Poems of Coleridge

THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO

  Of late, in one of those most weary hours,  When life seems emptied of all genial powers,  A dreary mood, which he who ne'er has known  May bless his happy lot, I sate alone;  And, from the numbing spell to win relief,  Call'd on the Past for thought of glee or grief.  In vain! bereft alike of grief and glee,  I sate and cow'r'd o'er my own vacancy!  And as I watch'd the dull continuous ache,  Which, all else slum'bring, seem'd alone to wake;  O Friend! long wont to notice yet conceal,  And soothe by silence what words cannot heal,  I but half saw that quiet hand of thine  Place on my desk this exquisite design.  Boccaccio's Garden and its faery,  The love, the joyaunce, and the gallantry!  An Idyll, with Boccaccio's spirit warm,  Framed in the silent poesy of form.  Like flocks adown a newly-bathed steep    Emerging from a mist: or like a stream  Of music soft that not dispels the sleep,    But casts in happier moulds the slumberer's dream,  Gazed by an idle eye with silent might  The picture stole upon my inward sight.  A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest,  As though an infant's finger touch'd my breast.  And one by one (I know not whence) were brought  All spirits of power that most had stirr'd my thought  In selfless boyhood, on a new world tost  Of wonder, and in its own fancies lost;  Or charm'd my youth, that, kindled from above,  Loved ere it loved, and sought a form for love;  Or lent a lustre to the earnest scan  Of manhood, musing what and whence is man!  Wild strain of Scalds, that in the sea-worn caves  Rehearsed their war-spell to the winds and waves;  Or fateful hymn of those prophetic maids,  That call'd on Hertha in deep forest glades;  Or minstrel lay, that cheer'd the baron's feast;  Or rhyme of city pomp, of monk and priest,  Judge, mayor, and many a guild in long array,  To high-church pacing on the great saint's day.  And many a verse which to myself I sang,  That woke the tear yet stole away the pang,  Of hopes which in lamenting I renew'd.  And last, a matron now, of sober mien,  Yet radiant still and with no earthly sheen,  Whom as a faery child my childhood woo'd  Even in my dawn of thought—Philosophy;  Though then unconscious of herself, pardie,  She bore no other name than Poesy;  And, like a gift from heaven, in lifeful glee,  That had but newly left a mother's knee,  Prattled and play'd with bird and flower, and stone,  As if with elfin playfellows well known,  And life reveal'd to innocence alone.  Thanks, gentle artist! now I can descry  Thy fair creation with a mastering eye,  And all awake! And now in fix'd gaze stand,  Now wander through the Eden of thy hand;  Praise the green arches, on the fountain clear  See fragment shadows of the crossing deer;  And with that serviceable nymph I stoop  The crystal from its restless pool to scoop.  I see no longer! I myself am there,  Sit on the ground-sward, and the banquet share.  'Tis I, that sweep that lute's love-echoing strings,  And gaze upon the maid who gazing sings;  Or pause and listen to the tinkling bells  From the high tower, and think that there she dwells.  With old Boccaccio's soul I stand possest,  And breathe an air like life, that swells my chest.  The brightness of the world, O thou once free,  And always fair, rare land of courtesy!  O Florence! with the Tuscan fields and hills  And famous Arno, fed with all their rills;  Thou brightest star of star-bright Italy!  Rich, ornate, populous, all treasures thine,  The golden corn, the olive, and the vine.  Fair cities, gallant mansions, castles old,  And forests, where beside his leafy hold  The sullen boar hath heard the distant horn,  And whets his tusks against the gnarled thorn;  Palladian palace with its storied halls;  Fountains, where Love lies listening to their falls;  Gardens, where flings the bridge its airy span,  And Nature makes her happy home with man;  Where many a gorgeous flower is duly fed  With its own rill, on its own spangled bed,  And wreathes the marble urn, or leans its head,  A mimic mourner, that with veil withdrawn  Weeps liquid gems, the presents of the dawn;—  Thine all delights, and every muse is thine;  And more than all, the embrace and intertwine  Of all with all in gay and twinkling dance!  Mid gods of Greece and warriors of romance,  See! Boccace sits, unfolding on his knees  The new-found roll of old Maeonides;  But from his mantle's fold, and near the heart,  Peers Ovid's Holy Book of Love's sweet smart!  O all-enjoying and all-blending sage,  Long be it mine to con thy mazy page,  Where, half conceal'd, the eye of fancy views  Fauns, nymphs, and winged saints, all gracious to thy muse!  Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks,  And see in Dian's vest between the ranks  Of the trim vines, some maid that half believes  The vestal fires, of which her lover grieves,  With that sly satyr peeping through the leaves!

1828.

THE TWO FOUNTS

STANZAS ADDRESSED TO A LADY [MRS. ADERS] ON HER RECOVERY WITH UNBLEMISHED LOOKS, FROM A SEVERE ATTACK OF PAIN  'T was my last waking thought, how it could be  That thou, sweet friend, such anguish should'st endure;  When straight from Dreamland came a Dwarf, and he  Could tell the cause, forsooth, and knew the cure.  Methought he fronted me with peering look  Fix'd on my heart; and read aloud in game  The loves and griefs therein, as from a book:  And uttered praise like one who wished to blame.  In every heart (quoth he) since Adam's sin  Two Founts there are, of Suffering and of Cheer!  That to let forth, and this to keep within!  But she, whose aspect I find imaged here,  Of Pleasure only will to all dispense,  That Fount alone unlock, by no distress  Choked or turned inward, but still issue thence  Unconquered cheer, persistent loveliness.  As on the driving cloud the shiny bow,  That gracious thing made up of tears and light,  Mid the wild rack and rain that slants below  Stands smiling forth, unmoved and freshly bright:  As though the spirits of all lovely flowers,  Inweaving each its wreath and dewy crown,  Or ere they sank to earth in vernal showers,  Had built a bridge to tempt the angels down.  Even so, Eliza! on that face of thine,  On that benignant face, whose look alone  (The soul's translucence thro' her crystal shrine!)  Has power to soothe all anguish but thine own,  A beauty hovers still, and ne'er takes wing,  But with a silent charm compels the stern  And tort'ring Genius of the bitter spring,  To shrink aback, and cower upon his urn.  Who then needs wonder, if (no outlet found  In passion, spleen, or strife) the Fount of Pain  O'erflowing beats against its lovely mound,  And in wild flashes shoots from heart to brain?  Sleep, and the Dwarf with that unsteady gleam  On his raised lip, that aped a critic smile,  Had passed: yet I, my sad thoughts to beguile,  Lay weaving on the tissue of my dream;  Till audibly at length I cried, as though  Thou hadst indeed been present to my eyes,  O sweet, sweet sufferer; if the case be so,  I pray thee, be less good, less sweet, less wise!  In every look a barbed arrow send,  On those soft lips let scorn and anger live!  Do any thing, rather than thus, sweet friend!  Hoard for thyself the pain, thou wilt not give!

1826.

A DAY-DREAM

  My eyes make pictures, when they are shut:    I see a fountain, large and fair,  A willow and a ruined hut,    And thee, and me and Mary there.  O Mary! make thy gentle lap our pillow!  Bend o'er us, like a bower, my beautiful green willow!    A wild-rose roofs the ruined shed,      And that and summer well agree:    And lo! where Mary leans her head,      Two dear names carved upon the tree!  And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow:  Our sister and our friend will both be here tomorrow.    'Twas day! but now few, large, and bright,      The stars are round the crescent moon!    And now it is a dark warm night,      The balmiest of the month of June!  A glow-worm fall'n, and on the marge remounting  Shines, and its shadow shines, fit stars for our sweet fountain.    O ever—ever be thou blest!      For dearly, Asra! love I thee!    This brooding warmth across my breast,      This depth of tranquil bliss—ah, me!  Fount, tree and shed are gone, I know not whither,  But in one quiet room we three are still together.    The shadows dance upon the wall,      By the still dancing fire-flames made;    And now they slumber moveless all!      And now they melt to one deep shade!  But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee;  I dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee!    Thine eyelash on my cheek doth play—     'Tis Mary's hand upon my brow!    But let me check this tender lay     Which none may hear but she and thou!  Like the still hive at quiet midnight humming,  Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women!

?1807.

SONNET

TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME  Charles! my slow heart was only sad, when first    I scanned that face of feeble infancy:  For dimly on my thoughtful spirit burst    All I had been, and all my child might be!  But when I saw it on its mother's arm,    And hanging at her bosom (she the while    Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile)  Then I was thrilled and melted, and most warm  Impressed a father's kiss: and all beguiled    Of dark remembrance and presageful fear,    I seemed to see an angel-form appear—  'Twas even thine, beloved woman mild!    So for the mother's sake the child was dear,  And dearer was the mother for the child.

1796.

LINES TO W. LINLEY, ESQ

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

1797.

DOMESTIC PEACE

[FROM THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE, ACT I.]  Tell me, on what holy ground  May Domestic Peace be found?  Halcyon daughter of the skies,  Far on fearful wings she flies,  From the pomp of Sceptered State,  From the Rebel's noisy hate.  In a cottaged vale She dwells,  Listening to the Sabbath bells!  Still around her steps are seen  Spotless Honour's meeker mien,  Love, the sire of pleasing fears,  Sorrow smiling through her tears,  And conscious of the past employ  Memory, bosom-spring of joy.

1794.

SONG

SUNG BY GLYCINE IN ZAPOLYA, ACT II. SCENE 2  A Sunny shaft did I behold,    From sky to earth it slanted:  And poised therein a bird so bold—    Sweet bird, thou wert enchanted!  He sunk, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled    Within that shaft of sunny mist;  His eyes of fire, his beak of gold,    All else of amethyst!  And thus he sang: "Adieu! adieu!  Love's dreams prove seldom true.  The blossoms they make no delay:  The sparkling dew-drops will not stay.      Sweet month of May,        We must away;          Far, far away!            To-day! to-day!"

1815.

HUNTING SONG

[ZAPOLYA, ACT IV. SCENE 2]  Up, up! ye dames, and lasses gay!  To the meadows trip away.  'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn,  And scare the small birds from the corn.      Not a soul at home may stay:        For the shepherds must go        With lance and bow      To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.  Leave the hearth and leave the house  To the cricket and the mouse:  Find grannam out a sunny seat,  With babe and lambkin at her feet.    Not a soul at home may stay:      For the shepherds must go      With lance and bow    To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

1815.

WESTPHALIAN SONG

[The following is an almost literal translation of a very old and very favourite song among the Westphalian Boors. The turn at the end is the same with one of Mr. Dibdin's excellent songs, and the air to which it is sung by the Boors is remarkably sweet and lively.]

  When thou to my true-love com'st    Greet her from me kindly;  When she asks thee how I fare?    Say, folks in Heaven fare finely.  When she asks, "What! Is he sick?"    Say, dead!—and when for sorrow  She begins to sob and cry,    Say, I come to-morrow.

?1799.

YOUTH AND AGE

  Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying,  Where Hope clung feeding, like a bee—  Both were mine! Life went a-maying        With Nature, Hope, and Poesy,              When I was young!  When I was young?—Ah, woeful When!  Ah! for the change 'twixt Now and Then!  This breathing house not built with hands,  This body that does me grievous wrong,  O'er aery cliffs and glittering sands,  How lightly then it flashed along:—  Like those trim skiffs, unknown of yore,  On winding lakes and rivers wide,  That ask no aid of sail or oar,  That fear no spite of wind or tide!  Nought cared this body for wind or weather  When Youth and I lived in't together.  Flowers are lovely; Love is flower-like;  Friendship is a sheltering tree;  O! the joys, that came down shower-like,  Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,                             Ere I was old!  Ere I was old? Ah woeful Ere,  Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!  O Youth! for years so many and sweet,  'Tis known, that Thou and I were one,  I'll think it but a fond conceit—  It cannot be that Thou art gone!  Thy vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd:-  And thou wert aye a masker bold!  What strange disguise hast now put on,  To make believe, that thou art gone?  I see these locks in silvery slips,  This drooping gait, this altered size:  But Spring-tide blossoms on thy lips,  And tears take sunshine from thine eyes!  Life is but thought: so think I will  That Youth and I are house-mates still.  Dew-drops are the gems of morning,  But the tears of mournful eve!  Where no hope is, life's a warning  That only serves to make us grieve,                           When we are old:  That only serves to make us grieve  With oft and tedious taking-leave,  Like some poor nigh-related guest,  That may not rudely be dismist;  Yet hath outstay'd his welcome while,  And tells the jest without the smile.

1823-1832.

WORK WITHOUT HOPE

LINES COMPOSED 2IST FEBRUARY 1827  All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair—  The bees are stirring—birds are on the wing—  And Winter, slumbering in the open air,  Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!  And I the while, the sole unbusy thing,  Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.  Yet well I ken the banks where amaranths blow,  Have traced the fount whence streams of nectar flow.  Bloom, O ye amaranths! bloom for whom ye may,  For me ye bloom not! Glide, rich streams, away!  With lips unbrightened, wreathless brow, I stroll:  And would you learn the spells that drowse my soul?  Work without Hope draws nectar in a sieve,  And Hope without an object cannot live.

1827.

TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY

AN ALLEGORY  On the wide level of a mountain's head,  (I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place)  Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread,  Two lovely children run an endless race,        A sister and a brother!        This far outstript the other;    Yet ever runs she with reverted face,    And looks and listens for the boy behind:        For he, alas! is blind!  O'er rough and smooth with even step he passed,  And knows not whether he be first or last.

1815.

LOVE'S APPARITION AND EVANISHMENT

AN ALLEGORIC ROMANCE      Like a lone Arab, old and blind,      Some caravan had left behind,      Who sits beside a ruin'd well,      Where the shy sand-asps bask and swell;  And now he hangs his aged head aslant,  And listens for a human sound—in vain!  And now the aid, which Heaven alone can grant,  Upturns his eyeless face from Heaven to gain;—  Even thus, in vacant mood, one sultry hour,  Resting my eye upon a drooping plant,  With brow low-bent, within my garden-bower,  I sate upon the couch of camomile;  And—whether 'twas a transient sleep, perchance,  Flitted across the idle brain, the while  I watch'd the sickly calm with aimless scope,  In my own heart; or that, indeed a trance,  Turn'd my eye inward—thee, O genial Hope,  Love's elder sister! thee did I behold,  Drest as a bridesmaid, but all pale and cold,  With roseless cheek, all pale and cold and dim,    Lie lifeless at my feet!  And then came Love, a sylph in bridal trim,    And stood beside my seat;  She bent, and kiss'd her sister's lips,    As she was wont to do;—  Alas! 'twas but a chilling breath  Woke just enough of life in death    To make Hope die anew.

L'ENVOY

  In vain we supplicate the Powers above;  There is no resurrection for the Love  That, nursed in tenderest care, yet fades away  In the chill'd heart by gradual self-decay.

1833.

LOVE, HOPE, AND PATIENCE IN EDUCATION

  O'er wayward childhood would'st thou hold firm rule,  And sun thee in the light of happy faces;  Love, Hope, and Patience, these must be thy graces,  And in thine own heart let them first keep school.  For as old Atlas on his broad neck places  Heaven's starry globe, and there sustains it;—so  Do these upbear the little world below  Of Education,—Patience, Love, and Hope.  Methinks, I see them group'd in seemly show,  The straiten'd arms upraised, the palms aslope,  And robes that touching as adown they flow,  Distinctly blend, like snow emboss'd in snow.  O part them never! If Hope prostrate lie,              Love too will sink and die.  But Love is subtle, and doth proof derive  From her own life that Hope is yet alive;  And bending o'er, with soul-transfusing eyes,  And the soft murmurs of the mother dove,  Wooes back the fleeting spirit, and half supplies;—  Thus Love repays to Hope what Hope first gave to Love.  Yet haply there will come a weary day,              When overtask'd at length  Both Love and Hope beneath the load give way.  Then with a statue's smile, a statue's strength,  Stands the mute sister, Patience, nothing loth,  And both supporting does the work of both.

1829.

DUTY SURVIVING SELF-LOVE

THE ONLY SURE FRIEND OF DECLINING LIFE A SOLILOQUY  Unchanged within, to see all changed without,  Is a blank lot and hard to bear, no doubt.  Yet why at others' wanings should'st thou fret?  Then only might'st thou feel a just regret,  Hadst thou withheld thy love or hid thy light  In selfish forethought of neglect and slight.  O wiselier then, from feeble yearnings freed,  While, and on whom, thou may'st—shine on! nor heed  Whether the object by reflected light  Return thy radiance or absorb it quite:  And though thou notest from thy safe recess  Old friends burn dim, like lamps in noisome air,  Love them for what they are; nor love them less,  Because to thee they are not what they were.

1826.

LOVE'S FIRST HOPE

  O Fair is Love's first hope to gentle mind!  As Eve's first star thro' fleecy cloudlet peeping;  And sweeter than the gentle south-west wind,  O'er willowy meads, and shadow'd waters creeping,  And Ceres' golden fields;—the sultry hind  Meets it with brow uplift, and stays his reaping.

?1824.

PHANTOM

  All look and likeness caught from earth,  All accident of kin and birth,  Had pass'd away. There was no trace  Of aught on that illumined face,  Upraised beneath the rifted stone,  But of one spirit all her own;—  She, she herself, and only she,  Shone through her body visibly.

1804.

TO NATURE

  It may indeed be phantasy: when I  Essay to draw from all created things  Deep, heartfelt, inward joy that closely clings;  And trace in leaves and flowers that round me lie  Lessons of love and earnest piety.  So let it be; and if the wide world rings  In mock of this belief, it brings  Nor fear, nor grief, nor vain, perplexity.  So will I build my altar in the fields,  And the blue sky my fretted dome shall be,  And the sweet fragrance that the wild flower yields  Shall be the incense I will yield to Thee,  Thee only God! and thou shalt not despise  Even me, the priest of this poor sacrifice.

?182O.

FANCY IN NUBIBUS

OR THE POET IN THE CLOUDS  O! It is pleasant, with a heart at ease,    Just after sunset, or by moonlight skies,  To make the shifting clouds be what you please,    Or let the easily persuaded eyes  Own each quaint likeness issuing from the mould    Of a friend's fancy; or with head bent low  And cheek aslant see rivers flow of gold    'Twixt crimson banks; and then, a traveller, go  From mount to mount through Cloudland, gorgeous land!    Or list'ning to the tide, with closed sight,  Be that blind bard, who on the Chian strand    By those deep sounds possessed with inward light,  Beheld the Iliad and the Odyssee  Rise to the swelling of the voiceful sea.

1819.

CONSTANCY TO AN IDEAL OBJECT

  Since all that beat about in Nature's range,  Or veer or vanish; why should'st thou remain  The only constant in a world of change,  O yearning Thought! that liv'st but in the brain?  Call to the Hours, that in the distance play,  The faery people of the future day—  Fond Thought! not one of all that shining swarm  Will breathe on thee with life-enkindling breath,  Till when, like strangers shelt'ring from a storm,  Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death!  Yet still thou haunt'st me; and though well I see,  She is not thou, and only thou art she,  Still, still as though some dear embodied Good,  Some living Love before my eyes there stood  With answering look a ready ear to lend,  I mourn to thee and say—"Ah! loveliest friend!  That this the meed of all my toils might be,  To have a home, an English home, and thee!"  Vain repetition! Home and Thou are one.  The peacefull'st cot, the moon shall shine upon,  Lulled by the thrush and wakened by the lark,  Without thee were but a becalmed bark,  Whose helmsman on an ocean waste and wide  Sits mute and pale his mouldering helm beside.  And art thou nothing? Such thou art, as when  The woodman winding westward up the glen  At wintry dawn, where o'er the sheep-track's maze  The viewless snow-mist weaves a glist'ning haze,  Sees full before him, gliding without tread,  An image with a glory round its head;  The enamoured rustic worships its fair hues,  Nor knows he makes the shadow, he pursues!

?1805.

PHANTOM OR FACT

A DIALOGUE IN VERSEAUTHOR  A Lovely form there sate beside my bed,  And such a feeding calm its presence shed,  A tender love so pure from earthly leaven,  That I unnethe the fancy might control,  'Twas my own spirit newly come from heaven,  Wooing its gentle way into my soul!  But ah! the change—It had not stirr'd, and yet—  Alas! that change how fain would I forget!  That shrinking back, like one that had mistook!  That weary, wandering, disavowing look!  'Twas all another, feature, look, and frame,  And still, methought, I knew, it was the same!FRIEND  This riddling tale, to what does it belong?  Is't history? vision? or an idle song?  Or rather say at once, within what space  Of time this wild disastrous change took place?AUTHOR  Call it a moment's work (and such it seems)  This tale's a fragment from the life of dreams;  But say, that years matur'd the silent strife,  And 'tis a record from the dream of life.

?183O.

LINES

SUGGESTED BY THE LAST WORDS OF BERENGARIUS OB. ANNO DOM. 1O88  No more 'twixt conscience staggering and the Pope  Soon shall I now before my God appear,  By him to be acquitted, as I hope;  By him to be condemned, as I fear.—REFLECTION ON THE ABOVE  Lynx amid moles! had I stood by thy bed,  Be of good cheer, meek soul! I would have said:  I see a hope spring from that humble fear.  All are not strong alike through storms to steer  Right onward. What though dread of threatened death  And dungeon torture made thy hand and breath  Inconstant to the truth within thy heart?  That truth, from which, through fear, thou twice didst start,  Fear haply told thee, was a learned strife,  Or not so vital as to claim thy life:  And myriads had reached Heaven, who never knew  Where lay the difference 'twixt the false and true!  Ye, who secure 'mid trophies not your own,  Judge him who won them when he stood alone,  And proudly talk of recreant Berengare—  O first the age, and then the man compare!  That age how dark! congenial minds how rare!  No host of friends with kindred zeal did burn!  No throbbing hearts awaited his return!  Prostrate alike when prince and peasant fell,  He only disenchanted from the spell,  Like the weak worm that gems the starless night,  Moved in the scanty circlet of his light:  And was it strange if he withdrew the ray  That did but guide the night-birds to their prey?  The ascending day-star with a bolder eye  Hath lit each dew-drop on our trimmer lawn!  Yet not for this, if wise, will we decry  The spots and struggles of the timid Dawn;  Lest so we tempt the approaching Noon to scorn  The mists and painted vapours of our Morn.

?1826.