirement between 'Linton and Porlock' and a recourse to opium with his quarrel with Charles Lloyd, and consequent distress of mind. That quarrel was at its height in May 1798. He alludes to distress of mind arising from 'calumny and ingratitude from men who have been fostered in the bosom of my confidence' in a letter to J. P. Estlin, dated May 14, 1798; and, in a letter to Charles Lamb, dated [Spring] 1798, he enlarges on his quarrel with Lloyd and quotes from Lloyd's novel of Edmund Oliver which was published in 1798. See Letters of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1895, i. 245, note 1. I discovered and read for the first time the unpublished note of November 3, 1810, whilst the edition of 1893 was in the press, and in a footnote to p. xlii of his Introduction the editor, J. D. Campbell, explains that it is too late to alter the position and date of Kubla Khan, but accepts the later date (May, 1798) on the evidence of the MS. note.

[296:1] 'In Xamdu did Cublai Can build a stately Palace, encompassing sixteene miles of plaine ground with a wall, wherein are fertile Meddowes, pleasant Springs, delightfull Streames, and all sorts of beasts of chase and game, and in the middest thereof a sumptuous house of pleasure.'—Purchas his Pilgrimage: Lond. fol. 1626, Bk. IV, chap. xiii, p. 418.

[297:1] The quotation is from Theocritus, i. 145:—es hysteron hadion as.

[297:2] The Pains of Sleep.

[297:3] And woman wailing for her Demon Lover. Motto to Byron's Heaven and Earth, published in The Liberal, No. II, January 1, 1823.

[297:4] With lines 17-24 compare William Bartram's description of the 'Alligator-Hole.' Travels in North and South Carolina, 1794, pp. 286-8.

[298:1] Compare Thomas Maurice's History of Hindostan, 1795, i. 107. The reference is supplied by Coleridge in the Gutch Memorandum Note Book (B. M. Add. MSS., No. 27, 901), p. 47: 'In a cave in the mountains of Cashmere an Image of Ice,' &c.

[298:2] In her 'Lines to S. T. Coleridge, Esq.,' Mrs. Robinson (Perdita) writes:—

'I'll mark thy "sunny domes" and view Thy "caves of ice", and "fields of dew".'

It is possible that she had seen a MS. copy of Kubla Khan containing these variants from the text.

LINENOTES:

Title of Introduction:—Of the Fragment of Kubla Khan 1816, 1828, 1829.

[1-5] om. 1834.

[8] there] here S. L. 1828, 1829.

[11] Enfolding] And folding 1816. The word 'Enfolding' is a pencil emendation in David Hinves's copy of Christabel. ? by S. T. C.

[19] In the early copies of 1893 this line was accidentally omitted.

[54] drunk] drank 1816, 1828, 1829.



RECANTATION[299:1]

ILLUSTRATED IN THE STORY OF THE MAD OX

I

An Ox, long fed with musty hay, And work'd with yoke and chain, Was turn'd out on an April day, When fields are in their best array, And growing grasses sparkle gay 5 At once with Sun and rain.

II

The grass was fine, the Sun was bright— With truth I may aver it; The ox was glad, as well, he might, Thought a green meadow no bad sight, 10 And frisk'd,—to shew his huge delight, Much like a beast of spirit.

III

'Stop, neighbours, stop, why these alarms? The ox is only glad!' But still they pour from cots and farms— 15 'Halloo!' the parish is up in arms, (A hoaxing-hunt has always charms) 'Halloo! the ox is mad.'

IV

The frighted beast scamper'd about— Plunge! through the hedge he drove: 20 The mob pursue with hideous rout, A bull-dog fastens on his snout; 'He gores the dog! his tongue hangs out! He's mad, he's mad, by Jove!'

V

'STOP, NEIGHBOURS, STOP!' aloud did call 25 A sage of sober hue. But all at once, on him they fall, And women squeak and children squall, 'What? would you have him toss us all? And dam'me, who are you?' 30

VI

Oh! hapless sage! his ears they stun, And curse him o'er and o'er! 'You bloody-minded dog! (cries one,) To slit your windpipe were good fun, 'Od blast you for an impious son[300:1] 35 Of a Presbyterian wh—re!'

VII

'You'd have him gore the Parish-priest, And run against the altar! You fiend!' the sage his warnings ceas'd, And north and south, and west and east, 40 Halloo! they follow the poor beast, Mat, Dick, Tom, Bob and Walter.

VIII

Old Lewis ('twas his evil day), Stood trembling in his shoes; The ox was his—what cou'd he say? His legs were stiffen'd with dismay, 45 The ox ran o'er him mid the fray, And gave him his death's bruise.

IX

The frighted beast ran on—(but here, No tale, (tho' in print, more true is) 50 My Muse stops short in mid career— Nay, gentle Reader, do not sneer! I cannot chuse but drop a tear, A tear for good old Lewis!)

X

The frighted beast ran through the town, 55 All follow'd, boy and dad, Bull-dog, parson, shopman, clown: The publicans rush'd from the Crown, 'Halloo! hamstring him! cut him down!' THEY DROVE THE POOR OX MAD. 60

XI

Should you a Rat to madness tease Why ev'n a Rat may plague you: There's no Philosopher but sees That Rage and Fear are one disease— Though that may burn, and this may freeze, 65 They're both alike the Ague.

XII

And so this Ox, in frantic mood, Fac'd round like any Bull! The mob turn'd tail, and he pursued, Till they with heat and fright were stew'd, 70 And not a chick of all this brood But had his belly full!

XIII

Old Nick's astride the beast, 'tis clear! Old Nicholas, to a tittle! But all agree he'd disappear, 75 Would but the Parson venture near, And through his teeth,[302:1] right o'er the steer, Squirt out some fasting-spittle.

XIV

Achilles was a warrior fleet, The Trojans he could worry: 80 Our Parson too was swift of feet, But shew'd it chiefly in retreat: The victor Ox scour'd down the street, The mob fled hurry-scurry.

XV

Through gardens, lanes and fields new-plough'd, 85 Through his hedge, and through her hedge, He plung'd and toss'd and bellow'd loud— Till in his madness he grew proud To see this helter-skelter crowd That had more wrath than courage! 90

XVI

Alas! to mend the breaches wide He made for these poor ninnies, They all must work, whate'er betide, Both days and months, and pay beside (Sad news for Av'rice and for Pride), 95 A sight of golden guineas!

XVII

But here once more to view did pop The man that kept his senses— And now he cried,—'Stop, neighbours, stop! The Ox is mad! I would not swop, 100 No! not a school-boy's farthing top For all the parish-fences.'

XVIII

'The Ox is mad! Ho! Dick, Bob, Mat! 'What means this coward fuss? Ho! stretch this rope across the plat— 105 'Twill trip him up—or if not that, Why, dam'me! we must lay him flat— See! here's my blunderbuss.'

XIX

'A lying dog! just now he said The Ox was only glad— 110 Let's break his Presbyterian head!' 'Hush!' quoth the sage, 'you've been misled; No quarrels now! let's all make head, YOU DROVE THE POOR OX MAD.'

XX

As thus I sat, in careless chat, 115 With the morning's wet newspaper, In eager haste, without his hat, As blind and blund'ring as a bat, In came that fierce Aristocrat, Our pursy woollen-draper. 120

XXI

And so my Muse per force drew bit; And in he rush'd and panted! 'Well, have you heard?' No, not a whit. 'What, ha'nt you heard?' Come, out with it! 'That Tierney votes for Mister PITT, 125 And Sheridan's recanted!'

1798.

FOOTNOTES:

[299:1] First published in the Morning Post for July 30, 1798, with the following title and introduction:—'ORIGINAL POETRY. A TALE. The following amusing Tale gives a very humourous description of the French Revolution, which is represented as an Ox': included in Annual Anthology, 1800, and Sibylline Leaves, 1817; reprinted in Essays on His Own Times, 1880, iii 963-9. First collected in P. and D. W., 1877-80. In a copy of the Annual Anthology of 1800 Coleridge writes over against the heading of this poem, 'Written when fears were entertained of an invasion, and Mr. Sheridan and Mr. Tierney were absurdly represented as having recanted because to [The French Revolution (?)] in its origin they, [having been favourable, changed their opinion when the Revolutionists became unfaithful to their principles (?)].' See Note to P. W., 1893.

The text is that of Sibylline Leaves and Essays on his Own Times.

[300:1] One of the many fine words which the most uneducated had about this time a constant opportunity of acquiring, from the sermons in the pulpit and the proclamations on [in S. L.] the —— corners. An. Anth., S. L.

[302:1] According to the common superstition there are two ways of fighting with the Devil. You may cut him in half with a straw, or he will vanish if you spit over his horns with a fasting spittle. Note by S. T. C. in M. P. According to the superstition of the West-Countries, if you meet the Devil, you may either cut him in half with a straw, or force him to disappear by spitting over his horns. An. Anth., S. L.

LINENOTES:

[3] turn'd out] loosen'd M. P.

[9] ox] beast M. P.

[19] beast] ox M. P.

[22] fastens] fasten'd M. P.

[27] 'You cruel dog!' at once they bawl. M. P.

[31] Oh] Ah! M. P., An. Anth.

[35-6] om. Essays, &c.

[38] run] drive M. P.

[39] fiend] rogue M. P.

[42] Mat, Tom, Bob, Dick M. P.

[49] The baited ox drove on M. P., An. Anth.

[50] No . . . print] The Gospel scarce M. P., An. Anth.

[53] cannot] could M. P.

[55] The ox drove on, right through the town M. P.

[62] may] might M. P., An. Anth.

[68] any] a mad M. P.

[70] heat and fright] flight and fear M. P., An. Anth.

[71] this] the M. P.

[73] beast] ox M. P.

[75] agree] agreed M. P.

[83] scour'd] drove M. P.

[91] Alas] Alack M. P.

[99] cried] bawl'd M. P.

[103] Tom! Walter! Mat! M. P.

[109] lying] bare-faced M. P.

[115] But lo! to interrupt my chat M. P.

[119] In came] In rush'd M. P.

[122] And he rush'd in M. P.

[125-6]

That Tierney's wounded Mister PITT, And his fine tongue enchanted!

M. P.



HEXAMETERS[304:1]

William, my teacher, my friend! dear William and dear Dorothea! Smooth out the folds of my letter, and place it on desk or on table; Place it on table or desk; and your right hands loosely half-closing,[304:2] Gently sustain them in air, and extending the digit didactic, Rest it a moment on each of the forks of the five-forkd left hand, 5 Twice on the breadth of the thumb, and once on the tip of each finger; Read with a nod of the head in a humouring recitativo; And, as I live, you will see my hexameters hopping before you. This is a galloping measure; a hop, and a trot, and a gallop!

All my hexameters fly, like stags pursued by the stag-hounds, 10 Breathless and panting, and ready to drop, yet flying still onwards,[304:3] I would full fain pull in my hard-mouthed runaway hunter; But our English Spondeans are clumsy yet impotent curb-reins; And so to make him go slowly, no way left have I but to lame him.

William, my head and my heart! dear Poet that feelest and thinkest! 15 Dorothy, eager of soul, my most affectionate sister! Many a mile, O! many a wearisome mile are ye distant, Long, long comfortless roads, with no one eye that doth know us. O! it is all too far to send you mockeries idle: Yea, and I feel it not right! But O! my friends, my beloved! 20 Feverish and wakeful I lie,—I am weary of feeling and thinking. Every thought is worn down, I am weary yet cannot be vacant. Five long hours have I tossed, rheumatic heats, dry and flushing, Gnawing behind in my head, and wandering and throbbing about me, Busy and tiresome, my friends, as the beat of the boding night-spider.[305:1] 25

I forget the beginning of the line:

. . . my eyes are a burthen, Now unwillingly closed, now open and aching with darkness. O! what a life is the eye! what a strange and inscrutable essence! Him that is utterly blind, nor glimpses the fire that warms him; Him that never beheld the swelling breast of his mother; 30 Him that smiled in his gladness as a babe that smiles in its slumber; Even for him it exists, it moves and stirs in its prison; Lives with a separate life, and 'Is it a Spirit?' he murmurs: 'Sure it has thoughts of its own, and to see is only a language.'

There was a great deal more, which I have forgotten. . . . The last line which I wrote, I remember, and write it for the truth of the sentiment, scarcely less true in company than in pain and solitude:—

William, my head and my heart! dear William and dear Dorothea! 35 You have all in each other; but I am lonely, and want you!

1798-9.

FOOTNOTES:

[304:1] First published in Memoirs of W. Wordsworth, 1851, i. 139-41: reprinted in Life by Prof. Knight, 1889, i. 185. First collected as a whole in P. W. [ed. T. Ashe], 1885. lines 30-6, 'O what a life is the eye', &c., were first published in Friendship's Offering, and are included in P. W., 1834. They were reprinted by Cottle in E. R., 1837, i. 226. The 'Hexameters' were sent in a letter, written in the winter of 1798-9 from Ratzeburg to the Wordsworths at Goslar.

[304:2] False metre. S. T. C.

[304:3] 'Still flying onwards' were perhaps better. S. T. C.

[305:1] False metre. S. T. C.

LINENOTES:

[28] strange] fine Letter, 1798-9, Cottle, 1837.

[29] Him] He Cottle, 1837.

[30] Him] He Cottle, 1837.

[31] Him that ne'er smiled at the bosom as babe Letter, 1798-9: He that smiled at the bosom, the babe Cottle, 1837.

[32] Even to him it exists, it stirs and moves Letter, 1798-9: Even to him it exists, it moves and stirs Cottle, 1837.

[33] a Spirit] the Spirit Letter, 1798-9.

[34] a] its Letter, 1798-9.



TRANSLATION OF A PASSAGE IN OTTFRIED'S METRICAL PARAPHRASE OF THE GOSPEL

[This paraphrase, written about the time of Charlemagne, is by no means deficient in occasional passages of considerable poetic merit. There is a flow and a tender enthusiasm in the following lines which even in the translation will not, I flatter myself, fail to interest the reader. Ottfried is describing the circumstances immediately following the birth of our Lord. Most interesting is it to consider the effect when the feelings are wrought above the natural pitch by the belief of something mysterious, while all the images are purely natural. Then it is that religion and poetry strike deepest. Biog. Lit., 1817, i. 203-4.[306:1]]

She gave with joy her virgin breast; She hid it not, she bared the breast Which suckled that divinest babe! Blessed, blessed were the breasts Which the Saviour infant kiss'd; 5 And blessed, blessed was the mother Who wrapp'd his limbs in swaddling clothes, Singing placed him on her lap, Hung o'er him with her looks of love, And soothed him with a lulling motion. 10 Blessed! for she shelter'd him From the damp and chilling air; Blessed, blessed! for she lay With such a babe in one blest bed, Close as babes and mothers lie! 15 Blessed, blessed evermore, With her virgin lips she kiss'd, With her arms, and to her breast, She embraced the babe divine, Her babe divine the virgin mother! 20 There lives not on this ring of earth A mortal that can sing her praise. Mighty mother, virgin pure, In the darkness and the night For us she bore the heavenly Lord! 25

? 1799.

FOOTNOTES:

[306:1] First published as a footnote to Chapter X of the Biographia Literaria (ed. 1817, i. 203-4). First collected in 1863 (Appendix, pp. 401-2). The translation is from Otfridi Evang., lib. i, cap. xi, ll. 73-108 (included in Schilter's Thesaurus Antiquitatum Teutonicarum, pp. 50-1, Biog. Lit., 1847, i. 213). Otfrid, 'a monk at Weissenburg in Elsass', composed his Evangelienbuch about 870 A.D. (Note by J. Shawcross, Biog. Lit., 1907, ii. 259). As Coleridge says that 'he read through Ottfried's metrical paraphrase of the Gospel' when he was at Gttingen, it may be assumed that the translation was made in 1799.

LINENOTES:

[5] Saviour infant] infant Saviour 1863.



CATULLIAN HENDECASYLLABLES[307:1]

Hear, my belovd, an old Milesian story!— High, and embosom'd in congregated laurels, Glimmer'd a temple upon a breezy headland; In the dim distance amid the skiey billows Rose a fair island; the god of flocks had blest it. 5 From the far shores of the bleat-resounding island Oft by the moonlight a little boat came floating, Came to the sea-cave beneath the breezy headland, Where amid myrtles a pathway stole in mazes Up to the groves of the high embosom'd temple. 10 There in a thicket of dedicated roses, Oft did a priestess, as lovely as a vision, Pouring her soul to the son of Cytherea, Pray him to hover around the slight canoe-boat, And with invisible pilotage to guide it 15 Over the dusk wave, until the nightly sailor Shivering with ecstasy sank upon her bosom.

? 1799.

FOOTNOTES:

[307:1] First published in 1834. These lines, which are not 'Hendecasyllables', are a translation of part of Friedrich von Matthisson's Milesisches Mhrchen. For the original see Note to Poems, 1852, and Appendices of this edition. There is no evidence as to the date of composition. The emendations in lines 5 and 6 were first printed in P. W., 1893.

LINENOTES:

[5] blest] plac'd 1834, 1844, 1852.

[6] bleat-resounding] bleak-resounding 1834, 1852.

[16] nightly] mighty 1834, 1844.



THE HOMERIC HEXAMETER[307:2]

DESCRIBED AND EXEMPLIFIED

Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows, Nothing before and nothing behind but the sky and the ocean.

? 1799.

FOOTNOTES:

[307:2] First published (together with the 'Ovidian Elegiac Metre', &c.) in Friendship's Offering, 1834: included in P. W., 1834. An acknowledgement that these 'experiments in metre' are translations from Schiller was first made in a Note to Poems, 1844, p. 371. The originals were given on p. 372. See Appendices of this edition. There is no evidence as to the date of composition.



THE OVIDIAN ELEGIAC METRE

DESCRIBED AND EXEMPLIFIED

In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column; In the pentameter aye falling in melody back.

? 1799.



ON A CATARACT[308:1]

FROM A CAVERN NEAR THE SUMMIT OF A MOUNTAIN PRECIPICE

STROPHE

Unperishing youth! Thou leapest from forth The cell of thy hidden nativity; Never mortal saw The cradle of the strong one; 5 Never mortal heard The gathering of his voices; The deep-murmured charm of the son of the rock, That is lisp'd evermore at his slumberless fountain. There's a cloud at the portal, a spray-woven veil 10 At the shrine of his ceaseless renewing; It embosoms the roses of dawn, It entangles the shafts of the noon, And into the bed of its stillness The moonshine sinks down as in slumber, 15 That the son of the rock, that the nursling of heaven May be born in a holy twilight!

ANTISTROPHE

The wild goat in awe Looks up and beholds Above thee the cliff inaccessible;— 20 Thou at once full-born Madd'nest in thy joyance, Whirlest, shatter'st, splitt'st, Life invulnerable.

? 1799.

FOOTNOTES:

[308:1] First published in 1834. For the original (Unsterblicher Jngling) by Count F. L. Stolberg see Note to Poems, 1844, pp. 371-2, and Appendices of this edition.

LINENOTES:

Title] Improved from Stolberg. On a Cataract, &c. 1844, 1852.

[2-3]

Thou streamest from forth The cleft of thy ceaseless Nativity

MS. S. T. C.

[Between 7 and 13.]

The murmuring songs of the Son of the Rock, When he feeds evermore at the slumberless Fountain. There abideth a Cloud, At the Portal a Veil, At the shrine of thy self-renewing; It embodies the Visions of Dawn, It entangles, &c.

MS. S. T. C.

[20] Below thee the cliff inaccessible MS. S. T. C.

[22-3]

Flockest in thy Joyance, Wheelest, shatter'st, start'st.

MS. S. T. C.



TELL'S BIRTH-PLACE[309:1]

IMITATED FROM STOLBERG

I

Mark this holy chapel well! The birth-place, this, of William Tell. Here, where stands God's altar dread, Stood his parents' marriage-bed.

II

Here, first, an infant to her breast, 5 Him his loving mother prest; And kissed the babe, and blessed the day, And prayed as mothers use to pray.

III

'Vouchsafe him health, O God! and give The child thy servant still to live!' 10 But God had destined to do more Through him, than through an armd power.

IV

God gave him reverence of laws, Yet stirring blood in Freedom's cause— A spirit to his rocks akin, 15 The eye of the hawk, and the fire therein!

V

To Nature and to Holy Writ Alone did God the boy commit: Where flashed and roared the torrent, oft His soul found wings, and soared aloft! 20

VI

The straining oar and chamois chase Had formed his limbs to strength and grace: On wave and wind the boy would toss, Was great, nor knew how great he was!

VII

He knew not that his chosen hand, 25 Made strong by God, his native land Would rescue from the shameful yoke Of Slavery——the which he broke!

? 1799.

FOOTNOTES:

[309:1] First published in Sibylline Leaves, 1817: included in 1828, 1829, and 1834. For the original (Bei Wilhelm Tells Geburtssttte im Kanton Uri) by Count F. L. Stolberg see Appendices of this edition. There is no evidence as to the date of composition.

LINENOTES:

[28] Slavery] Slavery, all editions to 1834.



THE VISIT OF THE GODS[310:1]

IMITATED FROM SCHILLER

Never, believe me, Appear the Immortals, Never alone: Scarce had I welcomed the Sorrow-beguiler, Iacchus! but in came Boy Cupid the Smiler; 5 Lo! Phoebus the Glorious descends from his throne! They advance, they float in, the Olympians all! With Divinities fills my Terrestrial hall!

How shall I yield you 10 Due entertainment, Celestial quire? Me rather, bright guests! with your wings of upbuoyance Bear aloft to your homes, to your banquets of joyance, That the roofs of Olympus may echo my lyre! 15 Hah! we mount! on their pinions they waft up my soul! O give me the nectar! O fill me the bowl!

Give him the nectar! Pour out for the poet, 20 Hebe! pour free! Quicken his eyes with celestial dew, That Styx the detested no more he may view, And like one of us Gods may conceit him to be! Thanks, Hebe! I quaff it! Io Paean, I cry! 25 The wine of the Immortals Forbids me to die!

? 1799.

FOOTNOTES:

[310:1] First published in Sibylline Leaves, 1817: included in 1828, 1829 ('Vision of the Gods', Contents, vol. i, pp. 322-3 of both editions), and in 1834. For Schiller's original (Dithyrambe) see Appendices of this edition.



FROM THE GERMAN[311:1]

Know'st thou the land where the pale citrons grow, The golden fruits in darker foliage glow? Soft blows the wind that breathes from that blue sky! Still stands the myrtle and the laurel high! Know'st thou it well, that land, beloved Friend? 5 Thither with thee, O, thither would I wend!

? 1799.

FOOTNOTES:

[311:1] First published in 1834. For the original ('Mignon's Song') in Goethe's Wilhelm Meister see Appendices of this edition.



WATER BALLAD[311:2]

[FROM THE FRENCH]

'Come hither, gently rowing, Come, bear me quickly o'er This stream so brightly flowing To yonder woodland shore. But vain were my endeavour 5 To pay thee, courteous guide; Row on, row on, for ever I'd have thee by my side.

'Good boatman, prithee haste thee, I seek my father-land.'— 10 'Say, when I there have placed thee, Dare I demand thy hand?' 'A maiden's head can never So hard a point decide; Row on, row on, for ever 15 I'd have thee by my side.'

The happy bridal over The wanderer ceased to roam, For, seated by her lover, The boat became her home. 20 And still they sang together As steering o'er the tide: 'Row on through wind and weather For ever by my side.'

? 1799.

FOOTNOTES:

[311:2] First published in The Athenaeum, October 29, 1831. First collected in P. and D. W., 1877-80. For the original ('Barcarolle de Marie') of Franois Antoine Eugne de Planard see Appendices of this edition.



ON AN INFANT[312:1]

WHICH DIED BEFORE BAPTISM

'Be, rather than be called, a child of God,' Death whispered! With assenting nod, Its head upon its mother's breast, The Baby bowed, without demur— Of the kingdom of the Blest Possessor, not Inheritor.

April 8, 1799.

FOOTNOTES:

[312:1] First published in P. W., 1834. These lines were sent in a letter from Coleridge to his wife, dated Gttingen, April 6, 1799:—'Ah, my poor Berkeley!' [b. May 15, 1798, d. Feb. 10, 1799] he writes, 'A few weeks ago an Englishman desired me to write an epitaph on an infant who had died before its Christening. While I wrote it, my heart with a deep misgiving turned my thoughts homeward. "On an Infant", &c. It refers to the second question in the Church Catechism.' Letters of S. T. C. 1895, i. 287.

LINENOTES:

[1] called] call'd MS. Letter, 1799.

[3] its] the MS. letter, 1799.

[4] bow'd and went without demur MS. Letter, 1799.



SOMETHING CHILDISH, BUT VERY NATURAL[313:1]

WRITTEN IN GERMANY

If I had but two little wings And were a little feathery bird, To you I'd fly, my dear! But thoughts like these are idle things, And I stay here. 5

But in my sleep to you I fly: I'm always with you in my sleep! The world is all one's own. But then one wakes, and where am I? All, all alone. 10

Sleep stays not, though a monarch bids: So I love to wake ere break of day: For though my sleep be gone, Yet while 'tis dark, one shuts one's lids, And still dreams on. 15

April 23, 1799.

FOOTNOTES:

[313:1] First published in the Annual Anthology (1800), with the signature 'Cordomi': included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The lines, without title or heading, were sent in a letter from Coleridge to his wife, dated Gttingen, April 23, 1799 (Letters of S. T. C., 1895, i. 294-5). They are an imitation (see F. Freiligrath's Biographical Memoir to the Tauchnitz edition of 1852) of the German Folk-song Wenn ich ein Vglein wr. For the original see Appendices of this edition. The title 'Something Childish', &c., was prefixed in the Annual Anthology, 1800.

LINENOTES:

[3] you] you MS. Letter, 1799.

[6] you] you MS. Letter, 1799.



HOME-SICK[314:1]

WRITTEN IN GERMANY

'Tis sweet to him who all the week Through city-crowds must push his way, To stroll alone through fields and woods, And hallow thus the Sabbath-day.

And sweet it is, in summer bower, 5 Sincere, affectionate and gay, One's own dear children feasting round, To celebrate one's marriage-day.

But what is all to his delight, Who having long been doomed to roam, 10 Throws off the bundle from his back, Before the door of his own home?

Home-sickness is a wasting pang; This feel I hourly more and more: There's healing only in thy wings, 15 Thou breeze that play'st on Albion's shore!

May 6, 1799.

FOOTNOTES:

[314:1] First published in the Annual Anthology (1800), with the signature 'Cordomi': included in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, 1834. The lines, without title or heading, were sent in a letter from Coleridge to Poole, dated May 6, 1799 (Letters of S. T.C., 1895, i. 298). Dr. Carlyon in his Early Years, &c. (1856, i. 66), prints stanzas 1, 3, and 4. He says that they were written from Coleridge's dictation, in the Brockenstammbuch at the little inn on the Brocken. The title 'Home-Sick', &c., was prefixed in the Annual Anthology, 1800.

LINENOTES:

[13] a wasting pang] no baby-pang MS. Letter, 1799, An. Anth.

[15] There's only music in thy wings MS. Letter, 1799.



LINES[315:1]

WRITTEN IN THE ALBUM AT ELBINGERODE, IN THE HARTZ FOREST

I stood on Brocken's[315:2] sovran height, and saw Woods crowding upon woods, hills over hills, A surging scene, and only limited By the blue distance. Heavily my way Downward I dragged through fir groves evermore, 5 Where bright green moss heaves in sepulchral forms Speckled with sunshine; and, but seldom heard, The sweet bird's song became a hollow sound; And the breeze, murmuring indivisibly, Preserved its solemn murmur most distinct 10 From many a note of many a waterfall, And the brook's chatter; 'mid whose islet-stones The dingy kidling with its tinkling bell Leaped frolicsome, or old romantic goat Sat, his white beard slow waving. I moved on 15 In low and languid mood:[315:3] for I had found That outward forms, the loftiest, still receive Their finer influence from the Life within;— Fair cyphers else: fair, but of import vague Or unconcerning, where the heart not finds 20 History or prophecy of friend, or child, Or gentle maid, our first and early love, Or father, or the venerable name Of our adord country! O thou Queen, Thou delegated Deity of Earth, 25 O dear, dear England! how my longing eye Turned westward, shaping in the steady clouds Thy sands and high white cliffs!

My native Land! Filled with the thought of thee this heart was proud, Yea, mine eye swam with tears: that all the view 30 From sovran Brocken, woods and woody hills, Floated away, like a departing dream, Feeble and dim! Stranger, these impulses Blame thou not lightly; nor will I profane, With hasty judgment or injurious doubt, 35 That man's sublimer spirit, who can feel That God is everywhere! the God who framed Mankind to be one mighty family, Himself our Father, and the World our Home.

May 17, 1799.

FOOTNOTES:

[315:1] First published in the Morning Post, September 17, 1799: included in the Annual Anthology (1800) [signed C.], in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The lines were sent in a letter from Coleridge to his wife, dated May 17, 1799. Part of the letter was printed in the Amulet, 1829, and the whole in the Monthly Magazine for October, 1835. A long extract is given in Gillman's Life of S. T. C., 1838, pp. 125-38.

[315:2] The highest Mountain in the Harz, and indeed in North Germany.

[315:3]

——When I have gaz'd From some high eminence on goodly vales, And cots and villages embower'd below, The thought would rise that all to me was strange Amid the scenes so fair, nor one small spot Where my tired mind might rest and call it home. SOUTHEY'S Hymn to the Penates.

LINENOTES:

[3] surging] surging M. P.

[4] Heavily] Wearily MS. Letter.

[6] heaves] mov'd MS. Letter.

[8] a] an all editions to 1834.

[9] breeze] gale MS. Letter.

[11] waterfall] waterbreak MS. Letter.

[12] 'mid] on MS. Letter.

[16] With low and languid thought, for I had found MS. Letter.

[17] That grandest scenes have but imperfect charms MS. Letter, M. P., An. Anth.

[18]

Where the eye vainly wanders nor beholds

MS. Letter.

Where the sight, &c.

M. P., An. Anth.

[19] One spot with which the heart associates MS. Letter, M. P., An. Anth.

[19-21]

Fair cyphers of vague import, where the Eye Traces no spot, in which the Heart may read History or Prophecy

S. L. 1817, 1828.

[20]

Holy Remembrances of Child or Friend

MS. Letter.

Holy Remembrances of Friend or Child

M. P., An. Anth.

[26] eye] eyes MS. Letter.

[28-30]

Sweet native Isle This heart was proud, yea mine eyes swam with tears To think of thee: and all the goodly view

MS. Letter.

[28] O native land M. P., An. Anth.

[34] I] I MS. Letter.

[38] family] brother-hood MS. Letter.



THE BRITISH STRIPLING'S WAR-SONG[317:1]

IMITATED FROM STOLBERG

Yes, noble old Warrior! this heart has beat high, Since you told of the deeds which our countrymen wrought; O lend me the sabre that hung by thy thigh, And I too will fight as my forefathers fought.

Despise not my youth, for my spirit is steel'd, 5 And I know there is strength in the grasp of my hand; Yea, as firm as thyself would I march to the field, And as proudly would die for my dear native land.

In the sports of my childhood I mimick'd the fight, The sound of a trumpet suspended my breath; 10 And my fancy still wander'd by day and by night, Amid battle and tumult, 'mid conquest and death.

My own shout of onset, when the Armies advance, How oft it awakes me from visions of glory; When I meant to have leapt on the Hero of France, 15 And have dash'd him to earth, pale and breathless and gory.

As late thro' the city with banners all streaming To the music of trumpets the Warriors flew by, With helmet and scimitars naked and gleaming, On their proud-trampling, thunder-hoof'd steeds did they fly; 20

I sped to yon heath that is lonely and bare, For each nerve was unquiet, each pulse in alarm; And I hurl'd the mock-lance thro' the objectless air, And in open-eyed dream proved the strength of my arm.

Yes, noble old Warrior! this heart has beat high, 25 Since you told of the deeds that our countrymen wrought; O lend me the sabre that hung by thy thigh, And I too will fight as my forefathers fought!

? 1799.

FOOTNOTES:

[317:1] First published in the Morning Post, August 24, 1799: included in the Annual Anthology for 1800: reprinted in Literary Remains, 1836, i. 276, in the Gentleman's Magazine, 1848. ('Communicated to the Bath Herald during the Volunteer Frenzy of 1803') (N. S. xxix, p. 60), and in Essays on His Own Times, iii. 988-9. First collected in P. W., 1877-80, ii. 200-1. The MS. is preserved in the British Museum. The text follows that of the Annual Anthology, 1800, pp. 173-4. For the original by Count F. L. Stolberg (Lied eines deutschen Knaben) see Appendices of this edition.

LINENOTES:

Title] The Stripling's War-Song. Imitated from the German of Stolberg MS. The Stripling's, &c. Imitated from Stolberg L. R. The British Stripling's War Song M. P., An. Anth., Essays, &c. The Volunteer Stripling. A Song G. M.

[1] Yes] My MS., L. R.

[2] Since] When G. M. which] that MS., L. R. our] your M. P., Essays, &c.

[3] Ah! give me the sabre [[*Falchion*]] that [which L. R.] MS., Essays, &c.

[5] O despise MS., L. R., Essays, &c.

[7] march] move MS., L. R.

[8] would] could Essays, &c. native land] fatherland L. R.

[9] fight] sight G. M.

[10] sound] shrill [[*sound*]] MS., L. R. a] the M. P., Essays, &c.

[12] Amid tumults [tumult L. R.] and perils MS. 'mid] and Essays, &c. Mid battle and bloodshed G. M.

[13]

My own eager shout in the heat of my trance

MS., MS. correction in An. Anth., L. R.

My own shout of onset, { in the heat of my trance G. M., 1893. { [*when the armies advance*] MS.

[14] visions] dreams full MS., L. R. How oft it has wak'd G. M.

[15] When I dreamt that I rush'd G. M.

[16] breathless] deathless L. R. pale, breathless G. M.

[17] city] town G. M.

[17-18]

{ with bannerets streaming { [*with a terrible beauty*] To [And L. R.] the music

MS.

[19] scimitars] scymetar MS., L.R., Essays, &c., G. M.: scymeter M. P.

[Between 20-1]

And the Host pacing after in gorgeous parade All mov'd to one measure in front and in rear; And the Pipe, Drum and Trumpet, such harmony made As the souls of the Slaughter'd would loiter to hear.

MS. erased.

[21] that] which L. R.

[22] For my soul MS. erased.

[23] I hurl'd my MS., L. R., Essays, &c. objectless] mind-peopled G. M.

[26] Since] When G. M.

[27] Ah! give me the falchion MS., L. R.



NAMES[318:1]

[FROM LESSING]

I ask'd my fair one happy day, What I should call her in my lay; By what sweet name from Rome or Greece; Lalage, Neaera, Chloris, Sappho, Lesbia, or Doris, 5 Arethusa or Lucrece.

'Ah!' replied my gentle fair, 'Belovd, what are names but air? Choose thou whatever suits the line; Call me Sappho, call me Chloris, 10 Call me Lalage or Doris, Only, only call me Thine.'

1799.

FOOTNOTES:

[318:1] First published in the Morning Post: reprinted in the Poetical Register for 1803 (1805) with the signature HARLEY. PHILADELPHIA, in the Keepsake for 1829, in Cottle's Early Recollections (two versions) 1837, ii. 67, and in Essays on His Own Times, iii. 990, 'As it first appeared' in the Morning Post. First collected in 1834. For the original (Die Namen) see Appendices of this edition.

LINENOTES:

Title] Song from Lessing M. P., Essays, &c.: From the German of Lessing P. R.: Epigram Keepsake, 1829, Cottle's Early Recollections.