



Produced by Jonathan Ingram, Michael Zeug, Lisa Reigel,
and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at
http://www.pgdp.net







Transcriber's Notes: Words surrounded by _underscores_ are in italics in
the original. Characters superscripted in the original are enclosed in
{braces}.

In this text, the following symbols are used:

  ¯ indicates a macron
  ˘ indicates a breve

Some words and phrases have a line drawn through them in the original.
These struck out words are enclosed in brackets with asterisks like
this:

  [*these words are struck through*]

Characters printed in a Gothic font are enclosed in brackets with equal
signs like this:

  [=these words are in a Gothic font=]

Other Transcriber's Notes follow the text.




THE

COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS

OF

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

INCLUDING

POEMS AND VERSIONS OF POEMS NOW
PUBLISHED FOR THE FIRST TIME


EDITED

WITH TEXTUAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

BY

ERNEST HARTLEY COLERIDGE
M.A., HON. F.R.S.L.


IN TWO VOLUMES

VOL. I: POEMS


[Illustration]


OXFORD
AT THE CLARENDON PRESS
1912




PREFACE


The aim and purport of this edition of the _Poetical Works_ of Samuel
Taylor Coleridge is to provide the general reader with an authoritative
list of the poems and dramas hitherto published, and at the same time to
furnish the student with an exhaustive summary of various readings
derived from published and unpublished sources, viz. (1) the successive
editions issued by the author, (2) holograph MSS., or (3) contemporary
transcriptions. Occasion has been taken to include in the Text and
Appendices a considerable number of poems, fragments, metrical
experiments and first drafts of poems now published for the first time
from MSS. in the British Museum, from Coleridge's Notebooks, and from
MSS. in the possession of private collectors.

The text of the poems and dramas follows that of the last edition of the
_Poetical Works_ published in the author's lifetime--the three-volume
edition issued by Pickering in the spring and summer of 1834.

I have adopted the text of 1834 in preference to that of 1829, which was
selected by James <DW18>s Campbell for his monumental edition of 1893. I
should have deferred to his authority but for the existence of
conclusive proof that, here and there, Coleridge altered and emended the
text of 1829, with a view to the forthcoming edition of 1834. In the
Preface to the 'new edition' of 1852, the editors maintain that the
three-volume edition of 1828 (a mistake for 1829) was the last upon
which Coleridge was 'able to bestow personal care and attention', while
that of 1834 was 'arranged mainly if not entirely at the discretion of
his latest editor, H. N. Coleridge'. This, no doubt, was perfectly true
with regard to the choice and arrangement of the poems, and the labour
of seeing the three volumes through the press; but the fact remains that
the text of 1829 differs from that of 1834, and that Coleridge himself,
and not his 'latest editor', was responsible for that difference.

I have in my possession the proof of the first page of the 'Destiny of
Nations' as it appeared in 1828 and 1829. Line 5 ran thus: 'The Will,
the Word, the Breath, the Living God.' This line is erased and line 5
of 1834 substituted: 'To the Will Absolute, the One, the Good' and line
6, 'The I AM, the Word, the Life, the Living God,' is added, and, in
1834, appeared for the first time. Moreover, in the 'Songs of the
Pixies', lines 9, 11, 12, 15, 16, as printed in 1834, differ from the
readings of 1829 and all previous editions. Again, in 'Christabel' lines
6, 7 as printed in 1834 differ from the versions of 1828, 1829, and
revert to the original reading of the MSS. and the First Edition. It is
inconceivable that in Coleridge's lifetime and while his pen was still
busy, his nephew should have meddled with, or remodelled, the master's
handiwork.

The poems have been printed, as far as possible, in chronological order,
but when no MS. is extant, or when the MS. authority is a first draft
embodied in a notebook, the exact date can only be arrived at by a
balance of probabilities. The present edition includes all poems and
fragments published for the first time in 1893. Many of these were
excerpts from the Notebooks, collected, transcribed, and dated by
myself. Some of the fragments (_vide post_, p. 996, n. 1) I have since
discovered are not original compositions, but were selected passages
from elder poets--amongst them Cartwright's lines, entitled 'The Second
Birth', which are printed on p. 362 of the text; but for their insertion
in the edition of 1893, for a few misreadings of the MSS., and for their
approximate date, I was mainly responsible.

In preparing the textual and bibliographical notes which are now printed
as footnotes to the poems I was constantly indebted for information and
suggestions to the Notes to the Poems (pp. 561-654) in the edition of
1893. I have taken nothing for granted, but I have followed, for the
most part, where <DW18>s Campbell led, and if I differ from his
conclusions or have been able to supply fresh information, it is because
fresh information based on fresh material was at my disposal.

No apology is needed for publishing a collation of the text of
Coleridge's Poems with that of earlier editions or with the MSS. of
first drafts and alternative versions. The first to attempt anything of
the kind was Richard Herne Shepherd, the learned and accurate editor of
the _Poetical Works_ in four volumes, issued by Basil Montagu Pickering
in 1877. Important variants are recorded by Mr. Campbell in his Notes to
the edition of 1893; and in a posthumous volume, edited by Mr. Hale
White in 1899 (_Coleridge's Poems_, &c.), the corrected parts of
'Religious Musings', the MSS. of 'Lewti', the 'Introduction to the Dark
Ladié', and other poems are reproduced in facsimile. Few poets have
altered the text of their poems so often, and so often for the better,
as Coleridge. He has been blamed for 'writing so little', for deserting
poetry for metaphysics and theology; he has been upbraided for winning
only to lose the 'prize of his high calling'. Sir Walter Scott, one of
his kindlier censors, rebukes him for 'the caprice and indolence with
which he has thrown from him, as if in mere wantonness, those unfinished
scraps of poetry, which like the Torso of antiquity defy the skill of
his poetical brethren to complete them'. But whatever may be said for or
against Coleridge as an 'inventor of harmonies', neither the fineness of
his self-criticism nor the laborious diligence which he expended on
perfecting his inventions can be gainsaid. His erasures and emendations
are not only a lesson in the art of poetry, not only a record of
poetical growth and development, but they discover and reveal the hidden
springs, the thoughts and passions of the artificer.

But if this be true of a stanza, a line, a word here or there, inserted
as an afterthought, is there use or sense in printing a number of
trifling or, apparently, accidental variants? Might not a choice have
been made, and the jots and tittles ignored or suppressed?

My plea is that it is difficult if not impossible to draw a line above
which a variant is important and below which it is negligible; that, to
use a word of the poet's own coining, his emendations are rarely if ever
'lightheartednesses'; and that if a collation of the printed text with
MSS. is worth studying at all the one must be as decipherable as the
other. Facsimiles are rare and costly productions, and an exhaustive
table of variants is the nearest approach to a substitute. Many, I know,
are the shortcomings, too many, I fear, are the errors in the footnotes
to this volume, but now, for the first time, the MSS. of Coleridge's
poems which are known to be extant are in a manner reproduced and made
available for study and research.

Six poems of some length are now printed and included in the text of the
poems for the first time.

The first, 'Easter Holidays' (p. 1), is unquestionably a 'School-boy
Poem', and was written some months before the author had completed his
fifteenth year. It tends to throw doubt on the alleged date of 'Time,
Real and Imaginary'.

The second,'An Inscription for a Seat,' &c. (p. 349), was first
published in the _Morning Post_, on October 21, 1800, Coleridge's
twenty-eighth birthday. It remains an open question whether it was
written by Coleridge or by Wordsworth. Both were contributors to the
_Morning Post_. Both wrote 'Inscriptions'. Both had a hand in making the
'seat'. Neither claimed or republished the poem. It favours or, rather,
parodies the style and sentiments now of one and now of the other.

The third, 'The Rash Conjurer' (p. 399), must have been read by H. N.
Coleridge, who included the last seven lines, the 'Epilogue', in the
first volume of _Literary Remains_, published in 1836. I presume that,
even as a fantasia, the subject was regarded as too extravagant, and, it
may be, too coarsely worded for publication. It was no doubt in the
first instance a 'metrical experiment', but it is to be interpreted
allegorically. The 'Rash Conjurer', the _âme damnée_, is the adept in
the black magic of metaphysics. But for that he might have been like his
brothers, a 'Devonshire Christian'.

The fourth, 'The Madman and the Lethargist' (p. 414), is an expansion of
an epigram in the Greek Anthology. It is possible that it was written in
Germany in 1799, and is contemporary with the epigrams published in the
_Morning Post_ in 1802, for the Greek original is quoted by Lessing in a
critical excursus on the nature of an epigram.

The fifth, 'Faith, Hope, and Charity' (p. 427), was translated from the
Italian of Guarini at Calne, in 1815.

Of the sixth, 'The Delinquent Travellers' (p. 443), I know nothing save
that the MS., a first copy, is in Coleridge's handwriting. It was
probably written for and may have been published in a newspaper or
periodical. It was certainly written at Highgate.

Of the epigrams and _jeux d'esprit_ eight are now published for the
first time, and of the fragments from various sources twenty-seven have
been added to those published in 1893.

Of the first drafts and alternative versions of well-known poems
thirteen are now printed for the first time. Two versions of 'The Eolian
Harp', preserved in the Library of Rugby School, and the dramatic
fragment entitled 'The Triumph of Loyalty', are of especial interest and
importance.

An exact reproduction of the text of the 'Ancyent Marinere' as printed
in an early copy of the _Lyrical Ballads_ of 1798 which belonged to S.
T. Coleridge, and a collation of the text of the 'Introduction to the
Tale of the Dark Ladié', as published in the _Morning Post_, Dec. 21,
1799, with two MSS. preserved in the British Museum, are included in
Appendix No. I.

The text of the 'Allegoric Vision' has been collated with the original
MS. and with the texts of 1817 and 1829.

A section has been devoted to 'Metrical Experiments'; eleven out of
thirteen are now published for the first time. A few critical notes by
Professor Saintsbury are, with his kind permission, appended to the
text.

Numerous poems and fragments of poems first saw the light in 1893; and
now again, in 1912, a second batch of newly-discovered, forgotten, or
purposely omitted MSS. has been collected for publication. It may
reasonably be asked if the tale is told, or if any MSS. have been
retained for publication at a future date. I cannot answer for fresh
discoveries of poems already published in newspapers and periodicals, or
of MSS. in private collections, but I can vouch for a final issue of all
poems and fragments of poems included in the collection of Notebooks and
unassorted MSS. which belonged to Coleridge at his death and were
bequeathed by him to his literary executor, Joseph Henry Green. Nothing
remains which if published in days to come could leave the present issue
incomplete.

A bibliography of the successive editions of poems and dramas published
by Coleridge himself and of the principal collected and selected
editions which have been published since 1834 follows the Appendices to
this volume. The actual record is long and intricate, but the history of
the gradual accretions may be summed up in a few sentences. 'The Fall of
Robespierre' was published in 1795. A first edition, entitled 'Poems on
Various Subjects', was published in 1796. Second and third editions,
with additions and subtractions, followed in 1797 and 1803. Two poems,
'The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere' and 'The Nightingale, a Conversation
Poem', and two extracts from an unpublished drama ('Osorio') were
included in the _Lyrical Ballads_ of 1798. A quarto pamphlet containing
three poems, 'Fears in Solitude,' 'France: An Ode,' 'Frost at Midnight,'
was issued in the same year. 'Love' was first published in the second
edition of the _Lyrical Ballads_, 1800. 'The Three Graves,' 'A Hymn
before Sunrise, &c.,' and 'Idoloclastes Satyrane', were included in the
_Friend_ (Sept.-Nov., 1809). 'Christabel,' 'Kubla Khan,' and 'The Pains
of Sleep' were published by themselves in 1816. _Sibylline Leaves_,
which appeared in 1817 and was described as 'A Collection of Poems',
included the contents of the editions of 1797 and 1803, the poems
published in the _Lyrical Ballads_ of 1798, 1800, and the quarto
pamphlet of 1798, but excluded the contents of the first edition (except
the 'Eolian Harp'), 'Christabel', 'Kubla Khan', and 'The Pains of
Sleep'. The first collected edition of the _Poetical Works_ (which
included a selection of the poems published in the three first editions,
a reissue of _Sibylline Leaves_, the 'Wanderings of Cain', a few poems
recently contributed to periodicals, and the following dramas--the
translation of Schiller's 'Piccolomini', published in 1800, 'Remorse'--a
revised version of 'Osorio'--published in 1813, and 'Zapolya', published
in 1817) was issued in three volumes in 1828. A second collected edition
in three volumes, a reissue of 1828, with an amended text and the
addition of 'The Improvisatore' and 'The Garden of Boccaccio', followed
in 1829.

Finally, in 1834, there was a reissue in three volumes of the contents
of 1829 with numerous additional poems then published or collected for
the first time. The first volume contained twenty-six juvenilia printed
from letters and MS. copybooks which had been preserved by the poet's
family, and the second volume some forty 'Miscellaneous Poems',
extracted from the Notebooks or reprinted from newspapers. The most
important additions were 'Alice du Clos', then first published from MS.,
'The Knight's Tomb' and the 'Epitaph'. 'Love, Hope, and Patience in
Education', which had appeared in the _Keepsake_ of 1830, was printed on
the last page of the third volume.

After Coleridge's death the first attempt to gather up the fragments of
his poetry was made by his 'latest editor' H. N. Coleridge in 1836. The
first volume of _Literary Remains_ contains the first reprint of 'The
Fall of Robespierre', some thirty-six poems collected from the
_Watchman_, the _Morning Post_, &c., and a selection of fragments then
first printed from a MS. Notebook, now known as 'the Gutch Memorandum
Book'.

H. N. Coleridge died in 1843, and in 1844 his widow prepared a
one-volume edition of the Poems, which was published by Pickering.
Eleven juvenilia which had first appeared in 1834 were omitted and the
poems first collected in _Literary Remains_ were for the first time
included in the text. In 1850 Mrs. H. N. Coleridge included in the third
volume of the _Essays on His Own Times_ six poems and numerous epigrams
and _jeux d'esprit_ which had appeared in the _Morning Post_ and
_Courier_. This was the first reprint of the Epigrams as a whole. A 'new
edition' of the Poems which she had prepared in the last year of her
life was published immediately after her death (May, 1852) by Edward
Moxon. It was based on the one-volume edition of 1844, with unimportant
omissions and additions; only one poem, 'The Hymn', was published for
the first time from MS.

In the same year (1852) the Dramatic Works (not including 'The Fall of
Robespierre'), edited by Derwent Coleridge, were published in a separate
volume.

In 1863 and 1870 the 'new edition' of 1852 was reissued by Derwent
Coleridge with an appendix containing thirteen poems collected for the
first time in 1863. The reissue of 1870 contained a reprint of the first
edition of the 'Ancient Mariner'.

The first edition of the _Poetical Works_, based on all previous
editions, and including the contents of _Literary Remains_ (vol. i) and
of _Essays on His Own Times_ (vol. iii), was issued by Basil Montagu
Pickering in four volumes in 1877. Many poems (including 'Remorse') were
collated for the first time with the text of previous editions and
newspaper versions by the editor, Richard Herne Shepherd. The four
volumes (with a Supplement to vol. ii) were reissued by Messrs.
Macmillan in 1880.

Finally, in the one-volume edition of the _Poetical Works_ issued by
Messrs. Macmillan in 1893, J. D. Campbell included in the text some
twenty poems and in the Appendix a large number of poetical fragments
and first drafts then printed for the first time from MS.

       *       *       *       *       *

The frontispiece of this edition is a photogravure by Mr. Emery Walker,
from a pencil sketch (_circ._ 1818) by C. R. Leslie, R.A., in the
possession of the Editor. An engraving of the sketch, by Henry Meyer, is
dated April, 1819.

The vignette on the title-page is taken from the impression of a seal,
stamped on the fly-leaf of one of Coleridge's Notebooks.

I desire to express my thanks to my kinsman Lord Coleridge for
opportunity kindly afforded me of collating the text of the fragments
first published in 1893 with the original MSS. in his possession, and of
making further extracts; to Mr. Gordon Wordsworth for permitting me to
print a first draft of the poem addressed to his ancestor on the 'Growth
of an Individual Mind'; and to Miss Arnold of Fox How for a copy of the
first draft of the lines 'On Revisiting the Sea-shore'.

I have also to acknowledge the kindness and courtesy of the Authorities
of Rugby School, who permitted me to inspect and to make use of an
annotated copy of Coleridge's translation of Schiller's 'Piccolomini',
and to publish first drafts of 'The Eolian Harp' and other poems which
had formerly belonged to Joseph Cottle and were presented by Mr.
Shadworth Hodgson to the School Library.

I am indebted to my friend Mr. Thomas Hutchinson for valuable
information with regard to the authorship of some of the fragments, and
for advice and assistance in settling the text of the 'Metrical
Experiments' and other points of difficulty.

I have acknowledged in a prefatory note to the epigrams my obligation to
Dr. Hermann Georg Fiedler, Taylorian Professor of the German Language
and Literature at Oxford, in respect of his verifications of the German
originals of many of the epigrams published by Coleridge in the _Morning
Post_ and elsewhere.

Lastly, I wish to thank Mr. H. S. Milford for the invaluable assistance
which he afforded me in revising my collation of the 'Songs of the
Pixies' and the 'Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladié', and some
of the earlier poems, and the Reader of the Oxford University Press for
numerous hints and suggestions, and for the infinite care which he has
bestowed on the correction of slips of my own or errors of the press.

  ERNEST HARTLEY COLERIDGE.




CONTENTS OF THE TWO VOLUMES


VOLUME I

                                                                    PAGE
PREFACE                                                              iii

1787
  Easter Holidays. [MS. _Letter_, May 12, 1787.]                       1
  Dura Navis. [B. M. Add. MSS. 34,225]                                 2
  Nil Pejus est Caelibe Vitâ. [Boyer's _Liber Aureus_.]                4

1788
  Sonnet: To the Autumnal Moon                                         5

1789
  Anthem for the Children of Christ's Hospital. [MS. O.]               5
  Julia. [Boyer's _Liber Aureus_.]                                     6
  Quae Nocent Docent. [Boyer's _Liber Aureus_.]                        7
  The Nose. [MS. O.]                                                   8
  To the Muse. [MS. O.]                                                9
  Destruction of the Bastile. [MS. O.]                                10
  Life. [MS. O.]                                                      11

1790
  Progress of Vice. [MS. O.: Boyer's _Liber Aureus_.]                 12
  Monody on the Death of Chatterton. (First version.) [MS. O.:
      Boyer's _Liber Aureus_.]                                        13
  An Invocation. [J. D. C.]                                           16
  Anna and Harland. [MS. J. D. C.]                                    16
  To the Evening Star. [MS. O.]                                       16
  Pain. [MS. O.]                                                      17
  On a Lady Weeping. [MS. O. (c).]                                    17
  Monody on a Tea-kettle. [MSS. O., S. T. C.]                         18
  Genevieve. [MSS. O., E.]                                            19

1791
  On receiving an Account that his Only Sister's Death was
      Inevitable. [MS. O.]                                            20
  On seeing a Youth Affectionately Welcomed by a Sister               21
  A Mathematical Problem. [MS. _Letter_, March 31, 1791:
      MS. O. (c).]                                                    21
  Honour. [MS. O.]                                                    24
  On Imitation. [MS. O.]                                              26
  Inside the Coach. [MS. O.]                                          26
  Devonshire Roads. [MS. O.]                                          27
  Music. [MS. O.]                                                     28
  Sonnet: On quitting School for College. [MS. O.]                    29
  Absence. A Farewell Ode on quitting School for Jesus College,
      Cambridge. [MS. E.]                                             29
  Happiness. [MS. _Letter_, June 22, 1791: MS. O. (c).]               30

1792
  A Wish. Written in Jesus Wood, Feb. 10, 1792. [MS. _Letter_,
      Feb. 13, [1792].]                                               33
  An Ode in the Manner of Anacreon. [MS. _Letter_, Feb. 13, [1792].]  33
  To Disappointment. [MS. _Letter_, Feb. 13, [1792].]                 34
  A Fragment found in a Lecture-room. [MS. _Letter_, April [1792],
      MS. E.]                                                         35
  Ode. ('Ye Gales,' &c.) [MS. E.]                                     35
  A Lover's Complaint to his Mistress. [MS. _Letter_, Feb. 13,
      [1792].]                                                        36
  With Fielding's 'Amelia.' [MS. O.]                                  37
  Written after a Walk before Supper. [MS. _Letter_, Aug. 9,
      [1792].]                                                        37

1793
  Imitated from Ossian. [MS. E.]                                      38
  The Complaint of Ninathóma. [MS. _Letter_, Feb. 7, 1793.]           39
  Songs of the Pixies. [MS. 4{o}: MS. E.]                             40
  The Rose. [MS. _Letter_, July 28, 1793: MS. (_pencil_) in
      Langhorne's _Collins_: MS. E.]                                  45
  Kisses. [MS. _Letter_, Aug. 5, 1793: MS. (_pencil_) in Langhorne's
     _Collins_: MS. E.]                                               46
  The Gentle Look. [MS. _Letter_, Dec. 11. 1794: MS. E.]              47
  Sonnet: To the River Otter                                          48
  An Effusion at Evening. Written in August 1792. (First Draft.)
      [MS. E.]                                                        49
  Lines: On an Autumnal Evening                                       51
  To Fortune                                                          54

1794
  Perspiration. A Travelling Eclogue. [MS. _Letter_, July 6, 1794.]   56
  [Ave, atque Vale!] ('Vivit sed mihi,' &c.) [MS. _Letter_, July 13,
      [1794].]                                                        56
  On Bala Hill. [Morrison MSS.]                                       56
  Lines: Written at the King's Arms, Ross, formerly the House of the
      'Man of Ross'. [MS. _Letter_, July 13, 1794: MS. E: Morrison
      MSS: MS. 4{o}.]                                                 57
  Imitated from the Welsh. [MS. _Letter_, Dec. 11, 1794: MS. E.]      58
  Lines: To a Beautiful Spring in a Village. [MS. E.]                 58
  Imitations: Ad Lyram. (Casimir, Book II, Ode 3.) [MS. E.]           59
  To Lesbia. [Add. MSS. 27,702]                                       60
  The Death of the Starling. [_ibid._]                                61
  Moriens Superstiti. [_ibid._]                                       61
  Morienti Superstes. [_ibid._]                                       62
  The Sigh. [MS. _Letter_, Nov. 1794: Morrison MSS: MS. E.]           62
  The Kiss. [MS. 4{o}: MS. E.]                                        63
  To a Young Lady with a Poem on the French Revolution. [MS.
      _Letter_, Oct. 21, 1794: MS. 4{o}: MS. E.]                      64
  Translation of Wrangham's 'Hendecasyllabi ad Bruntonam e Granta
      Exituram' [Kal. Oct. MDCCXC]                                    66
  To Miss Brunton with the preceding Translation                      67
  Epitaph on an Infant. ('Ere Sin could blight.') [MS. E.]            68
  Pantisocracy. [MSS. _Letters_, Sept. 18, Oct. 19, 1794: MS. E.]     68
  On the Prospect of establishing a Pantisocracy in America           69
  Elegy: Imitated from one of Akenside's Blank-verse Inscriptions.
      [(No.) III.]                                                    69
  The Faded Flower                                                    70
  The Outcast                                                         71
  Domestic Peace. (From 'The Fall of Robespierre,' Act I, l. 210.)    71
  On a Discovery made too late. [MS. _Letter_, Oct. 21, 1794.]        72
  To the Author of 'The Robbers'                                      72
  Melancholy. A Fragment. [MS. _Letter_, Aug. 26,1802.]               73
  To a Young Ass: Its Mother being tethered near it. [MS. Oct. 24,
      1794: MS. _Letter_, Dec. 17, 1794.]                             74
  Lines on a Friend who Died of a Frenzy Fever induced by Calumnious
      Reports. [MS. _Letter_, Nov. 6, 1794: MS. 4{o}: MS. E.]         76
  To a Friend [Charles Lamb] together with an Unfinished Poem. [MS.
      _Letter_, Dec. 1794]                                            78
  Sonnets on Eminent Characters: Contributed to the _Morning
      Chronicle_, in Dec. 1794 and Jan. 1795:--
       I. To the Honourable Mr. Erskine                               79
      II. Burke. [MS. _Letter_, Dec. 11, 1794.]                       80
     III. Priestley. [MS. _Letter_, Dec. 17, 1794.]                   81
      IV. La Fayette                                                  82
       V. Koskiusko. [MS. _Letter_, Dec. 17, 1794.]                   82
      VI. Pitt                                                        83
     VII. To the Rev. W. L. Bowles. (First Version, printed in
              _Morning Chronicle_, Dec. 26, 1794.) [MS. _Letter_,
              Dec. 11, 1794.]                                         84
          (Second Version.)                                           85
    VIII. Mrs. Siddons                                                85

1795.
      IX. To William Godwin, Author of 'Political Justice.' [Lines
              9-14, MS. _Letter_, Dec. 17, 1794.]                     86
       X. To Robert Southey of Baliol College, Oxford, Author of the
              'Retrospect' and other Poems. [MS. _Letter_, Dec. 17,
              1794.]                                                  87
      XI. To Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Esq. [MS. _Letter_, Dec. 9,
              1794: MS. E.]                                           87
     XII. To Lord Stanhope on reading his Late Protest in the House
              of Lords. [_Morning Chronicle_, Jan. 31, 1795.]         89
  To Earl Stanhope                                                    89
  Lines: To a Friend in Answer to a Melancholy Letter                 90
  To an Infant. [MS. E.]                                              91
  To the Rev. W. J. Hort while teaching a Young Lady some Song-tunes
      on his Flute                                                    92
  Pity. [MS. E.]                                                      93
  To the Nightingale                                                  93
  Lines: Composed while climbing the Left Ascent of Brockley Coomb,
      Somersetshire, May 1795                                         94
  Lines in the Manner of Spenser                                      94
  The Hour when we shall meet again. (_Composed during Illness and
      in Absence._)                                                   96
  Lines written at Shurton Bars, near Bridgewater, September 1795,
      in Answer to a Letter from Bristol                              96
  The Eolian Harp. Composed at Clevedon, Somersetshire. [MS. R.]     100
  To the Author of Poems [Joseph Cottle] published anonymously at
      Bristol in September 1795                                      102
  The Silver Thimble. The Production of a Young Lady, addressed to
      the Author of the Poems alluded to in the preceding Epistle.
      [MS. R.]                                                       104
  Reflections on having left a Place of Retirement                   106
  Religious Musings. [1794-1796.]                                    108
  Monody on the Death of Chatterton. [1790-1834.]                    125

1796
  The Destiny of Nations. A Vision                                   131
  Ver Perpetuum. Fragment from an Unpublished Poem                   148
  On observing a Blossom on the First of February 1796               148
  To a Primrose. The First seen in the Season                        149
  Verses: Addressed to J. Horne Tooke and the Company who met on
      June 28, 1796, to celebrate his Poll at the Westminster
      Election                                                       150
  On a Late Connubial Rupture in High Life [Prince and Princess of
      Wales]. [MS _Letter_, July 4, 1796]                            152
  Sonnet: On receiving a Letter informing me of the Birth of a Son.
      [MS. _Letter_, Nov. 1, 1796.]                                  152
  Sonnet: Composed on a Journey Homeward; the Author having
      received Intelligence of the Birth of a Son, Sept. 20, 1796.
      [MS. _Letter_, Nov. 1, 1796.]                                  153
  Sonnet: To a Friend who asked how I felt when the Nurse first
      presented my Infant to me. [MS. _Letter_, Nov. 1, 1796]        154
  Sonnet: [To Charles Lloyd]                                         155
  To a Young Friend on his proposing to domesticate with the
      Author. _Composed in_ 1796                                     155
  Addressed to a Young Man of Fortune [C. Lloyd]                     157
  To a Friend [Charles Lamb] who had declared his intention of
      writing no more Poetry                                         158
  Ode to the Departing Year                                          160

1797
  The Raven. [MS. S. T. C.]                                          169
  To an Unfortunate Woman at the Theatre                             171
  To an Unfortunate Woman whom the Author had known in the days of
      her Innocence                                                  172
  To the Rev. George Coleridge                                       173
  On the Christening of a Friend's Child                             176
  Translation of a Latin Inscription by the Rev. W. L. Bowles in
      Nether-Stowey Church                                           177
  This Lime-tree Bower my Prison                                     178
  The Foster-mother's Tale                                           182
  The Dungeon                                                        185
  The Rime of the Ancient Mariner                                    186
  Sonnets attempted in the Manner of Contemporary Writers            209
  Parliamentary Oscillators                                          211
  Christabel. [For MSS. _vide_ p. 214]                               213
  Lines to W. L. while he sang a Song to Purcell's Music             236

1798
  Fire, Famine, and Slaughter                                        237
  Frost at Midnight                                                  240
  France: An Ode.                                                    243
  The Old Man of the Alps                                            248
  To a Young Lady on her Recovery from a Fever                       252
  Lewti, or the Circassian Love-chaunt. [For MSS. _vide_ pp.
      1049-62]                                                       253
  Fears in Solitude. [MS. W.]                                        256
  The Nightingale. A Conversation Poem                               264
  The Three Graves. [Parts I, II. MS. S. T. C.]                      267
  The Wanderings of Cain. [MS. S. T. C.]                             285
  To ----                                                            292
  The Ballad of the Dark Ladié                                       293
  Kubla Khan                                                         295
  Recantation: Illustrated in the Story of the Mad Ox                299

1799
  Hexameters. ('William my teacher,' &c.)                            304
  Translation of a Passage in Ottfried's Metrical Paraphrase of the
      Gospel                                                         306
  Catullian Hendecasyllables                                         307
  The Homeric Hexameter described and exemplified                    307
  The Ovidian Elegiac Metre described and exemplified                308
  On a Cataract. [MS. S. T. C.]                                      308
  Tell's Birth-Place                                                 309
  The Visit of the Gods                                              310
  From the German. ('Know'st thou the land,' &c.)                    311
  Water Ballad. [From the French.]                                   311
  On an Infant which died before Baptism. ('Be rather,' &c.) [MS.
      _Letter_, Apr. 8, 1799]                                        312
  Something Childish, but very Natural. Written in Germany. [MS.
      _Letter_, April 23, 1799.]                                     313
  Home-Sick. Written in Germany. [MS. _Letter_, May 6, 1799.]        314
  Lines written in the Album at Elbingerode in the Hartz Forest.
      [MS. _Letter_, May 17, 1799.]                                  315
  The British Stripling's War-Song. [Add. MSS. 27,902]               317
  Names. [From Lessing.]                                             318
  The Devil's Thoughts. [MS. copy by Derwent Coleridge.]             319
  Lines composed in a Concert-room                                   324
  Westphalian Song                                                   326
  Hexameters. Paraphrase of Psalm xlvi. [MS. _Letter_, Sept. 29,
      1799.]                                                         326
  Hymn to the Earth. [Imitated from Stolberg's _Hymne an die
      Erde_.] Hexameters                                             327
  Mahomet                                                            329
  Love. [British Museum Add. MSS. No. 27,902: Wordsworth and
      Coleridge MSS.]                                                330
  Ode to Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, on the Twenty-fourth
      Stanza in her 'Passage over Mount Gothard'                     335
  A Christmas Carol                                                  338

1800
  Talleyrand to Lord Grenville. A Metrical Epistle                   340
  Apologia pro Vita sua. ('The poet in his lone,' &c.) [MS.
      Notebook.]                                                     345
  The Keepsake                                                       345
  A Thought suggested by a View of Saddleback in Cumberland. [MS.
      Notebook.]                                                     347
  The Mad Monk                                                       347
  Inscription for a Seat by the Road Side half-way up a Steep Hill
      facing South                                                   349
  A Stranger Minstrel                                                350
  Alcaeus to Sappho. [MS. _Letter_, Oct. 7, 1800.]                   353
  The Two Round Spaces on the Tombstone. [MS. _Letter_, Oct. 9,
      1800: Add. MSS. 28,322]                                        353
  The Snow-drop. [MS. S. T. C.]                                      356

1801
  On Revisiting the Sea-shore. [MS. _Letter_, Aug. 15, 1801:
      MS. A.]                                                        359
  Ode to Tranquillity                                                360
  To Asra. [MS. (of _Christabel_) S. T. C. (c).]                     361
  The Second Birth. [MS. Notebook.]                                  362
  Love's Sanctuary. [MS. Notebook.]                                  362

1802
  Dejection: An Ode. [Written April 4, 1802.] [MS. _Letter_,
      July 19, 1802: Coleorton MSS.]                                 362
  The Picture, or the Lover's Resolution                             369
  To Matilda Betham from a Stranger                                  374
  Hymn before Sun-rise, in the Vale of Chamouni. [MS. A. (1803):
      MS. B. (1809): MS. C. (1815).]                                 376
  The Good, Great Man                                                381
  Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath                              381
  An Ode to the Rain                                                 382
  A Day-dream. ('My eyes make pictures,' &c.)                        385
  Answer to a Child's Question                                       386
  The Day-dream. From an Emigrant to his Absent Wife                 386
  The Happy Husband. A Fragment                                      388

1803
  The Pains of Sleep. [MS. _Letters_, Sept. 11, Oct 3, 1803.]        389

1804
  The Exchange                                                       391

1805
  Ad Vilmum Axiologum. [To William Wordsworth.] [MS. Notebook.]      391
  An Exile. [MS. Notebook.]                                          392
  Sonnet. [Translated from Marini.] [MS. Notebook.]                  392
  Phantom. [MS. Notebook.]                                           393
  A Sunset. [MS. Notebook.]                                          393
  What is Life? [MS. Notebook.]                                      394
  The Blossoming of the Solitary Date-tree                           395
  Separation. [MS. Notebook.]                                        397
  The Rash Conjurer. [MS. Notebook.]                                 399

1806
  A Child's Evening Prayer. [MS. Mrs. S. T. C.]                      401
  Metrical Feet. Lesson for a Boy. [Lines 1-7, MS. Notebook.]        401
  Farewell to Love                                                   402
  To William Wordsworth. [Coleorton MS: MS. W.]                      403
  An Angel Visitant. [? 1801.] [MS. Notebook.]                       409

1807
  Recollections of Love. [MS. Notebook.]                             409
  To Two Sisters. [Mary Morgan and Charlotte Brent]                  410

1808
  Psyche. [MS. S. T. C.]                                             412

1809
  A Tombless Epitaph                                                 413
  For a Market-clock. (Impromptu.) [MS. _Letter_, Oct. 9, 1809: MS.
      Notebook.]                                                     414
  The Madman and the Lethargist. [MS. Notebook.]                     414

1810
  The Visionary Hope                                                 416

1811
  Epitaph on an Infant. ('Its balmy lips,' &c.)                      417
  The Virgin's Cradle-hymn                                           417
  To a Lady offended by a Sportive Observation that Women have no
      Souls                                                          418
  Reason for Love's Blindness                                        418
  The Suicide's Argument. [MS. Notebook.]                            419

1812
  Time, Real and Imaginary                                           419
  An Invocation. From _Remorse_ [Act III, Scene I, ll. 69-82]        420

1813
  The Night-scene. [Add. MSS. 34,225]                                421

1814
  A Hymn                                                             423
  To a Lady, with Falconer's _Shipwreck_                             424

1815
  Human Life. On the Denial of Immortality                           425
  Song. From _Zapolya_ (Act II, Sc. i, ll. 65-80.)                   426
  Hunting Song. From _Zapolya_ (Act IV, Sc. ii, ll. 56-71)           427
  Faith, Hope, and Charity. From the Italian of Guarini              427
  To Nature [? 1820]                                                 429

1817
  Limbo. [MS. Notebook: MS. S. T. C.]                                429
  _Ne Plus Ultra_ [? 1826]. [MS. Notebook.]                          431
  The Knight's Tomb                                                  432
  On Donne's Poetry [? 1818]                                         433
  Israel's Lament                                                    433
  Fancy in Nubibus, or the Poet in the Clouds. [MS. S. T. C.]        435

1820
  The Tears of a Grateful People                                     436

1823
  Youth and Age. [MS. S. T. C.: MSS. (1, 2) Notebook.]               439
  The Reproof and Reply                                              441

1824
  First Advent of Love. [MS. Notebook.]                              443
  The Delinquent Travellers                                          443

1825
  Work without Hope. Lines composed 21st February, 1825              447
  _Sancti Dominici Pallium._ A Dialogue between Poet and Friend.
      [MS. S. T. C.]                                                 448
  Song. ('Though veiled,' &c.) [MS. Notebook.]                       450
  A Character. [Add. MSS. 34,225]                                    451
  The Two Founts. [MS. S. T. C.]                                     454
  Constancy to an Ideal Object                                       455
  The Pang more Sharp than All. An Allegory                          457

1826
  Duty surviving Self-love. The only sure Friend of declining Life.  459
  Homeless                                                           460
  Lines suggested by the last Words of Berengarius; ob. Anno Dom.
      1088                                                           460
  Epitaphium Testamentarium                                          462
  Ἔρως ἀεὶ λάληθρος ἑταῖρος                                               462

1827
  The Improvisatore; or, 'John Anderson, My Jo, John'                462
  To Mary Pridham [afterwards Mrs. Derwent Coleridge]. [MS.
      S. T. C.]                                                      468

1828
  Alice du Clos; or, The Forked Tongue. A Ballad. [MS. S. T. C.]     469
  Love's Burial-place                                                475
  Lines: To a Comic Author, on an Abusive Review [? 1825]. [Add.
      MSS. 34,225]                                                   476
  Cologne                                                            477
  On my Joyful Departure from the same City                          477
  The Garden of Boccaccio                                            478

1829
  Love, Hope, and Patience in Education. [MS. _Letter_, July 1,
      1829: MS. S. T. C.]                                            481
  To Miss A. T.                                                      482
  Lines written in Commonplace Book of Miss Barbour, Daughter of
      the Minister of the U. S. A. to England                        483

1830
  Song, _ex improviso_, on hearing a Song in praise of a Lady's
      Beauty                                                         483
  Love and Friendship Opposite                                       484
  Not at Home                                                        484
  Phantom or Fact. A Dialogue in Verse                               484
  Desire. [MS. S. T. C.]                                             485
  Charity in Thought                                                 486
  Humility the Mother of Charity                                     486
  [Coeli Enarrant.] [MS. S. T. C.]                                   486
  Reason                                                             487

1832
  Self-knowledge                                                     487
  Forbearance                                                        488

1833
  Love's Apparition and Evanishment                                  488
  To the Young Artist Kayser of Kaserwerth                           490
  My Baptismal Birth-day                                             490
  Epitaph. [For six MS. versions vide Note, p. 491].                 491

END OF THE POEMS


VOLUME II

DRAMATIC WORKS

1794
  THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. An Historic Drama                         495

1797
  OSORIO. A Tragedy                                                  518

1800
  THE PICCOLOMINI; or, THE FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. A Drama
      translated from the German of Schiller.
    Preface to the First Edition                                     598
    The Piccolomini                                                  600
  THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. A Tragedy in Five Acts.
    Preface of the Translator to the First Edition                   724
    The Death of Wallenstein                                         726

1812
  REMORSE.
    Preface                                                          812
    Prologue                                                         816
    Epilogue                                                         817
    Remorse. A Tragedy in Five Acts                                  819

1815
  ZAPOLYA. A Christmas Tale in Two Parts.
    Advertisement                                                    883
    Part I. The Prelude, entitled 'The Usurper's Fortune'            884
    Part II. The Sequel, entitled 'The Usurper's Fate'               901


EPIGRAMS
  An Apology for Spencers                                            951
  On a Late Marriage between an Old Maid and French Petit Maître     952
  On an Amorous Doctor                                               952
  'Of smart pretty Fellows,' &c.                                     952
  On Deputy ----                                                     953
  'To be ruled like a Frenchman,' &c.                                953
  On Mr. Ross, usually Cognominated _Nosy_                           953
  'Bob now resolves,' &c.                                            953
  'Say what you will, Ingenious Youth'                               954
  'If the guilt of all lying,' &c.                                   954
  On an Insignificant                                                954
  'There comes from old Avaro's grave'                               954
  On a Slanderer                                                     955
  Lines in a German Student's Album                                  955
  [Hippona]                                                          955
  On a Reader of His Own Verses                                      955
  On a Report of a Minister's Death                                  956
  [Dear Brother Jem]                                                 956
  Job's Luck                                                         957
  On the Sickness of a Great Minister                                957
  [To a Virtuous Oeconomist]                                         958
  [L'Enfant Prodigue]                                                958
  On Sir Rubicund Naso                                               958
  To Mr. Pye                                                         959
  [Ninety-Eight]                                                     959
  Occasioned by the Former                                           959
  [A Liar by Profession]                                             960
  To a Proud Parent                                                  960
  Rufa                                                               960
  On a Volunteer Singer                                              960
  Occasioned by the Last                                             961
  Epitaph on Major Dieman                                            961
  On the Above                                                       961
  Epitaph on a Bad Man (Three Versions)                              961
  To a Certain Modern Narcissus                                      962
  To a Critic                                                        962
  Always Audible                                                     963
  Pondere non Numero                                                 963
  The Compliment Qualified                                           963
  'What is an Epigram,' &c.                                          963
  'Charles, grave or merry,' &c.                                     964
  'An evil spirit's on thee, friend,' &c.                            964
  'Here lies the Devil,' &c.                                         964
  To One Who Published in Print, &c.                                 964
  'Scarce any scandal,' &c.                                          965
  'Old Harpy,' &c.                                                   965
  To a Vain Young Lady                                               965
  A Hint to Premiers and First Consuls                               966
  'From me, Aurelia,' &c.                                            966
  For a House-Dog's Collar                                           966
  'In vain I praise thee, Zoilus'                                    966
  Epitaph on a Mercenary Miser                                       967
  A Dialogue between an Author and his Friend                        967
  Μωροσοφία, or Wisdom in Folly                                       967
  'Each Bond-street buck,' &c.                                       968
  From an Old German Poet                                            968
  On the Curious Circumstance, That in the German, &c.               968
  Spots in the Sun                                                   969
  'When Surface talks,' &c.                                          969
  To my Candle                                                       969
  Epitaph on Himself                                                 970
  The Taste of the Times                                             970
  On Pitt and Fox                                                    970
  'An excellent adage,' &c.                                          971
  Comparative Brevity of Greek and English                           971
  On the Secrecy of a Certain Lady                                   971
  Motto for a Transparency, &c. (Two Versions)                       972
  'Money, I've heard,' &c.                                           972
  Modern Critics                                                     972
  Written in an Album                                                972
  To a Lady who requested me to Write a Poem upon Nothing            973
  Sentimental                                                        973
  'So Mr. Baker,' &c.                                                973
  Authors and Publishers                                             973
  The Alternative                                                    974
  'In Spain, that land,' &c.                                         974
  Inscription for a Time-piece                                       974
  On the Most Veracious Anecdotist, &c.                              974
  'Nothing speaks our mind,' &c.                                     975
  Epitaph of the Present Year on the Monument of Thomas Fuller       975


JEUX D'ESPRIT                                                        976
  My Godmother's Beard                                               976
  Lines to Thomas Poole                                              976
  To a Well-known Musical Critic, &c.                                977
  To T. Poole: An Invitation                                         978
  Song, To be Sung by the Lovers of all the noble liquors, &c.       978
  Drinking _versus_ Thinking                                         979
  The Wills of the Wisp                                              979
  To Captain Findlay                                                 980
  On Donne's Poem 'To a Flea'                                        980
  [Ex Libris S. T. C.]                                               981
  ΕΓΩΕΝΚΑΙΠΑΝ                                                          981
  The Bridge Street Committee                                        982
  Nonsense Sapphics                                                  983
  To Susan Steele, &c.                                               984
  Association of Ideas                                               984
  Verses Trivocular                                                  985
  Cholera Cured Before-hand                                          985
  To Baby Bates                                                      987
  To a Child                                                         987


FRAGMENTS FROM A NOTEBOOK. (_circa_ 1796-1798)                       988


FRAGMENTS. (_For unnamed Fragments see_ Index of First Lines.)       996
  Over my Cottage                                                    997
  [The Night-Mare Death in Life]                                     998
  A Beck in Winter                                                   998
  [Not a Critic--But a Judge]                                       1000
  [De Profundis Clamavi]                                            1001
  Fragment of an Ode on Napoleon                                    1003
  Epigram on Kepler                                                 1004
  [Ars Poetica]                                                     1006
  Translation of the First Strophe of Pindar's Second Olympic       1006
  Translation of a Fragment of Heraclitus                           1007
  Imitated from Aristophanes                                        1008
  To Edward Irving                                                  1008
  [Luther--De Dæmonibus]                                            1009
  The Netherlands                                                   1009
  Elisa: Translated from Claudian                                   1009
  Profuse Kindness                                                  1010
  Napoleon                                                          1010
  The Three Sorts of Friends                                        1012
  Bo-Peep and I Spy--                                               1012
  A Simile                                                          1013
  Baron Guelph of Adelstan. A Fragment                              1013


METRICAL EXPERIMENTS                                                1014
  An Experiment for a Metre ('I heard a Voice,' &c.)                1014
  Trochaics                                                         1015
  The Proper Unmodified Dochmius                                    1015
  Iambics                                                           1015
  Nonsense ('Sing, impassionate Soul,' &c.)                         1015
  A Plaintive Movement                                              1016
  An Experiment for a Metre ('When thy Beauty appears')             1016
  Nonsense Verses ('Ye fowls of ill presage')                       1017
  Nonsense ('I wish on earth to sing')                              1017
  'There in some darksome shade'                                    1018
  'Once again, sweet Willow, wave thee'                             1018
  'Songs of Shepherds, and rustical Roundelays'                     1018
  A Metrical Accident                                               1019
  Notes by Professor Saintsbury                                     1019


APPENDIX I

FIRST DRAFTS, EARLY VERSIONS, ETC.

  A. Effusion 35, August 20th, 1795. (First Draft.) [MS. R.]        1021
       Effusion, p. 96 [1797]. (Second Draft.) [MS. R.]             1021
  B. Recollection                                                   1023
  C. The Destiny of Nations. (Draft I.) [Add. MSS. 34,225]          1024
        "      "       "     (Draft II.) [_ibid._]                  1026
        "      "       "     (Draft III.) [_ibid._]                 1027
  D. Passages in Southey's _Joan of Arc_ (First Edition, 1796)
         contributed by S. T. Coleridge                             1027
  E. The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere [1798]                        1030
  F. The Raven. [_M. P._ March 10, 1798.]                           1048
  G. Lewti; or, The Circassian's Love-Chant. (1.) [B. M. Add. MSS.
         27,902.]                                                   1049
       The Circassian's Love-Chaunt. (2.) [Add. MSS. 35,343.]       1050
       Lewti; or, The Circassian's Love-Chant. (3.) [Add. MSS.
           35,343.]                                                 1051
  H. Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladie. [_M. P._ Dec. 21,
         1799.]                                                     1052
  I. The Triumph of Loyalty. An Historic Drama. [Add. MSS.
         34,225.]                                                   1060
  J. Chamouny; The Hour before Sunrise. A Hymn. [_M. P._ Sept. 11,
         1802.]                                                     1074
  K. Dejection: An Ode. [_M. P._ Oct. 4, 1802.]                     1076
  L. To W. Wordsworth. January 1807                                 1081
  M. Youth and Age. (MS. I, Sept. 10, 1823.)                        1084
       "      "     (MS. II. 1.)                                    1085
       "      "     (MS. II. 2.)                                    1086
  N. Love's Apparition and Evanishment. (First Draft.)              1087
  O. Two Versions of the Epitaph. ('Stop, Christian,' &c.)          1088
  P. [Habent sua Fata--Poetae.] ('The Fox, and Statesman,' &c.)     1089
  Q. To John Thelwall                                               1090
  R. [Lines to T. Poole.] [1807.]                                   1090


APPENDIX II

ALLEGORIC VISION                                                    1091


APPENDIX III

APOLOGETIC PREFACE TO 'FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER'                 1097


APPENDIX IV

PROSE VERSIONS OF POEMS, ETC.

  A. Questions and Answers in the Court of Love                     1109
  B. Prose Version of Glycine's Song in _Zapolya_                   1109
  C. Work without Hope. (First Draft.)                              1110
  D. Note to Line 34 of the _Joan of Arc_ Book II. [4{o} 1796.]     1112
  E. Dedication. Ode on the Departing Year. [4{o} 1796.]            1113
  F. Preface to the MS. of _Osorio_                                 1114


APPENDIX V

ADAPTATIONS

  From Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke:
    God and the World _we_ worship still together                   1115
    The _Augurs_ we of all the world admir'd                        1116
    Of Humane Learning                                              1116
  From Sir John Davies: On the Immortality of the Soul              1116
  From Donne:  Eclogue. 'On Unworthy Wisdom'                        1117
    Letter to Sir Henry Goodyere.                                   1117
  From Ben Jonson: A Nymph's Passion (Mutual Passion)               1118
    Underwoods, No. VI. The Hour-glass                              1119
    The Poetaster, Act I, Scene i.                                  1120
  From Samuel Daniel: Epistle to Sir Thomas Egerton, Knight         1120
    Musophilus, Stanza CXLVII                                       1121
    Musophilus, Stanzas XXVII, XXIX, XXX                            1122
  From Christopher Harvey: The Synagogue (The Nativity, or
      Christmas Day.)                                               1122
  From Mark Akenside: Blank Verse Inscriptions                      1123
  From W. L. Bowles:--'I yet remain'                                1124
  From an old Play: Napoleon                                        1124


APPENDIX VI

ORIGINALS OF TRANSLATIONS

  F. von Matthison: Ein milesisches Mährchen, Adonide               1125
  Schiller: Schwindelnd trägt er dich fort auf rastlos strömenden
      Wogen                                                         1125
    Im Hexameter steigt des Springquells flüssige Säule             1125
  Stolberg: Unsterblicher Jüngling!                                 1126
    Seht diese heilige Kapell!                                      1126
  Schiller: Nimmer, das glaubt mir                                  1127
  Goethe: Kennst du das Land, wo die Citronen blühn                 1128
  François-Antoine-Eugène de Planard: 'Batelier, dit Lisette'       1128
  German Folk Song: Wenn ich ein Vöglein wär                        1129
  Stolberg: Mein Arm wird stark und gross mein Muth                 1129
  Lessing: Ich fragte meine Schöne                                  1130
  Stolberg: Erde, du Mutter zahlloser Kinder, Mutter und Amme!      1130
  Friederike Brun: Aus tiefem Schatten des schweigenden
      Tannenhains                                                   1131
  Giambattista Marino: Donna, siam rei di morte. Errasti, errai     1131
  MS. Notebook: In diesem Wald, in diesen Gründen                   1132
  Anthologia Graeca: Κοινῇ πὰρ κλισίῃ ληθαργικὸς ἠδὲ φρενοπλὴξ               1132
  Battista Guarini: Canti terreni amori                             1132
  Stolberg: Der blinde Sänger stand am Meer                         1134


BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THE POETICAL WORKS OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE       1135


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL APPENDIX

  No. I. Poems first published in Newspapers or Periodicals         1178
  No. II. Epigrams and Jeux d'Esprit first published in Newspapers
      and Periodicals                                               1182
  No. III. Poems included in Anthologies and other Works            1183
  No. IV. Poems first printed or reprinted in _Literary Remains_,
      1836, &c.                                                     1187
  Poems first printed or reprinted in _Essays on His Own Times_,
      1850                                                          1188

INDEX OF FIRST LINES                                                1189




ABBREVIATIONS


     MS. B. M. = MS. preserved in the British Museum.

        MS. O. = MS. Ottery: i. e. a collection of juvenile poems in the
                 handwriting of S. T. Coleridge (_circ._ 1793).

   MS. O. (c.) = MS. Ottery, No. 3: a transcript (_circ._ 1823) of a
                 collection of juvenile poems by S. T. Coleridge.

  MS. S. T. C. = A single MS. poem in the handwriting of S. T.
                 Coleridge.

        MS. E. = MS. Estlin: i. e. a collection of juvenile poems in the
                 handwriting of S. T. Coleridge presented to Mrs. Estlin
                 of Bristol _circ._ 1795.

      MS. 4{o} = A collection of early poems in the handwriting of S. T.
                 Coleridge (_circ._ 1796).

        MS. W. = An MS. in the handwriting of S. T. Coleridge, now in the
                 possession of Mr. Gordon Wordsworth.

        MS. R. = MS. Rugby: i. e. in the possession of the Governors of
                 Rugby School.

   _An. Anth._ = _Annual Anthology_ of 1800.

       _B. L._ = _Biographia Literaria_.

       _C. I._ = _Cambridge Intelligencer_.

       _E. M._ = _English Minstrelsy_.

       _F. F._ = _Felix Farley's Bristol Journal_, 1818.

       _F. O._ = _Friendship's Offering_, 1834.

       _L. A._ = _Liber Aureus_.

       _L. B._ = _Lyrical Ballads_.

       _L. R._ = _Literary Remains_.

       _M. C._ = _Morning Chronicle_.

       _M. M._ = _Monthly Magazine_.

       _M. P._ = _Morning Post_.

       _P. R._ = _Poetical Register_, 1802.

  _P. & D. W._ = _Poetical and Dramatic Works_.

       _P. W._ = _Poetical Works_.

       _S. L._ = _Sibylline Leaves_ (1817).

       _S. S._ = _Selection of Sonnets_.




ERRATA


On p. 16, _n._ 2, line 1, _for_ Oct. 15, _read_ Oct. 25.

On p. 68, line 6, _for_ 1795 _read_ 1794, and _n._ 1, line 1, _for_
September 24, _read_ September 23.

On p. 69, lines 11 and 28, _for_ 1795 _read_ 1794.

On p. 96, _n._ 1, line 1, _for_ March 9, _read_ March 17.

On p. 148, _n._ 1, line 2, _for_ March 28, _read_ March 25.

On p. 314, line 17, _for_ May 26 _read_ May 6.

On p. 1179, line 7, _for_ Sept. 27, _read_ Sept. 23.

On p. 1181, line 33, _for_ Oct. 9 _read_ Oct. 29.




POETICAL WORKS


POEMS




EASTER HOLIDAYS[1:1]


  VERSE 1ST

  Hail! festal Easter that dost bring
  Approach of sweetly-smiling spring,
      When Nature's clad in green:
  When feather'd songsters through the grove
  With beasts confess the power of love                                5
      And brighten all the scene.

  VERSE 2ND

  Now youths the breaking stages load
  That swiftly rattling o'er the road
      To Greenwich haste away:
  While some with sounding oars divide                                10
  Of smoothly-flowing Thames the tide
      All sing the festive lay.

  VERSE 3RD

  With mirthful dance they beat the ground,
  Their shouts of joy the hills resound
      And catch the jocund noise:                                     15
  Without a tear, without a sigh
  Their moments all in transports fly
      Till evening ends their joys.

  VERSE 4TH

  But little think their joyous hearts
  Of dire Misfortune's varied smarts                                  20
      Which youthful years conceal:
  Thoughtless of bitter-smiling Woe
  Which all mankind are born to know
      And they themselves must feel.

  VERSE 5TH

  Yet he who Wisdom's paths shall keep                                25
  And Virtue firm that scorns to weep
      At ills in Fortune's power,
  Through this life's variegated scene
  In raging storms or calm serene
      Shall cheerful spend the hour.                                  30

  VERSE 6TH

  While steady Virtue guides his mind
  Heav'n-born Content he still shall find
      That never sheds a tear:
  Without respect to any tide
  His hours away in bliss shall glide                                 35
      Like Easter all the year.

1787.


FOOTNOTES:

[1:1] From a hitherto unpublished MS. The lines were sent in a letter to
Luke Coleridge, dated May 12, 1787.




DURA NAVIS[2:1]


  To tempt the dangerous deep, too venturous youth,
  Why does thy breast with fondest wishes glow?
  No tender parent there thy cares shall sooth,
  No much-lov'd Friend shall share thy every woe.
  Why does thy mind with hopes delusive burn?                          5
  Vain are thy Schemes by heated Fancy plann'd:
  Thy promis'd joy thou'lt see to Sorrow turn
  Exil'd from Bliss, and from thy native land.

  Hast thou foreseen the Storm's impending rage,
  When to the Clouds the Waves ambitious rise,                        10
  And seem with Heaven a doubtful war to wage,
  Whilst total darkness overspreads the skies;
  Save when the lightnings darting wingéd Fate
  Quick bursting from the pitchy clouds between
  In forkéd Terror, and destructive state[2:2]                        15
  Shall shew with double gloom the horrid scene?

  Shalt thou be at this hour from danger free?
  Perhaps with fearful force some falling Wave
  Shall wash thee in the wild tempestuous Sea,
  And in some monster's belly fix thy grave;                          20
  Or (woful hap!) against some wave-worn rock
  Which long a Terror to each Bark had stood
  Shall dash thy mangled limbs with furious shock
  And stain its craggy sides with human blood.

  Yet not the Tempest, or the Whirlwind's roar                        25
  Equal the horrors of a Naval Fight,
  When thundering Cannons spread a sea of Gore
  And varied deaths now fire and now affright:
  The impatient shout, that longs for closer war,
  Reaches from either side the distant shores;                        30
  Whilst frighten'd at His streams ensanguin'd far
  Loud on his troubled bed huge Ocean roars.[3:1]

  What dreadful scenes appear before my eyes!
  Ah! see how each with frequent slaughter red,
  Regardless of his dying fellows' cries                              35
  O'er their fresh wounds with impious order tread!
  From the dread place does soft Compassion fly!
  The Furies fell each alter'd breast command;
  Whilst Vengeance drunk with human blood stands by
  And smiling fires each heart and arms each hand.                    40

  Should'st thou escape the fury of that day
  A fate more cruel still, unhappy, view.
  Opposing winds may stop thy luckless way,
  And spread fell famine through the suffering crew,
  Canst thou endure th' extreme of raging Thirst                      45
  Which soon may scorch thy throat, ah! thoughtless Youth!
  Or ravening hunger canst thou bear which erst
  On its own flesh hath fix'd the deadly tooth?

  Dubious and fluttering 'twixt hope and fear
  With trembling hands the lot I see thee draw,                       50
  Which shall, or sentence thee a victim drear,
  To that ghaunt Plague which savage knows no law:
  Or, deep thy dagger in the friendly heart,
  Whilst each strong passion agitates thy breast,
  Though oft with Horror back I see thee start,                       55
  Lo! Hunger _drives_ thee to th' inhuman feast.

  These are the ills, that may the course attend--
  Then with the joys of home contented rest--
  Here, meek-eyed Peace with humble Plenty lend
  Their aid united still, to make thee blest.                         60
  To ease each pain, and to increase each joy--
  Here mutual Love shall fix thy tender wife,
  Whose offspring shall thy youthful care employ
  And gild with brightest rays the evening of thy Life.

1787.


FOOTNOTES:

[2:1] First published in 1893. The autograph MS. is in the British
Museum.

[2:2] _State_, Grandeur [1792]. This school exercise, written in the
15th year of my age, does not contain a line that any clever schoolboy
might not have written, and like most school poetry is a _Putting of
Thought into Verse_; for such Verses as _strivings_ of mind and
struggles after the Intense and Vivid are a fair Promise of better
things.--S. T. C. _aetat. suae_ 51. [1823.]

[3:1] I well remember old Jemmy Bowyer, the plagose Orbilius of Christ's
Hospital, but an admirable educer no less than Educator of the
Intellect, bade me leave out as many epithets as would turn the whole
into eight-syllable lines, and then ask myself if the exercise would not
be greatly improved. How often have I thought of the proposal since
then, and how many thousand bloated and puffing lines have I read, that,
by this process, would have tripped over the tongue excellently.
Likewise, I remember that he told me on the same occasion--'Coleridge!
the connections of a Declamation are not the transitions of Poetry--bad,
however, as they are, they are better than "Apostrophes" and "O thou's",
for at the worst they are something like common sense. The others are
the grimaces of Lunacy.'--S. T. COLERIDGE.




NIL PEJUS EST CAELIBE VITÂ[4:1]

[IN CHRIST'S HOSPITAL BOOK]


  I

    What pleasures shall he ever find?
    What joys shall ever glad his heart?
    Or who shall heal his wounded mind,
    If tortur'd by Misfortune's smart?
  Who Hymeneal bliss will never prove,                                 5
  That more than friendship, friendship mix'd with love.

  II

    Then without child or tender wife,
    To drive away each care, each sigh,
    Lonely he treads the paths of life
    A stranger to Affection's tye:                                    10
  And when from Death he meets his final doom
  No mourning wife with tears of love shall wet his tomb.

  III

    Tho' Fortune, Riches, Honours, Pow'r,
    Had giv'n with every other toy,
    Those gilded trifles of the hour,                                 15
    Those painted nothings sure to cloy:
  He dies forgot, his name no son shall bear
  To shew the man so blest once breath'd the vital air.

1787.


FOOTNOTES:

[4:1] First published in 1893.




SONNET[5:1]

TO THE AUTUMNAL MOON


  Mild Splendour of the various-vested Night!
    Mother of wildly-working visions! hail!
  I watch thy gliding, while with watery light
    Thy weak eye glimmers through a fleecy veil;
  And when thou lovest thy pale orb to shroud                          5
    Behind the gather'd blackness lost on high;
  And when thou dartest from the wind-rent cloud
    Thy placid lightning o'er the awaken'd sky.

  Ah such is Hope! as changeful and as fair!
    Now dimly peering on the wistful sight;                           10
  Now hid behind the dragon-wing'd Despair:
    But soon emerging in her radiant might
  She o'er the sorrow-clouded breast of Care
    Sails, like a meteor kindling in its flight.

1788.


FOOTNOTES:

[5:1] First published in 1796: included in 1803, 1829, 1834. No changes
were made in the text.


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion xviii, To the, &c.: Sonnet xviii, To the, &c., 1803.




ANTHEM[5:2]

FOR THE CHILDREN OF CHRIST'S HOSPITAL


    Seraphs! around th' Eternal's seat who throng
      With tuneful ecstasies of praise:
    O! teach our feeble tongues like yours the song
      Of fervent gratitude to raise--
    Like you, inspired with holy flame                                 5
    To dwell on that Almighty name
  Who bade the child of Woe no longer sigh,
  And Joy in tears o'erspread the widow's eye.

    Th' all-gracious Parent hears the wretch's prayer;
      The meek tear strongly pleads on high;                          10
    Wan Resignation struggling with despair
      The Lord beholds with pitying eye;
    Sees cheerless Want unpitied pine,
    Disease on earth its head recline,
  And bids Compassion seek the realms of woe                          15
  To heal the wounded, and to raise the low.

    She comes! she comes! the meek-eyed Power I see
      With liberal hand that loves to bless;
    The clouds of Sorrow at her presence flee;
      Rejoice! rejoice! ye Children of Distress!                      20
    The beams that play around her head
    Thro' Want's dark vale their radiance spread:
  The young uncultur'd mind imbibes the ray,
  And Vice reluctant quits th' expected prey.

    Cease, thou lorn mother! cease thy wailings drear;                25
      Ye babes! the unconscious sob forego;
    Or let full Gratitude now prompt the tear
      Which erst did Sorrow force to flow.
    Unkindly cold and tempest shrill
    In Life's morn oft the traveller chill,                           30
  But soon his path the sun of Love shall warm;
  And each glad scene look brighter for the storm!

1789.


FOOTNOTES:

[5:2] First published in 1834.


LINENOTES:

_Anthem._ For the Children, &c.] This Anthem was written as if intended
to have been sung by the Children of Christ's Hospital. MS. O.

[3] yours] you MS. O.

[14] its head on earth MS. O.




JULIA[6:1]

[IN CHRIST'S HOSPITAL BOOK]

        Medio de fonte leporum
  Surgit amari aliquid.


  Julia was blest with beauty, wit, and grace:
  Small poets lov'd to sing her blooming face.
  Before her altars, lo! a numerous train
  Preferr'd their vows; yet all preferr'd in vain,
  Till charming Florio, born to conquer, came                          5
  And touch'd the fair one with an equal flame.
  The flame she felt, and ill could she conceal
  What every look and action would reveal.
  With boldness then, which seldom fails to move,
  He pleads the cause of Marriage and of Love:                        10
  The course of Hymeneal joys he rounds,
  The fair one's eyes danc'd pleasure at the sounds.
  Nought now remain'd but 'Noes'--how little meant!
  And the sweet coyness that endears consent.
  The youth upon his knees enraptur'd fell:                           15
  The strange misfortune, oh! what words can tell?
  Tell! ye neglected sylphs! who lap-dogs guard,
  Why snatch'd ye not away your precious ward?
  Why suffer'd ye the lover's weight to fall
  On the ill-fated neck of much-lov'd Ball?                           20
  The favourite on his mistress casts his eyes,
  Gives a short melancholy howl, and--dies.
  Sacred his ashes lie, and long his rest!
  Anger and grief divide poor Julia's breast.
  Her eyes she fixt on guilty Florio first:                           25
  On him the storm of angry grief must burst.
  That storm he fled: he wooes a kinder fair,
  Whose fond affections no dear puppies share.
  'Twere vain to tell, how Julia pin'd away:
  Unhappy Fair! that in one luckless day--                            30
  From future Almanacks the day be crost!--
  At once her Lover and her Lap-dog lost.

1789.


FOOTNOTES:

[6:1] First published in the _History of . . . Christ's Hospital_. By
the Rev. W. Trollope, 1834, p. 192. Included in _Literary Remains_,
1836, i. 33, 34. First collected _P. and D. W._, 1877-80.


LINENOTES:

_Julia_, Medio, &c.] De medio fonte leporum. _Trollope._

[12] danc'd] dance (T. Lit. Rem.)




QUAE NOCENT DOCENT[7:1]

[IN CHRIST'S HOSPITAL BOOK]

  O! mihi praeteritos referat si Jupiter annos!


  Oh! might my ill-past hours return again!
  No more, as then, should Sloth around me throw
    Her soul-enslaving, leaden chain!
  No more the precious time would I employ
  In giddy revels, or in thoughtless joy,                              5
  A present joy producing future woe.

  But o'er the midnight Lamp I'd love to pore,
  I'd seek with care fair Learning's depths to sound,
    And gather scientific Lore:
  Or to mature the embryo thoughts inclin'd,                          10
  That half-conceiv'd lay struggling in my mind,
  The cloisters' solitary gloom I'd round.

  'Tis vain to wish, for Time has ta'en his flight--
  For follies past be ceas'd the fruitless tears:
    Let follies past to future care incite.                           15
  Averse maturer judgements to obey
  Youth owns, with pleasure owns, the Passions' sway,
  But sage Experience only comes with years.

1789.


FOOTNOTES:

[7:1] First published in 1893.




THE NOSE[8:1]


    Ye souls unus'd to lofty verse
      Who sweep the earth with lowly wing,
    Like sand before the blast disperse--
      A Nose! a mighty Nose I sing!
  As erst Prometheus stole from heaven the fire                        5
    To animate the wonder of his hand;
  Thus with unhallow'd hands, O Muse, aspire,
    And from my subject snatch a burning brand!
  So like the Nose I sing--my verse shall glow--
  Like Phlegethon my verse in waves of fire shall flow!               10

    Light of this once all darksome spot
      Where now their glad course mortals run,
    First-born of Sirius begot
      Upon the focus of the Sun--
  I'll call thee ----! for such thy earthly name--                    15
    What name so high, but what too low must be?
  Comets, when most they drink the solar flame
    Are but faint types and images of thee!
  Burn madly, Fire! o'er earth in ravage run,
  Then blush for shame more red by fiercer ---- outdone!              20

    I saw when from the turtle feast
      The thick dark smoke in volumes rose!
    I saw the darkness of the mist
      Encircle thee, O Nose!
  Shorn of thy rays thou shott'st a fearful gleam                     25
    (The turtle quiver'd with prophetic fright)
  Gloomy and sullen thro' the night of steam:--
    So Satan's Nose when Dunstan urg'd to flight,
  Glowing from gripe of red-hot pincers dread
  Athwart the smokes of Hell disastrous twilight shed!                30

    The Furies to madness my brain devote--
      In robes of ice my body wrap!
    On billowy flames of fire I float,
      Hear ye my entrails how they snap?
  Some power unseen forbids my lungs to breathe!                      35
    What fire-clad meteors round me whizzing fly!
  I vitrify thy torrid zone beneath,
    Proboscis fierce! I am calcined! I die!
  Thus, like great Pliny, in Vesuvius' fire,
  I perish in the blaze while I the blaze admire.                     40

1789.


FOOTNOTES:

[8:1] First published in 1834. The third stanza was published in the
_Morning Post_, Jan. 2, 1798, entitled 'To the Lord Mayor's Nose'.
William Gill (see ll. 15, 20) was Lord Mayor in 1788.


LINENOTES:

Title] Rhapsody MS. O: The Nose.--An Odaic Rhapsody MS. O (c).

[5] As erst from Heaven Prometheus stole the fire MS. O (c).

[7] hands] hand MS. O (c).

[10] waves of fire] fiery waves MS. O (c).

[15] I'll call thee Gill MS. O. G--ll MS. O (c).

[16] high] great MS. O (c).

[20] by fiercer Gill outdone MS. O.: more red for shame by fiercer G--ll
MS. O (c).

[22] dark] dank MS. O, MS. O (c).

[25] rays] beams MS. O (c).

[30] MS. O (c) ends with the third stanza.




TO THE MUSE[9:1]


  Tho' no bold flights to thee belong;
  And tho' thy lays with conscious fear,
  Shrink from Judgement's eye severe,
  Yet much I thank thee, Spirit of my song!
  For, lovely Muse! thy sweet employ                                   5
  Exalts my soul, refines my breast,
  Gives each pure pleasure keener zest,
  And softens sorrow into pensive Joy.
  From thee I learn'd the wish to bless,
  From thee to commune with my heart;                                 10
  From thee, dear Muse! the gayer part,
  To laugh with pity at the crowds that press
  Where Fashion flaunts her robes by Folly spun,
  Whose hues gay-varying wanton in the sun.

1789.


FOOTNOTES:

[9:1] First published in 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] Sonnet I. To my Muse MS. O.




DESTRUCTION OF THE BASTILE[10:1]


  I

  Heard'st thou yon universal cry,
    And dost thou linger still on Gallia's shore?
  Go, Tyranny! beneath some barbarous sky
    Thy terrors lost and ruin'd power deplore!
      What tho' through many a groaning age                            5
      Was felt thy keen suspicious rage,
      Yet Freedom rous'd by fierce Disdain
      Has wildly broke thy triple chain,
  And like the storm which Earth's deep entrails hide,
  At length has burst its way and spread the ruins wide.              10

         *       *       *       *       *

  IV

  In sighs their sickly breath was spent; each gleam
    Of Hope had ceas'd the long long day to cheer;
  Or if delusive, in some flitting dream,
    It gave them to their friends and children dear--
      Awaked by lordly Insult's sound                                 15
      To all the doubled horrors round,
      Oft shrunk they from Oppression's band
      While Anguish rais'd the desperate hand
  For silent death; or lost the mind's controll,
  Thro' every burning vein would tides of Frenzy roll.                20

  V

  But cease, ye pitying bosoms, cease to bleed!
    Such scenes no more demand the tear humane;
  I see, I see! glad Liberty succeed
    With every patriot virtue in her train!
      And mark yon peasant's raptur'd eyes;                           25
      Secure he views his harvests rise;
      No fetter vile the mind shall know,
      And Eloquence shall fearless glow.
  Yes! Liberty the soul of Life shall reign,
  Shall throb in every pulse, shall flow thro' every vein!            30

  VI

  Shall France alone a Despot spurn?
    Shall she alone, O Freedom, boast thy care?
  Lo, round thy standard Belgia's heroes burn,
    Tho' Power's blood-stain'd streamers fire the air,
      And wider yet thy influence spread,                             35
      Nor e'er recline thy weary head,
      Till every land from pole to pole
      Shall boast one independent soul!
  And still, as erst, let favour'd Britain be
  First ever of the first and freest of the free!                     40

? 1789.


FOOTNOTES:

[10:1] First published in 1834. _Note._ The Bastile was destroyed July
14, 1789.


LINENOTES:

Title] An ode on the Destruction of the Bastile MS. O.

[11] In MS. O stanza iv follows stanza i, part of the leaf being torn
out. In another MS. copy in place of the asterisks the following note is
inserted: 'Stanzas second and third are lost. We may gather from the
context that they alluded to the Bastile and its inhabitants.'

[12] long long] live-long MS. O.

[32] Shall She, O Freedom, all thy blessings share MS. O erased.




LIFE[11:1]


  As late I journey'd o'er the extensive plain
    Where native Otter sports his scanty stream,
  Musing in torpid woe a Sister's pain,
    The glorious prospect woke me from the dream.

  At every step it widen'd to my sight--                               5
    Wood, Meadow, verdant Hill, and dreary Steep,
  Following in quick succession of delight,--
    Till all--at once--did my eye ravish'd sweep!
  May this (I cried) my course through Life portray!
  New scenes of Wisdom may each step display,                         10
    And Knowledge open as my days advance!
  Till what time Death shall pour the undarken'd ray,
    My eye shall dart thro' infinite expanse,
  And thought suspended lie in Rapture's blissful trance.

1789.


FOOTNOTES:

[11:1] First published in 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] Sonnet II. Written September, 1789 MS. O: Sonnet written just
after the writer left the Country in Sept. 1789, _aetat._ 15 MS. O (c).

[6] dreary] barren MS. O, MS. O (c).

[8] my ravish'd eye did sweep. MS. O, MS. O (c).

[12] Till when death pours at length MS. O (c).

[14] While thought suspended lies MS. O: While thought suspended lies in
Transport's blissful trance MS. O (c).




PROGRESS OF VICE[12:1]

     [Nemo repente turpissimus]


      Deep in the gulph of Vice and Woe
      Leaps Man at once with headlong throw?
      Him inborn Truth and Virtue guide,
      Whose guards are Shame and conscious Pride.
    In some gay hour Vice steals into the breast;                      5
    Perchance she wears some softer Virtue's vest.
    By unperceiv'd degrees she tempts to stray,
  Till far from Virtue's path she leads the feet away.

      Then swift the soul to disenthrall
      Will Memory the past recall,                                    10
      And Fear before the Victim's eyes
      Bid future ills and dangers rise.
    But hark! the Voice, the Lyre, their charms combine--
    Gay sparkles in the cup the generous Wine--
    Th' inebriate dance, the fair frail Nymph inspires,               15
  And Virtue vanquish'd--scorn'd--with hasty flight retires.

      But soon to tempt the Pleasures cease;
      Yet Shame forbids return to peace,
      And stern Necessity will force
      Still to urge on the desperate course.                          20
    The drear black paths of Vice the wretch must try,
    Where Conscience flashes horror on each eye,
    Where Hate--where Murder scowl--where starts Affright!
  Ah! close the scene--ah! close--for dreadful is the sight.

1790.


FOOTNOTES:

[12:1] First published in 1834, from _MS. O_.


LINENOTES:

Title] Progress of Vice. An Ode MS. O. The motto first appears in
Boyer's _Liber Aureus_.

[1] Vice] Guilt L. A.

[3] inborn] innate L. A.

[9] Yet still the heart to disenthrall L. A.

[12] Bid] Bids MS. O. ills] woes L. A.

[13] But hark! their charms the voice L. A.

[15] The mazy dance and frail young Beauty fires L. A.

[20] Still on to urge MS. O.

[24] Ah! close the scene, for dreadful MS. O.




MONODY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON[13:1]

[FIRST VERSION, IN CHRIST'S HOSPITAL BOOK--1790]

  Cold penury repress'd his noble rage,
  And froze the genial current of his soul.


        Now prompts the Muse poetic lays,
      And high my bosom beats with love of Praise!
    But, Chatterton! methinks I hear thy name,
  For cold my Fancy grows, and dead each Hope of Fame.

    When Want and cold Neglect had chill'd thy soul,                   5
  Athirst for Death I see thee drench the bowl!
      Thy corpse of many a livid hue
      On the bare ground I view,
    Whilst various passions all my mind engage;
      Now is my breast distended with a sigh,                         10
        And now a flash of Rage
  Darts through the tear, that glistens in my eye.

      Is this the land of liberal Hearts!
    Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain
  Pour'd forth her soul-enchanting strain?                            15
    Ah me! yet Butler 'gainst the bigot foe
      Well-skill'd to aim keen Humour's dart,
      Yet Butler felt Want's poignant sting;
        And Otway, Master of the Tragic art,
        Whom Pity's self had taught to sing,                          20
      Sank beneath a load of Woe;
    This ever can the generous Briton hear,
  And starts not in his eye th' indignant Tear?

      Elate of Heart and confident of Fame,
  From vales where Avon sports, the Minstrel came,                    25
      Gay as the Poet hastes along
      He meditates the future song,
  How Ælla battled with his country's foes,
    And whilst Fancy in the air
    Paints him many a vision fair                                     30
  His eyes dance rapture and his bosom glows.
  With generous joy he views th' ideal gold:
    He listens to many a Widow's prayers,
    And many an Orphan's thanks he hears;
      He soothes to peace the care-worn breast,                       35
      He bids the Debtor's eyes know rest,
      And Liberty and Bliss behold:
  And now he punishes the heart of steel,
  And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel.

  Fated to heave sad Disappointment's sigh,                           40
  To feel the Hope now rais'd, and now deprest,
  To feel the burnings of an injur'd breast,
    From all thy Fate's deep sorrow keen
    In vain, O Youth, I turn th' affrighted eye;
    For powerful Fancy evernigh                                       45
  The hateful picture forces on my sight.
    There, Death of every dear delight,
    Frowns Poverty of Giant mien!
  In vain I seek the charms of youthful grace,
  Thy sunken eye, thy haggard cheeks it shews,                        50
  The quick emotions struggling in the Face
    Faint index of thy mental Throes,
  When each strong Passion spurn'd controll,
  And not a Friend was nigh to calm thy stormy soul.

  Such was the sad and gloomy hour                                    55
  When anguish'd Care of sullen brow
  Prepared the Poison's death-cold power.
  Already to thy lips was rais'd the bowl,
  When filial Pity stood thee by,
  Thy fixéd eyes she bade thee roll                                   60
  On scenes that well might melt thy soul--
  Thy native cot she held to view,
  Thy native cot, where Peace ere long
  Had listen'd to thy evening song;
  Thy sister's shrieks she bade thee hear,                            65
  And mark thy mother's thrilling tear,
  She made thee feel her deep-drawn sigh,
  And all her silent agony of Woe.

  And from _thy_ Fate shall such distress ensue?
  Ah! dash the poison'd chalice from thy hand!                        70
  And thou had'st dash'd it at her soft command;
  But that Despair and Indignation rose,
  And told again the story of thy Woes,
  Told the keen insult of th' unfeeling Heart,
  The dread dependence on the low-born mind,                          75
  Told every Woe, for which thy breast might smart,
  Neglect and grinning scorn and Want combin'd--
      Recoiling back, thou sent'st the friend of Pain
  To roll a tide of Death thro' every freezing vein.

        O Spirit blest!                                               80
      Whether th' eternal Throne around,
      Amidst the blaze of Cherubim,
      Thou pourest forth the grateful hymn,
      Or, soaring through the blest Domain,
      Enraptur'st Angels with thy strain,--                           85
      Grant me, like thee, the lyre to sound,
      Like thee, with fire divine to glow--
      But ah! when rage the Waves of Woe,
      Grant me with firmer breast t'oppose their hate,
    And soar beyond the storms with upright eye elate![15:1]          90

1790


FOOTNOTES:

[13:1] First published in 1898. The version in the Ottery Copy-book _MS.
O_ was first published in _P. and D. W._, 1880, ii. 355*-8*. Three MSS.
of the _Monody_, &c. are extant: (1) the Ottery Copy-book [_MS. O_]; (2)
Boyer's _Liber Aureus_ = the text as printed; (3) the transcription of
S. T. C.'s early poems made in 1823 [_MS. O (c)_]. Variants in 1 and 3
are given below.

[15:1] [Note to ll. 88-90.] 'Altho' this latter reflection savours of
suicide, it will easily meet with the indulgence of the considerate
reader when he reflects that the Author's imagination was at that time
inflam'd with the idea of his beloved Poet, and perhaps uttered a
sentiment which in his cooler moments he would have abhor'd the thought
of.' [Signed] J. M. _MS. O (c)_.


LINENOTES:

Title] A Monody on Chatterton, who poisoned himself at the age of
eighteen--written by the author at the age of sixteen. MS. O (c).

Motto] The motto does not appear in MS. O, but a note is prefixed: 'This
poem has since appeared in print, much altered, whether for the better I
doubt. This was, I believe, written before the Author went to College'
(J. T. C.).

[6] drench] drain MS. O, MS. O (c).

[7] corpse] corse MS. O, MS. O (c).

[13] Hearts] Heart MS. O, MS. O (c).

[20] taught] bade MS. O, MS. O (c).

[21] Sank] Sunk MS. O, MS. O (c).

[22] This ever] Which can the . . . ever hear MS. O, MS. O (c).

[29] whilst] while MS. O.

[32] ideal] rising MS. O.

[36] eyes] too MS. O (c).

[42] To feel] With all MS. O.

[43] Lo! from thy dark Fate's sorrow keen MS. O.

[45] powerful] busy MS. O.

[50] cheeks it] cheek she MS. O: looks she MS. O (c).

[51] the] thy MS. O.

[60] eyes] eye MS. O.

[61] On scenes which MS. O. On] To MS. O (c).

[64] evening] Evening's MS. O (c).

[66] thrilling] frequent MS. O (c).

[67] made] bade MS. O, MS. O (c).

[78] sent'st] badest MS. O.

[79] To] Quick. freezing] icening MS. O, MS. O (c).

[81] eternal] Eternal's MS. O: endless MS. O (c).

[82] Cherubim] Seraphim MS. O.

[88] But ah!] Like thee MS. O, MS. O (c).

[89]

  To leave behind Contempt, and Want, and State, MS. O.

  To leave behind Contempt and Want and Hate MS. O (c).

  And seek in other worlds an happier Fate MS. O, MS. O (c).




AN INVOCATION[16:1]


  Sweet Muse! companion of my every hour!
  Voice of my Joy! Sure soother of the sigh!
  Now plume thy pinions, now exert each power,
  And fly to him who owns the candid eye.
  And if a smile of Praise thy labour hail                             5
  (Well shall thy labours then my mind employ)
  Fly fleetly back, sweet Muse! and with the tale
  O'erspread my Features with a flush of Joy!

1790.


FOOTNOTES:

[16:1] First published in 1893, from an autograph MS.




ANNA AND HARLAND[16:2]


  Within these wilds was Anna wont to rove
    While Harland told his love in many a sigh,
    But stern on Harland roll'd her brother's eye,
  They fought, they fell--her brother and her love!

  To Death's dark house did grief-worn Anna haste,                     5
    Yet here her pensive ghost delights to stay;
    Oft pouring on the winds the broken lay--
  And hark, I hear her--'twas the passing blast.

  I love to sit upon her tomb's dark grass,
    Then Memory backward rolls Time's shadowy tide;                   10
    The tales of other days before me glide:
  With eager thought I seize them as they pass;
  For fair, tho' faint, the forms of Memory gleam,
  Like Heaven's bright beauteous bow reflected in the stream.

? 1790.


FOOTNOTES:

[16:2] First printed in the _Cambridge Intelligencer_, Oct. 25, 1794.
First collected _P. and D. W._, 1880, _Supplement_, ii. 359. The text is
that of 1880 and 1893, which follow a MS. version.


LINENOTES:

Title] Anna and Henry C. I.

[1] Along this glade C. I.

[2] Henry C. I.

[3] stern] dark C. I. Harland] Henry C. I.

[5] To her cold grave did woe-worn C. I.

[6] stay] stray C. I.

[7] the] a C. I.

[9] dark] dank C. I.

[10] Then] There C. I.

[11] tales] forms C. I.

[14] Like Heaven's bright bow reflected on the stream. C. I.




TO THE EVENING STAR[16:3]


  O meek attendant of Sol's setting blaze,
    I hail, sweet star, thy chaste effulgent glow;
  On thee full oft with fixéd eye I gaze
    Till I, methinks, all spirit seem to grow.
  O first and fairest of the starry choir,                             5
    O loveliest 'mid the daughters of the night,
  Must not the maid I love like thee inspire
    _Pure_ joy and _calm_ Delight?

  Must she not be, as is thy placid sphere
    Serenely brilliant? Whilst to gaze a while                        10
  Be all my wish 'mid Fancy's high career
    E'en till she quit this scene of earthly toil;
  Then Hope perchance might fondly sigh to join
  Her spirit in thy kindred orb, O Star benign!

? 1790.


FOOTNOTES:

[16:3] First published in _P. and D. W._, 1880, _Supplement_, ii. 359,
from _MS. O_.




PAIN[17:1]


  Once could the Morn's first beams, the healthful breeze,
  All Nature charm, and gay was every hour:--
  But ah! not Music's self, nor fragrant bower
  Can glad the trembling sense of wan Disease.
  Now that the frequent pangs my frame assail,                         5
  Now that my sleepless eyes are sunk and dim,
  And seas of Pain seem waving through each limb--
  Ah what can all Life's gilded scenes avail?
  I view the crowd, whom Youth and Health inspire,
  Hear the loud laugh, and catch the sportive lay,                    10
  Then sigh and think--I too could laugh and play
  And gaily sport it on the Muse's lyre,
  Ere Tyrant Pain had chas'd away delight,
  Ere the wild pulse throbb'd anguish thro' the night!

? 1790.


FOOTNOTES:

[17:1] First published in 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] Pain, a Sonnet MS. O: Sonnet Composed in Sickness MS.

[3] But ah! nor splendid feasts MS. O (c).

[12] Muse's] festive MS. O, MS. O (c).




ON A LADY WEEPING[17:2]

IMITATION FROM THE LATIN OF NICOLAUS ARCHIUS


  Lovely gems of radiance meek
  Trembling down my Laura's cheek,
  As the streamlets silent glide
  Thro' the Mead's enamell'd pride,
  Pledges sweet of pious woe,                                          5
  Tears which Friendship taught to flow,
  Sparkling in yon humid light
  Love embathes his pinions bright:
  There amid the glitt'ring show'r
  Smiling sits th' insidious Power;                                   10
  As some wingéd Warbler oft
  When Spring-clouds shed their treasures soft
  Joyous tricks his plumes anew,
  And flutters in the fost'ring dew.

? 1790.


FOOTNOTES:

[17:2] First published in 1893. From _MS. O (c)_.




MONODY ON A TEA-KETTLE[18:1]


    O Muse who sangest late another's pain,
    To griefs domestic turn thy coal-black steed!
    With slowest steps thy funeral steed must go,
    Nodding his head in all the pomp of woe:
    Wide scatter round each dark and deadly weed,                      5
    And let the melancholy dirge complain,
    (Whilst Bats shall shriek and Dogs shall howling run)
  The tea-kettle is spoilt and Coleridge is undone!

    Your cheerful songs, ye unseen crickets, cease!
    Let songs of grief your alter'd minds engage!                     10
    For he who sang responsive to your lay,
    What time the joyous bubbles 'gan to play,
    The _sooty swain_ has felt the fire's fierce rage;--
    Yes, he is gone, and all my woes increase;
    I heard the water issuing from the wound--                        15
  No more the Tea shall pour its fragrant steams around!

    O Goddess best belov'd! Delightful Tea!
    With thee compar'd what yields the madd'ning Vine?
    Sweet power! who know'st to spread the calm delight,
    And the pure joy prolong to midmost night!                        20
    Ah! must I all thy varied sweets resign?
    Enfolded close in grief thy form I see;
  No more wilt thou extend thy willing arms,
  Receive the _fervent Jove_, and yield him all thy charms!

    How sink the mighty low by Fate opprest!--                        25
    Perhaps, O Kettle! thou by scornful toe
    Rude urg'd t' ignoble place with plaintive din.
    May'st rust obscure midst heaps of vulgar tin;--
    As if no joy had ever seiz'd my breast
    When from thy spout the streams did arching fly,--                30
    As if, infus'd, thou ne'er hadst known t' inspire
    All the warm raptures of poetic fire!

    But hark! or do I fancy the glad voice--
    'What tho' the swain did wondrous charms disclose--
    (Not such did Memnon's sister sable drest)                        35
    Take these bright arms with royal face imprest,
    A better Kettle shall thy soul rejoice,
    And with Oblivion's wings o'erspread thy woes!'
    Thus Fairy Hope can soothe distress and toil;
  On empty Trivets she bids fancied Kettles boil!                     40

1790.


FOOTNOTES:

[18:1] First published in 1834, from _MS. O_. The text of 1893 follows
an autograph MS. in the Editor's possession.


LINENOTES:

_Monody_] 1 Muse that late sang another's poignant pain MS. S. T. C.

[3] In slowest steps the funeral steeds shall go MS.S. T. C.

[4] Nodding their heads MS. S. T. C.

[5] each deadly weed MS. S. T. C.

[8] The] His MS. S. T. C.

[9] songs] song MS. S. T. C.

[15] issuing] hissing MS. S. T. C.

[16] pour] throw MS. S. T. C. steams] steam MS. S. T. C.

[18] thee] whom MS. S. T. C. Vine] Wine MS. S. T. C.

[19] who] that MS. S. T. C.

[21] various charms MS. S. T. C.

[23] extend] expand MS. S. T. C.

[25] How low the mighty sink MS. S. T. C.

[29] seiz'd] chear'd MS. S. T. C.

[30-1]

  When from thy spout the stream did arching flow
  As if, inspir'd

MS. S. T. C.

[33] the glad] _Georgian_ MS. S. T. C.

[34] the swain] its form MS. S. T. C.

[35] _Note._ A parenthetical reflection of the Author's. MS. O.

[38] wings] wing MS. S. T. C.




GENEVIEVE[19:1]


  Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve!
  In Beauty's light you glide along:
  Your eye is like the Star of Eve,
  And sweet your voice, as Seraph's song
  Yet not your heavenly beauty gives                                   5
  This heart with Passion soft to glow:
  Within your soul a voice there lives!
  It bids you hear the tale of Woe.
  When sinking low the sufferer wan
  Beholds no hand outstretch'd to save,                               10
  Fair, as the bosom of the Swan
  That rises graceful o'er the wave,
  I've seen your breast with pity heave,
  And _therefore_ love I you, sweet Genevieve!

1789-90.


FOOTNOTES:

[19:1] First published in the _Cambridge Intelligencer_ for Nov. 1,
1794: included in the editions of 1796, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.
Three MSS. are extant; (1) an autograph in a copy-book made for the
family [_MS. O_]; (2) an autograph in a copy-book presented to Mrs.
Estlin [_MS. E_]; and (3) a transcript included in a copy-book presented
to Sara Coleridge in 1823 [_MS. O (c)_]. In an unpublished letter dated
Dec. 18, 1807, Coleridge invokes the aid of Richard ['Conservation']
Sharp on behalf of a 'Mrs. Brewman, who was elected a nurse to one of
the wards of Christ's Hospital at the time that I was a boy there'. He
says elsewhere that he spent full half the time from seventeen to
eighteen in the sick ward of Christ's Hospital. It is doubtless to this
period, 1789-90, that _Pain_ and _Genevieve_, which, according to a
Christ's Hospital tradition, were inspired by his 'Nurse's Daughter',
must be assigned.

'This little poem was written when the Author was a boy'--_Note 1796,
1803_.


LINENOTES:

Title] Sonnet iii. MS. O: Ode MS. E: A Sonnet MS. O (c): Effusion xvii.
1796. The heading, _Genevieve_, first appears in 1803.

[2] Thou glid'st along [so, too, in ll. 3, 4, 5, 7, 8, 13, 14] MS. O,
MS. E, MS. O (c), C. I.

[4] Thy voice is lovely as the MS. E: Thy voice is soft, &c. MS. O (c),
C. I.

[8] It bids thee hear the tearful plaint of woe MS. E.

[10] no . . . save] no friendly hand that saves MS. E. outstretch'd]
stretcht out MS. O, MS. O (c), C. I.

[12] the wave] quick-rolling waves MS. E.




ON RECEIVING AN ACCOUNT THAT HIS ONLY SISTER'S DEATH WAS
INEVITABLE[20:1]


  The tear which mourn'd a brother's fate scarce dry--
  Pain after pain, and woe succeeding woe--
  Is my heart destin'd for another blow?
  O my sweet sister! and must thou too die?
  Ah! how has Disappointment pour'd the tear                           5
  O'er infant Hope destroy'd by early frost!
  How are ye gone, whom most my soul held dear!
  Scarce had I lov'd you ere I mourn'd you lost;
  Say, is this hollow eye, this heartless pain,
  Fated to rove thro' Life's wide cheerless plain--                   10
  Nor father, brother, sister meet its ken--
  My woes, my joys unshared! Ah! long ere then
  On me thy icy dart, stern Death, be prov'd;--
  Better to die, than live and not be lov'd!

1791.


FOOTNOTES:

[20:1] First published in 1834. The 'brother' (line 1) was Luke Herman
Coleridge who died at Thorverton in 1790. Anne Coleridge, the poet's
sister (the only daughter of his father's second marriage), died in
March 1791.


LINENOTES:

Title] Sonnet v. MS. O.

[1] tear] tears MS. O.

[4] O my sweet sister must _thou_ die MS. O.

[7] gone] flown MS. O.

[10] Fated] Destin'd MS. O.

[11] father] Mother MS. O.




ON SEEING A YOUTH AFFECTIONATELY WELCOMED BY A SISTER[21:1]


    I too a sister had! too cruel Death!
      How sad Remembrance bids my bosom heave!
    Tranquil her soul, as sleeping Infant's breath;
      Meek were her manners as a vernal Eve.
    Knowledge, that frequent lifts the bloated mind,                   5
      Gave her the treasure of a lowly breast,
    And Wit to venom'd Malice oft assign'd,
      Dwelt in her bosom in a Turtle's nest.
    Cease, busy Memory! cease to urge the dart;
      Nor on my soul her love to me impress!                          10
    For oh I mourn in anguish--and my heart
      Feels the keen pang, th' unutterable distress.
  Yet wherefore grieve I that her sorrows cease,
  For Life was misery, and the Grave is Peace!

1791.


FOOTNOTES:

[21:1] First published in 1834.




A MATHEMATICAL PROBLEM[21:2]

  If Pegasus will let _thee_ only ride him,
  Spurning my clumsy efforts to o'erstride him,
  Some fresh expedient the Muse will try,
  And walk on stilts, although she cannot fly.


  TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE

     DEAR BROTHER,

     I have often been surprised that Mathematics, the quintessence
     of Truth, should have found admirers so few and so languid.
     Frequent consideration and minute scrutiny have at length
     unravelled the cause; viz. that though Reason is feasted,
     Imagination is starved; whilst Reason is luxuriating in its
     proper Paradise, Imagination is wearily travelling on a dreary
     desert. To assist Reason by the stimulus of Imagination is the
     design of the following production. In the execution of it
     much may be objectionable. The verse (particularly in the
     introduction of the ode) may be accused of unwarrantable
     liberties, but they are liberties equally homogeneal with the
     exactness of Mathematical disquisition, and the boldness of
     Pindaric daring. I have three strong champions to defend me
     against the attacks of Criticism: the Novelty, the Difficulty,
     and the Utility of the work. I may justly plume myself that I
     first have drawn the nymph Mathesis from the visionary caves
     of abstracted idea, and caused her to unite with Harmony. The
     first-born of this Union I now present to you; with interested
     motives indeed--as I expect to receive in return the more
     valuable offspring of your Muse.
                                      Thine ever,
                                                  S. T. C.

     [CHRIST'S HOSPITAL], _March 31, 1791_.


          This is now--this was erst,
  Proposition the first--and Problem the first.

  I

    On a given finite line
  Which must no way incline;
      To describe an equi--
      --lateral Tri--
      --A, N, G, L, E.[22:1]                                           5
        Now let A. B.
      Be the given line
  Which must no way incline;
      The great Mathematician
      Makes this Requisition,                                         10
        That we describe an Equi--
        --lateral Tri--
        --angle on it:
  Aid us, Reason--aid us, Wit!

  II

    From the centre A. at the distance A. B.                          15
      Describe the circle B. C. D.
    At the distance B. A. from B. the centre
  The round A. C. E. to describe boldly venture.[22:2]
        (Third postulate see.)
      And from the point C.                                           20
    In which the circles make a pother
    Cutting and slashing one another,
        Bid the straight lines a journeying go.
      C. A. C. B. those lines will show.
        To the points, which by A. B. are reckon'd,                   25
        And postulate the second
      For Authority ye know.
              A. B. C.
            Triumphant shall be
          An Equilateral Triangle,                                    30
    Not Peter Pindar carp, nor Zoilus can wrangle.

  III

      Because the point A. is the centre
        Of the circular B. C. D.
      And because the point B. is the centre
        Of the circular A. C. E.                                      35
      A. C. to A. B. and B. C. to B. A.
    Harmoniously equal for ever must stay;
        Then C. A. and B. C.
      Both extend the kind hand
        To the basis, A. B.                                           40
    Unambitiously join'd in Equality's Band.
  But to the same powers, when two powers are equal,
        My mind forbodes the sequel;
    My mind does some celestial impulse teach,
        And equalises each to each.                                   45
    Thus C. A. with B. C. strikes the same sure alliance,
    That C. A. and B. C. had with A. B. before;
          And in mutual affiance
            None attempting to soar
              Above another,                                          50
            The unanimous three
        C. A. and B. C. and A. B.
      All are equal, each to his brother,
        Preserving the balance of power so true:
    Ah! the like would the proud Autocratrix[23:1] do!                55
      At taxes impending not Britain would tremble,
      Nor Prussia struggle her fear to dissemble;
        Nor the Mah'met-sprung Wight
          The great Mussulman
          Would stain his Divan                                       60
  With Urine the soft-flowing daughter of Fright.

  IV

  But rein your stallion in, too daring Nine!
  Should Empires bloat the scientific line?
  Or with dishevell'd hair all madly do ye run
  For transport that your task is done?                               65
    For done it is--the cause is tried!
    And Proposition, gentle Maid,
  Who soothly ask'd stern Demonstration's aid,
      Has proved her right, and A. B. C.
          Of Angles three                                             70
        Is shown to be of equal side;
  And now our weary steed to rest in fine,
  'Tis rais'd upon A. B. the straight, the given line.

1791.


FOOTNOTES:

[21:2] First published in 1834 without a title, but tabulated as
'Mathematical Problem' in 'Contents' 1 [p. xi].

[22:1] _Poetice_ for Angle. _Letter, 1791._

[22:2] Delendus 'fere'. _Letter, 1791._

[23:1] Empress of Russia.


LINENOTES:

Title] Prospectus and Specimen of a Translation of Euclid in a series of
Pindaric Odes, communicated in a letter of the author to his Brother
Rev. G. Coleridge [March 17, 1791]. MS. O (c).

[5] A E N G E E E L E. Letter, 1791.

[36] A C to C B and C B to C A. Letter, 1791, MS. O (c).

[48] affiance] alliance Letter, 1791.

[55] Autocratrix] Autocratorix MS. O (c).




HONOUR[24:1]

  O, curas hominum! O, quantum est in rebus inane!


  The fervid Sun had more than halv'd the day,
  When gloomy on his couch Philedon lay;
  His feeble frame consumptive as his purse,
  His aching head did wine and women curse;
  His fortune ruin'd and his wealth decay'd,                           5
  Clamorous his duns, his gaming debts unpaid,
  The youth indignant seiz'd his tailor's bill,
  And on its back thus wrote with moral quill:
  'Various as colours in the rainbow shown,
  Or similar in emptiness alone,                                      10
  How false, how vain are Man's pursuits below!
  Wealth, Honour, Pleasure--what can ye bestow?
  Yet see, how high and low, and young and old
  Pursue the all-delusive power of Gold.
  Fond man! should all Peru thy empire own,                           15
  For thee tho' all Golconda's jewels shone,
  What greater bliss could all this wealth supply?
  What, but to eat and drink and sleep and die?
  Go, tempt the stormy sea, the burning soil--
  Go, waste the night in thought, the day in toil,                    20
  Dark frowns the rock, and fierce the tempests rave--
  Thy ingots go the unconscious deep to pave!
  Or thunder at thy door the midnight train,
  Or Death shall knock that never knocks in vain.
  Next Honour's sons come bustling on amain;                          25
  I laugh with pity at the idle train.
  Infirm of soul! who think'st to lift thy name
  Upon the waxen wings of human fame,--
  Who for a sound, articulated breath--
  Gazest undaunted in the face of death!                              30
  What art thou but a Meteor's glaring light--
  Blazing a moment and then sunk in night?
  Caprice which rais'd thee high shall hurl thee low,
  Or Envy blast the laurels on thy brow.
  To such poor joys could ancient Honour lead                         35
  When empty fame was toiling Merit's meed;
  To Modern Honour other lays belong;
  Profuse of joy and Lord of right and wrong,
  Honour can game, drink, riot in the stew,
  Cut a friend's throat;--what cannot Honour do?                      40
  Ah me!--the storm within can Honour still
  For Julio's death, whom Honour made me kill?
  Or will this lordly Honour tell the way
  To pay those debts, which Honour makes me pay?
  Or if with pistol and terrific threats                              45
  I make some traveller pay my Honour's debts,
  A medicine for this wound can Honour give?
  Ah, no! my Honour dies to make my Honour live.
  But see! young Pleasure, and her train advance,
  And joy and laughter wake the inebriate dance;                      50
  Around my neck she throws her fair white arms,
  I meet her loves, and madden at her charms.
  For the gay grape can joys celestial move,
  And what so sweet below as Woman's love?
  With such high transport every moment flies,                        55
  I curse Experience that he makes me wise;
  For at his frown the dear deliriums flew,
  And the changed scene now wears a gloomy hue.
  A hideous hag th' Enchantress Pleasure seems,
  And all her joys appear but feverous dreams.                        60
  The vain resolve still broken and still made,
  Disease and loathing and remorse invade;
  The charm is vanish'd and the bubble's broke,--
  A slave to pleasure is a slave to smoke!'
    Such lays repentant did the Muse supply;                          65
  When as the Sun was hastening down the sky,
  In glittering state twice fifty guineas come,--
  His Mother's plate antique had rais'd the sum.
  Forth leap'd Philedon of new life possest:--                        69
  'Twas Brookes's all till two,--'twas Hackett's all the rest!

1791.


FOOTNOTES:

[24:1] First published in 1834: included in _P. and D. W._, 1877-80, and
in 1893.


LINENOTES:

_Honour_] No title, but motto as above MS. O.: Philedon, Eds. 1877,
1893.

[34] Or] And MS. O.

[43-4]

  Or will my Honour kindly tell the way
  To pay the debts

MS. O.

[60] feverous] feverish MS. O.

[70] Brookes's, a famous gaming-house in Fleet Street. Hackett's, a
brothel under the Covent Garden Piazza. Note MS. O.




ON IMITATION[26:1]


  All are not born to soar--and ah! how few
  In tracks where Wisdom leads their paths pursue!
  Contagious when to wit or wealth allied,
  Folly and Vice diffuse their venom wide.
  On Folly every fool his talent tries;                                5
  It asks some toil to imitate the wise;
  Tho' few like Fox can speak--like Pitt can think--
  Yet all like Fox can game--like Pitt can drink.

? 1791


FOOTNOTES:

[26:1] First published in 1834. In _MS. O_ lines 3, 4 follow lines 7, 8
of the text.




INSIDE THE COACH[26:2]


  'Tis hard on Bagshot Heath to try
  Unclos'd to keep the weary eye;
  But ah! Oblivion's nod to get
  In rattling coach is harder yet.
  Slumbrous God of half-shut eye!                                      5
  Who lovest with limbs supine to lie;
  Soother sweet of toil and care
  Listen, listen to my prayer;
  And to thy votary dispense
  Thy soporific influence!                                            10
  What tho' around thy drowsy head
  The seven-fold cap of night be spread,
  Yet lift that drowsy head awhile
  And yawn propitiously a smile;
  In drizzly rains poppean dews                                       15
  O'er the tired inmates of the Coach diffuse;
  And when thou'st charm'd our eyes to rest,
  Pillowing the chin upon the breast,
  Bid many a dream from thy dominions
  Wave its various-painted pinions,                                   20
  Till ere the splendid visions close
  We snore quartettes in ecstasy of nose.
  While thus we urge our airy course,
  O may no jolt's electric force
  Our fancies from their steeds unhorse,                              25
  And call us from thy fairy reign
  To dreary Bagshot Heath again!

1791.


FOOTNOTES:

[26:2] First published in 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] Ode to sleep. Travelling in the Exeter Coach with three other
passengers over Bagshot Heath, after some vain endeavours to compose
myself I composed this Ode--August 17, 1791. MS. O.

[12] Vulgo yclept night-cap MS. O.

[13] that] thy MS. O.




DEVONSHIRE ROADS[27:1]


  The indignant Bard composed this furious ode,
  As tired he dragg'd his way thro' Plimtree road![27:2]
      Crusted with filth and stuck in mire
      Dull sounds the Bard's bemudded lyre;
      Nathless Revenge and Ire the Poet goad                           5
      To pour his imprecations on the road.

      Curst road! whose execrable way
      Was darkly shadow'd out in Milton's lay,
      When the sad fiends thro' Hell's sulphureous roads
      Took the first survey of their new abodes;                      10
      Or when the fall'n Archangel fierce
      Dar'd through the realms of Night to pierce,
      What time the Bloodhound lur'd by Human scent
      Thro' all Confusion's quagmires floundering went.

  Nor cheering pipe, nor Bird's shrill note                           15
  Around thy dreary paths shall float;
  Their boding songs shall scritch-owls pour
  To fright the guilty shepherds sore,
  Led by the wandering fires astray
  Thro' the dank horrors of thy way!                                  20
  While they their mud-lost sandals hunt
  May all the curses, which they grunt
  In raging moan like goaded hog,
  Alight upon thee, damnéd Bog!

1791.


FOOTNOTES:

[27:1] First published in 1834.

[27:2] Plymtree Road, August 18, 1791. _Note, MS. O._ [Plimtree is about
8 miles N. of Ottery St. Mary. S. T. C. must have left the mail coach at
Cullompton to make his way home on foot.]


LINENOTES:

_Devonshire Roads_] No title MS. O.




MUSIC[28:1]


  Hence, soul-dissolving Harmony
    That lead'st th' oblivious soul astray--
  Though thou sphere-descended be--
    Hence away!--
  Thou mightier Goddess, thou demand'st my lay,                        5
    Born when earth was seiz'd with cholic;
  Or as more sapient sages say,
    What time the Legion diabolic
      Compell'd their beings to enshrine
      In bodies vile of herded swine,                                 10
      Precipitate adown the steep
      With hideous rout were plunging in the deep,
  And hog and devil mingling grunt and yell
    Seiz'd on the ear with horrible obtrusion;--
  Then if aright old legendaries tell,                                15
    Wert thou begot by Discord on Confusion!

  What though no name's sonorous power
  Was given thee at thy natal hour!--
  Yet oft I feel thy sacred might,
  While concords wing their distant flight.                           20
    Such Power inspires thy holy son
      Sable clerk of Tiverton!
  And oft where Otter sports his stream,
  I hear thy banded offspring scream.
  Thou Goddess! thou inspir'st each throat;                           25
  'Tis thou who pour'st the scritch-owl note!
  Transported hear'st thy children all
  Scrape and blow and squeak and squall;
  And while old Otter's steeple rings,
  Clappest hoarse thy raven wings!                                    30

1791.


FOOTNOTES:

[28:1] First published in 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] Ode on the Ottery and Tiverton Church Music MS. O.




SONNET[29:1]

ON QUITTING SCHOOL FOR COLLEGE


  Farewell parental scenes! a sad farewell!
  To you my grateful heart still fondly clings,
  Tho' fluttering round on Fancy's burnish'd wings
  Her tales of future Joy Hope loves to tell.
  Adieu, adieu! ye much-lov'd cloisters pale!                          5
  Ah! would those happy days return again,
  When 'neath your arches, free from every stain,
  I heard of guilt and wonder'd at the tale!
  Dear haunts! where oft my simple lays I sang,
  Listening meanwhile the echoings of my feet,                        10
  Lingering I quit you, with as great a pang,
  As when erewhile, my weeping childhood, torn
  By early sorrow from my native seat,
  Mingled its tears with hers--my widow'd Parent lorn.

1791.


FOOTNOTES:

[29:1] First published in 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] Sonnet on the Same (i. e. 'Absence, A Farewell Ode,' &c.) 1834.




ABSENCE[29:2]

A FAREWELL ODE ON QUITTING SCHOOL FOR JESUS COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE


  Where graced with many a classic spoil
  CAM rolls his reverend stream along,
  I haste to urge the learnéd toil
  That sternly chides my love-lorn song:
  Ah me! too mindful of the days                                       5
  Illumed by Passion's orient rays,
  When Peace, and Cheerfulness and Health
  Enriched me with the best of wealth.
  Ah fair Delights! that o'er my soul
  On Memory's wing, like shadows fly!                                 10
  Ah Flowers! which Joy from Eden stole
  While Innocence stood smiling by!--
  But cease, fond Heart! this bootless moan:
  Those Hours on rapid Pinions flown
  Shall yet return, by Absence crown'd,                               15
  And scatter livelier roses round.
  The Sun who ne'er remits his fires
  On heedless eyes may pour the day:
  The Moon, that oft from Heaven retires,
  Endears her renovated ray.                                          20
  What though she leave the sky unblest
  To mourn awhile in murky vest?
  When she relumes her lovely light,
  We bless the Wanderer of the Night.

1791.


FOOTNOTES:

[29:2] First published in _Cambridge Intelligencer_, October 11, 1794:
included in 1796, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] Sonnet on Quitting Christ's Hospital MS. O. Absence, A Farewell
Ode 1796, 1803.




HAPPINESS[30:1]


  On wide or narrow scale shall Man
  Most happily describe Life's plan?
  Say shall he bloom and wither there,
  Where first his infant buds appear;
  Or upwards dart with soaring force,                                  5
  And tempt some more ambitious course?
    Obedient now to Hope's command,
  I bid each humble wish expand,
  And fair and bright Life's prospects seem.
  While Hope displays her cheering beam,                              10
  And Fancy's vivid colourings stream,
  While Emulation stands me nigh
  The Goddess of the eager eye.
    With foot advanc'd and anxious heart
  Now for the fancied goal I start:--                                 15
  Ah! why will Reason intervene
  Me and my promis'd joys between!
  She stops my course, she chains my speed,
  While thus her forceful words proceed:--
  Ah! listen, Youth, ere yet too late,                                20
  What evils on thy course may wait!
  To bow the head, to bend the knee,
  A minion of Servility,
  At low Pride's frequent frowns to sigh,
  And watch the glance in Folly's eye;                                25
  To toil intense, yet toil in vain,
  And feel with what a hollow pain
  Pale Disappointment hangs her head
  O'er darling Expectation dead!
    'The scene is changed and Fortune's gale                          30
  Shall belly out each prosperous sail.
  Yet sudden wealth full well I know
  Did never happiness bestow.
  That wealth to which we were not born
  Dooms us to sorrow or to scorn.                                     35
  Behold yon flock which long had trod
  O'er the short grass of Devon's sod,
  To Lincoln's rank rich meads transferr'd,
  And in their fate thy own be fear'd;
  Through every limb contagions fly,                                  40
  Deform'd and choked they burst and die.
    'When Luxury opens wide her arms,
  And smiling wooes thee to those charms,
  Whose fascination thousands own,
  Shall thy brows wear the stoic frown?                               45
  And when her goblet she extends
  Which maddening myriads press around,
  What power divine thy soul befriends
  That thou should'st dash it to the ground?--
  No, thou shalt drink, and thou shalt know                           50
  Her transient bliss, her lasting woe,
  Her maniac joys, that know no measure,
  And Riot rude and painted Pleasure;--
  Till (sad reverse!) the Enchantress vile
  To frowns converts her magic smile;                                 55
  Her train impatient to destroy,
  Observe her frown with gloomy joy;
  On thee with harpy fangs they seize
  The hideous offspring of Disease,
  Swoln Dropsy ignorant of Rest,                                      60
  And Fever garb'd in scarlet vest,
  Consumption driving the quick hearse,
  And Gout that howls the frequent curse,
  With Apoplex of heavy head
  That surely aims his dart of lead.                                  65
    'But say Life's joys unmix'd were given
  To thee some favourite of Heaven:
  Within, without, tho' all were health--
  Yet what e'en thus are Fame, Power, Wealth,
  But sounds that variously express,                                  70
  What's thine already--Happiness!
  'Tis thine the converse deep to hold
  With all the famous sons of old;
  And thine the happy waking dream
  While Hope pursues some favourite theme,                            75
  As oft when Night o'er Heaven is spread,
  Round this maternal seat you tread,
  Where far from splendour, far from riot,
  In silence wrapt sleeps careless Quiet.
  'Tis thine with Fancy oft to talk,                                  80
  And thine the peaceful evening walk;
  And what to thee the sweetest are--
  The setting sun, the Evening Star--
  The tints, which live along the sky,
  And Moon that meets thy raptur'd eye,                               85
  Where oft the tear shall grateful start,
  Dear silent pleasures of the Heart!
  Ah! Being blest, for Heaven shall lend
  To share thy simple joys a friend!
  Ah! doubly blest, if Love supply                                    90
  His influence to complete thy joy,
  If chance some lovely maid thou find
  To read thy visage in thy mind.
    'One blessing more demands thy care:--
  Once more to Heaven address the prayer:                             95
  For humble independence pray
  The guardian genius of thy way;
  Whom (sages say) in days of yore
  Meek Competence to Wisdom bore,
  So shall thy little vessel glide                                   100
  With a fair breeze adown the tide,
  And Hope, if e'er thou 'ginst to sorrow,
  Remind thee of some fair to-morrow,
  Till Death shall close thy tranquil eye
  While Faith proclaims "Thou shalt not die!"'                       105

1791.


FOOTNOTES:

[30:1] First published in 1834. The poem was sent to George Coleridge in
a letter dated June 22, 1791. An adapted version of ll. 80-105 was sent
to Southey, July 13, 1794.


LINENOTES:

Title] Upon the Author's leaving school and entering into Life. MS. O
(c).

[6] tempt] dare MS. O, MS. O (c).

[10] While] When MS. O, MS. O (c).

[Between 11-13]

  How pants my breast before my eyes
  While Honour WAVES her radiant prize.
  And Emulation, &c.

MS. O, MS. O (c).

[22] To bend the head, to bow MS. O (c).

[24] frowns] frown MS. O, MS. O (c).

[25] in] of MS. O (c).

[41] Deformed, choaked MS. O, MS. O (c).

[45] brows] brow MS. O, MS. O (c).

[55] magic] wonted MS. O, MS. O (c).

[57] her frown] the fiend MS. O, MS. O (c).

[68] Without, within MS. O, MS. O (c).

[76] is] has MS O, MS. O (c).

[77] _Note_--Christ's Hospital MS. O: Ottery S. Mary in Devonshire MS. O
(c).

[80-1]

  'Tis thine with faery forms to talk
  And thine the philosophic walk.

Letter to Southey, 1794.

[84] which] that MS. O, MS. O (c), Letter, 1794.

[85] And] The Letter, 1794.

[86] Where grateful oft the big drops start. Letter, 1794. shall] does
MS. O (c).

[90-3]

  Ah! doubly blest, if Love supply
  Lustre to this now heavy eye,
  And with unwonted Spirit grace
  That fat[32:A] vacuity of face.
  Or if e'en Love, the mighty Love
  Shall find this change his power above;
  Some lovely maid perchance thou'lt find
  To read thy visage in thy mind.

MS. O, MS. O (c).

     [32:A] The Author was at this time, _aetat._ 17, remarkable
     for a plump face. MS. O (c).

[96-7]

  But if thou pour one votive lay
  For humble, &c.

Letter, 1794.

[96] Not in Letter.

[101] adown Life's tide MS. O, MS. O (c).

[102-3] Not in Letter, 1794.




A WISH[33:1]

WRITTEN IN JESUS WOOD, FEB. 10, 1792


  Lo! through the dusky silence of the groves,
  Thro' vales irriguous, and thro' green retreats,
  With languid murmur creeps the placid stream
          And works its secret way.

  Awhile meand'ring round its native fields                            5
  It rolls the playful wave and winds its flight:
  Then downward flowing with awaken'd speed
          Embosoms in the Deep!

  Thus thro' its silent tenor may my Life
  Smooth its meek stream by sordid wealth unclogg'd,                  10
  Alike unconscious of forensic storms,
          And Glory's blood-stain'd palm!

  And when dark Age shall close Life's little day,
  Satiate of sport, and weary of its toils,
  E'en thus may slumbrous Death my decent limbs                       15
          Compose with icy hand!

1792.


FOOTNOTES:

[33:1] First published in 1893, from _MS. Letter to Mary Evans_, Feb. 13
[1792].




AN ODE IN THE MANNER OF ANACREON[33:2]


  As late, in wreaths, gay flowers I bound,
  Beneath some roses Love I found;
  And by his little frolic pinion
  As quick as thought I seiz'd the minion,
  Then in my cup the prisoner threw,                                   5
  And drank him in its sparkling dew:
  And sure I feel my angry guest
  Fluttering _his wings_ within my breast!

1792.


FOOTNOTES:

[33:2] First published in 1893, from _MS. Letter_, Feb. 13 [1792].




TO DISAPPOINTMENT[34:1]


    Hence! thou fiend of gloomy sway,
  That lov'st on withering blast to ride
  O'er fond Illusion's air-built pride.
    Sullen Spirit! Hence! Away!

    Where Avarice lurks in sordid cell,                                5
  Or mad Ambition builds the dream,
  Or Pleasure plots th' unholy scheme
    There with Guilt and Folly dwell!

    But oh! when Hope on Wisdom's wing
  Prophetic whispers pure delight,                                    10
  Be distant far thy cank'rous blight,
    Demon of envenom'd sting.

    Then haste thee, Nymph of balmy gales!
  Thy poet's prayer, sweet May! attend!
  Oh! place my parent and my friend                                   15
    'Mid her lovely native vales.

    Peace, that lists the woodlark's strains,
  Health, that breathes divinest treasures,
  Laughing Hours, and Social Pleasures
    Wait my friend in Cambria's plains.                               20

    Affection there with mingled ray
  Shall pour at once the raptures high
  Of filial and maternal Joy;
    Haste thee then, delightful May!

    And oh! may Spring's fair flowerets fade,                         25
  May Summer cease her limbs to lave
  In cooling stream, may Autumn grave
    Yellow o'er the corn-cloath'd glade;

    Ere, from sweet retirement torn,
  She seek again the crowded mart:                                    30
  Nor thou, my selfish, selfish heart
    Dare her slow return to mourn!

1792.


FOOTNOTES:

[34:1] First published in _Letters of Samuel Taylor Coleridge_, 1895, i.
28, 29. The lines were included in a letter to Mrs. Evans, dated
February 13, 1792.




A FRAGMENT FOUND IN A LECTURE-ROOM[35:1]


  Where deep in mud Cam rolls his slumbrous stream,
  And bog and desolation reign supreme;
  Where all Boeotia clouds the misty brain,
  The owl Mathesis pipes her loathsome strain.
  Far, far aloof the frighted Muses fly,                               5
  Indignant Genius scowls and passes by:
  The frolic Pleasures start amid their dance,
  And Wit congeal'd stands fix'd in wintry trance.
  But to the sounds with duteous haste repair
  Cold Industry, and wary-footed Care;                                10
  And Dulness, dosing on a couch of lead,
  Pleas'd with the song uplifts her heavy head,
  The sympathetic numbers lists awhile,
  Then yawns propitiously a frosty smile. . . .
             [Caetera desunt.]

1792.


FOOTNOTES:

[35:1] First published in _Letters of Samuel Taylor Coleridge_, 1895, i.
44. The lines were sent in a letter to the Rev. G. Coleridge, dated
April [1792].


LINENOTES:

[1] slumbrous] reverend MS. E.

[5] frighted] affrighted MS. E.

[9] to] at MS. E.

[12] Sooth'd with the song uprears MS. E.

[13] The] Its MS. E.




ODE[35:2]


  Ye Gales, that of the Lark's repose
  The impatient Silence break,
  To yon poor Pilgrim's wearying Woes
  Your gentle Comfort speak!
  He heard the midnight whirlwind die,                                 5
  He saw the sun-awaken'd Sky
  Resume its slowly-purpling Blue:
  And ah! he sigh'd--that I might find
  The cloudless Azure of the Mind
  And Fortune's brightning Hue!                                       10
  Where'er in waving Foliage hid
  The Bird's gay Charm ascends,
  Or by the fretful current chid
  Some giant Rock impends--
  There let the lonely Cares respire                                  15
  As small airs thrill the mourning Lyre
  And teach the Soul her native Calm;
  While Passion with a languid Eye
  Hangs o'er the fall of Harmony
  And drinks the sacred Balm.                                         20

  Slow as the fragrant whisper creeps
    Along the lilied Vale,
  The alter'd Eye of Conquest weeps,
    And ruthless War grows pale
  Relenting that his Heart forsook                                    25
  Soft Concord of auspicious Look,
  And Love, and social Poverty;
  The Family of tender Fears,
  The Sigh, that saddens and endears,
  And Cares, that sweeten Joy.                                        30

  Then cease, thy frantic Tumults cease,
  Ambition, Sire of War!
  Nor o'er the mangled Corse of Peace
  Urge on thy scythéd Car.
  And oh! that Reason's voice might swell                             35
  With whisper'd Airs and holy Spell
    To rouse thy gentler Sense,
  As bending o'er the chilly bloom
  The Morning wakes its soft Perfume
    With breezy Influence.                                            40

1792.


FOOTNOTES:

[35:2] These lines, first published in the _Watchman_ (No. IV, March 25,
1796, _signed_ G. A. U. N. T.), were included in the volume of MS. Poems
presented to Mrs. Estlin in April, 1795. They were never claimed by
Coleridge or assigned to him, and are now collected for the first time.


LINENOTES:

Title] A Morning Effusion Watchman.

[4] Comfort] solace W.

[13] fretful] fretting MS. E.

[16] mourning] lonely W.

[17] her] its W.

[18] languid] waning W.

[19] Hangs] Bends W.

[21-2]

  As slow the whisper'd measure creeps
  Along the steaming Vale.

W.

[24] grows] turns W.

[31] Tumults] outrage W.

[32] Thou scepter'd Demon, WAR W.

[35] oh] ah W.

[38] chilly] flowrets' W.




A LOVER'S COMPLAINT TO HIS MISTRESS[36:1]

WHO DESERTED HIM IN QUEST OF A MORE WEALTHY HUSBAND IN THE EAST INDIES


  The dubious light sad glimmers o'er the sky:
  'Tis silence all. By lonely anguish torn,
  With wandering feet to gloomy groves I fly,
  And wakeful Love still tracks my course forlorn.

  And will you, cruel Julia! will you go?                              5
  And trust you to the Ocean's dark dismay?
  Shall the wide wat'ry world between us flow?
  And winds unpitying snatch my Hopes away?

  Thus could you sport with my too easy heart?
  Yet tremble, lest not unaveng'd I grieve!                           10
  The winds may learn your own delusive art,
  And faithless Ocean smile--but to deceive!

1792.


FOOTNOTES:

[36:1] First published in 1893, from _MS. Letter_, Feb. 13 [1792].




WITH FIELDING'S 'AMELIA'[37:1]


  Virtues and Woes alike too great for man
    In the soft tale oft claim the useless sigh;
  For vain the attempt to realise the plan,
    On Folly's wings must Imitation fly.
  With other aim has Fielding here display'd                           5
    Each social duty and each social care;
  With just yet vivid colouring portray'd
    What every wife should be, what many are.
  And sure the Parent[37:2] of a race so sweet
    With double pleasure on the page shall dwell,                     10
  Each scene with sympathizing breast shall meet,
    While Reason still with smiles delights to tell
  Maternal hope, that her loved progeny
  In all but sorrows shall Amelias be!

? 1792.


FOOTNOTES:

[37:1] First published in 1834.

[37:2] It is probable that the recipient of the _Amelia_ was the mother
of Coleridge's first love, Mary Evans.


LINENOTES:

Title] Sent to Mrs. ---- with an _Amelia_. MS. O.

[10] double] doubled MS. O.




WRITTEN AFTER A WALK BEFORE SUPPER[37:3]


  Tho' much averse, dear Jack, to flicker,
  To find a likeness for friend V--ker,
  I've made thro' Earth, and Air, and Sea,
  A Voyage of Discovery!
  And let me add (to ward off strife)                                  5
  For V--ker and for V--ker's Wife--
  She large and round beyond belief,
  A superfluity of beef!
  Her mind and body of a piece,
  And both composed of kitchen-grease.                                10
  In short, Dame Truth might safely dub her
  Vulgarity enshrin'd in blubber!
  He, meagre bit of littleness,
  All snuff, and musk, and politesse;
  So thin, that strip him of his clothing,                            15
  He'd totter on the edge of Nothing!
  In case of foe, he well might hide
  Snug in the collops of her side.

  Ah then, what simile will suit?
  Spindle-leg in great jack-boot?                                     20
  Pismire crawling in a rut?
  Or a spigot in a butt?
  Thus I humm'd and ha'd awhile,
  When Madam Memory with a smile
  Thus twitch'd my ear--'Why sure, I ween,                            25
  In London streets thou oft hast seen
  The very image of this pair:
  A little Ape with huge She-Bear
  Link'd by hapless chain together:
  An unlick'd mass the one--the other                                 30
  An antic small with nimble crupper----'
  But stop, my Muse! for here comes supper.

1792.


FOOTNOTES:

[37:3] First published in 1796, and secondly in _P. and D. W._, 1877-80.
These lines, described as 'A Simile', were sent in a letter to the Rev.
George Coleridge, dated August 9 [1792]. The Rev. Fulwood Smerdon, the
'Vicar' of the original MS., succeeded the Rev. John Coleridge as vicar
of Ottery St. Mary in 1781. He was the 'Edmund' of 'Lines to a Friend',
&c., _vide post_, pp. 74, 75.


LINENOTES:

Title] Epistle iii. Written, &c., 1796.

[1] dear Jack] at folk Letter, 1792.

[2] A simile for Vicar Letter, 1792.

[6] For Vicar and for Vicar's wife Letter, 1792.

[7] large] gross Letter, 1792.

[12] enshrin'd] enclos'd

[19] will] can Letter, 1792.

[23] I ha'd and hem'd Letter, 1792.

[24] Madam] Mrs. Letter, 1792.

[28] huge] large Letter, 1792.

[29] Link'd] Tied Letter, 1792.

[31] small] lean Letter, 1792: huge 1796, 1877, 1888, 1893. For Antic
huge read _antic small_ 'Errata', 1796 p. [189].




IMITATED FROM OSSIAN[38:1]


  The stream with languid murmur creeps,
    In Lumin's _flowery_ vale:
  Beneath the dew the Lily weeps
    Slow-waving to the gale.

  'Cease, restless gale!' it seems to say,                             5
    'Nor wake me with thy sighing!
  The honours of my vernal day
    On rapid wing are flying.

  'To-morrow shall the Traveller come
    Who late beheld me blooming:                                      10
  His searching eye shall vainly roam
    The _dreary_ vale of Lumin.'

  With eager gaze and wetted cheek
    My wonted haunts along,
  Thus, faithful Maiden! _thou_ shalt seek                            15
    The Youth of simplest song.

  But I along the breeze shall roll
    The voice of feeble power;
  And dwell, the Moon-beam of thy soul,
    In Slumber's nightly hour.                                        20

1793.


FOOTNOTES:

[38:1] First published in 1796: included in 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.
The following note was attached in 1796 and 1803:--The flower hangs its
[heavy] head waving at times to the gale. 'Why dost thou awake me, O
Gale?' it seems to say, 'I am covered with the drops of Heaven. The time
of my fading is near, the blast that shall scatter my leaves. Tomorrow
shall the traveller come; he that saw me in my beauty shall come. His
eyes will search the field, [but] they will not find me. So shall they
search in vain for the voice of Cona, after it has failed in the
field.'--Berrathon, see Ossian's _Poems_, vol. ii. [ed. 1819, p. 481].


LINENOTES:

Title] Ode MS. E.

[10] That erst, &c. MS. E.

[15] faithful] lovely MS. E.

[16] simplest] gentle MS. E.




THE COMPLAINT OF NINATHÓMA[39:1]

FROM THE SAME


  How long will ye round me be swelling,
    O ye blue-tumbling waves of the sea?
  Not always in caves was my dwelling,
    Nor beneath the cold blast of the tree.
  Through the high-sounding halls of Cathlóma                          5
    In the steps of my beauty I strayed;
  The warriors beheld Ninathóma,
    And they blesséd the white-bosom'd Maid!
  A Ghost! by my cavern it darted!
    In moon-beams the Spirit was drest--                              10
  For lovely appear the Departed
    When they visit the dreams of my rest!
  But disturb'd by the tempest's commotion
    Fleet the shadowy forms of delight--
  Ah cease, thou shrill blast of the Ocean!                           15
    To howl through my cavern by night.

1793.


FOOTNOTES:

[39:1] First published in 1796: included in 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.
These lines were included in a letter from Coleridge to Mary Evans,
dated Feb. 7, 1793. In 1796 and 1803 the following note was
attached:--'How long will ye roll around me, blue-tumbling waters of
Ocean. My dwelling is not always in caves; nor beneath the whistling
tree. My [The] feast is spread in Torthoma's Hall. [My father delighted
in my voice.] The youths beheld me in [the steps of] my loveliness. They
blessed the dark-haired Nina-thomà.'--Berrathon [Ossian's _Poems_, 1819,
ii. 484].


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion xxx. The Complaint, &c., 1796.

[5] halls] Hall Letter, 1793.

[8] white-bosom'd] dark-tressed Letter, 1793.

[Between 8-9]

  By my friends, by my Lovers discarded,
    Like the flower of the Rock now I waste,
  That lifts her fair head unregarded,
    And scatters its leaves on the blast.

Letter, 1793.

[13] disturb'd] dispers'd Letter, 1793.




SONGS OF THE PIXIES[40:1]

The Pixies, in the superstition of Devonshire, are a race of beings
invisibly small, and harmless or friendly to man. At a small distance
from a village in that county, half-way up a wood-covered hill, is an
excavation called the Pixies' Parlour. The roots of old trees form its
ceiling; and on its sides are innumerable cyphers, among which the
author discovered his own cypher and those of his brothers, cut by the
hand of their childhood. At the foot of the hill flows the river Otter.

To this place the Author, during the summer months of the year 1793,
conducted a party of young ladies; one of whom, of stature elegantly
small, and of complexion colourless yet clear, was proclaimed the Faery
Queen. On which occasion the following Irregular Ode was written.


  I

  Whom the untaught Shepherds call
    Pixies in their madrigal,
  Fancy's children, here we dwell:
    Welcome, Ladies! to our cell.
  Here the wren of softest note                                        5
    Builds its nest and warbles well;
  Here the blackbird strains his throat;
    Welcome, Ladies! to our cell.

  II

  When fades the moon to shadowy-pale,
  And scuds the cloud before the gale,                                10
  Ere the Morn all gem-bedight
  Hath streak'd the East with rosy light,
  We sip the furze-flower's fragrant dews
  Clad in robes of rainbow hues;
  Or sport amid the shooting gleams                                   15
  To the tune of distant-tinkling teams,
  While lusty Labour scouting sorrow
  Bids the Dame a glad good-morrow,
  Who jogs the accustom'd road along,
  And paces cheery to her cheering song.                              20

  III

        But not our filmy pinion
      We scorch amid the blaze of day,
      When Noontide's fiery-tresséd minion
          Flashes the fervid ray.
        Aye from the sultry heat                                      25
        We to the cave retreat
  O'ercanopied by huge roots intertwin'd
  With wildest texture, blacken'd o'er with age:
  Round them their mantle green the ivies bind,
        Beneath whose foliage pale                                    30
        Fann'd by the unfrequent gale
  We shield us from the Tyrant's mid-day rage.

  IV

      Thither, while the murmuring throng
      Of wild-bees hum their drowsy song,
      By Indolence and Fancy brought,                                 35
      A youthful Bard, 'unknown to Fame,'
      Wooes the Queen of Solemn Thought,
  And heaves the gentle misery of a sigh
          Gazing with tearful eye,
      As round our sandy grot appear                                  40
      Many a rudely-sculptur'd name
          To pensive Memory dear!
  Weaving gay dreams of sunny-tinctur'd hue,
        We glance before his view:
  O'er his hush'd soul our soothing witcheries shed                   45
  And twine the future garland round his head.

  V

            When Evening's dusky car
            Crown'd with her dewy star
  Steals o'er the fading sky in shadowy flight;
            On leaves of aspen trees                                  50
            We tremble to the breeze
  Veil'd from the grosser ken of mortal sight.
      Or, haply, at the visionary hour,
  Along our wildly-bower'd sequester'd walk,
  We listen to the enamour'd rustic's talk;                           55
  Heave with the heavings of the maiden's breast,
  Where young-eyed Loves have hid their turtle nest;
      Or guide of soul-subduing power
  The glance that from the half-confessing eye
  Darts the fond question or the soft reply.                          60

  VI

      Or through the mystic ringlets of the vale
      We flash our faery feet in gamesome prank;
      Or, silent-sandal'd, pay our defter court,
      Circling the Spirit of the Western Gale,
      Where wearied with his flower-caressing sport,                  65
      Supine he slumbers on a violet bank;
  Then with quaint music hymn the parting gleam
  By lonely Otter's sleep-persuading stream;
  Or where his wave with loud unquiet song
  Dash'd o'er the rocky channel froths along;                         70
  Or where, his silver waters smooth'd to rest,
  The tall tree's shadow sleeps upon his breast.

  VII

          Hence thou lingerer, Light!
          Eve saddens into Night.
  Mother of wildly-working dreams! we view                            75
      The sombre hours, that round thee stand
      With down-cast eyes (a duteous band!)
  Their dark robes dripping with the heavy dew.
          Sorceress of the ebon throne!
          Thy power the Pixies own,                                   80
          When round thy raven brow
          Heaven's lucent roses glow,
      And clouds in watery colours drest
    Float in light drapery o'er thy sable vest:
    What time the pale moon sheds a softer day                        85
    Mellowing the woods beneath its pensive beam:
    For mid the quivering light 'tis ours to play,
    Aye dancing to the cadence of the stream.

  VIII

      Welcome, Ladies! to the cell
      Where the blameless Pixies dwell:                               90
  But thou, Sweet Nymph! proclaim'd our Faery Queen,
      With what obeisance meet
      Thy presence shall we greet?
  For lo! attendant on thy steps are seen
      Graceful Ease in artless stole,                                 95
      And white-robed Purity of soul,
        With Honour's softer mien;
    Mirth of the loosely-flowing hair,
  And meek-eyed Pity eloquently fair,
    Whose tearful cheeks are lovely to the view,                     100
        As snow-drop wet with dew.

  IX

  Unboastful Maid! though now the Lily pale
    Transparent grace thy beauties meek;
  Yet ere again along the impurpling vale,
  The purpling vale and elfin-haunted grove,                         105
  Young Zephyr his fresh flowers profusely throws,
    We'll tinge with livelier hues thy cheek;
  And, haply, from the nectar-breathing Rose
          Extract a Blush for Love!

1793.


FOOTNOTES:

[40:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and
1834. _The Songs of the Pixies_ forms part of the volume of MS. Poems
presented to Mrs. Estlin, and of a quarto MS. volume which the poet
retained for his own use.


LINENOTES:

This preface appears in all editions. Previous to 1834 the second
paragraph read:--To this place the Author conducted a party of young
Ladies, during the Summer months of the year 1793, &c.

The Songs of the Pixies, an irregular Ode. The lower orders of the
people in Devonshire have a superstition concerning the existence of
'Pixies', a race of beings supposed to be invisibly small, and harmless
or friendly to man. At a small village in the county, half-way up a
Hill, is a large excavation called the 'Pixies'' Parlour. The roots of
the trees growing above it form the ceiling--and on its sides are
engraved innumerable cyphers, among which the author descried his own
and those of his Brothers, cut by the rude hand of their childhood. At
the foot of the Hill flows the River Otter. To this place the Author had
the Honour of conducting a party of Young Ladies during the Summer
months, on which occasion the following Poem was written. MS. E.

_Note._ The emendations in ll. 9, 11, 12, 15, 16 are peculiar to the
edition of 1834, and are, certainly, Coleridge's own handiwork.

[9] to] all MS. 4{o}, MS. E, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[11] Ere Morn with living gems bedight MS. 4{o}E, 1796, 1797, 1803,
1828, 1829.

[12] Hath streak'd] Purples MS. 4{o}, MS. E, 1796, 1828, 1829: Streaks
1797, 1803. rosy] streaky MS. E, 1796, 1828, 1829: purple 1797, 1803.

After l. 14 the following lines appear in MS. 4{o}, MS. E, 1796, 1797,
1803, 1828:

  Richer than the deepen'd bloom
  That glows on Summer's lily-scented (scented 1797, 1803) plume.

[15] shooting] rosy MS. 4{o}, MS. E, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[15-16] gleam . . . team MS. 4{o}, MS. E, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[16] To the tune of] Sooth'd by the MS. 4{o}, MS. E, 1796, 1797, 1803,
1828, 1829.

[20] Timing to Dobbin's foot her cheery song. MS. E, MS. 4{o} erased.

[21] our] the MS. E.

[35] By rapture-beaming Fancy brought MS. E, MS. 4{o} erased.

[37] Oft wooes MS. E: our faery garlands MS. 4{o}, MS. E, 1796, 1797,
1803, 1828, 1829.

[53-5]

  Or at the silent visionary hour
  Along our rude sequester'd walk
  We list th' enamour'd Shepherd's talk.

MS. E.

  Or at the silent

MS. 4{o} erased.

[54] wildly-bower'd] wild 1797, 1803.

[57] hid] built MS. 4{o}, MS. E, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[58] of] with MS. E.

[59]

  The Electric Flash that from the melting eye,

MS. 4{o}, MS. E, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[60] or] and MS. E, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[61-5]

  Or haply in the flower-embroider'd vale
  We ply our faery feet in gamesome prank;
  Or pay our wonted court
  Circling the Spirits of the Western Gale,
  Where tir'd with vernal sport

MS. E.

[63]

  Or in deft homage pay our silent court

MS. 4{o} erased.

[68-70]

  By lonely Otter's 'peace-persuading' stream
  Or where his frothing wave with merry song
  'Dash'd o'er the rough rock lightly leaps along'

MS. E.

[68] peace-persuading stream MS. 4{o} erased.

[69-70]

  Or where his waves with loud unquiet song
  Dash'd o'er the rocky channel froth along

MS. 4{o}, 1796 ('froths' _in text_, 'froth' _errata_).

[70] froths] froth 1828, 1829.

[75-7]

  Mother of wild'ring dreams thy course pursue.
  With downcast eyes around thee stand
  The sombre Hours, a duteous band.

MS. E.

[92] obedience MS. 4{o}, 1796: Correction made in Errata.

[94] For lo! around thy MS. E.

[97] softer] gentler MS. E.

[99] meek-eyed] meekest MS. E.

[100] cheeks are] cheek is MS. E.

[104-5]

  Yet ere again the impurpled vale
    And elfin-haunted grove

MS. 4{o}.

[104-6]

  Yet ere again the purpling vale
    And elfin-haunted Grove
  Young Zephyr with fresh flowrets strews.

MS. 4{o}, MS. E.

[108] nectar-breathing] nectar-dropping MS. E.

[109] for] of MS. E.




THE ROSE[45:1]


  As late each flower that sweetest blows
  I pluck'd, the Garden's pride!
  Within the petals of a Rose
  A sleeping Love I spied.

  Around his brows a beamy wreath                                      5
  Of many a lucent hue;
  All purple glow'd his cheek, beneath,
  Inebriate with dew.

  I softly seiz'd the unguarded Power,
  Nor scared his balmy rest:                                          10
  And placed him, caged within the flower,
  On spotless Sara's breast.

  But when unweeting of the guile
  Awoke the prisoner sweet,
  He struggled to escape awhile                                       15
  And stamp'd his faery feet.

  Ah! soon the soul-entrancing sight
  Subdued the impatient boy!
  He gazed! he thrill'd with deep delight!
  Then clapp'd his wings for joy.                                     20

  'And O!' he cried--'Of magic kind
  What charms this Throne endear!
  Some other Love let Venus find--
  I'll fix _my_ empire _here_.'[46:1]

1793.


FOOTNOTES:

[45:1] First published in 1796, included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and
1834. A copy of this poem is written in pencil on the blank page of
Langhorne's _Collins_; a note adds, 'This "Effusion" and "Kisses" were
addressed to a Miss F. Nesbitt at Plymouth, whither the author
accompanied his eldest brother, to whom he was paying a visit, when he
was twenty-one years of age.' In a letter to his brother George, dated
July 28, 1793, Coleridge writes, 'presented a moss rose to a lady. Dick
Hart [George Coleridge's brother-in-law] asked if she was not afraid to
put it in her bosom, as, perhaps, there might be love in it. I
immediately wrote the following little ode or song or what you please to
call it. [The Rose.] It is of the namby-pamby genus.' _Letters of S. T.
C._, 1895, i. 54.

[46:1] _Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. p. 55.


LINENOTES:

Title] On presenting a moss rose to Miss F. Nesbitt. MS. (pencil).
Effusion xxvi. 1796.

[5] beamy] lucent MS. E: lucid Letter, 1793.

[6] lucent] changing MS. E: mingled Letter, 1793.

[12]

  On lovely Nesbitt's breast.    MS. (pencil).

  On Angelina's breast.          Letter, 1793.

  On spotless Anna's breast.     MS. E.

[Probably Anna Buclé, afterwards Mrs. Cruikshank.]

[13] But when all reckless Letter, 1793.

[14] prisoner] slumberer Letter, 1793.

[16] faery] angry Letter, 1793.

[21-2]

  'And, O', he cried, 'What charms refined
  This magic throne endear

Letter, 1793, MS. E.

[23] Another Love may Letter, 1793.




KISSES[46:2]


  Cupid, if storying Legends tell aright,
  Once fram'd a rich Elixir of Delight.
  A Chalice o'er love-kindled flames he fix'd,
  And in it Nectar and Ambrosia mix'd:
  With these the magic dews which Evening brings,                      5
  Brush'd from the Idalian star by faery wings:
  Each tender pledge of sacred Faith he join'd,
  Each gentler Pleasure of th' unspotted mind--
  Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness glow,
  And Hope, the blameless parasite of Woe.                            10
  The eyeless Chemist heard the process rise,
  The steamy Chalice bubbled up in sighs;
  Sweet sounds transpired, as when the enamour'd Dove
  Pours the soft murmuring of responsive Love.
  The finish'd work might Envy vainly blame,                          15
  And 'Kisses' was the precious Compound's name.
  With half the God his Cyprian Mother blest,
  And breath'd on Sara's lovelier lips the rest.

1793.


FOOTNOTES:

[46:2] First published in 1796: included in 1797 (_Supplement_), 1803,
and 1844. Three MSS. are extant, (1) as included in a letter to George
Coleridge, Aug. 5, 1793; (2) as written in pencil in a copy of
Langhorne's _Collins_ in 1793; (3) _MS. E._ _Poems_, 1796 (Note 7, p.
181), and footnotes in 1797 and 1803, supply the original Latin:

  Effinxit quondam blandum meditata laborem
    Basia lascivâ Cypria Diva manu.
  Ambrosiae succos occultâ temperat arte,
    Fragransque infuso nectare tingit opus.
  Sufficit et partem mellis, quod subdolus olim
    Non impune favis surripuisset Amor.
  Decussos violae foliis admiscet odores
    Et spolia aestivis plurima rapta rosis.
  Addit et illecebras et mille et mille lepores,
    Et quot Acidalius gaudia Cestus habet.
  Ex his composuit Dea basia; et omnia libens
    Invenias nitidae sparsa per ora Cloës.
                       Carm[ina] Quad[ragesimalia], vol. ii.


LINENOTES:

Title] Cupid turn'd Chymist Letter, 1793, Pencil. The Compound MS. E:
Effusion xxvi. 1796: The Composition of a Kiss 1797: Kisses 1803, 1844,
1852.

[1] storying] ancient Pencil.

[3] Chalice] cauldron Letter, 1793.

[8] gentler] gentle Pencil.

[9]

  Gay Dreams whose tints with beamy brightness glow.

Letter, 1793, MS. E.

[9-10]

      { Hopes the blameless parasites of Woe
  And { Fond                           Bristol MS.

  And Dreams whose tints with beamy brightness glow.
                               Pencil, Bristol MS.

[11-12]

  With joy he view'd his chymic process rise,
  The steaming cauldron bubbled up in sighs.
                                     Letter, 1793.

[11-12]

                    the chymic process rise,
  The steaming chalice
                                    Pencil, MS. E.

[11-12]

                    the chymic process rise,
  The charming cauldron
                                       Bristol MS.

[14] Murmuring] murmurs Letter, 1793.

  Cooes the soft murmurs                   Pencil.

[15]

  not Envy's self could blame    Letter, 1793, Pencil.
                  might blame.   MS. E.

[17] With part Letter, 1793, MS. E.

[18]

  on Nesbitt's lovely lips the rest.         Letter, 1793, Pencil.
  on Mary's lovelier lips the rest.          MS. E.
  on lovely Nesbitt's lovely lips the rest.  Bristol MS.




THE GENTLE LOOK[47:1]


  Thou gentle Look, that didst my soul beguile,
    Why hast thou left me? Still in some fond dream
  Revisit my sad heart, auspicious Smile!
    As falls on closing flowers the lunar beam:
  What time, in sickly mood, at parting day                            5
    I lay me down and think of happier years;
  Of joys, that glimmer'd in Hope's twilight ray,
    Then left me darkling in a vale of tears.
  O pleasant days of Hope--for ever gone!
    Could I recall you!--But that thought is vain.                    10
  Availeth not Persuasion's sweetest tone
    To lure the fleet-wing'd Travellers back again:
  Yet fair, though faint, their images shall gleam
  Like the bright Rainbow on a willowy stream.[48:1]

? 1793.


FOOTNOTES:

[47:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and
1834. The 'four _last_ lines' of the Sonnet as sent to Southey, on Dec.
11, 1794, were written by Lamb. _Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 111,
112.

[48:1] Compare ll. 13, 14 with ll. 13, 14 of _Anna and Harland_ and ll.
17, 18 of _Recollection_. _Vide_ Appendix.


LINENOTES:

Title] Irregular Sonnet MS. E: Effusion xiv. 1796: Sonnet III. 1797,
1803: Sonnet viii. 1828, 1829, 1834: The Smile P. W. 1885: The Gentle
Look P. W. 1893.

[1] Thou] O Letter, 1794.

[9] gone] flown MS. E.

[10] you] one Letter, 1794.

[13-14]

  Anon they haste to everlasting Night,
  Nor can a Giant's arm arrest them in their flight

Letter, 1794.

  On on, &c.,

MS. E.




SONNET[48:2]

TO THE RIVER OTTER


  Dear native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West!
    How many various-fated years have past,
    What happy and what mournful hours, since last
  I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast,
  Numbering its light leaps! yet so deep imprest                       5
  Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
    I never shut amid the sunny ray,
  But straight with all their tints thy waters rise,
    Thy crossing plank, thy marge with willows grey,
  And bedded sand that vein'd with various dyes                       10
  Gleam'd through thy bright transparence! On my way,
    Visions of Childhood! oft have ye beguil'd
  Lone manhood's cares, yet waking fondest sighs:
    Ah! that once more I were a careless Child!

? 1793.


FOOTNOTES:

[48:2] Lines 2-11 were first published in the _Watchman_, No. V, April
2, 1796, as lines 17-26 of _Recollection_. First published, as a whole,
in _Selection of Sonnets_, 1796, included in 1797, 1803, _Sibylline
Leaves_, 1828, 1829, and 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] Sonnet No. IV. To the, &c., 1797, 1803.

[3] What blissful and what anguish'd hours Watchman, S. S., 1797, 1803.

[7] ray] blaze Watchman, S. S., 1797, 1803.

[8] thy] their S. L. _Corrected in Errata_, p. [xii].

[9]

  The crossing plank, and margin's willowy maze Watchman.

  Thy crossing plank, thy margin's willowy maze S. S., 1797, 1803.

[11] On my way] to the gaze Watchman, S. S., 1797, 1803.

[14] Ah! that I were once more, &c. S. L. _Corrected in Errata_, p.
[xii].




FIRST DRAFT

AN EFFUSION AT EVENING

WRITTEN IN AUGUST, 1792


  Imagination, Mistress of my Love!
  Where shall mine Eye thy elfin haunt explore?
  Dost thou on yon rich Cloud thy pinions bright
  Embathe in amber-glowing Floods of Light?
  Or, wild of speed, pursue the track of Day                           5
  In other worlds to hail the morning Ray?
  'Tis time to bid the faded shadowy Pleasures move
  On shadowy Memory's wings across the Soul of Love;
  And thine o'er _Winter's_ icy plains to fling
  Each flower, that binds the breathing Locks of _Spring_,            10
  When blushing, like a bride, from primrose Bower
  She starts, awaken'd by the pattering Shower!

  Now sheds the setting Sun a purple gleam,
  Aid, lovely Sorc'ress! aid the Poet's dream.
  With faery wand O bid my Love arise,                                15
  The dewy brilliance dancing in her Eyes;
  As erst she woke with soul-entrancing Mien
  The thrill of Joy extatic yet serene,
  When link'd with Peace I bounded o'er the Plain
  And Hope itself was all I knew of Pain!                             20

  Propitious Fancy hears the votive sigh--
  The absent Maiden flashes on mine Eye!
  When first the matin Bird with startling Song
  Salutes the Sun his veiling Clouds among,
                               { accustom'd
  I trace her footsteps on the { steaming Lawn,                       25
  I view her glancing in the gleams of Dawn!
  When the bent Flower beneath the night-dew weeps
  And on the Lake the silver Lustre sleeps,
  Amid the paly Radiance soft and sad
  She meets my lonely path in moonbeams clad.                         30
  With _her_ along the streamlet's brink I rove;
  With _her_ I list the warblings of the Grove;
  And seems in each low wind _her_ voice to float,
  Lone-whispering Pity in each soothing Note!
  As oft in climes beyond the western Main                            35
  Where boundless spreads the wildly-silent Plain,
  The savage Hunter, who his drowsy frame
  Had bask'd beneath the Sun's unclouded Flame,
  Awakes amid the tempest-troubled air,
  The Thunder's Peal and Lightning's lurid glare--                    40
  Aghast he hears the rushing Whirlwind's Sweep,
  And sad recalls the sunny hour of Sleep!
  So lost by storms along Life's wild'ring Way
  Mine Eye reverted views that cloudless Day,
  When, ----! on thy banks I joy'd to rove                            45
  While Hope with kisses nurs'd the infant Love!

  Sweet ----! where Pleasure's streamlet glides
  Fann'd by soft winds to curl in mimic tides;
  Where Mirth and Peace beguile the blameless Day;
  And where Friendship's fixt star beams a mellow'd Ray;              50
  Where Love a crown of thornless Roses wears;
  Where soften'd Sorrow smiles within her tears;
  And Memory, with a Vestal's meek employ,
  Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of Joy!
  No more thy Sky Larks less'ning from my sight                       55
  Shall thrill th' attunéd Heartstring with delight;
  No more shall deck thy pensive Pleasures sweet
  With wreaths of sober hue my evening seat!
  Yet dear to [My] Fancy's Eye thy varied scene
  Of Wood, Hill, Dale and sparkling Brook between:                    60
  Yet sweet to [My] Fancy's Ear the warbled song,
  That soars on Morning's wing thy fields among!

  Scenes of my Hope! the aching Eye ye leave,
  Like those rich Hues that paint the clouds of Eve!
  Tearful and saddening with the sadden'd Blaze                       65
  Mine Eye the gleam pursues with wistful Gaze--
  Sees Shades on Shades with deeper tint impend,
  Till chill and damp the moonless Night descend!

1792.




LINES[51:1]

ON AN AUTUMNAL EVENING


  O thou wild Fancy, check thy wing! No more
  Those thin white flakes, those purple clouds explore!
  Nor there with happy spirits speed thy flight
  Bath'd in rich amber-glowing floods of light;
  Nor in yon gleam, where slow descends the day,                       5
  With western peasants hail the morning ray!
  Ah! rather bid the perish'd pleasures move,
  A shadowy train, across the soul of Love!
  O'er Disappointment's wintry desert fling
  Each flower that wreath'd the dewy locks of Spring,                 10
  When blushing, like a bride, from Hope's trim bower
  She leapt, awaken'd by the pattering shower.

  Now sheds the sinking Sun a deeper gleam,
  Aid, lovely Sorceress! aid thy Poet's dream!
  With faery wand O bid the Maid arise,                               15
  Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes;
  As erst when from the Muses' calm abode
  I came, with Learning's meed not unbestowed;
  When as she twin'd a laurel round my brow,
  And met my kiss, and half return'd my vow,                          20
  O'er all my frame shot rapid my thrill'd heart,
  And every nerve confess'd the electric dart.

  O dear Deceit! I see the Maiden rise,
  Chaste Joyance dancing in her bright-blue eyes!
  When first the lark high-soaring swells his throat,                 25
  Mocks the tir'd eye, and scatters the loud note,
  I trace her footsteps on the accustom'd lawn,
  I mark her glancing mid the gleam of dawn.
  When the bent flower beneath the night-dew weeps
  And on the lake the silver lustre sleeps,                           30
  Amid the paly radiance soft and sad,
  She meets my lonely path in moon-beams clad.
  With her along the streamlet's brink I rove;
  With her I list the warblings of the grove;
  And seems in each low wind her voice to float                       35
  Lone-whispering Pity in each soothing note!

  Spirits of Love! ye heard her name! Obey
  The powerful spell, and to my haunt repair.
  Whether on clust'ring pinions ye are there,
  Where rich snows blossom on the Myrtle-trees,                       40
  Or with fond languishment around my fair
  Sigh in the loose luxuriance of her hair;
  O heed the spell, and hither wing your way,
  Like far-off music, voyaging the breeze!

  Spirits! to you the infant Maid was given                           45
  Form'd by the wond'rous Alchemy of Heaven!
  No fairer Maid does Love's wide empire know,
  No fairer Maid e'er heav'd the bosom's snow.
  A thousand Loves around her forehead fly;
  A thousand Loves sit melting in her eye;                            50
  Love lights her smile--in Joy's red nectar dips
  His myrtle flower, and plants it on her lips.
  She speaks! and hark that passion-warbled song--
  Still, Fancy! still that voice, those notes prolong.
  As sweet as when that voice with rapturous falls                    55
  Shall wake the soften'd echoes of Heaven's Halls!
  [52:1]O (have I sigh'd) were mine the wizard's rod,
  Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful God!
  A flower-entangled Arbour I would seem
  To shield my Love from Noontide's sultry beam:                      60
  Or bloom a Myrtle, from whose od'rous boughs
  My Love might weave gay garlands for her brows.
  When Twilight stole across the fading vale,
  To fan my Love I'd be the Evening Gale;
  Mourn in the soft folds of her swelling vest,                       65
  And flutter my faint pinions on her breast!
  On Seraph wing I'd float a Dream by night,
  To soothe my Love with shadows of delight:--
  Or soar aloft to be the Spangled Skies,
  And gaze upon her with a thousand eyes!                             70

  As when the Savage, who his drowsy frame
  Had bask'd beneath the Sun's unclouded flame,
  Awakes amid the troubles of the air,
  The skiey deluge, and white lightning's glare--
  Aghast he scours before the tempest's sweep,                        75
  And sad recalls the sunny hour of sleep:--
  So tossed by storms along Life's wild'ring way,
  Mine eye reverted views that cloudless day,
  When by my native brook I wont to rove,
  While Hope with kisses nurs'd the Infant Love.                      80

  Dear native brook! like Peace, so placidly
  Smoothing through fertile fields thy current meek!
  Dear native brook! where first young Poesy
  Stared wildly-eager in her noontide dream!
  Where blameless pleasures dimple Quiet's cheek,                     85
  As water-lilies ripple thy slow stream!
  Dear native haunts! where Virtue still is gay,
  Where Friendship's fix'd star sheds a mellow'd ray,
  Where Love a crown of thornless Roses wears,
  Where soften'd Sorrow smiles within her tears;                      90
  And Memory, with a Vestal's chaste employ,
  Unceasing feeds the lambent flame of joy!
  No more your sky-larks melting from the sight
  Shall thrill the attunéd heart-string with delight--
  No more shall deck your pensive Pleasures sweet                     95
  With wreaths of sober hue my evening seat.
  Yet dear to Fancy's eye your varied scene
  Of wood, hill, dale, and sparkling brook between!
  Yet sweet to Fancy's ear the warbled song,
  That soars on Morning's wing your vales among.                     100

  Scenes of my Hope! the aching eye ye leave
  Like yon bright hues that paint the clouds of eve!
  Tearful and saddening with the sadden'd blaze
  Mine eye the gleam pursues with wistful gaze:
  Sees shades on shades with deeper tint impend,                     105
  Till chill and damp the moonless night descend

1793.


FOOTNOTES:

[51:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829 and
1834. In _Social Life at the English Universities_, by Christopher
Wordsworth, M.A., 1874, it is recorded that this poem was read by
Coleridge to a party of college friends on November 7, 1793.

[52:1] Note to line 57. Poems, 1796, pp. 183-5:--I entreat the Public's
pardon for having carelessly suffered to be printed such intolerable
stuff as this and the thirteen following lines. They have not the merit
even of originality: as every thought is to be found in the Greek
Epigrams. The lines in this poem from the 27th to the 36th, I have been
told are a palpable imitation of the passage from the 355th to the 370th
line of the Pleasures of Memory Part 3. I do not perceive so striking a
similarity between the two passages; at all events I had written the
Effusion several years before I had seen M{r} Rogers' Poem.--It may be
proper to remark that the tale of Florio in the 'Pleasures of Memory' is
to be found in Lochleven, a poem of great merit by Michael Bruce.--In
M{r} Rogers' Poem[52:A] the names are Florio and Julia; in the Lochleven
Lomond and Levina--and this is all the difference. We seize the
opportunity of transcribing from the Lochleven of Bruce the following
exquisite passage, expressing the effects of a fine day on the human
heart.

  Fat on the plain, and mountain's sunny side
  Large droves of oxen and the fleecy flocks
  Feed undisturb'd; and fill the echoing air
  With Music grateful to their [the] Master's ear.
  The Traveller stops and gazes round and round
  O'er all the plains [scenes] that animate his heart
  With mirth and music. Even the mendicant
  Bow-bent with age, that on the old gray stone
  Sole-sitting suns him in the public way,
  Feels his heart leap, and to himself he sings.
                    [_Poems_ by Michael Bruce, 1796, p. 94.]

     [52:A] For Coleridge's retractation of the charge of
     plagiarism and apology to Rogers see 'Advertisement to
     Supplement of 1797', pp. 244, 245.


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion xxxvi. Written in Early Youth, The Time, An Autumnal
Evening 1796: Written in etc. 1803: An Effusion on an Autumnal Evening.
Written in Early Youth 1797 (Supplement).

A first draft, headed 'An Effusion at Evening, Written in August, 1792'
is included in the MS. volume presented to Mrs. Estlin in April, 1795
(_vide ante_, pp. 49, 50).

[28] gleam] gleams 1796, 1797, 1803, 1893.

[51-3]

                  in Joy's bright nectar dips
  The flamy rose, and plants it on her lips!
  Tender, serene, and all devoid of guile,
  Soft is her soul, as sleeping infants' smile.
  She speaks, &c.

1796, 1803.

[54] still those mazy notes 1796, 1803.

[55-6]

  Sweet as th' angelic harps, whose rapturous falls
  Awake the soften'd echoes of Heaven's Halls.

1796, 1803.

[86] thy] a 1796, 1803.




TO FORTUNE[54:1]


TO THE EDITOR OF THE 'MORNING CHRONICLE'

     SIR,--The following poem you may perhaps deem admissible into
     your journal--if not, you will commit it εἰς ἱερὸν μένος
     Ἡφαίστοιο.--I am, with more respect and gratitude than I
     ordinarily feel for Editors of Papers, your obliged, &c.,
                                                 CANTAB.--S. T. C.


TO FORTUNE

_On buying a Ticket in the Irish Lottery_

     Composed during a walk to and from the Queen's Head, Gray's
     Inn Lane, Holborn, and Hornsby's and Co., Cornhill.


  Promptress of unnumber'd sighs,
  O snatch that circling bandage from thine eyes!
  O look, and smile! No common prayer
  Solicits, Fortune! thy propitious care!
  For, not a silken son of dress,                                      5
  I clink the gilded chains of _politesse_,
  Nor ask thy boon what time I scheme
  Unholy Pleasure's frail and feverish dream;
  Nor yet my view life's _dazzle_ blinds--
  Pomp!--Grandeur! Power!--I give you to the winds!                   10
  Let the little bosom cold
  Melt only at the sunbeam ray of gold--
  My pale cheeks glow--the big drops start--
  The rebel _Feeling_ riots at my heart!
  And if in lonely durance pent,                                      15
  Thy poor mite mourn a brief imprisonment--
  That mite at Sorrow's faintest sound
  Leaps from its scrip with an elastic bound!
  But oh! if ever song thine ear
  Might soothe, O haste with fost'ring hand to rear                   20
  One Flower of Hope! At Love's behest,
  Trembling, I plac'd it in my secret breast:
  And thrice I've view'd the vernal gleam,
  Since oft mine eye, with Joy's electric beam,
  Illum'd it--and its sadder hue                                      25
  Oft moisten'd with the Tear's ambrosial dew!
  Poor wither'd floweret! on its head
  Has dark Despair his sickly mildew shed!
  But thou, O Fortune! canst relume
  Its deaden'd tints--and thou with hardier bloom                     30
  May'st haply tinge its beauties pale,
  And yield the unsunn'd stranger to the western gale!

1793.


FOOTNOTES:

[54:1] First published, _Morning Chronicle_, Nov. 7, 1793. First
collected 1893.




PERSPIRATION. A TRAVELLING ECLOGUE[56:1]


  The dust flies smothering, as on clatt'ring wheel
  Loath'd Aristocracy careers along;
  The distant track quick vibrates to the eye,
  And white and dazzling undulates with heat,
  Where scorching to the unwary traveller's touch,                     5
  The stone fence flings its narrow slip of shade;
  Or, where the worn sides of the chalky road
  Yield their scant excavations (sultry grots!),
  Emblem of languid patience, we behold
  The fleecy files faint-ruminating lie.                              10

1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[56:1] First published, _Letters of Samuel Taylor Coleridge_, 1895, i.
73, 74. The lines were sent in a letter to Southey, dated July 6, 1794.




[AVE, ATQUE VALE!][56:2]


  Vivit sed mihi non vivit--nova forte marita,
  Ah dolor! alterius carâ a cervice pependit.
  Vos, malefida valete accensae insomnia mentis,
  Littora amata valete! Vale, ah! formosa Maria!

1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[56:2] First published, _Biog. Lit._ 1847, Biog. Supplement, ii. 340.
This Latin quatrain was sent in a letter to Southey, dated July 13,
1794.




ON BALA HILL[56:3]


  With many a weary step at length I gain
  Thy summit, Bala! and the cool breeze plays
  Cheerily round my brow--as hence the gaze
  Returns to dwell upon the journey'd plain.

  'Twas a long way and tedious!--to the eye                            5
  Tho' fair th' extended Vale, and fair to view
  The falling leaves of many a faded hue
  That eddy in the wild gust moaning by!

  Ev'n so it far'd with Life! in discontent
  Restless thro' Fortune's mingled scenes I went,                     10
  Yet wept to think they would return no more!
  O cease fond heart! in such sad thoughts to roam,
  For surely thou ere long shalt reach thy home,
  And pleasant is the way that lies before.

1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[56:3] First published (as Coleridge's) in 1893, from an unsigned
autograph MS. found among the Evans Papers. The lines are all but
identical with Southey's Sonnet to Lansdown Hill (Sonnet viii), dated
1794, and first published in 1797, and were, probably, his composition.
See _Athenaeum_, January 11, 1896.


LINENOTES:

[2] Bala] Lansdown Poems, 1797.

[3] Cheerily] Gratefully Poems, 1797.

[12] O] But Poems, 1797.




LINES[57:1]

WRITTEN AT THE KING'S ARMS, ROSS, FORMERLY THE HOUSE OF THE 'MAN OF
ROSS'


  Richer than Miser o'er his countless hoards,
  Nobler than Kings, or king-polluted Lords,
  Here dwelt the MAN OF ROSS! O Traveller, hear!
  Departed Merit claims a reverent tear.
  Friend to the friendless, to the sick man health,                    5
  With generous joy he view'd his modest wealth;
  He heard the widow's heaven-breath'd prayer of praise,
  He mark'd the shelter'd orphan's tearful gaze,
  Or where the sorrow-shrivell'd captive lay,
  Pour'd the bright blaze of Freedom's noon-tide ray.                 10
  Beneath this roof if thy cheer'd moments pass,
  Fill to the good man's name one grateful glass:
  To higher zest shall Memory wake thy soul,
  And Virtue mingle in the ennobled bowl.
  But if, like me, through Life's distressful scene                   15
  Lonely and sad thy pilgrimage hath been;
  And if thy breast with heart-sick anguish fraught,
  Thou journeyest onward tempest-tossed in thought;
  Here cheat thy cares! in generous visions melt,
  And _dream_ of Goodness, thou hast never felt!                      20

1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[57:1] First published in the _Cambridge Intelligencer_, September 27,
1794: included in _A Pedestrian Tour through North Wales_. By J. Hucks,
1795, p. 15: 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

In a letter to Southey dated July 13, 1794, Coleridge writes:--'At Ross
. . . we took up our quarters at the King's Arms, once the house of
Kyrle, the Man of Ross. I gave the window-shutter the following
effusion--"Richer than Misers" etc.' J. Hucks, in his _Tour_, 1795, p.
15, writes to the same effect. There are but slight variations in the
text as printed in the _Cambridge Intelligencer_ and in Hucks' _Tour_.
In 1796 lines 5-10 of the text, which were included in _A Monody on the
Death of Chatterton_ (1796), are omitted, and the poem numbered only
fourteen lines. In 1797 lines 5-10 were restored to the _Man of Ross_
and omitted from the _Monody_. The poem numbered twenty lines. In 1803
lines 5-10 were again omitted from the _Man of Ross_, but not included
in the _Monody_. The poem numbered fourteen lines. The text of 1828,
1829 is almost identical with that of 1834.

Four MS. versions are extant, (1) the Letter to Southey, July 13, 1794;
(2) the Estlin Copy-book; (3) the Morrison MSS.; (4) the MS. 4{o}
Copy-book.


LINENOTES:

Title] Written . . . Mr. Kyrle, 'the Man of Ross'. MS. E.

[1] Misers o'er their Letter, 1794, J. H., MS. E, 1808.

[4] the glistening tear Letter, 1794: a] the J. H., MS. E. Lines 5-10
are not in MS. 4{o}, 1796, 1803: in 1797 they follow l. 14 of the text.

[5] to the poor man wealth, Morrison MSS.

[7] heard] hears 1797, 1828, 1829.

[8] mark'd] marks 1797, 1828.

[9] And o'er the dowried maiden's glowing cheek, Letter, 1794, Morrison
MSS.: virgin's snowy cheek, J. H., MS. E.

[10] Bade bridal love suffuse its blushes meek. Letter, 1794, MS. E,
Morrison MSS. Pour'd] Pours 1797, 1828, 1829.

[11] If 'neath this roof thy wine cheer'd moments pass Letter, J. H.,
MS. E, MS. 4{o}, 1803.

[14] ennobled] sparkling Letter, 1794.

[15] me] mine 1803.




IMITATED FROM THE WELSH[58:1]


  If while my passion I impart,
    You deem my words untrue,
  O place your hand upon my heart--
    Feel how it throbs for _you_!

  Ah no! reject the thoughtless claim                                  5
    In pity to your Lover!
  That thrilling touch would aid the flame
    It wishes to discover.

? 1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[58:1] First published in 1796: included in 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] Song MS. E: Effusion xxxi. Imitated &c., 1796.




LINES[58:2]

TO A BEAUTIFUL SPRING IN A VILLAGE


  Once more! sweet Stream! with slow foot wandering near,
  I bless thy milky waters cold and clear.
  Escap'd the flashing of the noontide hours,
  With one fresh garland of Pierian flowers
  (Ere from thy zephyr-haunted brink I turn)                           5
  My languid hand shall wreath thy mossy urn.
  For not through pathless grove with murmur rude
  Thou soothest the sad wood-nymph, Solitude;
  Nor thine unseen in cavern depths to well,
  The Hermit-fountain of some dripping cell!                          10
  Pride of the Vale! thy useful streams supply
  The scatter'd cots and peaceful hamlet nigh.
  The elfin tribe around thy friendly banks
  With infant uproar and soul-soothing pranks,
  Releas'd from school, their little hearts at rest,                  15
  Launch paper navies on thy waveless breast.
  The rustic here at eve with pensive look
  Whistling lorn ditties leans upon his crook,
  Or, starting, pauses with hope-mingled dread
  To list the much-lov'd maid's accustom'd tread:                     20
  She, vainly mindful of her dame's command,
  Loiters, the long-fill'd pitcher in her hand.

  Unboastful Stream! thy fount with pebbled falls
  The faded form of past delight recalls,
  What time the morning sun of Hope arose,                            25
  And all was joy; save when another's woes
  A transient gloom upon my soul imprest,
  Like passing clouds impictur'd on thy breast.
  Life's current then ran sparkling to the noon,
  Or silvery stole beneath the pensive Moon:                          30
  Ah! now it works rude brakes and thorns among,
  Or o'er the rough rock bursts and foams along!

1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[58:2] First published in 1796: included in _Annual Register_, 1796:
1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] Lines addressed to a Spring in Village of Kirkhampton near Bath
MS. E.

[7] groves in murmurs MS. E.

[21-2]

  And now essays his simple Faith to prove
  By all the soft solicitudes of Love.

MS. E.

[30] Or silver'd its smooth course beneath the Moon. MS. 4{o}.

[31] rude] the thorny MS. 4{o} erased.

For ll. 29-32

  But ah! too brief in Youths' enchanting reign,
  Ere Manhood wakes th' unweeting heart to pain,
  Silent and soft thy silver waters glide:
  So glided Life, a smooth and equal Tide.
  Sad Change! for now by choking Cares withstood
  It hardly bursts its way, a turbid, boist'rous Flood!

MS. E.




IMITATIONS

AD LYRAM[59:1]

(CASIMIR, BOOK II. ODE 3)


  The solemn-breathing air is ended--
    Cease, O Lyre! thy kindred lay!
  From the poplar-branch suspended
    Glitter to the eye of Day!

  On thy wires hov'ring, dying,                                        5
    Softly sighs the summer wind:
  I will slumber, careless lying,
    By yon waterfall reclin'd.

  In the forest hollow-roaring
    Hark! I hear a deep'ning sound--                                  10
  Clouds rise thick with heavy low'ring!
    See! th' horizon blackens round!

  Parent of the soothing measure,
    Let me seize thy wetted string!
  Swiftly flies the flatterer, Pleasure,                              15
    Headlong, ever on the wing.[60:1]

1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[59:1] First published in the _Watchman_, No. II, March 9, 1796:
included in _Literary Remains_, 1836, I. 41-3. First collected in 1844.

[60:1] If we except Lucretius and Statius, I know not of any Latin poet,
ancient or modern, who has equalled Casimir in boldness of conception,
opulence of fancy, or beauty of versification. The Odes of this
illustrious Jesuit were translated into English about 150 years ago, by
a Thomas Hill, I think, [--by G. H. [G. Hils.] London, 1646. 12mo. _Ed.
L. R._ 1836. I never saw the translation. A few of the Odes have been
translated in a very animated manner by Watts. I have subjoined the
third ode of the second book, which, with the exception of the first
line, is an effusion of exquisite elegance. In the imitation attempted,
I am sensible that I have destroyed the _effect of suddenness_, by
translating into two stanzas what is one in the original.

AD LYRAM.

  Sonori buxi Filia sutilis,
  Pendebis alta, Barbite, populo,
    Dum ridet aer, et supinas
      Solicitat levis aura frondes:
  Te sibilantis lenior halitus
  Perflabit Euri: me iuvet interim
    Collum reclinasse, et virenti
      Sic temere iacuisse ripa.
  Eheu! serenum quae nebulae tegunt
  Repente caelum! quis sonus imbrium!
    Surgamus--heu semper fugaci
      Gaudia praeteritura passu!

                              'Advertisement' to _Ad Lyram_,
                           in _Watchman_, II, March 9, 1796.


LINENOTES:

Title] Song. [_Note._ Imitated from Casimir.] MS. E.




TO LESBIA[60:2]

  Vivamus, mea Lesbia, atque amemus.
                                         CATULLUS.


  My Lesbia, let us love and live,
  And to the winds, my Lesbia, give
  Each cold restraint, each boding fear
  Of age and all her saws severe.
  Yon sun now posting to the main                                      5
  Will set,--but 'tis to rise again;--
  But we, when once our mortal light
  Is set, must sleep in endless night.
  Then come, with whom alone I'll live,
  A thousand kisses take and give!                                    10
  Another thousand!--to the store
  Add hundreds--then a thousand more!
  And when they to a million mount,
  Let confusion take the account,--
  That you, the number never knowing,                                 15
  May continue still bestowing--
  That I for joys may never pine,
  Which never can again be mine!

? 1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[60:2] First published in the _Morning Post_, April 11, 1798: included
in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 274. First collected in _P. W._, 1893.


LINENOTES:

Title] Lines imitated from Catullus. M. P.

[4] her] its L. R.

[7] mortal] little L. R.

[18] _signed_ Mortimer M. P.




THE DEATH OF THE STARLING[61:1]

  Lugete, O Veneres, Cupidinesque.--CATULLUS.


  Pity! mourn in plaintive tone
  The lovely starling dead and gone!
    Pity mourns in plaintive tone
  The lovely starling dead and gone.
  Weep, ye Loves! and Venus! weep                                      5
  The lovely starling fall'n asleep!
  Venus sees with tearful eyes--
  In her lap the starling lies!
  While the Loves all in a ring
  Softly stroke the stiffen'd wing.                                   10

? 1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[61:1] First published, _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 274. First
collected, _P. W._, 1893. The titles 'Lesbia' and 'The Death of the
Starling' first appear in 1893.


LINENOTES:

[7] sees] see L. R.




MORIENS SUPERSTITI[61:2]


  The hour-bell sounds, and I must go;
  Death waits--again I hear him calling;--
  No cowardly desires have I,
  Nor will I shun his face appalling.
  I die in faith and honour rich--                                     5
  But ah! I leave behind my treasure
  In widowhood and lonely pain;--
  To live were surely then a pleasure!

  My lifeless eyes upon thy face
  Shall never open more to-morrow;                                    10
  To-morrow shall thy beauteous eyes
  Be closed to Love, and drown'd in Sorrow;
  To-morrow Death shall freeze this hand,
  And on thy breast, my wedded treasure,
  I never, never more shall live;--                                   15
  Alas! I quit a life of pleasure.


FOOTNOTES:

[61:2] First published in the _Morning Post_, May 10, 1798, with a
prefatory note:--'The two following verses from the French, never before
published, were written by a French Prisoner as he was preparing to go
to the Guillotine': included in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 275. First
collected _P. W._, 1893.




MORIENTI SUPERSTES


  Yet art thou happier far than she
  Who feels the widow's love for thee!
  For while her days are days of weeping,
  Thou, in peace, in silence sleeping,
  In some still world, unknown, remote,                                5
  The mighty parent's care hast found,
  Without whose tender guardian thought
  No sparrow falleth to the ground.

? 1794.




THE SIGH[62:1]


  When Youth his faery reign began
  Ere Sorrow had proclaim'd me man;
  While Peace the present hour beguil'd,
  And all the lovely Prospect smil'd;
  Then Mary! 'mid my lightsome glee                                    5
  I heav'd the painless Sigh for thee.

  And when, along the waves of woe,
  My harass'd Heart was doom'd to know
  The frantic burst of Outrage keen,
  And the slow Pang that gnaws unseen;                                10
  Then shipwreck'd on Life's stormy sea
  I heaved an anguish'd Sigh for thee!

  But soon Reflection's power imprest
  A stiller sadness on my breast;
  And sickly Hope with waning eye                                     15
  Was well content to droop and die:
  I yielded to the stern decree,
  Yet heav'd a languid Sigh for thee!

  And though in distant climes to roam,
  A wanderer from my native home,                                     20
  I fain would soothe the sense of Care,
  And lull to sleep the Joys that were!
  Thy Image may not banish'd be--
  Still, Mary! still I sigh for thee.

1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[62:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.
Coleridge dated the poem, June 1794, but the verses as sent to Southey,
in a letter dated November, 1794 (_Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 100,
101), could not have taken shape before the August of that year, after
the inception of Pantisocracy and his engagement to Sarah Fricker.


LINENOTES:

Title] Ode MS. E: Song Letter, Nov. 1794, Morrison MSS.: Effusion xxxii:
The Sigh 1796.

[7] along th'] as tossed on 1803. waves] wilds Letter, 1794, MS. E.

[9] of] the 1803.

[13] power] hand Letter, Nov. 1794, MS. E.

[18] a] the Letter, 1794.

[21-2]

  I fain would woo a gentle Fair
  To soothe the aching sense of Care

Letter, Nov. 1794.

[21] sense of] aching MS. E.

[Below l. 24] June 1794 Poems, 1796.




THE KISS[63:1]


  One kiss, dear Maid! I said and sigh'd--
  Your scorn the little boon denied.
  Ah why refuse the blameless bliss?
  Can danger lurk within a kiss?

  Yon viewless wanderer of the vale,                                   5
  The Spirit of the Western Gale,
  At Morning's break, at Evening's close
  Inhales the sweetness of the Rose,
  And hovers o'er the uninjur'd bloom
  Sighing back the soft perfume.                                      10
  Vigour to the Zephyr's wing
  Her nectar-breathing kisses fling;
  And He the glitter of the Dew
  Scatters on the Rose's hue.
  Bashful lo! she bends her head,                                     15
  And darts a blush of deeper Red!

  Too well those lovely lips disclose
  The triumphs of the opening Rose;
  O fair! O graceful! bid them prove
  As passive to the breath of Love.                                   20
  In tender accents, faint and low,
  Well-pleas'd I hear the whisper'd 'No!'
  The whispered 'No'--how little meant!
  Sweet Falsehood that endears Consent!
  For on those lovely lips the while                                  25
  Dawns the soft relenting smile,
  And tempts with feign'd dissuasion coy
  The gentle violence of Joy.

? 1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[63:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and
1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] Ode MS. E: Effusion xxviii 1796: The Kiss 1797, 1828, 1829, 1834:
To Sara 1803. _MSS. of_ The Kiss _are included in the Estlin volume and
in S. T. C.'s quarto copy-book_.

[11-15]

  Vigor to his languid wing
  The Rose's fragrant kisses bring,
  And He o'er all her brighten'd hue
  Flings the glitter of the dew.
  See she bends her bashful head.

MS. E.

[13-14]

  And He o'er all her brighten'd hue
  Sheds the glitter of the dew.

MS. 4{o} erased.

[18] The fragrant triumphs of the Rose. MS. E.

[26] Dawns] Dawn'd MS. E.

[27] And] That MS. E.




TO A YOUNG LADY[64:1]

WITH A POEM ON THE FRENCH REVOLUTION


  Much on my early youth I love to dwell,
  Ere yet I bade that friendly dome farewell,
  Where first, beneath the echoing cloisters pale,
  I heard of guilt and wonder'd at the tale!
  Yet though the hours flew by on careless wing,                       5
  Full heavily of Sorrow would I sing.
  Aye as the Star of Evening flung its beam
  In broken radiance on the wavy stream,
  My soul amid the pensive twilight gloom
  Mourn'd with the breeze, O Lee Boo![64:2] o'er thy tomb.            10
  Where'er I wander'd, Pity still was near,
  Breath'd from the heart and glisten'd in the tear:
  No knell that toll'd but fill'd my anxious eye,
  And suffering Nature wept that _one_ should die![65:1]

  Thus to sad sympathies I sooth'd my breast,                         15
  Calm, as the rainbow in the weeping West:
  When slumbering Freedom roused by high Disdain
  With giant Fury burst her triple chain!
  Fierce on her front the blasting Dog-star glow'd;
  Her banners, like a midnight meteor, flow'd;                        20
  Amid the yelling of the storm-rent skies!
  She came, and scatter'd battles from her eyes!
  Then Exultation waked the patriot fire
  And swept with wild hand the Tyrtaean lyre:
  Red from the Tyrant's wound I shook the lance,                      25
  And strode in joy the reeking plains of France!

  Fallen is the Oppressor, friendless, ghastly, low,
  And my heart aches, though Mercy struck the blow.
  With wearied thought once more I seek the shade,
  Where peaceful Virtue weaves the Myrtle braid.                      30
  And O! if Eyes whose holy glances roll,
  Swift messengers, and eloquent of soul;
  If Smiles more winning, and a gentler Mien
  Than the love-wilder'd Maniac's brain hath seen
  Shaping celestial forms in vacant air,                              35
  If these demand the empassion'd Poet's care--
  If Mirth and soften'd Sense and Wit refined,
  The blameless features of a lovely mind;
  Then haply shall my trembling hand assign
  No fading wreath to Beauty's saintly shrine.                        40
  Nor, Sara! thou these early flowers refuse--
  Ne'er lurk'd the snake beneath their simple hues;
  No purple bloom the Child of Nature brings
  From Flattery's night-shade: as he feels he sings.

_September_ 1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[64:1] First published in _The Watchman_, No. I, March 1, 1796: included
in 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834. Three MSS. are extant: (1)
the poem as sent to Southey in a letter dated Oct. 21, 1794 (see
_Letters of S. T. C._, 1855, i. 94, 95); (2) the Estlin volume; (3) the
MS. 4{o} copy-book.

[64:2] Lee Boo, the son of Abba Thule, Prince of the Pelew Islands, came
over to England with Captain Wilson, died of the small-pox, and is
buried in Greenwich churchyard. See Keate's _Account of the Pelew
Islands_. 1788.

[65:1] And suffering Nature, &c. Southey's _Retrospect_.

  'When eager patriots fly the news to spread
   Of glorious conquest, and of thousands dead;
   All feel the mighty glow of victor joy--

          *       *       *       *       *

   But if extended on the gory plain,
   And, snatch'd in conquest, some lov'd friend be slain,
   Affection's tears will dim the sorrowing eye,
   And suffering Nature grieve that one should die.'

From the _Retrospect_ by Robert Southey, published by Dilly [1795, pp.
9, 10]. _MS. 4{o}._


LINENOTES:

Title] Verses addressed to a Lady with a poem relative to a recent event
in the French Revolution MS. E.

[2] friendly] guardian MS. Letter, 1794, MS. E.

[3] cloisters] cloister MS. E.

[5] careless] rosy MS. E.

[9] My pensive soul amid the twilight gloom MS. Letter,
1794.

[10] Boo] Bo MS. E.

[12] glisten'd] glitter'd MS. Letter, 1794.

[13] anxious] anguish'd MS. Letter, 1794.

[16] Calm] Bright MS. E.

[17] by] with 1829.

[23] waked] woke MS. Letter, 1794, MS. E.

[24] with wilder hand th' empassion'd lyre MS. Letter, 1794: with wilder
hand th' Alcaean lyre MS. 4{o}, MS. E, Watchman, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828,
1829.

[25] wound] wounds MS. Letter, 1794.

[27] In ghastly horror lie th' Oppressors low MS. Letter, 1794, MS. E,
MS. 4{o}, 1796, Watchman.

[29] With sad and wearied thought I seek the shade MS. E: With wearied
thought I seek the amaranth shade MS. Letter, 1794.

[30] the] her MS. Letter, 1794, MS. E.

[32] The eloquent messengers of the pure soul MS. Letter, 1794, MS. E,
MS. 4{o}, Watchman, 1796.

[33] winning] cunning MS. Letter, 1794.

[36] empassion'd] wond'ring MS. Letter, 1794.

[40] wreath] flowers MS. Letter, 1794, MS. E.

[41-4]

  Nor, Brunton! thou the blushing-wreath refuse,
  Though harsh her notes, yet guileless is my Muse.
  Unwont at Flattery's Voice to plume her wings,
  A Child of Nature, as she feels she sings.

MS. Letter, 1794.

  Nor ----! thou the blushing wreath refuse
  Tho' harsh her song, yet guileless is the Muse.
  Unwont &c.

MS. E.

[42-4]

  No Serpent lurks beneath their simple hues.
  No purple blooms from Flattery's nightshade brings,
  The Child of Nature--as he feels he sings.

MS. 4{o} erased.

[43-4]

  Nature's pure Child from Flatt'ry's night-shade brings
  No blooms rich-purpling: as he feels he sings.

MS. 4{o}.

[Below l. 44] September, 1794 1797, 1803: September 1792 1828, 1829,
1834.




TRANSLATION[66:1]

OF WRANGHAM'S 'HENDECASYLLABI AD BRUNTONAM E GRANTA EXITURAM' [KAL. OCT.
MDCCXC]


  Maid of unboastful charms! whom white-robed Truth
  Right onward guiding through the maze of youth,
  Forbade the Circe Praise to witch thy soul,
  And dash'd to earth th' intoxicating bowl:
  Thee meek-eyed Pity, eloquently fair,                                5
  Clasp'd to her bosom with a mother's care;
  And, as she lov'd thy kindred form to trace,
  The slow smile wander'd o'er her pallid face.

    For never yet did mortal voice impart
  Tones more congenial to the sadden'd heart:                         10
  Whether, to rouse the sympathetic glow,
  Thou pourest lone Monimia's tale of woe;
  Or haply clothest with funereal vest
  The bridal loves that wept in Juliet's breast.
  O'er our chill limbs the thrilling Terrors creep,                   15
  Th' entrancéd Passions their still vigil keep;
  While the deep sighs, responsive to the song,
  Sound through the silence of the trembling throng.

    But purer raptures lighten'd from thy face,
  And spread o'er all thy form an holier grace,                       20
  When from the daughter's breasts the father drew
  The life he gave, and mix'd the big tear's dew.
  Nor was it thine th' heroic strain to roll
  With mimic feelings foreign from the soul:
  Bright in thy parent's eye we mark'd the tear;                      25
  Methought he said, 'Thou art no Actress here!
  A semblance of thyself the _Grecian_ dame,
  And Brunton and Euphrasia still the same!'

    O soon to seek the city's busier scene,
  Pause thee awhile, thou chaste-eyed maid serene,                    30
  Till Granta's sons from all her sacred bowers
  With grateful hand shall weave Pierian flowers
  To twine a fragrant chaplet round thy brow,
  Enchanting ministress of virtuous woe!

1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[66:1] First published in _Poems_, by Francis Wrangham, London, 1795,
pp. 79-83. First collected in _P. and D. W._, 1880, ii. 360*
(_Supplement_).




TO MISS BRUNTON[67:1]

WITH THE PRECEDING TRANSLATION


  That darling of the Tragic Muse,
    When Wrangham sung her praise,
  Thalia lost her rosy hues,
    And sicken'd at her lays:

  But transient was th' unwonted sigh;                                 5
    For soon the Goddess spied
  A sister-form of mirthful eye,
    And danc'd for joy and cried:

  'Meek Pity's sweetest child, proud dame,
    The fates have given to you!                                      10
  Still bid your Poet boast her name;
    _I_ have _my_ Brunton too.'

1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[67:1] First published in _Poems_, by Francis Wrangham, 1795, p. 83.
First collected in _P. and D. W._, 1880, ii. 362* (_Supplement_).




EPITAPH ON AN INFANT[68:1]


  Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade,
    Death came with friendly care:
  The opening Bud to Heaven convey'd,
    And bade it blossom _there_.

1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[68:1] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, September 23, 1794:
included in _The Watchman_, No. IX, May 5, 1796, _Poems_ 1796, 1797,
1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834. These well-known lines, which vexed the soul
of Charles Lamb, were probably adapted from 'An Epitaph on an Infant' in
the churchyard of Birchington, Kent (_A Collection of Epitaphs_, 1806,
i. 219):--

  Ah! why so soon, just as the bloom appears,
  Drops the fair blossom in the vale of tears?
  Death view'd the treasure in the desart given
  And claim'd the right of planting it in Heav'n.

In _MS. E_ a Greek version (possibly a rejected prize epigram) is
prefixed with the accompanying footnote.

  Ηλυες εἰς αιδην, καὶ δή τυ ποθεῦσι τοκηες:
    Ηλυες αδυ βρεφος! τοι βραχυ δυνε φαος.
  Ομμα μεν εις σεο σῆμα Πατηρ πικρον ποτιβαλλει
    Ευσεβεης δε Θεῳ δωρα διδωσιν ἑα![68:A]

     [68:A] Translation of the Greek Epitaph. 'Thou art gone down
     into the Grave, and heavily do thy Parents feel the Loss. Thou
     art gone down into the Grave, sweet Baby! Thy short Light is
     set! Thy Father casts an Eye of Anguish towards thy Tomb--yet
     with uncomplaining Piety resigns to God his own Gift!'

     Equal or Greater simplicity marks all the writings of the
     Greek Poets.--The above [i. e. the Greek] Epitaph was written
     in Imitation of them. [S. T. C.]




PANTISOCRACY[68:2]


  No more my visionary soul shall dwell
  On joys that were; no more endure to weigh
  The shame and anguish of the evil day,
  Wisely forgetful! O'er the ocean swell
  Sublime of Hope, I seek the cottag'd dell                            5
  Where Virtue calm with careless step may stray,
  And dancing to the moonlight roundelay,
  The wizard Passions weave an holy spell.
  Eyes that have ach'd with Sorrow! Ye shall weep
  Tears of doubt-mingled joy, like theirs who start                   10
  From Precipices of distemper'd sleep,
  On which the fierce-eyed Fiends their revels keep,
  And see the rising Sun, and feel it dart
  New rays of pleasance trembling to the heart.

1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[68:2] First published in the _Life and Correspondence of R. Southey_,
1849, i. 224. First collected 1852 (Notes). Southey includes the sonnet
in a letter to his brother Thomas dated Oct. 19, 1794, and attributes
the authorship to Coleridge's friend S. Favell, with whom he had been in
correspondence. He had already received the sonnet in a letter from
Coleridge (dated Sept. 18, 1794), who claims it for his own and
apologizes for the badness of the poetry. The octave was included (ll.
129-36) in the second version of the _Monody on the Death of
Chatterton_, first printed in Lancelot Sharpe's edition of the _Poems_
of Chatterton published at Cambridge in 1794. Mrs. H. N. Coleridge
(_Poems_, 1852, p. 382) prints the sonnet and apologizes for the alleged
plagiarism. It is difficult to believe that either the first eight or
last six lines of the sonnet were not written by Coleridge. It is
included in the MS. volume of Poems which Coleridge presented to Mrs.
Estlin in 1795. The text is that of _Letter Sept. 18, 1794_.


LINENOTES:

Title] Sonnet MS. E.

[1] my] the MS. E.

[8] Passions weave] Passion wears Letter, Oct. 19 1794, 1852.

[9] Sorrow] anguish Letter, Oct. 19 1794, 1852.

[10] like theirs] as those Letter, Oct. 19 1794, 1852: as they, MS. E.

[13] feel] find Letter, Oct. 19 1794, 1852.

[14] pleasance] pleasure Letter, Oct. 19 1794, 1852.




ON THE PROSPECT OF ESTABLISHING A PANTISOCRACY IN AMERICA[69:1]


  Whilst pale Anxiety, corrosive Care,
  The tear of Woe, the gloom of sad Despair,
    And deepen'd Anguish generous bosoms rend;--
  Whilst patriot souls their country's fate lament;
  Whilst mad with rage demoniac, foul intent,                          5
    Embattled legions Despots vainly send
  To arrest the immortal mind's expanding ray
    Of everlasting Truth;--I other climes
  Where dawns, with hope serene, a brighter day
    Than e'er saw Albion in her happiest times,                       10
  With mental eye exulting now explore,
    And soon with kindred minds shall haste to enjoy
  (Free from the ills which here our peace destroy)
  Content and Bliss on Transatlantic shore.

1795.


FOOTNOTES:

[69:1] First published in the _Co-operative Magazine and Monthly
Herald_, March 6, 1826, and reprinted in the _Athenæum_, Nov. 5, 1904.
First collected in 1907. It has been conjectured, but proof is wanting,
that the sonnet was written by Coleridge.




ELEGY[69:2]

IMITATED FROM ONE OF AKENSIDE'S BLANK-VERSE INSCRIPTIONS [(No.) III.]


  Near the lone pile with ivy overspread,
    Fast by the rivulet's sleep-persuading sound,
  Where 'sleeps the moonlight' on yon verdant bed--
    O humbly press that consecrated ground!

  For there does Edmund rest, the learnéd swain!                       5
    And there his spirit most delights to rove:
  Young Edmund! fam'd for each harmonious strain,
    And the sore wounds of ill-requited Love.

  Like some tall tree that spreads its branches wide,
    And loads the West-wind with its soft perfume,                    10
  His manhood blossom'd; till the faithless pride
    Of fair Matilda sank him to the tomb.

  But soon did righteous Heaven her Guilt pursue!
    Where'er with wilder'd step she wander'd pale,
  Still Edmund's image rose to blast her view,                        15
    Still Edmund's voice accus'd her in each gale.

  With keen regret, and conscious Guilt's alarms,
    Amid the pomp of Affluence she pined;
  Nor all that lur'd her faith from Edmund's arms
    Could lull the wakeful horror of her mind.                        20

  Go, Traveller! tell the tale with sorrow fraught:
    Some tearful Maid perchance, or blooming Youth,
  May hold it in remembrance; and be taught
    That Riches cannot pay for Love or Truth.

? 1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[69:2] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, September 23, 1794:
included in _The Watchman_, No. III, March 17, 1794: in _Sibylline
Leaves_, 1817: 1828, 1829, and 1834, but omitted in 1852 as of doubtful
origin. The elegy as printed in the _Morning Chronicle_ is unsigned. In
_The Watchman_ it is signed T.


LINENOTES:

Title] An Elegy Morning Chronicle, Watchman.

[1] the] yon M. C.

[6] And there his pale-eyed phantom loves to rove M. C.

[10] West-wind] Zephyr M. C.

[11] till] ere M. C.

[12] Lucinda sunk M. C.

[13] Guilt] crime M. C.

[14] step] steps M. C.

[17] remorse and tortur'd Guilt's M. C.

[20] Could soothe the conscious horrors of her mind M. C. horror]
horrors The Watchman.

[22] tearful] lovely M. C.




THE FADED FLOWER[70:1]


  Ungrateful he, who pluck'd thee from thy stalk,
  Poor faded flow'ret! on his careless way;
  Inhal'd awhile thy odours on his walk,
  Then onward pass'd and left thee to decay.
  Ah! melancholy emblem! had I seen                                    5
  Thy modest beauties dew'd with Evening's gem,
  I had not rudely cropp'd thy parent stem,
  But left thee, blushing, 'mid the enliven'd green
  And now I bend me o'er thy wither'd bloom,
  And drop the tear--as Fancy, at my side,                            10
  Deep-sighing, points the fair frail Abra's tomb--
  'Like thine, sad Flower, was that poor wanderer's pride!
  Oh! lost to Love and Truth, whose selfish joy
  Tasted her vernal sweets, but tasted to destroy!'

1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[70:1] First published in the _Monthly Magazine_, August, 1836. First
collected in _P. W._, 1893.




THE OUTCAST[71:1]


  Pale Roamer through the night! thou poor Forlorn!
  Remorse that man on his death-bed possess,
  Who in the credulous hour of tenderness
  Betrayed, then cast thee forth to Want and Scorn!
  The world is pitiless: the chaste one's pride                        5
  Mimic of Virtue scowls on thy distress:
  Thy Loves and they that envied thee deride:
  And Vice alone will shelter Wretchedness!
  O! I could weep to think that there should be
  Cold-bosom'd lewd ones, who endure to place                         10
  Foul offerings on the shrine of Misery,
  And force from Famine the caress of Love;
  May He shed healing on the sore disgrace,
  He, the great Comforter that rules above!

? 1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[71:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and
1834. 'The first half of Effusion xv was written by the Author of "Joan
of Arc", an Epic Poem.' Preface to _Poems_, 1796, p. xi.


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion xv. 1796: Sonnet vii. 1797: Sonnet vi. 1803: Sonnet ix.
1828, 1829, and 1834: An Unfortunate 1893.

[7] Thy kindred, when they see thee, turn aside 1803.

[9] O I am sad 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[10] Men, born of woman 1803.

[13-14]

  Man has no feeling for thy sore Disgrace:
  Keen blows the Blast upon the moulting Dove.

1803.

[13] the] thy 1796, 1797, 1828.




DOMESTIC PEACE[71:2]

[FROM 'THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE', ACT I, L. 210]


  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,                                    5
  From the Rebel's noisy hate.

  In a cottag'd vale She dwells,
  Listening to the Sabbath bells!
  Still around her steps are seen
  Spotless Honour's meeker mien,                                      10
  Love, the sire of pleasing fears,
  Sorrow smiling through her tears,
  And conscious of the past employ
  Memory, bosom-spring of joy.

1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[71:2] First published in the _Fall of Robespierre_, 1795: included (as
'Song', p. 13) in 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion xxv. 1796.




ON A DISCOVERY MADE TOO LATE[72:1]


  Thou bleedest, my poor Heart! and thy distress
  Reasoning I ponder with a scornful smile
  And probe thy sore wound sternly, though the while
  Swoln be mine eye and dim with heaviness.
  Why didst thou listen to Hope's whisper bland?                       5
  Or, listening, why forget the healing tale,
  When Jealousy with feverous fancies pale
  Jarr'd thy fine fibres with a maniac's hand?
  Faint was that Hope, and rayless!--Yet 'twas fair
  And sooth'd with many a dream the hour of rest:                     10
  Thou should'st have lov'd it most, when most opprest,
  And nurs'd it with an agony of care,
  Even as a mother her sweet infant heir
  That wan and sickly droops upon her breast!

1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[72:1] First published in 1796: _Selection of Sonnets_, _Poems_ 1796: in
1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834. It was sent in a letter to Southey,
dated October 21, 1794. (_Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 92.)


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion xix. 1796 (in 'Contents' _To my Heart_): Sonnet II. On a
Discovery made too late 1797, 1803, and again in P. and D. W., 1877-80:
Sonnet xi. 1828, 1829, 1834.

[2-4]

  Doth Reason ponder with an anguish'd smile
  Probing thy sore wound sternly, tho' the while
  Her eye be swollen and dim with heaviness.

Letter, 1794.

[6] the] its Letter, 1794.

[7] feverous] feverish 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[14] wan] pale Letter, 1794.




TO THE AUTHOR OF 'THE ROBBERS'[72:2]


  Schiller! that hour I would have wish'd to die,
  If thro' the shuddering midnight I had sent
  From the dark dungeon of the Tower time-rent
  That fearful voice, a famish'd Father's cry--
  Lest in some after moment aught more mean                            5
  Might stamp me mortal! A triumphant shout
  Black Horror scream'd, and all her _goblin_ rout
  Diminish'd shrunk from the more withering scene!
  Ah! Bard tremendous in sublimity!
  Could I behold thee in thy loftier mood                             10
  Wandering at eve with finely-frenzied eye
  Beneath some vast old tempest-swinging wood!
  Awhile with mute awe gazing I would brood:
  Then weep aloud in a wild ecstasy!

? 1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[72:2] First published in 1796: included in _Selection of Sonnets_,
1796: in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The following 'Note' (Note 6,
pp. 180, 181) was printed in 1796, and appears again in 1797 as a
footnote, p. 83:--'One night in Winter, on leaving a College-friend's
room, with whom I had supped, I carelessly took away with me "The
Robbers", a drama, the very name of which I had never before heard
of:--A Winter midnight--the wind high--and "The Robbers" for the first
time!--The readers of Schiller will conceive what I felt. Schiller
introduces no supernatural beings; yet his human beings agitate and
astonish more than all the _goblin_ rout--even of Shakespeare.' See for
another account of the midnight reading of 'The Robbers', Letter to
Southey, November [6], 1794, _Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 96, 97.

In the _Selection of Sonnets_, 1796, this note was reduced to one
sentence. 'Schiller introduces no Supernatural Beings.' In 1803 the note
is omitted, but a footnote to line 4 is appended: 'The Father of Moor in
the Play of the Robbers.'


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion xx. To the Author, &c. [To 'Schiller', _Contents_] 1796:
Sonnet viii. To the Author of 'The Robbers' 1797: Sonnet xv. 1803:
Sonnet xii. To the Author of the Robbers 1828, 1829, 1834.

_Lines 1-4_ are printed in the reverse order (_4_, _3_, _2_, _1_).
Selections.

[5-6]

  That in no after moment aught, less vast
  Might stamp me human!

Selections.

  That in no after moment aught less vast
  Might stamp me mortal!

1797, 1803.

[8] From the more with'ring scene diminish'd past. Selections, 1797,
1803.




MELANCHOLY[73:1]

A FRAGMENT


  Stretch'd on a moulder'd Abbey's broadest wall,
    Where ruining ivies propp'd the ruins steep--
  Her folded arms wrapping her tatter'd pall,
  [73:2]Had Melancholy mus'd herself to sleep.
      The fern was press'd beneath her hair,
      The dark green Adder's Tongue[74:1] was there;
  And still as pass'd the flagging sea-gale weak,
  The long lank leaf bow'd fluttering o'er her cheek.

      That pallid cheek was flush'd: her eager look
    Beam'd eloquent in slumber! Inly wrought,                         10
      Imperfect sounds her moving lips forsook,
    And her bent forehead work'd with troubled thought.
      Strange was the dream----

? 1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[73:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, December 12, 1797 (not, as
Coleridge says, the _Morning Chronicle_); included in _Sibylline
Leaves_, 1817 (with an addition), and, again, in _P. and D. W._,
1877-80, and (in its first shape) in 1828, 1829, 1834, 1852, and 1893.
Sent in Letter to Sotheby, Aug. 26, 1802.

[73:2] Bowles borrowed these lines unconsciously, I doubt not. I had
repeated the poem on my first visit [Sept. 1797]. _MS. Note, S. T. C._
See, too, _Letter_, Aug. 26, 1802. [Here Melancholy on the pale crags
laid, Might muse herself to sleep--_Coomb Ellen_, written September,
1798.]

[74:1] A Plant found on old walls and in wells and mois[t] [h]edges.--It
is often called the Hart's Tongue. _M. C._ _Asplenium Scolopendrium_,
more commonly called Hart's Tongue. _Letter_, 1802. A botanical mistake.
The plant I meant is called the Hart's Tongue, but this would unluckily
spoil the poetical effect. _Cedat ergo Botanice._ _Sibylline Leaves_,
1817. A botanical mistake. The plant which the poet here describes is
called the Hart's Tongue, _1828_, _1829_, _1852_.


LINENOTES:

[1] Upon a mouldering Letter, Aug. 26, 1802.

[2] Where ruining] Whose running M. C. propp'd] prop Letter, Aug. 26,
1802.

[7] pass'd] came Letter, 1802. sea-gale] sea-gales M. C., Letter, 1802.

[8] The] Her Letter, 1802.

[9] That] Her Letter, 1802.

[13] Not in Letter 1802.

[13]

      Strange was the dream that fill'd her soul,
      Nor did not whisp'ring spirits roll
  A mystic tumult, and a fateful rhyme,
  Mix'd with wild shapings of the unborn time!

M. C., Sibylline Leaves, 1817.




TO A YOUNG ASS[74:2]

ITS MOTHER BEING TETHERED NEAR IT


  Poor little Foal of an oppresséd race!
  I love the languid patience of thy face:
  And oft with gentle hand I give thee bread,
  And clap thy ragged coat, and pat thy head.
  But what thy dulled spirits hath dismay'd,                           5
  That never thou dost sport along the glade?
  And (most unlike the nature of things young)
  That earthward still thy moveless head is hung?
  Do thy prophetic fears anticipate,
  Meek Child of Misery! thy future fate?                              10
  The starving meal, and all the thousand aches
  'Which patient Merit of the Unworthy takes'?
  Or is thy sad heart thrill'd with filial pain
  To see thy wretched mother's shorten'd chain?
  And truly, very piteous is _her_ lot--                              15
  Chain'd to a log within a narrow spot,
  Where the close-eaten grass is scarcely seen,
  While sweet around her waves the tempting green!

  Poor Ass! thy master should have learnt to show
  Pity--best taught by fellowship of Woe!                             20
  For much I fear me that _He_ lives like thee,
  Half famish'd in a land of Luxury!
  How _askingly_ its footsteps hither bend?
  It seems to say, 'And have I then _one_ friend?'
  Innocent foal! thou poor despis'd forlorn!                          25
  I hail thee _Brother_--spite of the fool's scorn!
  And fain would take thee with me, in the Dell
  Of Peace and mild Equality to dwell,
  Where Toil shall call the charmer Health his bride,
  And Laughter tickle Plenty's ribless side!                          30
  How thou wouldst toss thy heels in gamesome play,
  And frisk about, as lamb or kitten gay!
  Yea! and more musically sweet to me
  Thy dissonant harsh bray of joy would be,
  Than warbled melodies that soothe to rest                           35
  The aching of pale Fashion's vacant breast!

1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[74:2] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, December 30, 1794:
included in 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834. A MS. version, dated
October 24, 1794 (see _P. W._, 1893, pp. 477, 488), was presented by
Coleridge to Professor William Smyth, Professor of Modern History at
Cambridge, 1807-49; a second version was included in a letter to
Southey, dated December 17, 1794 (_Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 119,
120).


LINENOTES:

Title] Monologue to a Young Jack Ass in Jesus Piece. Its mother near it
chained to a log MS. Oct. 24, 1794: Address to a Young Jack-Ass and its
Tether'd mother MS. Dec. 17, 1794: Address, &c. In familiar verse
Morning Chronicle, Dec. 30, 1794: Effusion xxxiii. To a Young Ass, &c.
1796.

[3] gentle] friendly MS. Dec. 1794, M. C.

[4] pat] scratch MS. Oct. 1794, M. C.

[5] spirits] spirit MSS. Oct. Dec. 1794, M. C.

[6] along] upon MS. Dec. 1794, M. C.

[8] That still to earth thy moping head is hung MSS. Oct. Dec. 1794, M.
C.

[9] Doth thy prophetic soul MS. Oct. 1794.

[12] Which] That MSS. Oct. Dec. 1794.

[14] shorten'd] lengthen'd MS. Dec. 1794, M. C.

[16] within] upon MSS. Oct. Dec. 1794, M. C.

[19] thy] her 1796.

[21] For much I fear, that He lives e'en as she, 1796.

[23] footsteps hither bend] steps toward me tend MS. Oct. 1794: steps
towards me bend MS. Dec. 1794, M. C.: footsteps t'ward me bend 1796.

[25] despised and forlorn MS. Oct. 1794.

[27] would] I'd MSS. Oct. Dec. 1794. in] to MS. Oct. 1794.

[28] Of high-soul'd Pantisocracy to dwell MS. Dec. 1794, M. C.

[28 foll.]

  Where high-soul'd Pantisocracy shall dwell!
  Where Mirth shall tickle Plenty's ribless side,[75:A]
  And smiles from Beauty's Lip on sunbeams glide,
  Where Toil shall wed young Health that charming Lass!
  And use his sleek cows for a looking-glass--
  Where Rats shall mess with Terriers hand-in-glove
  And Mice with Pussy's Whiskers sport in Love

MS. Oct. 1794.

     [75:A] This is a truly poetical line of which the author has
     assured us that he did not _mean_ it to have any _meaning_.
     Note by Ed. of MS. Oct. 1794.

[35-6]

  Than Handel's softest airs that soothe to rest
  The tumult of a scoundrel Monarch's Breast.

MS. Oct. 1794.

  Than _Banti's_ warbled airs that sooth to rest
  The tumult &c.

MS. Dec. 1794.

[36] The tumult of some SCOUNDREL Monarch's breast. M. C. 1796.




LINES ON A FRIEND[76:1]

WHO DIED OF A FRENZY FEVER INDUCED BY CALUMNIOUS REPORTS


  Edmund! thy grave with aching eye I scan,
  And inly groan for Heaven's poor outcast--Man!
  'Tis tempest all or gloom: in early youth
  If gifted with th' Ithuriel lance of Truth
  We force to start amid her feign'd caress                            5
  Vice, siren-hag! in native ugliness;
  A Brother's fate will haply rouse the tear,
  And on we go in heaviness and fear!
  But if our fond hearts call to Pleasure's bower
  Some pigmy Folly in a careless hour,                                10
  The faithless guest shall stamp the enchanted ground,
  And mingled forms of Misery rise around:
  Heart-fretting Fear, with pallid look aghast,
  That courts the future woe to hide the past;
  Remorse, the poison'd arrow in his side,                            15
  And loud lewd Mirth, to Anguish close allied:
  Till Frenzy, fierce-eyed child of moping Pain,
  Darts her hot lightning-flash athwart the brain.

  Rest, injur'd shade! Shall Slander squatting near
  Spit her cold venom in a dead man's ear?                            20
  'Twas thine to feel the sympathetic glow
  In Merit's joy, and Poverty's meek woe;
  Thine all, that cheer the moment as it flies,
  The zoneless Cares, and smiling Courtesies.
  Nurs'd in thy heart the firmer Virtues grew,                        25
  And in thy heart they wither'd! Such chill dew
  Wan Indolence on each young blossom shed;
  And Vanity her filmy net-work spread,
  With eye that roll'd around in asking gaze,
  And tongue that traffick'd in the trade of praise.                  30
  Thy follies such! the hard world mark'd them well!
  Were they more wise, the Proud who never fell?
  Rest, injur'd shade! the poor man's grateful prayer
  On heaven-ward wing thy wounded soul shall bear.

  As oft at twilight gloom thy grave I pass,                          35
  And sit me down upon its recent grass,
  With introverted eye I contemplate
  Similitude of soul, perhaps of--Fate!
  To me hath Heaven with bounteous hand assign'd
  Energic Reason and a shaping mind,                                  40
  The daring ken of Truth, the Patriot's part,
  And Pity's sigh, that breathes the gentle heart--
  Sloth-jaundic'd all! and from my graspless hand
  Drop Friendship's precious pearls, like hour-glass sand.
  I weep, yet stoop not! the faint anguish flows,                     45
  A dreamy pang in Morning's feverous doze.

  Is this piled earth our Being's passless mound?
  Tell me, cold grave! is Death with poppies crown'd?
  Tired Sentinel! mid fitful starts I nod,
  And fain would sleep, though pillowed on a clod!                    50

1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[76:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and
1834. Four MS. versions are extant, (1) in Letter to Southey, Nov. [6],
1794 (_Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 98, 99): (2) in letter to George
Coleridge, Nov. 6, 1794: (3) in the Estlin copy-book: (4) in the MS.
4{o}. The Friend was the Rev. Fulwood Smerdon, vicar of Ottery St. Mary,
who died in August 1794.


LINENOTES:

Title] On the Death of a Friend who died of a Frenzy Fever brought on by
anxiety MS. E.

[1] ----! thy grave MS. Letter to R. S.: Smerdon! thy grave MS. Letter
to G. C.

[3] early] earliest MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C., MS. E.

[5] We] He MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C., MS. E, MS. 4{o}, 1796.

[7] will] shall MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C., MS. E.

[8] And on he goes MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C., MS. E, 1796: Onward
we move 1803.

[9] his fond heart MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C., MS. E, 1796.

[11] quick stamps MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C., MS. E, MS. 4{o}.

[12] threaten round MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C.

[17] fierce-eyed] frantic MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C., MS. E erased
[See Lamb's Letter to Coleridge, June 10, 1796].

[19] squatting] couching MS Letter to G. C., MS. E [See Lamb's Letter,
June 10, 1796].

[23] cheer] cheers MS. E.

[25] firmer] generous MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C.: manly MS. E.

[29] roll'd] prowl'd MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C., MS. E.

[33-4]

                 the poor man's prayer of praise
  On heavenward wing thy wounded soul shall raise.

1796.

[35] As oft in Fancy's thought MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C.

[39] bounteous] liberal MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C., MS. E.

[41] ken] soul MS. Letter to R. S.

[46] feverous] feverish all MSS. and Eds. 1796-1829.

[47] this] that MS. Letters to R. S. and G. C., MS. E. passless] hapless
Letter to G. C.

[49] Sentinel] Centinel all MSS. and Eds. 1796-1829. mid] with Letters
to R. S. and G. C.

Below l. 50 the date (November 1794) is affixed in 1796, 1797, and 1803.




TO A FRIEND[78:1]

[CHARLES LAMB]

TOGETHER WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM


  Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme
  Elaborate and swelling: yet the heart
  Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers
  I ask not now, my friend! the aiding verse,
  Tedious to thee, and from thy anxious thought                        5
  Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know)
  From business wandering far and local cares,
  Thou creepest round a dear-lov'd Sister's bed
  With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look,
  Soothing each pang with fond solicitude,                            10
  And tenderest tones medicinal of love.
  I too a Sister _had_, an only Sister--
  She lov'd me dearly, and I doted on her!
  To her I pour'd forth all my puny sorrows
  (As a sick Patient in a Nurse's arms)                               15
  And of the heart those hidden maladies
  That e'en from Friendship's eye will shrink asham'd.
  O! I have wak'd at midnight, and have wept,
  Because she was not!--Cheerily, dear Charles!
  Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year:                     20
  Such warm presages feel I of high Hope.
  For not uninterested the dear Maid
  I've view'd--her soul affectionate yet wise,
  Her polish'd wit as mild as lambent glories
  That play around a sainted infant's head.                           25
  He knows (the Spirit that in secret sees,
  Of whose omniscient and all-spreading Love
  Aught to _implore_[79:1] were impotence of mind)
  That my mute thoughts are sad before his throne,
  Prepar'd, when he his healing ray vouchsafes,                       30
  Thanksgiving to pour forth with lifted heart,
  And praise Him Gracious with a Brother's Joy!

1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[78:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, and, again, in
1844. Lines 12-19 ('I too a sister . . . Because she was not') are
published in 1834 (i. 35) under the heading 'The Same', i. e. the same
as the preceding poem, 'On seeing a Youth affectionately welcomed by a
Sister.' The date, December 1794, affixed in 1797 and 1803, is correct.
The poem was sent in a letter from Coleridge to Southey, dated December
1794. (_Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 128.) The 'Unfinished Poem' was,
certainly, _Religious Musings_, begun on Christmas Eve, 1794. The text
is that of 1844.

[79:1] I utterly recant the sentiment contained in the lines--

  'Of whose omniscient and all-spreading Love
   Aught to _implore_ were impotence of mind,'

it being written in Scripture, '_Ask_, and it shall be given you,' and
my human reason being moreover convinced of the propriety of offering
_petitions_ as well as thanksgivings to Deity. [Note of S. T. C., in
_Poems_, 1797 and 1803.]


LINENOTES:

Title] To C. Lamb MS. Letter, Dec. 1794: Effusion xxii. To a Friend, &c.
1796: To Charles Lamb with an unfinished Poem 1844.

[1-3]

  Thus far my sterile brain hath fram'd the song
  Elaborate and swelling: but the heart
  Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing power

MS. Letter, Dec. 1794.

[7] Not in MS. Letter, Dec. 1794.

[Between 13 and 14]

  On her soft bosom I reposed my cares
  And gain'd for every wound a healing tear.

MS. Letter, 1794.

[15] a] his MS. Letter, 1794, 1796, 1797, 1803.

[17] That shrink asham'd from even Friendship's eye. MS. Letter, 1794,
1796, 1797.

[18] wak'd] woke MS. Letter, 1794, 1796, 1797, 1803.

[21] warm] high: high] warm MS. Letter, 1794. presages] presagings 1803.

[25] sainted] holy MS. Letter, 1794.

[26] that] who MS. Letter, 1794.

[31] To pour forth thanksgiving MS. Letter, 1794, 1796, 1797, 1803.




SONNETS ON EMINENT CHARACTERS

CONTRIBUTED TO THE 'MORNING CHRONICLE' IN DECEMBER 1794 AND JANUARY 1795

[The Sonnets were introduced by the following letter:--

     'MR. EDITOR--If, Sir, the following Poems will not disgrace
     your poetical department, I will transmit you a series of
     _Sonnets_ (as it is the fashion to call them) addressed like
     these to eminent Contemporaries.

     'JESUS COLLEGE, CAMBRIDGE.'                   S. T. C.]


I[79:2]

TO THE HONOURABLE MR. ERSKINE


  When British Freedom for an happier land
    Spread her broad wings, that flutter'd with affright,
    ERSKINE! thy voice she heard, and paus'd her flight
  Sublime of hope, for dreadless thou didst stand
    (Thy censer glowing with the hallow'd flame)                       5
    A hireless Priest before the insulted shrine,
    And at her altar pour the stream divine
  Of unmatch'd eloquence. Therefore thy name

  Her sons shall venerate, and cheer thy breast
    With blessings heaven-ward breath'd. And when the doom
    Of Nature bids thee die, beyond the tomb                          11
  Thy light shall shine: as sunk beneath the West

  Though the great Summer Sun eludes our gaze,
  Still burns wide Heaven with his distended blaze.[80:A]

_December_ 1, 1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[79:2] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, Dec. 1, 1794:
included in 1796, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[80:A] 'Our elegant correspondent will highly gratify every reader of
taste by the continuance of his exquisitely beautiful productions. No.
II. shall appear on an early day.'


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion v. 1796: Sonnet x. 1803: Sonnet iv. 1828, 1829, 1834.

[4] for dreadless] where fearless M. C. Dec. 1, 1794.

[6] A] An M. C., 1796-1803, 1828, 1829. the insulted] her injur'd M. C.

[7] pour] pour'dst M. C., 1796, 1803.

[8] unmatch'd] matchless M. C.

[10] With heav'n-breath'd blessings; and, when late the doom M. C.

[11] die] rise 1803.

[13-14]

  Though the great Sun not meets our wistful gaze
  Still glows wide Heaven

M. C.

[Below l. 14] Jesus College Cambridge M. C.




II[80:1]

BURKE


  As late I lay in Slumber's shadowy vale,
    With wetted cheek and in a mourner's guise,
    I saw the sainted form of FREEDOM rise:
  She spake! not sadder moans the autumnal gale--

  'Great Son of Genius! sweet to me thy name,                          5
    Ere in an evil hour with alter'd voice
    Thou bad'st Oppression's hireling crew rejoice
  Blasting with wizard spell my laurell'd fame.

  'Yet never, BURKE! thou drank'st Corruption's bowl![80:2]
    Thee stormy Pity and the cherish'd lure                           10
    Of Pomp, and proud Precipitance of soul
  Wilder'd with meteor fires. Ah Spirit pure!

  'That Error's mist had left thy purgéd eye:
  So might I clasp thee with a Mother's joy!'

_December_ 9, 1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[80:1] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, Dec. 9, 1794:
included in 1796, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834. This Sonnet was sent in a
letter to Southey, dated December 11, 1794. _Letters of S. T. C._, 1895,
i. 118.

[80:2]

  _Yet never_, BURKE! thou dran'kst Corruption's bowl!

When I composed this line, I had not read the following paragraph in the
_Cambridge Intelligencer_ (of Saturday, November 21, 1795):--

'_When Mr. Burke first crossed over the House of Commons from the
Opposition to the Ministry, he received a pension of £1200 a year
charged on the Kings Privy Purse._ When he had completed his labours, it
was then a question what recompense his service deserved. Mr. Burke
wanting a present supply of money, it was thought that a pension of
£2000 _per annum_ for _forty years certain_, would sell for eighteen
years' purchase, and bring him of course £36,000. But this pension must,
by the very unfortunate act, of which Mr. Burke was himself the author,
have come before Parliament. Instead of this Mr. Pitt suggested the idea
of a pension of £2000 a year for _three lives_, to be charged on the
King's Revenue of the West India 4-1/2 per cents. This was tried at the
market, but it was found that it would not produce the £36,000 which
were wanted. In consequence of this a pension of £2500 per annum, _for
three lives_ on the 4-1/2 West India Fund, the lives to be nominated by
Mr. Burke, that he may accommodate the purchasers is _finally_ granted
to this disinterested patriot. He has thus retir'd from the trade of
politics, with pensions to the amount of £3700 a year.' 1796, Note, pp.
177-9.


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion ii. 1796: Sonnet vii. 1803: Sonnet ii. 1828, 1829, 1834.

[1] As late I roam'd through Fancy's shadowy vale MS. Letter, Dec. 11,
1794.

[4] She] He MS. Letter, 1794.

[12] Urg'd on with wild'ring fires MS. Letter, Dec. 17, 1794, M. C.

[Below l. 14] Jesus College M. C.




III[81:1]

PRIESTLEY


  Though rous'd by that dark Vizir Riot rude
    Have driven our PRIESTLEY o'er the Ocean swell;
    Though Superstition and her wolfish brood
  Bay his mild radiance, impotent and fell;
  Calm in his halls of brightness he shall dwell!                      5
    For lo! RELIGION at his strong behest
    Starts with mild anger from the Papal spell,
  And flings to Earth her tinsel-glittering vest,
  Her mitred State and cumbrous Pomp unholy;
    And JUSTICE wakes to bid th' Oppressor wail                       10
    Insulting aye the wrongs of patient Folly;
  And from her dark retreat by Wisdom won
  Meek NATURE slowly lifts her matron veil
  To smile with fondness on her gazing Son!

_December_ 11, 1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[81:1] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, December 11, 1794:
included in 1796, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834. In all editions prior to
1852, 'Priestley' is spelled 'Priestly'. The Sonnet was sent to Southey
in a letter dated December 17, 1794.


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion iv. 1796: Sonnet ix. 1803: Sonnet iii. 1828, 1829, 1834.

[1-2]

  Tho' king-bred rage with lawless uproar rude
    Hath driv'n

M. C.

  Tho' king-bred rage with lawless tumult rude
    Have driv'n

MS. Letter, Dec. 17, 1794.

[7] Disdainful rouses from the Papal spell, M. C., MS. Letter, 1794.

[11] That ground th' ensnared soul of patient Folly. M. C., MS. Letter,
1794.




IV[82:1]

LA FAYETTE


  As when far off the warbled strains are heard
    That soar on Morning's wing the vales among;
    Within his cage the imprison'd Matin Bird
  Swells the full chorus with a generous song:

  He bathes no pinion in the dewy light,                               5
    No Father's joy, no Lover's bliss he shares,
    Yet still the rising radiance cheers his sight--
  His fellows' Freedom soothes the Captive's cares!

  Thou, FAYETTE! who didst wake with startling voice
    Life's better Sun from that long wintry night,                    10
    Thus in thy Country's triumphs shalt rejoice
  And mock with raptures high the Dungeon's might:

  For lo! the Morning struggles into Day,
  And Slavery's spectres shriek and vanish from the ray![82:2]

_December_ 15, 1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[82:1] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, December 15, 1794:
included in 1796, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[82:2] The above beautiful sonnet was written antecedently to the joyful
account of the Patriot's escape from the Tyrant's Dungeon. [Note in _M.
C._]


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion ix. 1796: Sonnet xiii. 1803: Sonnet vii. 1828, 1829,
1834.




V[82:3]

KOSKIUSKO


  O what a loud and fearful shriek was there,
    As though a thousand souls one death-groan pour'd!
    Ah me! they saw beneath a Hireling's sword
  Their KOSKIUSKO fall! Through the swart air
  (As pauses the tir'd Cossac's barbarous yell                         5
    Of Triumph) on the chill and midnight gale
    Rises with frantic burst or sadder swell
  The dirge of murder'd Hope! while Freedom pale
  Bends in such anguish o'er her destin'd bier,
    As if from eldest time some Spirit meek                           10
    Had gather'd in a mystic urn each tear
  That ever on a Patriot's furrow'd cheek
  Fit channel found; and she had drain'd the bowl
  In the mere wilfulness, and sick despair of soul!

_December_ 16, 1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[82:3] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, December 16, 1794:
included in 1796, 1828, 1829, 1834. The Sonnet was sent to Southey in a
letter dated December 17, 1794. _Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 117.


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion viii. 1796: Sonnet vi. 1828, 1829, 1834.

[3-4]

  Great _Kosciusko_ 'neath an hireling's sword
  The warriors view'd! Hark! through the list'ning air

MS. Letter, Dec. 17, 1794.

  Great KOSCIUSKO 'neath an Hireling's sword
  His country view'd. Hark through the list'ning air

M. C.

  Ah me! they view'd beneath an hireling's sword
  Fall'n Kosciusko! Thro' the burthened air

1796, 1828, 1829.

[5] As] When M. C., MS. Letter, Dec. 17, 1794.

[8] The 'dirge of Murder'd Hope' MS. Letter, Dec. 17, 1794.

[12] That ever furrow'd a sad Patriot's cheek MS. Letter, 1794, M. C.,
1796.

[13-14]

  And she had drench'd the sorrows of the bowl
  E'en till she reel'd intoxicate of soul

MS. Letter, 1794, M. C.

  And she had drain'd the sorrows of the bowl
  E'en till she reel'd, &c.

1796.




VI[83:1]

PITT


  Not always should the Tear's ambrosial dew
    Roll its soft anguish down thy furrow'd cheek!
    Not always heaven-breath'd tones of Suppliance meek
  Beseem thee, Mercy! Yon dark Scowler view,
  Who with proud words of dear-lov'd Freedom came--                    5
    More blasting than the mildew from the South!
    And kiss'd his country with Iscariot mouth
  (Ah! foul apostate from his Father's fame!)[83:2]
  Then fix'd her on the Cross of deep distress,
    And at safe distance marks the thirsty Lance                      10
    Pierce her big side! But O! if some strange trance
  The eye-lids of thy stern-brow'd Sister[83:3] press,
  Seize, Mercy! thou more terrible the brand,                         13
  And hurl her thunderbolts with fiercer hand!

_December_ 23, 1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[83:1] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, December 23, 1794,
and, secondly, in _The Watchman_, No. V, April 2, 1796; included in
1796, 1803, and in 1852, with the following note:--'This Sonnet, and the
ninth, to Stanhope, were among the pieces withdrawn from the second
edition of 1797. They reappeared in the edition of 1803, and were again
withdrawn in 1828, solely, it may be presumed, on account of their
political vehemence. They will excite no angry feelings, and lead to no
misapprehensions now, and as they are fully equal to their companions in
poetical merit, the Editors have not scrupled to reproduce them. These
Sonnets were originally entitled "Effusions".'

[83:2] Earl of Chatham.

[83:3] Justice.


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion iii. 1796: To Mercy Watchman: Sonnet viii. 1803: Sonnet
iii. 1852.

[8] Staining most foul a Godlike Father's name M. C., Watchman.

[13] Seize thou more terrible th' avenging brand M. C.




VII[84:1]

TO THE REV. W. L. BOWLES[84:2]

[FIRST VERSION, PRINTED IN 'MORNING CHRONICLE', DECEMBER 26, 1794]


  My heart has thank'd thee, BOWLES! for those soft strains,
    That, on the still air floating, tremblingly
    Wak'd in me Fancy, Love, and Sympathy!
  For hence, not callous to a Brother's pains

  Thro' Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went;                  5
    And, when the _darker_ day of life began,
    And I did roam, a thought-bewilder'd man!
  Thy kindred Lays an healing solace lent,

  Each lonely pang with dreamy joys combin'd,
    And stole from vain REGRET her scorpion stings;                   10
    While shadowy PLEASURE, with mysterious wings,
  Brooded the wavy and tumultuous mind,

  Like that great Spirit, who with plastic sweep
  Mov'd on the darkness of the formless Deep!


FOOTNOTES:

[84:1] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, December 26, 1794.
First collected, _P. and D. W._, 1877, i. 138. The sonnet was sent in a
letter to Southey, dated December 11, 1794. _Letters of S. T. C._, 1895,
i. 111.

[84:2] Author of _Sonnets and other Poems_, published by Dilly. To Mr.
Bowles's poetry I have always thought the following remarks from Maximus
Tyrius peculiarly applicable:--'I am not now treating of that poetry
which is estimated by the pleasure it affords to the ear--the ear having
been corrupted, and the judgment-seat of the perceptions; but of that
which proceeds from the intellectual Helicon, that which is _dignified_,
and appertaining to _human_ feelings, and entering into the soul.'--The
13th Sonnet for exquisite delicacy of painting; the 19th for tender
simplicity; and the 25th for manly pathos, are compositions of, perhaps,
unrivalled merit. Yet while I am selecting these, I almost accuse myself
of causeless partiality; for surely never was a writer so equal in
excellence!--S. T. C. [In this note as it first appeared in the _Morning
Chronicle_ a Greek sentence preceded the supposed English translation.
It is not to be found in the _Dissertations_ of Maximus Tyrius, but the
following passage which, for verbal similitudes, may be compared with
others (e. g. 20, 8, p. 243: 21, 3, p. 247; 28, 3, p. 336) is to be
found in Davies and Markland's edition (Lips. 1725), vol. ii, p.
203:--Οὔ τί τοι λέγω τὴν δἰ' αὐλῶν καὶ ᾠδῶν καὶ χορῶν καὶ ψαλμάτων, ἄνευ λόγου ἐπὶ τῇ
ψυχῇ ἰοῦσαν, τῷ τερπνῷ τῆς ἀκοῆς τιμηθεῖσαν . . . τὴν ἀληθῆ καὶ ἐκ τοῦ Ἑλικῶνος
μοῦσαν. . . .]


LINENOTES:

[3] Wak'd] Woke MS. Letter, Dec. 11, 1794.




[SECOND VERSION][85:1]


  My heart has thank'd thee, BOWLES! for those soft strains
    Whose sadness soothes me, like the murmuring
    Of wild-bees in the sunny showers of spring!
  For hence not callous to the mourner's pains

  Through Youth's gay prime and thornless paths I went:                5
    And when the mightier Throes of mind began,
    And drove me forth, a thought-bewilder'd man,
  Their mild and manliest melancholy lent

  A mingled charm, such as the pang consign'd
    To slumber, though the big tear it renew'd;                       10
    Bidding a strange mysterious PLEASURE brood
  Over the wavy and tumultuous mind,

  As the great SPIRIT erst with plastic sweep
  Mov'd on the darkness of the unform'd deep.


FOOTNOTES:

[85:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and
1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion i. 1796: Sonnet i. 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[6-7]

  And when the darker day of life began
  And I did roam, &c.

1796, 1797, 1803.

[9] such as] which oft 1797, 1803.

[11] a] such 1797, 1803.

[13-14]

  As made the soul enamour'd of her woe:
  No common praise, dear Bard! to thee I owe.

1797, 1803.




VIII[85:2]

MRS. SIDDONS


  As when a child on some long Winter's night
    Affrighted clinging to its Grandam's knees
    With eager wond'ring and perturb'd delight
  Listens strange tales of fearful dark decrees
  Muttered to wretch by necromantic spell;                             5
    Or of those hags, who at the witching time
    Of murky Midnight ride the air sublime,
  And mingle foul embrace with fiends of Hell:

  Cold Horror drinks its blood! Anon the tear
    More gentle starts, to hear the Beldame tell                      10
    Of pretty Babes, that lov'd each other dear.
  Murder'd by cruel Uncle's mandate fell:

  Even such the shiv'ring joys thy tones impart,
  Even so thou, SIDDONS! meltest my sad heart!

_December_ 29, 1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[85:2] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, December 29, 1794,
under the signature, S. T. C.: included in 1796 (as C. L.'s) and in 1797
as Charles Lamb's, but reassigned to Coleridge in 1803. First collected,
_P. and D. W._, 1877, i. 140, 141. This sonnet may have been altered by
Coleridge, but was no doubt written by Lamb and given by him to
Coleridge to make up his tale of sonnets for the _Morning Chronicle_. In
1796 and 1797 Coleridge acknowledged the sonnet to be Lamb's; but in
1803, Lamb, who was seeing that volume through the press, once more
handed it over to Coleridge.


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion vii. 1796: Sonnet viii. 1797, p. 224: Sonnet xii. 1803.

[4] dark tales of fearful strange decrees M. C.

[6] Of Warlock Hags that M. C.




IX

TO WILLIAM GODWIN[86:1]

AUTHOR OF 'POLITICAL JUSTICE'


  O form'd t' illume a sunless world forlorn,
    As o'er the chill and dusky brow of Night,
    In Finland's wintry skies the Mimic Morn[86:2]
  Electric pours a stream of rosy light,

  Pleas'd I have mark'd OPPRESSION, terror-pale,                       5
  Since, thro' the windings of her dark machine,
  Thy steady eye has shot its glances keen--
  And bade th' All-lovely 'scenes at distance hail'.

  Nor will I not thy holy guidance bless,
    And hymn thee, GODWIN! with an ardent lay;                        10
    For that thy voice, in Passion's stormy day,
  When wild I roam'd the bleak Heath of Distress,

  Bade the bright form of Justice meet my way--
  And told me that her name was HAPPINESS.

_January_ 10, 1795.


FOOTNOTES:

[86:1] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, January 10, 1795.
First collected, _P. and D. W._, 1877, i. 143. The last six lines were
sent in a letter to Southey, dated December 17, 1794. _Letters of S. T.
C._, 1895, i. 117.

[86:2] Aurora Borealis.




X[87:1]

TO ROBERT SOUTHEY

OF BALIOL COLLEGE, OXFORD, AUTHOR OF THE 'RETROSPECT', AND OTHER POEMS


  SOUTHEY! thy melodies steal o'er mine ear
    Like far-off joyance, or the murmuring
    Of wild bees in the sunny showers of Spring--
  Sounds of such mingled import as may cheer

  The lonely breast, yet rouse a mindful tear:                         5
    Wak'd by the Song doth Hope-born FANCY fling
    Rich showers of dewy fragrance from her wing,
  Till sickly PASSION'S drooping Myrtles sear

  Blossom anew! But O! more thrill'd, I prize
    Thy sadder strains, that bid in MEMORY'S Dream                    10
  The faded forms of past Delight arise;
    Then soft, on Love's pale cheek, the tearful gleam

  Of Pleasure smiles--as faint yet beauteous lies
  The imag'd Rainbow on a willowy stream.

_January_ 14, 1795.


FOOTNOTES:

[87:1] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, January 14, 1795.
First collected, _P. and D. W._, 1877, i. 142. This sonnet was sent in a
letter to Southey, dated December 17, 1794. _Letters of S. T. C._, 1895,
i. 120.




XI[87:2]

TO RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, ESQ.


  It was some Spirit, SHERIDAN! that breath'd
    O'er thy young mind such wildly-various power!
    My soul hath mark'd thee in her shaping hour,
  Thy temples with Hymettian[88:1] flow'rets wreath'd:

  And sweet thy voice, as when o'er LAURA'S bier                       5
    Sad Music trembled thro' Vauclusa's glade;
    Sweet, as at dawn the love-lorn Serenade
  That wafts soft dreams to SLUMBER'S listening ear.

  Now patriot Rage and Indignation high
    Swell the full tones! And now thine eye-beams dance               10
    Meanings of Scorn and Wit's quaint revelry!
  Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance

  The Apostate by the brainless rout ador'd,
  As erst that elder Fiend beneath great Michael's sword.

_January_ 29, 1795.


FOOTNOTES:

[87:2] First published in the _Morning Chronicle_, January 29, 1795:
included in 1796, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834. Two MS. versions are
extant; one in a letter to Southey, dated December 9, 1794 (_Letters of
S. T. C._, 1895, i. 118), and a second in the Estlin copy-book. In 1796
a note to line 4 was included in Notes, p. 179, and in 1797 and 1803
affixed as a footnote, p. 95:--'Hymettian Flowrets. Hymettus, a mountain
near Athens, celebrated for its honey. This alludes to Mr. Sheridan's
classical attainments, and the following four lines to the exquisite
sweetness and almost _Italian_ delicacy of his poetry. In Shakespeare's
_Lover's Complaint_ there is a fine stanza almost prophetically
characteristic of Mr. Sheridan.

  So on the tip of his subduing tongue
  All kind of argument and question deep,
  All replication prompt and reason strong
  For his advantage still did wake and sleep,
  To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep:
  He had the dialect and different skill
  Catching all passions in his craft of will;
  That he did in the general bosom reign
  Of young and old.'

[88:1] Hymettus, a mountain of Attica famous for honey. _M. C._


LINENOTES:

Title] To Sheridan MS. E: Effusion vi. 1796: Sonnet xi. 1803: Sonnet v.
1828, 1829, 1834.

[1-5]

  Some winged Genius, Sheridan! imbreath'd
  His _various_ influence on thy natal hour:
  My fancy bodies forth the Guardian power,
  His temples with Hymettian flowrets wreath'd
  And sweet his voice

MS. Letter, Dec. 9, 1794.

[1-2]

  Was it some Spirit, SHERIDAN! that breath'd
  His _various_ &c.

M. C.

[1-3]

  Some winged Genius, Sheridan! imbreath'd
  O'er thy young Soul a wildly-various power!
  My Fancy meets thee in her shaping hour

MS. E.

[8] wafts] bears MS. Letter, 1794, M. C., MS. E.

[9] Rage] Zeal MS. Letter, 1794, MS. E, M. C.

[10] thine] his Letter, 1794, M. C.

[12]

  While inly writhes from the Soul-probing glance

M. C.

[12-14]

  Th' Apostate by the brainless rout ador'd
  Writhes inly from the bosom-probing glance
  As erst that nobler Fiend

MS. Letter, 1794, MS. E.

[14] elder] other M. C.




TO LORD STANHOPE[89:1]

ON READING HIS LATE PROTEST IN THE HOUSE OF LORDS

['MORNING CHRONICLE,' JAN. 31, 1795]


  STANHOPE! I hail, with ardent Hymn, thy name!
    Thou shalt be bless'd and lov'd, when in the dust
    Thy corse shall moulder--Patriot pure and just!
  And o'er thy tomb the grateful hand of FAME

  Shall grave:--'Here sleeps the Friend of Humankind!'                 5
    For thou, untainted by CORRUPTION'S bowl,
    Or foul AMBITION, with undaunted soul
  Hast spoke the language of a Free-born mind

  Pleading the cause of Nature! Still pursue
  Thy path of Honour!--To thy Country true,                           10

  Still watch th' expiring flame of Liberty!
    O Patriot! still pursue thy virtuous way,
    As holds his course the splendid Orb of Day,
  Or thro' the stormy or the tranquil sky!
                                ONE OF THE PEOPLE.

1795.


FOOTNOTES:

[89:1] First collected in 1893. Mr. Campbell assigned the authorship of
the Sonnet to Coleridge, taking it to be 'the original of the one to
Stanhope printed in the _Poems_ of 1796 and 1803'. For 'Corruption's
bowl' (l. 6) see _Sonnet to Burke_, line 9 (_ante_, p. 80).




TO EARL STANHOPE[89:2]


  Not, STANHOPE! with the Patriot's doubtful name
    I mock thy worth--Friend of the Human Race!
    Since scorning Faction's low and partial aim
  Aloof thou wendest in thy stately pace,

  Thyself redeeming from that leprous stain,                           5
    Nobility: and aye unterrify'd
    Pourest thine Abdiel warnings on the train
  That sit complotting with rebellious pride

  'Gainst _Her_[90:1] who from the Almighty's bosom leapt
    With whirlwind arm, fierce Minister of Love!                      10
    Wherefore, ere Virtue o'er thy tomb hath wept,
  Angels shall lead thee to the Throne above:

  And thou from forth its clouds shalt hear the voice,
  Champion of Freedom and her God! rejoice!

1795.


FOOTNOTES:

[89:2] First published in 1796: included in 1803, in Cottle's _Early
Rec._ i. 203, and in _Rem._ 1848, p. 111. First collected in 1852.

[90:1] Gallic Liberty.


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion x. 1796 (To Earl Stanhope _Contents_): Sonnet xvi. 1803:
Sonnet ix. 1852.




LINES[90:2]

TO A FRIEND IN ANSWER TO A MELANCHOLY LETTER


  Away, those cloudy looks, that labouring sigh,
  The peevish offspring of a sickly hour!
  Nor meanly thus complain of Fortune's power,
  When the blind Gamester throws a luckless die.

  Yon setting Sun flashes a mournful gleam                             5
  Behind those broken clouds, his stormy train:
  To-morrow shall the many-colour'd main
  In brightness roll beneath his orient beam!

  Wild, as the autumnal gust, the hand of Time
  Flies o'er his mystic lyre: in shadowy dance                        10
  The alternate groups of Joy and Grief advance
  Responsive to his varying strains sublime!

  Bears on its wing each hour a load of Fate;
  The swain, who, lull'd by Seine's mild murmurs, led
  His weary oxen to their nightly shed,                               15
  To-day may rule a tempest-troubled State.

  Nor shall not Fortune with a vengeful smile
  Survey the sanguinary Despot's might,
  And haply hurl the Pageant from his height
  Unwept to wander in some savage isle.                               20

  There shiv'ring sad beneath the tempest's frown
  Round his tir'd limbs to wrap the purple vest;
  And mix'd with nails and beads, an equal jest!
  Barter for food, the jewels of his crown.

? 1795.


FOOTNOTES:

[90:2] First published in 1796: included in 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] Epistle II. To a Friend, &c. 1796: To a Friend, &c. 1803.




TO AN INFANT[91:1]


  Ah! cease thy tears and sobs, my little Life!
  I did but snatch away the unclasp'd knife:
  Some safer toy will soon arrest thine eye,
  And to quick laughter change this peevish cry!
  Poor stumbler on the rocky coast of Woe,                             5
  Tutor'd by Pain each source of pain to know!
  Alike the foodful fruit and scorching fire
  Awake thy eager grasp and young desire;
  Alike the Good, the Ill offend thy sight,
  And rouse the stormy sense of shrill Affright!                      10
  Untaught, yet wise! mid all thy brief alarms
  Thou closely clingest to thy Mother's arms,
  Nestling thy little face in that fond breast
  Whose anxious heavings lull thee to thy rest!
  Man's breathing Miniature! thou mak'st me sigh--                    15
  A Babe art thou--and such a Thing am I!
  To anger rapid and as soon appeas'd,
  For trifles mourning and by trifles pleas'd,
  Break Friendship's mirror with a tetchy blow,
  Yet snatch what coals of fire on Pleasure's altar glow!             20

  O thou that rearest with celestial aim
  The future Seraph in my mortal frame,
  Thrice holy Faith! whatever thorns I meet
  As on I totter with unpractis'd feet,
  Still let me stretch my arms and cling to thee,                     25
  Meek nurse of souls through their long Infancy!

1795.


FOOTNOTES:

[91:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797 (_Supplement_), 1803,
1828, 1829, and 1834. A MS. version numbering 16 lines is included in
the Estlin volume.


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion xxxiv. To an Infant 1796.

[1-10]

  How yon sweet Child my Bosom's grief beguiles
  With soul-subduing Eloquence of smiles!
  Ah lovely Babe! in thee myself I scan--
  Thou weepest! sure those Tears proclaim thee Man!
  And now some glitt'ring Toy arrests thine eye,
  And to quick laughter turns the peevish cry.
  Poor Stumbler on the rocky coast of Woe,
  Tutor'd by Pain the source of Pain to know!
  Alike the foodful Fruit and scorching Fire
  Awake thy eager grasp and young desire;
  Alike the Good, the Ill thy aching sight
  Scare with the keen Emotions of Affright!

MS. E.

[8-11]

  Or rouse thy screams, or wake thy young desire:
  Yet art thou wise, for mid thy brief alarms

1797.

[9-10] om. 1797.

[14] Whose kindly Heavings lull thy cares to Rest MS. E.

[19] tetchy] fretful 1797.




TO THE REV. W. J. HORT[92:1]

WHILE TEACHING A YOUNG LADY SOME SONG-TUNES ON HIS FLUTE


  I

  Hush! ye clamorous Cares! be mute!
    Again, dear Harmonist! again
  Thro' the hollow of thy flute
    Breathe that passion-warbled strain:
  Till Memory each form shall bring                                    5
    The loveliest of her shadowy throng;
  And Hope, that soars on sky-lark wing,
    Carol wild her gladdest song!

  II

  O skill'd with magic spell to roll
  The thrilling tones, that concentrate the soul!                     10
  Breathe thro' thy flute those tender notes again,
  While near thee sits the chaste-eyed Maiden mild;
  And bid her raise the Poet's kindred strain
  In soft impassion'd voice, correctly wild.

  III

      In Freedom's UNDIVIDED dell,                                    15
  Where _Toil_ and _Health_ with mellow'd _Love_ shall dwell,
      Far from folly, far from men,
      In the rude romantic glen,
      Up the cliff, and thro' the glade,
      Wandering with the dear-lov'd maid,                             20
      I shall listen to the lay,
      And ponder on thee far away
  Still, as she bids those thrilling notes aspire
  ('Making my fond attuned heart her lyre'),
  Thy honour'd form, my Friend! shall reappear,                       25
  And I will thank thee with a raptur'd tear.

1795.


FOOTNOTES:

[92:1] First published in 1796, and again in 1863.


LINENOTES:

Title] To the Rev. W. J. H. while Teaching, &c. 1796, 1863.

[24] her] his 1863.




PITY[93:1]


  Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled
    To see thee, poor Old Man! and thy grey hairs
    Hoar with the snowy blast: while no one cares
  To clothe thy shrivell'd limbs and palsied head.
  My Father! throw away this tatter'd vest                             5
    That mocks thy shivering! take my garment--use
    A young man's arm! I'll melt these frozen dews
  That hang from thy white beard and numb thy breast.
  My Sara too shall tend thee, like a child:
    And thou shalt talk, in our fireside's recess,                    10
    Of purple Pride, that scowls on Wretchedness--
  He did not so, the Galilaean mild,
    Who met the Lazars turn'd from rich men's doors
    And call'd them Friends, and heal'd their noisome sores!

? 1795.


FOOTNOTES:

[93:1] First published in 1796: included in _Selection of Sonnets_,
_Poems_ 1796, in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion xvi. 1796 (_Contents_--To an Old Man): Sonnet vi. 1797:
Sonnet v. 1803: Sonnet x. 1828, 1829, 1834: Charity 1893.

[7] arm] arms 1796, 1828.

[12-14]

    He did not scowl, the Galilaean mild,
  Who met the Lazar turn'd from rich man's doors,
  And call'd him Friend, and wept upon his sores.

1797, 1803.

[13] men's] man's 1796, Selection of Sonnets, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.




TO THE NIGHTINGALE[93:2]


  Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philomel!
  How many Bards in city garret pent,
  While at their window they with downward eye
  Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell'd mud,
  And listen to the drowsy cry of Watchmen                             5
  (Those hoarse unfeather'd Nightingales of Time!),
  How many wretched Bards address _thy_ name,
  And hers, the full-orb'd Queen that shines above.
  But I _do_ hear thee, and the high bough mark,
  Within whose mild moon-mellow'd foliage hid                         10
  Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains.
  O! I have listened, till my working soul,
  Waked by those strains to thousand phantasies,
  Absorb'd hath ceas'd to listen! Therefore oft,
  I hymn thy name: and with a proud delight                           15
  Oft will I tell thee, Minstrel of the Moon!
  'Most musical, most melancholy' Bird!
  That all thy soft diversities of tone,
  Tho' sweeter far than the delicious airs
  That vibrate from a white-arm'd Lady's harp,                        20
  What time the languishment of lonely love
  Melts in her eye, and heaves her breast of snow,
  Are not so sweet as is the voice of her,
  My Sara--best beloved of human kind!
  When breathing the pure soul of tenderness,                         25
  She thrills me with the Husband's promis'd name!

1795.


FOOTNOTES:

[93:2] First published in 1796: included in 1803 and in _Lit. Rem._, i.
38. First collected in 1844.


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion xxiii. To the, &c. 1796.

[12] O have I 1796.




LINES[94:1]

COMPOSED WHILE CLIMBING THE LEFT ASCENT OF BROCKLEY COOMB,
SOMERSETSHIRE, MAY 1795


  With many a pause and oft reverted eye
  I climb the Coomb's ascent: sweet songsters near
  Warble in shade their wild-wood melody:
  Far off the unvarying Cuckoo soothes my ear.
  Up scour the startling stragglers of the flock                       5
  That on green plots o'er precipices browze:
  From the deep fissures of the naked rock
  The Yew-tree bursts! Beneath its dark green boughs
  (Mid which the May-thorn blends its blossoms white)
  Where broad smooth stones jut out in mossy seats,                   10
  I rest:--and now have gain'd the topmost site.
  Ah! what a luxury of landscape meets
  My gaze! Proud towers, and Cots more dear to me,
  Elm-shadow'd Fields, and prospect-bounding Sea!
  Deep sighs my lonely heart: I drop the tear:                        15
  Enchanting spot! O were my Sara here!


FOOTNOTES:

[94:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797 (_Supplement_), 1803,
1828, 1829, and 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion xxi. Composed while climbing the Left Ascent of Brockley
Coomb, in the County of Somerset, May 1795 1796: Sonnet v. Composed, &c.
1797: Sonnet xiv. Composed, &c. 1803.

[7] deep] forc'd 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.




LINES IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER[94:2]


  O Peace, that on a lilied bank dost love
  To rest thine head beneath an Olive-Tree,
  I would that from the pinions of thy Dove
  One quill withouten pain ypluck'd might be!
  For O! I wish my Sara's frowns to flee,                              5
  And fain to her some soothing song would write,
  Lest she resent my rude discourtesy,
  Who vow'd to meet her ere the morning light,
  But broke my plighted word--ah! false and recreant wight!

  Last night as I my weary head did pillow                            10
  With thoughts of my dissever'd Fair engross'd,
  Chill Fancy droop'd wreathing herself with willow,
  As though my breast entomb'd a pining ghost.
  'From some blest couch, young Rapture's bridal boast,
  Rejected Slumber! hither wing thy way;                              15
  But leave me with the matin hour, at most!
  As night-clos'd floweret to the orient ray,
  My sad heart will expand, when I the Maid survey.'

  But Love, who heard the silence of my thought,
  Contriv'd a too successful wile, I ween:                            20
  And whisper'd to himself, with malice fraught--
  'Too long our Slave the Damsel's _smiles_ hath seen:
  To-morrow shall he ken her alter'd mien!'
  He spake, and ambush'd lay, till on my bed
  The morning shot her dewy glances keen,                             25
  When as I 'gan to lift my drowsy head--
  'Now, Bard! I'll work thee woe!' the laughing Elfin said.

  Sleep, softly-breathing God! his downy wing
  Was fluttering now, as quickly to depart;
  When twang'd an arrow from Love's mystic string,                    30
  With pathless wound it pierc'd him to the heart.
  Was there some magic in the Elfin's dart?
  Or did he strike my couch with wizard lance?
  For straight so fair a Form did upwards start
  (No fairer deck'd the bowers of old Romance)                        35
  That Sleep enamour'd grew, nor mov'd from his sweet trance!

  My Sara came, with gentlest look divine;
  Bright shone her eye, yet tender was its beam:
  I felt the pressure of her lip to mine!
  Whispering we went, and Love was all our theme--                    40
  Love pure and spotless, as at first, I deem,
  He sprang from Heaven! Such joys with Sleep did 'bide,
  That I the living Image of my Dream
  Fondly forgot. Too late I woke, and sigh'd--
  'O! how shall I behold my Love at eventide!'                        45

1795.


FOOTNOTES:

[94:2] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and
1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion xxiv. In the, &c. 1796: In the, &c. 1797.

[17] Like snowdrop opening to the solar ray, 1796.

[19] 'heard the silence of my thought' 1797, 1803.

[26] to lift] uplift 1797, 1803.

[Below l. 45] July 1795 1797, 1803.




THE HOUR WHEN WE SHALL MEET AGAIN[96:1]

(_Composed during Illness, and in Absence._)


  Dim Hour! that sleep'st on pillowing clouds afar,
  O rise and yoke the Turtles to thy car!
  Bend o'er the traces, blame each lingering Dove,
  And give me to the bosom of my Love!
  My gentle Love, caressing and carest,                                5
  With heaving heart shall cradle me to rest!
  Shed the warm tear-drop from her smiling eyes,
  Lull with fond woe, and medicine me with sighs!
  While finely-flushing float her kisses meek,
  Like melted rubies, o'er my pallid cheek.                           10
  Chill'd by the night, the drooping Rose of May
  Mourns the long absence of the lovely Day;
  Young Day returning at her promis'd hour
  Weeps o'er the sorrows of her favourite Flower;
  Weeps the soft dew, the balmy gale she sighs,                       15
  And darts a trembling lustre from her eyes.
  New life and joy th' expanding flow'ret feels:
  His pitying Mistress mourns, and mourning heals!

? 1795.


FOOTNOTES:

[96:1] First published in _The Watchman_, No. III, March 17, 1796
(_signed_ C.): included in 1797, 1803, 1844, and 1852. It was first
reprinted, after 1803, in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 43, under 'the
sportive title "Darwiniana", on the supposition that it was written' in
half-mockery of Darwin's style with its _dulcia vitia_. (See 1852,
_Notes_, p. 885.)


LINENOTES:

Title] Darwiniana. The Hour, &c. L. R., 1844: Composed during illness
and absence 1852.

[9-10] om. 1803.

[14] her] the Lit. Rem., 1844, 1852.

[17] New] Now Watchman.




LINES[96:2]

WRITTEN AT SHURTON BARS, NEAR BRIDGEWATER, SEPTEMBER 1795, IN ANSWER TO
A LETTER FROM BRISTOL

  Good verse _most_ good, and bad verse then seems better
  Receiv'd from absent friend by way of Letter.
  For what so sweet can labour'd lays impart
  As one rude rhyme warm from a friendly heart?--ANON.


  Nor travels my meandering eye
  The starry wilderness on high;
    Nor now with curious sight
  I mark the glow-worm, as I pass,
  Move with 'green radiance'[97:1] through the grass,                  5
    An emerald of light.

  O ever present to my view!
  My wafted spirit is with you,
    And soothes your boding fears:
  I see you all oppressed with gloom                                  10
  Sit lonely in that cheerless room--
    Ah me! You are in tears!

  Belovéd Woman! did you fly
  Chill'd Friendship's dark disliking eye,
    Or Mirth's untimely din?                                          15
  With cruel weight these trifles press
  A temper sore with tenderness,
    When aches the void within.

  But why with sable wand unblessed
  Should Fancy rouse within my breast                                 20
    Dim-visag'd shapes of Dread?
  Untenanting its beauteous clay
  My Sara's soul has wing'd its way,
    And hovers round my head!

  I felt it prompt the tender Dream,                                  25
  When slowly sank the day's last gleam;
    You rous'd each gentler sense,
  As sighing o'er the Blossom's bloom
  Meek Evening wakes its soft perfume
    With viewless influence.                                          30

  And hark, my Love! The sea-breeze moans
  Through yon reft house! O'er rolling stones
    In bold ambitious sweep
  The onward-surging tides supply
  The silence of the cloudless sky                                    35
    With mimic thunders deep.

  Dark reddening from the channell'd Isle[98:1]
  (Where stands one solitary pile
    Unslated by the blast)
  The Watchfire, like a sullen star                                   40
  Twinkles to many a dozing Tar
    Rude cradled on the mast.

  Even there--beneath that light-house tower--
  In the tumultuous evil hour
    Ere Peace with Sara came,                                         45
  Time was, I should have thought it sweet
  To count the echoings of my feet,
    And watch the storm-vex'd flame.

  And there in black soul-jaundic'd fit
  A sad gloom-pamper'd Man to sit,                                    50
    And listen to the roar:
  When mountain surges bellowing deep
  With an uncouth monster-leap
    Plung'd foaming on the shore.

  Then by the lightning's blaze to mark                               55
  Some toiling tempest-shatter'd bark;
    Her vain distress-guns hear;
  And when a second sheet of light
  Flash'd o'er the blackness of the night--
    To see _no_ vessel there!                                         60

  But Fancy now more gaily sings;
  Or if awhile she droop her wings,
    As skylarks 'mid the corn,
  On summer fields she grounds her breast:
  The oblivious poppy o'er her nest                                   65
    Nods, till returning morn.

  O mark those smiling tears, that swell
  The open'd rose! From heaven they fell,
    And with the sun-beam blend.
  Blest visitations from above,                                       70
  Such are the tender woes of Love
    Fostering the heart they bend!

  When stormy Midnight howling round
  Beats on our roof with clattering sound,
    To me your arms you'll stretch:                                   75
  Great God! you'll say--To us so kind,
  O shelter from this loud bleak wind
    The houseless, friendless wretch!

  The tears that tremble down your cheek,
  Shall bathe my kisses chaste and meek                               80
    In Pity's dew divine;
  And from your heart the sighs that steal
  Shall make your rising bosom feel
    The answering swell of mine!

  How oft, my Love! with shapings sweet                               85
  I paint the moment, we shall meet!
    With eager speed I dart--
  I seize you in the vacant air,
  And fancy, with a husband's care
    I press you to my heart!                                          90

  'Tis said, in Summer's evening hour
  Flashes the golden-colour'd flower
    A fair electric flame:[99:1]
  And so shall flash my love-charg'd eye
  When all the heart's big ecstasy                                    95
    Shoots rapid through the frame!

1795.


FOOTNOTES:

[96:1] First published in _The Watchman_, No. III, March 9, 1796
(_signed_ C.): included in 1797, 1803, 1844, and 1852. It was first
reprinted, after 1803, in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 43, under 'the
sportive title "Darwiniana", on the supposition that it was written' in
half-mockery of Darwin's style with its _dulcia vitia_. (See 1852,
_Notes_, p. 885.)

[96:2] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and
1834.

[97:1] The expression 'green radiance' is borrowed from Mr. Wordsworth,
a Poet whose versification is occasionally harsh and his diction too
frequently obscure; but whom I deem unrivalled among the writers of the
present day in manly sentiment, novel imagery, and vivid colouring.
Note, 1796, p. 185: Footnote, 1797, p. 88.

[The phrase 'green radiance' occurs in _An Evening Walk_, ll. 264-8,
first published in 1793, and reprinted in 1820. In 1836 the lines were
omitted.

  Oft has she taught them on her lap to play
  Delighted with the glow-worm's harmless ray,
  Toss'd light from hand to hand; while on the ground
  Small circles of green radiance gleam around.]

[98:1] The Holmes, in the Bristol Channel.

[99:1] LIGHT _from plants_. In Sweden a very curious phenomenon has been
observed on certain flowers, by M. Haggern, lecturer in natural history.
One evening he perceived a faint flash of light repeatedly dart from a
marigold. Surprised at such an uncommon appearance, he resolved to
examine it with attention; and, to be assured it was no deception of the
eye, he placed a man near him, with orders to make a signal at the
moment when he observed the light. They both saw it constantly at the
same moment.

The light was most brilliant on marigolds of an orange or flame colour;
but scarcely visible on pale ones. The flash was frequently seen on the
same flower two or three times in quick succession; but more commonly at
intervals of several minutes; and when several flowers in the same place
emitted their light together, it could be observed at a considerable
distance.

This phenomenon was remarked in the months of July and August at
sun-set, and for half an hour when the atmosphere was clear; but after a
rainy day, or when the air was loaded with vapours nothing of it was
seen.

The following flowers emitted flashes, more or less vivid, in this
order:--

  1. The marigold, _galendula [sic] officinalis_.
  2. Monk's-hood, _tropaelum [sic] majus_.
  3. The orange-lily, _lilium bulbiferum_.
  4. The Indian pink, _tagetes patula et erecta_.

From the rapidity of the flash, and other circumstances, it may be
conjectured that there is something of electricity in this phenomenon.
Notes to _Poems_, 1796. Note 13, pp. 186, 188.

In 1797 the above was printed as a footnote on pp. 93, 94. In 1803 the
last stanza, lines 91-96, was omitted, and, of course, the note
disappeared. In 1828, 1829, and 1834 the last stanza was replaced but
the note was not reprinted.


LINENOTES:

Title] Epistle I. Lines written, &c. The motto is printed on the reverse
of the half-title 'Poetical Epistles' [pp. 109, 110]. 1796: Ode to Sara,
written at Shurton Bars, &c. 1797, 1803. The motto is omitted in 1797,
1803: The motto is prefixed to the poem in 1828, 1829, and 1834. In 1797
and 1803 a note is appended to the title:--Note. _The first stanza
alludes to a Passage in the Letter._ [The allusions to a 'Passage in the
Letter' must surely be contained not in the first but in the second and
third stanzas. The reference is, no doubt, to the alienation from
Southey, which must have led to a difference of feeling between the two
sisters Sarah and Edith Fricker.]

[26] sank] sunk 1796-1829.

[33] With broad impetuous 1797, 1803.

[34] fast-encroaching 1797, 1803.

[48] storm-vex'd] troubled 1797, 1803.

[49] black and jaundic'd fit 1797.




THE EOLIAN HARP[100:1]

COMPOSED AT CLEVEDON, SOMERSETSHIRE


  My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined
  Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is
  To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o'ergrown
  With white-flower'd Jasmin, and the broad-leav'd Myrtle,
  (Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!)                           5
  And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,
  Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve
  Serenely brilliant (such should Wisdom be)
  Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents
  Snatch'd from yon bean-field! and the world _so_ hush'd!            10
  The stilly murmur of the distant Sea
  Tells us of silence.

                       And that simplest Lute,
  Placed length-ways in the clasping casement, hark!
  How by the desultory breeze caress'd,
  Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover,                      15
  It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs
  Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now, its strings
  Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes
  Over delicious surges sink and rise,
  Such a soft floating witchery of sound                              20
  As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve
  Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,
  Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers,
  Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,
  Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untam'd wing!                     25
  O! the one Life within us and abroad,
  Which meets all motion and becomes its soul,
  A light in sound, a sound-like power in light,
  Rhythm in all thought, and joyance every where--
  Methinks, it should have been impossible                            30
  Not to love all things in a world so fill'd;
  Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air
  Is Music slumbering on her instrument.

    And thus, my Love! as on the midway <DW72>
  Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon,                          35
  Whilst through my half-closed eye-lids I behold
  The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main,
  And tranquil muse upon tranquillity;
  Full many a thought uncall'd and undetain'd,
  And many idle flitting phantasies,                                  40
  Traverse my indolent and passive brain,
  As wild and various as the random gales
  That swell and flutter on this subject Lute!

    And what if all of animated nature
  Be but organic Harps diversely fram'd,                              45
  That tremble into thought, as o'er them sweeps
  Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,
  At once the Soul of each, and God of all?

    But thy more serious eye a mild reproof
  Darts, O belovéd Woman! nor such thoughts                           50
  Dim and unhallow'd dost thou not reject,
  And biddest me walk humbly with my God.
  Meek Daughter in the family of Christ!
  Well hast thou said and holily disprais'd
  These shapings of the unregenerate mind;                            55
  Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break
  On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling spring.
  For never guiltless may I speak of him,
  The Incomprehensible! save when with awe
  I praise him, and with Faith that inly _feels_;[102:1]              60
  Who with his saving mercies healéd me,
  A sinful and most miserable man,
  Wilder'd and dark, and gave me to possess
  Peace, and this Cot, and thee, heart-honour'd Maid!

1795.


FOOTNOTES:

[100:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, _Sibylline
Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[102:1] L'athée n'est point à mes yeux un faux esprit; je puis vivre
avec lui aussi bien et mieux qu'avec le dévot, car il raisonne
davantage, mais il lui manque un sens, et mon ame ne se fond point
entièrement avec la sienne: il est froid au spectacle le plus ravissant,
et il cherche un syllogisme lorsque je rends une [un _1797_, _1803_]
action de grace. 'Appel a l'impartiale postérité', par la Citoyenne
Roland, troisième partie, p. 67. Notes to _Poems_. Note 10, 1796, p.
183. The above was printed as a footnote to p. 99, 1797, and to p. 132,
1803.


LINENOTES:

Title] Effusion xxxv. Composed August 20th, 1795, At Clevedon,
Somersetshire 1796. Composed at Clevedon Somersetshire 1797, 1803: The
Eolian Harp. Composed, &c. S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[5] om. 1803.

[8] om. 1803.

[11] Hark! the still murmur 1803.

[12] And th' Eolian Lute, 1803.

[13] om. 1803.

[16] upbraiding] upbraidings 1796, 1797, 1803, Sibylline
Leaves, 1817.

Lines 21-33 are om. in 1803, and the text reads:

  _Such a soft floating witchery of sound_--
  Methinks, it should have been impossible
  Not to love all things in a World like this,
  Where e'en the Breezes of the simple Air
  Possess the power and Spirit of Melody!
  _And thus, my Love_, &c.

26-33 are not in 1796, 1797. In Sibylline Leaves, for
lines 26-33 of the text, four lines are inserted:

  Methinks it should have been impossible
  Not to love all things in a world like this,
  Where even the breezes, and the common air,
  Contain the power and spirit of Harmony.

Lines 26-33 were first included in the text in 1828, and
reappeared in 1829 and 1834. They are supplied in the _Errata_, pp.
[xi, xii], of Sibylline Leaves, with a single variant (l. 33): Is
Music slumbering on _its_ instrument.

[44] And] Or 1796, 1797, 1803.

[64] dear honoured Maid 1893.




TO THE AUTHOR OF POEMS[102:2]

[JOSEPH COTTLE]

PUBLISHED ANONYMOUSLY AT BRISTOL IN SEPTEMBER 1795


  Unboastful Bard! whose verse concise yet clear
  Tunes to smooth melody unconquer'd sense,
  May your fame fadeless live, as 'never-sere'
  The Ivy wreathes yon Oak, whose broad defence
  Embowers me from Noon's sultry influence!                            5
  For, like that nameless Rivulet stealing by,
  Your modest verse to musing Quiet dear
  Is rich with tints heaven-borrow'd: the charm'd eye
  Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the soften'd sky.

  Circling the base of the Poetic mount                               10
  A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow
  Its coal-black waters from Oblivion's fount:
  The vapour-poison'd Birds, that fly too low,
  Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go.
  Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet                           15
  Beneath the Mountain's lofty-frowning brow,
  Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet,
  A mead of mildest charm delays th' unlabouring feet.

  Not there the cloud-climb'd rock, sublime and vast,
  That like some giant king, o'er-glooms the hill;                    20
  Nor there the Pine-grove to the midnight blast
  Makes solemn music! But th' unceasing rill
  To the soft Wren or Lark's descending trill
  Murmurs sweet undersong 'mid jasmin bowers.
  In this same pleasant meadow, at your will                          25
  I ween, you wander'd--there collecting flowers
  Of sober tint, and herbs of med'cinable powers!

  There for the monarch-murder'd Soldier's tomb
  You wove th' unfinish'd[103:1] wreath of saddest hues;
  And to that holier[103:2] chaplet added bloom                       30
  Besprinkling it with Jordan's cleansing dews.
  But lo your Henderson[103:3] awakes the Muse----
  His Spirit beckon'd from the mountain's height!
  You left the plain and soar'd mid richer views!
  So Nature mourn'd when sunk the First Day's light,                  35
  With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of night!

  Still soar, my Friend, those richer views among,
  Strong, rapid, fervent, flashing Fancy's beam!
  Virtue and Truth shall love your gentler song;
  But Poesy demands th' impassion'd theme:                            40
  Waked by Heaven's silent dews at Eve's mild gleam
  What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around!
  But if the vext air rush a stormy stream
  Or Autumn's shrill gust moan in plaintive sound,
  With fruits and flowers she loads the tempest-honor'd ground.

1795.


FOOTNOTES:

[102:2] First published in 1796: included in 1797 (_Supplement_), 1803,
and 1852.

'The first in order of the verses which I have thus endeavoured to
reprieve from immediate oblivion was originally addressed "To the Author
of Poems published anonymously at Bristol". A second edition of these
poems has lately appeared with the Author's name prefixed: and I could
not refuse myself the gratification of seeing the name of that man among
my poems without whose kindness they would probably have remained
unpublished; and to whom I know myself greatly and variously obliged, as
a Poet, a man, and a Christian.' 'Advertisement' to _Supplement_, 1797,
pp. 243, 244.

[103:1] 'War,' a Fragment.

[103:2] 'John Baptist,' a poem.

[103:3] 'Monody on John Henderson.'


LINENOTES:

Title] Epistle iv. To the Author, &c. 1796: Lines to Joseph Cottle 1797:
To the Author, &c., _with footnote_, 'Mr. Joseph Cottle' 1803.

[1] Unboastful Bard] My honor'd friend 1797.

[35] sunk] sank 1797.




THE SILVER THIMBLE[104:1]

THE PRODUCTION OF A YOUNG LADY, ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF THE POEMS
ALLUDED TO IN THE PRECEDING EPISTLE

     _She had lost her Silver Thimble, and her complaint being
     accidentally overheard by him, her Friend, he immediately sent
     her four others to take her choice of._


  As oft mine eye with careless glance
  Has gallop'd thro' some old romance,
  Of speaking Birds and Steeds with wings,
  Giants and Dwarfs, and Fiends and Kings;
  Beyond the rest with more attentive care                             5
  I've lov'd to read of elfin-favour'd Fair----
  How if she long'd for aught beneath the sky
  And suffer'd to escape one votive sigh,
  Wafted along on viewless pinions aery
  It laid itself obsequious at her feet:                              10
  Such things, I thought, one might not hope to meet
  Save in the dear delicious land of Faery!
  But now (by proof I know it well)
  There's still some peril in free wishing----
  _Politeness_ is a licensed _spell_,                                 15
  And _you_, dear Sir! the Arch-magician.
  You much perplex'd me by the various set:
  They were indeed an elegant quartette!
  My mind went to and fro, and waver'd long;
  At length I've chosen (Samuel thinks me wrong)                      20
  _That_, around whose azure rim
  Silver figures seem to swim,
  Like fleece-white clouds, that on the skiey Blue,
  Waked by no breeze, the self-same shapes retain;
  Or ocean-Nymphs with limbs of snowy hue                             25
  Slow-floating o'er the calm cerulean plain.

  Just such a one, _mon cher ami_,
  (The finger shield of industry)
  Th' inventive Gods, I deem, to Pallas gave
  What time the vain Arachne, madly brave,                            30
  Challeng'd the blue-eyed Virgin of the sky
  A duel in embroider'd work to try.
  And hence the thimbled Finger of grave Pallas
  To th' erring Needle's point was more than callous.
  But ah the poor Arachne! She unarm'd                                35
  Blundering thro' hasty eagerness, alarm'd
  With all a _Rival's_ hopes, a _Mortal's_ fears,
  Still miss'd the stitch, and stain'd the web with tears.
  Unnumber'd punctures small yet sore
  Full fretfully the maiden bore,                                     40
  Till she her lily finger found
  Crimson'd with many a tiny wound;
  And to her eyes, suffus'd with watery woe,
  Her flower-embroider'd web danc'd dim, I wist,
  Like blossom'd shrubs in a quick-moving mist:                       45
  Till vanquish'd the despairing Maid sunk low.

  O Bard! whom sure no common Muse inspires,
  I heard your Verse that glows with vestal fires!
  And I from unwatch'd needle's erring point
  Had surely suffer'd on each finger-joint                            50
  Those wounds, which erst did poor Arachne meet;
  While he, the much-lov'd Object of my choice
  (My bosom thrilling with enthusiast heat),
  Pour'd on mine ear with deep impressive voice,
  How the great Prophet of the Desart stood                           55
  And preach'd of Penitence by Jordan's Flood;
  On War; or else the legendary lays
  In simplest measures hymn'd to Alla's praise;
  Or what the Bard from his heart's inmost stores
  O'er his _Friend's_ grave in loftier numbers pours:                 60
  Yes, Bard polite! you but obey'd the laws
  Of Justice, when the thimble you had sent;
  What wounds your thought-bewildering Muse might cause
  'Tis well your finger-shielding gifts prevent.
                                                 SARA.

1795.


FOOTNOTES:

[104:1] First published in 1796: included for the first time in Appendix
to 1863. Mrs. Coleridge told her daughter (_Biog. Lit._, 1847, ii. 411)
that she wrote but little of these verses.


LINENOTES:

Title] Epistle v. The Production of a Young Lady, &c. 1796: From a Young
Lady Appendix, 1863.




REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF RETIREMENT[106:1]

     Sermoni propriora.--HOR.


  Low was our pretty Cot: our tallest Rose
  Peep'd at the chamber-window. We could hear
  At silent noon, and eve, and early morn,
  The Sea's faint murmur. In the open air
  Our Myrtles blossom'd; and across the porch                          5
  Thick Jasmins twined: the little landscape round
  Was green and woody, and refresh'd the eye.
  It was a spot which you might aptly call
  The Valley of Seclusion! Once I saw
  (Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness)                            10
  A wealthy son of Commerce saunter by,
  Bristowa's citizen: methought, it calm'd
  His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse
  With wiser feelings: for he paus'd, and look'd
  With a pleas'd sadness, and gaz'd all around,                       15
  Then eyed our Cottage, and gaz'd round again,
  And sigh'd, and said, it was a Blesséd Place.
  And we _were_ bless'd. Oft with patient ear
  Long-listening to the viewless sky-lark's note
  (Viewless, or haply for a moment seen                               20
  Gleaming on sunny wings) in whisper'd tones
  I've said to my Belovéd, 'Such, sweet Girl!
  The inobtrusive song of Happiness,
  Unearthly minstrelsy! then only heard
  When the Soul seeks to hear; when all is hush'd,                    25
  And the Heart listens!'

                          But the time, when first
  From that low Dell, steep up the stony Mount
  I climb'd with perilous toil and reach'd the top,
  Oh! what a goodly scene! _Here_ the bleak mount,
  The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep;                   30
  Grey clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields;
  And river, now with bushy rocks o'er-brow'd,
  Now winding bright and full, with naked banks;
  And seats, and lawns, the Abbey and the wood,
  And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-spire;                        35
  The Channel _there_, the Islands and white sails,
  Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless Ocean--
  It seem'd like Omnipresence! God, methought,
  Had built him there a Temple: the whole World
  Seem'd _imag'd_ in its vast circumference:                          40
  No _wish_ profan'd my overwhelméd heart.
  Blest hour! It was a luxury,--to be!

    Ah! quiet Dell! dear Cot, and Mount sublime!
  I was constrain'd to quit you. Was it right,
  While my unnumber'd brethren toil'd and bled,                       45
  That I should dream away the entrusted hours
  On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart
  With feelings all too delicate for use?
  Sweet is the tear that from some Howard's eye
  Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth:                      50
  And he that works me good with unmov'd face,
  Does it but half: he chills me while he aids,
  My benefactor, not my brother man!
  Yet even this, this cold beneficence
  Praise, praise it, O my Soul! oft as thou scann'st                  55
  The sluggard Pity's vision-weaving tribe!
  Who sigh for Wretchedness, yet shun the Wretched,
  Nursing in some delicious solitude
  Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies!
  I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand,                     60
  Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight
  Of Science, Freedom, and the Truth in Christ.

  Yet oft when after honourable toil
  Bests the tir'd mind, and waking loves to dream,
  My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot!                             65
  Thy Jasmin and thy window-peeping Rose,
  And Myrtles fearless of the mild sea-air.
  And I shall sigh fond wishes--sweet Abode!
  Ah!--had none greater! And that all had such!
  It might be so--but the time is not yet.                            70
  Speed it, O Father! Let thy Kingdom come!

1795.


FOOTNOTES:

[106:1] First published in the _Monthly Magazine_, October, 1796, vol.
ii, p. 712: included in 1797, 1803, _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828,
1829, and 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] Reflections on entering into active life. A Poem which affects
not to be Poetry M. Mag. _The motto was prefixed in 1797._

[12-17]

  Bristowa's citizen--he paus'd and look'd
  With a pleased sadness and gaz'd all around,
  Then eye'd our cottage and gaz'd round again,
  And said it was a _blessed little place_.

Monthly Magazine.

[17]

  And sigh'd, and said, _it was a blessed place_.

1797, 1803.

[21] wings] wing M. M., 1797, 1803, S. L.

[21-3]

  Gleaming on sunny wing,) 'And such,' I said,
  'The inobtrusive song

1803.

[40] Was imag'd M. M.

[46] entrusted] trusted M. M., 1797.

[55] Seizes my Praise, when I reflect on those 1797, 1803, Sibylline
Leaves, 1817 (line as in text supplied in _Errata_).

[69] none] _none_ M. M. all] _all_ M. M.

[70-1] om. 1803.




RELIGIOUS MUSINGS[108:1]

A DESULTORY POEM, WRITTEN ON THE CHRISTMAS EVE OF 1794


  This is the time, when most divine to hear,
  The voice of Adoration rouses me,
  As with a Cherub's trump: and high upborne,
  Yea, mingling with the Choir, I seem to view
  The vision of the heavenly multitude,                                5
  Who hymned the song of Peace o'er Bethlehem's fields!
  Yet thou more bright than all the Angel-blaze,
  That harbingered thy birth, Thou Man of Woes!
  Despiséd Galilaean! For the Great
  Invisible (by symbols only seen)                                    10
  With a peculiar and surpassing light
  Shines from the visage of the oppressed good man,
  When heedless of himself the scourgéd saint
  Mourns for the oppressor. Fair the vernal mead,
  Fair the high grove, the sea, the sun, the stars;                   15
  True impress each of their creating Sire!
  Yet nor high grove, nor many-colour'd mead,
  Nor the green ocean with his thousand isles,
  Nor the starred azure, nor the sovran sun,
  E'er with such majesty of portraiture                               20
  Imaged the supreme beauty uncreate,
  As thou, meek Saviour! at the fearful hour
  When thy insulted anguish winged the prayer
  Harped by Archangels, when they sing of mercy!
  Which when the Almighty heard from forth his throne                 25
  Diviner light filled Heaven with ecstasy!
  Heaven's hymnings paused: and Hell her yawning mouth
  Closed a brief moment.

                         Lovely was the death
  Of Him whose life was Love! Holy with power
  He on the thought-benighted Sceptic beamed                          30
  Manifest Godhead, melting into day
  What floating mists of dark idolatry
  Broke and misshaped the omnipresent Sire:[110:1]
  And first by Fear uncharmed the drowséd Soul.
  Till of its nobler nature it 'gan feel                              35
  Dim recollections; and thence soared to Hope,
  Strong to believe whate'er of mystic good
  The Eternal dooms for His immortal sons.
  From Hope and firmer Faith to perfect Love
  Attracted and absorbed: and centered there                          40
  God only to behold, and know, and feel,
  Till by exclusive consciousness of God
  All self-annihilated it shall make[110:2]
  God its Identity: God all in all!
  We and our Father one!

                         And blest are they,                          45
  Who in this fleshly World, the elect of Heaven,
  Their strong eye darting through the deeds of men,
  Adore with steadfast unpresuming gaze
  Him Nature's essence, mind, and energy!
  And gazing, trembling, patiently ascend                             50
  Treading beneath their feet all visible things
  As steps, that upward to their Father's throne
  Lead gradual--else nor glorified nor loved.
  They nor contempt embosom nor revenge:
  For they dare know of what may seem deform                          55
  The Supreme Fair sole operant: in whose sight
  All things are pure, his strong controlling love
  Alike from all educing perfect good.
  Their's too celestial courage, inly armed--
  Dwarfing Earth's giant brood, what time they muse                   60
  On their great Father, great beyond compare!
  And marching onwards view high o'er their heads
  His waving banners of Omnipotence.
  Who the Creator love, created Might
  Dread not: within their tents no Terrors walk.                      65
  For they are holy things before the Lord
  Aye unprofaned, though Earth should league with Hell;
  God's altar grasping with an eager hand
  Fear, the wild-visag'd, pale, eye-starting wretch,
  Sure-refug'd hears his hot pursuing fiends                          70
  Yell at vain distance. Soon refresh'd from Heaven
  He calms the throb and tempest of his heart.
  His countenance settles; a soft solemn bliss
  Swims in his eye--his swimming eye uprais'd:
  And Faith's whole armour glitters on his limbs!                     75
  And thus transfigured with a dreadless awe,
  A solemn hush of soul, meek he beholds
  All things of terrible seeming: yea, unmoved
  Views e'en the immitigable ministers
  That shower down vengeance on these latter days.                    80
  For kindling with intenser Deity
  From the celestial Mercy-seat they come,
  And at the renovating wells of Love
  Have fill'd their vials with salutary wrath,[112:1]
  To sickly Nature more medicinal                                     85
  Than what soft balm the weeping good man pours
  Into the lone despoiléd traveller's wounds!

  Thus from the Elect, regenerate through faith,
  Pass the dark Passions and what thirsty cares[112:2]
  Drink up the spirit, and the dim regards                            90
  Self-centre. Lo they vanish! or acquire
  New names, new features--by supernal grace
  Enrobed with Light, and naturalised in Heaven.
  As when a shepherd on a vernal morn
  Through some thick fog creeps timorous with slow foot,              95
  Darkling he fixes on the immediate road
  His downward eye: all else of fairest kind
  Hid or deformed. But lo! the bursting Sun!
  Touched by the enchantment of that sudden beam
  Straight the black vapour melteth, and in globes                   100
  Of dewy glitter gems each plant and tree;
  On every leaf, on every blade it hangs!
  Dance glad the new-born intermingling rays,
  And wide around the landscape streams with glory!

  There is one Mind, one omnipresent Mind,                           105
  Omnific. His most holy name is Love.
  Truth of subliming import! with the which
  Who feeds and saturates his constant soul,
  He from his small particular orbit flies
  With blest outstarting! From himself he flies,                     110
  Stands in the sun, and with no partial gaze
  Views all creation; and he loves it all,
  And blesses it, and calls it very good!
  This is indeed to dwell with the Most High!
  Cherubs and rapture-trembling Seraphim                             115
  Can press no nearer to the Almighty's throne.
  But that we roam unconscious, or with hearts
  Unfeeling of our universal Sire,
  And that in His vast family no Cain
  Injures uninjured (in her best-aimed blow                          120
  Victorious Murder a blind Suicide)
  Haply for this some younger Angel now
  Looks down on Human Nature: and, behold!
  A sea of blood bestrewed with wrecks, where mad
  Embattling Interests on each other rush                            125
  With unhelmed rage!

                      'Tis the sublime of man,
  Our noontide Majesty, to know ourselves
  Parts and proportions of one wondrous whole!
  This fraternises man, this constitutes
  Our charities and bearings. But 'tis God                           130
  Diffused through all, that doth make all one whole;
  This the worst superstition, him except
  Aught to desire, Supreme Reality![114:1]
  The plenitude and permanence of bliss!
  O Fiends of Superstition! not that oft                             135
  The erring Priest hath stained with brother's blood
  Your grisly idols, not for this may wrath
  Thunder against you from the Holy One!
  But o'er some plain that steameth to the sun,
  Peopled with Death; or where more hideous Trade                    140
  Loud-laughing packs his bales of human anguish;
  I will raise up a mourning, O ye Fiends!
  And curse your spells, that film the eye of Faith,
  Hiding the present God; whose presence lost,
  The moral world's cohesion, we become                              145
  An Anarchy of Spirits! Toy-bewitched,
  Made blind by lusts, disherited of soul,
  No common centre Man, no common sire
  Knoweth! A sordid solitary thing,
  Mid countless brethren with a lonely heart                         150
  Through courts and cities the smooth savage roams
  Feeling himself, his own low self the whole;
  When he by sacred sympathy might make
  The whole one Self! Self, that no alien knows!
  Self, far diffused as Fancy's wing can travel!                     155
  Self, spreading still! Oblivious of its own,
  Yet all of all possessing! This is Faith!
  This the Messiah's destined victory!

  But first offences needs must come! Even now[115:1]
  (Black Hell laughs horrible--to hear the scoff!)                   160
  Thee to defend, meek Galilaean! Thee
  And thy mild laws of Love unutterable,
  Mistrust and Enmity have burst the bands
  Of social peace: and listening Treachery lurks
  With pious fraud to snare a brother's life;                        165
  And childless widows o'er the groaning land
  Wail numberless; and orphans weep for bread!
  Thee to defend, dear Saviour of Mankind!
  Thee, Lamb of God! Thee, blameless Prince of Peace!
  From all sides rush the thirsty brood of War!--                    170
  Austria, and that foul Woman of the North,
  The lustful murderess of her wedded lord!
  And he, connatural Mind![115:2] whom (in their songs
  So bards of elder time had haply feigned)
  Some Fury fondled in her hate to man,                              175
  Bidding her serpent hair in mazy surge
  Lick his young face, and at his mouth imbreathe
  Horrible sympathy! And leagued with these
  Each petty German princeling, nursed in gore!
  Soul-hardened barterers of human blood![116:1]                     180
  Death's prime slave-merchants! Scorpion-whips of Fate!
  Nor least in savagery of holy zeal,
  Apt for the yoke, the race degenerate,
  Whom Britain erst had blushed to call her sons!
  Thee to defend the Moloch Priest prefers                           185
  The prayer of hate, and bellows to the herd,
  That Deity, Accomplice Deity
  In the fierce jealousy of wakened wrath
  Will go forth with our armies and our fleets
  To scatter the red ruin on their foes!                             190
  O blasphemy! to mingle fiendish deeds
  With blessedness!

                    Lord of unsleeping Love,[116:2]
  From everlasting Thou! We shall not die.
  These, even these, in mercy didst thou form,
  Teachers of Good through Evil, by brief wrong                      195
  Making Truth lovely, and her future might
  Magnetic o'er the fixed untrembling heart.

  In the primeval age a dateless while
  The vacant Shepherd wander'd with his flock,
  Pitching his tent where'er the green grass waved.                  200
  But soon Imagination conjured up
  An host of new desires: with busy aim,
  Each for himself, Earth's eager children toiled.
  So Property began, twy-streaming fount,
  Whence Vice and Virtue flow, honey and gall.                       205
  Hence the soft couch, and many- robe,
  The timbrel, and arched dome and costly feast,
  With all the inventive arts, that nursed the soul
  To forms of beauty, and by sensual wants
  Unsensualised the mind, which in the means                         210
  Learnt to forget the grossness of the end,
  Best pleasured with its own activity.
  And hence Disease that withers manhood's arm,
  The daggered Envy, spirit-quenching Want,
  Warriors, and Lords, and Priests--all the sore ills[117:1]         215
  That vex and desolate our mortal life.
  Wide-wasting ills! yet each the immediate source
  Of mightier good. Their keen necessities
  To ceaseless action goading human thought
  Have made Earth's reasoning animal her Lord;                       220
  And the pale-featured Sage's trembling hand
  Strong as an host of arméd Deities,
  Such as the blind Ionian fabled erst.

  From Avarice thus, from Luxury and War
  Sprang heavenly Science; and from Science Freedom.                 225
  O'er waken'd realms Philosophers and Bards
  Spread in concentric circles: they whose souls,
  Conscious of their high dignities from God,
  Brook not Wealth's rivalry! and they, who long
  Enamoured with the charms of order, hate                           230
  The unseemly disproportion: and whoe'er
  Turn with mild sorrow from the Victor's car
  And the low puppetry of thrones, to muse
  On that blest triumph, when the Patriot Sage[118:1]
  Called the red lightnings from the o'er-rushing cloud              235
  And dashed the beauteous terrors on the earth
  Smiling majestic. Such a phalanx ne'er
  Measured firm paces to the calming sound
  Of Spartan flute! These on the fated day,
  When, stung to rage by Pity, eloquent men                          240
  Have roused with pealing voice the unnumbered tribes
  That toil and groan and bleed, hungry and blind--
  These, hush'd awhile with patient eye serene,
  Shall watch the mad careering of the storm;
  Then o'er the wild and wavy chaos rush                             245
  And tame the outrageous mass, with plastic might
  Moulding Confusion to such perfect forms,
  As erst were wont,--bright visions of the day!--
  To float before them, when, the summer noon,
  Beneath some arched romantic rock reclined                         250
  They felt the sea-breeze lift their youthful locks;
  Or in the month of blossoms, at mild eve,
  Wandering with desultory feet inhaled
  The wafted perfumes, and the flocks and woods
  And many-tinted streams and setting sun                            255
  With all his gorgeous company of clouds
  Ecstatic gazed! then homeward as they strayed
  Cast the sad eye to earth, and inly mused
  Why there was misery in a world so fair.

  Ah! far removed from all that glads the sense,                     260
  From all that softens or ennobles Man,
  The wretched Many! Bent beneath their loads
  They gape at pageant Power, nor recognise
  Their cots' transmuted plunder! From the tree
  Of Knowledge, ere the vernal sap had risen                         265
  Rudely disbranchéd! Blessed Society!
  Fitliest depictured by some sun-scorched waste,
  Where oft majestic through the tainted noon
  The Simoom sails, before whose purple pomp[119:1]
  Who falls not prostrate dies! And where by night,                  270
  Fast by each precious fountain on green herbs
  The lion couches: or hyaena dips
  Deep in the lucid stream his bloody jaws;
  Or serpent plants his vast moon-glittering bulk,
  Caught in whose monstrous twine Behemoth[119:2] yells,             275
  His bones loud-crashing!

                           O ye numberless,
  Whom foul Oppression's ruffian gluttony
  Drives from Life's plenteous feast! O thou poor Wretch
  Who nursed in darkness and made wild by want,
  Roamest for prey, yea thy unnatural hand                           280
  Dost lift to deeds of blood! O pale-eyed form,
  The victim of seduction, doomed to know
  Polluted nights and days of blasphemy;
  Who in loathed orgies with lewd wassailers
  Must gaily laugh, while thy remembered Home                        285
  Gnaws like a viper at thy secret heart!
  O agéd Women! ye who weekly catch
  The morsel tossed by law-forced charity,
  And die so slowly, that none call it murder!
  O loathly suppliants! ye, that unreceived                          290
  Totter heart-broken from the closing gates
  Of the full Lazar-house; or, gazing, stand,
  Sick with despair! O ye to Glory's field
  Forced or ensnared, who, as ye gasp in death,
  Bleed with new wounds beneath the vulture's beak!                  295
  O thou poor widow, who in dreams dost view
  Thy husband's mangled corse, and from short doze
  Start'st with a shriek; or in thy half-thatched cot
  Waked by the wintry night-storm, wet and cold
  Cow'rst o'er thy screaming baby! Rest awhile                       300
  Children of Wretchedness! More groans must rise,
  More blood must stream, or ere your wrongs be full.
  Yet is the day of Retribution nigh:
  The Lamb of God hath opened the fifth seal:[120:1]
  And upward rush on swiftest wing of fire                           305
  The innumerable multitude of wrongs
  By man on man inflicted! Rest awhile,
  Children of Wretchedness! The hour is nigh
  And lo! the Great, the Rich, the Mighty Men,
  The Kings and the Chief Captains of the World,                     310
  With all that fixed on high like stars of Heaven
  Shot baleful influence, shall be cast to earth,
  Vile and down-trodden, as the untimely fruit
  Shook from the fig-tree by a sudden storm.
  Even now the storm begins:[121:1] each gentle name,                315
  Faith and meek Piety, with fearful joy
  Tremble far-off--for lo! the Giant Frenzy
  Uprooting empires with his whirlwind arm
  Mocketh high Heaven; burst hideous from the cell
  Where the old Hag, unconquerable, huge,                            320
  Creation's eyeless drudge, black Ruin, sits
  Nursing the impatient earthquake.
                                    O return!
  Pure Faith! meek Piety! The abhorréd Form[121:2]
  Whose scarlet robe was stiff with earthly pomp,
  Who drank iniquity in cups of gold,                                325
  Whose names were many and all blasphemous,
  Hath met the horrible judgment! Whence that cry?
  The mighty army of foul Spirits shrieked
  Disherited of earth! For she hath fallen
  On whose black front was written Mystery;                          330
  She that reeled heavily, whose wine was blood;
  She that worked whoredom with the Daemon Power,
  And from the dark embrace all evil things
  Brought forth and nurtured: mitred Atheism!
  And patient Folly who on bended knee                               335
  Gives back the steel that stabbed him; and pale Fear
  Haunted by ghastlier shapings than surround
  Moon-blasted Madness when he yells at midnight!
  Return pure Faith! return meek Piety!
  The kingdoms of the world are your's: each heart                   340
  Self-governed, the vast family of Love
  Raised from the common earth by common toil
  Enjoy the equal produce. Such delights
  As float to earth, permitted visitants!
  When in some hour of solemn jubilee                                345
  The massy gates of Paradise are thrown
  Wide open, and forth come in fragments wild
  Sweet echoes of unearthly melodies,
  And odours snatched from beds of Amaranth,
  And they, that from the crystal river of life                      350
  Spring up on freshened wing, ambrosial gales!
  The favoured good man in his lonely walk
  Perceives them, and his silent spirit drinks
  Strange bliss which he shall recognise in heaven.
  And such delights, such strange beatitudes                         355
  Seize on my young anticipating heart
  When that blest future rushes on my view!
  For in his own and in his Father's might
  The Saviour comes! While as the Thousand Years[122:1]
  Lead up their mystic dance, the Desert shouts!                     360
  Old Ocean claps his hands! The mighty Dead
  Rise to new life, whoe'er from earliest time
  With conscious zeal had urged Love's wondrous plan,
  Coadjutors of God. To Milton's trump
  The high groves of the renovated Earth                             365
  Unbosom their glad echoes: inly hushed,
  Adoring Newton his serener eye
  Raises to heaven: and he of mortal kind
  Wisest, he[123:1] first who marked the ideal tribes
  Up the fine fibres through the sentient brain.                     370
  Lo! Priestley there, patriot, and saint, and sage,
  Him, full of years, from his loved native land
  Statesmen blood-stained and priests idolatrous
  By dark lies maddening the blind multitude
  Drove with vain hate. Calm, pitying he retired,                    375
  And mused expectant on these promised years.

  O Years! the blest pre-eminence of Saints!
  Ye sweep athwart my gaze, so heavenly bright,
  The wings that veil the adoring Seraphs' eyes,
  What time they bend before the Jasper Throne[123:2]                380
  Reflect no lovelier hues! Yet ye depart,
  And all beyond is darkness! Heights most strange,
  Whence Fancy falls, fluttering her idle wing.
  For who of woman born may paint the hour,
  When seized in his mid course, the Sun shall wane                  385
  Making noon ghastly! Who of woman born
  May image in the workings of his thought,
  How the black-visaged, red-eyed Fiend outstretched[124:1]
  Beneath the unsteady feet of Nature groans,
  In feverous slumbers--destined then to wake,                       390
  When fiery whirlwinds thunder his dread name
  And Angels shout, Destruction! How his arm
  The last great Spirit lifting high in air
  Shall swear by Him, the ever-living One,
  Time is no more!

                   Believe thou, O my soul,[124:2]                   395
  Life is a vision shadowy of Truth;
  And vice, and anguish, and the wormy grave,
  Shapes of a dream! The veiling clouds retire,
  And lo! the Throne of the redeeming God
  Forth flashing unimaginable day                                    400
  Wraps in one blaze earth, heaven, and deepest hell.

  Contemplant Spirits! ye that hover o'er
  With untired gaze the immeasurable fount
  Ebullient with creative Deity!
  And ye of plastic power, that interfused                           405
  Roll through the grosser and material mass
  In organizing surge! Holies of God!
  (And what if Monads of the infinite mind?)
  I haply journeying my immortal course
  Shall sometime join your mystic choir! Till then                   410
  I discipline my young and novice thought
  In ministeries of heart-stirring song,
  And aye on Meditation's heaven-ward wing
  Soaring aloft I breathe the empyreal air
  Of Love, omnific, omnipresent Love,                                415
  Whose day-spring rises glorious in my soul
  As the great Sun, when he his influence
  Sheds on the frost-bound waters--The glad stream
  Flows to the ray and warbles as it flows.

1794-1796.


FOOTNOTES:

[108:1] First published in 1796: included in 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829, and
1834. Lines 260-357 were published in _The Watchman_, No. II, March 9,
1796, entitled 'The Present State of Society'. In the editions of 1796,
1797, and 1803 the following lines, an adaptation of a passage in the
First Book of Akenside's _Pleasures of the Imagination_, were prefixed
as a motto:--

                What tho' first,
  In years unseason'd, I attun'd the lay
  To idle Passion and unreal Woe?
  Yet serious Truth her empire o'er my song
  Hath now asserted; Falsehood's evil brood,
  Vice and deceitful Pleasure, she at once
  Excluded, and my Fancy's careless toil
  Drew to the better cause!

An 'Argument' followed on a separate page:--

Introduction. Person of Christ. His prayer on the Cross. The process of
his Doctrines on the mind of the Individual. Character of the Elect.
Superstition. Digression to the present War. Origin and Uses of
Government and Property. The present State of Society. The French
Revolution. Millenium. Universal Redemption. Conclusion.

[110:1] Τὸ Νοητὸν διῃρήκασιν εἰς πολλῶν Θεῶν ἰδιότητας. DAMAS. DE MYST. AEGYPT.
_Footnote_ to line 34, _1797_, _1803_, _1828_, _1829_. [This note, which
should be attached to l. 33, is a comment on the original line 'Split
and mishap'd' &c., of 1796. The quotation as translated reads
thus:--'Men have split up the Intelligible One into the peculiar
attributes of Gods many'.]

[110:2] See this _demonstrated_ by Hartley, vol. 1, p. 114, and vol. 2,
p. 329. See it likewise proved, and freed from the charge of Mysticism,
by Pistorius in his Notes and Additions to part second of Hartley on
Man, Addition the 18th, the 653rd page of the third volume of Hartley,
Octavo Edition. _Note_ to line 44, _1797_. [David Hartley's
_Observations on Man_ were published in 1749. His son republished them
in 1791, with Notes, &c., from the German of H. A. Pistorius, Pastor and
Provost of the Synod at Poseritz in the Island of Rügen.]

[112:1] And I heard a great voice out of the Temple saying to the seven
Angels, pour out the vials of the wrath of God upon the earth.
Revelation, xvi. 1. _Note_ to line 91, _Notes_, 1796, p. 90.

[112:2] Our evil Passions, under the influence of Religion, become
innocent, and may be made to animate our virtue--in the same manner as
the thick mist melted by the Sun, increases the light which it had
before excluded. In the preceding paragraph, agreeably to this truth, we
had allegorically narrated the transfiguration of Fear into holy Awe.
_Footnote_ to line 91, _1797_: to line 101, _1803_.

[114:1] If to make aught but the Supreme Reality the object of final
pursuit, be Superstition; if the attributing of sublime properties to
things or persons, which those things or persons neither do or can
possess, be Superstition; then Avarice and Ambition are Superstitions:
and he who wishes to estimate the evils of Superstition, should
transport himself, not to the temple of the Mexican Deities, but to the
plains of Flanders, or the coast of Africa.--Such is the sentiment
convey'd in this and the subsequent lines. _Footnote_ to line 135,
_1797_: to line 143, _1803_.

[115:1] January 21st, 1794, in the debate on the Address to his Majesty,
on the speech from the Throne, the Earl of Guildford (_sic_) moved an
Amendment to the following effect:--'That the House hoped his Majesty
would seize the earliest opportunity to conclude a peace with France,'
&c. This motion was opposed by the Duke of Portland, who 'considered the
war to be merely grounded on one principle--the preservation of the
CHRISTIAN RELIGION'. May 30th, 1794, the Duke of Bedford moved a number
of Resolutions, with a view to the Establishment of a Peace with France.
He was opposed (among others) by Lord Abingdon in these remarkable
words: 'The best road to Peace, my Lords, is WAR! and WAR carried on in
the same manner in which we are taught to worship our CREATOR, namely,
with all our souls, and with all our minds, and with all our hearts, and
with all our strength.' [_Footnote_ to line 159, _1797_, _1803_, _1828_,
_1829_, and _1834_.]

[115:2] That Despot who received the wages of an hireling that he might
act the part of a swindler, and who skulked from his impotent attacks on
the liberties of France to perpetrate more successful iniquity in the
plains of _Poland_. _Note_ to line 193. _Notes_, 1796, p. 170.

[116:1] The Father of the present Prince of Hesse Cassell supported
himself and his strumpets at Paris by the vast sums which he received
from the British Government during the American War for the flesh of his
subjects. _Notes_, 1796, p. 176.

[116:2] Art thou not from everlasting, O Lord, mine Holy One? We shall
not die. O Lord! thou hast ordained them for judgment, &c. Habakkuk i.
12. _Note_ to line 212. _Notes_, 1796, p. 171. _Footnote, 1828, 1829,
1834._

Art thou not, &c. In this paragraph the Author recalls himself from his
indignation against the instruments of Evil, to contemplate the _uses_
of these Evils in the great process of divine Benevolence. In the first
age, Men were innocent from ignorance of Vice; they fell, that by the
knowledge of consequences they might attain intellectual security, i. e.
Virtue, which is a wise and strong-nerv'd Innocence. _Footnote_ to line
196, _1797_: to line 204, _1803_.

[117:1] I deem that the teaching of the gospel for hire is wrong;
because it gives the teacher an improper bias in favour of particular
opinions on a subject where it is of the last importance that the mind
should be perfectly unbiassed. Such is my private opinion; but I mean
not to censure all hired teachers, many among whom I know, and venerate
as the best and wisest of men--God forbid that I should think of these,
when I use the word PRIEST, a name, after which any other term of
abhorrence would appear an anti-climax. By a Priest I mean a man who
holding the scourge of power in his right hand and a bible (translated
by authority) in his left, doth necessarily cause the bible and the
scourge to be associated ideas, and so produces that temper of mind
which leads to Infidelity--Infidelity which judging of Revelation by the
doctrines and practices of established Churches honors God by rejecting
Christ. See 'Address to the People', p. 57, sold by Parsons, Paternoster
Row. _Note_ to line 235. _Notes_, 1796, pp. 171, 172.

[118:1] Dr. Franklin. _Note_ to line 253. _Notes_, 1796, p. 172.

[119:1] At eleven o'clock, while we contemplated with great pleasure the
rugged top of Chiggre, to which we were fast approaching, and where we
were to solace ourselves with plenty of good water, IDRIS cried out with
a loud voice, 'Fall upon your faces, for here is the Simoom'. I saw from
the S.E. an haze come on, in colour like the purple part of the rainbow,
but not so compressed or thick. It did not occupy twenty yards in
breadth, and was about twelve feet high from the ground.--We all lay
flat on the ground, as if dead, till IDRIS told us it was blown over.
The meteor, or purple haze, which I saw, was indeed passed; but the
light air that still blew was of heat to threaten suffocation. Bruce's
_Travels_, vol. 4, p. 557. _Note_ to line 288. _Notes_, 1796, pp. 172,
173.

[119:2] Behemoth, in Hebrew, signifies wild beasts in general. Some
believe it is the Elephant, some the Hippopotamus; some affirm it is the
Wild Bull. Poetically, it designates any large Quadruped. [Footnote to
l. 279, _1797_: to l. 286, _1803_. Reprinted in _1828_, _1829_, and
_1834_. The note to l. 294 in _1796_, p. 173 ran thus: Used poetically
for a very large quadruped, but in general it designates the elephant.]

[120:1] See the sixth chapter of the Revelation of St. John the
Divine.--And I looked and beheld a pale horse; and his name that sat on
him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them
over the FOURTH part of the Earth to kill with sword, and with hunger,
and with pestilence, and with the beasts of the Earth.--And when he had
opened the fifth seal, I saw under the altar the souls of them that were
slain for the word of God, and for the testimony which they held; and
white robes were given unto every one of them; and it was said unto
them, that they should rest yet for a little season, until their fellow
servants also, and their brethren that should be killed as they were
should be fulfilled. And I beheld when he had opened the sixth seal, the
stars of Heaven fell unto the Earth, even as a fig-tree casteth her
untimely figs when she is shaken of a mighty wind] And the kings of the
earth, and the great men, and the rich men, and the chief captains, &c.
_Note_ to line 324. _Notes_, 1796, pp. 174, 175.

[121:1] Alluding to the French Revolution _1834_: The French Revolution
_1796_: This passage alludes to the French Revolution: and the
subsequent paragraph to the downfall of Religious Establishments. I am
convinced that the Babylon of the Apocalypse does not apply to Rome
exclusively; but to the union of Religion with Power and Wealth,
wherever it is found. _Footnote_ to line 320, _1797_, to line 322,
_1803_.

[121:2] And there came one of the seven Angels which had the seven
vials, and talked with me, saying unto me, come hither! I will show unto
thee the judgment of the great Whore, that sitteth upon many waters:
with whom the kings of the earth have committed fornication, &c.
Revelation of St. John the Divine, chapter the seventeenth. _Note_ to l.
343. _Notes_, 1796, p. 175.

[122:1] The Millenium:--in which I suppose, that Man will continue to
enjoy the highest glory, of which his human nature is capable.--That all
who in past ages have endeavoured to ameliorate the state of man will
rise and enjoy the fruits and flowers, the imperceptible seeds of which
they had sown in their former Life: and that the wicked will during the
same period, be suffering the remedies adapted to their several bad
habits. I suppose that this period will be followed by the passing away
of this Earth and by our entering the state of pure intellect; when all
Creation shall rest from its labours. _Footnote_ to line 365, _1797_, to
line 367, _1803_.

[123:1] David Hartley. [_Footnote_ to line 392, _1796_, to line 375,
_1797_, to line 380, _1803_: reprinted in _1828_, _1829_, and _1834_.]

[123:2] Rev. chap. iv. v. 2 and 3.--And immediately I was in the Spirit:
and behold, a Throne was set in Heaven and one sat on the Throne. And he
that sat was to look upon like a jasper and a sardine stone, &c.
[_Footnote_ to line 386, _1797_, to line 389, _1803_: reprinted in
_1828_, _1829_, and _1834_.]

[124:1] The final Destruction impersonated. [_Footnote_ to line 394,
_1797_, to line 396, _1803_: reprinted in _1828_, _1829_, and _1834_.]

[124:2] This paragraph is intelligible to those, who, like the Author,
believe and feel the sublime system of Berkley (_sic_); and the doctrine
of the final Happiness of all men. _Footnote_ to line 402, _1797_, to
line 405, _1803_.


LINENOTES:

Title] ---- on Christmas Eve. In the year of Our Lord, 1794.

[1-23]

  This is the time, when most divine to hear,
  As with a Cherub's 'loud uplifted' trump
  The voice of Adoration my thrill'd heart
  Rouses! And with the rushing noise of wings
  Transports my spirit to the favor'd fields                           5
  Of Bethlehem, there in shepherd's guise to sit
  Sublime of extacy, and mark entranc'd
  The glory-streaming VISION throng the night.[109:A]
  Ah not more radiant, nor loud harmonies
  Hymning more unimaginably sweet                                     10
  With choral songs around th' ETERNAL MIND,
  The constellated company of WORLDS
  Danc'd jubilant: what time the startling East
  Saw from her dark womb leap her flamy child!
  Glory to God in the Highest! PEACE on Earth!                        15
  Yet thou more bright than all that Angel Blaze,
  Despiséd GALILAEAN! Man of Woes!
  For chiefly in the oppressed Good Man's face
  The Great Invisible (by symbols seen)
  Shines with peculiar and concentred light,                          20
  When all of Self regardless the scourg'd Saint
  Mourns for th' oppressor. O thou meekest Man!                       25
  Meek Man and lowliest of the Sons of Men!
  Who thee beheld thy imag'd Father saw.[109:B]
  His Power and Wisdom from thy awful eye
  Blended their beams, and loftier Love sat there
  Musing on human weal, and that dread hour                           30
  _When thy insulted_, &c.

1796.

     [109:A] And suddenly there was with the Angel a multitude of
     the heavenly Host, praising God and saying glory to God in the
     highest and on earth peace. Luke ii. 13 _1796_.

     [109:B] Philip saith unto him, Lord! shew us the Father and it
     sufficeth us. Jesus saith unto him, Have I been so long time
     with you, and yet hast thou not known me, Philip? He that hath
     seen me hath seen the Father. John xiv. 9 _1796_.

[7] Angel-blaze] Angel-Host 1803.

[26] Diviner light flash'd extacy o'er Heaven! 1796.

[32-4]

  What mists dim-floating of Idolatry
  Split and mishap'd the Omnipresent Sire:
  And first by Terror, Mercy's startling prelude,
  Uncharm'd the Spirit spell-bound with earthy lusts.

1796.

[39] From Hope and stronger Faith to perfect Love 1796.

[54] embosom] imbosom 1796, 1797, 1803.

[64-71]

  They cannot dread created might, who love
  God the Creator! fair and lofty thought!
  It lifts and swells my heart! and as I muse,
  Behold a VISION gathers in my soul,
  Voices and shadowy shapes! In human guise
  I seem to see the phantom, FEAR, pass by,
  Hotly-pursued, and pale! From rock to rock
  He bounds with bleeding feet, and thro' the swamp,
  The quicksand and the groaning wilderness,
  Struggles with feebler and yet feebler flight.
  But lo! an altar in the wilderness,
  And eagerly yet feebly lo! he grasps
  The altar of the living God! and there
  With wan reverted face the trembling wretch
  All wildly list'ning to his Hunter-fiends
  Stands, till the last faint echo of their yell
  Dies in the distance. _Soon refresh'd from Heaven_ &c.

1803.

[74-7]

  Swims in his eyes: his swimming eyes uprais'd:
  And Faith's whole armour girds his limbs! And thus
  Transfigur'd, with a meek and dreadless awe,
  A solemn hush of spirit _he beholds_

1803.

[78-84]

                  Yea, and there,
  Unshudder'd unaghasted, he shall view
  E'en the SEVEN SPIRITS, who in the latter day
  Will shower hot pestilence on the sons of men,
  For he shall know, his heart shall understand,
  That kindling with intenser Deity
  They from the MERCY-SEAT like rosy flames,
  From God's celestial MERCY-SEAT will flash,
  And at the wells of renovating LOVE
  Fill their Seven Vials _with salutary wrath_.

1796.

[81-3]

  For even these on wings of healing come,
  Yea, kindling with intenser Deity
  From the Celestial MERCY SEAT they speed,
  _And at the renovating_ &c.

1803.

[86] soft] sweet 1803.

[96-7]

  Darkling with earnest eyes he traces out
  Th' immediate road, all else of fairest kind

1803.

[98] the burning Sun 1803.

[115] The Cherubs and the trembling Seraphim 1803.

[119-21] om. 1803.

[135-41]

  O Fiends of SUPERSTITION! not that oft
  Your pitiless rites have floated with man's blood
  The skull-pil'd Temple, not for this shall wrath
  Thunder against you from the Holy One!
  But (whether ye th' unclimbing Bigot mock
  With secondary Gods, or if more pleas'd
  Ye petrify th' imbrothell'd Atheist's heart,
  The Atheist your worst slave) I o'er some plain
  Peopled with Death, and to the silent Sun
  Steaming with tyrant-murder'd multitudes;
  Or where mid groans and shrieks loud-laughing TRADE
  More hideous packs his bales of living anguish

1796.

[165] pious] _pious_ 1796-1829.

[176] mazy surge] tortuous-folds 1796.

[177] imbreathe] inbreathe 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[202] An] A 1834.

[222] an] a 1834.

[223] om. 1796, 1803.

[254-5]

  The wafted perfumes, gazing on the woods
  The many tinted streams

1803.

[257] In extacy! 1803.

[266] Blessed] O _Blest_ 1796, Watchman: evil 1803: _Blessed_ 1797,
1828, 1829.

[270] by] at Watchman.

[273] bloody] gore-stained 1803.

[274] plants] rolls 1796.

[277-8]

  Ye whom Oppression's ruffian gluttony
  Drives from the feast of life

1803.

[280-1]

  Dost roam for prey--yea thy unnatural hand
  Liftest to deeds of blood

1796.

[281] Dost] Dar'st Watchman.

[283-4]

  Nights of pollution, days of blasphemy,
  Who in thy orgies with loath'd wassailers

1803.

[290] O loathly-visag'd Suppliants! ye that oft 1796: O loathly-visag'd
supplicants! that oft Watchman.

[291-2]

  Rack'd with disease, from the unopen'd gate
  Of the full Lazar-house, heart-broken crawl!

1796, Watchman.

[293-6]

  O ye to scepter'd Glory's gore-drench'd field
  Forc'd or ensnar'd, who swept by Slaughter's scythe
  Stern nurse of Vultures! steam in putrid heaps

1796.

  O ye that steaming to the silent Noon,
  People with Death red-eyed Ambition's plains!
  O Wretched _Widow_

Watchman.

[300] Cow'rest 1796.

[302] stream] steam 1796, Watchman, 1797, 1803.

[305] And upward spring on swiftest plume of fire Watchman.

[337] Hunted by ghastlier terrors 1796, Watchman. Haunted] Hunted 1797,
1803, 1828, 1829.

[345-8]

  When on some solemn Jubilee of Saints
  The sapphire-blazing gates of Paradise
  Are thrown wide open, and thence voyage forth
  Detachments wild of seraph-warbled airs

1796, Watchman.

[355] beatitudes] beatitude 1796, Watchman, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[356] Seize on] Have seiz'd Watchman.

[359-61]

  The SAVIOUR comes! While as to solemn strains,
  The THOUSAND YEARS lead up their mystic dance
  Old OCEAN claps his hands! the DESERT shouts!
  And soft gales wafted from the haunts of spring
  Melt the primaeval North!

_The Mighty Dead_ 1796.

[365] The odorous groves of Earth reparadis'd 1796.

[370-2]

  Down the fine fibres from the sentient brain
  Roll subtly-surging. Pressing on his steps
  Lo! PRIESTLEY there, Patriot, and Saint, and Sage,
  Whom that my fleshly eye hath never seen
  A childish pang of impotent regret
  Hath thrill'd my heart. Him from his _native land_

1796.

  Up the fine fibres thro' the sentient brain
  Pass in fine surges. Pressing on his steps
  _Lo! Priestley there_

1803.

[378-80]

  Sweeping before the rapt prophetic Gaze
  Bright as what glories of the jasper throne
  Stream from the gorgeous and face-veiling plumes
  Of Spirits adoring! Ye blest years! must end

1796.

[380] they bend] he bends 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[387] May image in his wildly-working thought 1796: May image, how the
red-eyed Fiend outstretcht 1803.

[390] feverous] feverish 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.

[Between 391, 392] DESTRUCTION! when the Sons of Morning shout, The
Angels shout, DESTRUCTION 1803.

[393] The Mighty Spirit 1796.

[400] om. 1803.

[401] blaze] Light 1803.

[411] and novice] noviciate 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.




MONODY ON THE DEATH OF CHATTERTON[125:1]


  O what a wonder seems the fear of death,
  Seeing how gladly we all sink to sleep,
  Babes, Children, Youths, and Men,
  Night following night for threescore years and ten!
  But doubly strange, where life is but a breath                       5
  To sigh and pant with, up Want's rugged steep.

  Away, Grim Phantom! Scorpion King, away!
  Reserve thy terrors and thy stings display
  For coward Wealth and Guilt in robes of State!
  Lo! by the grave I stand of one, for whom                           10
  A prodigal Nature and a niggard Doom
  (_That_ all bestowing, _this_ withholding all)
  Made each chance knell from distant spire or dome
  Sound like a seeking Mother's anxious call,
  Return, poor Child! Home, weary Truant, home!                       15

  Thee, Chatterton! these unblest stones protect
  From want, and the bleak freezings of neglect.
  Too long before the vexing Storm-blast driven
  Here hast thou found repose! beneath this sod!
  Thou! O vain word! _thou_ dwell'st not with the clod!               20
  Amid the shining Host of the Forgiven
  Thou at the throne of mercy and thy God
  The triumph of redeeming Love dost hymn
  (Believe it, O my Soul!) to harps of Seraphim.

  Yet oft, perforce ('tis suffering Nature's call),                   25
  I weep that heaven-born Genius _so_ should fall;
  And oft, in Fancy's saddest hour, my soul
  Averted shudders at the poison'd bowl.
  Now groans my sickening heart, as still I view
      Thy corse of livid hue;                                         30
  Now Indignation checks the feeble sigh,
  Or flashes through the tear that glistens in mine eye!

  Is this the land of song-ennobled line?
  Is this the land, where Genius ne'er in vain
      Pour'd forth his lofty strain?                                  35
  Ah me! yet Spenser, gentlest bard divine,
  Beneath chill Disappointment's shade,
  His weary limbs in lonely anguish lay'd.
      And o'er her darling dead
      Pity hopeless hung her head,                                    40
  While 'mid the pelting of that merciless storm,'
  Sunk to the cold earth Otway's famish'd form!
  Sublime of thought, and confident of fame,
  From vales where Avon[127:1] winds the Minstrel came.
      Light-hearted youth! aye, as he hastes along,                   45
      He meditates the future song,
  How dauntless Ælla fray'd the Dacyan foe;
      And while the numbers flowing strong
      In eddies whirl, in surges throng,
  Exulting in the spirits' genial throe                               50
  In tides of power his life-blood seems to flow.

  And now his cheeks with deeper ardors flame,
  His eyes have glorious meanings, that declare
  More than the light of outward day shines there,
  A holier triumph and a sterner aim!                                 55
  Wings grow within him; and he soars above
  Or Bard's or Minstrel's lay of war or love.
  Friend to the friendless, to the sufferer health,
  He hears the widow's prayer, the good man's praise;
  To scenes of bliss transmutes his fancied wealth,                   60
  And young and old shall now see happy days.
  On many a waste he bids trim gardens rise,
  Gives the blue sky to many a prisoner's eyes;
  And now in wrath he grasps the patriot steel,
  And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel.                      65
  Sweet Flower of Hope! free Nature's genial child!
  That didst so fair disclose thy early bloom,
  Filling the wide air with a rich perfume!
  For thee in vain all heavenly aspects smil'd;
  From the hard world brief respite could they win--                  70
  The frost nipp'd sharp without, the canker prey'd within!
  Ah! where are fled the charms of vernal Grace,
  And Joy's wild gleams that lighten'd o'er thy face?
  Youth of tumultuous soul, and haggard eye!
  Thy wasted form, thy hurried steps I view,                          75
  On thy wan forehead starts the lethal dew,
  And oh! the anguish of that shuddering sigh!

      Such were the struggles of the gloomy hour,
        When Care, of wither'd brow,
      Prepar'd the poison's death-cold power:                         80
    Already to thy lips was rais'd the bowl,
      When near thee stood Affection meek
      (Her bosom bare, and wildly pale her cheek)
    Thy sullen gaze she bade thee roll
    On scenes that well might melt thy soul;                          85
    Thy native cot she flash'd upon thy view,
  Thy native cot, where still, at close of day,
  Peace smiling sate, and listen'd to thy lay;
  Thy Sister's shrieks she bade thee hear,
  And mark thy Mother's thrilling tear;                               90
      See, see her breast's convulsive throe,
      Her silent agony of woe!
  Ah! dash the poison'd chalice from thy hand!

  And thou hadst dashed it, at her soft command,
  But that Despair and Indignation rose,                              95
  And told again the story of thy woes;
  Told the keen insult of the unfeeling heart,
  The dread dependence on the low-born mind;
  Told every pang, with which thy soul must smart,
  Neglect, and grinning Scorn, and Want combined!                    100
  Recoiling quick, thou badest the friend of pain
  Roll the black tide of Death through every freezing vein!
                                O spirit blest!
  Whether the Eternal's throne around,
  Amidst the blaze of Seraphim,                                      105
  Thou pourest forth the grateful hymn,
  Or soaring thro' the blest domain
  Enrapturest Angels with thy strain,--
  Grant me, like thee, the lyre to sound,
  Like thee with fire divine to glow;--                              110
  But ah! when rage the waves of woe,
  Grant me with firmer breast to meet their hate,
  And soar beyond the storm with upright eye elate!

  Ye woods! that wave o'er Avon's rocky steep,
  To Fancy's ear sweet is your murmuring deep!                       115
  For here she loves the cypress wreath to weave;
  Watching with wistful eye, the saddening tints of eve.
  Here, far from men, amid this pathless grove,
  In solemn thought the Minstrel wont to rove,
  Like star-beam on the slow sequester'd tide                        120
  Lone-glittering, through the high tree branching wide.
  And here, in Inspiration's eager hour,
  When most the big soul feels the mastering power,
      These wilds, these caverns roaming o'er,
      Round which the screaming sea-gulls soar,                      125
  With wild unequal steps he pass'd along,
  Oft pouring on the winds a broken song:
  Anon, upon some rough rock's fearful brow
  Would pause abrupt--and gaze upon the waves below.

  Poor Chatterton! _he_ sorrows for thy fate                         130
  Who would have prais'd and lov'd thee, ere too late.
  Poor Chatterton! farewell! of darkest hues
  This chaplet cast I on thy unshaped tomb;
  But dare no longer on the sad theme muse,
  Lest kindred woes persuade a kindred doom:                         135
  For oh! big gall-drops, shook from Folly's wing,
  Have blacken'd the fair promise of my spring;
  And the stern Fate transpierc'd with viewless dart
  The last pale Hope that shiver'd at my heart!

  Hence, gloomy thoughts! no more my soul shall dwell                140
  On joys that were! no more endure to weigh
  The shame and anguish of the evil day,
  Wisely forgetful! O'er the ocean swell
  Sublime of Hope I seek the cottag'd dell
  Where Virtue calm with careless step may stray;                    145
  And, dancing to the moon-light roundelay,
  The wizard Passions weave an holy spell!

  O Chatterton! that thou wert yet alive!
  Sure thou would'st spread the canvass to the gale,
  And love with us the tinkling team to drive                        150
  O'er peaceful Freedom's undivided dale;
  And we, at sober eve, would round thee throng,
  Would hang, enraptur'd, on thy stately song,
  And greet with smiles the young-eyed Poesy
  All deftly mask'd as hoar Antiquity.                               155

  Alas, vain Phantasies! the fleeting brood
  Of Woe self-solac'd in her dreamy mood!
  Yet will I love to follow the sweet dream,
  Where Susquehannah pours his untamed stream;
  And on some hill, whose forest-frowning side                       160
  Waves o'er the murmurs of his calmer tide,
  Will raise a solemn Cenotaph to thee,
  Sweet Harper of time-shrouded Minstrelsy!
  And there, sooth'd sadly by the dirgeful wind,
  Muse on the sore ills I had left behind.                           165

1790-1834.


FOOTNOTES:

[125:1] The 'Monody', &c., dated in eds. 1796, 1797, 1803, 'October,
1794,' was first published at Cambridge in 1794, in _Poems_, By Thomas
Rowley [i. e. Chatterton] and others edited by Lancelot Sharpe (pp.
xxv-xxviii). An _Introductory Note_ was prefixed:--'The Editor thinks
himself happy in the permission of an ingenious friend to insert the
following Monody.' The variants marked 1794 are derived from that work.
The 'Monody' was not included in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817. For MS.
variants _vide ante_, 'Monody', &c., Christ's Hospital Version.

Coleridge told Cottle, May 27, 1814 that lines 1-4 were written when he
was 'a mere boy' (_Reminiscences_, 1847, p. 348); and, again, April 22,
1819, he told William Worship that they were written 'in his thirteenth
year as a school exercise'. The Monody numbered 107 lines in 1794, 143
in 1796, 135 in 1797, 119 in 1803, 143 in 1828, 154 in 1829, and 165
lines in 1834.

[127:1] Avon, a river near Bristol, the birth-place of Chatterton.


LINENOTES:

[1-15]

  When faint and sad o'er Sorrow's desart wild
  Slow journeys onward, poor Misfortune's child;
  When fades each lovely form by Fancy drest,
  And inly pines the self-consuming breast;
  (No scourge of scorpions in thy right arm dread,
  No helméd terrors nodding o'er thy head,)
  Assume, O DEATH! the cherub wings of PEACE,
  And bid the heartsick Wanderer's Anguish cease.

1794, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828.

[Lines 1-15 of the text were first printed in 1829.]

[16] these] yon 1794, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828.

[18-24]

  Escap'd the sore wounds of Affliction's rod
  Meek at the throne of Mercy and of God,
  Perchance, thou raisest high th' enraptur'd hymn
    Amid the blaze of Seraphim!

1794, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828.

[25] Yet oft ('tis Nature's bosom-startling call) 1794, 1796, 1828: Yet
oft ('tis Nature's call) 1797, 1803.

[26] should] shall 1829.

[30] Thy] The 1794.

[31-32]

  And now a flash of Indignation high
  Darts through the tear that glistens in mine eye.

1794, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828.

[35] his] her 1794.

[37] Disappointment's deadly shade 1794.

[41] merciless] pitiless 1794.

[45] aye, as] om. 1797, 1803.

[46] He] And 1797, 1803.

[47-56]

  How dauntless Ælla fray'd the Dacyan foes;
      And, as floating high in air,
      Glitter the sunny Visions fair,
  His eyes dance rapture, and his bosom glows!

1794, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828.

[1794 reads 'Danish foes'; 1797, 1803 read 'See, as floating', &c.
Lines 48-56 were added in 1829.]

[58-71]

  Friend to the friendless, to the sick man Health,
  With generous Joy he views th' _ideal_ wealth;
  He hears the Widow's heaven-breath'd prayer of Praise;
  He marks the shelter'd Orphan's tearful gaze;
  Or where the sorrow-shrivell'd Captive lay,                          5
  Pours the bright Blaze of Freedom's noon-tide Ray:
  And now, indignant 'grasps the patriot steel'
  And her own iron rod he makes Oppression feel.
    Clad in Nature's rich array,
  And bright in all her tender hues,                                  10
  Sweet Tree of Hope! thou loveliest child of Spring!
  How fair didst thou disclose thine early bloom,
    Loading the west winds with its soft perfume!
  And Fancy, elfin form of gorgeous wing,
  [And Fancy hovering round on shadowy wing, 1794.]
  On every blossom hung her fostering dews,                           15
    That, changeful, wanton'd to the orient Day!
  But soon upon thy poor unshelter'd Head
  [Ah! soon, &c. 1794.]
  Did Penury her sickly mildew shed:
  And soon the scathing Lightning bade thee stand
  In frowning horror o'er the blighted Land

1794, 1796, 1828.

[Lines 1-8 of the preceding variant were omitted in 1797. Line 9 reads
'Yes! Clad,' &c., and line 12 reads 'Most fair,' &c. The entire variant,
'Friend . . . Land,' was omitted in 1803, but reappears in 1828. The
quotation marks 'grasps the patriot steel' which appear in 1796, but not
in 1794, were inserted in 1828, but omitted in 1829, 1834. Lines 1-6
were included in 'Lines written at the King's Arms, Ross', as first
published in the Cambridge Intelligencer, Sept. 27, 1794, and in the
editions of 1797, 1828, 1829, and 1834.]

[72] Ah! where] Whither 1794, 1797.

[73] that lighten'd] light-flashing 1797, 1803.

[76] wan] cold 1794, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828. lethal] anguish'd 1794,
1796, 1797, 1828.

[77] And dreadful was that bosom-rending sigh 1794, 1796, 1797, 1803,
1828.

[78] the gloomy] that gloomy 1803.

[80] Prepar'd the poison's power 1797, 1803.

[90] And mark thy mother's tear 1797, 1803.

[98] low-born] low-bred 1794.

[99] with] at 1794. must] might 1794.

[102] black] dark 1794.

[103-13] These lines, which form the conclusion (ll. 80-90) of the
Christ's Hospital Version, were printed for the first time in 1834, with
the following variants: l. 104 the Eternal's] th' Eternal; l. 105
Seraphim] Cherubim; l. 112 to meet] t'oppose; l. 113 storm] storms.

[120] slow] rude 1794.

[121] Lone glittering thro' the Forest's murksome pride 1794.

[123] mastering] mad'ning 1794, 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828.

[129] Here the Monody ends 1794.

[130-65] First printed in 1796.

[133] unshaped] shapeless 1803.

[136-39] om. 1803.

[147] an] a 1834.

[153] Would hang] Hanging 1796, 1797, 1803, 1828, 1829.




THE DESTINY OF NATIONS[131:1]

A VISION


  Auspicious Reverence! Hush all meaner song,
  Ere we the deep preluding strain have poured
  To the Great Father, only Rightful King,
  Eternal Father! King Omnipotent!
  To the Will Absolute, the One, the Good!                             5
  The I AM, the Word, the Life, the Living God!

    Such symphony requires best instrument.
  Seize, then, my soul! from Freedom's trophied dome
  The Harp which hangeth high between the Shields
  Of Brutus and Leonidas! With that                                   10
  Strong music, that soliciting spell, force back
  Man's free and stirring spirit that lies entranced.
    For what is Freedom, but the unfettered use
  Of all the powers which God for use had given?
  But chiefly this, him First, him Last to view                       15
  Through meaner powers and secondary things
  Effulgent, as through clouds that veil his blaze.
  For all that meets the bodily sense I deem
  Symbolical, one mighty alphabet
  For infant minds; and we in this low world                          20
  Placed with our backs to bright Reality,
  That we may learn with young unwounded ken
  The substance from its shadow. Infinite Love,
  Whose latence is the plenitude of All,
  Thou with retracted beams, and self-eclipse                         25
  Veiling, revealest thine eternal Sun.

    But some there are who deem themselves most free
  When they within this gross and visible sphere
  Chain down the wingéd thought, scoffing ascent,
  Proud in their meanness: and themselves they cheat                  30
  With noisy emptiness of learned phrase,
  Their subtle fluids, impacts, essences,
  Self-working tools, uncaused effects, and all
  Those blind Omniscients, those Almighty Slaves,
  Untenanting creation of its God.                                    35

    But Properties are God: the naked mass
  (If mass there be, fantastic guess or ghost)
  Acts only by its inactivity.
  Here we pause humbly. Others boldlier think
  That as one body seems the aggregate                                40
  Of atoms numberless, each organized;
  So by a strange and dim similitude
  Infinite myriads of self-conscious minds
  Are one all-conscious Spirit, which informs
  With absolute ubiquity of thought                                   45
  (His one eternal self-affirming act!)
  All his involvéd Monads, that yet seem
  With various province and apt agency
  Each to pursue its own self-centering end.
  Some nurse the infant diamond in the mine;                          50
  Some roll the genial juices through the oak;
  Some drive the mutinous clouds to clash in air,
  And rushing on the storm with whirlwind speed,
  Yoke the red lightnings to their volleying car.
  Thus these pursue their never-varying course,                       55
  No eddy in their stream. Others, more wild,
  With complex interests weaving human fates,
  Duteous or proud, alike obedient all,
  Evolve the process of eternal good.

    And what if some rebellious, o'er dark realms                     60
  Arrogate power? yet these train up to God,
  And on the rude eye, unconfirmed for day,
  Flash meteor-lights better than total gloom.
  As ere from Lieule-Oaive's vapoury head
  The Laplander beholds the far-off Sun                               65
  Dart his slant beam on unobeying snows,
  While yet the stern and solitary Night
  Brooks no alternate sway, the Boreal Morn
  With mimic lustre substitutes its gleam.
  Guiding his course or by Niemi lake                                 70
  Or Balda Zhiok,[133:1] or the mossy stone
  Of Solfar-kapper,[133:2] while the snowy blast
  Drifts arrowy by, or eddies round his sledge,
  Making the poor babe at its mother's back[134:1]
  Scream in its scanty cradle: he the while                           75
  Wins gentle solace as with upward eye
  He marks the streamy banners of the North,
  Thinking himself those happy spirits shall join
  Who there in floating robes of rosy light
  Dance sportively. For Fancy is the power                            80
  That first unsensualises the dark mind,
  Giving it new delights; and bids it swell
  With wild activity; and peopling air,
  By obscure fears of Beings invisible,
  Emancipates it from the grosser thrall                              85
  Of the present impulse, teaching Self-control,
  Till Superstition with unconscious hand
  Seat Reason on her throne. Wherefore not vain,
  Nor yet without permitted power impressed,
  I deem those legends terrible, with which                           90
  The polar ancient thrills his uncouth throng:
  Whether of pitying Spirits that make their moan
  O'er slaughter'd infants, or that Giant Bird
  Vuokho, of whose rushing wings the noise
  Is Tempest, when the unutterable Shape                              95
  Speeds from the mother of Death, and utters once[134:2]
  That shriek, which never murderer heard, and lived.

    Or if the Greenland Wizard in strange trance
  Pierces the untravelled realms of Ocean's bed
  Over the abysm, even to that uttermost cave                        100
  By mis-shaped prodigies beleaguered, such
  As Earth ne'er bred, nor Air, nor the upper Sea:
  Where dwells the Fury Form, whose unheard name
  With eager eye, pale cheek, suspended breath,
  And lips half-opening with the dread of sound,                     105
  Unsleeping Silence guards, worn out with fear
  Lest haply 'scaping on some treacherous blast
  The fateful word let slip the Elements
  And frenzy Nature. Yet the wizard her,
  Arm'd with Torngarsuck's power, the Spirit of Good,[135:1]         110
  Forces to unchain the foodful progeny
  Of the Ocean stream;--thence thro' the realm of Souls,
  Where live the Innocent, as far from cares
  As from the storms and overwhelming waves
  That tumble on the surface of the Deep,                            115
  Returns with far-heard pant, hotly pursued
  By the fierce Warders of the Sea, once more,
  Ere by the frost foreclosed, to repossess
  His fleshly mansion, that had staid the while
  In the dark tent within a cow'ring group                           120
  Untenanted.--Wild phantasies! yet wise,
  On the victorious goodness of high God
  Teaching reliance, and medicinal hope,
  Till from Bethabra northward, heavenly Truth
  With gradual steps, winning her difficult way,                     125
  Transfer their rude Faith perfected and pure.

    If there be Beings of higher class than Man,
  I deem no nobler province they possess,
  Than by disposal of apt circumstance
  To rear up kingdoms: and the deeds they prompt,                    130
  Distinguishing from mortal agency,
  They choose their human ministers from such states
  As still the Epic song half fears to name,
  Repelled from all the minstrelsies that strike
  The palace-roof and soothe the monarch's pride.                    135
  And such, perhaps, the Spirit, who (if words
  Witnessed by answering deeds may claim our faith)
  Held commune with that warrior-maid of France
  Who scourged the Invader. From her infant days,
  With Wisdom, mother of retired thoughts,                           140
  Her soul had dwelt; and she was quick to mark
  The good and evil thing, in human lore
  Undisciplined. For lowly was her birth,
  And Heaven had doomed her early years to toil
  That pure from Tyranny's least deed, herself                       145
  Unfeared by Fellow-natures, she might wait
  On the poor labouring man with kindly looks,
  And minister refreshment to the tired
  Way-wanderer, when along the rough-hewn bench
  The sweltry man had stretched him, and aloft                       150
  Vacantly watched the rudely-pictured board
  Which on the Mulberry-bough with welcome creak
  Swung to the pleasant breeze. Here, too, the Maid
  Learnt more than Schools could teach: Man's shifting mind,
  His vices and his sorrows! And full oft                            155
  At tales of cruel wrong and strange distress
  Had wept and shivered. To the tottering Eld
  Still as a daughter would she run: she placed
  His cold limbs at the sunny door, and loved
  To hear him story, in his garrulous sort,                          160
  Of his eventful years, all come and gone.

    So twenty seasons past. The Virgin's form,
  Active and tall, nor Sloth nor Luxury
  Had shrunk or paled. Her front sublime and broad,
  Her flexile eye-brows wildly haired and low,                       165
  And her full eye, now bright, now unillumed,
  Spake more than Woman's thought; and all her face
  Was moulded to such features as declared
  That Pity there had oft and strongly worked,
  And sometimes Indignation. Bold her mien,                          170
  And like an haughty huntress of the woods
  She moved: yet sure she was a gentle maid!
  And in each motion her most innocent soul
  Beamed forth so brightly, that who saw would say
  Guilt was a thing impossible in her!                               175
  Nor idly would have said--for she had lived
  In this bad World, as in a place of Tombs,
  And touched not the pollutions of the Dead.

    'Twas the cold season when the Rustic's eye
  From the drear desolate whiteness of his fields                    180
  Rolls for relief to watch the skiey tints
  And clouds slow-varying their huge imagery;
  When now, as she was wont, the healthful Maid
  Had left her pallet ere one beam of day
  Slanted the fog-smoke. She went forth alone                        185
  Urged by the indwelling angel-guide, that oft,
  With dim inexplicable sympathies
  Disquieting the heart, shapes out Man's course
  To the predoomed adventure. Now the ascent
  She climbs of that steep upland, on whose top                      190
  The Pilgrim-man, who long since eve had watched
  The alien shine of unconcerning stars,
  Shouts to himself, there first the Abbey-lights
  Seen in Neufchâtel's vale; now <DW72>s adown
  The winding sheep-track vale-ward: when, behold                    195
  In the first entrance of the level road
  An unattended team! The foremost horse
  Lay with stretched limbs; the others, yet alive
  But stiff and cold, stood motionless, their manes
  Hoar with the frozen night-dews. Dismally                          200
  The dark-red dawn now glimmered; but its gleams
  Disclosed no face of man. The maiden paused,
  Then hailed who might be near. No voice replied.
  From the thwart wain at length there reached her ear
  A sound so feeble that it almost seemed                            205
  Distant: and feebly, with slow effort pushed,
  A miserable man crept forth: his limbs
  The silent frost had eat, scathing like fire.
  Faint on the shafts he rested. She, meantime,
  Saw crowded close beneath the coverture                            210
  A mother and her children--lifeless all,
  Yet lovely! not a lineament was marred--
  Death had put on so slumber-like a form!
  It was a piteous sight; and one, a babe.
  The crisp milk frozen on its innocent lips,                        215
  Lay on the woman's arm, its little hand
  Stretched on her bosom.

                          Mutely questioning,
  The Maid gazed wildly at the living wretch.
  He, his head feebly turning, on the group
  Looked with a vacant stare, and his eye spoke                      220
  The drowsy calm that steals on worn-out anguish.
  She shuddered; but, each vainer pang subdued,
  Quick disentangling from the foremost horse
  The rustic bands, with difficulty and toil
  The stiff cramped team forced homeward. There arrived,             225
  Anxiously tends him she with healing herbs,
  And weeps and prays--but the numb power of Death
  Spreads o'er his limbs; and ere the noon-tide hour,
  The hovering spirits of his Wife and Babes
  Hail him immortal! Yet amid his pangs,                             230
  With interruptions long from ghastly throes,
  His voice had faltered out this simple tale.

   The Village, where he dwelt an husbandman,
  By sudden inroad had been seized and fired
  Late on the yester-evening. With his wife                          235
  And little ones he hurried his escape.
  They saw the neighbouring hamlets flame, they heard
  Uproar and shrieks! and terror-struck drove on
  Through unfrequented roads, a weary way!
  But saw nor house nor cottage. All had quenched                    240
  Their evening hearth-fire: for the alarm had spread.
  The air clipt keen, the night was fanged with frost,
  And they provisionless! The weeping wife
  Ill hushed her children's moans; and still they moaned,
  Till Fright and Cold and Hunger drank their life.                  245
  They closed their eyes in sleep, nor knew 'twas Death.
  He only, lashing his o'er-wearied team,
  Gained a sad respite, till beside the base
  Of the high hill his foremost horse dropped dead.
  Then hopeless, strengthless, sick for lack of food,                250
  He crept beneath the coverture, entranced,
  Till wakened by the maiden.--Such his tale.

    Ah! suffering to the height of what was suffered,
  Stung with too keen a sympathy, the Maid
  Brooded with moving lips, mute, startful, dark!                    255
  And now her flushed tumultuous features shot
  Such strange vivacity, as fires the eye
  Of Misery fancy-crazed! and now once more
  Naked, and void, and fixed, and all within
  The unquiet silence of confuséd thought                            260
  And shapeless feelings. For a mighty hand
  Was strong upon her, till in the heat of soul
  To the high hill-top tracing back her steps,
  Aside the beacon, up whose smouldered stones
  The tender ivy-trails crept thinly, there,                         265
  Unconscious of the driving element,
  Yea, swallowed up in the ominous dream, she sate
  Ghastly as broad-eyed Slumber! a dim anguish
  Breathed from her look! and still with pant and sob,
  Inly she toiled to flee, and still subdued,                        270
  Felt an inevitable Presence near.

    Thus as she toiled in troublous ecstasy,
  A horror of great darkness wrapt her round,
  And a voice uttered forth unearthly tones,
  Calming her soul,--'O Thou of the Most High                        275
  Chosen, whom all the perfected in Heaven
  Behold expectant--'

[The following fragments were intended to form part of the poem when
finished.]

          [140:1]'Maid beloved of Heaven!
  (To her the tutelary Power exclaimed)
  Of Chaos the adventurous progeny                                   280
  Thou seest; foul missionaries of foul sire.
  Fierce to regain the losses of that hour
  When Love rose glittering, and his gorgeous wings
  Over the abyss fluttered with such glad noise,
  As what time after long and pestful calms,                         285
  With slimy shapes and miscreated life
  Poisoning the vast Pacific, the fresh breeze
  Wakens the merchant-sail uprising. Night
  An heavy unimaginable moan
  Sent forth, when she the Protoplast beheld                         290
  Stand beauteous on Confusion's charméd wave.
  Moaning she fled, and entered the Profound
  That leads with downward windings to the Cave
  Of Darkness palpable, Desert of Death
  Sunk deep beneath Gehenna's massy roots.                           295
  There many a dateless age the Beldame lurked
  And trembled; till engendered by fierce Hate,
  Fierce Hate and gloomy Hope, a Dream arose,
  Shaped like a black cloud marked with streaks of fire.
  It roused the Hell-Hag: she the dew-damp wiped                     300
  From off her brow, and through the uncouth maze
  Retraced her steps; but ere she reached the mouth
  Of that drear labyrinth, shuddering she paused,
  Nor dared re-enter the diminished Gulph.
  As through the dark vaults of some mouldered Tower                 305
  (Which, fearful to approach, the evening hind
  Circles at distance in his homeward way)
  The winds breathe hollow, deemed the plaining groan
  Of prisoned spirits; with such fearful voice
  Night murmured, and the sound through Chaos went.                  310
  Leaped at her call her hideous-fronted brood!
  A dark behest they heard, and rushed on earth;
  Since that sad hour, in Camps and Courts adored,
  Rebels from God, and Tyrants o'er Mankind!'

         *       *       *       *       *

              From his obscure haunt                                 315
  Shrieked Fear, of Cruelty the ghastly Dam,
  Feverous yet freezing, eager-paced yet slow,
  As she that creeps from forth her swampy reeds.
  Ague, the biform Hag! when early Spring
  Beams on the marsh-bred vapours.                                   320

        'Even so (the exulting Maiden said)
  The sainted Heralds of Good Tidings fell,
  And thus they witnessed God! But now the clouds
  Treading, and storms beneath their feet, they soar
  Higher, and higher soar, and soaring sing                          325
  Loud songs of triumph! O ye Spirits of God,
  Hover around my mortal agonies!'
  She spake, and instantly faint melody
  Melts on her ear, soothing and sad, and slow,
  Such measures, as at calmest midnight heard                        330
  By agéd Hermit in his holy dream,
  Foretell and solace death; and now they rise
  Louder, as when with harp and mingled voice
  The white-robed multitude of slaughtered saints
  At Heaven's wide-open'd portals gratulant                          335
  Receive some martyred patriot. The harmony[142:1]
  Entranced the Maid, till each suspended sense
  Brief slumber seized, and confused ecstasy.

    At length awakening slow, she gazed around:
  And through a mist, the relict of that trance                      340
  Still thinning as she gazed, an Isle appeared,
  Its high, o'er-hanging, white, broad-breasted cliffs,
  Glassed on the subject ocean. A vast plain
  Stretched opposite, where ever and anon
  The plough-man following sad his meagre team                       345
  Turned up fresh sculls unstartled, and the bones
  Of fierce hate-breathing combatants, who there
  All mingled lay beneath the common earth,
  Death's gloomy reconcilement! O'er the fields
  Stept a fair Form, repairing all she might,                        350
  Her temples olive-wreathed; and where she trod,
  Fresh flowerets rose, and many a foodful herb.
  But wan her cheek, her footsteps insecure,
  And anxious pleasure beamed in her faint eye,
  As she had newly left a couch of pain,                             355
  Pale Convalescent! (Yet some time to rule
  With power exclusive o'er the willing world,
  That blessed prophetic mandate then fulfilled--
  Peace be on Earth!) An happy while, but brief,
  She seemed to wander with assiduous feet,                          360
  And healed the recent harm of chill and blight,
  And nursed each plant that fair and virtuous grew.

    But soon a deep precursive sound moaned hollow:
  Black rose the clouds, and now, (as in a dream)
  Their reddening shapes, transformed to Warrior-hosts,              365
  Coursed o'er the sky, and battled in mid-air.
  Nor did not the large blood-drops fall from Heaven
  Portentous! while aloft were seen to float,
  Like hideous features looming on the mist,
  Wan stains of ominous light! Resigned, yet sad,                    370
  The fair Form bowed her olive-crownéd brow,
  Then o'er the plain with oft-reverted eye
  Fled till a place of Tombs she reached, and there
  Within a ruined Sepulchre obscure
  Found hiding-place.

                      The delegated Maid                             375
  Gazed through her tears, then in sad tones exclaimed;--
  Thou mild-eyed Form! wherefore, ah! wherefore fled?
  The Power of Justice like a name all light,
  Shone from thy brow; but all they, who unblamed
  Dwelt in thy dwellings, call thee Happiness.                       380
  Ah! why, uninjured and unprofited,
  Should multitudes against their brethren rush?
  Why sow they guilt, still reaping misery?
  Lenient of care, thy songs, O Peace! are sweet,[144:1]
  As after showers the perfumed gale of eve,                         385
  That flings the cool drops on a feverous cheek;
  And gay thy grassy altar piled with fruits.
  But boasts the shrine of Dæmon War one charm,[144:2]
  Save that with many an orgie strange and foul,[144:3]
  Dancing around with interwoven arms,                               390
  The Maniac Suicide and Giant Murder
  Exult in their fierce union! I am sad,
  And know not why the simple peasants crowd
  Beneath the Chieftains' standard!' Thus the Maid.

    To her the tutelary Spirit said:                                 395
  'When Luxury and Lust's exhausted stores
  No more can rouse the appetites of kings;
  When the low flattery of their reptile lords
  Falls flat and heavy on the accustomed ear;
  When eunuchs sing, and fools buffoonery make,                      400
  And dancers writhe their harlot-limbs in vain;
  Then War and all its dread vicissitudes
  Pleasingly agitate their stagnant hearts;
  Its hopes, its fears, its victories, its defeats,
  Insipid Royalty's keen condiment!                                  405
  _Therefore_, uninjured and unprofited
  (Victims at once and executioners),
  The congregated Husbandmen lay waste
  The vineyard and the harvest. As along
  The Bothnic coast, or southward of the Line,                       410
  Though hushed the winds and cloudless the high noon,
  Yet if Leviathan, weary of ease,
  In sports unwieldy toss his island-bulk,
  Ocean behind him billows, and before
  A storm of waves breaks foamy on the strand.                       415
  And hence, for times and seasons bloody and dark,
  Short Peace shall skin the wounds of causeless War,
  And War, his strainéd sinews knit anew,
  Still violate the unfinished works of Peace.
  But yonder look! for more demands thy view!'                       420
  He said: and straightway from the opposite Isle
  A vapour sailed, as when a cloud, exhaled
  From Egypt's fields that steam hot pestilence,
  Travels the sky for many a trackless league,
  Till o'er some death-doomed land, distant in vain,                 425
  It broods incumbent. Forthwith from the plain,
  Facing the Isle, a brighter cloud arose,
  And steered its course which way the vapour went.

    The Maiden paused, musing what this might mean.
  But long time passed not, ere that brighter cloud                  430
  Returned more bright; along the plain it swept;
  And soon from forth its bursting sides emerged
  A dazzling form, broad-bosomed, bold of eye,
  And wild her hair, save where with laurels bound.
  Not more majestic stood the healing God,[146:1]                    435
  When from his bow the arrow sped that slew
  Huge Python. Shriek'd Ambition's giant throng,
  And with them hissed the locust-fiends that crawled
  And glittered in Corruption's slimy track.
  Great was their wrath, for short they knew their reign;            440
  And such commotion made they, and uproar,
  As when the mad Tornado bellows through
  The guilty islands of the western main,
  What time departing from their native shores,[146:2]
  Eboe, or Koromantyn's plain of palms,                              445
  The infuriate spirits of the murdered make
  Fierce merriment, and vengeance ask of Heaven.
  Warmed with new influence, the unwholesome plain
  Sent up its foulest fogs to meet the morn:
  The Sun that rose on Freedom, rose in Blood!                       450

    'Maiden beloved, and Delegate of Heaven!
  (To her the tutelary Spirit said)
  Soon shall the Morning struggle into Day,
  The stormy Morning into cloudless Noon.
  Much hast thou seen, nor all canst understand--                    455
  But this be thy best omen--Save thy Country!'
  Thus saying, from the answering Maid he passed,
  And with him disappeared the heavenly Vision.

    'Glory to Thee, Father of Earth and Heaven!
  All-conscious Presence of the Universe!                            460
  Nature's vast ever-acting Energy![147:1]
  In will, in deed, Impulse of All to All!
  Whether thy Love with unrefracted ray
  Beam on the Prophet's purgéd eye, or if
  Diseasing realms the Enthusiast, wild of thought,                  465
  Scatter new frenzies on the infected throng,
  Thou both inspiring and predooming both,
  Fit instruments and best, of perfect end:
  Glory to Thee, Father of Earth and Heaven!'

         *       *       *       *       *

                        And first a landscape rose                   470
  More wild and waste and desolate than where
  The white bear, drifting on a field of ice,
  Howls to her sundered cubs with piteous rage
  And savage agony.

1796.


FOOTNOTES:

[131:1] First published, in its entirety, in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817:
included in 1828, 1829, and 1834. Two hundred and fifty-five lines were
included in Book II of _Joan of Arc, An Epic Poem_, by Robert Southey,
Bristol and London, 1796, 4{o}. The greater part of the remaining 212
lines were written in 1796, and formed part of an unpublished poem
entitled _The Progress of Liberty_ or _The Vision of the Maid of
Orleans_, or _Visions of the Maid of Orleans_, or _Visions of the Maid
of Arc_, or _The Vision of the Patriot Maiden_. (See letter to Poole,
Dec. 13, and letter to J. Thelwall, Dec. 17, 1796, _Letters of S. T.
C._, 1895, i. 192, 206. See, too, Cottle's _Early Recollections_, 1837,
i. 230; and, for Lamb's criticism of a first draft of the poem, his
letters to Coleridge, dated Jan. 5 and Feb. 12, 1797.) For a reprint of
_Joan of Arc_, Book the Second (Preternatural Agency), see Cottle's
_Early Recollections_, 1837, ii. 241-62.

The texts of 1828, 1829 (almost but not quite identical) vary slightly
from that of the _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, and, again, the text of 1834
varies from that of 1828 and 1829. These variants (on a proof-sheet of
the edition of 1828) are in Coleridge's own handwriting, and afford
convincing evidence that he did take some part in the preparation of the
text of his poems for the last edition issued in his own lifetime.

[133:1] Balda-Zhiok, i. e. mons altitudinis, the highest mountain in
Lapland.

[133:2] Solfar-kapper: capitium Solfar, hic locus omnium, quotquot
veterum Lapponum superstitio sacrificiisque religiosoque cultui
dedicavit, celebratissimus erat, in parte sinus australis situs,
semimilliaris spatio a mari distans. Ipse locus, quem curiositatis
gratia aliquando me invisisse memini, duabus praealtis lapidibus, sibi
invicem oppositis, quorum alter musco circumdatus erat, constabat.

[134:1] The Lapland women carry their infants at their backs in a piece
of excavated wood which serves them for a cradle: opposite to the
infant's mouth there is a hole for it to breathe through.

Mirandum prorsus est et vix credibile nisi cui vidisse contigit.
Lappones hyeme iter facientes per vastos montes, perque horrida et invia
tesqua, eo praesertim tempore quo omnia perpetuis nivibus obtecta sunt
et nives ventis agitantur et in gyros aguntur, viam ad destinata loca
absque errore invenire posse, lactantem autem infantem, si quem habeat,
ipsa mater in dorso baiulat, in excavato ligno (Gieed'k ipsi vocant)
quod pro cunis utuntur, in hoc infans pannis et pellibus convolutus
colligatus iacet.--LEEMIUS DE LAPPONIBUS.

[134:2] Jaibme Aibmo.

[135:1] They call the Good Spirit, Torngarsuck. The other great but
malignant spirit a nameless female; she dwells under the sea in a great
house where she can detain in captivity all the animals of the ocean by
her magic power. When a dearth befalls the Greenlanders, an Angekok or
magician must undertake a journey thither: he passes through the kingdom
of souls, over an horrible abyss into the palace of this phantom, and by
his enchantments causes the captive creatures to ascend directly to the
surface of the ocean. See Crantz, _History of Greenland_, vol. i. 206.

[140:1] These are very fine Lines, tho' I say it, that should not: but,
hang me, if I know or ever did know the meaning of them, tho' my own
composition. _MS. Note by S. T. C._

[142:1] Rev. vi. 9, 11: And when he had opened the fifth seal, I saw
under the altar the souls of them that were slain for the word of God
and for the Testimony which they held. And white robes were given unto
every one of them; and it was said unto them, that they should rest yet
for a little Season, until their fellow-servants also, and their
brethren that should be killed, as they were, should be fulfilled.

[144:1] A grievous defect here in the rhyme recalling assonance of
Pe͞ace, swe͞et ēve, che͞ek. Better thus:--

Sweet are thy Songs, O Peace! lenient of care.
                               _S. T. C._, _1828_.

[144:2] 388-93 Southeyan. To be omitted. _S. T. C._, _1828_.

[144:3] A vile line [_foul_ is underlined]. _S. T. C._, _1828_.

[146:1] The Apollo Belvedere.

[146:2] The Slaves in the West-India Islands consider Death as a
passport to their native country. The Sentiment is thus expressed in the
Introduction to a Greek Prize Ode on the Slave-Trade, of which the Ideas
are better than the Language or Metre, in which they are conveyed:--

  Ὠ σκότου πύλας, Θάνατε, προλείπων
  Ἐς γένος σπεύδοις ὑποζευχθὲν Ἄτᾳ[146:A];
  Οὐ ξενισθήσῃ γενύων σπαραγμοῖς
                  Οὐδ' ὀλολυγμῷ,

  Ἀλλὰ καὶ κύκλοισι χοροιτύποισι
  Κἀσμάτων χαρᾷ; φοβερὸς μὲν ἐσσί,
  Ἀλλ' ὁμῶς Ἐλευθερίᾳ συνοικεῖς,
                  Στυγνὲ Τύραννε!

  Δασκίοις ἐπὶ πτερύγεσσι σῇσι
  Ἆ! θαλάσσιον καθορῶντες οἶδμα
  Αἰθεροπλάγκτοις ὑπὸ πόσσ' ἀνεῖσι
                  Πατρίδ' ἐπ' αἶαν,

  Ἔνθα μὰν Ἐρασταὶ Ἐρωμένῃσιν
  Ἀμφὶ πηγῇσιν κιτρίνων ὑπ' ἀλσῶν,
  Ὅσσ' ὑπὸ βροτοῖς ἔπαθον βροτοί, τὰ
                  Δεινὰ λέγοντι.


LITERAL TRANSLATION.

Leaving the gates of Darkness, O Death! hasten thou to a Race yoked to
Misery! Thou wilt not be received with lacerations of Cheeks, nor with
funereal ululation, but with circling Dances and the joy of Songs. Thou
art terrible indeed, yet thou dwellest with LIBERTY, stern GENIUS! Borne
on thy dark pinions over the swelling of Ocean they return to their
native country. There by the side of fountains beneath Citron groves,
the Lovers tell to their Beloved, what horrors, being Men, they had
endured from Men.

     [146:A] ο before ζ ought to have been made long; δοῑς ὑπōζ is
     an Amphimacer not (as the metre here requires) a Dactyl. _S.
     T. C._

[147:1] Tho' these Lines may bear a sane sense, yet they are easily, and
more naturally interpreted with a very false and dangerous one. But I
was at that time one of the _Mongrels_, the Josephidites [Josephides =
the Son of Joseph], a proper name of distinction from those who believe
_in_, as well as believe Christ the only begotten Son of the Living God
before all Time. _MS. Note by S. T. C._


LINENOTES:

[1] No more of Usurpation's doom'd defeat 4{o}.

[5-6]

  Beneath whose shadowy banners wide unfurl'd
  Justice leads forth her tyrant-quelling hosts.

4{o}, Sibylline Leaves.

[5] THE WILL, THE WORD, THE BREATH, THE LIVING GOD 1828, 1829.

[6] _Added in_ 1834.

[9-12]

  The Harp which hanging high between the shields
  Of Brutus and Leonidas oft gives
  A fitful music to the breezy touch
  Of patriot spirits that demand their fame.

4{o}.

[12] Man's] Earth's Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829.

[15]

  But chiefly this with holiest habitude
  Of constant Faith, him First, him Last to view

4{o}.

[23-6]

  Things from their shadows. Know thyself my Soul!
  Confirm'd thy strength, thy pinions fledged for flight
  Bursting this shell and leaving next thy nest
  Soon upward soaring shalt thou fix intense
  Thine eaglet eye on Heaven's Eternal Sun!

4{o}.

  The substance from its shadow--Earth's broad shade
  Revealing by Eclipse, the Eternal Sun.

Sibylline Leaves.

[The text of lines 23-6 is given in the Errata p. [lxii].]

[37] om. 4{o}.

[40] seems] is 4{o}.

[44] Form one all-conscious Spirit, who directs 4{o}.

[46] om. 4{o}.

[47] involvéd] component 4{o}.

[54] lightnings] lightning 4{o}.

[70] Niemi] Niemi's 4{o}.

[90] deem] deemed 1829.

[96-7]

  Speeds from the mother of Death his destin'd way
  To snatch the murderer from his secret cell.

4{o}.

[Between lines 99-100]

  (Where live the innocent as far from cares
  As from the storms and overwhelming waves
  Dark tumbling on the surface of the deep).

4{o}, Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829.

These lines form part of an addition (lines 111-21) which dates from
1834.

[103] Where] There 4{o}, Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829.

[105] om. 4{o}.

[107] 'scaping] escaping 4{o}, Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829.

[108] fateful word] fatal sound 4{o}.

[112-21] thence thro' . . . Untenanted are not included in 4{o},
Sibylline Leaves, 1828, or 1829. For lines 113-15 vide _ante_, variant
of line 99 of the text.

[112] Ocean] Ocean's 1828, 1829.

[130 foll.]

  To rear some realm with patient discipline,
  Aye bidding PAIN, dark ERROR'S uncouth child,
  Blameless Parenticide! his snakey scourge                          125
  Lift fierce against his Mother! Thus they make
  Of transient Evil ever-during Good
  Themselves probationary, and denied
  Confess'd to view by preternatural deed
  To o'erwhelm the will, save on some fated day                      130
  Headstrong, or with petition'd might from God.
  And such perhaps the guardian Power whose ken
  Still dwelt on France. He from the invisible World
  Burst on the MAIDEN'S eye, impregning Air
  With Voices and strange Shapes, illusions apt                      135
  Shadowy of Truth. [And first a landscape rose
  More wild and waste and desolate, than where
  The white bear drifting on a field of ice
  Howls to her sunder'd cubs with piteous rage
  And savage agony.] Mid the drear scene                             140
  A craggy mass uprear'd its misty brow,
  Untouch'd by breath of Spring, unwont to know
  Red Summer's influence, or the chearful face
  Of Autumn; yet its fragments many and huge
  Astounded ocean with the dreadful dance                            145
  Of whirlpools numberless, absorbing oft
  The blameless fisher at his perilous toil.

4{o}.

_Note_--Lines 148-223 of the Second Book of _Joan of Arc_ are by
Southey. Coleridge's unpublished poem of 1796 (_The Visions of the Maid
of Orleans_) begins at line 127 of the text, ending at line 277. The
remaining portion of the _Destiny of Nations_ is taken from lines
contributed to the Second Book. Lines 136-40 of variant 130 foll. form
the concluding fragment of the _Destiny of Nations_. Lines 141-3 of the
variant are by Southey. (See his Preface to _Joan of Arc_, 1796, p. vi.)
The remaining lines of the variant were never reprinted.

[132] human] mortal Sibylline Leaves (correction made in Errata, p.
[xii]).

[171] an] a 1834.

[201] now] new Sibylline Leaves, 1828.

[289] An] A 1834.

[300] dew-damp] dew-damps 4{o}.

[314] Tyrants] Monarchs 4{o}, Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829.

Between lines 314 and 315 of the text, the text of the original version
(after line 259 of _Joan of Arc_, Book II) continues:--

  'These are the fiends that o'er thy native land                    260
  Spread Guilt and Horror. Maid belov'd of Heaven!
  Dar'st thou inspir'd by the holy flame of Love
  Encounter such fell shapes, nor fear to meet
  Their wrath, their wiles? O Maiden dar'st thou die?'
  'Father of Heaven: I will not fear.' she said,                     265
  'My arm is weak, but mighty is thy sword.'

  She spake and as she spake the trump was heard
  That echoed ominous o'er the streets of Rome,
  When the first Caesar totter'd o'er the grave
  By Freedom delv'd: the Trump, whose chilling blast                 270
  On Marathon and on Plataea's plain
  Scatter'd the Persian.--From his obscure haunt, &c.

[Lines 267-72, She spake . . . the Persian, are claimed by Southey.]

[316] Shriek'd Fear the ghastliest of Ambition's throng 4{o}.

[317] Feverous] Fev'rish 4{o}, Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829.

Between lines 320 and 321 of the text, the text of _Joan of Arc_, Book
II, continues:--

                               'Lo she goes!
  To Orleans lo! she goes--the mission'd Maid!
  The Victor Hosts wither beneath her arm!
  And what are Crecy, Poictiers, Azincour                            280
  But noisy echoes in the ear of Pride?'
  Ambition heard and startled on his throne;
  But strait a smile of savage joy illum'd
  His grisly features, like the sheety Burst
  Of Lightning o'er the awaken'd midnight clouds                     285
  Wide flash'd. [For lo! a flaming pile reflects
  Its red light fierce and gloomy on the face
  Of SUPERSTITION and her goblin Son
  Loud-laughing CRUELTY, who to the stake
  A female fix'd, of bold and beauteous mien,                        290
  Her snow-white Limbs by iron fetters bruis'd
  Her breast expos'd.] JOAN saw, she saw and knew
  Her perfect image. Nature thro' her frame
  One pang shot shiv'ring; but, that frail pang soon
  Dismiss'd, 'Even so, &c.

4{o}.

[The passage included in brackets was claimed by Southey.]

[330] calmest] calmy 4{o}.

[339-40]

  But lo! no more was seen the ice-pil'd mount
  And meteor-lighted dome.--An Isle appear'd

4{o}.

[342] white] rough 4{o}.

[361] and] or 4{o}.

[366-7]

  The Sea meantime his Billows darkest roll'd,
  And each stain'd wave dash'd on the shore a corse.

4{o}.

[369-72]

  His hideous features blended with the mist,
  The long black locks of SLAUGHTER. PEACE beheld
  And o'er the plain

4{o}.

[369] Like hideous features blended with the clouds Sibylline Leaves,
1817. (_Errata_: for '_blended_', &c., read '_looming on the mist_'. S.
L., p. [xii].)

[378-9]

  The name of JUSTICE written on thy brow
  Resplendent shone

4{o}, S. L. 1817.

(The reading of the text is given as an emendation in the _Errata_,
Sibylline Leaves, 1817, p. [xii].)

[386] That plays around the sick man's throbbing temples 4{o}.

[394] Chieftains'] Chieftain's 4{o}.

[395] said] replied 4{o}, S. L., 1828.

Between lines 421 and 423 of the text, the text of _Joan of Arc_, Book
II, inserts:--

  A Vapor rose, pierc'd by the MAIDEN'S eye.
  Guiding its course OPPRESSION sate within,[145:A]
  With terror pale and rage, yet laugh'd at times
  Musing on Vengeance: trembled in his hand
  A Sceptre fiercely-grasp'd. O'er Ocean westward
  The Vapor sail'd

4{o}.

     [145:A] These images imageless, these _Small-Capitals_
     constituting themselves Personifications, I despised even at
     that time; but was forced to introduce them, to preserve the
     connection with the machinery of the Poem, previously adopted
     by Southey. _S. T. C._

After 429 of the text, the text of _Joan of Arc_ inserts:--

  ENVY sate guiding--ENVY, hag-abhorr'd!
  Like JUSTICE mask'd, and doom'd to aid the fight                   410
  Victorious 'gainst oppression. Hush'd awhile

4{o}.

[These lines were assigned by Coleridge to Southey.]

[434] with] by 4{o}.

[437-8]

               Shriek'd AMBITION'S ghastly throng
  And with them those the locust Fiends that crawl'd[146:A]

4{o}.

     [146:A] --if Locusts how could they _shriek_? I must have
     caught the contagion of _unthinkingness_. _S. T. C._ _4{o}_.

[458] heavenly] goodly 4{o}.

[463] Love] Law 4{o}.

For lines 470-74 vide _ante_ var. of lines 130 foll.




VER PERPETUUM[148:1]

FRAGMENT

From an unpublished poem.


  The early Year's fast-flying vapours stray
  In shadowing trains across the orb of day:
  And we, poor Insects of a few short hours,
      Deem it a world of Gloom.
  Were it not better hope a nobler doom,                               5
  Proud to believe that with more active powers
      On rapid many- wing
      We thro' one bright perpetual Spring
  Shall hover round the fruits and flowers,
  Screen'd by those clouds and cherish'd by those showers!            10

1796.


FOOTNOTES:

[148:1] First published without title ('_From an unpublished poem_') in
_The Watchman_, No. iv, March 25, 1796, and reprinted in _Literary
Remains_, 1836, i. 44, with an extract from the Essay in the _Watchman_
in which it was included:--'In my calmer moments I have the firmest
faith that all things work together for good. But alas! it seems a long
and dark process.' First collected with extract only in Appendix to
1863. First entitled 'Fragment from an Unpublished Poem' in 1893, and
'Ver Perpetuum' in 1907.




ON OBSERVING A BLOSSOM ON THE FIRST OF FEBRUARY 1796[148:2]


  Sweet flower! that peeping from thy russet stem
  Unfoldest timidly, (for in strange sort
  This dark, frieze-coated, hoarse, teeth-chattering month
  Hath borrow'd Zephyr's voice, and gazed upon thee
  With blue voluptuous eye) alas, poor Flower!                         5
  These are but flatteries of the faithless year.
  Perchance, escaped its unknown polar cave,
  Even now the keen North-East is on its way.
  Flower that must perish! shall I liken thee
  To some sweet girl of too too rapid growth                          10
  Nipp'd by consumption mid untimely charms?
  Or to Bristowa's bard,[149:1] the wondrous boy!
  An amaranth, which earth scarce seem'd to own,
  Till disappointment came, and pelting wrong
  Beat it to earth? or with indignant grief                           15
  Shall I compare thee to poor Poland's hope,
  Bright flower of hope killed in the opening bud?
  Farewell, sweet blossom! better fate be thine
  And mock my boding! Dim similitudes
  Weaving in moral strains, I've stolen one hour                      20
  From anxious Self, Life's cruel taskmaster!
  And the warm wooings of this sunny day
  Tremble along my frame and harmonize
  The attempered organ, that even saddest thoughts
  Mix with some sweet sensations, like harsh tunes                    25
  Played deftly on a soft-toned instrument.

1796.


FOOTNOTES:

[148:2] First published in _The Watchman_, No. vi, April 11, 1796:
included in 1797, 1803, _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[149:1] Chatterton.


LINENOTES:

Title] Lines on observing, &c., Written near Sheffield, Watchman, 1797,
1803.

[5] With 'blue voluptuous eye' 1803.

[Between 13 and 14] Blooming mid Poverty's drear wintry waste Watchman,
1797, 1803, S. L., 1817, 1828.

[16] hope] hopes, Watchman.

[21]

  From black anxiety that gnaws my heart.
  For her who droops far off on a sick bed.

Watchman, 1797, 1803.

[24] Th' attempered brain, that ev'n the saddest thoughts Watchman,
1797, 1803.




TO A PRIMROSE[149:2]

THE FIRST SEEN IN THE SEASON

                             Nitens et roboris expers
  Turget et insolida est: et spe delectat.
                         OVID, _Metam._ [xv. 203].


  Thy smiles I note, sweet early Flower,
  That peeping from thy rustic bower
  The festive news to earth dost bring,
  A fragrant messenger of Spring.

  But, tender blossom, why so pale?                                    5
  Dost hear stern Winter in the gale?
  And didst thou tempt the ungentle sky
  To catch one vernal glance and die?

  Such the wan lustre Sickness wears
  When Health's first feeble beam appears;                            10
  So languid are the smiles that seek
  To settle on the care-worn cheek,

  When timorous Hope the head uprears,
  Still drooping and still moist with tears,
  If, through dispersing grief, be seen                               15
  Of Bliss the heavenly spark serene.

  And sweeter far the early blow,
  Fast following after storms of Woe,
  Than (Comfort's riper season come)
  Are full-blown joys and Pleasure's gaudy bloom.                     20

1796.


FOOTNOTES:

[149:2] First published in _The Watchman_, No. viii, April 27, 1796:
reprinted in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 47. First collected in
Appendix to 1863.


LINENOTES:

_To a Primrose._--Motto: et] at L. R., App. 1863.

[17-20] om. L. R., App. 1863




VERSES[150:1]

ADDRESSED TO J. HORNE TOOKE AND THE COMPANY WHO MET ON JUNE 28TH, 1796,
TO CELEBRATE HIS POLL AT THE WESTMINSTER ELECTION


  Britons! when last ye met, with distant streak
  So faintly promis'd the pale Dawn to break:
  So dim it stain'd the precincts of the Sky
  E'en _Expectation_ gaz'd with doubtful Eye.
  But now such fair Varieties of Light                                 5
  O'ertake the heavy sailing Clouds of Night;
  Th' Horizon kindles with so rich a red,
  That tho' the _Sun still hides_ his glorious head
  Th' impatient Matin-bird, _assur'd of Day_,
  Leaves his low nest to meet its earliest ray;                       10
  Loud the sweet song of Gratulation sings,
  And high in air claps his rejoicing wings!
  Patriot and Sage! whose breeze-like Spirit first
  The lazy mists of Pedantry dispers'd
  (Mists in which Superstition's _pigmy_ band                         15
  Seem'd Giant Forms, the Genii of the Land!),
  Thy struggles soon shall wak'ning Britain bless,
  And Truth and Freedom hail thy wish'd success.
  Yes _Tooke!_ tho' foul Corruption's wolfish throng
  Outmalice Calumny's imposthum'd Tongue,                             20
  Thy Country's noblest and _determin'd_ Choice,
  Soon shalt thou thrill the Senate with thy voice;
  With gradual Dawn bid Error's phantoms flit,
  Or wither with the lightning's flash of Wit;
  Or with sublimer mien and tones more deep,                          25
  Charm sworded Justice from mysterious Sleep,
  'By violated Freedom's loud Lament,
  Her Lamps extinguish'd and her Temple rent;
  By the forc'd tears her captive Martyrs shed;
  By each pale Orphan's feeble cry for bread;                         30
  By ravag'd Belgium's corse-impeded Flood,
  And Vendee steaming still with brothers' blood!'
  And if amid the strong impassion'd Tale,
  Thy Tongue should falter and thy Lips turn pale;
  If transient Darkness film thy aweful Eye,                          35
  And thy tir'd Bosom struggle with a sigh:
  Science and Freedom shall demand to hear
  Who practis'd on a Life so doubly dear;
  Infus'd the unwholesome anguish drop by drop,
  Pois'ning the sacred stream they could not stop!                    40
  Shall bid thee with recover'd strength relate
  How dark and deadly is a Coward's Hate:
  What seeds of death by wan Confinement sown,
  When Prison-echoes mock'd Disease's groan!
  Shall bid th' indignant Father flash dismay,                        45
  And drag the unnatural Villain into Day
  Who[151:1] to the sports of his flesh'd Ruffians left
  Two lovely Mourners of their Sire bereft!
  'Twas wrong, like this, which Rome's _first Consul_ bore,
  So by th' insulted Female's name _he_ swore                         50
  Ruin (and rais'd her reeking dagger high)
  Not to the _Tyrants_ but the Tyranny!

1796.


FOOTNOTES:

[150:1] First printed in the _Transactions_ of the Philobiblon Society.
First published in _P. W._, 1893. The verses (without the title) were
sent by Coleridge in a letter to the Rev. J. P. Estlin, dated July 4,
[1796].

[151:1] 'Dundas left thief-takers in Horne Tooke's House for three days,
with his two Daughters _alone_: for Horne Tooke keeps no servant.' _S.
T. C. to Estlin._


LINENOTES:

[31, 32] These lines are borrowed from the first edition (4{o}) of the
_Ode to the Departing Year_.]




ON A LATE CONNUBIAL RUPTURE IN HIGH LIFE[152:1]

[PRINCE AND PRINCESS OF WALES]


  I sigh, fair injur'd stranger! for thy fate;
    But what shall sighs avail thee? thy poor heart,
  'Mid all the 'pomp and circumstance' of state,
    Shivers in nakedness. Unbidden, start

  Sad recollections of Hope's garish dream,                            5
    That shaped a seraph form, and named it Love,
  Its hues gay-varying, as the orient beam
    Varies the neck of Cytherea's dove.

  To one soft accent of domestic joy
    Poor are the shouts that shake the high-arch'd dome;              10
  Those plaudits that thy _public_ path annoy,
    Alas! they tell thee--Thou'rt a wretch _at home_!

  O then retire, and weep! _Their very woes
    Solace the guiltless._ Drop the pearly flood
  On thy sweet infant, as the full-blown rose,                        15
    Surcharg'd with dew, bends o'er its neighbouring bud.

  And ah! that Truth some holy spell might lend
    To lure thy Wanderer from the Syren's power;
  Then bid your souls inseparably blend
    Like two bright dew-drops meeting in a flower.                    20

1796.


FOOTNOTES:

[152:1] First published in the _Monthly Magazine_, September 1796, vol.
ii, pp. 64-7, reprinted in _Felix Farley's Bristol Journal_, Saturday,
Oct. 8, 1796, and in the _Poetical Register_, 1806-7 [1811, vol. vi, p.
365]. First collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877, i. 187. The lines were
sent in a letter to Estlin, dated July 4, 1796.


LINENOTES:

Title] To an Unfortunate Princess MS. Letter, July 4, 1796.

[17] might] could MS. Letter, 1796.

[18] thy] the Felix Farley's, &c.

[20] meeting] bosomed MS. Letter, 1796.




SONNET[152:2]

ON RECEIVING A LETTER INFORMING ME OF THE BIRTH OF A SON


  When they did greet me father, sudden awe
    Weigh'd down my spirit: I retired and knelt
    Seeking the throne of grace, but inly felt
  No heavenly visitation upwards draw
  My feeble mind, nor cheering ray impart.                             5
    Ah me! before the Eternal Sire I brought
    Th' unquiet silence of confuséd thought
  And shapeless feelings: my o'erwhelméd heart
  Trembled, and vacant tears stream'd down my face.
  And now once more, O Lord! to thee I bend,                          10
    Lover of souls! and groan for future grace,
  That ere my babe youth's perilous maze have trod,
    Thy overshadowing Spirit may descend,
    And he be born again, a child of God.

_Sept._ 20, 1796.


FOOTNOTES:

[152:2] First published in the 'Biographical Supplement' to the
_Biographia Literaria_, 1847, ii. 379. First collected in _P. and D.
W._, 1877-80. This and the two succeeding sonnets were enclosed in a
letter to Poole, dated November 1, 1796. A note was affixed to the
sonnet 'On Receiving', &c.: 'This sonnet puts in no claim to poetry
(indeed as a composition I think so little of them that I neglected to
repeat them to you) but it is a most faithful picture of my feelings on
a very interesting event. When I was with you they were, indeed,
excepting the first, in a rude and undrest shape.'


LINENOTES:

Title] Sonnet written on receiving letter informing me of the birth of a
son, I being at Birmingham MS. Letter, Nov. 1, 1796.

[8] shapeless] hopeless B. L.




SONNET[153:1]

COMPOSED ON A JOURNEY HOMEWARD; THE AUTHOR HAVING RECEIVED INTELLIGENCE
OF THE BIRTH OF A SON, SEPT. 20, 1796


  Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll
    Which makes the present (while the flash doth last)
    Seem a mere semblance of some unknown past,
  Mixed with such feelings, as perplex the soul
  Self-questioned in her sleep; and some have said[153:2]              5
    We liv'd, ere yet this robe of flesh we wore.[154:1]
    O my sweet baby! when I reach my door,
  If heavy looks should tell me thou art dead,
  (As sometimes, through excess of hope, I fear)
  I think that I should struggle to believe                           10
    Thou wert a spirit, to this nether sphere
  Sentenc'd for some more venial crime to grieve;
  Did'st scream, then spring to meet Heaven's quick reprieve,
    While we wept idly o'er thy little bier!

1796.


FOOTNOTES:

[153:1] First published in 1797: included in 1803, _Sibylline Leaves_,
1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[153:2] Ἦν που ἡμῶν ἡ ψυχὴ πρὶν ἐν τῷδε τῷ ἀνθρωπίνῳ εἴδει γενέσθαι. Plat.
_Phaedon_. Cap. xviii. 72 e.

[154:1] Almost all the followers of Fénelon believe that men are
degraded Intelligences who had all once existed together in a
paradisiacal or perhaps heavenly state. The first four lines express a
feeling which I have often had--the present has appeared like a vivid
dream or exact similitude of some past circumstances. _MS. Letter to
Poole_, Nov. 1, 1796.


LINENOTES:

Title] Sonnet composed on my journey home from Birmingham MS. Letter,
1796: Sonnet ix. To a Friend, &c. 1797: Sonnet xvii. To a Friend, &c.
1803.

[1-11]

  Oft of some unknown Past such Fancies roll
  Swift o'er my brain as make the Present seem
  For a brief moment like a most strange dream
  When not unconscious that she dreamt, the soul
  Questions herself in sleep! and some have said
  We lived ere yet this fleshly robe we wore.

MS. Letter, 1796.

[6] robe of flesh] fleshy robe 1797, 1803.

[8] art] wert MS. Letter, 1796, 1797, 1803.




SONNET[154:2]

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 scann'd 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,                               5
    And hanging at her bosom (she the while
    Bent o'er its features with a tearful smile)
  Then I was thrill'd and melted, and most warm
  Impress'd a father's kiss: and all beguil'd
    Of dark remembrance and presageful fear,                          10
    I seem'd to see an angel-form appear--
  'Twas even thine, belovéd woman mild!
    So for the mother's sake the child was dear,
  And dearer was the mother for the child.

1796.


FOOTNOTES:

[154:2] First published in 1797: included in 1803, _Sibylline Leaves_,
1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The 'Friend' was, probably, Charles Lloyd.


LINENOTES:

Title] To a Friend who wished to know, &c. MS. Letter, Nov. 1, 1796:
Sonnet x. To a Friend 1797: Sonnet xix. To a Friend, &c. 1803.

[4] child] babe MS. Letter, 1796, 1797, 1803.

[5] saw] watch'd MS. Letter, 1796.

[11] angel-form] Angel's form MS. Letter, 1796, 1797, 1803.

[13] Comforts on his late eve, whose youthful friend. MS. correction by
S. T. C. in copy of _Nugae Canorae_ in the British Museum.




SONNET[155:1]

[TO CHARLES LLOYD]


  The piteous sobs that choke the Virgin's breath
    For him, the fair betrothéd Youth, who lies
    Cold in the narrow dwelling, or the cries
  With which a Mother wails her darling's death,
  These from our nature's common impulse spring,                       5
    Unblam'd, unprais'd; but o'er the piléd earth
    Which hides the sheeted corse of grey-hair'd Worth,
  If droops the soaring Youth with slacken'd wing;
  If he recall in saddest minstrelsy
    Each tenderness bestow'd, each truth imprest,                     10
  Such grief is Reason, Virtue, Piety!
  And from the Almighty Father shall descend
    Comforts on his late evening, whose young breast
  Mourns with no transient love the Agéd Friend.

1796.


FOOTNOTES:

[155:1] First published in _Poems on the Death of Priscilla Farmer_. By
her Grandson, 1796, folio. It prefaced the same set of Lloyd's Sonnets
included in the second edition of _Poems_ by S. T. Coleridge, 1797. It
was included in C. Lloyd's _Nugae Canorae_, 1819. First collected in _P.
and D. W._, 1877-80.




TO A YOUNG FRIEND[155:2]

ON HIS PROPOSING TO DOMESTICATE WITH THE AUTHOR

_Composed in_ 1796


  A mount, not wearisome and bare and steep,
    But a green mountain variously up-piled,
  Where o'er the jutting rocks soft mosses creep,
  Or colour'd lichens with slow oozing weep;
    Where cypress and the darker yew start wild;                       5
  And, 'mid the summer torrent's gentle dash
  Dance brighten'd the red clusters of the ash;
    Beneath whose boughs, by those still sounds beguil'd,
  Calm Pensiveness might muse herself to sleep;
    Till haply startled by some fleecy dam,                           10
  That rustling on the bushy cliff above
  With melancholy bleat of anxious love,
    Made meek enquiry for her wandering lamb:
    Such a green mountain 'twere most sweet to climb,
  E'en while the bosom ach'd with loneliness--                        15
  How more than sweet, if some dear friend should bless
    The adventurous toil, and up the path sublime
  Now lead, now follow: the glad landscape round,
  Wide and more wide, increasing without bound!

    O then 'twere loveliest sympathy, to mark                         20
  The berries of the half-uprooted ash
  Dripping and bright; and list the torrent's dash,--
    Beneath the cypress, or the yew more dark,
  Seated at ease, on some smooth mossy rock;
  In social silence now, and now to unlock                            25
  The treasur'd heart; arm linked in friendly arm,
  Save if the one, his muse's witching charm
  Muttering brow-bent, at unwatch'd distance lag;
    Till high o'er head his beckoning friend appears,
  And from the forehead of the topmost crag                           30
    Shouts eagerly: for haply _there_ uprears
  That shadowing Pine its old romantic limbs,
    Which latest shall detain the enamour'd sight
  Seen from below, when eve the valley dims,
    Tinged yellow with the rich departing light;                      35
    And haply, bason'd in some unsunn'd cleft,
  A beauteous spring, the rock's collected tears,
  Sleeps shelter'd there, scarce wrinkled by the gale!
    Together thus, the world's vain turmoil left,
  Stretch'd on the crag, and shadow'd by the pine,                    40
    And bending o'er the clear delicious fount,
  Ah! dearest youth! it were a lot divine
  To cheat our noons in moralising mood,
  While west-winds fann'd our temples toil-bedew'd:
    Then downwards <DW72>, oft pausing, from the mount,                45
  To some lone mansion, in some woody dale,
  Where smiling with blue eye, Domestic Bliss
  Gives _this_ the Husband's, _that_ the Brother's kiss!

    Thus rudely vers'd in allegoric lore,
  The Hill of Knowledge I essayed to trace;                           50
  That verdurous hill with many a resting-place,
  And many a stream, whose warbling waters pour
    To glad, and fertilise the subject plains;
  That hill with secret springs, and nooks untrod,
  And many a fancy-blest and holy sod                                 55
    Where Inspiration, his diviner strains
  Low-murmuring, lay; and starting from the rock's
  Stiff evergreens, (whose spreading foliage mocks
  Want's barren soil, and the bleak frosts of age,
  And Bigotry's mad fire-invoking rage!)                              60
  O meek retiring spirit! we will climb,
  Cheering and cheered, this lovely hill sublime;
    And from the stirring world up-lifted high
  (Whose noises, faintly wafted on the wind,
  To quiet musings shall attune the mind,                             65
    And oft the melancholy _theme_ supply),
    There, while the prospect through the gazing eye
    Pours all its healthful greenness on the soul,
  We'll smile at wealth, and learn to smile at fame,
  Our hopes, our knowledge, and our joys the same,                    70
    As neighbouring fountains image each the whole:
  Then when the mind hath drunk its fill of truth
    We'll discipline the heart to pure delight,
  Rekindling sober joy's domestic flame.
  They whom I love shall love thee, honour'd youth!                   75
    Now may Heaven realise this vision bright!

1796.


FOOTNOTES:

[155:2] First published in 1797: included in 1803, _Sibylline Leaves_,
1817, 1828, and 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] To C. Lloyd on his proposing to domesticate, &c. 1797: To a
Friend, &c. 1803. 'Composed in 1796' was added in S. L.

[8] those still] stilly 1797: stillest 1803.

[11] cliff] clift S. L., 1828, 1829.

[16] How heavenly sweet 1797, 1803.

[42] youth] Lloyd 1797: Charles 1803.

[46] lone] low 1797, 1803.

[60] And mad oppression's thunder-clasping rage 1797, 1803.

[69] We'll laugh at wealth, and learn to laugh at fame 1797, 1803.

[71] In 1803 the poem ended with line 71. In the Sibylline Leaves, 1829,
the last five lines were replaced.

[72] hath drunk] has drank 1797: hath drank S. L., 1828, 1829.

[75] She whom I love, shall love thee. Honour'd youth 1797, S. L., 1817,
1828, 1829. The change of punctuation dates from 1834.




ADDRESSED TO A YOUNG MAN OF FORTUNE[157:1]

[C. LLOYD]

WHO ABANDONED HIMSELF TO AN INDOLENT AND CAUSELESS MELANCHOLY


  Hence that fantastic wantonness of woe,
    O Youth to partial Fortune vainly dear!
  To plunder'd Want's half-shelter'd hovel go,
    Go, and some hunger-bitten infant hear
    Moan haply in a dying mother's ear:                                5
  Or when the cold and dismal fog-damps brood
  O'er the rank church-yard with sear elm-leaves strew'd,
  Pace round some widow's grave, whose dearer part
    Was slaughter'd, where o'er his uncoffin'd limbs
  The flocking flesh-birds scream'd! Then, while thy heart            10
    Groans, and thine eye a fiercer sorrow dims,
  Know (and the truth shall kindle thy young mind)
  What Nature makes thee mourn, she bids thee heal!
    O abject! if, to sickly dreams resign'd,
  All effortless thou leave Life's commonweal                         15
    A prey to Tyrants, Murderers of Mankind.

1796.


FOOTNOTES:

[157:1] First published in the _Cambridge Intelligencer_, December 17,
1796: included in the Quarto Edition of the _Ode on the Departing Year_,
1796, in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The lines were sent
in a letter to John Thelwall, dated December 17, 1796 (_Letters of S. T.
C._, 1895, i. 207, 208).


LINENOTES:

Title] Lines, &c., C. I.: To a Young Man who abandoned himself to a
causeless and indolent melancholy MS. Letter, 1796.

[6-7] These lines were omitted in the MS. Letter and 4{o} 1796, but were
replaced in Sibylline Leaves, 1817.

[8] Or seek some widow's MS. Letter, Dec. 17, 1796.

[11] eye] eyes MS. Letter, Dec. 9, 1796, C. I.

[15-16]

            earth's common weal
  A prey to the thron'd Murderess of Mankind.

MS. Letter, 1796.

  All effortless thou leave Earth's commonweal
  A prey to the thron'd Murderers of Mankind.

C. I., 1796, 4{o}.




TO A FRIEND[158:1]

[CHARLES LAMB]

WHO HAD DECLARED HIS INTENTION OF WRITING NO MORE POETRY


  Dear Charles! whilst yet thou wert a babe, I ween
  That Genius plung'd thee in that wizard fount
  Hight Castalie: and (sureties of thy faith)
  That Pity and Simplicity stood by,
  And promis'd for thee, that thou shouldst renounce                   5
  The world's low cares and lying vanities,
  Steadfast and rooted in the heavenly Muse,
  And wash'd and sanctified to Poesy.
  Yes--thou wert plung'd, but with forgetful hand
  Held, as by Thetis erst her warrior son:                            10
  And with those recreant unbaptizéd heels
  Thou'rt flying from thy bounden ministeries--
  So sore it seems and burthensome a task
  To weave unwithering flowers! But take thou heed:
  For thou art vulnerable, wild-eyed boy,                             15
  And I have arrows[159:1] mystically dipped
  Such as may stop thy speed. Is thy Burns dead?
  And shall he die unwept, and sink to earth
  'Without the meed of one melodious tear'?
  Thy Burns, and Nature's own beloved bard,                           20
  Who to the 'Illustrious[159:2] of his native Land
  So properly did look for patronage.'
  Ghost of Mæcenas! hide thy blushing face!
  They snatch'd him from the sickle and the plough--
  To gauge ale-firkins.

                        Oh! for shame return!                         25
  On a bleak rock, midway the Aonian mount,
  There stands a lone and melancholy tree,
  Whose agéd branches to the midnight blast
  Make solemn music: pluck its darkest bough,
  Ere yet the unwholesome night-dew be exhaled,                       30
  And weeping wreath it round thy Poet's tomb.
  Then in the outskirts, where pollutions grow,
  Pick the rank henbane and the dusky flowers
  Of night-shade, or its red and tempting fruit,
  These with stopped nostril and glove-guarded hand                   35
  Knit in nice intertexture, so to twine,
  The illustrious brow of Scotch Nobility!

1796.


FOOTNOTES:

[158:1] First published in a Bristol newspaper in aid of a subscription
for the family of Robert Burns (the cutting is bound up with the copy of
_Selection of Sonnets_ (_S. S._) in the Forster Library in the Victoria
and Albert Museum): reprinted in the _Annual Anthology_, 1800: included
in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[159:1]

  [Πολλά μοι ὑπ' ἀγκῶνος ὠκέα βέλη
  Ἔνδον ἐντὶ φαρέτρας
  Φωνᾶντα συνετοῖσιν.]
     Pind. _Olymp._ ii. 149, κ. τ. λ.

[159:2] Verbatim from Burns's Dedication of his Poems to the Nobility
and Gentry of the Caledonian Hunt.


LINENOTES:

[1] whilst] while An. Anth.

[3] of] for S. S., An. Anth.

[25] gauge] guard S. L., 1817 (For 'guard' read 'guage'. _Errata_, p.
[xii]).

[33] stinking hensbane S. S., An. Anth.: hensbane S. L., 1817.

[35] Those with stopped nostrils MS. correction in printed slip of the
newspaper. See P. and D. W., 1877, ii. 379.

[After 37] E S T E E S I 1796, An. Anth.




ODE TO THE DEPARTING YEAR[160:1]

                       Ἰοὺ ἰού, ὢ ὢ κακά.
  Ὑπ' αὖ με δεινὸς ὀρθομαντείας πόνος
  Στροβεῖ, ταράσσων φροιμίοις δυσφροιμίοις.

         *       *       *       *       *

  Τὸ μέλλον ἥξει. Καὶ σύ μ' τάχει παρὼν
  Ἄγαν ἀληθόμαντιν οἰκτείρας ἐρεῖς.
              Aeschyl. _Agam._ 1173-75; 1199-1200.


ARGUMENT

The Ode[160:2] commences with an address to the Divine Providence that
regulates into one vast harmony all the events of time, however
calamitous some of them may appear to mortals. The second Strophe calls
on men to suspend their private joys and sorrows, and devote them for a
while to the cause of human nature in general. The first Epode speaks of
the Empress of Russia, who died of an apoplexy on the 17th of November
1796; having just concluded a subsidiary treaty with the Kings combined
against France. The first and second Antistrophe describe the Image of
the Departing Year, etc., as in a vision. The second Epode prophesies,
in anguish of spirit, the downfall of this country.


  I

  Spirit who sweepest the wild Harp of Time!
    It is most hard, with an untroubled ear
    Thy dark inwoven harmonies to hear!
  Yet, mine eye fix'd on Heaven's unchanging clime
  Long had I listen'd, free from mortal fear,                          5
    With inward stillness, and a bowéd mind;
    When lo! its folds far waving on the wind,
  I saw the train of the Departing Year!
    Starting from my silent sadness
    Then with no unholy madness,                                      10
  Ere yet the enter'd cloud foreclos'd my sight,
  I rais'd the impetuous song, and solemnis'd his flight.

  II[161:1]

        Hither, from the recent tomb,
        From the prison's direr gloom,
      From Distemper's midnight anguish;                              15
  And thence, where Poverty doth waste and languish;
      Or where, his two bright torches blending,
        Love illumines Manhood's maze;
      Or where o'er cradled infants bending,
        Hope has fix'd her wishful gaze;                              20
        Hither, in perplexéd dance,
      Ye Woes! ye young-eyed Joys! advance!
      By Time's wild harp, and by the hand
        Whose indefatigable sweep
        Raises its fateful strings from sleep,                        25
      I bid you haste, a mix'd tumultuous band!
        From every private bower,
          And each domestic hearth,
        Haste for one solemn hour;
      And with a loud and yet a louder voice,                         30
  O'er Nature struggling in portentous birth,
          Weep and rejoice!
  Still echoes the dread Name that o'er the earth[161:2]
  Let slip the storm, and woke the brood of Hell:
      And now advance in saintly Jubilee                              35
  Justice and Truth! They too have heard thy spell,
    They too obey thy name, divinest Liberty!

  III[162:1]

  I mark'd Ambition in his war-array!
      I heard the mailéd Monarch's troublous cry--
  'Ah! wherefore does the Northern Conqueress stay![162:2]            40
  Groans not her chariot on its onward way?'
        Fly, mailéd Monarch, fly!
      Stunn'd by Death's twice mortal mace,
      No more on Murder's lurid face
  The insatiate Hag shall gloat with drunken eye!                     45
      Manes of the unnumber'd slain!
      Ye that gasp'd on Warsaw's plain!
    Ye that erst at Ismail's tower,
  When human ruin choked the streams,
    Fell in Conquest's glutted hour,                                  50
  Mid women's shrieks and infants' screams!
    Spirits of the uncoffin'd slain,
    Sudden blasts of triumph swelling,
  Oft, at night, in misty train,
    Rush around her narrow dwelling!                                  55
  The exterminating Fiend is fled--
    (Foul her life, and dark her doom)
  Mighty armies of the dead
    Dance, like death-fires, round her tomb!
  Then with prophetic song relate,                                    60
  Each some Tyrant-Murderer's fate!

  IV[164:1]

  Departing Year! 'twas on no earthly shore
    My soul beheld thy Vision![164:2] Where alone,
    Voiceless and stern, before the cloudy throne,
  Aye Memory sits: thy robe inscrib'd with gore,                      65
  With many an unimaginable groan
    Thou storied'st thy sad hours! Silence ensued,
    Deep silence o'er the ethereal multitude,
  Whose locks with wreaths, whose wreaths with glories shone.
      Then, his eye wild ardours glancing,                            70
      From the choiréd gods advancing,
  The Spirit of the Earth made reverence meet,
  And stood up, beautiful, before the cloudy seat.

  V

      Throughout the blissful throng,
      Hush'd were harp and song:                                      75
  Till wheeling round the throne the Lampads seven,
      (The mystic Words of Heaven)
      Permissive signal make:
  The fervent Spirit bow'd, then spread his wings and spake!
      'Thou in stormy blackness throning                              80
      Love and uncreated Light,
    By the Earth's unsolaced groaning,
      Seize thy terrors, Arm of might!
    By Peace with proffer'd insult scared,
        Masked Hate and envying Scorn!                                85
        By years of Havoc yet unborn!
  And Hunger's bosom to the frost-winds bared!
      But chief by Afric's wrongs,
        Strange, horrible, and foul!
      By what deep guilt belongs                                      90
    To the deaf Synod, 'full of gifts and lies!'[165:1]
  By Wealth's insensate laugh! by Torture's howl!
            Avenger, rise!
    For ever shall the thankless Island scowl,
    Her quiver full, and with unbroken bow?                           95
  Speak! from thy storm-black Heaven O speak aloud!
            And on the darkling foe
  Open thine eye of fire from some uncertain cloud!
    O dart the flash! O rise and deal the blow!
  The Past to thee, to thee the Future cries!                        100
    Hark! how wide Nature joins her groans below!
      Rise, God of Nature! rise.'

  VI[166:1]

  The voice had ceas'd, the Vision fled;
  Yet still I gasp'd and reel'd with dread.
  And ever, when the dream of night                                  105
  Renews the phantom to my sight,
  Cold sweat-drops gather on my limbs;
    My ears throb hot; my eye-balls start;
  My brain with horrid tumult swims;
    Wild is the tempest of my heart;                                 110
  And my thick and struggling breath
  Imitates the toil of death!
  No stranger agony confounds
    The Soldier on the war-field spread,
  When all foredone with toil and wounds,                            115
    Death-like he dozes among heaps of dead!
  (The strife is o'er, the day-light fled,
    And the night-wind clamours hoarse!
  See! the starting wretch's head
    Lies pillow'd on a brother's corse!)                             120

  VII

  Not yet enslaved, not wholly vile,
  O Albion! O my mother Isle!
  Thy valleys, fair as Eden's bowers,
  Glitter green with sunny showers;
  Thy grassy uplands' gentle swells                                  125
    Echo to the bleat of flocks;
  (Those grassy hills, those glittering dells
    Proudly ramparted with rocks)
  And Ocean mid his uproar wild
        Speaks safety to his Island-child!                           130
        Hence for many a fearless age
        Has social Quiet lov'd thy shore;
        Nor ever proud Invader's rage
  Or sack'd thy towers, or stain'd thy fields with gore.

  VIII

  Abandon'd of Heaven![167:1] mad Avarice thy guide,                 135
  At cowardly distance, yet kindling with pride--
  Mid thy herds and thy corn-fields secure thou hast stood,
  And join'd the wild yelling of Famine and Blood!
  The nations curse thee! They with eager wondering
    Shall hear Destruction, like a vulture, scream!                  140
    Strange-eyed Destruction! who with many a dream
  Of central fires through nether seas up-thundering
    Soothes her fierce solitude; yet as she lies
    By livid fount, or red volcanic stream,
    If ever to her lidless dragon-eyes,                              145
    O Albion! thy predestin'd ruins rise,
  The fiend-hag on her perilous couch doth leap,
  Muttering distemper'd triumph in her charméd sleep.

  IX

            Away, my soul, away!
      In vain, in vain the Birds of warning sing--                   150
  And hark! I hear the famish'd brood of prey
  Flap their lank pennons on the groaning wind!
            Away, my soul, away!
      I unpartaking of the evil thing,
        With daily prayer and daily toil                             155
        Soliciting for food my scanty soil,
      Have wail'd my country with a loud Lament.
  Now I recentre my immortal mind
      In the deep Sabbath of meek self-content;
  Cleans'd from the vaporous passions that bedim                     160
  God's Image, sister of the Seraphim.[168:1]

1796.


FOOTNOTES:

[160:1] First published in the _Cambridge Intelligencer_, December 31,
1796, and at the same time issued in a quarto pamphlet (the Preface is
dated December 26): included in 1797, 1803, _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817,
1828, 1829, 1829, and 1834. The Argument was first published in 1797. In
1803 the several sentences were printed as notes to the Strophes,
Antistrophes, &c. For the Dedication vide Appendices.

This Ode was written on the 24th, 25th, and 26th days of December, 1796;
and published separately on the last day of the year. _Footnote, 1797,
1808_: This Ode was composed and was first published on the last day of
that year. _Footnote, S. L., 1817, 1828, 1829, 1834._

[160:2] The Ode commences with an address to the great BEING, or Divine
Providence, who regulates into one vast Harmony all the Events of Time,
however Calamitous some of them appear to mortals. _1803_.

[161:1] The second Strophe calls on men to suspend their private Joys
and Sorrows, and to devote their passions for a while to the cause of
human Nature in general. _1803_.

[161:2] The Name of Liberty, which at the commencement of the French
Revolution was both the occasion and the pretext of unnumbered crimes
and horrors. _1803_.

[162:1] The first Epode refers to the late Empress of Russia, who died
of an apoplexy on the 17th of November, 1796, having just concluded a
subsidiary treaty with the kings combined against France. _1803_. The
Empress died just as she had engaged to furnish more effectual aid to
the powers combined against France. _C. I._

[162:2] A subsidiary Treaty had been just concluded; and Russia was to
have furnished more effectual aid than that of pious manifestoes to the
Powers combined against France. I rejoice--not over the deceased Woman
(I never dared figure the Russian Sovereign to my imagination under the
dear and venerable Character of WOMAN--WOMAN, that complex term for
Mother, Sister, Wife!) I rejoice, as at the disenshrining of a Daemon! I
rejoice, as at the extinction of the evil Principle impersonated! This
very day, six years ago, the massacre of Ismail was perpetrated. THIRTY
THOUSAND HUMAN BEINGS, MEN, WOMEN, AND CHILDREN, murdered in cold blood,
for no other crime than that their garrison had defended the place with
perseverance and bravery. Why should I recal the poisoning of her
husband, her iniquities in Poland, or her late unmotived attack on
Persia, the desolating ambition of her public life, or the libidinous
excesses of her private hours! I have no wish to qualify myself for the
office of Historiographer to the King of Hell--! December, 23, 1796.
_4{o}_.

[164:1] The first Antistrophe describes the Image of the Departing Year,
as in a vision; and concludes with introducing the Planetary Angel of
the Earth preparing to address the Supreme Being. _1803_.

[164:2] '_My soul beheld thy vision!_' i. e. Thy Image in a vision.
_4{o}_.

[165:1] Gifts used in Scripture for corruption. _C. I._

[166:1] The poem concludes with prophecying in anguish of Spirit the
Downfall of this Country. _1803_.

[167:1] '_Disclaim'd of Heaven!_'--The Poet from having considered the
peculiar advantages, which this country has enjoyed, passes in rapid
transition to the uses, which we have made of these advantages. We have
been preserved by our insular situation, from suffering the actual
horrors of War ourselves, and we have shewn our gratitude to Providence
for this immunity by our eagerness to spread those horrors over nations
less happily situated. In the midst of plenty and safety we have raised
or joined the yell for famine and blood. Of the one hundred and seven
last years, fifty have been years of War. Such wickedness cannot pass
unpunished. We have been proud and confident in our alliances and our
fleets--but God has prepared the canker-worm, and will smite the
_gourds_ of our pride. 'Art thou better than populous No, that was
situate among the rivers, that had the waters round about it, whose
rampart was the Sea? Ethiopia and Egypt were her strength and it was
infinite: Put and Lubim were her helpers. Yet she was carried away, she
went into captivity: and they cast lots for her honourable men, and all
her great men were bound in chains. Thou also shalt be drunken: all thy
strongholds shall be like fig trees with the first ripe figs; if they be
shaken, they shall even fall into the mouth of the eater. Thou hast
multiplied thy merchants above the stars of heaven. Thy crowned are as
the locusts; and thy captains as the great grasshoppers which camp in
the hedges in the cool-day; but when the Sun ariseth they flee away, and
their place is not known where they are. There is no healing of thy
bruise; thy wound is grievous: all, that hear the report of thee, shall
clap hands over thee: for upon whom hath not thy wickedness passed
continually?' _Nahum_, chap. iii. _4{o}_, _1797_, _1803_.

[168:1] 'Let it not be forgotten during the perusal of this Ode that it
was written many years before the abolition of the Slave Trade by the
British Legislature, likewise before the invasion of Switzerland by the
French Republic, which occasioned the Ode that follows [_France: an
Ode._ First published as _The Recantation: an Ode_], a kind of
Palinodia.' _MS. Note by S. T. C._


LINENOTES:

Title] Ode for the last day of the Year 1796, C. I.: Ode on the
Departing Year 4{o}, 1797, 1803, S. L., 1817, 1828, 1829.

Motto] 3-5 All editions (4{o} to 1834) read ἐφημίοις for δυσφροιμίοις,
and Ἄγαν γ' for Ἄγαν; and all before 1834 μην for μ' ἐν.

I] Strophe I C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[1] Spirit] Being 1803.

[4] unchanging] unchanged 4{o}.

[5] free] freed 4{o}.

[6] and a bowéd] and submitted 1803, S. L., 1817, 1828, 1829.

[7]

  When lo! far onwards waving on the wind
  I saw the skirts of the DEPARTING YEAR.

C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[11] Ere yet he pierc'd the cloud and mock'd my sight C. I. foreclos'd]
forebade 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

II] Strophe II C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[15-16]

  From Poverty's heart-wasting languish
  From Distemper's midnight anguish

C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[22] Ye Sorrows, and ye Joys advance C. I. ye] and 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[25] Forbids its fateful strings to sleep C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[31] O'er the sore travail of the common Earth C. I., 4{o}.

[33-7]

  Seiz'd in sore travail and portentous birth
  (Her eyeballs flashing a pernicious glare)
  Sick Nature struggles! Hark! her pangs increase!
  Her groans are horrible! but O! most fair
  The promis'd Twins she bears--Equality and Peace!

C. I., 4{o}.

[36] thy] the 1797, 1803.

III] Epode C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[40] Ah! whither C. I., 4{o}.

[41] on] o'er C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[43] 'twice mortal' mace C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[45] The insatiate] That tyrant C. I.] drunken] frenzied C. I.

[Between 51 and 52]

  Whose shrieks, whose screams were vain to stir
    Loud-laughing, red-eyed Massacre

C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[58] armies] Army C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[61] Tyrant-Murderer's] scepter'd Murderer's C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[After 61]

  When shall sceptred SLAUGHTER cease?
  A while he crouch'd, O Victor France!
  Beneath the lightning of thy lance;
  With treacherous dalliance courting PEACE--[163:A]
  But soon upstarting from his coward trance
  The boastful bloody Son of Pride betray'd
  His ancient hatred of the dove-eyed Maid.
  A cloud, O Freedom! cross'd thy orb of Light,
  And sure he deem'd that orb was set in night:
  For still does MADNESS roam on GUILT'S bleak dizzy height!

C. I.

  When shall sceptred, &c.

         *       *       *       *       *

  With treacherous dalliance wooing Peace.
  But soon up-springing from his dastard trance
  The boastful bloody Son of Pride betray'd
  His hatred of the blest and blessing Maid.
  One cloud, O Freedom! cross'd thy orb of Light,
  And sure he deem'd that orb was quench'd in night:
  For still, &c.

4{o}.

     [163:A] To juggle this easily-juggled people into better
     humour with the supplies (and themselves, perhaps, affrighted
     by the successes of the French) our Ministry sent an
     Ambassador to Paris to sue for Peace. The supplies are
     granted: and in the meantime the Archduke Charles turns the
     scale of victory on the Rhine, and Buonaparte is checked
     before Mantua. Straightways our courtly messenger is commanded
     to _uncurl_ his lips, and propose to the lofty Republic to
     _restore_ all _its_ conquests, and to suffer England to
     _retain_ all _hers_ (at least all her _important_ ones), as
     the only terms of Peace, and the ultimatum of the negotiation!

       Θρασύνει γὰρ αἰσχρόμητις
       Τάλαινα ΠΑΡΑΚΟΠΑ πρωτοπήμων--AESCHYL., _Ag._ 222-4.

     The friends of Freedom in this country are idle. Some are
     timid; some are selfish; and many the torpedo torch of
     hopelessness has numbed into inactivity. We would fain hope
     that (if the above account be accurate--it is only the French
     account) this dreadful instance of infatuation in our Ministry
     will rouse them to one effort more; and that at one and the
     same time in our different great towns the people will be
     called on to think solemnly, and declare their thoughts
     fearlessly by every method which the _remnant_ of the
     Constitution allows. _4{o}_.

IV] Antistrophe I. C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[62] no earthly] an awful C. I.

[65] thy . . . gore] there garmented with gore C. I., 4{o},
1797.

[65-7]

  Aye Memory sits: thy vest profan'd with gore.
  Thou with an unimaginable groan
  Gav'st reck'ning of thy Hours!

1803.

[68] ethereal] choired C. I.

[69] Whose purple locks with snow-white glories shone C. I., 4{o}: Whose
wreathed locks with snow-white glories shone 1797, 1803.

[70] wild] strange C. I.

V] Antistrophe II. C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[74-9]

  On every Harp on every Tongue
  While the mute Enchantment hung:
  Like Midnight from a thunder-cloud
  Spake the sudden Spirit loud.

C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

  The sudden Spirit cried aloud.

C. I.

  Like Thunder from a Midnight Cloud
  Spake the sudden Spirit loud

1803.

[83] Arm] God C. I.

[Between 83 and 84]

  By Belgium's corse-impeded flood,[165:A]
  By Vendee steaming [streaming C. I.] Brother's blood.

C. I., 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

     [165:A] The Rhine. _C. I._, _1797_, _1803_.

[85] And mask'd Hate C. I.

[87] By Hunger's bosom to the bleak winds bar'd C. I.

[89] Strange] Most C. I.

[90] By] And C. I.

[91] Synod] Senate 1797, 1803.

[94-102]

  For ever shall the bloody island scowl?
  For ever shall her vast and iron bow
  Shoot Famine's evil arrows o'er the world,[165:B]
  Hark! how wide Nature joins her groans below;
  Rise, God of Mercy, rise! why sleep thy bolts unhurl'd?

C. I.

  For ever shall the bloody Island scowl?
  For aye, unbroken shall her cruel Bow
  Shoot Famine's arrows o'er thy ravaged World?
  Hark! how wide Nature joins her groans below--
  Rise, God of Nature, rise, why sleep thy Bolts unhurl'd?

4{o}, 1797, 1803.

  Rise God of Nature, rise! ah! why those bolts unhurl'd?

1797, 1803.

     [165:B] 'In Europe the smoking villages of Flanders and the
     putrified fields of La Vendée--from Africa the unnumbered
     victims of a detestable Slave-Trade. In Asia the desolated
     plains of Indostan, and the millions whom a rice-contracting
     Governor caused to perish. In America the recent enormities of
     the Scalp-merchants. The four quarters of the globe groan
     beneath the intolerable iniquity of the nation.' See
     'Addresses to the People', p. 46. _C. I._

[102] Here the Ode ends C. I.

VI] Epode II. 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[103] Vision] Phantoms 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[106] phantom] vision 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[107] sweat-drops] sweat-damps 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[113] stranger] uglier 4{o}.

[119] starting] startful 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[121] O doom'd to fall, enslav'd and vile 4{o}, 1797, 1803.

[133] proud Invader's] sworded Foeman's 4{o}, 1797: sworded Warrior's
1803.

[135-9]

  Disclaim'd of Heaven! mad Avarice at thy side

4{o}, 1797.

  At coward distance, yet with kindling pride--
  Safe 'mid thy herds and cornfields thou hast stood,
  And join'd the yell of Famine and of Blood.
  All nations curse thee: and with eager wond'ring

4{o}, 1797.

[135] O abandon'd 1803.

[137-8]

  Mid thy Corn-fields and Herds thou in plenty hast stood
  And join'd the loud yellings of Famine and Blood.

1803.

[139] They] and 1797, 1803, S. L. 1817.

[142] fires] flames 4{o}.

[144]

  Stretch'd on the marge of some fire-flashing fount
  In the black Chamber of a sulphur'd mount.

4{o}.

[144] By livid fount, or roar of blazing stream 1797.

[146] Visions of thy predestin'd ruins rise 1803.

[151] famish'd] famin'd 4{o}.

[156] Soliciting my scant and blameless soil 4{o}.

[159-60]

  In the long sabbath of high self-content.
  Cleans'd from the fleshly passions that bedim

4{o}.

  In the deep sabbath of blest self-content
  Cleans'd from the fears and anguish that bedim

1797.

  In the blest sabbath of high self-content
  Cleans'd from bedimming Fear, and Anguish weak and blind.

1803.

[161] om. 1803.




THE RAVEN[169:1]

A CHRISTMAS TALE, TOLD BY A SCHOOL-BOY TO HIS LITTLE BROTHERS AND
SISTERS


  Underneath an old oak tree
  There was of swine a huge company,
  That grunted as they crunched the mast:
  For that was ripe, and fell full fast.
  Then they trotted away, for the wind grew high:                      5
  One acorn they left, and no more might you spy.
  Next came a Raven, that liked not such folly:
  He belonged, they did say, to the witch Melancholy!
  Blacker was he than blackest jet,
  Flew low in the rain, and his feathers not wet.                     10
  He picked up the acorn and buried it straight
  By the side of a river both deep and great.
        Where then did the Raven go?
        He went high and low,
  Over hill, over dale, did the black Raven go.                       15
        Many Autumns, many Springs
        Travelled[170:1] he with wandering wings:
        Many Summers, many Winters--
        I can't tell half his adventures.

  At length he came back, and with him a She,                         20
  And the acorn was grown to a tall oak tree.
  They built them a nest in the topmost bough,
  And young ones they had, and were happy enow.
  But soon came a Woodman in leathern guise,
  His brow, like a pent-house, hung over his eyes.                    25
  He'd an axe in his hand, not a word he spoke,
  But with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke,
  At length he brought down the poor Raven's own oak.
  His young ones were killed; for they could not depart,
  And their mother did die of a broken heart.                         30

  The boughs from the trunk the Woodman did sever;
  And they floated it down on the course of the river.
  They sawed it in planks, and its bark they did strip,
  And with this tree and others they made a good ship.
  The ship, it was launched; but in sight of the land                 35
  Such a storm there did rise as no ship could withstand.
  It bulged on a rock, and the waves rush'd in fast:
  Round and round flew the raven, and cawed to the blast.
  He heard the last shriek of the perishing souls--
  See! see! o'er the topmast the mad water rolls!                     40
    Right glad was the Raven, and off he went fleet,
  And Death riding home on a cloud he did meet,
  And he thank'd him again and again for this treat:
    They had taken his all, and REVENGE IT WAS SWEET!

1797.


FOOTNOTES:

[169:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, March 10, 1798 (with an
introductory letter, _vide infra_): included (with the letter, and
except line 15 the same text) in the _Annual Anthology_, 1800, in
_Sibylline Leaves_, 1817 (pp. vi-viii), 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[To the editor of the _Morning Post_.]

     'Sir,--I am not absolutely certain that the following Poem was
     written by EDMUND SPENSER, and found by an Angler buried in a
     fishing-box:--

       'Under the foot of Mole, that mountain hoar,
        Mid the green alders, by the Mulla's shore.'

     But a learned Antiquarian of my acquaintance has given it as
     his opinion that it resembles SPENSER'S minor Poems as nearly
     as Vortigern and Rowena the Tragedies of WILLIAM
     SHAKESPEARE.--The Poem must be read in _recitative_, in the
     same manner as the Aegloga Secunda of the Shepherd's Calendar.

       CUDDY.'                                 _M. P._, _An. Anth._

[170:1] Seventeen or eighteen years ago an artist of some celebrity was
so pleased with this doggerel that he amused himself with the thought of
making a Child's Picture Book of it; but he could not hit on a picture
for these four lines. I suggested a _Round-about_ with four seats, and
the four seasons, as Children, with Time for the shew-man. Footnote,
_Sibylline Leaves_, 1817.


LINENOTES:

Title] 'A Christmas Tale,' &c., was first prefixed in S. L. 1817. The
letter introduced the poem in the Morning Post. In the Annual Anthology
the 'Letter' is headed 'The Raven'. Lamb in a letter to Coleridge, dated
Feb. 5, 1797, alludes to this poem as 'Your _Dream_'.

[1-8]

  Under the arms of a goodly oak-tree
  There was of Swine a large company.
  They were making a rude _repast_,
  Grunting as they crunch'd the _mast_.
  Then they trotted away: for the wind blew high--                     5
  One acorn they left, ne more mote you spy,
  Next came a Raven, who lik'd not such folly:
  He belong'd, I believe, to the witch MELANCHOLY!

M. P., An. Anth., and (with variants given below) MS. S. T. C.

[1] Beneath a goodly old oak tree MS. S. T. C.: an old] a huge S. L.
1817, 1828, 1829.

[6] ne more] and no more MS. S. T. C.

[7] Next] But soon MS. S. T. C.

[8] belonged it was said S. L. 1817.

[10] in the rain; his feathers were wet M. P., An. Anth., MS. S. T. C.

[15] O'er hill, o'er dale M. P.

[17] with] on MS. S. T. C.

[20] came back] return'd M. P., An. Anth., MS. S. T. C.

[21] to a tall] a large M. P., An. Anth., MS. S. T. C.

[22] topmost] uppermost MS. S. T. C.

[23] happy] jolly M. P., An. Anth.

[26] and _he_ nothing spoke M. P., An. Anth., MS. S. T. C.

[28] At length] Wel-a-day MS. S. T. C.: At last M. P., An. Anth.

[30] And his wife she did die M. P., An. Anth., MS. S. T. C.

[31] The branches from off it M. P., An. Anth.: The branches from off
this the MS. S. T. C.

[32] And floated MS. S. T. C.

[33] They saw'd it to planks, and its rind M. P., An. Anth.: They saw'd
it to planks and its bark MS. S. T. C.

[34] they built up a ship M. P., An. Anth.

[36] Such . . . ship] A tempest arose which no ship M. P., An. Anth.,
MS. S. T. C.

[38] The auld raven flew round and round M. P., An. Anth.: The old raven
flew round and round MS. S. T. C., S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[39] He heard the sea-shriek of their perishing souls M. P., An. Anth.,
MS. S. T. C.

[40-4]

  They be sunk! O'er the topmast the mad water rolls
  The Raven was glad that such fate they did _meet_.
  They had taken his all and REVENGE WAS SWEET.

M. P., An. Anth.

[40] See she sinks MS. S. T. C.

[41] Very glad was the Raven, this fate they did meet MS. S. T. C.

[42-3] om. MS. S. T. C.

[44] Revenge was sweet. An. Anth., MS. S. T. C., S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829.

After l. 44, two lines were added in Sibylline Leaves, 1817:--

  We must not think so; but forget and forgive,
  And what Heaven gives life to, we'll still let it live.[171:A]

     [171:A] Added thro' cowardly fear of the Goody! What a Hollow,
     where the Heart of Faith ought to be, does it not betray? this
     alarm concerning Christian morality, that will not permit even
     a Raven to be a Raven, nor a Fox a Fox, but demands
     conventicular justice to be inflicted on their unchristian
     conduct, or at least an antidote to be annexed. _MS. Note by
     S. T. C._




TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN AT THE THEATRE[171:1]


  Maiden, that with sullen brow
    Sitt'st behind those virgins gay,
  Like a scorch'd and mildew'd bough,
    Leafless 'mid the blooms of May!

  Him who lur'd thee and forsook,                                      5
    Oft I watch'd with angry gaze,
  Fearful saw his pleading look,
    Anxious heard his fervid phrase.

  Soft the glances of the Youth,
    Soft his speech, and soft his sigh;                               10
  But no sound like simple Truth,
    But no _true_ love in his eye.

  Loathing thy polluted lot,
    Hie thee, Maiden, hie thee hence!
  Seek thy weeping Mother's cot,                                      15
    With a wiser innocence.

  Thou hast known deceit and folly,
    Thou hast _felt_ that Vice is woe:
  With a musing melancholy
    Inly arm'd, go, Maiden! go.                                       20

  Mother sage of Self-dominion,
    Firm thy steps, O Melancholy!
  The strongest plume in Wisdom's pinion
    Is the memory of past folly.

  Mute the sky-lark and forlorn,                                      25
    While she moults the firstling plumes,
  That had skimm'd the tender corn,
    Or the beanfield's odorous blooms.

  Soon with renovated wing
    Shall she dare a loftier flight,                                  30
  Upward to the Day-Star spring,
    And embathe in heavenly light.

1797.


FOOTNOTES:

[171:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, December 7, 1797:
included in the _Annual Anthology_, 1800, in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1828,
1829, and 1834. For MS. sent to Cottle, see _E. R._ 1834, i. 213, 214.


LINENOTES:

Title] To an Unfortunate Woman in the Back Seats of the Boxes at the
Theatre M. P.: To an Unfortunate Young Woman whom I had known in the
days of her Innocence MS. sent to Cottle, E. R. i. 213: To an
Unfortunate Woman whom the Author knew in the days of her Innocence.
Composed at the Theatre An. Anth. 1800.

[1] Maiden] Sufferer An. Anth.

[In place of 5-12]

  Inly gnawing, thy distresses
    Mock those starts of wanton glee;
  And thy inmost soul confesses
    Chaste Affection's [affliction's An. Anth.] majesty.

MS. Cottle, An. Anth.

[14] Maiden] Sufferer An. Anth.

[22] Firm are thy steps M. P.

[25] sky-lark] Lavrac MS. Cottle, An. Anth.

[26] the] those MS. Cottle, M. P., An. Anth.

[27] Which late had M. P.

[31] Upwards to the day star sing MS. Cottle, An. Anth.

Stanzas ii, iii, v, vi are not in MS. Cottle nor in the Annual
Anthology.




TO AN UNFORTUNATE WOMAN[172:1]

WHOM THE AUTHOR HAD KNOWN IN THE DAYS OF HER INNOCENCE


  Myrtle-leaf that, ill besped,
    Pinest in the gladsome ray,
  Soil'd beneath the common tread
    Far from thy protecting spray!

  When the Partridge o'er the sheaf                                    5
    Whirr'd along the yellow vale,
  Sad I saw thee, heedless leaf!
    Love the dalliance of the gale.

  Lightly didst thou, foolish thing!
    Heave and flutter to his sighs,                                   10
  While the flatterer, on his wing,
    Woo'd and whisper'd thee to rise.

  Gaily from thy mother-stalk
    Wert thou danc'd and wafted high--
  Soon on this unshelter'd walk                                       15
    Flung to fade, to rot and die.

1797.


FOOTNOTES:

[172:1] First published in 1797: included in 1803, _Sibylline Leaves_,
1828, 1829, and 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] Allegorical Lines on the Same Subject MS. Cottle.

[5]

  When the scythes-man o'er his sheaf
    Caroll'd in the yellow vale

MS. Cottle.

  When the rustic o'er his sheaf
    Caroll'd in, &c.

1797.

[_Note._ The text of Stanza ii dates from 1803.]

[9] foolish] poor fond MS. Cottle.

[15] Soon upon this sheltered walk, MS. Cottle, Second Version.

[16] to fade, and rot. MS. Cottle.




TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE[173:1]

OF OTTERY ST. MARY, DEVON

_With some Poems_

  Notus in fratres animi paterni.
                          HOR. _Carm._ lib. II. 2.


  A blesséd lot hath he, who having passed
  His youth and early manhood in the stir
  And turmoil of the world, retreats at length,
  With cares that move, not agitate the heart,
  To the same dwelling where his father dwelt;                         5
  And haply views his tottering little ones
  Embrace those agéd knees and climb that lap,
  On which first kneeling his own infancy
  Lisp'd its brief prayer. Such, O my earliest Friend!
  Thy lot, and such thy brothers too enjoy.                           10
  At distance did ye climb Life's upland road,
  Yet cheer'd and cheering: now fraternal love
  Hath drawn you to one centre. Be your days
  Holy, and blest and blessing may ye live!

    To me the Eternal Wisdom hath dispens'd                           15
  A different fortune and more different mind--
  Me from the spot where first I sprang to light
  Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fix'd
  Its first domestic loves; and hence through life
  Chasing chance-started friendships. A brief while                   20
  Some have preserv'd me from life's pelting ills;
  But, like a tree with leaves of feeble stem,
  If the clouds lasted, and a sudden breeze
  Ruffled the boughs, they on my head at once
  Dropped the collected shower; and some most false,                  25
  False and fair-foliag'd as the Manchineel,
  Have tempted me to slumber in their shade
  E'en mid the storm; then breathing subtlest damps,
  Mix'd their own venom with the rain from Heaven,
  That I woke poison'd! But, all praise to Him                        30
  Who gives us all things, more have yielded me
  Permanent shelter; and beside one Friend,
  Beneath the impervious covert of one oak,
  I've rais'd a lowly shed, and know the names
  Of Husband and of Father; not unhearing                             35
  Of that divine and nightly-whispering Voice,
  Which from my childhood to maturer years
  Spake to me of predestinated wreaths,
  Bright with no fading colours!

                                 Yet at times
  My soul is sad, that I have roam'd through life                     40
  Still most a stranger, most with naked heart
  At mine own home and birth-place: chiefly then,
  When I remember thee, my earliest Friend!
  Thee, who didst watch my boyhood and my youth;
  Didst trace my wanderings with a father's eye;                      45
  And boding evil yet still hoping good,
  Rebuk'd each fault, and over all my woes
  Sorrow'd in silence! He who counts alone
  The beatings of the solitary heart,
  That Being knows, how I have lov'd thee ever,                       50
  Lov'd as a brother, as a son rever'd thee!
  Oh! 'tis to me an ever new delight,
  To talk of thee and thine: or when the blast
  Of the shrill winter, rattling our rude sash,
  Endears the cleanly hearth and social bowl;                         55
  Or when, as now, on some delicious eve,
  We in our sweet sequester'd orchard-plot
  Sit on the tree crook'd earth-ward; whose old boughs,
  That hang above us in an arborous roof,
  Stirr'd by the faint gale of departing May,                         60
  Send their loose blossoms slanting o'er our heads!

    Nor dost not thou sometimes recall those hours,
  When with the joy of hope thou gavest thine ear
  To my wild firstling-lays. Since then my song
  Hath sounded deeper notes, such as beseem                           65
  Or that sad wisdom folly leaves behind,
  Or such as, tuned to these tumultuous times,
  Cope with the tempest's swell!

                                 Those various strains,
  Which I have fram'd in many a various mood,
  Accept, my Brother! and (for some perchance                         70
  Will strike discordant on thy milder mind)
  If aught of error or intemperate truth
  Should meet thine ear, think thou that riper Age
  Will calm it down, and let thy love forgive it!

NETHER-STOWEY, SOMERSET, _May_ 26, 1797.


FOOTNOTES:

[173:1] First published as the Dedication to the Poems of 1797: included
in 1803, _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. In a copy of
the _Poems_ of 1797, formerly in the possession of the late Mr.
Frederick Locker-Lampson, Coleridge affixed the following note to the
Dedication--'N. B. If this volume should ever be delivered according to
its direction, _i. e._ to Posterity, let it be known that the Reverend
George Coleridge was displeased and thought his character endangered by
the Dedication.'--S. T. Coleridge. _Note_ to _P. and D. W._, 1877-80, i.
163.


LINENOTES:

_To the Rev. George Coleridge_--Motto] lib. I. 2 S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829,
1834.

[10] Thine and thy Brothers' favourable lot. 1803.

[23] and] or 1797, 1803.

[30] That I woke prison'd! But (the praise be His 1803.

[33-4]

  I as beneath the covert of an oak
  Have rais'd

1803.

[35] not] nor 1797, 1803, S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[47-9]

  Rebuk'd each fault, and wept o'er all my woes.
  Who counts the beatings of the lonely heart

1797, 1803.

[Between 52-3] My eager eye glist'ning with memry's tear 1797.

[62] thou] _thou_ all editions to 1834.

[Between 66-7] Or the high raptures of prophetic Faith 1797, 1803.

[68] strains] songs 1797, 1803.




ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S CHILD[176:1]


  This day among the faithful plac'd
    And fed with fontal manna,
  O with maternal title grac'd,
    Dear Anna's dearest Anna!

  While others wish thee wise and fair,                                5
    A maid of spotless fame,
  I'll breathe this more compendious prayer--
    May'st thou deserve thy name!

  Thy mother's name, a potent spell,
    That bids the Virtues hie                                         10
  From mystic grove and living cell,
    Confess'd to Fancy's eye;

  Meek Quietness without offence;
    Content in homespun kirtle;
  True Love; and True Love's Innocence,                               15
    White Blossom of the Myrtle!

  Associates of thy name, sweet Child!
    These Virtues may'st thou win;
  With face as eloquently mild
    To say, they lodge within.                                        20

  So, when her tale of days all flown,
    Thy mother shall be miss'd here;
  When Heaven at length shall claim its own
    And Angels snatch their Sister;

  Some hoary-headed friend, perchance,                                25
    May gaze with stifled breath;
  And oft, in momentary trance,
    Forget the waste of death.

  Even thus a lovely rose I've view'd
    In summer-swelling pride;                                         30
  Nor mark'd the bud, that green and rude
    Peep'd at the rose's side.

  It chanc'd I pass'd again that way
    In Autumn's latest hour,
  And wond'ring saw the selfsame spray                                35
    Rich with the selfsame flower.

  Ah fond deceit! the rude green bud
    Alike in shape, place, name,
  Had bloom'd where bloom'd its parent stud,
    Another and the same!                                             40

1797.


FOOTNOTES:

[176:1] First published in the Supplement to _Poems_, 1797: reprinted in
_Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 48, 49: included in 1844 and 1852. The
lines were addressed to Anna Cruickshank, the wife of John Cruickshank,
who was a neighbour of Coleridge at Nether-Stowey.




TRANSLATION[177:1]

OF A LATIN INSCRIPTION BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES IN NETHER-STOWEY CHURCH


  Depart in joy from this world's noise and strife
  To the deep quiet of celestial life!
  Depart!--Affection's self reproves the tear
  Which falls, O honour'd Parent! on thy bier;--
  Yet Nature will be heard, the heart will swell,                      5
  And the voice tremble with a last Farewell!

1797.


[_The Tablet is erected to the Memory of Richard Camplin, who died Jan.
20, 1792._

  'Lætus abi! mundi strepitu curisque remotus;
    Lætus abi! cæli quâ vocat alma Quies.
  Ipsa fides loquitur lacrymamque incusat inanem,
    Quæ cadit in vestros, care Pater, Cineres.
  Heu! tantum liceat meritos hos solvere Ritus,                        5
    Naturæ et tremulâ dicere Voce, Vale!']


FOOTNOTES:

[177:1] First published in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 50. First
collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii. 365.


LINENOTES:

[6] Et longum tremulâ L. R. 1836.




THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON[178:1]

[ADDRESSED TO CHARLES LAMB, OF THE INDIA HOUSE, LONDON]

In the June of 1797 some long-expected friends paid a visit to the
author's cottage; and on the morning of their arrival, he met with an
accident, which disabled him from walking during the whole time of their
stay. One evening, when they had left him for a few hours, he composed
the following lines in the garden-bower.[178:2]


  Well, they are gone, and here must I remain,
  This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost
  Beauties and feelings, such as would have been
  Most sweet to my remembrance even when age
  Had dimm'd mine eyes to blindness! They, meanwhile,                  5
  Friends, whom I never more may meet again,
  On springy[179:1] heath, along the hill-top edge,
  Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance,
  To that still roaring dell, of which I told;
  The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep,                         10
  And only speckled by the mid-day sun;
  Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock
  Flings arching like a bridge;--that branchless ash,
  Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves
  Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still,                       15
  Fann'd by the water-fall! and there my friends
  Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds,[179:2]
  That all at once (a most fantastic sight!)
  Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge
  Of the blue clay-stone.

                          Now, my friends emerge                      20
  Beneath the wide wide Heaven--and view again
  The many-steepled tract magnificent
  Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea,
  With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up
  The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles                     25
  Of purple shadow! Yes! they wander on
  In gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad,
  My gentle-hearted Charles! for thou hast pined
  And hunger'd after Nature, many a year,
  In the great City pent, winning thy way                             30
  With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain
  And strange calamity! Ah! slowly sink
  Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun!
  Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb,
  Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds!                  35
  Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves!
  And kindle, thou blue Ocean! So my friend
  Struck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood,
  Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing round
  On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem                      40
  Less gross than bodily; and of such hues
  As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makes
  Spirits perceive his presence.

                                 A delight
  Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad
  As I myself were there! Nor in this bower,                          45
  This little lime-tree bower, have I not mark'd
  Much that has sooth'd me. Pale beneath the blaze
  Hung the transparent foliage; and I watch'd
  Some broad and sunny leaf, and lov'd to see
  The shadow of the leaf and stem above                               50
  Dappling its sunshine! And that walnut-tree
  Was richly ting'd, and a deep radiance lay
  Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps
  Those fronting elms, and now, with blackest mass
  Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue                       55
  Through the late twilight: and though now the bat
  Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters,
  Yet still the solitary humble-bee
  Sings in the bean-flower! Henceforth I shall know
  That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure;                        60
  No plot so narrow, be but Nature there,
  No waste so vacant, but may well employ
  Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart
  Awake to Love and Beauty! and sometimes
  'Tis well to be bereft of promis'd good,                            65
  That we may lift the soul, and contemplate
  With lively joy the joys we cannot share.
  My gentle-hearted Charles! when the last rook
  Beat its straight path along the dusky air
  Homewards, I blest it! deeming its black wing                       70
  (Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light)
  Had cross'd the mighty Orb's dilated glory,
  While thou stood'st gazing; or, when all was still,
  Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a charm[181:1]
  For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom                        75
  No sound is dissonant which tells of Life.

1797.


FOOTNOTES:

[178:1] First published in the _Annual Anthology_, 1800, reprinted in
Mylius' _Poetical Classbook_, 1810: included in _Sibylline Leaves_,
1817, in 1828, 1829, and 1834. The poem was sent in a letter to Southey,
July 9, 1797, and in a letter to C. Lloyd, [July, 1797]. See _Letters of
S. T. C._, 1895, i. 225-7 and _P. W._, 1893, p. 591.

[178:2] 'Ch. and Mary Lamb--dear to my heart, yea, as it were my
Heart.--S. T. C. Æt. 63; 1834--1797-1834 = 37 years!' (Marginal note
written by S. T. Coleridge over against the introductory note to 'This
Lime-Tree Bower my Prison', in a copy of the _Poetical Works_, 1834.)

[179:1] 'Elastic, I mean.' _MS. Letter to Southey._

[179:2] The _Asplenium Scolopendrium_, called in some countries the
Adder's Tongue, in others the Hart's Tongue, but Withering gives the
Adder's Tongue as the trivial name of the _Ophioglossum_ only.

[181:1] Some months after I had written this line, it gave me pleasure
to find [to observe _An. Anth._, _S. L. 1828_] that Bartram had observed
the same circumstance of the Savanna Crane. 'When these Birds move their
wings in flight, their strokes are slow, moderate and regular; and even
when at a considerable distance or high above us, we plainly hear the
quill-feathers: their shafts and webs upon one another creek as the
joints or working of a vessel in a tempestuous sea.'


LINENOTES:

Title] This Lime-Tree Bower my Prison. A Poem Addressed, &c. An. Anth.:
the words 'Addressed to', &c., are omitted in Sibylline Leaves, 1828,
1829, and 1834.

[1-28]

  Well, they are gone, and here must I remain,
  Lam'd by the scathe of fire, lonely and faint,
  This lime-tree bower my prison! They, meantime,
  My Friends, whom I may never meet again,
  On springy heath, along the hill-top edge                            5
  Wander delighted, and look down, perchance,
  On that same rifted dell, where many an ash
  Twists its wild limbs beside the ferny rock
  Whose plumy[178:A] ferns forever nod and drip
  Spray'd by the waterfall. But chiefly thou                          10
  My gentle-hearted _Charles_! thou who had pin'd

MS. Letter to Southey, July 17, 1797.

     [178:A] The ferns that grow in moist places grow five or six
     together, and form a complete 'Prince of Wales's
     Feather'--that is plumy. _Letter to Southey._

[1-28]

  Well they are gone, and here I must remain
  This lime-tree, . . . hill-top edge
  Delighted wander, and look down, perchance,
  On that same rifted dell, where the wet ash
  Twists its wild limbs above, . . . who hast pin'd

MS. Letter to Lloyd [July, 1797].

[3] Such beauties and such feelings, as had been An. Anth., S. L.

[4] my remembrance] to have remembered An. Anth.

[6] My Friends, whom I may never meet again An. Anth., S. L.

[20] blue] dim An. Anth.

[22] tract] track An. Anth., S. L. 1828.

[24] bark, perhaps, which lightly touches An. Anth.

[28] hast] had'st An. Anth.

[31] patient] bowed MS. Letter to Southey.

[34] beams] heaven MS. Letter to Southey.

[38 foll.]

  Struck with joy's deepest calm, and gazing round
  On the wide view[180:A] may gaze till all doth seem
  Less gross than bodily; a living thing
  That acts upon the mind, and with such hues
  As clothe th' Almighty Spirit, when he makes.

MS. Letter to Southey.

     [180:A] You remember I am a _Berkleyan_. _Note to Letter._

[40] wide] wild S. L.

[40] (for _wild_ r. _wide_; and the two following lines thus:

  Less gross than bodily; and of such hues
  As veil the Almighty Spirit

_Errata_, S. L., p. [xii].)

  As veil the Almighty Spirit, when he makes

1828.

[41 foll.]

  Less gross than bodily, a living thing
  Which acts upon the mind and with such hues
  As cloathe the Almighty Spirit, when he makes

An. Anth., S. L.

[45 foll.]

  As I myself were there! Nor in the bower
  Want I sweet sounds or pleasing shapes. I watch'd
  The sunshine of each broad transparent leaf
  Broke by the shadows of the leaf or stem
  Which hung above it: and that walnut tree

MS. Letter to Southey.

[55] branches] foliage MS. Letter to Southey.

[56] and though the rapid bat MS. Letter to Southey.

[60-64] om. in MS. Letter to Lloyd.

[61-2] No scene so narrow but may well employ MS. Letter to Southey, An.
Anth.

[68] My Sister and my Friends MS. Letter to Southey: My Sara and my
Friends MS. Letter to Lloyd.

[70] Homewards] Homeward MS. Letter to Lloyd.

[71] om. in MS. Letter to Lloyd. in the light An. Anth., S. L. (omit
_the_ before _light_. _Errata_, S. L., [p. xii]).

[72] Cross'd like a speck the blaze of setting day MS. Letter to
Southey: Had cross'd the mighty orb's dilated blase. MS. Letter to
Lloyd.

[73] While ye [you MS. Letter to Lloyd] stood MS. Letter to Southey.

[74] thy head] your heads MSS. Letters to Southey and Lloyd.

[75] For you my Sister and my Friends MS. Letter to Southey: For you my
Sara and my Friends MS. Letter to Lloyd.




THE FOSTER-MOTHER'S TALE[182:1]

A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT

     [From _Osorio_, Act IV. The title and text are here printed
     from _Lyrical Ballads_, 1798.]


  _Foster-Mother._ I never saw the man whom you describe.

  _Maria._ 'Tis strange! he spake of you familiarly
  As mine and Albert's common Foster-mother.

  _Foster-Mother._ Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be,
  That joined your names with mine! O my sweet lady,                   5
  As often as I think of those dear times
  When you two little ones would stand at eve
  On each side of my chair, and make me learn
  All you had learnt in the day; and how to talk
  In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you--                         10
  'Tis more like heaven to come than what _has_ been!

  _Maria._ O my dear Mother! this strange man has left me
  Troubled with wilder fancies, than the moon
  Breeds in the love-sick maid who gazes at it,
  Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye                            15
  She gazes idly!--But that entrance, Mother!

  _Foster-Mother._ Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale!

  _Maria._ No one.

  _Foster-Mother._ My husband's father told it me,
  Poor old Leoni!--Angels rest his soul!
  He was a woodman, and could fell and saw                            20
  With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam
  Which props the hanging wall of the old Chapel?
  Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree,
  He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined
  With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool                   25
  As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,
  And rear'd him at the then Lord Velez' cost.
  And so the babe grew up a pretty boy,
  A pretty boy, but most unteachable--
  And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead,                         30
  But knew the names of birds, and mock'd their notes,
  And whistled, as he were a bird himself:
  And all the autumn 'twas his only play
  To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them
  With earth and water, on the stumps of trees.                       35
  A Friar, who gather'd simples in the wood,
  A grey-haired man--he lov'd this little boy,
  The boy lov'd him--and, when the Friar taught him,
  He soon could write with the pen: and from that time,
  Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Castle.                         40
  So he became a very learnéd youth.
  But Oh! poor wretch!--he read, and read, and read,
  Till his brain turn'd--and ere his twentieth year,
  He had unlawful thoughts of many things:
  And though he prayed, he never lov'd to pray                        45
  With holy men, nor in a holy place--
  But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,
  The late Lord Velez ne'er was wearied with him.
  And once, as by the north side of the Chapel
  They stood together, chain'd in deep discourse,                     50
  The earth heav'd under them with such a groan,
  That the wall totter'd, and had well-nigh fallen
  Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frighten'd;
  A fever seiz'd him, and he made confession
  Of all the heretical and lawless talk                               55
  Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seiz'd
  And cast into that hole. My husband's father
  Sobb'd like a child--it almost broke his heart:
  And once as he was working in the cellar,
  He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's,                     60
  Who sung a doleful song about green fields,
  How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah,
  To hunt for food, and be a naked man,
  And wander up and down at liberty.
  He always doted on the youth, and now                               65
  His love grew desperate; and defying death,
  He made that cunning entrance I describ'd:
  And the young man escap'd.

  _Maria._                   'Tis a sweet tale:
  Such as would lull a listening child to sleep,
  His rosy face besoil'd with unwiped tears.--                        70
  And what became of him?

  _Foster-Mother._ He went on shipboard
  With those bold voyagers, who made discovery
  Of golden lands. Leoni's younger brother
  Went likewise, and when he return'd to Spain,
  He told Leoni, that the poor mad youth,                             75
  Soon after they arriv'd in that new world,
  In spite of his dissuasion, seiz'd a boat,
  And all alone, set sail by silent moonlight
  Up a great river, great as any sea,
  And ne'er was heard of more: but 'tis suppos'd,                     80
  He liv'd and died among the savage men.

1797.


FOOTNOTES:

[182:1] First published in the first edition of the _Lyrical Ballads_,
1798, and reprinted in the editions of 1800, 1803, and 1805. The
'dramatic fragment' was excluded from the acting version of _Remorse_,
but was printed in an Appendix, p. 75, to the Second Edition of the
Play, 1813. It is included in the body of the work in _Sibylline
Leaves_, 1817, and again in 1852, and in the Appendix to _Remorse_ in
the editions of 1828, 1829, and 1834. It is omitted from 1844. 'The
"Foster-Mother's Tale," (From Mr. C.'s own handwriting)' was published
in Cottle's _Early Recollections_, i. 235.

'The following scene as unfit for the stage was taken from the Tragedy
in 1797, and published in the _Lyrical Ballads_. But this work having
been long out of print, and it having been determined, that this with my
other poems in that collection (the _Nightingale_, _Love_, and the
_Ancient Mariner_) should be omitted in any future edition, I have been
advised to reprint it as a Note to the Second Scene of Act the Fourth,
p. 55.' App. to _Remorse_, Ed. 2, 1813. [This note is reprinted in 1828
and 1829, but in 1834 only the first sentence is prefixed to the scene.]


LINENOTES:

Title] Foster-Mother's Tale. (Scene--Spain) Cottle, 1837: The, &c. A
Narration in Dramatic Blank Verse L. B. 1800. In Remorse, App., 1813 and
in 1828, 1829, 1834, the _dramatis personae_ are respectively Teresa and
Selma. The fragment opens thus:--_Enter Teresa and Selma._

  _Ter._ 'Tis said, he spake of you familiarly
  As mine and Alvar's common foster-mother.

In Cottle's version, the scene begins at line 4.

[1] man] Moor _Osorio_, MS. I.

[12-16] O my dear Mother . . . She gazes idly! om. 1813, 1828, 1829,
1834.

[12] me] us Cottle, 1837.

[13] the] yon _Osorio_, MS. I.

[16] In Lyrical Ballads, 1800, the scene begins with the words: 'But
that entrance'. But that entrance, Selma? 1813.

[19] Leoni] Sesina 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[27] Velez'] Valdez' 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834: Valez' S. L. 1817.

[34] To gather seeds 1813, S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[36] gather'd] oft culled S. L. 1817.

[41] So he became a rare and learned youth 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[41-2]

  So he became a very learned man.
  But O poor youth

Cottle, 1837.

[48] Velez] Valdez 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834: Valez S. L. 1817.

[54] made a confession _Osorio_. A fever seiz'd the youth and he made
confession Cottle, 1837.

[57] hole] cell L. B. 1800: den 1813. [And fetter'd in that den. MS. S.
T. C.].

[59] in the cellar] near this dungeon 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[62] wild] wide 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.

[65] He always] Leoni L. B. 1800.

[68-9] om. L. B. 1800.

[73] Leoni's] Sesina's 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834. younger] youngest S. L.
1817.

[75] Leoni] Sesina 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.




THE DUNGEON[185:1]

     [From _Osorio_, Act V; and _Remorse_, Act V, Scene i. The
     title and text are here printed from _Lyrical Ballads_, 1798.]


  And this place our forefathers made for man!
  This is the process of our love and wisdom,
  To each poor brother who offends against us--
  Most innocent, perhaps--and what if guilty?
  Is this the only cure? Merciful God!                                 5
  Each pore and natural outlet shrivell'd up
  By Ignorance and parching Poverty,
  His energies roll back upon his heart,
  And stagnate and corrupt; till chang'd to poison,
  They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot;                10
  Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks--
  And this is their best cure! uncomforted
  And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
  And savage faces, at the clanking hour,
  Seen through the steams and vapour of his dungeon,                  15
  By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies
  Circled with evil, till his very soul
  Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deform'd
  By sights of ever more deformity!

  With other ministrations thou, O Nature!                            20
  Healest thy wandering and distemper'd child:
  Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
  Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
  Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,
  Till he relent, and can no more endure                              25
  To be a jarring and a dissonant thing,
  Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
  But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
  His angry spirit heal'd and harmoniz'd
  By the benignant touch of Love and Beauty.                          30

1797.


FOOTNOTES:

[185:1] First published in the _Lyrical Ballads_, 1798, and reprinted in
the _Lyrical Ballads_, 1800. First collected (as a separate poem) in
_Poems_, 1893, p. 85.


LINENOTES:

[1] our] my _Osorio_, Act V, i. 107. 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834. man] men
_Osorio_.

[15] steams and vapour] steaming vapours _Osorio_, V, i. 121: steam and
vapours 1813, 1828, 1829, 1834.




THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER[186:1]

IN SEVEN PARTS

     Facile credo, plures esse Naturas invisibiles quam visibiles in
     rerum universitate. Sed horum omnium familiam quis nobis
     enarrabit? et gradus et cognationes et discrimina et
     singulorum munera? Quid agunt? quae loca habitant? Harum rerum
     notitiam semper ambivit ingenium humanum, nunquam attigit.
     Juvat, interea, non diffiteor, quandoque in animo, tanquam in
     tabulâ, majoris et melioris mundi imaginem contemplari: ne
     mens assuefacta hodiernae vitae minutiis se contrahat nimis,
     et tota subsidat in pusillas cogitationes. Sed veritati
     interea invigilandum est, modusque servandus, ut certa ab
     incertis, diem a nocte, distinguamus.--T. BURNET, _Archaeol.
     Phil._ p. 68.[186:2]


ARGUMENT

How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by storms to the cold
Country towards the South Pole; and how from thence she made her course
to the tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean; and of the strange
things that befell; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to
his own Country. [_L. B._ 1798.][186:3]


PART I

[Sidenote: An ancient Mariner meeteth three Gallants bidden to a
wedding-feast, and detaineth one.]

  It is an ancient Mariner,
  And he stoppeth one of three.
  'By thy long grey beard and glittering eye,
  Now wherefore stopp'st thou me?

  The Bridegroom's doors are opened wide,                              5
  And I am next of kin;
  The guests are met, the feast is set:
  May'st hear the merry din.'

  He holds him with his skinny hand,
  'There was a ship,' quoth he.                                       10
  'Hold off! unhand me, grey-beard loon!'
  Eftsoons his hand dropt he.

[Sidenote: The Wedding-Guest is spell-bound by the eye of the old
seafaring man, and constrained to hear his tale.]

  He holds him with his glittering eye--
  The Wedding-Guest stood still,
  And listens like a three years' child:                              15
  The Mariner hath his will.

  The Wedding-Guest sat on a stone:
  He cannot choose but hear;
  And thus spake on that ancient man,
  The bright-eyed Mariner.                                            20

  'The ship was cheered, the harbour cleared,
  Merrily did we drop
  Below the kirk, below the hill,
  Below the lighthouse top.

[Sidenote: The Mariner tells how the ship sailed southward with a good
wind and fair weather, till it reached the line.]

  The Sun came up upon the left,                                      25
  Out of the sea came he!
  And he shone bright, and on the right
  Went down into the sea.

  Higher and higher every day,
  Till over the mast at noon--'                                       30
  The Wedding-Guest here beat his breast,
  For he heard the loud bassoon.

[Sidenote: The Wedding-Guest heareth the bridal music; but the Mariner
continueth his tale.]

  The bride hath paced into the hall,
  Red as a rose is she;
  Nodding their heads before her goes                                 35
  The merry minstrelsy.

  The Wedding-Guest he beat his breast,
  Yet he cannot choose but hear;
  And thus spake on that ancient man,
  The bright-eyed Mariner.                                            40

[Sidenote: The ship driven by a storm toward the south pole.]

  'And now the STORM-BLAST came, and he
  Was tyrannous and strong:
  He struck with his o'ertaking wings,
  And chased us south along.

  With sloping masts and dipping prow,                                45
  As who pursued with yell and blow
  Still treads the shadow of his foe,
  And forward bends his head,
  The ship drove fast, loud roared the blast,
  And southward aye we fled.                                          50

  And now there came both mist and snow,
  And it grew wondrous cold:
  And ice, mast-high, came floating by,
  As green as emerald.

[Sidenote: The land of ice, and of fearful sounds where no living thing
was to be seen.]

  And through the drifts the snowy clifts                             55
  Did send a dismal sheen:
  Nor shapes of men nor beasts we ken--
  The ice was all between.

  The ice was here, the ice was there,
  The ice was all around:                                             60
  It cracked and growled, and roared and howled,
  Like noises in a swound!

[Sidenote: Till a great sea-bird, called the Albatross, came through the
snow-fog, and was received with great joy and hospitality.]

  At length did cross an Albatross,
  Thorough the fog it came;
  As if it had been a Christian soul,                                 65
  We hailed it in God's name.

  It ate the food it ne'er had eat,
  And round and round it flew.
  The ice did split with a thunder-fit;
  The helmsman steered us through!                                    70

[Sidenote: And lo! the Albatross proveth a bird of good omen, and
followeth the ship as it returned northward through fog and floating
ice.]

  And a good south wind sprung up behind;
  The Albatross did follow,
  And every day, for food or play,
  Came to the mariner's hollo!

  In mist or cloud, on mast or shroud,                                75
  It perched for vespers nine;
  Whiles all the night, through fog-smoke white,
  Glimmered the white Moon-shine.'

[Sidenote: The ancient Mariner inhospitably killeth the pious bird of
good omen.]

  'God save thee, ancient Mariner!
  From the fiends, that plague thee thus!--                           80
  Why look'st thou so?'--With my cross-bow
  I shot the ALBATROSS.


PART II

  The Sun now rose upon the right:
  Out of the sea came he,
  Still hid in mist, and on the left                                  85
  Went down into the sea.

  And the good south wind still blew behind,
  But no sweet bird did follow,
  Nor any day for food or play
  Came to the mariners' hollo!                                        90

[Sidenote: His shipmates cry out against the ancient Mariner, for
killing the bird of good luck.]

  And I had done a hellish thing,
  And it would work 'em woe:
  For all averred, I had killed the bird
  That made the breeze to blow.
  Ah wretch! said they, the bird to slay,                             95
  That made the breeze to blow!

[Sidenote: But when the fog cleared off, they justify the same, and thus
make themselves accomplices in the crime.]

  Nor dim nor red, like God's own head,
  The glorious Sun uprist:
  Then all averred, I had killed the bird
  That brought the fog and mist.                                     100
  'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay,
  That bring the fog and mist.

[Sidenote: The fair breeze continues; the ship enters the Pacific Ocean,
and sails northward, even till it reaches the Line.]

  The fair breeze blew, the white foam flew,
  The furrow followed free;
  We were the first that ever burst                                  105
  Into that silent sea.

[Sidenote: The ship hath been suddenly becalmed.]

  Down dropt the breeze, the sails dropt down,
  'Twas sad as sad could be;
  And we did speak only to break
  The silence of the sea!                                            110

  All in a hot and copper sky,
  The bloody Sun at noon,
  Right up above the mast did stand,
  No bigger than the Moon.

  Day after day, day after day,                                      115
  We stuck, nor breath nor motion;
  As idle as a painted ship
  Upon a painted ocean.

[Sidenote: And the Albatross begins to be avenged.]

  Water, water, every where,
  And all the boards did shrink;                                     120
  Water, water, every where,
  Nor any drop to drink.

  The very deep did rot: O Christ!
  That ever this should be!
  Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs                              125
  Upon the slimy sea.

  About, about, in reel and rout
  The death-fires danced at night;
  The water, like a witch's oils,
  Burnt green, and blue and white.                                   130

[Sidenote: A Spirit had followed them; one of the invisible inhabitants
of this planet, neither departed souls nor angels; concerning whom the
learned Jew, Josephus, and the Platonic Constantinopolitan, Michael
Psellus, may be consulted. They are very numerous, and there is no
climate or element without one or more.]

  And some in dreams assuréd were
  Of the Spirit that plagued us so;
  Nine fathom deep he had followed us
  From the land of mist and snow.

  And every tongue, through utter drought,                           135
  Was withered at the root;
  We could not speak, no more than if
  We had been choked with soot.

[Sidenote: The shipmates, in their sore distress, would fain throw the
whole guilt on the ancient Mariner: in sign whereof they hang the dead
sea-bird round his neck.]

  Ah! well a-day! what evil looks
  Had I from old and young!                                          140
  Instead of the cross, the Albatross
  About my neck was hung.


PART III

[Sidenote: The ancient Mariner beholdeth a sign in the element afar
off.]

  There passed a weary time. Each throat
  Was parched, and glazed each eye.
  A weary time! a weary time!                                        145
  How glazed each weary eye,
  When looking westward, I beheld
  A something in the sky.

  At first it seemed a little speck,
  And then it seemed a mist;                                         150
  It moved and moved, and took at last
  A certain shape, I wist.

  A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!
  And still it neared and neared:
  As if it dodged a water-sprite,                                    155
  It plunged and tacked and veered.

[Sidenote: At its nearer approach, it seemeth him to be a ship; and at a
dear ransom he freeth his speech from the bonds of thirst.]

  With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
  We could nor laugh nor wail;
  Through utter drought all dumb we stood!
  I bit my arm, I sucked the blood,                                  160
  And cried, A sail! a sail!

  With throats unslaked, with black lips baked,
  Agape they heard me call:

[Sidenote: A flash of joy;]

  Gramercy! they for joy did grin,
  And all at once their breath drew in,                              165
  As they were drinking all.

[Sidenote: And horror follows. For can it be a ship that comes onward
without wind or tide?]

  See! see! (I cried) she tacks no more!
  Hither to work us weal;
  Without a breeze, without a tide,
  She steadies with upright keel!                                    170

  The western wave was all a-flame.
  The day was well nigh done!
  Almost upon the western wave
  Bested the broad bright Sun;
  When that strange shape drove suddenly                             175
  Betwixt us and the Sun.

[Sidenote: It seemeth him but the skeleton of a ship.]

  And straight the Sun was flecked with bars,
  (Heaven's Mother send us grace!)
  As if through a dungeon-grate he peered
  With broad and burning face.                                       180

[Sidenote: And its ribs are seen as bars on the face of the setting
Sun.]

  Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
  How fast she nears and nears!
  Are those _her_ sails that glance in the Sun,
  Like restless gossameres?

[Sidenote: The Spectre-Woman and her Death-mate, and no other on board
the skeleton ship.]

  Are those _her_ ribs through which the Sun                         185
  Did peer, as through a grate?
  And is that Woman all her crew?
  Is that a DEATH? and are there two?
  Is DEATH that woman's mate?

[Sidenote: Like vessel, like crew!]

[Sidenote: Death and Life-in-Death have diced for the ship's crew, and
she (the latter) winneth the ancient Mariner.]

  _Her_ lips were red, _her_ looks were free,                        190
  Her locks were yellow as gold:
  Her skin was as white as leprosy,
  The Night-mare LIFE-IN-DEATH was she,
  Who thicks man's blood with cold.

  The naked hulk alongside came,                                     195
  And the twain were casting dice;
  'The game is done! I've won! I've won!'
  Quoth she, and whistles thrice.

[Sidenote: No twilight within the[195:1] courts of the Sun.]

  The Sun's rim dips: the stars rush out:
  At one stride comes the dark;                                      200
  With far-heard whisper, o'er the sea,
  Off shot the spectre-bark.

[Sidenote: At the rising of the Moon.]

  We listened and looked sideways up!
  Fear at my heart, as at a cup,
  My life-blood seemed to sip!                                       205
  The stars were dim, and thick the night,
  The steersman's face by his lamp gleamed white;
  From the sails the dew did drip--
  Till clomb above the eastern bar
  The hornéd Moon, with one bright star                              210
  Within the nether tip.

[Sidenote: One after another,]

  One after one, by the star-dogged Moon,
  Too quick for groan or sigh,
  Each turned his face with a ghastly pang,
  And cursed me with his eye.                                        215

[Sidenote: His shipmates drop down dead.]

  Four times fifty living men,
  (And I heard nor sigh nor groan)
  With heavy thump, a lifeless lump,
  They dropped down one by one.

[Sidenote: But Life-in-Death begins her work on the ancient Mariner.]

  The souls did from their bodies fly,--                             220
  They fled to bliss or woe!
  And every soul, it passed me by,
  Like the whizz of my cross-bow!


PART IV

[Sidenote: The Wedding-Guest feareth that a Spirit is talking to him;]

  'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!
  I fear thy skinny hand!                                            225
  And thou art long, and lank, and brown,
  As is the ribbed sea-sand.[196:1]

[Sidenote: But the ancient Mariner assureth him of his bodily life, and
proceedeth to relate his horrible penance.]

  I fear thee and thy glittering eye,
  And thy skinny hand, so brown.'--
  Fear not, fear not, thou Wedding-Guest!                            230
  This body dropt not down.

  Alone, alone, all, all alone,
  Alone on a wide wide sea!
  And never a saint took pity on
  My soul in agony.                                                  235

[Sidenote: He despiseth the creatures of the calm,]

  The many men, so beautiful!
  And they all dead did lie:
  And a thousand thousand slimy things
  Lived on; and so did I.

[Sidenote: And envieth that _they_ should live, and so many lie dead.]

  I looked upon the rotting sea,                                     240
  And drew my eyes away;
  I looked upon the rotting deck,
  And there the dead men lay.

  I looked to heaven, and tried to pray;
  But or ever a prayer had gusht,                                    245
  A wicked whisper came, and made
  My heart as dry as dust.

  I closed my lids, and kept them close,
  And the balls like pulses beat;
  For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky                   250
  Lay like a load on my weary eye,
  And the dead were at my feet.

[Sidenote: But the curse liveth for him in the eye of the dead men.]

  The cold sweat melted from their limbs,
  Nor rot nor reek did they:
  The look with which they looked on me                              255
  Had never passed away.

  An orphan's curse would drag to hell
  A spirit from on high;
  But oh! more horrible than that
  Is the curse in a dead man's eye!                                  260
  Seven days, seven nights, I saw that curse,
  And yet I could not die.

[Sidenote: In his loneliness and fixedness he yearneth towards the
journeying Moon, and the stars that still sojourn, yet still move
onward; and every where the blue sky belongs to them, and is their
appointed rest, and their native country and their own natural homes,
which they enter unannounced, as lords that are certainly expected and
yet there is a silent joy at their arrival.]

  The moving Moon went up the sky,
  And no where did abide:
  Softly she was going up,                                           265
  And a star or two beside--

  Her beams bemocked the sultry main,
  Like April hoar-frost spread;
  But where the ship's huge shadow lay,
  The charméd water burnt alway                                      270
  A still and awful red.

[Sidenote: By the light of the Moon he beholdeth God's creatures of the
great calm.]

  Beyond the shadow of the ship,
  I watched the water-snakes:
  They moved in tracks of shining white,
  And when they reared, the elfish light                             275
  Fell off in hoary flakes.

  Within the shadow of the ship
  I watched their rich attire:
  Blue, glossy green, and velvet black,
  They coiled and swam; and every track                              280
  Was a flash of golden fire.

[Sidenote: Their beauty and their happiness.]

[Sidenote: He blesseth them in his heart.]

  O happy living things! no tongue
  Their beauty might declare:
  A spring of love gushed from my heart,
  And I blessed them unaware:                                        285
  Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
  And I blessed them unaware.

[Sidenote: The spell begins to break.]

  The self-same moment I could pray;
  And from my neck so free
  The Albatross fell off, and sank                                   290
  Like lead into the sea.


PART V

  Oh sleep! it is a gentle thing,
  Beloved from pole to pole!
  To Mary Queen the praise be given!
  She sent the gentle sleep from Heaven,                             295
  That slid into my soul.

[Sidenote: By grace of the holy Mother, the ancient Mariner is refreshed
with rain.]

  The silly buckets on the deck,
  That had so long remained,
  I dreamt that they were filled with dew;
  And when I awoke, it rained.                                       300

  My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
  My garments all were dank;
  Sure I had drunken in my dreams,
  And still my body drank.

  I moved, and could not feel my limbs:                              305
  I was so light--almost
  I thought that I had died in sleep,
  And was a blesséd ghost.

[Sidenote: He heareth sounds and seeth strange sights and commotions in
the sky and the element.]

  And soon I heard a roaring wind:
  It did not come anear;                                             310
  But with its sound it shook the sails,
  That were so thin and sere.

  The upper air burst into life!
  And a hundred fire-flags sheen,
  To and fro they were hurried about!                                315
  And to and fro, and in and out,
  The wan stars danced between.

  And the coming wind did roar more loud,
  And the sails did sigh like sedge;
  And the rain poured down from one black cloud;                     320
  The Moon was at its edge.

  The thick black cloud was cleft, and still
  The Moon was at its side:
  Like waters shot from some high crag,
  The lightning fell with never a jag,                               325
  A river steep and wide.

[Sidenote: The bodies of the ship's crew are inspired [inspirited, S.
L.] and the ship moves on;]

  The loud wind never reached the ship,
  Yet now the ship moved on!
  Beneath the lightning and the Moon
  The dead men gave a groan.                                         330

  They groaned, they stirred, they all uprose,
  Nor spake, nor moved their eyes;
  It had been strange, even in a dream,
  To have seen those dead men rise.

  The helmsman steered, the ship moved on;                           335
  Yet never a breeze up-blew;
  The mariners all 'gan work the ropes,
  Where they were wont to do;
  They raised their limbs like lifeless tools--
  We were a ghastly crew.                                            340

  The body of my brother's son
  Stood by me, knee to knee:
  The body and I pulled at one rope,
  But he said nought to me.

[Sidenote: But not by the souls of the men, nor by dæmons of earth or
middle air, but by a blessed troop of angelic spirits, sent down by the
invocation of the guardian saint.]

  'I fear thee, ancient Mariner!'                                    345
  Be calm, thou Wedding-Guest!
  'Twas not those souls that fled in pain,
  Which to their corses came again,
  But a troop of spirits blest:

  For when it dawned--they dropped their arms,
  And clustered round the mast;                                      351
  Sweet sounds rose slowly through their mouths,
  And from their bodies passed.

  Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
  Then darted to the Sun;                                            355
  Slowly the sounds came back again,
  Now mixed, now one by one.

  Sometimes a-dropping from the sky
  I heard the sky-lark sing;
  Sometimes all little birds that are,                               360
  How they seemed to fill the sea and air
  With their sweet jargoning!

  And now 'twas like all instruments,
  Now like a lonely flute;
  And now it is an angel's song,                                     365
  That makes the heavens be mute.

  It ceased; yet still the sails made on
  A pleasant noise till noon,
  A noise like of a hidden brook
  In the leafy month of June,                                        370
  That to the sleeping woods all night
  Singeth a quiet tune.

  Till noon we quietly sailed on,
  Yet never a breeze did breathe:
  Slowly and smoothly went the ship,                                 375
  Moved onward from beneath.

[Sidenote: The lonesome Spirit from the south-pole carries on the ship
as far as the Line, in obedience to the angelic troop, but still
requireth vengeance.]

  Under the keel nine fathom deep,
  From the land of mist and snow,
  The spirit slid: and it was he
  That made the ship to go.                                          380
  The sails at noon left off their tune,
  And the ship stood still also.

  The Sun, right up above the mast,
  Had fixed her to the ocean:
  But in a minute she 'gan stir,                                     385
  With a short uneasy motion--
  Backwards and forwards half her length
  With a short uneasy motion.

  Then like a pawing horse let go,
  She made a sudden bound:                                           390
  It flung the blood into my head,
  And I fell down in a swound.

[Sidenote: The Polar Spirit's fellow-dæmons, the invisible inhabitants
of the element, take part in his wrong; and two of them relate, one to
the other, that penance long and heavy for the ancient Mariner hath been
accorded to the Polar Spirit, who returneth southward.]

  How long in that same fit I lay,
  I have not to declare;
  But ere my living life returned,                                   395
  I heard and in my soul discerned
  Two voices in the air.

  'Is it he?' quoth one, 'Is this the man?
  By him who died on cross,
  With his cruel bow he laid full low                                400
  The harmless Albatross.

  The spirit who bideth by himself
  In the land of mist and snow,
  He loved the bird that loved the man
  Who shot him with his bow.'                                        405

  The other was a softer voice,
  As soft as honey-dew:
  Quoth he, 'The man hath penance done,
  And penance more will do.'


PART VI

  FIRST VOICE

  'But tell me, tell me! speak again,                                410
  Thy soft response renewing--
  What makes that ship drive on so fast?
  What is the ocean doing?'

  SECOND VOICE

  'Still as a slave before his lord,
  The ocean hath no blast;                                           415
  His great bright eye most silently
  Up to the Moon is cast--

  If he may know which way to go;
  For she guides him smooth or grim.
  See, brother, see! how graciously                                  420
  She looketh down on him.'

[Sidenote: The Mariner hath been cast into a trance; for the angelic
power causeth the vessel to drive northward faster than human life could
endure.]

  FIRST VOICE

  'But why drives on that ship so fast,
  Without or wave or wind?'

  SECOND VOICE

  'The air is cut away before,
  And closes from behind.                                            425

  Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high!
  Or we shall be belated:
  For slow and slow that ship will go,
  When the Mariner's trance is abated.'

[Sidenote: The supernatural motion is retarded; the Mariner awakes, and
his penance begins anew.]

  I woke, and we were sailing on                                     430
  As in a gentle weather:
  'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high;
  The dead men stood together.

  All stood together on the deck,
  For a charnel-dungeon fitter:                                      435
  All fixed on me their stony eyes,
  That in the Moon did glitter.

  The pang, the curse, with which they died,
  Had never passed away:
  I could not draw my eyes from theirs,                              440
  Nor turn them up to pray.

[Sidenote: The curse is finally expiated.]

  And now this spell was snapt: once more
  I viewed the ocean green,
  And looked far forth, yet little saw
  Of what had else been seen--                                       445

  Like one, that on a lonesome road
  Doth walk in fear and dread,
  And having once turned round walks on,
  And turns no more his head;
  Because he knows, a frightful fiend                                450
  Doth close behind him tread.

  But soon there breathed a wind on me,
  Nor sound nor motion made:
  Its path was not upon the sea,
  In ripple or in shade.                                             455

  It raised my hair, it fanned my cheek
  Like a meadow-gale of spring--
  It mingled strangely with my fears,
  Yet it felt like a welcoming.

  Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,                                    460
  Yet she sailed softly too:
  Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze--
  On me alone it blew.

[Sidenote: And the ancient Mariner beholdeth his native country.]

  Oh! dream of joy! is this indeed
  The light-house top I see?                                         465
  Is this the hill? is this the kirk?
  Is this mine own countree?

  We drifted o'er the harbour-bar,
  And I with sobs did pray--
  O let me be awake, my God!                                         470
  Or let me sleep alway.

  The harbour-bay was clear as glass,
  So smoothly it was strewn!
  And on the bay the moonlight lay,
  And the shadow of the Moon.                                        475

  The rock shone bright, the kirk no less,
  That stands above the rock:
  The moonlight steeped in silentness
  The steady weathercock.

[Sidenote: The angelic spirits leave the dead bodies,]

  And the bay was white with silent light,                           480
  Till rising from the same,
  Full many shapes, that shadows were,
  In crimson colours came.

[Sidenote: And appear in their own forms of light.]

  A little distance from the prow
  Those crimson shadows were:                                        485
  I turned my eyes upon the deck--
  Oh, Christ! what saw I there!

  Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat,
  And, by the holy rood!
  A man all light, a seraph-man,                                     490
  On every corse there stood.

  This seraph-band, each waved his hand:
  It was a heavenly sight!
  They stood as signals to the land,
  Each one a lovely light;                                           495

  This seraph-band, each waved his hand,
  No voice did they impart--
  No voice; but oh! the silence sank
  Like music on my heart.

  But soon I heard the dash of oars,                                 500
  I heard the Pilot's cheer;
  My head was turned perforce away,
  And I saw a boat appear.

  The Pilot and the Pilot's boy,
  I heard them coming fast:                                          505
  Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy
  The dead men could not blast.

  I saw a third--I heard his voice:
  It is the Hermit good!
  He singeth loud his godly hymns                                    510
  That he makes in the wood.
  He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away
  The Albatross's blood.


PART VII

[Sidenote: The Hermit of the Wood,]

  This Hermit good lives in that wood
  Which <DW72>s down to the sea.                                      515
  How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
  He loves to talk with marineres
  That come from a far countree.

  He kneels at morn, and noon, and eve--
  He hath a cushion plump:                                           520
  It is the moss that wholly hides
  The rotted old oak-stump.

  The skiff-boat neared: I heard them talk,
  'Why, this is strange, I trow!
  Where are those lights so many and fair,                           525
  That signal made but now?'

[Sidenote: Approacheth the ship with wonder.]

  'Strange, by my faith!' the Hermit said--
  'And they answered not our cheer!
  The planks looked warped! and see those sails,
  How thin they are and sere!                                        530
  I never saw aught like to them,
  Unless perchance it were

  Brown skeletons of leaves that lag
  My forest-brook along;
  When the ivy-tod is heavy with snow,                               535
  And the owlet whoops to the wolf below,
  That eats the she-wolf's young.'

  'Dear Lord! it hath a fiendish look--
  (The Pilot made reply)
  I am a-feared'--'Push on, push on!'                                540
  Said the Hermit cheerily.

  The boat came closer to the ship,
  But I nor spake nor stirred;
  The boat came close beneath the ship,
  And straight a sound was heard.                                    545

[Sidenote: The ship suddenly sinketh.]

  Under the water it rumbled on,
  Still louder and more dread:
  It reached the ship, it split the bay;
  The ship went down like lead.

[Sidenote: The ancient Mariner is saved in the Pilot's boat.]

  Stunned by that loud and dreadful sound,                           550
  Which sky and ocean smote,
  Like one that hath been seven days drowned
  My body lay afloat;
  But swift as dreams, myself I found
  Within the Pilot's boat.                                           555

  Upon the whirl, where sank the ship,
  The boat spun round and round;
  And all was still, save that the hill
  Was telling of the sound.

  I moved my lips--the Pilot shrieked                                560
  And fell down in a fit;
  The holy Hermit raised his eyes,
  And prayed where he did sit.

  I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,
  Who now doth crazy go,                                             565
  Laughed loud and long, and all the while
  His eyes went to and fro.
  'Ha! ha!' quoth he, 'full plain I see.
  The Devil knows how to row.'

  And now, all in my own countree,                                   570
  I stood on the firm land!
  The Hermit stepped forth from the boat,
  And scarcely he could stand.

[Sidenote: The ancient Mariner earnestly entreateth the Hermit to
shrieve him; and the penance of life falls on him.]

  'O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy man!'
  The Hermit crossed his brow.                                       575
  'Say quick,' quoth he, 'I bid thee say--
  What manner of man art thou?'

  Forthwith this frame of mine was wrenched
  With a woful agony,
  Which forced me to begin my tale;                                  580
  And then it left me free.

[Sidenote: And ever and anon throughout his future life an agony
constraineth him to travel from land to land;]

  Since then, at an uncertain hour,
  That agony returns:
  And till my ghastly tale is told,
  This heart within me burns.                                        585

  I pass, like night, from land to land;
  I have strange power of speech;
  That moment that his face I see,
  I know the man that must hear me:
  To him my tale I teach.                                            590

  What loud uproar bursts from that door!
  The wedding-guests are there:
  But in the garden-bower the bride
  And bride-maids singing are:
  And hark the little vesper bell,                                   595
  Which biddeth me to prayer!

  O Wedding-Guest! this soul hath been
  Alone on a wide wide sea:
  So lonely 'twas, that God himself
  Scarce seeméd there to be.                                         600

  O sweeter than the marriage-feast,
  'Tis sweeter far to me,
  To walk together to the kirk
  With a goodly company!--

  To walk together to the kirk,                                      605
  And all together pray,
  While each to his great Father bends,
  Old men, and babes, and loving friends
  And youths and maidens gay!

[Sidenote: And to teach, by his own example, love and reverence to all
things that God made and loveth.]

  Farewell, farewell! but this I tell                                610
  To thee, thou Wedding-Guest!
  He prayeth well, who loveth well
  Both man and bird and beast.

  He prayeth best, who loveth best
  All things both great and small;                                   615
  For the dear God who loveth us,
  He made and loveth all.

  The Mariner, whose eye is bright,
  Whose beard with age is hoar,
  Is gone: and now the Wedding-Guest                                 620
  Turned from the bridegroom's door.

  He went like one that hath been stunned,
  And is of sense forlorn:
  A sadder and a wiser man,
  He rose the morrow morn.                                           625

1797-1798.


FOOTNOTES:

[186:1] The _Ancient Mariner_ was first published in the _Lyrical
Ballads_, 1798. It was reprinted in the succeeding editions of 1800,
1802, and 1805. It was first published under the Author's name in
_Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, and included in 1828, 1829, and 1834. For the
full text of the poem as published in 1798, vide Appendices. The
marginal glosses were added in 1815-1816, when a collected edition of
Coleridge's poems was being prepared for the press, and were first
published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, but it is possible that they were
the work of a much earlier period. The text of the _Ancient Mariner_ as
reprinted in _Lyrical Ballads_, 1802, 1805 follows that of 1800.

[186:2] The text of the original passage is as follows: 'Facilè credo,
plures esse naturas invisibiles quam visibiles, in rerum universitate:
pluresque Angelorum ordines in cælo, quam sunt pisces in mari: Sed horum
omnium familiam quis nobis enarrabit? Et gradus, et cognationes, et
discrimina, et singulorum munera? Harum rerum notitiam semper ambivit
ingenium humanum, nunquam attigit . . . Juvat utique non etc.:
_Archaeologiae Philosophicae sive Doctrina Antiqua De Rerum Originibus._
Libri Duo: Londini, MDCXCII, p. 68.'

[186:3] How a Ship, having first sailed to the Equator, was driven by
Storms to the cold Country towards the South Pole; how the Ancient
Mariner cruelly and in contempt of the laws of hospitality killed a
Sea-bird and how he was followed by many and strange Judgements: and in
what manner he came back to his own Country, [_L. B._ 1800.]

[195:1] _Om._ in _Sibylline Leaves, 1817_.

[196:1] For the last two lines of this stanza, I am indebted to Mr.
WORDSWORTH. It was on a delightful walk from Nether Stowey to Dulverton,
with him and his sister, in the Autumn of 1797, that this Poem was
planned, and in part composed. [Note by S. T. C., first printed in
_Sibylline Leaves_.]


LINENOTES:

Title] The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere. In Seven Parts L. B. 1798: The
Ancient Mariner. A Poet's Reverie L. B. 1800, 1802, 1805.

[Note.--The 'Argument' was omitted in L. B. 1802, 1805, Sibylline
Leaves, 1817, and in 1828, 1829, and 1834.]

PART I] I L. B. 1798, 1800. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. In Seven
Parts. S. L., 1828, 1829.

[1] It is an ancyent Marinere L. B. 1798 [ancient is spelled 'ancyent'
and Mariner 'Marinere' through out L. B. 1798].

[3] thy glittering eye L. B. 1798, 1800.

[4] stopp'st thou] stoppest L. B. 1798, 1800.

[Between 8 and 13]

  But still he holds the wedding guest--
    There was a Ship, quoth he--
  'Nay, if thou'st got a laughsome tale,
    Marinere, [Mariner! 1800] come with me.'

  He holds him with his skinny hand--
    Quoth he, there was a Ship--
  Now get thee hence thou greybeard Loon!
    Or my Staff shall make thee skip.

L. B. 1798, 1800.

[Between 40 and 55]

  Listen, Stranger! Storm and Wind,
    A Wind and Tempest strong!
  For days and weeks it play'd us freaks--
    Like chaff we drove along.

  Listen Stranger! Mist and Snow,
    And it grew wondrous cauld;
  And Ice mast-high came floating by
    As green as Emerauld.

L. B. 1798.

[Between 40 and 51]

  But now the Northwind came more fierce,
    There came a Tempest strong!
  And Southward still for days and weeks
    Like Chaff we drove along.

L. B. 1800.

Lines 41-50 of the text were added in Sibylline Leaves, 1817. [_Note._
The emendation in the marginal gloss, 'driven' for 'drawn' first appears
in 1893.]

[55] clifts] clift S. L. [probably a misprint. It is not corrected in
the _Errata_.]

[57] Nor . . . nor] Ne . . . ne L. B. 1798.

[62] Like noises of a swound L. B. 1798: A wild and ceaseless sound L.
B. 1800.

[65] And an it were L. B. 1798: As if MS. Corr. S. T. C.

[67] The Mariners gave it biscuit-worms L. B. 1798, 1800.

[77] fog-smoke white] fog smoke-white L. B. 1798 (_corr. in Errata_).

PART II] II L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part the
Second, S. L. 1828, 1829.

[83] The Sun came up L. B. 1798.

[85] And broad as a weft upon the left L. B. 1798.

[89] Nor] Ne L. B. 1798.

[90] mariners'] Marinere's L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L. 1817:
Mariner's L. B. 1800.

[91] a] an all editions to 1834.

[95-6] om. L. B. 1798, 1800: were added in Sibylline Leaves.

[97] Nor . . . nor] ne . . . ne L. B. 1798. like an Angel's head L. B.
1800.

[103] The breezes blew L. B. 1798, 1800.

[104] [190:A]The furrow stream'd off free S. L. 1817.

     [190:A] In the former editions the line was,

       The furrow follow'd free:

     But I had not been long on board a ship, before I perceived
     that this was the image as seen by a spectator from the shore,
     or from another vessel. From the ship itself, the _Wake_
     appears like a brook flowing off from the stern. _Note to S.
     L. 1817._

[116] nor . . . nor] ne . . . ne L. B. 1798.

[122] Nor] Ne L. B. 1798.

[123] deep] deeps L. B. 1798, 1800.

[139] well a-day] wel-a-day L. B. 1798, 1800.

[Between 143 and 149]

  I saw a something in the sky
    No bigger than my fist;
  At first it seem'd, &c.

L. B. 1798.

[Between 143 and 147]

  So past a weary time, each throat
    Was parch'd and glaz'd each eye,
  When looking westward, &c.

L. B. 1800.

[Lines 143-8 of the text in their present shape were added in Sibylline
Leaves, 1817.]

PART III] III L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part
the Third, S. L. 1828, 1829.

[154] And still it ner'd and ner'd. L. B. 1798, 1800.

[155] And, an it dodg'd L. B. 1798: And, as if it dodg'd L. B. 1800, S.
L. 1817.

[157-60]

  With throat unslack'd with black lips baked
    Ne could we laugh, ne wail,
  Then while thro' drouth all dumb they stood
  I bit my arm, and suck'd the blood

L. B. 1798.

[157] With throat unslack'd, &c. L. B. 1800, 1802, S. L. 1817.

[160] Till I bit my arm and suck'd the blood L. B. 1800.

[162] With throat unslack'd, &c. L. B. 1798, 1800, 1802, S. L. 1817.

[167-70]

  She doth not tack from side to side--
    Hither to work us weal.
  Withouten wind, withouten tide
    She steddies with upright keel.

L. B. 1798.

[170] She steddies L. B. 1800, S. L. 1817.

[177] straight] strait L. B. 1798, 1800.

[182] neres and neres L. B. 1798, 1800.

[183] _her_] her 1834, _and also in_ 185 _and_ 190.

[Between 184-90]

  Are those her naked ribs, which fleck'd
    The sun that did behind them peer?
  And are those two all, all the crew,[193:A]
    That woman and her fleshless Pheere?

  _His_ bones were black with many a crack,
    All black and bare I ween;
  Jet-black and bare, save where with rust
  Of mouldy damps and charnel crust
    They're patch'd with purple and green.

L. B. 1798.

  Are those _her_ ribs which fleck'd the Sun
    Like the bars of a dungeon grate?
  And are those two all, all the crew
    That woman and her mate?

MS. Correction of S. T. C. in L. B. 1798.

  Are those _her_ Ribs, thro' which the Sun
    Did peer as thro' a grate?
  And are those two all, all her crew,
    That Woman, and her Mate?

  _His_ bones were black with many a crack

         *       *       *       *       *

  They were patch'd with purple and green.

L. B. 1800.

  This Ship it was a plankless thing,
  --A bare Anatomy!
  A plankless spectre--and it mov'd
  Like a Being of the Sea!
  The woman and a fleshless man
  Therein sate merrily.

  His bones were black, &c. (as in 1800).

This stanza was found added in the handwriting of the Poet in the margin
of a copy of the Bristol Edition [1798] of Lyrical Ballads. It is here
printed for the first time. _Note P. and D. W., 1877-80, ii. 36._

     [193:A] those] these _Errata, L. B. 1798_.

[190-4]

  _Her_ lips are red, _her_ looks are free,
    _Her_ locks are yellow as gold:
  Her skin is as white as leprosy,
  And she is far liker Death than he;
    Her flesh makes the still air cold.

L. B. 1798.

  _Her_ lips were red, _her_ looks were free,
    _Her_ locks were as yellow as gold:
  Her skin was as white as leprosy,
  And she was far liker Death than he;
    Her flesh made the still air cold.

L. B. 1800.

[196] casting] playing L. B. 1798, 1800.

[197] The game is done, I've, I've won S. L. 1817, 1828, 1839, 1834,
1844. The restoration of the text of 1798 and 1800 dates from 1852.

[198] whistles] whistled L. B. 1798, 1800.

[Between 198-218]

  A gust of wind sterte up behind
    And whistled thro' his bones;
  Thro the { holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth
           { hole L. B. 1802, 1805
    Half-whistles and half-groans.

  With never a whisper in the Sea
    Off darts the Spectre-ship;
  While clombe above the Eastern bar
  The horned Moon with one bright Star
    Almost atween the tips.
    [Almost between the tips. L. B. 1800.]

  One after one by the horned Moon
    (Listen, O Stranger! to me)
  Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang
    And curs'd me with his ee.

  Four times fifty living men,
    With never a sigh or groan,

L. B. 1798, 1800.

[Between 198-9] A gust of wind . . . half groans. S. L. (Page 15 erase
the second stanza. Errata_, S. L., p. [xi].)

[Between 201-12]

  With never a whisper on the main
    Off shot the spectre ship;
  And stifled words and groans of pain
    Mix'd on each murmuring} lip.
                  trembling}
  And we look'd round, and we look'd up,
  And fear at our hearts, as at a cup,
    The Life-blood seem'd to sip--

  The sky was dull, and dark the night,
  The helmsman's face by his lamp gleam'd bright,
    From the sails the dews did drip--
  Till clomb above the Eastern Bar,
  The horned Moon, with one bright star
    Within its nether tip.

Undated MS. correction of S. T. C. (first published 1893).

[208] dew] dews S. L. 1817.

[209] clomb] clombe S. L. 1817, 1828.

PART IV] IV. L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part the
Fourth S. L. 1828, 1829.

[220] The] Their L. B. 1798, 1800.

[224] ancyent Marinere L. B. 1798.

[233-4]

  Alone on the wide wide sea;
  And Christ would take no pity on

L. B. 1798, 1800.

[238] And a million, million slimy things L. B. 1798, 1800.

[242] rotting] eldritch L. B. 1798: ghastly L. B. 1800.

[249] And] Till L. B. 1798, 1800.

[251] load] cloud S. L. (for _cloud_ read _load_. _Errata_, S. L., p.
[xi]).

[254] Ne rot, ne reek L. B. 1798.

[260] the curse] a curse 1828, 1829.

[268] Like morning frosts yspread L. B. 1798.

PART V] V. L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part the
Fifth S. L. 1828, 1829.

[294] To Mary-queen L. B. 1798, 1800. given] yeven L. B. 1798.

[300] awoke] woke (a pencilled correction in 1828, ? by S. T. C.).

[309] The roaring wind! it roar'd far off L. B. 1798.

[313] burst] bursts L. B. 1798.

[315] were] are L. B. 1798.

[317] The stars dance on between. L. B. 1798.

[317-24]

  The coming wind doth roar more loud;
    The sails do sigh, like sedge:
  The rain pours down from one black cloud
    And the Moon is at its edge.

  Hark! hark! the thick black cloud is cleft,
    And the Moon is at its side

L. B. 1798.

[325] fell] falls L. B. 1798.

[327-8]

  The strong wind reach'd the ship: it roar'd
    And dropp'd down like a stone!

L. B. 1798.

[332] nor . . . nor] ne . . . ne L. B. 1798.

[Between 344-5]

  And I quak'd to think of my own voice
    How frightful it would be!

L. B. 1798.

[345-9] om. in L. B. 1798, added in L. B. 1800.

[350] The daylight dawn'd L. B. 1798.

[359] sky-lark] Lavrock L. B. 1798.

[Between 372-3]

  Listen, O listen, thou Wedding-guest!
    'Marinere! thou hast thy will:
  For that, which comes out of thine eye, doth make
    My body and soul to be still.'

  Never sadder tale was told
    To a man of woman born:
  Sadder and wiser thou wedding-guest!
    Thoul't rise to-morrow morn.

  Never sadder tale was heard
    By a man of woman born:
  The Marineres all return'd to work
    As silent as beforne.

  The Marineres all 'gan pull the ropes,
    But look at me they n'old;
  Thought I, I am as thin as air--
    They cannot me behold.

L. B. 1798.

[373] quietly] silently L. B. 1798, 1800.

[392] down in] into L. B. 1798, 1800.

PART VI] VI. L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. Part the
Sixth S. L. 1828, 1829.

[423] Withouten wave L. B. 1798.

[440-1] een from theirs; Ne turn L. B. 1798.

[442-6]

  And in its time the spell was snapt,
    And I could move my een:
  I look'd far-forth, but little saw
    Of what might else be seen.

L. B. 1798.

[446] lonesome] lonely L. B. 1798.

[453] Nor . . . nor] Ne . . . ne L. B. 1798.

[464] O dream L. B. 1798, 1800.

[Between 475-80]

  The moonlight bay was white all o'er,
    Till rising from the same,
  Full many shapes, that shadows were,
    Like as of torches came.

  A little distance from the prow
    Those dark-red shadows were;
  But soon I saw that my own flesh
    Was red as in a glare.

  I turn'd my head in fear and dread,
    And by the holy rood,
  The bodies had advanc'd, and now
    Before the mast they stood.

  They lifted up their stiff right arms,
    They held them strait and tight;
  And each right-arm burnt like a torch,
    A torch that's borne upright.
  Their stony eye-balls glitter'd on
    In the red and smoky light.

  I pray'd and turn'd my head away
    Forth looking as before.
  There was no breeze upon the bay,
    No wave against the shore.

L. B. 1798.

[487] Oh, Christ!] O Christ L. B. 1798, 1800.

[498] oh!] O L. B. 1798, 1800.

[500] But soon] Eftsones L. B. 1798.

[Between 503-4]

  Then vanish'd all the lovely lights;[205:A]
    The bodies rose anew:
  With silent pace, each to his place,
    Came back the ghastly crew,
  The wind, that shade nor motion made,
    On me alone it blew.

L. B. 1798.

     [205:A]

       Then vanish'd all the lovely lights,
         The spirits of the air,
       No souls of mortal men were they,
         But spirits bright and fair.

     _MS. Correction by S. T. C. in a copy of L. B. 1798._

[511] makes] maketh (a pencilled correction in 1828, ? by S. T. C.).

PART VII] VII. L. B. 1798, 1800: The Rime of the Ancient Mariner, Part
the Seventh S. L. 1829: The Ancient Mariner. Part the Seventh 1828.

[517] marineres] mariners L. B. 1800.

[518] That come from a far Contrée. L. B. 1798.

[523] neared] ner'd L. B. 1798, 1800.

[529] looked] look L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L.

[533] Brown] The L. B. 1798, 1800, S. L. [for _The_ read _Brown_.
_Errata_, S. L. 1817, p. (xi)].

[543] nor . . . nor] ne . . . ne L. B. 1798.

[577] What manner man L. B. 1798, 1800.

[582-5]

  Since then at an uncertain hour,
    Now ofttimes and now fewer,
  That anguish comes and makes me tell
    My ghastly aventure.

L. B. 1798.

[583] agony] agency [_a misprint_] L. B. 1800.

[588] That] The L. B. 1798, 1800.

[610] Farewell, farewell] _The comma to be omitted._ _Errata_, L. B.
1798.

[618] The Marinere L. B. 1798.




SONNETS ATTEMPTED IN THE MANNER OF CONTEMPORARY WRITERS[209:1]

[SIGNED 'NEHEMIAH HIGGINBOTTOM']


I

  Pensive at eve on the _hard_ world I mus'd,
  And _my poor_ heart was sad: so at the Moon
  I gaz'd--and sigh'd, and sigh'd!--for, ah! how soon
  Eve darkens into night. Mine eye perus'd
  With tearful vacancy the _dampy_ grass                               5
  Which wept and glitter'd in the _paly_ ray;
  And _I did pause me_ on my lonely way,
  And _mused me_ on those _wretched ones_ who pass
  _O'er the black heath_ of Sorrow. But, alas!
  Most of _Myself_ I thought: when it befell                          10
  That the _sooth_ Spirit of the breezy wood
  Breath'd in mine ear--'All this is very well;
  But much of _one_ thing is for _no_ thing good.'
  Ah! my _poor heart's_ INEXPLICABLE SWELL!


II

TO SIMPLICITY

  O! I do love thee, meek _Simplicity_!
  For of thy lays the lulling simpleness
  Goes to my heart and soothes each small distress,
  Distress though small, yet haply great to me!
  'Tis true on Lady Fortune's gentlest pad                             5
  I amble on; yet, though I know not why,
  _So_ sad I am!--but should a friend and I
  Grow cool and _miff_, O! I am _very_ sad!
  And then with sonnets and with sympathy
  My dreamy bosom's mystic woes I pall;                               10
  Now of my false friend plaining plaintively,
  Now raving at mankind in general;
  But, whether sad or fierce, 'tis simple all,
  All very simple, meek Simplicity!


III

ON A RUINED HOUSE IN A ROMANTIC COUNTRY

  And this reft house is that the which he built,
  Lamented Jack! And here his malt he pil'd,
  Cautious in vain! These rats that squeak so wild,
  Squeak, not unconscious of their father's guilt.
  Did ye not see her gleaming thro' the glade?
  Belike, 'twas she, the maiden all forlorn.
  What though she milk no cow with crumpled horn,
  Yet _aye_ she haunts the dale where _erst_ she stray'd;
  And _aye_ beside her stalks her amorous knight!
  Still on his thighs their wonted brogues are worn,                  10
  And thro' those brogues, still tatter'd and betorn,
  His hindward charms gleam an unearthly white;
  As when thro' broken clouds at night's high noon
  Peeps in fair fragments forth the full-orb'd harvest-moon!

1797.


FOOTNOTES:

[209:1] First published in the _Monthly Magazine_ for November, 1797.
They were reprinted in the _Poetical Register_ for 1803 (1805); by
Coleridge in the _Biographia Literaria_, 1817, i. 26-8[A]; and by Cottle
in _Early Recollections_, i. 290-2; and in _Reminiscences_, p. 160. They
were first collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877-80, i. 211-13.

[A] 'Under the name of Nehemiah Higginbottom I contributed three
sonnets, the first of which had for its object to excite a good-natured
laugh at the spirit of doleful egotism and at the recurrence of
favourite phrases, with the double defect of being at once trite and
licentious. The second was on low creeping language and thoughts under
the pretence of _simplicity_. The third, the phrases of which were
borrowed entirely from my own poems, on the indiscriminate use of
elaborate and swelling language and imagery. . . . So general at the
time and so decided was the opinion concerning the characteristic vices
of my style that a celebrated physician (now alas! no more) speaking of
me in other respects with his usual kindness to a gentleman who was
about to meet me at a dinner-party could not, however, resist giving him
a hint not to mention _The House that Jack Built_ in my presence, for
that I was as sore as a boil about that sonnet, he not knowing that I
was myself the author of it.'

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


LINENOTES:

Title] Sonnet I M. M.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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




PARLIAMENTARY OSCILLATORS[211:1]


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1798.
                                       (_Signed:_ LABERIUS.)


FOOTNOTES:

[211:1] First published in the _Cambridge Intelligencer_, January 6,
1798: included in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: _Essays on His own Times_,
1850, iii. 969-70. First collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877-80. In
_Sibylline Leaves_ the poem is incorrectly dated 1794.

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


LINENOTES:

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

[2] right] tight C. I.

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

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

[14] the] his C. I.

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

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

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

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

[31] Fasten] Fallen C. I.




CHRISTABEL[213:1]


PREFACE

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

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

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


PART I

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


THE CONCLUSION TO PART I

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

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

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

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

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

1797.


PART II

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1800.


THE CONCLUSION TO PART II

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

1801.


FOOTNOTES:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

5. Transcription made by Sarah Hutchinson = _S. H._

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

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

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

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

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


LINENOTES:

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

_Christabel_--Preface. 2 The year one thousand seven hundred and ninety
seven 1816, 1828, 1829.

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

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

[23] doggrel 1816, 1828, 1829.


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

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

[6-7]

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

H. 1816.

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

H. 1816, 1828, 1829, 1893.

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

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

[Between 28-9]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[39] can] could H. 1816.

[45-7] om. MS. W.

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

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

[58-66]

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

MS. W.

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

[61-6]

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

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

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

First Edition.

[65]

  And the jewels were tangled in her hair.

S. T. C. (b).

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

[74] scarce can] cannot H. 1816.

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

[81-3]

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

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

  Five warriors, &c. as in the text

S. T. C. (b)

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

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

Christabel.

The motto to Chapter XXIV of _The Betrothed_ (1825) is slightly
different:--

  Four Ruffians . . . palfrey white.]

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

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

[96] comrades] comrade MS. W.

[98] He] They MS. W.

[106-11]

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

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

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

[112-22]

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

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

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

[114-17]

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

S. T. C. (b).

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[166-9]

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

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

[167] Added in 1828.

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

[173-4]

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

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

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

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

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

[Between 193-4]

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

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

[The omission was made in the First Edition.]

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

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

[225] far] fair MS. W.

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

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

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

[Between 254 and 263]

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

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

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

H. 1816 erased.

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

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

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

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

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

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

[294] _Here in MS. W. the handwriting changes._ 'Dreaming' _was written
by S. T. C._, 'yet' _by Mary Hutchinson_.

[295] is] _is_ H. 1816.

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

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

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

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

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

[353] sinful] simple MS. W.

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

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

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

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

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

[364] silken] simple MS. W.

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

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

[419] But] And MS. W.

[424-5]

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

MS. Letter to Poole, Feb. 1813.

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

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

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

[490] om. MS. W.

[503] beautiful] beauteous MS. W.

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

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

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

[560] vowed] swore MS. W.

[563] loiter] wander MS. W.

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

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

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

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

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

[620] the] that MS. W.

[639] but] not MS. W.

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

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

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

[660-1]

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

Letter, 1801.

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

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




LINES TO W. L.[236:1]

WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC


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

1797.


FOOTNOTES:

[236:1] First published in the _Annual Anthology_ for 1800: included in
_Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. A MS. is extant dated
Sept. 14, 1797.

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


LINENOTES:

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

[3] L----[236:2]!] Linley! MS. 1893.

[10] at] by An. Anth.

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




FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER[237:1]

A WAR ECLOGUE


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

  _Fam._ Sisters! sisters! who sent you here?

  _Slau._ [_to Fire_]. I will whisper it in her ear.

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

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

  _Slau._ Letters four do form his name--
  And who sent you?

  _Both._      The same! the same!                                    20

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

  _Both._ Who bade you do 't?

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

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

  _Both._ Whisper it, sister! in our ear.

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

  _Both._ Who bade you do 't?

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

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

  _Both._ Who bade you do't?

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

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

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

  _Slau._ They shall tear him limb from limb!

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

1798.


FOOTNOTES:

[237:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, January 8, 1798: included
in _Annual Anthology_, 1800, and (with an Apologetic Preface, vide
_Appendices_) in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The poem was
probably written in 1796. See _Watchman_, _passim_.


LINENOTES:

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

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

[5] a] an all editions to 1834.

[11] me] _me_ M. P.

[16] a] an all editions to 1834.

[17-18]

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

M. P.

  In a dark hint, soft and low.

An. Anth.

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

[20] _Both_] FAMINE M. P.

[22-3]

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

M. P.

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

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

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

[29] Their wives and children M. P.

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

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

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

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

[47] Hedge] Huts M. P.

[48] om. An. Anth.

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

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

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

[54] through] all M. P.

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

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

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

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

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

[67] we] I M. P.

[71] and] of M. P.

[75 foll.]

  For him that did so much for you.

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

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

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

M. P.

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




FROST AT MIDNIGHT[240:1]


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

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

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

_February_, 1798.[242:1]


FOOTNOTES:

[240:1] First published in a quarto pamphlet 'printed by Johnson in S.
Paul's Churchyard, 1798': included in _Poetical Register_, 1808-9
(1812): in _Fears in Solitude_, &c., printed by Law and Gilbert, (?)
1812: in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[240:2] _Only that film._ In all parts of the kingdom these films are
called _strangers_ and supposed to portend the arrival of some absent
friend. _4{o}_, _P. R._

[242:1] The date is omitted in _1829_ and in _1834_.


LINENOTES:

[Between 19-25]

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

4{o}.

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

P. R.

[Between 20-4]

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

S. L. 1828.

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

[27] had] have P. R.

[32] wild] sweet S. L. (for _sweet_ read _wild_. _Errata_, S. L., p.
[xii]).

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

[46] Fill] Fill'd S. L. (for _Fill'd_ read _Fill_. _Errata_, S. L., p.
[xii]).

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

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

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

[71] trances] traces S. L. (for _traces_ read _trances_. _Errata_, S.
L., p. [xii]).

[72-end]

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

4{o}.




FRANCE: AN ODE[243:1]


  I

  Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause,
  Whose pathless march no mortal may controul!
  Ye Ocean-Waves! that, wheresoe'er ye roll,
  Yield homage only to eternal laws!
  Ye Woods! that listen to the night-birds singing,                    5
    Midway the smooth and perilous <DW72> reclined,
  Save when your own imperious branches swinging,
    Have made a solemn music of the wind!
  Where, like a man beloved of God,
  Through glooms, which never woodman trod,                           10
      How oft, pursuing fancies holy,
  My moonlight way o'er flowering weeds I wound,
      Inspired, beyond the guess of folly,
  By each rude shape and wild unconquerable sound!
  O ye loud Waves! and O ye Forests high!                             15
    And O ye Clouds that far above me soared!
  Thou rising Sun! thou blue rejoicing Sky!
    Yea, every thing that is and will be free!
    Bear witness for me, wheresoe'er ye be,
    With what deep worship I have still adored                        20
      The spirit of divinest Liberty.

  II

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

  III

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

  IV

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

  V

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

_February_, 1798.


FOOTNOTES:

[243:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, April 16, 1798: included
in quarto pamphlet published by J. Johnson, 1798: reprinted in _Morning
Post_, Oct. 14, 1802: included in _Poetical Register_ for 1808-9 (1812);
in _Fears in Solitude, &c._, printed by Law and Gilbert, (?) 1812; in
_Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. Lines 85, 98 are quoted
from 'France, _a Palinodia_', in _Biog. Lit._, 1817, i. 195. To the
first _Morning Post_ version (1798) an editorial note was prefixed:--

ORIGINAL POETRY.

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

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

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

To the second _Morning Post_ version (1802) a note and Argument were
prefixed:--

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

ARGUMENT.

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


LINENOTES:

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

[1] and] or 1802.

[2] Veering your pathless march without controul 1802.

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

[6] <DW72>] steep 1798, 4{o}, 1802, P. R.

[12] way] path 1802.

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

[24] foot] feet 1798.

[26] lofty] eager 1802.

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

[30] marched] mov'd 1802.

[34] the] that 1802.

[35] flung] spread 1802.

[41] But] I 1802.

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

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

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

[53] insupportably] irresistibly 1802.

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

[58] reproached] rebuk'd 1802.

[59] said] cried 1802.

[62] compel] persuade 1802.

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

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

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

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

[75] stormy] native 1802.

[77] taint] stain 1802.

[79] patriot] patient 1798, 1802.

[80] Was this thy boast 1802.

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

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

  VI

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

1798.

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

[91] strain] pomp B. L.

[92] in] on 1802.

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

[97] subtle] cherub B. L.

[98]

  To live amid the winds and move upon the waves

1798, 4{o}, P. R.

  To live among the winds and brood upon the waves

1802.

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

[100] scarce] just 1802.

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

[104] with] by 1802.




THE OLD MAN OF THE ALPS[248:1]


  Stranger! whose eyes a look of pity shew,
  Say, will you listen to a tale of woe?
  A tale in no unwonted horrors drest;
  But sweet is pity to an agéd breast.
  This voice did falter with old age before;                           5
  Sad recollections make it falter more.
  Beside the torrent and beneath a wood,
  High in these Alps my summer cottage stood;
  One daughter still remain'd to cheer my way,
  The evening-star of life's declining day:                           10
  Duly she hied to fill her milking-pail,
  Ere shout of herdsmen rang from cliff or vale;
  When she return'd, before the summer shiel,
  On the fresh grass she spread the dairy meal;
  Just as the snowy peaks began to lose                               15
  In glittering silver lights their rosy hues.
  Singing in woods or bounding o'er the lawn,
  No blither creature hail'd the early dawn;
  And if I spoke of hearts by pain oppress'd.
  When every friend is gone to them that rest;                        20
  Or of old men that leave, when they expire,
  Daughters, that should have perish'd with their sire--
  Leave them to toil all day through paths unknown,
  And house at night behind some sheltering stone;
  Impatient of the thought, with lively cheer                         25
  She broke half-closed the tasteless tale severe.
  _She_ play'd with fancies of a gayer hue,
  Enamour'd of the scenes her _wishes_ drew;
  And oft she prattled with an eager tongue
  Of promised joys that would not loiter long,                        30
  Till with her tearless eyes so bright and fair,
  She seem'd to see them realis'd in air!
  In fancy oft, within some sunny dell,
  Where never wolf should howl or tempest yell,
  She built a little home of joy and rest,                            35
  And fill'd it with the friends whom she lov'd best:
  She named the inmates of her fancied cot,
  And gave to each his own peculiar lot;
  Which with our little herd abroad should roam,
  And which should tend the dairy's toil at home,                     40
  And now the hour approach'd which should restore
  Her lover from the wars, to part no more.
  Her whole frame fluttered with uneasy joy;
  I long'd myself to clasp the valiant boy;
  And though I strove to calm _her_ eager mood,                       45
  It was my own sole thought in solitude.
  I told it to the Saints amid my hymns--
  For O! you know not, on an old man's limbs
  How thrillingly the pleasant sun-beams play,
  That shine upon his daughter's wedding-day.                         50
  I hoped, that those fierce tempests, soon to rave
  Unheard, unfelt, around _my_ mountain grave,
  Not undelightfully would break _her_ rest,
  While she lay pillow'd on her lover's breast;
  Or join'd his pious prayer for pilgrims driven                      55
  Out to the mercy of the winds of heaven.
  Yes! now the hour approach'd that should restore
  Her lover from the wars to part no more.
  Her thoughts were wild, her soul was in her eye,
  She wept and laugh'd as if she knew not why;                        60
  And she had made a song about the wars,
  And sang it to the sun and to the stars!
  But while she look'd and listen'd, stood and ran,
  And saw him plain in every distant man,
  By treachery stabbed, on NANSY'S murderous day,                     65
  A senseless corse th' expected husband lay.
  A wounded man, who met us in the wood,
  Heavily ask'd her where _my_ cottage stood,
  And told us all: she cast her eyes around
  As if his words had been but empty sound.                           70
  Then look'd to Heav'n, like one that would deny
  That such a thing _could be_ beneath the sky.
  _Again_ he ask'd her if she knew my name,
  And instantly an anguish wrench'd her frame,
  And left her mind imperfect. No delight                             75
  Thenceforth she found in any cheerful sight,
  Not ev'n in those time-haunted wells and groves,
  Scenes of past joy, and birth-place of her loves.
  If to her spirit any sound was dear,
  'Twas the deep moan that spoke the tempest near;                    80
  Or sighs which chasms of icy vales outbreathe,
  Sent from the dark, imprison'd floods beneath.
  She wander'd up the crag and down the <DW72>,
  But not, as in her happy days of hope,
  To seek the churning-plant of sovereign power,                      85
  That grew in clefts and bore a scarlet flower!
  She roam'd, without a purpose, all alone,
  Thro' high grey vales unknowing and unknown.

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

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

_March_ 8, 1798.
                                NICIAS ERYTHRAEUS.


FOOTNOTES:

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




TO A YOUNG LADY[252:1]

[MISS LAVINIA POOLE]

ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER


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

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

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

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

_March_ 31, 1798.


FOOTNOTES:

[252:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, Dec. 9, 1799, included in
the _Annual Anthology_, 1800, in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1828, 1829, and
1834.


LINENOTES:

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

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

[6-7]

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

M. P., An. Anth.

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

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

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

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

[19] This] The M. P.

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




LEWTI[253:1]

OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHAUNT


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1798.


FOOTNOTES:

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

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


LINENOTES:

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

[Between lines 14-15]

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

M. P.

[52] For] Tho' M. P.

[Between lines 52-3]

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

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

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

[69-71]

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

M. P., An. Anth.

  O beating heart had I the power.

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

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

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




FEARS IN SOLITUDE[256:1]

WRITTEN IN APRIL 1798, DURING THE ALARM OF AN INVASION


  A green and silent spot, amid the hills,
  A small and silent dell! O'er stiller place
  No singing sky-lark ever poised himself.
  The hills are heathy, save that swelling <DW72>,
  Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on,                           5
  All golden with the never-bloomless furze,
  Which now blooms most profusely: but the dell,
  Bathed by the mist, is fresh and delicate
  As vernal corn-field, or the unripe flax,
  When, through its half-transparent stalks, at eve,                  10
  The level sunshine glimmers with green light.
  Oh! 'tis a quiet spirit-healing nook!
  Which all, methinks, would love; but chiefly he,
  The humble man, who, in his youthful years,
  Knew just so much of folly, as had made                             15
  His early manhood more securely wise!
  Here he might lie on fern or withered heath,
  While from the singing lark (that sings unseen
  The minstrelsy that solitude loves best),
  And from the sun, and from the breezy air,                          20
  Sweet influences trembled o'er his frame;
  And he, with many feelings, many thoughts,
  Made up a meditative joy, and found
  Religious meanings in the forms of Nature!
  And so, his senses gradually wrapt                                  25
  In a half sleep, he dreams of better worlds,
  And dreaming hears thee still, O singing lark,
  That singest like an angel in the clouds!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NETHER STOWEY, _April_ 20, 1798.


FOOTNOTES:

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


LINENOTES:

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

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

[33]

  It is indeed a melancholy thing
  And weighs upon the heart

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

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

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

[44-60]

  The groan of accusation pleads against us.

         *       *       *       *       *

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

MS. D.

[53-9]

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

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

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

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

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

[112] defeats] deceit S. L. [_Probably a misprint_].

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

[131] drag] speed 1809.

[133] that] who 1802, 1809.

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

[136] Which] That 1802.

[138] pure] strong 1809.

[139] foe] race 1809.

[138-9]

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

1802.

[140] yet] and MS. W.

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

[146] we] ye 1809.

[148] toss] float 1809.

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

[150] Swept] Sweeps 1809.

[151] fear] awe 1802.

[151-3]

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

1809.

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

[155] truth] truths 1802, 1809.

[156] factious] factitious 1809.

[157] courage] freedom 1802.

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

[161-4]

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

1809.

[162] constituted] delegated 1802.

[163] had been] were but 1809.

[163-75]

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

1802.

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

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

[175] _Such have I been deemed_ 1809.

[177] prove] be 1802, 1809.

[179] father] parent 1809.

[180] All natural bonds of 1802.

[181] limits] circle 1802, 1809.

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

[184-5]

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

1802.

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

1809.

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

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




THE NIGHTINGALE[264:1]

A CONVERSATION POEM, APRIL, 1798


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

  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 <DW64>s 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 curséd be the hour when first
    I heard thee wawl and cry;
  And in the Church-yard curséd 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 agéd 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 curséd 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 _primâ 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 LADIÉ[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 Ladié 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 betrothéd 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 Ladié_ 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
Ladié_ (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 Ladié'. If the MS. List of Poems is the record of
poems actually written, two-thirds of the _Dark Ladié_ 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-shape['s] 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. Σαμερον αδιον ασω[297:1]
  [Αὔριον ἅδιον ἄσω _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:--ἐς ὕστερον ἅδιον ᾀσῶ.

[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-forkéd 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
Göttingen, it may be assumed that the translation was made in 1799.


LINENOTES:

[5] Saviour infant] infant Saviour 1863.




CATULLIAN HENDECASYLLABLES[307:1]


  Hear, my belovéd, 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 Mährchen_. 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
Jüngling_) 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 arméd 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 Geburtsstätte 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 François Antoine Eugène 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 Göttingen, 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 Göttingen, 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 Vöglein wär. 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 adoréd 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,
  'Belovéd, 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.

[1] fair] love Cottle, E. R.

[4]

  Iphigenia, Clelia, Chloris,

M. P., Cottle, E. R., P. R.

  Neaera, Laura, Daphne, Chloris,

Keepsake.

[5]

  Laura, Lesbia, or Doris,

MS. 1799, M. P., Cottle, E. R.

  Carina, Lalage, or Doris,

Keepsake.

[6] Dorimene, or Lucrece, MS. 1799, M. P., Cottle, E. R., P. R.,
Keepsake.

[8] Belovéd.] Dear one Keepsake.

[9] Choose thou] Take thou M. P., P. R.: Take Cottle, E. R.

[10] Call me Laura, call me Chloris MS. 1799, Keepsake.

[10-11]

  Call me Clelia, call me Chloris,
  Laura, Lesbia or Doris

M. P., Cottle, E. R.

[10-12]

  Clelia, Iphigenia, Chloris,
  Laura, Lesbia, Delia, Doris,
  But don't forget to call me _thine_.

P. R.




THE DEVIL'S THOUGHTS[319:1]


  I

  From his brimstone bed at break of day
  A walking the Devil is gone,
  To visit his snug little farm the earth,
  And see how his stock goes on.

  II

  Over the hill and over the dale,                                     5
  And he went over the plain,
  And backward and forward he switched his long tail
  As a gentleman switches his cane.

  III

  And how then was the Devil drest?
  Oh! he was in his Sunday's best:                                    10
  His jacket was red and his breeches were blue,
  And there was a hole where the tail came through.

  IV

  He saw a Lawyer killing a Viper
  On a dunghill hard by his own stable;
  And the Devil smiled, for it put him in mind                        15
  Of Cain and his brother, Abel.

  V

  He saw an Apothecary on a white horse
    Ride by on his vocations,
  And the Devil thought of his old Friend
    Death in the Revelations.[320:1]                                  20

  VI

  He saw a cottage with a double coach-house,
    A cottage of gentility;
  And the Devil did grin, for his darling sin
    Is pride that apes humility.

  VII

  He peep'd into a rich bookseller's shop,                            25
    Quoth he! we are both of one college!
  For I sate myself, like a cormorant, once
    Hard by the tree of knowledge.[321:1]

  VIII

  Down the river did glide, with wind and tide,
    A pig with vast celerity;                                         30
  And the Devil look'd wise as he saw how the while,
  It cut its own throat. 'There!' quoth he with a smile,
    'Goes "England's commercial prosperity."'

  IX

  As he went through Cold-Bath Fields he saw
    A solitary cell;                                                  35
  And the Devil was pleased, for it gave him a hint
    For improving his prisons in Hell.

  X

  He saw a Turnkey in a trice
    Fetter a troublesome blade;
  'Nimbly,' quoth he, 'do the fingers move                            40
    If a man be but used to his trade.'

  XI

  He saw the same Turnkey unfetter a man,
    With but little expedition,
  Which put him in mind of the long debate
    On the Slave-trade abolition.                                     45

  XII

  He saw an old acquaintance
    As he passed by a Methodist meeting;--
  She holds a consecrated key,
    And the devil nods her a greeting.

  XIII

  She turned up her nose, and said,                                   50
    'Avaunt! my name's Religion,'
  And she looked to Mr. ----
    And leered like a love-sick pigeon.

  XIV

  He saw a certain minister
    (A minister to his mind)                                          55
  Go up into a certain House,
    With a majority behind.

  XV

  The Devil quoted Genesis
    Like a very learnéd clerk,
  How 'Noah and his creeping things                                   60
    Went up into the Ark.'

  XVI

  He took from the poor,
    And he gave to the rich,
  And he shook hands with a Scotchman,
    For he was not afraid of the ----                                 65

  XVII

  General ----[323:1] burning face
    He saw with consternation,
  And back to hell his way did he take,
  For the Devil thought by a slight mistake
    It was general conflagration.                                     70

1799.


FOOTNOTES:

[319:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, September 6, 1799:
included in 1828, 1829, and 1834. It is printed separately as the
_Devil's Walk_, a Poem, By Professor Porson, London, Marsh and Miller,
&c., 1830. In 1827, by way of repudiating Porson's alleged authorship of
_The Devil's Thoughts_, Southey expanded the _Devil's Thoughts_ of 1799
into a poem of fifty-seven stanzas entitled _The Devil's Walk_. See _P.
W._, 1838, iii. pp. 87-100. In the _Morning Post_ the poem numbered
fourteen stanzas; in 1828, 1829 it is reduced to ten, and in 1834
enlarged to seventeen stanzas. Stanzas iii and xiv-xvi of the text are
not in the _M. P._ Stanzas iv and v appeared as iii, iv; stanza vi as
ix; stanza vii as v; stanza viii as x; stanza ix as viii; stanza x as
vi; stanza xi as vii; stanza xvii as xiv. In 1828, 1829, the poem
consists of stanzas i-ix of the text, and of the concluding stanzas
stanza xi ('Old Nicholas', &c.) of the _M. P._ version was not
reprinted. Stanzas xiv-xvi of the text were first acknowledged by
Coleridge in 1834.

[320:1] And I looked, and behold a pale horse, and his name that sat on
him was Death, Rev. vi. 8. _M. P._

[321:1] This anecdote is related by that most interesting of the Devil's
Biographers, Mr. John Milton, in his _Paradise Lost_, and we have here
the Devil's own testimony to the truth and accuracy of it. _M. P._

  'And all amid them stood the TREE OF LIFE
   High, eminent, blooming ambrosial fruit
   Of vegetable gold (query _paper-money_), and next to Life
   _Our_ Death, the TREE OF KNOWLEDGE, grew fast by.--

          *       *       *       *       *

          *       *       *       *       *

   So clomb this first grand thief--
   Thence up he flew, and on the tree of life
   Sat like a cormorant.'--_Par. Lost_, iv.

The allegory here is so apt, that in a catalogue of _various readings_
obtained from collating the MSS. one might expect to find it noted, that
for 'LIFE' _Cod. quid. habent_, 'TRADE.' Though indeed THE TRADE, _i.
e._ the bibliopolic, so called κατ' ἐξοχήν, may be regarded as LIFE
sensu _eminentiori_; a suggestion, which I owe to a young retailer in
the hosiery line, who on hearing a description of the net profits,
dinner parties, country houses, etc., of the trade, exclaimed, 'Ay!
that's what I call LIFE now!'--This 'Life, _our_ Death,' is thus happily
contrasted with the fruits of Authorship.--Sic nos non nobis
mellificamus Apes.

Of this poem, which with the 'Fire, Famine, and Slaughter' first
appeared in the _Morning Post_ [6th Sept. 1799], the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 9th,
and 16th stanzas[321:A] were dictated by Mr. Southey. See Apologetic
Preface [to _Fire, Famine and Slaughter_]. [Between the ninth and the
concluding stanza, two or three are omitted, as grounded on subjects
which have lost their interest--and for better reasons. _1828_, _1829_.]

If any one should ask who General ---- meant, the Author begs leave to
inform him, that he did once see a red-faced person in a dream whom by
the dress he took for a General; but he might have been mistaken, and
most certainly he did not hear any names mentioned. In simple verity,
the author never meant any one, or indeed any thing but to put a
concluding stanza to his doggerel.

     [321:A] The three first stanzas, which are worth all the rest,
     and the ninth _1828_, _1829_.

[323:1] In a MS. copy in the B. M. and in some pirated versions the
blank is filled up by the word 'Gascoigne's'; but in a MS. copy taken at
Highgate, in June, 1820, by Derwent Coleridge the line runs 'General
Tarleton's', &c.


LINENOTES:

[3-4]

  { To look at his little snug farm of the Earth
  { To visit, &c.

1828, 1829.

  And see how his stock went on.

M. P., 1828, 1829.

[7] switched] swish'd M. P., 1828, 1829.

[8] switches] swishes M. P., 1828, 1829.

[9-12] Not in M. P.

[14] On the dunghill beside his stable M. P.: On a dung-heap beside his
stable 1828, 1829.

[15-16]

  Oh! oh; quoth he, for it put him in mind
  Of the story of Cain and Abel

M. P.

[16] his] _his_ 1828, 1829.

[17] He . . . on] An Apothecary on M. P.: A Pothecary on 1828, 1829.

[18] Ride] Rode M.P., 1828, 1829. vocations] vocation M. P.

[20] Revelations] Revelation M. P.

[21] saw] past M. P.

[23] And he grinn'd at the sight, for his favourite vice M. P.

[25] peep'd] went M. P., 1828, 1829.

[27] sate myself] myself sate 1828, 1829.

[28] Hard by] Upon M. P.: Fast by 1828, 1829.

[29-33]

  He saw a pig right rapidly
    Adown the river float,
  The pig swam well, but every stroke
    Was cutting his own throat.

M. P.

[29] did glide] there plied 1828, 1829.

[Between 33-4]

  Old Nicholas grinn'd and swish'd his tail
    For joy and admiration;
  And he thought of his daughter, Victory,
    And his darling babe, Taxation.

M. P.

[34-5]

  As he went through ---- ---- fields he look'd
    At a

M. P.

[37] his] the M. P. in] of M. P.

[39] Fetter] Hand-cuff M. P.: Unfetter 1834.

[40-1]

  'Nimbly', quoth he, 'the fingers move
    If a man is but us'd to his trade.'

M. P.

[42] unfetter] unfettering M. P.

[44] And he laugh'd for he thought of the long debates M. P.

[46] saw] met M. P.

[47] Just by the Methodist meeting. M. P.

[48] holds] held M. P. key] flag[323:A] M. P.

     [323:A] The allusion is to Archbishop Randolph consecrating
     the Duke of York's banners. See S. T. Coleridge's _Notizbuch
     aus den Jahren 1795-8_ . . . von A. Brandl, 1896, p. 354 (p.
     25 _a_, l. 18 of _Gutch Memorandum Book_, B. M. Add. MSS.
     27,901).

[49] And the Devil nods a greeting. M. P.

[50-2]

  She tip'd him the wink, then frown'd and cri'd
    'Avaunt! my name's ----
  And turn'd to Mr. W----

M. P.

[66] General ----] General ----'s M. P.

[68] way did take M. P.

[70] general] General M. P.




LINES COMPOSED IN A CONCERT-ROOM[324:1]


  Nor cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest
    These scented Rooms, where, to a gaudy throng,
  Heaves the proud Harlot her distended breast,
    In intricacies of laborious song.

  These feel not Music's genuine power, nor deign                      5
    To melt at Nature's passion-warbled plaint;
  But when the long-breathed singer's uptrilled strain
    Bursts in a squall--they gape for wonderment.

  Hark! the deep buzz of Vanity and Hate!
    Scornful, yet envious, with self-torturing sneer                  10
  My lady eyes some maid of humbler state,
    While the pert Captain, or the primmer Priest,
    Prattles accordant scandal in her ear.

  O give me, from this heartless scene released,
    To hear our old Musician, blind and grey,                         15
  (Whom stretching from my nurse's arms I kissed,)
    His Scottish tunes and warlike marches play,
  By moonshine, on the balmy summer-night,
    The while I dance amid the tedded hay
  With merry maids, whose ringlets toss in light.                     20

  Or lies the purple evening on the bay
  Of the calm glossy lake, O let me hide
    Unheard, unseen, behind the alder-trees,
  For round their roots the fisher's boat is tied,
  On whose trim seat doth Edmund stretch at ease,                     25
  And while the lazy boat sways to and fro,
    Breathes in his flute sad airs, so wild and slow,
  That his own cheek is wet with quiet tears.

  But O, dear Anne! when midnight wind careers,
  And the gust pelting on the out-house shed                          30
    Makes the cock shrilly in the rainstorm crow,
    To hear thee sing some ballad full of woe,
  Ballad of ship-wreck'd sailor floating dead,
    Whom his own true-love buried in the sands!
  Thee, gentle woman, for thy voice remeasures                        35
  Whatever tones and melancholy pleasures
    The things of Nature utter; birds or trees,
  Or moan of ocean-gale in weedy caves,
  Or where the stiff grass mid the heath-plant waves,
    Murmur and music thin of sudden breeze.                           40

1799.


FOOTNOTES:

[324:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, September 24, 1799:
included in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. There is no
evidence as to the date of composition. In a letter to Coleridge, dated
July 5, 1796, Lamb writes 'Have a care, good Master Poet, of the Statute
_de Contumeliâ_. What do you mean by calling Madame Mara harlots and
naughty things? The goodness of the verse would not save you in a Court
of Justice'--but it is by no means certain that Lamb is referring to the
_Lines Composed in a Concert-Room_, or that there is any allusion in
line 3 to Madame Mara. If, as J. D. Campbell suggested, the poem as it
appeared in the _Morning Post_ is a recast of some earlier verses, it is
possible that the scene is Ottery, and that 'Edmund' is the 'Friend who
died dead of' a 'Frenzy Fever' (vide _ante_, p. 76). In this case a
probable date would be the summer of 1793. But the poem as a whole
suggests a later date. Coleridge and Southey spent some weeks at Exeter
in September 1799. They visited Ottery St. Mary, and walked through
Newton Abbot to Ashburton and Dartmouth. It is possible that the
'Concert-Room,' the 'pert Captain,' and 'primmer Priest' are
reminiscences of Exeter, the 'heath-plant,' and the 'ocean caves' of
Dartmoor and Torbay. If so, the 'shame and absolute rout' (l. 49 of
variant, p. 325) would refer to the victory of Suwaroff over Joubert at
Novi, which took place August 15, 1799. See _Letters of S. T. C._, 1895,
i. 307.


LINENOTES:

[14] heartless] loathsome M. P.

[24] Around whose roots M. P., S. L.

[40] thin] then M. P.

[After line 40]

  Dear Maid! whose form in solitude I seek,
    Such songs in such a mood to hear thee sing,
    It were a deep delight!--But thou shalt fling
  Thy white arm round my neck, and kiss my cheek,
    And love the brightness of my gladder eye                         45
    The while I tell thee what a holier joy

  It were in proud and stately step to go,
    With trump and timbrel clang, and popular shout,
    To celebrate the shame and absolute rout
  Unhealable of Freedom's latest foe,                                 50
    Whose tower'd might shall to its centre nod.

  When human feelings, sudden, deep and vast,
  As all good spirits of all ages past
    Were armied in the hearts of living men,
  Shall purge the earth, and violently sweep                          55
  These vile and painted locusts to the deep,
  Leaving un---- undebas'd
  A ---- world made worthy of its God.

M. P.

[The words in lines 57, 58 were left as blanks in the Morning Post,
from what cause or with what object must remain a matter of doubt.]




WESTPHALIAN SONG[326:1]

[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?'                                   5
    Say, dead!--and when for sorrow
  She begins to sob and cry,
    Say, I come to-morrow.

? 1799.


FOOTNOTES:

[326:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, Sept. 27, 1802: reprinted
in _Essays on His Own Times_, 1850, iii. 992. First collected in _P.
W._, 1877-80, ii. 170.




HEXAMETERS[326:2]

PARAPHRASE OF PSALM XLVI


  Gōd ĭs oŭr Strēngth ănd oŭr Rēfŭge: thērefŏre wīll wĕ nŏt trēmblĕ,
  Thō' thĕ Eārth bĕ rĕmōvĕd ănd thō' thĕ pĕrpētŭăl Moūntaīns
  Sink in the Swell of the Ocean! God is our Strength and our Refuge.
  There is a River the Flowing whereof shall gladden the City,
  Hallelujah! the City of God! Jehova shall help her.                  5
  Thē Idōlătĕrs rāgĕd, the kingdoms were moving in fury;
  But he uttered his Voice: Earth melted away from beneath them.
  Halleluja! th' Eternal is with us, Almighty Jehova!
  Fearful the works of the Lord, yea fearful his Desolations;
  But He maketh the Battle to cease, he burneth the Spear and the
      Chariot.                                                        10
  Halleluja! th' Eternal is with us, the God of our Fathers!

1799.


FOOTNOTES:

[326:2] Now published for the first time. The lines were sent in a
letter to George Coleridge dated September 29, 1799. They were prefaced
as follows:--'We were talking of Hexameters with you. I will, for want
of something better, fill up the paper with a translation of one of my
favourite Psalms into that metre which allowing trochees for spondees,
as the nature of our Language demands, you will find pretty accurate a
scansion.' _Mahomet_ and, no doubt, the _Hymn to the Earth_ may be
assigned to the end of September or the beginning of October, 1799.




HYMN TO THE EARTH[327:1]

[IMITATED FROM STOLBERG'S _HYMNE AN DIE ERDE_]

HEXAMETERS


  Earth! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and the
      mother,
  Hail! O Goddess, thrice hail! Blest be thou! and, blessing, I hymn
      thee!
  Forth, ye sweet sounds! from my harp, and my voice shall float on
      your surges--
  Soar thou aloft, O my soul! and bear up my song on thy pinions.

  Travelling the vale with mine eyes--green meadows and lake with
      green island,                                                    5
  Dark in its basin of rock, and the bare stream flowing in
      brightness,
  Thrilled with thy beauty and love in the wooded <DW72> of the
      mountain,
  Here, great mother, I lie, thy child, with his head on thy bosom!
  Playful the spirits of noon, that rushing soft through thy tresses,
  Green-haired goddess! refresh me; and hark! as they hurry or
      linger,                                                         10
  Fill the pause of my harp, or sustain it with musical murmurs.
  Into my being thou murmurest joy, and tenderest sadness
  Shedd'st thou, like dew, on my heart, till the joy and the
      heavenly sadness
  Pour themselves forth from my heart in tears, and the hymn of
      thanksgiving.

  Earth! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and the
      mother,                                                         15
  Sister thou of the stars, and beloved by the Sun, the rejoicer!
  Guardian and friend of the moon, O Earth, whom the comets forget
      not,
  Yea, in the measureless distance wheel round and again they behold
      thee!
  Fadeless and young (and what if the latest birth of creation?)
  Bride and consort of Heaven, that looks down upon thee enamoured!   20
  Say, mysterious Earth! O say, great mother and goddess,
  Was it not well with thee then, when first thy lap was ungirdled,
  Thy lap to the genial Heaven, the day that he wooed thee and won
      thee!
  Fair was thy blush, the fairest and first of the blushes of
      morning!
  Deep was the shudder, O Earth! the throe of thy self-retention:     25
  Inly thou strovest to flee, and didst seek thyself at thy centre!
  Mightier far was the joy of thy sudden resilience; and forthwith
  Myriad myriads of lives teemed forth from the mighty embracement.
  Thousand-fold tribes of dwellers, impelled by thousand-fold
      instincts,
  Filled, as a dream, the wide waters; the rivers sang on their
      channels;                                                       30
  Laughed on their shores the hoarse seas; the yearning ocean
      swelled upward;
  Young life lowed through the meadows, the woods, and the echoing
      mountains,
  Wandered bleating in valleys, and warbled on blossoming branches.

1799.


FOOTNOTES:

[327:1] First published in _Friendship's Offering_, 1834, pp. 165-7,
with other pieces, under the general heading:--_Fragments from the Wreck
of Memory: or Portions of Poems composed in Early Manhood: by S. T.
Coleridge._ A Note was prefixed:--'It may not be without use or interest
to youthful, and especially to intelligent female readers of poetry, to
observe that in the attempt to adapt the Greek metres to the English
language, we must begin by substituting _quality_ of sound for
_quantity_--that is, accentuated or comparatively emphasized syllables,
for what in the Greek and Latin Verse, are named long, and of which the
prosodial mark is ¯; and _vice versâ_, unaccented syllables for short
marked ˘. Now the Hexameter verse consists of two sorts of _feet_, the
spondee composed of two long syllables, and the dactyl, composed of one
long syllable followed by two short. The following verse from the Psalms
is a rare instance of a _perfect_ hexameter (i. e. line of six feet) in
the English language:--

  Gōd cāme | ūp wĭth ă | shōut: oūr | Lōrd wĭth thĕ | sōund ŏf ă |
      trūmpĕt.

But so few are the truly _spondaic_ words in our language, such as
Ēgȳpt, ūprŏar, tūrmoĭl, &c., that we are compelled to substitute, in
most instances, the trochee; or ¯ ˘, i. e. in such words as mērry̆,
līghtly̆, &c., for the proper spondee. It need only be added, that in
the hexameter the fifth foot must be a dactyl, and the sixth a spondee,
or trochee. I will end this note with two hexameter lines, likewise from
the Psalms:--

  Thēre ĭs ă | rīvĕr thĕ | flōwĭng whĕre|ōf shāll | glāddĕn thĕ | cīty̆,
  Hāllē|lūjăh thĕ | cīty̆ | Gōd Jē|hōvăh hăth | blēst hĕr.

                                                   S. T. C.'

On some proof-sheets, or loose pages of a copy of _The Hymn_ as
published in _Friendship's Offering_ for 1834, which Coleridge
annotated, no doubt with a view to his corrections being adopted in the
forthcoming edition of his poems (1834), he adds in MS. the following
supplementary note:--'To make any considerable number of Hexameters
feasible in our monosyllabic trocheeo-iambic language, there must, I
fear, be other licenses granted--in the _first_ foot, at least--_ex.
gr._ a superfluous ˘ prefixed in cases of particles such as 'of, 'and',
and the like: likewise ¯ ˘ ¯ where the stronger accent is on the first
syllable.--S. T. C.'

The _Hymn to the Earth_ is a free translation of F. L. Stolberg's _Hymne
an die Erde_. (See F. Freiligrath's _Biographical Memoirs_ prefixed to
the Tauchnitz edition of the _Poems_ published in 1852.) The translation
exceeds the German original by two lines. The Hexameters 'from the
Psalms' are taken from a metrical experiment which Coleridge sent to his
brother George, in a letter dated September 29, 1799 (vide _ante_).
First collected in 1834. The acknowledgement that the _Hymn to the
Earth_ is imitated from Stolberg's _Hymne an die Erde_ was first
prefixed by J. D. Campbell in 1893.


LINENOTES:

[8] his] its F. O. 1834.

[9] that creep or rush through thy tresses F. O. 1834.

[33] on] in F. O. 1834.

[After 33]

       *       *       *       *       *

F. O. 1834.




MAHOMET[329:1]


  Utter the song, O my soul! the flight and return of Mohammed,
  Prophet and priest, who scatter'd abroad both evil and blessing,
  Huge wasteful empires founded and hallow'd slow persecution,
  Soul-withering, but crush'd the blasphemous rites of the Pagan
  And idolatrous Christians.--For veiling the Gospel of Jesus,         5
  They, the best corrupting, had made it worse than the vilest.
  Wherefore Heaven decreed th' enthusiast warrior of Mecca,
  Choosing good from iniquity rather than evil from goodness.
    Loud the tumult in Mecca surrounding the fane of the idol;--
  Naked and prostrate the priesthood were laid--the people with mad
      shouts                                                          10
  Thundering now, and now with saddest ululation
  Flew, as over the channel of rock-stone the ruinous river
  Shatters its waters abreast, and in mazy uproar bewilder'd,
  Rushes dividuous all--all rushing impetuous onward.

? 1799.


FOOTNOTES:

[329:1] First published in 1834. In an unpublished letter to Southey,
dated Sept. 25, 1799, Coleridge writes, 'I shall go on with the
Mohammed'. There can be no doubt that these fourteen lines, which
represent Coleridge's contribution to a poem on 'Mahomet' which he had
planned in conjunction with Southey, were at that time already in
existence. For Southey's portion, which numbered 109 lines, see _Oliver
Newman_. By Robert Southey, 1845, pp. 113-15.




LOVE[330:1]


  All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
  Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
  All are but ministers of Love,
      And feed his sacred flame.

  Oft in my waking dreams do I                                         5
  Live o'er again that happy hour,
  When midway on the mount I lay,
      Beside the ruined tower.

  The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene
  Had blended with the lights of eve;                                 10
  And she was there, my hope, my joy,
      My own dear Genevieve!

  She leant against the arméd man,
  The statue of the arméd knight;
  She stood and listened to my lay,                                   15
      Amid the lingering light.

  Few sorrows hath she of her own,
  My hope! my joy! my Genevieve!
  She loves me best, whene'er I sing
      The songs that make her grieve.                                 20

  I played a soft and doleful air,
  I sang an old and moving story--
  An old rude song, that suited well
      That ruin wild and hoary.

  She listened with a flitting blush,                                 25
  With downcast eyes and modest grace;
  For well she knew, I could not choose
      But gaze upon her face.

  I told her of the Knight that wore
  Upon his shield a burning brand;                                    30
  And that for ten long years he wooed
      The Lady of the Land.

  I told her how he pined: and ah!
  The deep, the low, the pleading tone
  With which I sang another's love,                                   35
      Interpreted my own.

  She listened with a flitting blush,
  With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
  And she forgave me, that I gazed
      Too fondly on her face!                                         40

  But when I told the cruel scorn
  That crazed that bold and lovely Knight,
  And that he crossed the mountain-woods,
      Nor rested day nor night;

  That sometimes from the savage den,                                 45
  And sometimes from the darksome shade,
  And sometimes starting up at once
      In green and sunny glade,--

  There came and looked him in the face
  An angel beautiful and bright;                                      50
  And that he knew it was a Fiend,
      This miserable Knight!

  And that unknowing what he did,
  He leaped amid a murderous band,
  And saved from outrage worse than death                             55
      The Lady of the Land!

  And how she wept, and clasped his knees;
  And how she tended him in vain--
  And ever strove to expiate
      The scorn that crazed his brain;--                              60

  And that she nursed him in a cave;
  And how his madness went away,
  When on the yellow forest-leaves
      A dying man he lay;--

  His dying words--but when I reached                                 65
  That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
  My faultering voice and pausing harp
      Disturbed her soul with pity!

  All impulses of soul and sense
  Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;                                70
  The music and the doleful tale,
      The rich and balmy eve;

  And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
  An undistinguishable throng,
  And gentle wishes long subdued,                                     75
      Subdued and cherished long!

  She wept with pity and delight,
  She blushed with love, and virgin-shame;
  And like the murmur of a dream,
      I heard her breathe my name.                                    80

  Her bosom heaved--she stepped aside,
  As conscious of my look she stepped--
  Then suddenly, with timorous eye
    She fled to me and wept.

  She half enclosed me with her arms,                                 85
  She pressed me with a meek embrace;
  And bending back her head, looked up,
      And gazed upon my face.

  'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
  And partly 'twas a bashful art,                                     90
  That I might rather feel, than see,
      The swelling of her heart.

  I calmed her fears, and she was calm,
  And told her love with virgin pride;
  And so I won my Genevieve,                                          95
      My bright and beauteous Bride.

1799.


FOOTNOTES:

[330:1] First published (with four preliminary and three concluding
stanzas) as the _Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladie_, in the
_Morning Post_, Dec. 21, 1799 (for complete text with introductory
letter vide Appendices): included (as _Love_) in the _Lyrical Ballads_
of 1800, 1802, 1805: reprinted with the text of the _Morning Post_ in
_English Minstrelsy_, 1810 (ii. 131-9) with the following prefatory
note:--'These exquisite stanzas appeared some years ago in a London
Newspaper, and have since that time been republished in Mr. Wordsworth's
Lyrical Ballads, but with some alterations; the Poet having apparently
relinquished his intention of writing the Fate of the Dark Ladye':
included (as _Love_) in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The
four opening and three concluding stanzas with prefatory note were
republished in _Literary Remains_, 1836, pp. 50-2, and were first
collected in 1844. For a facsimile of the MS. of _Love_ as printed in
the _Lyrical Ballads_, 1800 (i. 138-44), see _Wordsworth and Coleridge
MSS._, edited by W. Hale White, 1897 (between pp. 34-5). For a collation
of the _Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladie_ with two MSS. in the
British Museum [Add. MSS., No. 27,902] see _Coleridge's Poems_. A
Facsimile Reproduction, &c. Ed. by James <DW18>s Campbell, 1899, and
Appendices of this edition.

It is probable that the greater part of the _Introduction to the Tale of
the Dark Ladie_ was written either during or shortly after a visit which
Coleridge paid to the Wordsworths's friends, George and Mary, and Sarah
Hutchinson, at Sockburn, a farm-house on the banks of the Tees, in
November, 1799. In the first draft, ll. 13-16, 'She leaned, &c.' runs
thus:--

  She lean'd against a grey stone rudely carv'd,
  The statue of an arméd Knight:
  She lean'd in melancholy mood
      Amid the lingering light.

In the church at Sockburn there is a recumbent statue of an 'armed
knight' (of the Conyers family), and in a field near the farm-house
there is a 'Grey-Stone' which is said to commemorate the slaying of a
monstrous wyverne or 'worme' by the knight who is buried in the church.
It is difficult to believe that the 'arméd knight' and the 'grey stone'
of the first draft were not suggested by the statue in Sockburn Church,
and the 'Grey-Stone' in the adjoining field. It has been argued that the
_Ballad of the Dark Ladié_, of which only a fragment remains, was
written after Coleridge returned from Germany, and that the
_Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladie_, which embodies _Love_, was
written at Stowey in 1797 or 1798. But in referring to 'the plan' of the
_Lyrical Ballads_ of 1798 (_Biog. Lit._, 1817, Cap. XIV, ii. 3)
Coleridge says that he had written the _Ancient Mariner_, and was
preparing the _Dark Ladie_ and the _Christabel_ (both unpublished poems
when this Chapter was written), but says nothing of so typical a poem as
_Love_. By the _Dark Ladié_ he must have meant the unfinished _Ballad of
the Dark Ladié_, which, at one time, numbered 190 lines, not the
_Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladie_, which later on he refers
to as the 'poem entitled Love' (_Biog. Lit._, 1817, Cap. XXIV, ii. 298),
and which had appeared under that title in the _Lyrical Ballads_ of
1800, 1802, and 1805.

In _Sibylline Leaves_, 1828, 1829, and 1834, _Love_, which was the first
in order of a group of poems with the sub-title 'Love Poems', was
prefaced by the following motto:--

  Quas humilis tenero stylus olim effudit in aevo,
  Perlegis hic lacrymas, et quod pharetratus acuta
  Ille puer puero fecit mihi cuspide vulnus.
  Omnia paulatim consumit longior aetas,
  Vivendoque simul morimur, rapimurque manendo.
  Ipse mihi collatus enim non ille videbor:
  Frons alia est, moresque alii, nova mentis imago,
  Voxque aliud sonat--
  Pectore nunc gelido calidos miseremur amantes,
  Jamque arsisse pudet. Veteres tranquilla tumultus
  Mens horret, relegensque alium putat ista locutum.
                                                   PETRARCH.


LINENOTES:

Title] Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladie M. P.: Fragment, S. T.
Coleridge English Minstrelsy, 1810.

Opening stanzas

  O leave the Lilly on its stem;
    O leave the Rose upon the spray;
  O leave the Elder-bloom, fair Maids!
    And listen to my lay.

  A Cypress and a Myrtle bough,
    This morn around my harp you twin'd,
  Because it fashion'd mournfully
    Its murmurs in the wind.

  And now a Tale of Love and Woe,
    A woeful Tale of Love I sing:
  Hark, gentle Maidens, hark! it sighs
    And trembles on the string.

  But most, my own dear Genevieve!
    It sighs and trembles most for thee!
  O come and hear what cruel wrongs
    Befel the dark Ladie.

The fifth stanza of the _Introduction_ finds its place as the fifth
stanza of the text, and the sixth stanza as the first.

[3] All are] Are all S. L. (For _Are all_ r. _All are_. _Errata_, p.
[xi]).

[5-6]

  O ever in my waking dreams
  I dwell upon

M. P., MS. erased.

[7] lay] sate M. P.

[15] lay] harp M. P., MS., L. B.

[21] soft] sad M. P., MS. erased.

[22] sang] sung E. M.

[23] suited] fitted M. P., MS., L. B.

[24] That ruin] The Ruin M. P., MS., L. B.: The ruins E. M.

[29] that] who M. P.

[31] that] how M. P.

[34] The low, the deep MS., L. B.

[35] In which I told E. M.

[42] That] Which MS., L. B. that] this M. P., MS., L. B.

[43] And how he roam'd M. P. that] how MS. erased.

[Between 44-5]

  And how he cross'd the Woodman's paths [path E. M.]
    Tho' briars and swampy mosses beat,
  How boughs rebounding scourg'd his limbs,
    And low stubs gor'd his feet.

M. P.

[45] That] How M. P., MS. erased.

[51] that] how M. P., MS. erased.

[53] that] how M. P., MS. erased.

[54] murderous] lawless M. P.

[59] ever] meekly M. P. For still she MS. erased.

[61] that] how M. P., MS. erased.

[78] virgin-] maiden-M. P., MS., L. B.

[79] murmur] murmurs M. P.

[Between 80-1]

                  { heave
  I saw her bosom { [*rise*] and swell,
    Heave and swell with inward sighs--
  I could not choose but love to see
    Her gentle bosom rise.

M. P., MS. erased.

[81] Her wet cheek glowed M. P., MS. erased.

[84] fled] flew M. P.

[94] virgin] maiden MS. erased.

[95] so] thus M. P.

[After 96]

  And now once more a tale of woe,
    A woeful tale of love I sing;
  For thee, my Genevieve! it sighs,
    And trembles on the string.

  When last I sang [sung E. M.] the cruel scorn
    That craz'd this bold and lonely [lovely E. M.] knight,
  And how he roam'd the mountain woods,
      Nor rested day or night;

  I promis'd thee a sister tale
    Of Man's perfidious Cruelty;
  Come, then, and hear what cruel wrong
      Befel the Dark Ladie.

_End of the Introduction_ M. P.




ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF DEVONSHIRE[335:1]

ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH STANZA IN HER 'PASSAGE OVER MOUNT GOTHARD'

  And hail the Chapel! hail the Platform wild!
    Where Tell directed the avenging dart,
  With well-strung arm, that first preservst his child,
    Then aim'd the arrow at the tyrant's heart.


  Splendour's fondly-fostered child!
  And did you hail the platform wild,
    Where once the Austrian fell
    Beneath the shaft of Tell!
  O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!                                 5
  Whence learn'd you that heroic measure?

  Light as a dream your days their circlets ran,
  From all that teaches brotherhood to Man
  Far, far removed! from want, from hope, from fear!
  Enchanting music lulled your infant ear,                            10
  Obeisance, praises soothed your infant heart:
  Emblazonments and old ancestral crests,
  With many a bright obtrusive form of art,
  Detained your eye from Nature: stately vests,
  That veiling strove to deck your charms divine,                     15
  Rich viands, and the pleasurable wine,
  Were yours unearned by toil; nor could you see
  The unenjoying toiler's misery.
  And yet, free Nature's uncorrupted child,
  You hailed the Chapel and the Platform wild,                        20
      Where once the Austrian fell
      Beneath the shaft of Tell!
    O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
    Whence learn'd you that heroic measure?

  There crowd your finely-fibred frame                                25
    All living faculties of bliss;
  And Genius to your cradle came,
  His forehead wreathed with lambent flame,
    And bending low, with godlike kiss
    Breath'd in a more celestial life;                                30
  But boasts not many a fair compeer
    A heart as sensitive to joy and fear?
  And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife,
  Some few, to nobler being wrought,
  Corrivals in the nobler gift of thought.                            35
      Yet these delight to celebrate
      Laurelled War and plumy State;
      Or in verse and music dress
      Tales of rustic happiness--
    Pernicious tales! insidious strains!                              40
      That steel the rich man's breast,
      And mock the lot unblest,
    The sordid vices and the abject pains,
    Which evermore must be
    The doom of ignorance and penury!                                 45
  But you, free Nature's uncorrupted child,
  You hailed the Chapel and the Platform wild,
        Where once the Austrian fell
        Beneath the shaft of Tell!
      O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!                            50
      Whence learn'd you that heroic measure?

  You were a Mother! That most holy name,
      Which Heaven and Nature bless,
    I may not vilely prostitute to those
      Whose infants owe them less                                     55
    Than the poor caterpillar owes
      Its gaudy parent fly.
  You were a mother! at your bosom fed
    The babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye,
  Each twilight-thought, each nascent feeling read,                   60
    Which you yourself created. Oh! delight!
      A second time to be a mother,
        Without the mother's bitter groans:
      Another thought, and yet another,
        By touch, or taste, by looks or tones,                        65
    O'er the growing sense to roll,
    The mother of your infant's soul!
  The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides[337:1]
    His chariot-planet round the goal of day,
  All trembling gazes on the eye of God                               70
    A moment turned his awful face away;
  And as he viewed you, from his aspect sweet
    New influences in your being rose,
  Blest intuitions and communions fleet
    With living Nature, in her joys and woes!                         75
      Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see
      The shrine of social Liberty!
      O beautiful! O Nature's child!
      'Twas thence you hailed the Platform wild,
        Where once the Austrian fell                                  80
        Beneath the shaft of Tell!
      O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
      Thence learn'd you that heroic measure.

1799.


FOOTNOTES:

[335:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, December 24, 1799 (in
four numbered stanzas): included in the _Annual Anthology_, 1800, in
_Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The Duchess's poem
entitled 'Passage over Mount Gothard' was published in the _Morning
Chronicle_ on Dec. 20 and in the _Morning Post_, Dec. 21, 1799.

[337:1] In a copy of the _Annual Anthology_ Coleridge drew his pen
through ll. 68-77, but the lines appeared in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817,
and in all later editions (see _P. W._, 1898, p. 624).


LINENOTES:

_Ode to Georgiana_, &c.--Motto 4

  Then wing'd the arrow to

M. P., An. Anth.

Sub-title] On the 24{th} stanza in her Poem, entitled 'The Passage of
the Mountain of St. Gothard.' M. P.

[1-2]

  Lady, Splendor's foster'd child
  And did _you_

M. P.

[2] you] _you_ An. Anth.

[7] your years their courses M. P.

[9] Ah! far remov'd from want and hope and fear M. P.

[11] Obeisant praises M. P.

[14] stately] gorgeous M. P.

[15] om. An. Anth.

[31 foll.]

  But many of your many fair compeers
  [But many of thy many fair compeers M. P.]
  Have frames as sensible of joys and fears;
  And some might wage an equal strife

An. Anth.

[34-5]

  (Some few perchance to nobler being wrought),
  Corrivals in the plastic powers of thought.

M. P.

[35] Corrivals] co-rivals An. Anth., S. L. 1828.

[36] these] _these_ S. L. 1828, 1829.

[40] insidious] insulting M. P.

[45] penury] poverty M. P., An. Anth.

[47] Hail'd the low Chapel M. P., An. Anth.

[51] Whence] Where An. Anth., S. L. 1828, 1829.

[56] caterpillar] Reptile M. P., An. Anth.

[60] each] and M. P.

[72] you] thee M. P.

[73] your] thy M. P.

[76] O Lady thence ye joy'd to see M. P.




A CHRISTMAS CAROL[338:1]


  I

    The shepherds went their hasty way,
      And found the lowly stable-shed
    Where the Virgin-Mother lay:
      And now they checked their eager tread,
  For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung,                            5
  A Mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung.

  II

    They told her how a glorious light,
      Streaming from a heavenly throng,
    Around them shone, suspending night!
      While sweeter than a mother's song,                             10
  Blest Angels heralded the Saviour's birth,
  Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth.

  III

    She listened to the tale divine,
      And closer still the Babe she pressed;
    And while she cried, the Babe is mine!                            15
      The milk rushed faster to her breast:
  Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn;
  Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.

  IV

    Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace,
      Poor, simple, and of low estate!                                20
    That strife should vanish, battle cease,
      O why should this thy soul elate?
  Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's story,--
  Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory?

  V

    And is not War a youthful king,                                   25
      A stately Hero clad in mail?
    Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;
      Him Earth's majestic monarchs hail
  Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye
  Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh.                          30

  VI

    'Tell this in some more courtly scene,
      To maids and youths in robes of state!
    I am a woman poor and mean,
      And therefore is my soul elate.
  War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled,                           35
  That from the agéd father tears his child!

  VII

    'A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,
      He kills the sire and starves the son;
    The husband kills, and from her board
      Steals all his widow's toil had won;                            40
  Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away
  All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.

  VIII

    'Then wisely is my soul elate,
      That strife should vanish, battle cease:
    I'm poor and of a low estate,                                     45
      The Mother of the Prince of Peace.
  Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn:
  Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.'

1799.


FOOTNOTES:

[338:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, December 25, 1799:
included in the _Annual Anthology_, 1800, in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817,
1828, 1829, and 1834.


LINENOTES:

_A Christmas Carol_--8: a] an M. P., An. Anth.

[10] While] And M. P.

[35] War is a ruffian Thief, with gore defil'd M. P., An.
Anth.

[37] fiend] Thief M. P., An. Anth.

[41] rends] tears M. P.

[After 49]

  Strange prophecy! Could half the screams
    Of half the men that since have died
  To realise War's kingly dreams,
    Have risen at once in one vast tide,
  The choral music of Heav'n's multitude
  Had been o'erpower'd, and lost amid the uproar rude!
                                          ESTEESI.

M. P., An. Anth.




TALLEYRAND TO LORD GRENVILLE[340:1]

A METRICAL EPISTLE

[As printed in _Morning Post_ for January 10, 1800.]


     To the Editor of _The Morning Post_.

     MR. EDITOR,--An unmetrical letter from Talleyrand to Lord
     Grenville has already appeared, and from an authority too high
     to be questioned: otherwise I could adduce some arguments for
     the exclusive authenticity of the following metrical epistle.
     The very epithet which the wise ancients used, '_aurea
     carmina_,' might have been supposed likely to have determined
     the choice of the French minister in favour of verse; and the
     rather when we recollect that this phrase of '_golden verses_'
     is applied emphatically to the works of that philosopher who
     imposed _silence_ on all with whom he had to deal. Besides is
     it not somewhat improbable that Talleyrand should have
     preferred prose to rhyme, when the latter alone _has got the
     chink_? Is it not likewise curious that in our official answer
     no notice whatever is taken of the Chief Consul, Bonaparte, as
     if there had been no such person [man _Essays, &c., 1850_]
     existing; notwithstanding that his existence is pretty
     generally admitted, nay that some have been so rash as to
     believe that he has created as great a sensation in the world
     as Lord Grenville, or even the Duke of Portland? But the
     Minister of Foreign Affairs, Talleyrand, is acknowledged,
     which, in our opinion, could not have happened had he written
     only that insignificant prose-letter, which seems to precede
     Bonaparte's, as in old romances a dwarf always ran before to
     proclaim the advent or arrival of knight or giant. That
     Talleyrand's character and practices more resemble those of
     some _regular_ Governments than Bonaparte's I admit; but this
     of itself does not appear a satisfactory explanation. However,
     let the letter speak for itself. The second line is
     supererogative in syllables, whether from the oscitancy of the
     transcriber, or from the trepidation which might have
     overpowered the modest Frenchman, on finding himself in the
     act of writing to so _great_ a man, I shall not dare to
     determine. A few Notes are added by
                                         Your servant,
                                                       GNOME.

     _P.S._--As mottoes are now fashionable, especially if taken
     from out of the way books, you may prefix, if you please, the
     following lines from Sidonius Apollinaris:

       'Saxa, et robora, corneasque fibras
       Mollit dulciloquâ canorus arte!'


TALLEYRAND, MINISTER OF FOREIGN AFFAIRS AT PARIS, TO LORD GRENVILLE,
SECRETARY OF STATE IN GREAT BRITAIN FOR FOREIGN AFFAIRS, AUDITOR OF THE
EXCHEQUER, A LORD OF TRADE, AN ELDER BROTHER OF TRINITY HOUSE, ETC.

  My Lord! though your Lordship repel deviation
  From forms long establish'd, yet with high consideration,
  I plead for the honour to hope that no blame
  Will attach, should this letter _begin_ with my name.
  I dar'd not presume on your Lordship to bounce,                      5
  But thought it more _exquisite_ first to _announce_!

  My Lord! I've the honour to be Talleyrand,
  And the letter's from _me_! you'll not draw back your hand
  Nor yet take it up by the rim in dismay,
  As boys pick up ha'pence on April fool-day.                         10
  I'm no Jacobin foul, or red-hot Cordelier
  That your Lordship's _un_gauntleted fingers need fear
  An infection or burn! Believe me, 'tis true,
  With a scorn like another I look down on the crew
  That bawl and hold up to the mob's detestation                      15
  The most delicate wish for a _silent persuasion_.
  _A form long-establish'd_ these Terrorists call
  Bribes, perjury, theft, and the devil and all!
  And yet spite of all that the Moralist[341:1] prates,
  'Tis the keystone and cement of _civilized States_.                 20
  Those American _Reps_![342:1] And i' faith, they were serious!
  It shock'd us at Paris, like something mysterious,
  That men who've a Congress--But no more of 't! I'm proud
  To have stood so distinct from the Jacobin crowd.

    My Lord! though the vulgar in wonder be lost at                   25
  My transfigurations, and name me _Apostate_,
  Such a meaningless nickname, which never incens'd me,
  _Cannot_ prejudice you or your Cousin against me:
  I'm Ex-bishop. What then? Burke himself would agree
  That I left not the Church--'twas the Church that left me.
  My titles prelatic I lov'd and retain'd,                            31
  As long as what _I_ meant by Prelate remain'd:
  And tho' Mitres no longer will _pass_ in our mart,
  I'm _episcopal_ still to the core of my heart.
  No time from my name this my motto shall sever:                     35
  'Twill be _Non sine pulvere palma_[342:2] for ever!

    Your goodness, my Lord, I conceive as excessive,
  Or I dar'd not present you a scroll so digressive;
  And in truth with my pen thro' and thro' I should strike it;
  But I hear that your Lordship's own style is just like it.          40
  Dear my Lord, we are right: for what charms can be shew'd
  In a thing that goes straight like an old Roman road?
  The tortoise crawls straight, the hare doubles about;
  And the true line of beauty still winds in and out.
  It argues, my Lord! of fine thoughts such a brood in us             45
  To split and divide into heads multitudinous,
  While charms that surprise (it can ne'er be denied us)
  Sprout forth from each head, like the ears from King Midas.
  Were a genius of rank, like a commonplace dunce,
  Compell'd to drive on to the main point at once,                    50
  What a plentiful vintage of initiations[342:3]
  Would Noble Lords lose in your Lordship's orations.
  My fancy transports me! As mute as a mouse,
  And as fleet as a pigeon, I'm borne to the house
  Where all those who _are_ Lords, from father to son,                55
  Discuss the affairs of all those who are none.
  I behold you, my Lord! of your feelings quite full,
  'Fore the woolsack arise, like a sack full of wool!
  You rise on each Anti-Grenvillian Member,
  Short, thick and blustrous, like a day in November![343:1]          60
  Short in person, I mean: for the length of your speeches
  Fame herself, that most famous reporter, ne'er reaches.
  Lo! Patience beholds you contemn her brief reign,
  And Time, that all-panting toil'd after in vain,
  (Like the Beldam who raced for a smock with her grand-child)        65
  Drops and cries: 'Were such lungs e'er assign'd to a man-child?'
  Your strokes at her vitals pale Truth has confess'd,
  And Zeal unresisted entempests your breast![343:2]
  Though some noble Lords may be wishing to sup,
  Your merit self-conscious, my Lord, _keeps you up_,                 70
  Unextinguish'd and swoln, as a balloon of paper
  Keeps aloft by the smoke of its own farthing taper.
  Ye SIXTEENS[343:3] of Scotland, your snuffs ye must trim;
  Your Geminies, fix'd stars of England! grow dim,
  And but for _a form long-establish'd_, no doubt                     75
  Twinkling faster and faster, ye all would _go out_.

  _Apropos_, my dear Lord! a ridiculous blunder
  Of some of our Journalists caused us some wonder:
  It was said that in aspect malignant and sinister
  In the Isle of Great Britain a great Foreign Minister               80
  Turn'd as pale as a journeyman miller's frock coat is
  On observing a star that appear'd in BOOTES!
  When the whole truth was this (O those ignorant brutes!)
  Your Lordship had made his appearance in boots.
  You, my Lord, with your star, sat in boots, and the Spanish
  Ambassador thereupon thought fit to vanish.                         86

  But perhaps, dear my Lord, among other worse crimes,
  The whole was no more than a lie of _The Times_.
  It is monstrous, my Lord! in a civilis'd state
  That such Newspaper rogues should have license to prate.            90
  Indeed printing in general--but for the taxes,
  Is in theory false and pernicious in praxis!
  You and I, and your Cousin, and Abbé Sieyes,
  And all the great Statesmen that live in these days,
  Are agreed that no nation secure is from vi'lence                   95
  Unless all who must think are maintain'd all in silence.
  This printing, my Lord--but 'tis useless to mention
  What we both of us think--'twas a curséd invention,
  And Germany might have been honestly prouder
  Had she left it alone, and found out only powder.                  100
  My Lord! when I think of our labours and cares
  Who rule the Department of foreign affairs,
  And how with their libels these journalists bore us,
  Though Rage I acknowledge than Scorn less decorous;
  Yet their presses and types I could shiver in splinters,           105
  Those Printers' black Devils! those Devils of Printers!
  In case of a peace--but perhaps it were better
  To proceed to the absolute point of my letter:
  For the deep wounds of France, Bonaparte, my master,
  Has found out a new sort of _basilicon_ plaister.                  110
  But your time, my dear Lord! is your nation's best treasure,
  I've intruded already too long on your leisure;
  If so, I entreat you with penitent sorrow
  To pause, and resume the remainder to-morrow.

1800.


FOOTNOTES:

[340:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, January 10, 1800:
reprinted in _Essays on His Own Times_, 1850, i. 233-7. First collected
_P. and D. W._, 1877, 1880.

[341:1] This sarcasm on the writings of moralists is, in general,
extremely just; but had Talleyrand continued long enough in England, he
might have found an honourable exception in the second volume of Dr.
Paley's _Moral Philosophy_; in which both Secret Influence, and all the
other _Established Forms_, are justified and placed in their true light.

[342:1] A fashionable abbreviation in the higher circles for
Republicans. Thus _Mob_ was originally the Mobility.

[342:2] _Palma non sine pulvere_ In plain English, an itching palm, not
without the yellow dust.

[342:3] The word _Initiations_ is borrowed from the new Constitution,
and can only mean, in plain English, introductory matter. If the
manuscript would bear us out, we should propose to read the line thus:
'What a plentiful _Verbage_, what Initiations!' inasmuch as Vintage must
necessarily refer to wine, really or figuratively; and we cannot guess
what species Lord Grenville's eloquence may be supposed to resemble,
unless, indeed, it be _Cowslip_ wine. A slashing critic to whom we read
the manuscript, proposed to read, 'What a plenty of Flowers--what
initiations!' and supposes it may allude indiscriminately to Poppy
Flowers, or Flour of Brimstone. The most modest emendation, perhaps,
would be this--for Vintage read Ventage.

[343:1] We cannot sufficiently admire the accuracy of this simile. For
as Lord Grenville, though short, is certainly not the shortest man in
the House, even so is it with the days in November.

[343:2] An evident plagiarism of the Ex-Bishop's from Dr. Johnson:--

  'Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
   And panting Time toil'd after him in vain:
   His pow'rful strokes presiding Truth confess'd,
   And unresisting Passion storm'd the breast.'

[343:3] This line and the following are involved in an almost
Lycophrontic tenebricosity. On repeating them, however, to an
_Illuminant_, whose confidence I possess, he informed me (and he ought
to know, for he is a Tallow-chandler by trade) that certain candles go
by the name of _sixteens_. This explains the whole, the Scotch Peers are
destined to burn out--and so are candles! The English are perpetual, and
are therefore styled Fixed Stars! The word _Geminies_ is, we confess,
still obscure to us; though we venture to suggest that it may perhaps be
a metaphor (daringly sublime) for the two eyes which noble Lords do in
general possess. It is certainly used by the poet Fletcher in this
sense, in the 31st stanza of his _Purple Island_:--

  'What! shall I then need seek a patron out,
     Or beg a favour from a mistress' eyes,
   To fence my song against the vulgar rout,
     And shine upon me with her _geminies_?'


LINENOTES:

[14] With a scorn, like your own Essay, &c., 1850.




APOLOGIA PRO VITA SUA[345:1]


  The poet in his lone yet genial hour
  Gives to his eyes a magnifying power:
  Or rather he emancipates his eyes
  From the black shapeless accidents of size--
  In unctuous cones of kindling coal,                                  5
  Or smoke upwreathing from the pipe's trim hole,
      His gifted ken can see
      Phantoms of sublimity.

1800.


FOOTNOTES:

[345:1] Included in the text of _The Historie and Gests of Maxilian_:
first published in _Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine_, January, 1822, vol.
xi, p. 12. The lines were taken from a MS. note-book, dated August 28,
1800. First collected _P. and D. W._, 1877-80.


LINENOTES:

Title] The Poet's ken P. W., 1885: Apologia, &c. 1907.

[1-4]

  The poet's eye in his tipsy hour
      Hath a magnifying power
  Or rather emancipates his eyes
  Of the accidents of size

MS.

[5] cones] cone MS.

[6] Or smoke from his pipe's bole MS.

[7] His eye can see MS.




THE KEEPSAKE[345:2]


  The tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil,
  The tedded hay and corn-sheaves in one field,
  Show summer gone, ere come. The foxglove tall
  Sheds its loose purple bells, or in the gust,
  Or when it bends beneath the up-springing lark,                      5
  Or mountain-finch alighting. And the rose
  (In vain the darling of successful love)
  Stands, like some boasted beauty of past years,
  The thorns remaining, and the flowers all gone.
  Nor can I find, amid my lonely walk                                 10
  By rivulet, or spring, or wet roadside,
  That blue and bright-eyed floweret of the brook,
  Hope's gentle gem, the sweet Forget-me-not![346:1]
  So will not fade the flowers which Emmeline
  With delicate fingers on the snow-white silk                        15
  Has worked (the flowers which most she knew I loved),
  And, more beloved than they, her auburn hair.

  In the cool morning twilight, early waked
  By her full bosom's joyous restlessness,
  Softly she rose, and lightly stole along,                           20
  Down the <DW72> coppice to the woodbine bower,
  Whose rich flowers, swinging in the morning breeze,
  Over their dim fast-moving shadows hung,
  Making a quiet image of disquiet
  In the smooth, scarcely moving river-pool.                          25
  There, in that bower where first she owned her love,
  And let me kiss my own warm tear of joy
  From off her glowing cheek, she sate and stretched
  The silk upon the frame, and worked her name
  Between the Moss-Rose and Forget-me-not--                           30
  Her own dear name, with her own auburn hair!
  That forced to wander till sweet spring return,
  I yet might ne'er forget her smile, her look,
  Her voice, (that even in her mirthful mood
  Has made me wish to steal away and weep,)                           35
  Nor yet the enhancement of that maiden kiss
  With which she promised, that when spring returned,
  She would resign one half of that dear name,
  And own thenceforth no other name but mine!

? 1800.


FOOTNOTES:

[345:2] First published in the _Morning Post_, September 17, 1802
(signed, ΕΣΤΗΣΕ): included in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829,
1834. 'It had been composed two years before' (1802), _Note_, 1893, p.
624. Mr. Campbell may have seen a dated MS. Internal evidence would
point to the autumn of 1802, when it was published in the _Morning
Post_.

[346:1] One of the names (and meriting to be the only one) of the
_Myosotis Scorpioides Palustris_, a flower from six to twelve inches
high, with blue blossom and bright yellow eye. It has the same name over
the whole Empire of Germany (_Vergissmeinnicht_) and, we believe, in
Denmark and Sweden.


LINENOTES:

[1] om. M. P.

[2] one] _one_ M. P.

[12] Line 13 precedes line 12 M. P.

[17] they] all M. P.

[19] joyous] joyless S. L. 1828.

[19-21]

                  joyous restlessness,
  Leaving the soft bed to her sister,
  Softly she rose, and lightly stole along,
  Her fair face flushing in the purple dawn,
  Adown the meadow to the woodbine bower

M. P.

[Between 19-20] Leaving the soft bed to her sleeping sister S. L. 1817.

[25] scarcely moving] scarcely-flowing M. P.

[39] thenceforth] henceforth M. P.




A THOUGHT SUGGESTED BY A VIEW[347:1]

OF SADDLEBACK IN CUMBERLAND


    On stern Blencartha's perilous height
      The winds are tyrannous and strong;
    And flashing forth unsteady light
    From stern Blencartha's skiey height,
      As loud the torrents throng!                                     5
    Beneath the moon, in gentle weather,
    They bind the earth and sky together.
  But oh! the sky and all its forms, how quiet!
  The things that seek the earth, how full of noise and riot!

1800.


FOOTNOTES:

[347:1] First published in the _Amulet_, 1833, reprinted in
_Friendship's Offering_, 1834: included in _Essays on His Own Times_,
1850, iii. 997. First collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877-80. These lines
are inserted in one of the Malta Notebooks, and appear from the context
to have been written at Olevano in 1806; but it is almost certain that
they belong to the autumn of 1800 when Coleridge made a first
acquaintance of 'Blencathara's rugged coves'. The first line is an
adaptation of a line in a poem of Isaac Ritson, quoted in Hutchinson's
_History of Cumberland_, a work which supplied him with some of the
place-names in the Second Part of _Christabel_. Compare, too, a sentence
in a letter to Sir H. Davy of Oct. 18, 1800:--'At the bottom of the
Carrock Man . . . the wind became so fearful and _tyrannous_, etc.'


LINENOTES:

Title] A Versified Reflection F. O. 1834. In F. O. 1834, the lines were
prefaced by a note:--[A Force is the provincial term in Cumberland for
any narrow fall of water from the summit of a mountain precipice. The
following stanza (it may not arrogate the name of poem) or versified
reflection was composed while the author was gazing on three parallel
_Forces_ on a moonlight night, at the foot of the Saddleback Fell. _S.
T. C._] A ---- by the view of Saddleback, near Threlkeld in Cumberland,
Essays, &c.

[1] Blencartha's] Blenkarthur's MS.: Blencarthur's F. O.: Blenharthur's
Essays, &c., 1850.

[2] The wind is F. O.

[4] Blencartha's] Blenkarthur's MS.: Blencarthur's F. O.: Blenharthur's
Essays, &c., 1850.

[8] oh!] ah! Essays, &c.




THE MAD MONK[347:2]


  I heard a voice from Etna's side;
    Where o'er a cavern's mouth
    That fronted to the south
  A chesnut spread its umbrage wide:
  A hermit or a monk the man might be;                                 5
    But him I could not see:
  And thus the music flow'd along,
  In melody most like to old Sicilian song:

  'There was a time when earth, and sea, and skies,
    The bright green vale, and forest's dark recess,                  10
  With all things, lay before mine eyes
    In steady loveliness:
  But now I feel, on earth's uneasy scene,
    Such sorrows as will never cease;--
    I only ask for peace;                                             15
  If I must live to know that such a time has been!'
  A silence then ensued:
      Till from the cavern came
      A voice;--it was the same!
  And thus, in mournful tone, its dreary plaint renew'd:              20

  'Last night, as o'er the sloping turf I trod,
    The smooth green turf, to me a vision gave
  Beneath mine eyes, the sod--
    The roof of Rosa's grave!

  My heart has need with dreams like these to strive,                 25
    For, when I woke, beneath mine eyes I found
    The plot of mossy ground,
  On which we oft have sat when Rosa was alive.--
  Why must the rock, and margin of the flood,
    Why must the hills so many flow'rets bear,                        30
  Whose colours to a _murder'd_ maiden's blood,
    Such sad resemblance wear?--

  '_I struck the wound_,--this hand of mine!
  For Oh, thou maid divine,
    I lov'd to agony!                                                 35
  The youth whom thou call'd'st thine
    Did never love like me!

  'Is it the stormy clouds above
    That flash'd so red a gleam?
    On yonder downward trickling stream?--                            40
  'Tis not the blood of her I love.--
  The sun torments me from his western bed,
    Oh, let him cease for ever to diffuse
    Those crimson spectre hues!
  Oh, let me lie in peace, and be for ever dead!'                     45

  Here ceas'd the voice. In deep dismay,
  Down thro' the forest I pursu'd my way.

1800.


FOOTNOTES:

[347:2] First published in the _Morning Post_, October 13, 1800 (signed
_Cassiani junior_): reprinted in _Wild Wreath_ (By M. E. Robinson),
1804, pp. 141-4. First collected in _P. W._, 1880 (ii, Supplement, p.
362).


LINENOTES:

Title] The Voice from the Side of Etna; or the Mad Monk: An Ode in Mrs.
Ratcliff's Manner M. P.

[8] to] an M. P.

[14] sorrows] motions M. P.

[16] Then wherefore must I know M. P.

[23] I saw the sod M. P.

[26] woke] wak'd M. P.

[27] The] That M. P.

[28] On which so oft we sat M. P.

[31] a wounded woman's blood M. P.

[38-9]

  It is the stormy clouds above
  That flash

M. P.

[After 47]

    The twilight fays came forth in dewy shoon
  Ere I within the Cabin had withdrawn
  The goatherd's tent upon the open lawn--
    That night there was no moon.

M. P.




INSCRIPTION FOR A SEAT BY THE ROAD SIDE HALF-WAY UP A STEEP HILL FACING
SOUTH[349:1]


  Thou who in youthful vigour rich, and light
  With youthful thoughts dost need no rest! O thou,
  To whom alike the valley and the hill
  Present a path of ease! Should e'er thine eye
  Glance on this sod, and this rude tablet, stop!                      5
  'Tis a rude spot, yet here, with thankful hearts,
  The foot-worn soldier and his family
  Have rested, wife and babe, and boy, perchance
  Some eight years old or less, and scantly fed,
  Garbed like his father, and already bound                           10
  To his poor father's trade. Or think of him
  Who, laden with his implements of toil,
  Returns at night to some far distant home,
  And having plodded on through rain and mire
  With limbs o'erlaboured, weak from feverish heat,                   15
  And chafed and fretted by December blasts,
  Here pauses, thankful he hath reached so far,
  And 'mid the sheltering warmth of these bleak trees
  Finds restoration--or reflect on those
  Who in the spring to meet the warmer sun                            20
  Crawl up this steep hill-side, that needlessly
  Bends double their weak frames, already bowed
  By age or malady, and when, at last,
  They gain this wished-for turf, this seat of sods,
  Repose--and, well-admonished, ponder here                           25
  On final rest. And if a serious thought
  Should come uncalled--how soon _thy_ motions high,
  Thy balmy spirits and thy fervid blood
  Must change to feeble, withered, cold and dry,
  Cherish the wholesome sadness! And where'er                         30
  The tide of Life impel thee, O be prompt
  To make thy present strength the staff of all,
  Their staff and resting-place--so shalt thou give
  To Youth the sweetest joy that Youth can know;
  And for thy future self thou shalt provide                          35
  Through every change of various life, a seat,
  Not built by hands, on which thy inner part,
  Imperishable, many a grievous hour,
  Or bleak or sultry may repose--yea, sleep
  The sleep of Death, and dream of blissful worlds,                   40
  Then wake in Heaven, and find the dream all true.

1800.


FOOTNOTES:

[349:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, October 21, 1800
(Coleridge's birthday) under the signature VENTIFRONS: reprinted in the
_Lake Herald_, November 2, 1906. Now first included in Coleridge's
_Poetical Works_. Venti Frons is dog-Latin for Windy Brow, a point of
view immediately above the River Greta, on the lower <DW72> of Latrigg.
Here it was that on Wednesday, August 13, 1800, Wordsworth, his sister
Dorothy, and Coleridge 'made the Windy Brow seat'--a 'seat of sods'. In
a letter to his printers, Biggs and Cottle, of October 10, 1800,
Wordsworth says that 'a friend [the author of the _Ancient Mariner_,
&c.] has also furnished me with a few of these Poems in the second
volume [of the _Lyrical Ballads_] which are classed under the title of
"Poems on the Naming of Places"' (_Wordsworth and Coleridge MSS._, Ed.
W. Hale White, 1897, pp. 27, 28). No such poems or poem appeared, and it
has been taken for granted that none were ever written. At any rate
_one_ 'Inscription', now at last forthcoming, was something more than a
'story from the land of dreams'!




A STRANGER MINSTREL[350:1]

WRITTEN [TO MRS. ROBINSON,] A FEW WEEKS BEFORE HER DEATH


  As late on Skiddaw's mount I lay supine,
  Midway th' ascent, in that repose divine
  When the soul centred in the heart's recess
  Hath quaff'd its fill of Nature's loveliness,
  Yet still beside the fountain's marge will stay                      5
    And fain would thirst again, again to quaff;
  Then when the tear, slow travelling on its way,
    Fills up the wrinkles of a silent laugh--
  In that sweet mood of sad and humorous thought
  A form within me rose, within me wrought                            10
  With such strong magic, that I cried aloud,
  'Thou ancient Skiddaw by thy helm of cloud,
  And by thy many-colour'd chasms deep,
  And by their shadows that for ever sleep,
  By yon small flaky mists that love to creep                         15
  Along the edges of those spots of light,
  Those sunny islands on thy smooth green height,
    And by yon shepherds with their sheep,
    And dogs and boys, a gladsome crowd,
    That rush e'en now with clamour loud                              20
    Sudden from forth thy topmost cloud,
    And by this laugh, and by this tear,
    I would, old Skiddaw, she were here!
    A lady of sweet song is she,
    Her soft blue eye was made for thee!                              25
    O ancient Skiddaw, by this tear,
    I would, I would that she were here!'

  Then ancient Skiddaw, stern and proud,
    In sullen majesty replying,
  Thus spake from out his helm of cloud                               30
    (His voice was like an echo dying!):--
  'She dwells belike in scenes more fair,
  And scorns a mount so bleak and bare.'

  I only sigh'd when this I heard,
  Such mournful thoughts within me stirr'd                            35
  That all my heart was faint and weak,
    So sorely was I troubled!
  No laughter wrinkled on my cheek,
    But O the tears were doubled!
  But ancient Skiddaw green and high                                  40
  Heard and understood my sigh;
  And now, in tones less stern and rude,
  As if he wish'd to end the feud,
  Spake he, the proud response renewing
  (His voice was like a monarch wooing):--                            45
  'Nay, but thou dost not know her might,
    The pinions of her soul how strong!
  But many a stranger in my height
    Hath sung to me her magic song,
      Sending forth his ecstasy                                       50
      In her divinest melody,
    And hence I know her soul is free,
    She is where'er she wills to be,
    Unfetter'd by mortality!
  Now to the "haunted beach" can fly,[352:1]                          55
    Beside the threshold scourged with waves,
    Now where the maniac wildly raves,
  "_Pale moon, thou spectre of the sky!_"[352:2]
    No wind that hurries o'er my height
    Can travel with so swift a flight.                                60
      I too, methinks, might merit
      The presence of her spirit!
      To me too might belong
    The honour of her song and witching melody,
      Which most resembles me,                                        65
      Soft, various, and sublime,
      Exempt from wrongs of Time!'

    Thus spake the mighty Mount, and I
    Made answer, with a deep-drawn sigh:--
    Thou ancient Skiddaw, by this tear,                               70
    I would, I would that she were here!'

_November_, 1800.


FOOTNOTES:

[350:1] First published in _Memoirs of the late Mrs. Robinson_, Written
by herself. With some Posthumous Pieces, 1801, iv. 141: reprinted in
_Poetical Works of the late Mrs. Mary Robinson_, 1806, i. xlviii, li.
First collected in _P. W._, 1877-80.

[352:1] 'The Haunted Beach,' by Mrs. Robinson, was included in the
_Annual Anthology_ for 1800.

[352:2] From 'Jasper', a ballad by Mrs. Robinson, included in the
_Annual Anthology_ for 1800.


LINENOTES:

[1] Skiddaw's] Skiddaw 1801.

[8] wrinkles] wrinkle 1801.

[13] chasms so deep 1801.

[17] sunny] sunshine 1801.

[32] in] by 1801.

[38] on] now 1801.

[57] Now to the maniac while he raves 1801.




ALCAEUS TO SAPPHO[353:1]


  How sweet, when crimson colours dart
    Across a breast of snow,
  To see that you are in the heart
    That beats and throbs below.

  All Heaven is in a maiden's blush,                                   5
    In which the soul doth speak,
  That it was you who sent the flush
    Into the maiden's cheek.

  Large steadfast eyes! eyes gently rolled
    In shades of changing blue,                                       10
  How sweet are they, if they behold
    No dearer sight than you.

  And, can a lip more richly glow,
    Or be more fair than this?
  The world will surely answer, No!                                   15
    I, SAPPHO, answer, Yes!

  Then grant one smile, tho' it should mean
    A thing of doubtful birth;
  That I may say these eyes have seen
    The fairest face on earth!                                        20

1800.


FOOTNOTES:

[353:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, November 24, 1800:
reprinted in _Letters from the Lake Poets_, 1889, p. 16. It is probable
that these lines, sent in a letter to Daniel Stuart (Editor of the
_Morning Post_), dated October 7, 1800, were addressed to Mrs. Robinson,
who was a frequent contributor of verses signed 'Sappho'. A sequence of
Sonnets entitled 'Sappho to Phaon' is included in the collected edition
of her _Poems_, 1806, iii. 63-107.




THE TWO ROUND SPACES ON THE TOMBSTONE[353:2]


  The Devil believes that the Lord will come,
  Stealing a march without beat of drum,
  About the same time that he came last,
  On an Old Christmas-day in a snowy blast:
  Till he bids the trump sound neither body nor soul stirs,            5
  For the dead men's heads have slipt under their bolsters.

    Oh! ho! brother Bard, in our churchyard,
    Both beds and bolsters are soft and green;
    Save one alone, and that's of stone,
    And under it lies a Counsellor keen.                              10
  'Twould be a square tomb, if it were not too long;
  And 'tis fenced round with irons sharp, spear-like, and strong.

  This fellow from Aberdeen hither did skip
  With a waxy face and a blubber lip,
  And a black tooth in front, to show in part                         15
  What was the colour of his whole heart.
      This Counsellor sweet,
      This Scotchman complete,
      (The Devil scotch him for a snake!)
      I trust he lies in his grave awake.                             20
        On the sixth of January,
      When all around is white with snow,
      As a Cheshire yeoman's dairy,
        Brother Bard, ho! ho! believe it, or no,
      On that stone tomb to you I'll show                             25
      Two round spaces void of snow.
  I swear by our Knight, and his forefathers' souls,
  That in size and shape they are just like the holes
      In the house of privity
      Of that ancient family.                                         30
  On those two places void of snow,
  There have sat in the night for an hour or so,
  Before sunrise, and after cock-crow,
  He kicking his heels, she cursing her corns,
  All to the tune of the wind in their horns,                         35
      The Devil and his Grannam,
      With a snow-blast to fan 'em;
  Expecting and hoping the trumpet to blow,
  For they are cock-sure of the fellow below!

1800.


FOOTNOTES:

[353:2] First published in the _Morning Post_, December 4, 1800:
reprinted in _Fraser's Magazine_ both in February and in May, 1833, and
in Payne Collier's _Old Man's Diary_, i. 35. First collected in _P. W._,
1834, with the following Prefatory Note:--'See the apology for the
"Fire, Famine, and Slaughter", in first volume. This is the first time
the author ever published these lines. He would have been glad, had they
perished; but they have now been printed repeatedly in magazines, and he
is told that the verses will not perish. Here, therefore, they are
owned, with a hope that they will be taken--as assuredly they were
composed--in mere sport.' These lines, which were directed against Sir
James Mackintosh, were included in a letter to [Sir] Humphry Davy, dated
October 9, 1800. There is a MS. version in the British Museum in the
handwriting of R. Heber, presented by him to J. Mitford. Mr. Campbell
questions the accuracy of Coleridge's statement with regard to his never
having published the poem on his own account. But it is possible that
Davy may have sent the lines to the Press without Coleridge's authority.
Daniel Stuart, the Editor of the _Morning Post_, in the _Gentleman's
Magazine_ for May, 1838, says that 'Coleridge sent one [poem] attacking
Mackintosh, too obviously for me not to understand it, and of course it
was not published. Mackintosh had had one of his front teeth broken and
the stump was black'. Stuart remembered that the lines attacking his
brother-in-law had been suppressed, but forgot that he had inserted the
rest of the poem. The poem as printed in 1893, despite the heading, does
not follow the text of the _Morning Post_.


LINENOTES:

Title] Skeltoniad (To be read in the Recitative Lilt) MS. Letter: The
Two Round Spaces; A Skeltoniad M. P.

[1] The Devil believes the Fraser (1).

[3] time] hour MS. Letter, M. P., Fraser (1), Collier. At the same hour
MS. H.

[4] an Old] a cold Fraser (1): On Old MS. H.

[5] neither] nor MS. Letter, M. P.: Till he bids the trump blow nor
Fraser (2): Till the trump then shall sound no Collier: Until that time
not a body or MS. H.

[6] their] the Collier.

[7] Oh! ho!] Ho! Ho! M. P., MS. H.: Oho Fraser (1). Brother Collier.
our] _our_ MS. Letter.

[8] Both bed and bolster Fraser (2). The graves and bolsters MS. H.

[9] Except one alone MS. H.

[10] under] in Fraser (2).

[11] This tomb would be square M. P.: 'Twould be a square stone if it
were not so long Fraser (1). It would be square MS. H. tomb] grave
Collier.

[12] And 'tis railed round with iron tall M. P.: And 'tis edg'd round
with iron Fraser (1): 'Tis fenc'd round with irons tall Fraser (2): And
'tis fenc'd round with iron tall Collier. 'tis] its MS. H.

[13-20] om. M. P.

[13] From Aberdeen hither this fellow MS. Letter. hither] here Fraser
(2).

[14] blubber] blabber MS. Letter, Fraser (1), (2), MS. H.

[15] in front] before MS. H.

[17] Counsellor] lawyer so MS. H.

[19] The Devil] Apollyon MS. Letter. scotch] _scotch_ Collier.

[20] trust] hope Collier.] (A humane wish) Note in MS. Letter.

[21] sixth] seventh M. P., Collier: fifth MS. H.

[22] When all is white both high and low MS. Letter, M. P., Fraser (2),
Collier, MS. H.: When the ground All around Is as white as snow Fraser
(1).

[23] As] Or Fraser (1): Like MS. H.

[24] ho! ho!] oho! Fraser (1). it] me M. P.

[25] stone] tall MS. Letter, M. P., Fraser (2), Collier. On the stone to
you MS. H.

[25-6] om. Fraser (1).

[Between 25-6] After sunset and before cockcrow M. P. Before sunrise and
after cockcrow Fraser (2).

[26] void] clear M. P.

[27] I swear by the might Of the darkness of night, I swear by the sleep
of our forefathers' souls Fraser (1). souls] soul MS. H.

[26-8] om. Fraser (2).

[28] Both in shape and size MS. Letter: Both in shape and in size M. P.:
That in shape and size they resembled Fraser (1), Collier: That in shape
and size they are just like the Hole MS. H.

[29] In the large house M. P.

[29-30]

  In mansions not seen by the general eye
    Of that right ancient family.

Fraser (1).

[31] two] round MS. Letter. places] spaces Collier, MS. H. void] clear
M. P.

[32] Have sat Fraser (1), (2): There have sat for an hour MS. H.

[33] om. MS. Letter, M. P.

[36] Devil] De'il M. P.

[37] With the snow-drift M. P.: With a snow-blast to fan MS. Letter.

[38] Expecting and wishing the trumpet would blow Collier.




THE SNOW-DROP[356:1]


  1

  Fear no more, thou timid Flower!
  Fear thou no more the winter's might,
  The whelming thaw, the ponderous shower,
  The silence of the freezing night!
  Since Laura murmur'd o'er thy leaves                                 5
  The potent sorceries of song,
  To thee, meek Flowret! gentler gales
      And cloudless skies belong.

  2

  Her eye with tearful meanings fraught,
  She gaz'd till all the body mov'd                                   10
  Interpreting the Spirit's thought--
  The Spirit's eager sympathy
  Now trembled with thy trembling stem,
  And while thou droopedst o'er thy bed,
  With sweet unconscious sympathy                                     15
      Inclin'd the drooping head.[357:1]

  3

  She droop'd her head, she stretch'd her arm,
  She whisper'd low her witching rhymes,
  Fame unreluctant heard the charm,
  And bore thee to Pierian climes!                                    20
  Fear thou no more the Matin Frost
  That sparkled on thy bed of snow;
  For there, mid laurels ever green,
      Immortal thou shalt blow.

  4

  Thy petals boast a white more soft,                                 25
  The spell hath so perfuméd thee,
  That careless Love shall deem thee oft
  A blossom from his Myrtle tree.
  Then, laughing at the fair deceit,
  Shall race with some Etesian wind                                   30
  To seek the woven arboret
      Where Laura lies reclin'd.

  5

  All them whom Love and Fancy grace,
  When grosser eyes are clos'd in sleep,
  The gentle spirits of the place                                     35
  Waft up the insuperable steep,
  On whose vast summit broad and smooth
  Her nest the Phœnix Bird conceals,
  And where by cypresses o'erhung
      The heavenly Lethe steals.                                      40

  6

  A sea-like sound the branches breathe,
  Stirr'd by the Breeze that loiters there;
  And all that stretch their limbs beneath,
  Forget the coil of mortal care.
  Strange mists along the margins rise,                               45
  To heal the guests who thither come,
  And fit the soul to re-endure
      Its earthly martyrdom.

  7*

  The margin dear to moonlight elves
  Where Zephyr-trembling Lilies grow,                                 50
  And bend to kiss their softer selves
  That tremble in the stream below:--
  There nightly borne does Laura lie
  A magic Slumber heaves her breast:
  Her arm, white wanderer of the Harp,                                55
      Beneath her cheek is prest.

  8*

  The Harp uphung by golden chains
  Of that low wind which whispers round,
  With coy reproachfulness complains,
  In snatches of reluctant sound:                                     60
  The music hovers half-perceiv'd,
  And only moulds the slumberer's dreams;
  Remember'd LOVES relume her cheek
      With Youth's returning gleams.

1800.


FOOTNOTES:

[356:1] First published in _P. W._, 1893. The two last stanzas[*] were
omitted as 'too imperfect to print'. The MS. bears the following
heading: LINES WRITTEN IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE PERUSAL OF MRS. ROBINSON'S
SNOW DROP.

     _To the Editor of the Morning Post._

     Sir,

     I am one of your many readers who have been highly gratified
     by some extracts from Mrs. Robinson's 'Walsingham': you will
     oblige me by inserting the following lines [_sic_] immediately
     on the perusal of her beautiful poem 'The Snow Drop'.--ZAGRI.

The 'Lines' were never sent or never appeared in the _Morning Post_.


To the Snow Drop.

  1

  Fear thou no more the wintry storm,
  Sweet Flowret, blest by LAURA'S song:
  She gaz'd upon thy slender form,
  The mild Enchantress gaz'd so long;
  That trembling as she saw thee droop,
  Poor Trembler! o'er thy snowy bed,
  With imitation's sympathy
    She too inclin'd her head.

  2

  She droop'd her head, she stretch'd her arm,
  She whisper'd low her witching rhymes:
  A gentle Sylphid heard the charm,
  And bore thee to Pierian climes!
  Fear thou no more the sparkling Frost,
  The Tempest's Howl, the Fog-damp's gloom:
  For thus mid laurels evergreen
    Immortal thou shalt bloom!

  3 [Stanza 2]

  With eager [*feelings*] unreprov'd
  With [*steady eye and brooding thought*]
  Her eye with tearful meanings fraught,
  [*My Fancy saw her gaze at thee*]
  She gaz'd till all the body mov'd
  [*Till all the moving body caught,*]
  Interpreting, the Spirit's sympathy--
  The Spirit's eager sympathy
  Now trembled with thy trembling stem,
  And while thou drooped'st o'er thy bed,
  With sweet unconscious sympathy
    Inclin'd { her [*portraiture*]
             { the drooping head.
                  First draft of Stanzas 1-3. _MS. S. T. C._

[357:1] The second stanza of Mrs. Robinson's ('Perdita') 'Ode to the
Snow-drop' runs thus:

  All weak and wan, with head inclin'd,
    Its parent-breast the drifted snow,
  It trembles, while the ruthless wind
  Bends its slim form; the tempest lowers,
  Its em'rald eye drops crystal show'rs
    On its cold bed below.

_The Poetical Works of the late Mrs. Mary Robinson_, 1806, i. 123.


LINENOTES:

[36] insuperable] unvoyageable MS. erased.

[53-4]

  Along that marge does Laura lie
  Full oft where Slumber heaves her breast

MS. erased.

[64] With Beauty's morning gleams MS. erased.




ON REVISITING THE SEA-SHORE[359:1]

AFTER LONG ABSENCE, UNDER STRONG MEDICAL RECOMMENDATION NOT TO BATHE


  God be with thee, gladsome Ocean!
    How gladly greet I thee once more!
  Ships and waves, and ceaseless motion,
    And men rejoicing on thy shore.

  Dissuading spake the mild Physician,                                 5
    'Those briny waves for thee are Death!'
  But my soul fulfilled her mission,
    And lo! I breathe untroubled breath!

  Fashion's pining sons and daughters,
    That seek the crowd they seem to fly,                             10
  Trembling they approach thy waters;
    And what cares Nature, if they die?

  Me a thousand hopes and pleasures
    A thousand recollections bland,
  Thoughts sublime, and stately measures,                             15
    Revisit on thy echoing strand:

  Dreams (the Soul herself forsaking),
    Tearful raptures, boyish mirth;
  Silent adorations, making
    A blessed shadow of this Earth!                                   20

  O ye hopes, that stir within me,
    Health comes with you from above!
  God is with me, God is in me!
    I cannot die, if Life be Love.

_August_, 1801.


FOOTNOTES:

[359:1] First published in the _Morning Post_ (signed Εστησε), September
15, 1801: included in the _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and
1834. The lines were sent in an unpublished letter to Southey dated
August 15, 1801. An autograph MS. is in the possession of Miss Arnold of
Foxhow.


LINENOTES:

Title] A flowering weed on the sweet Hill of Poesy MS. Letter, 1801: Ode
After Bathing in the Sea, Contrary to Medical Advice M. P. After bathing
in the Sea at Scarborough in company with T. Hutchinson. Aug. 1801 MS.
A.

[3] ceaseless] endless MS. Letter, M. P., MS. A.

[4] men] life MS. Letter, M. P., MS. A.

[5]

                   { mild              MS. A.
  Gravely said the { sage Physician    MS. Letter:

  Mildly said the mild Physician       M. P.

[6] To bathe me on thy shores were death MS. Letter, M. P., MS. A.

[10] That love the city's gilded sty MS. Letter, M. P., MS. A.

[13] hopes] loves MS. Letter, MS. A.

[16] echoing] sounding MS. Letter, M. P., MS. A.

[18] Grief-like transports MS. Letter, M. P., MS. A.




ODE TO TRANQUILLITY[360:1]


      Tranquillity! thou better name
      Than all the family of Fame!
      Thou ne'er wilt leave my riper age
      To low intrigue, or factious rage;
      For oh! dear child of thoughtful Truth,                          5
      To thee I gave my early youth,
  And left the bark, and blest the steadfast shore,
  Ere yet the tempest rose and scared me with its roar.

      Who late and lingering seeks thy shrine,
      On him but seldom, Power divine,                                10
      Thy spirit rests! Satiety
      And Sloth, poor counterfeits of thee,
      Mock the tired worldling. Idle Hope
      And dire Remembrance interlope,
  To vex the feverish slumbers of the mind:                           15
  The bubble floats before, the spectre stalks behind.

      But me thy gentle hand will lead
      At morning through the accustomed mead;
      And in the sultry summer's heat
      Will build me up a mossy seat;                                  20
      And when the gust of Autumn crowds,
      And breaks the busy moonlight clouds,
  Thou best the thought canst raise, the heart attune,
  Light as the busy clouds, calm as the gliding moon.

      The feeling heart, the searching soul,                          25
      To thee I dedicate the whole!
      And while within myself I trace
      The greatness of some future race,
      Aloof with hermit-eye I scan
      The present works of present man--                              30
  A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile,
  Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!

1801.


FOOTNOTES:

[360:1] First published in the _Morning Post_ (with two additional
stanzas at the commencement of the poem), December 4, 1801: reprinted in
_The Friend_ (without heading or title), No. 1, Thursday, June 1, 1809:
included in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The stanzas
were not indented in the _Morning Post_ or _The Friend_.


LINENOTES:

Title] _Vix ea nostra voco_ M. P.

[Before 1]

  What Statesmen scheme and Soldiers work,
  Whether the Pontiff or the Turk,
  Will e'er renew th' expiring lease
  Of Empire; whether War or Peace
  Will best play off the CONSUL'S game;
  What fancy-figures, and what name
  Half-thinking, sensual France, a natural Slave,
  On those ne'er-broken Chains, her self-forg'd Chains, will grave;

  Disturb not me! Some tears I shed
  When bow'd the Swiss his noble head;
  Since then, with quiet heart have view'd
  Both distant Fights and Treaties crude,
  Whose heap'd up terms, which Fear compels,
  (Live Discord's green Combustibles,
  And future Fuel of the funeral Pyre)
  Now hide, and soon, alas! will feed the low-burnt Fire.

M. P.

[8] tempest] storm-wind M. P.

[15] To] And The Friend, 1809. slumbers] slumber M. P., The Friend.

[17] thy gentle hand] the power Divine M. P.

[21] Autumn] Summer M. P.

[23] The best the thoughts will lift M. P.

[26] thee] her M. P.

[28] some] a M. P.

[29] hermit] hermit's M. P.




TO ASRA[361:1]


  Are there two things, of all which men possess,
  That are so like each other and so near,
  As mutual Love seems like to Happiness?
  Dear Asra, woman beyond utterance dear!
  This Love which ever welling at my heart,                            5
  Now in its living fount doth heave and fall,
  Now overflowing pours thro' every part
  Of all my frame, and fills and changes all,
  Like vernal waters springing up through snow,
  This Love that seeming great beyond the power                       10
  Of growth, yet seemeth ever more to grow,
  Could I transmute the whole to one rich Dower
  Of Happy Life, and give it all to Thee,
  Thy lot, methinks, were Heaven, thy age, Eternity!

1801.


FOOTNOTES:

[361:1] First published in 1893. The Sonnet to 'Asra' was prefixed to
the MS. of _Christabel_ which Coleridge presented to Miss Sarah
Hutchinson in 1804.




THE SECOND BIRTH[362:1]


  There are two births, the one when Light
  First strikes the new-awaken'd sense--
  The other when two souls unite,
  And we must count our life from then.

  When you lov'd me, and I lov'd you,                                  5
  Then both of us were born anew.

? 1801.


FOOTNOTES:

[362:1] First published from a MS. in 1893.




LOVE'S SANCTUARY[362:2]


  This yearning heart (Love! witness what I say)
  Enshrines thy form as purely as it may,
  Round which, as to some spirit uttering bliss,
  My thoughts all stand ministrant night and day
  Like saintly Priests, that dare not think amiss.

? 1801.


FOOTNOTES:

[362:2] First published from a MS. in 1893.




DEJECTION: AN ODE[362:3]

[WRITTEN APRIL 4, 1802]

  Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon,
  With the old Moon in her arms;
  And I fear, I fear, my Master dear!
  We shall have a deadly storm.
                   _Ballad of Sir Patrick Spence._


  I

  Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made
    The grand old ballad of Sir Patrick Spence,
    This night, so tranquil now, will not go hence
  Unroused by winds, that ply a busier trade
  Than those which mould yon cloud in lazy flakes,                     5
  Or the dull sobbing draft, that moans and rakes
  Upon the strings of this Æolian lute,
      Which better far were mute.
    For lo! the New-moon winter-bright!
    And overspread with phantom light,                                10
    (With swimming phantom light o'erspread
    But rimmed and circled by a silver thread)
  I see the old Moon in her lap, foretelling
    The coming-on of rain and squally blast.
  And oh! that even now the gust were swelling,                       15
    And the slant night-shower driving loud and fast!
  Those sounds which oft have raised me, whilst they awed,
      And sent my soul abroad,
  Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
  Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!            20

  II

  A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
    A stifled, drowsy, unimpassioned grief,
    Which finds no natural outlet, no relief,
        In word, or sigh, or tear--
  O Lady! in this wan and heartless mood,                             25
  To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,
    All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
  Have I been gazing on the western sky,
    And its peculiar tint of yellow green:
  And still I gaze--and with how blank an eye!                        30
  And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
  That give away their motion to the stars;
  Those stars, that glide behind them or between,
  Now sparkling, now bedimmed, but always seen:
  Yon crescent Moon, as fixed as if it grew                           35
  In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue;
  I see them all so excellently fair,
  I see, not feel, how beautiful they are!

  III

      My genial spirits fail;
      And what can these avail                                        40
  To lift the smothering weight from off my breast?
      It were a vain endeavour,
      Though I should gaze for ever
  On that green light that lingers in the west:
  I may not hope from outward forms to win                            45
  The passion and the Life, whose fountains are within.

  IV

  O Lady! we receive but what we give,
  And in our life alone does Nature live:
  Ours is her wedding garment, ours her shroud!
    And would we aught behold, of higher worth,                       50
  Than that inanimate cold world allowed
  To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
    Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth
  A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud
      Enveloping the Earth--                                          55
  And from the soul itself must there be sent
    A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
  Of all sweet sounds the life and element!

  V

  O pure of heart! thou need'st not ask of me
  What this strong music in the soul may be!                          60
  What, and wherein it doth exist,
  This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
  This beautiful and beauty-making power.
    Joy, virtuous Lady! Joy that ne'er was given,
  Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,                         65
  Life, and Life's effluence, cloud at once and shower,
  Joy, Lady! is the spirit and the power,
  Which wedding Nature to us gives in dower
    A new Earth and new Heaven,
  Undreamt of by the sensual and the proud--                          70
  Joy is the sweet voice, Joy the luminous cloud--
      We in ourselves rejoice!
  And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
    All melodies the echoes of that voice,
  All colours a suffusion from that light.                            75

  VI

  There was a time when, though my path was rough,
    This joy within me dallied with distress,
  And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
    Whence Fancy made me dreams of happiness:
  For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,                      80
  And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seemed mine.
  But now afflictions bow me down to earth:
  Nor care I that they rob me of my mirth;
      But oh! each visitation
  Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,                           85
    My shaping spirit of Imagination.
  For not to think of what I needs must feel,
    But to be still and patient, all I can;
  And haply by abstruse research to steal
    From my own nature all the natural man--                          90
    This was my sole resource, my only plan:
  Till that which suits a part infects the whole,
  And now is almost grown the habit of my soul.

  VII

  Hence, viper thoughts, that coil around my mind,
      Reality's dark dream!                                           95
  I turn from you, and listen to the wind,
    Which long has raved unnoticed. What a scream
  Of agony by torture lengthened out
  That lute sent forth! Thou Wind, that rav'st without,
    Bare crag, or mountain-tairn,[367:1] or blasted tree,            100
  Or pine-grove whither woodman never clomb,
  Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
    Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
  Mad Lutanist! who in this month of showers,
  Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flowers,                     105
  Mak'st Devils' yule, with worse than wintry song,
  The blossoms, buds, and timorous leaves among.
    Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
  Thou mighty Poet, e'en to frenzy bold!
      What tell'st thou now about?                                   110
      'Tis of the rushing of an host in rout,
    With groans, of trampled men, with smarting wounds--
  At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!
  But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
    And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,                       115
  With groans, and tremulous shudderings--all is over--
    It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud!
      A tale, of less affright,
      And tempered with delight,
  As Otway's self had framed the tender lay,--                       120
        'Tis of a little child
        Upon a lonesome wild,
  Not far from home, but she hath lost her way:
  And now moans low in bitter grief and fear,
  And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother hear.

  VIII

  'Tis midnight, but small thoughts have I of sleep:                 126
  Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
  Visit her, gentle Sleep! with wings of healing,
    And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
  May all the stars hang bright above her dwelling,                  130
    Silent as though they watched the sleeping Earth!
      With light heart may she rise,
      Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
    Joy lift her spirit, joy attune her voice;
  To her may all things live, from pole to pole,                     135
  Their life the eddying of her living soul!
    O simple spirit, guided from above,
  Dear Lady! friend devoutest of my choice,
  Thus mayest thou ever, evermore rejoice.

1802.


FOOTNOTES:

[362:3] First published in the _Morning Post_, October 4, 1802. Included
in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. The Ode was sent in a
letter to W. Sotheby, dated Keswick, July 19, 1802 (_Letters of S. T.
C._, 1895, i. 379-84). Two other MS. versions are preserved at Coleorton
(_P. W. of W. Wordsworth_, ed. by William Knight, 1896, iii. App., pp.
400, 401). Lines 37, 38 were quoted by Coleridge in the _Historie and
Gests of Maxilian_ (first published in _Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine_
for January, 1822, and reprinted in _Miscellanies, &c._, ed. by T. Ashe,
1885, p. 282): l. 38 by Wordsworth in his pamphlet on _The Convention of
Cintra_, 1809, p. 135: lines 47-75, followed by lines 29-38, were quoted
by Coleridge in _Essays on the Fine Arts_, No. III (which were first
published in _Felix Farley's Bristol Journal_, Sept. 10, 1814, and
reprinted by Cottle, _E. R._, 1837, ii. 201-40); and lines 21-28,
_ibid._, in illustration of the following _Scholium_:--'We have
sufficiently distinguished the beautiful from the agreeable, by the sure
criterion, that when we find an object agreeable, the _sensation_ of
pleasure always precedes the judgment, and is its determining cause. We
_find_ it agreeable. But when we declare an object beautiful, the
contemplation or intuition of its beauty precedes the _feeling_ of
complacency, in order of nature at least: nay in great depression of
spirits may even exist without sensibly producing it.' Lines 76-93 are
quoted in a letter to Southey of July 29, 1802; lines 76-83 are quoted
in a letter to Allsop, September 30, 1819, _Letters, &c._, 1836, i. 17.
Lines 80, 81 are quoted in the _Biographia Literaria_, 1817, ii. 182,
and lines 87-93 in a letter to Josiah Wedgwood, dated October 20, 1802:
see Cottle's _Rem._, 1848, p. 44, and _Tom Wedgwood_ by R. B.
Litchfield, 1903, pp. 114, 115.

[367:1] Tairn is a small lake, generally if not always applied to the
lakes up in the mountains and which are the feeders of those in the
valleys. This address to the Storm-wind [wind _S. L._], will not appear
extravagant to those who have heard it at night and in a mountainous
country.


LINENOTES:

Title] Dejection, &c., written April 4, 1802 M. P.

[2] grand] dear Letter to Sotheby, July 19, 1802.

[5] Than that which moulds yon clouds Letter, July 19, 1802. cloud]
clouds M. P., S. L.

[6] moans] drones Letter, July 19, 1802, M. P.

[12] by] with Letter, July 19, 1802.

[17-20] om. Letter, July 19, 1802, M. P.

[21-8] Quoted as illustrative of a 'Scholium' in Felix Farley's Journal,
1814.

[22] stifled] stifling Letter, July 19, 1802.

[23] Which] That Letter, July 19, 1802, F. F.

[Between 24-7]

  This, William, well thou knowst
  Is the sore evil which I dread the most
  And oft'nest suffer. In this heartless mood
  To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd
  That pipes within the larch-tree, not unseen,
  The larch, that pushes out in tassels green
  Its bundled leafits, woo'd to mild delights
  By all the tender sounds and gentle sights
  Of this sweet primrose-month and vainly woo'd!
  O dearest Poet in this heartless mood.

Letter, July 19, 1802.

[25] O Edmund M. P.: O William Coleorton MS.: O dearest Lady in this
heartless mood F. F.

[26] by yon sweet throstle woo'd F. F.

[28] on] at F. F.

[29] peculiar] celestial F. F. yellow green] yellow-green Letter, July
19, 1802, M. P.

[30] blank] black Cottle, 1837.

[35-6]

  Yon crescent moon that seems as if it grew
  In its own starless, cloudless

F. F.

[Between 36-7] A boat becalm'd! thy own sweet sky-canoe Letter, July 19,
1802: A boat becalm'd! a lovely sky-canoe M. P.

[38] I _see_ not _feel_ M. P., Letter, July 19, 1802: _I see . . . they
are_ F. F.

[45-6] Quoted in the _Gests of Maxilian_, Jan. 1822, and _Convention of
Cintra_, 1809, p. 135.

[47] Lady] Wordsworth Letter, July 19, 1802: William Coleorton MS.:
Edmund M. P., F. F. we _receive_ but what we _give_ Coleorton MS., F. F.

[48] our] _our_ M. P., F. F.

[51] allowed] _allow'd_ Letter, July 19, 1802, M. P.

[57] potent] powerful Letter, July 19, 1802, F. F.

V] Stanza v is included in stanza iv in M. P.

[60] What] _What_ Letter, July 19, 1802.

[61] exist] subsist F. F.

[64] virtuous Lady] blameless Poet Letter, July 19, 1802: virtuous
Edmund M. P. Joy, O belovéd, Joy that F. F.

[66] om. Letter, July 19, 1802, M. P.: Life of our life the parent and
the birth F. F. effluence] effulgence S. L. Corr. in _Errata_ p. [xii],
and in text by S. T. C. (MS.).

[67] Lady] William Letter, July 19, 1802: Edmund M. P.: om. F. F.

[68] Which] That Letter, July 19, 1802.

[69] A new heaven and new earth F. F.

[71] om. Letter, July 19, 1802: _This_ is the strong voice, this the
luminous cloud F. F.

[72] We, we ourselves Letter,July 19, 1802, M. P.: Our inmost selves F.
F.

[73] flows] comes Letter, July 19, 1802. charms] glads F. F.

[74] the echoes] an echo Letter, July 19, 1802.

[After 75]

  Calm steadfast Spirit, guided from above,
  O Wordsworth! friend of my devoutest choice,
  Great son of genius! full of light and love
      Thus, thus dost thou rejoice.
  To thee do all things live from pole to pole,
  Their life the eddying of thy living soul
  Brother and friend of my devoutest choice
  Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice!

Letter, July 19, 1802.

[Before 76] Yes, dearest poet, yes Letter, July 19, 1802: Yes, dearest
William! Yes! Coleorton MS. [Stanza v] Yes, dearest Edmund, yes M. P.

[76] The time when Letter, Sept. 30, 1819.

[77] This] The Letters, July 19, 1802, Sept. 30, 1819. I had a heart
that dallied Letter to Southey, July 29, 1802.

[80] For] When Biog. Lit., Letter, Sept. 30, 1819. twining] climbing
Letters, July 19, 29, 1802, Biog. Lit.

[80-1] Quoted in Biog. Lit., 1817, ii. 180.

[81] fruits] fruit Letter, July 19, 1802.

[82] But seared thoughts now Letter, Sept. 30, 1819.

[83] care] car'd Letter, July 19, 1802.

[86] In M. P. the words 'The sixth and seventh stanzas omitted' preceded
three rows of four asterisks, lines 87-93 (quoted in Letter to Josiah
Wedgwood, Oct. 20, 1802) being omitted. The Coleorton MS. ends with line
86.

[87] think] _think_ Letters, July 19, 29, 1802.

[91] was] is Letter, Sept. 30, 1819. only] wisest Letters, July 19, 29,
1802.

[92] Till] And Letters, July 19, 29, 1802.

[93] habit] temper Letters, July 19, 29, Oct. 20, 1802.

[94-5]

  Nay [O M. P.] wherefore did I let it haunt my mind
  This dark distressful dream.

Letter, July 19, 1802.

[96] you] it Letter, July 19, 1802, M. P.

[99] That lute sent out! O thou wild storm without Letter, July 19,
1802. O Wind M. P.

[104] who] that Letter, July 19, 1802.

[112] With many groans from men Letter, July 19, 1802: With many groans
of men M. P.

[115] Again! but all that noise Letter, July 19, 1802.

[117] And it has other sounds less fearful and less loud Letter, July
19, 1802.

[120] Otway's self] thou thyself Letter, July 19, 1802: Edmund's self M.
P.

[122] lonesome] heath Letter, July 19, 1802.

[124] bitter] utter Letter, July 19, 1802, M. P.

[125] hear] _hear_ Letter, July 19, 1802, M. P.

VIII] om. Letter, July 19, 1802.

[126] but] and M. P.

[128] her] him M. P.

[130] her] his M. P.

[131] watched] _watch'd_ M. P.

[132] she] he M. P.

[After 133]

  And sing his lofty song and teach me to rejoice!
  O Edmund, friend of my devoutest choice,
  O rais'd from anxious dread and busy care,
  By the immenseness of the good and fair
    Which thou see'st everywhere,                                      5
  Joy lifts thy spirit, joy attunes thy voice,
  To thee do all things live from pole to pole,
  Their life the eddying of thy living soul!
  O simple Spirit, guided from above,
  O lofty Poet, full of life and love,                                10
  Brother and Friend of my devoutest choice,
  Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice!
                                         ΕΣΤΗΣΕ.

M. P.

[_Note._--For lines 7, 8, 11, 12 of this variant, vide _ante_, variant
of lines 75 foll.]




THE PICTURE[369:1]

OR THE LOVER'S RESOLUTION


  Through weeds and thorns, and matted underwood
  I force my way; now climb, and now descend
  O'er rocks, or bare or mossy, with wild foot
  Crushing the purple whorts;[369:2] while oft unseen,
  Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves,                            5
  The scared snake rustles. Onward still I toil,
  I know not, ask not whither! A new joy,
  Lovely as light, sudden as summer gust,
  And gladsome as the first-born of the spring,
  Beckons me on, or follows from behind,                              10
  Playmate, or guide! The master-passion quelled,
  I feel that I am free. With dun-red bark
  The fir-trees, and the unfrequent slender oak,
  Forth from this tangle wild of bush and brake
  Soar up, and form a melancholy vault                                15
  High o'er me, murmuring like a distant sea.

  Here Wisdom might resort, and here Remorse;
  Here too the love-lorn man, who, sick in soul,
  And of this busy human heart aweary,
  Worships the spirit of unconscious life                             20
  In tree or wild-flower.--Gentle lunatic!
  If so he might not wholly cease to be,
  He would far rather not be that he is;
  But would be something that he knows not of,
  In winds or waters, or among the rocks!                             25

    But hence, fond wretch! breathe not contagion here!
  No myrtle-walks are these: these are no groves
  Where Love dare loiter! If in sullen mood
  He should stray hither, the low stumps shall gore
  His dainty feet, the briar and the thorn                            30
  Make his plumes haggard. Like a wounded bird
  Easily caught, ensnare him, O ye Nymphs,
  Ye Oreads chaste, ye dusky Dryades!
  And you, ye Earth-winds! you that make at morn
  The dew-drops quiver on the spiders' webs!                          35
  You, O ye wingless Airs! that creep between
  The rigid stems of heath and bitten furze,
  Within whose scanty shade, at summer-noon,
  The mother-sheep hath worn a hollow bed--
  Ye, that now cool her fleece with dropless damp,                    40
  Now pant and murmur with her feeding lamb.
  Chase, chase him, all ye Fays, and elfin Gnomes!
  With prickles sharper than his darts bemock
  His little Godship, making him perforce
  Creep through a thorn-bush on yon hedgehog's back.                  45

    This is my hour of triumph! I can now
  With my own fancies play the merry fool,
  And laugh away worse folly, being free.
  Here will I seat myself, beside this old,
  Hollow, and weedy oak, which ivy-twine                              50
  Clothes as with net-work: here will I couch my limbs,
  Close by this river, in this silent shade,
  As safe and sacred from the step of man
  As an invisible world--unheard, unseen,
  And listening only to the pebbly brook                              55
  That murmurs with a dead, yet tinkling sound;
  Or to the bees, that in the neighbouring trunk
  Make honey-hoards. The breeze, that visits me,
  Was never Love's accomplice, never raised
  The tendril ringlets from the maiden's brow,                        60
  And the blue, delicate veins above her cheek;
  Ne'er played the wanton--never half disclosed
  The maiden's snowy bosom, scattering thence
  Eye-poisons for some love-distempered youth,
  Who ne'er henceforth may see an aspen-grove                         65
  Shiver in sunshine, but his feeble heart
  Shall flow away like a dissolving thing.

  Sweet breeze! thou only, if I guess aright,
  Liftest the feathers of the robin's breast,
  That swells its little breast, so full of song,                     70
  Singing above me, on the mountain-ash.
  And thou too, desert stream! no pool of thine,
  Though clear as lake in latest summer-eve,
  Did e'er reflect the stately virgin's robe,
  The face, the form divine, the downcast look                        75
  Contemplative! Behold! her open palm
  Presses her cheek and brow! her elbow rests
  On the bare branch of half-uprooted tree,
  That leans towards its mirror! Who erewhile
  Had from her countenance turned, or looked by stealth,
  (For Fear is true-love's cruel nurse), he now                       81
  With steadfast gaze and unoffending eye,
  Worships the watery idol, dreaming hopes
  Delicious to the soul, but fleeting, vain,
  E'en as that phantom-world on which he gazed,                       85
  But not unheeded gazed: for see, ah! see,
  The sportive tyrant with her left hand plucks
  The heads of tall flowers that behind her grow,
  Lychnis, and willow-herb, and fox-glove bells:
  And suddenly, as one that toys with time,                           90
  Scatters them on the pool! Then all the charm
  Is broken--all that phantom world so fair
  Vanishes, and a thousand circlets spread,
  And each mis-shape the other. Stay awhile,
  Poor youth, who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes!                 95
  The stream will soon renew its smoothness, soon
  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; and behold                              100
  Each wildflower on the marge inverted there,
  And there the half-uprooted tree--but where,
  O where the virgin's snowy arm, that leaned
  On its bare branch? He turns, and she is gone!
  Homeward she steals through many a woodland maze                   105
  Which he shall seek in vain. Ill-fated youth!
  Go, day by day, and waste thy manly prime
  In mad love-yearning by the vacant brook,
  Till sickly thoughts bewitch thine eyes, and thou
  Behold'st her shadow still abiding there,                          110
  The Naiad of the mirror!
                            Not to thee,
  O wild and desert stream! belongs this tale:
  Gloomy and dark art thou--the crowded firs
  Spire from thy shores, and stretch across thy bed,
  Making thee doleful as a cavern-well:                              115
  Save when the shy king-fishers build their nest
  On thy steep banks, no loves hast thou, wild stream!

    This be my chosen haunt--emancipate
  From Passion's dreams, a freeman, and alone,
  I rise and trace its devious course. O lead,                       120
  Lead me to deeper shades and lonelier glooms.
  Lo! stealing through the canopy of firs,
  How fair the sunshine spots that mossy rock,
  Isle of the river, whose disparted waves
  Dart off asunder with an angry sound,                              125
  How soon to re-unite! And see! they meet,
  Each in the other lost and found: and see
  Placeless, as spirits, one soft water-sun
  Throbbing within them, heart at once and eye!
  With its soft neighbourhood of filmy clouds,                       130
  The stains and shadings of forgotten tears,
  Dimness o'erswum with lustre! Such the hour
  Of deep enjoyment, following love's brief feuds;
  And hark, the noise of a near waterfall!
  I pass forth into light--I find myself                             135
  Beneath a weeping birch (most beautiful
  Of forest trees, the Lady of the Woods),
  Hard by the brink of a tall weedy rock
  That overbrows the cataract. How bursts
  The landscape on my sight! Two crescent hills                      140
  Fold in behind each other, and so make
  A circular vale, and land-locked, as might seem,
  With brook and bridge, and grey stone cottages,
  Half hid by rocks and fruit-trees. At my feet,
  The whortle-berries are bedewed with spray,                        145
  Dashed upwards by the furious waterfall.
  How solemnly the pendent ivy-mass
  Swings in its winnow: All the air is calm.
  The smoke from cottage-chimneys, tinged with light,
  Rises in columns; from this house alone,                           150
  Close by the water-fall, the column slants,
  And feels its ceaseless breeze. But what is this?
  That cottage, with its slanting chimney-smoke,
  And close beside its porch a sleeping child,
  His dear head pillowed on a sleeping dog--                         155
  One arm between its fore-legs, and the hand
  Holds loosely its small handful of wild-flowers,
  Unfilletted, and of unequal lengths.
  A curious picture, with a master's haste
  Sketched on a strip of pinky-silver skin,                          160
  Peeled from the birchen bark! Divinest maid!
  Yon bark her canvas, and those purple berries
  Her pencil! See, the juice is scarcely dried
  On the fine skin! She has been newly here;
  And lo! yon patch of heath has been her couch--                    165
  The pressure still remains! O blesséd couch!
  For this may'st thou flower early, and the sun,
  Slanting at eve, rest bright, and linger long
  Upon thy purple bells! O Isabel!
  Daughter of genius! stateliest of our maids!                       170
  More beautiful than whom Alcaeus wooed,
  The Lesbian woman of immortal song!
  O child of genius! stately, beautiful,
  And full of love to all, save only me,
  And not ungentle e'en to me! My heart,                             175
  Why beats it thus? Through yonder coppice-wood
  Needs must the pathway turn, that leads straightway
  On to her father's house. She is alone!
  The night draws on--such ways are hard to hit--
  And fit it is I should restore this sketch,                        180
  Dropt unawares, no doubt. Why should I yearn
  To keep the relique? 'twill but idly feed
  The passion that consumes me. Let me haste!
  The picture in my hand which she has left;
  She cannot blame me that I followed her:                           185
  And I may be her guide the long wood through.

1802.


FOOTNOTES:

[369:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, September 6, 1802:
included in the _Poetical Register_ for 1802 (1804), in _Sibylline
Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

It has been pointed out to me (by Mr. Arthur Turnbull) that the
conception of the 'Resolution' that failed was suggested by Gessner's
Idyll _Der feste Vorsatz_ ('The Fixed Resolution'):--_S. Gessner's
Schriften_, i. 104-7; _Works_, 1802, ii. 219-21.

[369:2] _Vaccinium Myrtillus_, known by the different names of Whorts,
Whortle-berries, Bilberries; and in the North of England, Blea-berries
and Bloom-berries. [_Note by S. T. C._ 1802.]


LINENOTES:

[3] wild] blind M. P., P. R.

[17-26] om. M. P., P. R.

[17-25] Quoted in Letter to Cottle, May 27, 1814.

[18] love-lorn] woe-worn (heart-sick _erased_) Letter, 1814.

[20] _unconscious life_ Letter, 1814.

[22] _wholly cease_ to BE Letter, 1814.

[27] these] here M. P.

[28] For Love to dwell in; the low stumps would gore M. P., P. R.

[31-3]

            till, like wounded bird
  Easily caught, the dusky Dryades
  With prickles sharper than his darts would mock.
  _His little Godship_

M. P., P. R.

[34-42, 44] om. M.P., P.R.

[51] here will couch M. P., P. R., S. L.

[55] brook] stream M. P., P. R., S. L. (for _stream_ read _brook_
_Errata_, S. L., p. [xi]).

[56-7]

                   yet bell-like sound
  Tinkling, or bees

M. P., P. R., S. L. 1828.

[58] The] This M. P., P. R., S. L.

[70] That swells its] Who swells his M. P., P. R., S. L.

[75] the] her downcast M. P., P. R. Her face, her form divine, her
downcast look S. L.

[76-7]

  Contemplative, her cheek upon her palm
  Supported; the white arm and elbow rest

M. P., P. R.

  Contemplative! Ah see! her open palm
  Presses

S. L.

[79-80]

               He, meanwhile,
  Who from

M. P., P. R., S. L.

[86] om. M. P., P. R., S. L.

[87] The] She M. P., P. R., S. L.

[91-100] These lines are quoted in the prefatory note to _Kubla Khan_.

[94] mis-shape] mis-shapes M. P.

[108] love-yearning by] love-gazing on M. P., P. R.

[114] Spire] Tow'r M. P., P. R., S. L.

[118] my] thy S. L. (for _thy_ read _my_ _Errata_, S. L., p. [xi]).

[121] and] to M. P., P. R.

[124] waves] waters P. R., S. L.

[126-32]

  _How soon to re-unite!_ They meet, they join
  In deep embrace, and open to the sun
  Lie calm and smooth. Such the delicious hour

M. P., P. R., S. L.

[133] Of deep enjoyment, foll'wing Love's brief quarrels M. P., P. R.
Lines 126-33 are supplied in the _Errata_, S. L. 1817 (p. xi).

[134] And] But _Errata_, S. L. (p. xi).

[135] I come out into light M. P., P. R.: I came out into light S. L.
For _came_ read _come_ _Errata_, S. L. (p. xi).

[144] At] Beneath M. P., P. R., S. L. (for _Beneath_ read _At_ _Errata_,
S. L., p. [xi]).

[152] this] _this_ M. P., P. R.: THIS S. L. 1828, 1829.

[162] those] these P. R.

[174] me] one M. P., P. R.

[177] straightway] away M. P., P. R.

[184] The] This M. P., P. R.




TO MATILDA BETHAM FROM A STRANGER[374:1]

['One of our most celebrated poets, who had, I was told, picked out and
praised the little piece 'On a Cloud,' another had quoted (saying it
would have been faultless if I had not used the word _Phoebus_ in it,
which he thought inadmissible in modern poetry), sent me some verses
inscribed "To Matilda Betham, from a Stranger"; and dated "Keswick,
Sept. 9, 1802, S. T. C." I should have guessed whence they came, but
dared not flatter myself so highly as satisfactorily to believe it,
before I obtained the avowal of the lady who had transmitted them.
_Excerpt from 'Autobiographical Sketch'._]


  Matilda! I have heard a sweet tune played
  On a sweet instrument--thy Poesie--
  Sent to my soul by Boughton's pleading voice,
  Where friendship's zealous wish inspirited,
  Deepened and filled the subtle tones of _taste_:                     5
  (So have I heard a Nightingale's fine notes
  Blend with the murmur of a hidden stream!)
  And now the fair, wild offspring of thy genius,
  Those wanderers whom thy fancy had sent forth
  To seek their fortune in this motley world,                         10
  Have found a little home within _my_ heart,
  And brought me, as the quit-rent of their lodging,
  Rose-buds, and fruit-blossoms, and pretty weeds,
  And timorous laurel leaflets half-disclosed,
  Engarlanded with gadding woodbine tendrils!                         15
  A coronal, which, with undoubting hand,
  I twine around the brows of patriot HOPE!

  The Almighty, having first composed a Man,
  Set him to music, framing Woman for him,
  And fitted each to each, and made them one!                         20
  And 'tis my faith, that there's a natural bond
  Between the female mind and measured sounds,
  Nor do I know a sweeter Hope than this,
  That this sweet Hope, by judgment unreproved,
  That our own Britain, our dear mother Isle,                         25
  May boast one Maid, a poetess _indeed_,
  Great as th' impassioned Lesbian, in sweet song,
  And O! of holier mind, and happier fate.

  Matilda! I dare twine _thy_ vernal wreath
  Around the brows of patriot Hope! But thou                          30
  Be wise! be bold! fulfil my auspices!
  Tho' sweet thy measures, stern must be thy thought,
  Patient thy study, watchful thy mild eye!
  Poetic feelings, like the stretching boughs
  Of mighty oaks, pay homage to the gales,                            35
  Toss in the strong winds, drive before the gust,
  Themselves one giddy storm of fluttering leaves;
  Yet, all the while self-limited, remain
  Equally near the fixed and solid trunk
  Of Truth and Nature in the howling storm,                           40
  As in the calm that stills the aspen grove.
  Be bold, meek Woman! but be wisely bold!
  Fly, ostrich-like, firm land beneath thy feet,
  Yet hurried onward by thy wings of fancy
  Swift as the whirlwind, singing in their quills.                    45
  Look round thee! look within thee! think and feel!
  What nobler meed, Matilda! canst thou win,
  Than tears of gladness in a BOUGHTON'S[376:1] eyes,
  And exultation even in strangers' hearts?

1802.


FOOTNOTES:

[374:1] First printed in a 'privately printed autobiographical sketch of
Miss Matilda Betham', preserved in a volume of tracts arranged and bound
up by Southey, now in the Forster Collection in the Victoria and Albert
Museum: reprinted (by J. <DW18>s Campbell) in the _Athenaeum_ (March 15,
1890): and, again, in _A House of Letters_, by Ernest Betham [1905], pp.
76-7. First collected in 1893 (see Editor's _Note_, p. 630). Lines 33-41
are quoted in a Letter to Sotheby, September 10, 1802. See _Letters of
S. T. C._, 1895, i. 404.

[376:1] Catherine Rose, wife of Sir Charles William Rouse-Boughton,
Bart. Sir Charles and Lady Boughton visited Greta Hall in September,
1802.


LINENOTES:

[7] murmur] murmurs 1893.

[16] coronal] coronel P. Sketch.

[34] stretching] flexuous MS. Letter, Sept. 10, 1802.

[35] pay] yield MS. Letter, 1802.

[39] solid] parent MS. Letter, 1802.

[40] Of truth in Nature--in the howling blast MS. Letter, 1802.




HYMN BEFORE SUN-RISE, IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNI[376:2]

Besides the Rivers, Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the
foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and
within a few paces of the Glaciers, the Gentiana Major grows in immense
numbers, with its 'flowers of loveliest [liveliest _Friend, 1809_]
blue.'


  Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star
  In his steep course? So long he seems to pause
  On thy bald awful head, O sovran BLANC,
  The Arve and Arveiron at thy base
  Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful Form!                         5
  Risest from forth thy silent sea of pines,
  How silently! Around thee and above
  Deep is the air and dark, substantial, black,
  An ebon mass: methinks thou piercest it,
  As with a wedge! But when I look again,                             10
  It is thine own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
  Thy habitation from eternity!
  O dread and silent Mount! I gazed upon thee,
  Till thou, still present to the bodily sense,
  Didst vanish from my thought: entranced in prayer                   15
  I worshipped the Invisible alone.

    Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody,
  So sweet, we know not we are listening to it,
  Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my Thought,
  Yea, with my Life and Life's own secret joy:                        20
  Till the dilating Soul, enrapt, transfused,
  Into the mighty vision passing--there
  As in her natural form, swelled vast to Heaven!

    Awake, my soul! not only passive praise
  Thou owest! not alone these swelling tears,                         25
  Mute thanks and secret ecstasy! Awake,
  Voice of sweet song! Awake, my heart, awake!
  Green vales and icy cliffs, all join my Hymn.

    Thou first and chief, sole sovereign of the Vale!
  O struggling with the darkness all the night,[378:1]                30
  And visited all night by troops of stars,
  Or when they climb the sky or when they sink:
  Companion of the morning-star at dawn,
  Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
  Co-herald: wake, O wake, and utter praise!                          35
  Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in Earth?
  Who filled thy countenance with rosy light?
  Who made thee parent of perpetual streams?

    And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad!
  Who called you forth from night and utter death,                    40
  From dark and icy caverns called you forth,
  Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks,
  For ever shattered and the same for ever?
  Who gave you your invulnerable life,
  Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,                 45
  Unceasing thunder and eternal foam?
  And who commanded (and the silence came),
  Here let the billows stiffen, and have rest?

    Ye Ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow
  Adown enormous ravines <DW72> amain--                                50
  Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
  And stopped at once amid their maddest plunge!
  Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!
  Who made you glorious as the Gates of Heaven
  Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun                        55
  Clothe you with rainbows? Who, with living flowers[379:1]
  Of loveliest blue, spread garlands at your feet?--
  GOD! let the torrents, like a shout of nations,
  Answer! and let the ice-plains echo, GOD!
  GOD! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice!                    60
  Ye pine-groves, with your soft and soul-like sounds!
  And they too have a voice, yon piles of snow,
  And in their perilous fall shall thunder, GOD!

    Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost!
  Ye wild goats sporting round the eagle's nest!                      65
  Ye eagles, play-mates of the mountain-storm!
  Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
  Ye signs and wonders of the element!
  Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise!

    Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks,
  Oft from whose feet the avalanche,[380:1] unheard,                  71
  Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene
  Into the depth of clouds, that veil thy breast--
  Thou too again, stupendous Mountain! thou
  That as I raise my head, awhile bowed low                           75
  In adoration, upward from thy base
  Slow travelling with dim eyes suffused with tears,
  Solemnly seemest, like a vapoury cloud,
  To rise before me--Rise, O ever rise,
  Rise like a cloud of incense from the Earth!                        80
  Thou kingly Spirit throned among the hills,
  Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heaven,
  Great Hierarch! tell thou the silent sky,
  And tell the stars, and tell yon rising sun
  Earth, with her thousand voices, praises GOD.                       85

1802.


FOOTNOTES:

[376:2] First published in the _Morning Post_, Sept. 11, 1802: reprinted
in the _Poetical Register_ for 1802 (1803), ii. 308, 311, and in _The
Friend_, No. XI, Oct. 26, 1809: included in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817,
1828, 1829, and 1834. Three MSS. are extant: (1) _MS. A_, sent to Sir
George Beaumont, Oct. 1803 (see _Coleorton Letters_, 1886, i. 26); (2)
_MS. B_, the MS. of the version as printed in _The Friend_, Oct. 26,
1809 (now in the Forster Collection in the Victoria and Albert Museum);
(3) _MS. C_, presented to Mrs. Brabant in 1815 (now in the British
Museum). The _Hymn before Sunrise, &c._, 'Hymn in the manner of the
Psalms,' is an expansion, in part, of a translation of Friederika Brun's
'Ode to Chamouny', addressed to Klopstock, which numbers some twenty
lines. The German original (see the Appendices of this edition) was
first appended to Coleridge's _Poetical Works_ in 1844 (p. 372). A
translation was given in a footnote, _P. W._ (ed. by T. Ashe), 1885, ii.
86, 87. In the _Morning Post_ and _Poetical Register_ the following
explanatory note preceded the poem:--

     'CHAMOUNI, THE HOUR BEFORE SUNRISE.

     '[Chamouni is one of the highest mountain valleys of the
     Barony of Faucigny in the Savoy Alps; and exhibits a kind of
     fairy world, in which the wildest appearances (I had almost
     said horrors) of Nature alternate with the softest and most
     beautiful. The chain of Mont Blanc is its boundary; and
     besides the Arve it is filled with sounds from the Arveiron,
     which rushes from the melted glaciers, like a giant, mad with
     joy, from a dungeon, and forms other torrents of snow-water,
     having their rise in the glaciers which <DW72> down into the
     valley. The beautiful _Gentiana major_, or greater gentian,
     with blossoms of the brightest blue, grows in large companies
     a few steps from the never-melted ice of the glaciers. I
     thought it an affecting emblem of the boldness of human hope,
     venturing near, and, as it were, leaning over the brink of the
     grave. Indeed, the whole vale, its every light, its every
     sound, must needs impress every mind not utterly callous with
     the thought--Who _would_ be, who _could_ be an Atheist in this
     valley of wonders! If any of the readers of the MORNING POST
     [Those who have _P. R._] have visited this vale in their
     journeys among the Alps, I am confident that they [that they
     _om. P. R._] will not find the sentiments and feelings
     expressed, or attempted to be expressed, in the following
     poem, extravagant.]'

[378:1] I had written a much finer line when Sca' Fell was in my
thoughts, viz.:--

  O blacker than the darkness all the night
  And visited
                                  _Note to MS. A._

[379:1] The _Gentiana major_ grows in large companies a stride's
distance from the foot of several of the glaciers. Its _blue_ flower,
the colour of Hope: is it not a pretty emblem of Hope creeping onward
even to the edge of the grave, to the very verge of utter desolation?
_Note to MS. A._

[380:1] The fall of vast masses of snow, so called. _Note MS. (C)._


LINENOTES:

Title] Chamouny The Hour before Sunrise A Hymn M. P., P. R.: Mount
Blanc, The Summit of the Vale of Chamouny, An Hour before Sunrise: A
Hymn MS. A.

[3] On thy bald awful head O Chamouny M. P., P. R.: On thy bald awful
top O Chamouny MS. A: On thy bald awful top O Sovran Blanc Friend, 1809.

[4] Arve] Arvè M. P., P. R., MS. (C).

[5] dread mountain form M. P., P. R., MS. A. most] dread Friend, 1809.

[6] forth] out MS. A.

[8] Deep is the sky, and black: transpicuous, deep M. P., P. R.: Deep is
the sky, and black! transpicuous, black. MS. A.

[11] is thine] seems thy M. P., P. R.

[13] Mount] form M. P., P. R., MS. A.

[14] the bodily sense] my bodily eye M. P., P. R.: my bodily sense MS.
A.

[16] Invisible] INVISIBLE M. P., P. R., Friend, 1809, MS. A.

[17]

  Yet thou meantime, wast working on my soul,
  E'en like some deep enchanting melody

M. P., P. R., MS. A.

[19 foll.]

  But [Now MS. A] I awake, and with a busier mind,
  And active will self-conscious, offer now
  Not as before, involuntary pray'r
  And passive adoration!
                         Hand and voice,
  Awake, awake! and thou, my heart, awake!
  Awake ye rocks! Ye forest pines awake! (Not in MS. A.)
  Green fields

M. P., P. R., MS. A.

[29-30]

  And thou, O silent Mountain, sole and bare
  O blacker than the darkness all the night

M. P., P. R.

[29] And thou, thou silent mountain, lone and bare MS. A. The first and
chief, stern Monarch of the Vale _Errata to 'Hymn', &c._, The Friend,
No. XIII, Nov. 16, 1809.

[38] parent] father M. P., P. R., MS. A.

[41] From darkness let you loose and icy dens M. P., P. R., MS. A.

[46] Eternal thunder and unceasing foam MS. A.

[48] 'Here shall the billows . . .' M. P., P. R.: Here shall your
billows MS. A.

[49] the mountain's brow] yon dizzy heights M. P., P. R.

[50] Adown enormous ravines steeply <DW72> M. P., P. R., MS. A. [A _bad_
line; but I hope to be able to alter it Note to MS. A].

[56]

            with lovely flowers
  Of living blue

M. P., P. R., MS. A.

[Between 58-64]

  GOD! GOD! the torrents like a shout of nations
  Utter! the ice-plain bursts and answers GOD!
  GOD, sing the meadow-streams with gladsome voice,
  And pine-groves with their soft and soul-like sound,
  The silent snow-mass, loos'ning thunders God!

M. P., P. R.

These lines were omitted in MS. A.

[64] Ye dreadless flow'rs that fringe M. P., P. R. living] azure MS. A.
livery S. L. (corrected in _Errata_, p. [xi]).

[65] sporting round] bounding by M. P., P. R., MS. A.

[66] mountain-storm] mountain blast M. P., P. R.

[69] God] GOD. M. P., P. R.

[Between 70-80]

  And thou, O silent Form, alone and bare
  Whom, as I lift again my head bow'd low
  In adoration, I again behold,
  And to thy summit upward from thy base
  Sweep slowly with dim eyes suffus'd by tears,
  Awake thou mountain form! rise, like a cloud

M. P., P. R.

  And thou thou silent mountain, lone and bare
  Whom as I lift again my head bow'd low
  In adoration, I again behold!
  And from thy summit upward to the base
  Sweep slowly, with dim eyes suffus'd with tears
  Rise, mighty form! even as thou _seem'st_ to rise.

MS. A.

[70] Thou too] And thou, Errata, Friend, No. XIII. Once more, hoar Mount
MS. (C), S. L. (For _once more_, read _Thou too_ _Errata_, S. L., p.
[xi]).

[72] through] in Friend, 1809. In the blue serene MS. (C).

[74] again] once more MS. (C).

[75] That as once more I raise my Head bow'd low Friend, No. XI, 1809
(see the _Errata_, No. XIII).

[83-4] Tell the blue sky MS. A.

[84] yon] the M. P., P. R., MS. A.

[85] praises] calls on M. P., P. R., MS. A.




THE GOOD, GREAT MAN[381:1]


  'How seldom, friend! a good great man inherits
    Honour or wealth with all his worth and pains!
  It sounds like stories from the land of spirits
  If any man obtain that which he merits
    Or any merit that which he obtains.'                               5


  REPLY TO THE ABOVE

  For shame, dear friend, renounce this canting strain!
  What would'st thou have a good great man obtain?
  Place? titles? salary? a gilded chain?
  Or throne of corses which his sword had slain?                      10
  Greatness and goodness are not _means_, but _ends_!
  Hath he not always treasures, always friends,
  The good great man? _three_ treasures, LOVE, and LIGHT,
    And CALM THOUGHTS, regular as infant's breath:
  And three firm friends, more sure than day and night,               15
    HIMSELF, his MAKER, and the ANGEL DEATH!

1802.


FOOTNOTES:

[381:1] First published in the _Morning Post_ (as an 'Epigram', signed
ΕΣΤΗΣΕ), September 23, 1802: reprinted in the _Poetical Register_ for
1802 (1803, p. 246): included in _The Friend_, No. XIX, December 28,
1809, and in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 53. First collected in 1844.


LINENOTES:

Title] Epigram M. P.: Epigrams P. R.: Complaint Lit. Rem., 1844, 1852:
The Good, &c. 1893.

[6] Reply to the above M. P.: Reply The Friend, 1809: Reproof Lit. Rem.,
1844.




INSCRIPTION FOR A FOUNTAIN ON A HEATH[381:2]


  This Sycamore, oft musical with bees,--
  Such tents the Patriarchs loved! O long unharmed
  May all its agéd boughs o'er-canopy
  The small round basin, which this jutting stone
  Keeps pure from falling leaves! Long may the Spring,                 5
  Quietly as a sleeping infant's breath,
  Send up cold waters to the traveller
  With soft and even pulse! Nor ever cease
  Yon tiny cone of sand its soundless dance,[382:1]
  Which at the bottom, like a Fairy's Page,                           10
  As merry and no taller, dances still,
  Nor wrinkles the smooth surface of the Fount.
  Here Twilight is and Coolness: here is moss,
  A soft seat, and a deep and ample shade.
  Thou may'st toil far and find no second tree.                       15
  Drink, Pilgrim, here; Here rest! and if thy heart
  Be innocent, here too shalt thou refresh
  Thy spirit, listening to some gentle sound,
  Or passing gale or hum of murmuring bees!

1802.


FOOTNOTES:

[381:2] First published in the _Morning Post_, September 24, 1802:
reprinted in the _Poetical Register_ for 1802 (1803, p. 338): included
in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[382:1] Compare _Anima Poetae_, 1895, p. 17: 'The spring with the little
tiny cone of loose sand ever rising and sinking to the bottom, but its
surface without a wrinkle.'


LINENOTES:

Title] Inscription on a Jutting Stone, over a Spring M. P., P. R.

[3] agéd] darksome M. P., P. R.

[5] Still may this spring M. P., P. R.

[7] waters] water P. R. to] for M. P., P. R.

[9] soundless] noiseless M. P., P. R.

[10] Which] That M. P., P. R.

[13] Here coolness dwell, and twilight M. P., P. R.

[16 foll.]

  Here, stranger, drink! Here rest! And if thy heart
  Be innocent, here too may'st thou renew
  Thy spirits, listening to these gentle sounds,
  The passing gale, or ever-murm'ring bees.

M. P., P. R.




AN ODE TO THE RAIN[382:2]

COMPOSED BEFORE DAYLIGHT, ON THE MORNING APPOINTED FOR THE DEPARTURE OF
A VERY WORTHY, BUT NOT VERY PLEASANT VISITOR, WHOM IT WAS FEARED THE
RAIN MIGHT DETAIN


  I

  I know it is dark; and though I have lain,
  Awake, as I guess, an hour or twain,
  I have not once opened the lids of my eyes,
  But I lie in the dark, as a blind man lies.
  O Rain! that I lie listening to,                                     5
  You're but a doleful sound at best:
  I owe you little thanks, 'tis true,
  For breaking thus my needful rest!
  Yet if, as soon as it is light,
  O Rain! you will but take your flight,                              10
  I'll neither rail, nor malice keep,
  Though sick and sore for want of sleep.
  But only now, for this one day,
  Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

  II

    O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound,                            15
  The clash hard by, and the murmur all round!
  You know, if you know aught, that we,
  Both night and day, but ill agree:
  For days and months, and almost years,
  Have limped on through this vale of tears,                          20
  Since body of mine, and rainy weather,
  Have lived on easy terms together.
  Yet if, as soon as it is light,
  O Rain! you will but take your flight,
  Though you should come again to-morrow,                             25
  And bring with you both pain and sorrow;
  Though stomach should sicken and knees should swell--
  I'll nothing speak of you but well.
  But only now for this one day,
  Do go, dear Rain! do go away!                                       30

  III

    Dear Rain! I ne'er refused to say
  You're a good creature in your way;
  Nay, I could write a book myself,
  Would fit a parson's lower shelf,
  Showing how very good you are.--                                    35
  What then? sometimes it must be fair
  And if sometimes, why not to-day?
  Do go, dear Rain! do go away!

  IV

    Dear Rain! if I've been cold and shy,
  Take no offence! I'll tell you why.                                 40
  A dear old Friend e'en now is here,
  And with him came my sister dear;
  After long absence now first met,
  Long months by pain and grief beset--
  We three dear friends! in truth, we groan                           45
  Impatiently to be alone.
  We three, you mark! and not one more!
  The strong wish makes my spirit sore.
  We have so much to talk about,
  So many sad things to let out;                                      50
  So many tears in our eye-corners,
  Sitting like little Jacky Horners--
  In short, as soon as it is day,
  Do go, dear Rain! do go away.

  V

    And this I'll swear to you, dear Rain!                            55
  Whenever you shall come again,
  Be you as dull as e'er you could
  (And by the bye 'tis understood,
  You're not so pleasant as you're good),
  Yet, knowing well your worth and place,                             60
  I'll welcome you with cheerful face;
  And though you stayed a week or more,
  Were ten times duller than before;
  Yet with kind heart, and right good will,
  I'll sit and listen to you still;                                   65
  Nor should you go away, dear Rain!
  Uninvited to remain.
  But only now, for this one day,
  Do go, dear Rain! do go away.

1802.


FOOTNOTES:

[382:2] First published in the _Morning Post_ (?), Oct. 7, 1802:
included in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i.
54-6. First collected in 1844. In _Literary Remains_ the poem is dated
1809, but in a letter to J. Wedgwood, Oct. 20, 1802, Coleridge seems to
imply that the _Ode to the Rain_ had appeared recently in the _Morning
Post_. A MS. note of Mrs. H. N. Coleridge, included in other memoranda
intended for publication in _Essays on His Own Times_, gives the date,
'Ode to Rain, October 7'. The issue for October 7 is missing in the
volume for 1802 preserved in the British Museum, and it may be presumed
that it was in that number the _Ode to the Rain_ first appeared. It is
possible that the 'Ode' was written on the morning after the unexpected
arrival of Charles and Mary Lamb at Greta Hall in August, 1802.


LINENOTES:

[45] We] With L. R, 1844, 1852. [The text was amended in P. W.,
1877-80.]




A DAY-DREAM[385:1]


    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!                              5
  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!                            10
  And Mary's tears, they are not tears of sorrow:
  Our sister and our friend will both be here to-morrow.

    'Twas day! but now few, large, and bright,
      The stars are round the crescent moon!
    And now it is a dark warm night,                                  15
      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!                                  20
    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,                                  25
      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!           30

    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.                      35
  Murmur it to yourselves, ye two beloved women!

1802.


FOOTNOTES:

[385:1] First published in the _Bijou_ for 1828: included in 1828, 1829,
and 1834. Asra is Miss Sarah Hutchinson; 'Our Sister and our Friend,'
William and Dorothy Wordsworth. There can be little doubt that these
lines were written in 1801 or 1802.


LINENOTES:

[8] well] will Bijou, 1828.

[17] on] in Bijou, 1828.

[20] For Asra, dearly Bijou, 1828.

[28] one] me Bijou, 1828.




ANSWER TO A CHILD'S QUESTION[386:1]


  Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove,
  The Linnet and Thrush say, 'I love and I love!'
  In the winter they're silent--the wind is so strong;
  What it says, I don't know, but it sings a loud song.
  But green leaves, and blossoms, and sunny warm weather,              5
  And singing, and loving--all come back together.
  But the Lark is so brimful of gladness and love,
  The green fields below him, the blue sky above,
  That he sings, and he sings; and for ever sings he--
  'I love my Love, and my Love loves me!'                             10

1802.


FOOTNOTES:

[386:1] First published in the _Morning Post_, October 16, 1802:
included in _Sibylline Leaves_, in 1828, 1829, and 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] The Language of Birds: Lines spoken extempore, to a little child,
in early spring M. P.

[Between 6-7]

  'I love, and I love,' almost all the birds say
  From sunrise to star-rise, so gladsome are they.

M. P.

[After 10]

  'Tis no wonder that he's full of joy to the brim,
  When He loves his Love, and his Love loves him.

M. P.

Line 10 is adapted from the refrain of Prior's _Song_ ('One morning very
early, one morning in the spring'):--'I love my love, because I know my
love loves me.'




THE DAY-DREAM[386:2]

FROM AN EMIGRANT TO HIS ABSENT WIFE


  If thou wert here, these tears were tears of light!
    But from as sweet a vision did I start
  As ever made these eyes grow idly bright!
    And though I weep, yet still around my heart
  A sweet and playful tenderness doth linger,                          5
  Touching my heart as with an infant's finger.

  My mouth half open, like a witless man,
    I saw our couch, I saw our quiet room,
    Its shadows heaving by the fire-light gloom;
  And o'er my lips a subtle feeling ran,                              10
  All o'er my lips a soft and breeze-like feeling--
  I know not what--but had the same been stealing

  Upon a sleeping mother's lips, I guess
    It would have made the loving mother dream
  That she was softly bending down to kiss                            15
    Her babe, that something more than babe did seem,
  A floating presence of its darling father,
  And yet its own dear baby self far rather!

  Across my chest there lay a weight, so warm!
    As if some bird had taken shelter there;                          20
  And lo! I seemed to see a woman's form--
    Thine, Sara, thine? O joy, if thine it were!
  I gazed with stifled breath, and feared to stir it,
  No deeper trance e'er wrapt a yearning spirit!

  And now, when I seemed sure thy face to see,                        25
    Thy own dear self in our own quiet home;
  There came an elfish laugh, and wakened me:
    'Twas Frederic, who behind my chair had clomb,
  And with his bright eyes at my face was peeping.
  I blessed him, tried to laugh, and fell a-weeping!                  30

1801-2.


FOOTNOTES:

[386:2] First published in the _Morning Post_, October 19, 1802. First
collected in _Poems_, 1852. A note (p. 384), was affixed:--'This little
poem first appeared in the _Morning Post_ in 1802, but was doubtless
composed in Germany. It seems to have been forgotten by its author, for
this was the only occasion on which it saw the light through him. The
Editors think that it will plead against parental neglect in the mind of
most readers.' Internal evidence seems to point to 1801 or 1802 as the
most probable date of composition.


LINENOTES:

[Below line 30] ΕΣΤΗΣΕ.




THE HAPPY HUSBAND[388:1]

A FRAGMENT


  Oft, oft methinks, the while with thee,
    I breathe, as from the heart, thy dear
    And dedicated name, I hear
  A promise and a mystery,
    A pledge of more than passing life,                                5
    Yea, in that very name of Wife!

  A pulse of love, that ne'er can sleep!
    A feeling that upbraids the heart
    With happiness beyond desert,
  That gladness half requests to weep!                                10
    Nor bless I not the keener sense
    And unalarming turbulence

  Of transient joys, that ask no sting
    From jealous fears, or coy denying;
    But born beneath Love's brooding wing,                            15
  And into tenderness soon dying,
    Wheel out their giddy moment, then
    Resign the soul to love again;--

  A more precipitated vein
    Of notes, that eddy in the flow                                   20
    Of smoothest song, they come, they go,
  And leave their sweeter understrain,
    Its own sweet self--a love of Thee
    That seems, yet cannot greater be!

? 1802.


FOOTNOTES:

[388:1] First published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: included in 1828,
1829, 1834. There is no evidence as to the date of composition.


LINENOTES:

[13] ask] fear S. L. (for _fear_ no sting read _ask_ no sting _Errata_,
p. [xi]).




THE PAINS OF SLEEP[389:1]


  Ere on my bed my limbs I lay,
  It hath not been my use to pray
  With moving lips or bended knees;
  But silently, by slow degrees,
  My spirit I to Love compose,                                         5
  In humble trust mine eye-lids close,
  With reverential resignation,
  No wish conceived, no thought exprest,
  Only a sense of supplication;
  A sense o'er all my soul imprest                                    10
  That I am weak, yet not unblest,
  Since in me, round me, every where
  Eternal Strength and Wisdom are.

  But yester-night I prayed aloud
  In anguish and in agony,                                            15
  Up-starting from the fiendish crowd
  Of shapes and thoughts that tortured me:
  A lurid light, a trampling throng,
  Sense of intolerable wrong,
  And whom I scorned, those only strong!                              20
  Thirst of revenge, the powerless will
  Still baffled, and yet burning still!
  Desire with loathing strangely mixed
  On wild or hateful objects fixed.
  Fantastic passions! maddening brawl!                                25
  And shame and terror over all!
  Deeds to be hid which were not hid,
  Which all confused I could not know
  Whether I suffered, or I did:
  For all seemed guilt, remorse or woe,                               30
  My own or others still the same
  Life-stifling fear, soul-stifling shame.

  So two nights passed: the night's dismay
  Saddened and stunned the coming day.
  Sleep, the wide blessing, seemed to me                              35
  Distemper's worst calamity.
  The third night, when my own loud scream
  Had waked me from the fiendish dream,
  O'ercome with sufferings strange and wild,
  I wept as I had been a child;                                       40
  And having thus by tears subdued
  My anguish to a milder mood,
  Such punishments, I said, were due
  To natures deepliest stained with sin,--
  For aye entempesting anew                                           45
  The unfathomable hell within,
  The horror of their deeds to view,
  To know and loathe, yet wish and do!
  Such griefs with such men well agree,
  But wherefore, wherefore fall on me?                                50
  To be beloved is all I need,
  And whom I love, I love indeed.

1803.


FOOTNOTES:

[389:1] First published, together with _Christabel_, in 1816: included
in 1828, 1829, i. 334-6 (but not in _Contents_), and 1834. A first draft
of these lines was sent in a Letter to Southey, Sept. 11, 1803 (_Letters
of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 435-7), An amended version of lines 18-32 was
included in an unpublished Letter to Poole, dated Oct. 3, 1803.


LINENOTES:

[1] Ere] When MS. Letter to Southey, Sept. 11, 1803.

[9] sense] _sense_ MS. Letter to Southey, 1816, 1828, 1829.

[10] sense] _sense_ MS. Letter to Southey.

[12] Since round me, in me, everywhere MS. Letter to Southey.

[13] Wisdom] Goodness MS. Letter to Southey.

[16] Up-starting] Awaking MS. Letter to Southey.

[Between 18-26]

  Desire with loathing strangely mixt,
  On wild or hateful objects fixt.
  Sense of revenge, the powerless will,
  Still baffled and consuming still;
  Sense of intolerable wrong,
  And men whom I despis'd made strong!
  Vain-glorious threats, unmanly vaunting,
  Bad men my boasts and fury taunting:
  Rage, sensual passion, mad'ning Brawl,

MS. Letter to Southey.

[18] trampling] ghastly MS. Letter to Poole, Oct. 3, 1803.

[19] intolerable] insufferable MS. Letter to Poole.

[20] those] they MS. Letter to Poole.

[Between 22-4]

  Tempestuous pride, vain-glorious vaunting
  Base men my vices justly taunting

MS. Letter to Poole.

[27] which] that MS. Letters to Southey and Poole.

[28] could] might MS. Letters to Southey and Poole.

[30] For all was Horror, Guilt, and Woe MS. Letter to Southey: For all
was Guilt, and Shame, and Woe MS. Letter to Poole.

[33] So] Thus MS. Letter to Southey.

[34] coming] boding MS. Letter to Southey.

[35-6]

  I fear'd to sleep: sleep seem'd to be
  Disease's worst malignity

MS. Letter to Southey.

[38] waked] freed MS. Letter to Southey.

[39] O'ercome by sufferings dark and wild MS. Letter to Southey.

[42] anguish] Trouble MS. Letter to Southey.

[43] said] thought MS. Letter to Southey.

[45-6]

  Still to be stirring up anew
  The self-created Hell within

MS. Letter to Southey.

[47] their deeds] the crimes MS. Letter to Southey.

[48] and] to MS. Letter to Southey.

[Between 48-51]

  With such let fiends make mockery--
  But I--Oh, wherefore this _on me_?
  Frail is my soul, yea, strengthless wholly,
  Unequal, restless, melancholy.
  But free from Hate and sensual Folly.

MS. Letter to Southey.

[51] be] live MS. Letter to Southey.

[After 52] And etc., etc., etc., etc. MS. Letter to Southey.




THE EXCHANGE[391:1]


  We pledged our hearts, my love and I,--
    I in my arms the maiden clasping;
  I could not guess the reason why,
    But, oh! I trembled like an aspen.

  Her father's love she bade me gain;                                  5
    I went, but shook like any reed!
  I strove to act the man--in vain!
    We had exchanged our hearts indeed.

1804.


FOOTNOTES:

[391:1] First published in the _Courier_, April 16, 1804: included in
the _Poetical Register_ for 1804 (1805); reprinted in _Literary
Souvenir_ for 1826, p. 408, and in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 59.
First collected in 1844.


LINENOTES:

Title] The Exchange of Hearts Courier, 1804.

[2] Me in her arms Courier, 1804.

[3] guess] tell Lit. Souvenir, Lit. Rem., 1844.

[5] Her father's leave Courier, 1804, P. R. 1804, 1893.

[6] but] and Lit. Souvenir, Lit. Rem., 1844.




AD VILMUM AXIOLOGUM[391:2]

[TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH]


  This be the meed, that thy song creates a thousand-fold echo!
  Sweet as the warble of woods, that awakes at the gale of the morning!
  List! the Hearts of the Pure, like caves in the ancient mountains
  Deep, deep _in_ the Bosom, and _from_ the Bosom resound it,
  Each with a different tone, complete or in musical fragments--       5
  All have welcomed thy Voice, and receive and retain and prolong it!

  This is the word of the Lord! it is spoken, and Beings Eternal
  Live and are borne as an Infant; the Eternal begets the Immortal:
  Love is the Spirit of Life, and Music the Life of the Spirit!

? 1805.


FOOTNOTES:

[391:2] First published in _P. W._, 1893. These lines were found in one
of Coleridge's Notebooks (No. 24). The first draft immediately follows
the transcription of a series of Dante's _Canzoni_ begun at Malta in
1805. If the Hexameters were composed at the same time, it is possible
that they were inspired by a perusal or re-perusal of a MS. copy of
Wordsworth's unpublished poems which had been made for his use whilst he
was abroad. As Mr. Campbell points out (_P. W._, p. 614), Wordsworth
himself was responsible for the Latinization of his name. A _Sonnet on
seeing Miss Helen Maria Williams weeping at a tale of distress_, which
was published in the _European Magazine_ for March, 1787, is signed
'Axiologus'.


LINENOTES:

[1 foll.]

  What is the meed of thy song? 'Tis the ceaseless the thousandfold
      echo,
  Which from the welcoming Hearts of the Pure repeats and prolongs it--
  Each with a different Tone, compleat or in musical fragments.

Or

  This be the meed, that thy Song awakes to a thousandfold echo
    Welcoming Hearts; is it their voice or is it thy own?
  Lost! the Hearts of the Pure, like caves in the ancient mountains
  Deep, deep in the bosom, and _from_ the bosom resound it,
  Each with a different tone, compleat or in musical fragments.
  Meet the song they receive, and retain and resound and prolong it!
  Welcoming Souls! is it their voice, sweet Poet, or is it thy own
      voice?

Drafts in Notebook.




AN EXILE[392:1]


  Friend, Lover, Husband, Sister, Brother!
  Dear names close in upon each other!
  Alas! poor Fancy's bitter-sweet--
  Our names, and but our names can meet.

1805.


FOOTNOTES:

[392:1] First published, with title 'An Exile', in 1893. These lines,
without title or heading, are inserted in one of Coleridge's Malta
Notebooks.




SONNET[392:2]

[TRANSLATED FROM MARINI]


  Lady, to Death we're doom'd, our crime the same!
  Thou, that in me thou kindled'st such fierce heat;
  I, that my heart did of a Sun so sweet
  The rays concentre to so hot a flame.
  I, fascinated by an Adder's eye--                                    5
  Deaf as an Adder thou to all my pain;
  Thou obstinate in Scorn, in Passion I--
  I lov'd too much, too much didst thou disdain.
  Hear then our doom in Hell as just as stern,
  Our sentence equal as our crimes conspire--                         10
  Who living bask'd at Beauty's earthly fire,
  In living flames eternal these must burn--
  Hell for us both fit places too supplies--
  In my heart _thou_ wilt burn, I _roast_ before thine eyes.

? 1805.


FOOTNOTES:

[392:2] First published in 1893. For the Italian original, 'Alia Sua
Amico,' _Sonetto_, vide Appendices of this Edition.




PHANTOM[393:1]


  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,
  Uprais'd beneath the rifted stone                                    5
  But of one spirit all her own;--
  She, she herself, and only she,
  Shone through her body visibly.

1805.


FOOTNOTES:

[393:1] These lines, without title or heading, are quoted ('vide . . .
my lines') in an entry in one of Coleridge's Malta Notebooks, dated Feb.
8, 1805, to illustrate the idea that the love-sense can be abstracted
from the accidents of form or person (see _Anima Poetae_, 1895, p. 120).
It follows that they were written before that date. _Phantom_ was first
published in 1834, immediately following (ii. 71) _Phantom or Fact. A
dialogue in Verse_, which was first published in 1828, and was probably
written about that time. Both poems are 'fragments from the life of
dreams'; but it was the reality which lay behind both 'phantom' and
'fact' of which the poet dreamt, having his eyes open. With lines 4, 5
compare the following stanza of one of the _MS._ versions of the _Dark
Ladié_:--

  Against a grey stone rudely carv'd
  The statue of an armed knight,
  She lean'd in melancholy mood
    To watch ['d] the lingering Light.




A SUNSET[393:2]


  Upon the mountain's edge with light touch resting,
  There a brief while the globe of splendour sits
    And seems a creature of the earth; but soon
      More changeful than the Moon,
  To wane fantastic his great orb submits,                             5
  Or cone or mow of fire: till sinking slowly
  Even to a star at length he lessens wholly.

  Abrupt, as Spirits vanish, he is sunk!
  A soul-like breeze possesses all the wood.
    The boughs, the sprays have stood                                 10
  As motionless as stands the ancient trunk!
  But every leaf through all the forest flutters,
  And deep the cavern of the fountain mutters.

1805.


FOOTNOTES:

[393:2] First published in 1893. The title 'A Sunset' was prefixed by
the Editor. These lines are inscribed in one of Coleridge's Malta
Notebooks. The following note or comment is attached:--'These lines I
wrote as nonsense verses merely to try a metre; but they are by no means
contemptible; at least in reading them I am surprised at finding them so
good. 16 Aug., 1805, Malta.

'Now will it be a more English music if the first and fourth are double
rhymes and the 5th and 6th single? or all single, or the 2nd and 3rd
double? Try.' They were afterwards sent to William Worship, Esq.,
Yarmouth, in a letter dated April 22, 1819, as an unpublished autograph.


LINENOTES:

[1] with light touch] all lightly MS.

[4] the] this MS.

[6] A distant Hiss of fire MS. alternative reading.

[7] lessens] lessened MS.

[12] flutters] fluttered MS.

[13] mutters] muttered MS.




WHAT IS LIFE?[394:1]


    Resembles life what once was deem'd of light,
    Too ample in itself for human sight?
  An absolute self--an element ungrounded--
  All that we see, all colours of all shade
      By encroach of darkness made?--                                  5
  Is very life by consciousness unbounded?
  And all the thoughts, pains, joys of mortal breath,
  A war-embrace of wrestling life and death?

1805.


FOOTNOTES:

[394:1] First published in _Literary Souvenir_, 1829: included in
_Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 60. First collected in 1844. These lines,
'written in the same manner, and for the same purpose, but of course
with more conscious effort than the two stanzas on the preceding leaf,'
are dated '16 August, 1805, the day of the Valetta Horse-racing--bells
jangling, and stupefying music playing all day'. Afterwards, in 1819,
Coleridge maintained that they were written 'between the age of 15 and
16'.


LINENOTES:

[1] deem'd] held Lit. Souvenir, 1829.

[2] ample] simple MS.

[6]

  { [*per se*] (in its own Nature)
  { Is Life itself

MS.




THE BLOSSOMING OF THE SOLITARY DATE-TREE[395:1]

A LAMENT


  I seem to have an indistinct recollection of having read either in one
  of the ponderous tomes of George of Venice, or in some other compilation
  from the uninspired Hebrew writers, an apologue or Rabbinical tradition
  to the following purpose:

  While our first parents stood before their offended Maker, and the
      last                                                                5
  words of the sentence were yet sounding in Adam's ear, the guileful
      false
  serpent, a counterfeit and a usurper from the beginning, presumptuously
  took on himself the character of advocate or mediator, and pretending to
  intercede for Adam, exclaimed: 'Nay, Lord, in thy justice, not so! for
  the man was the least in fault. Rather let the Woman return at once
      to                                                                 10
  the dust, and let Adam remain in this thy Paradise.' And the word of
  the Most High answered Satan: '_The tender mercies of the wicked are
     cruel._
  Treacherous Fiend! if with guilt like thine, it had been possible for
     thee
  to have the heart of a Man, and to feel the yearning of a human soul for
  its counterpart, the sentence, which thou now counsellest, should
     have                                                                15
  been inflicted on thyself.'

  The title of the following poem was suggested by a fact mentioned by
  Linnaeus, of a date-tree in a nobleman's garden which year after year
  had put forth a full show of blossoms, but never produced fruit, till a
  branch from another date-tree had been conveyed from a distance of     20
  some hundred leagues. The first leaf of the MS. from which the poem
  has been transcribed, and which contained the two or three introductory
  stanzas, is wanting: and the author has in vain taxed his memory to
  repair the loss. But a rude draught of the poem contains the substance
  of the stanzas, and the reader is requested to receive it as the
      substitute.                                                        25
  It is not impossible, that some congenial spirit, whose years do not
  exceed those of the Author at the time the poem was written, may find
  a pleasure in restoring the Lament to its original integrity by a
      reduction
  of the thoughts to the requisite metre.                  _S. T. C._


  1

  Beneath the blaze of a tropical sun the mountain peaks are          30
  the Thrones of Frost, through the absence of objects to reflect
  the rays. 'What no one with us shares, seems scarce our own.'
  The presence of a ONE,

    The best belov'd, who loveth me the best,

  is for the heart, what the supporting air from within is for the    35
  hollow globe with its suspended car. Deprive it of this, and all
  without, that would have buoyed it aloft even to the seat of the
      gods,
  becomes a burthen and crushes it into flatness.

  2

  The finer the sense for the beautiful and the lovely, and the
  fairer and lovelier the object presented to the sense; the more     40
  exquisite the individual's capacity of joy, and the more ample
  his means and opportunities of enjoyment, the more heavily
  will he feel the ache of solitariness, the more unsubstantial
  becomes the feast spread around him. What matters it,
  whether in fact the viands and the ministering graces are           45
  shadowy or real, to him who has not hand to grasp nor arms
  to embrace them?

  3

  Imagination; honourable aims;
  Free commune with the choir that cannot die;
  Science and song; delight in little things,                         50
  The buoyant child surviving in the man;
  Fields, forests, ancient mountains, ocean, sky,
  With all their voices--O dare I accuse
  My earthly lot as guilty of my spleen,
  Or call my destiny niggard! O no! no!                               55
  It is her largeness, and her overflow,
  Which being incomplete, disquieteth me so!

  4

  For never touch of gladness stirs my heart,
  But tim'rously beginning to rejoice
  Like a blind Arab, that from sleep doth start                       60
  In lonesome tent, I listen for thy voice.
  Belovéd! 'tis not thine; thou art not there!
  Then melts the bubble into idle air,
  And wishing without hope I restlessly despair.

  5

  The mother with anticipated glee                                    65
  Smiles o'er the child, that, standing by her chair
  And flatt'ning its round cheek upon her knee,
  Looks up, and doth its rosy lips prepare
  To mock the coming sounds. At that sweet sight
  She hears her own voice with a new delight;                         70
  And if the babe perchance should lisp the notes aright,

  6

  Then is she tenfold gladder than before!
  But should disease or chance the darling take,
  What then avail those songs, which sweet of yore
  Were only sweet for their sweet echo's sake?                        75
  Dear maid! no prattler at a mother's knee
  Was e'er so dearly prized as I prize thee:
  Why was I made for Love and Love denied to me?

1805.


FOOTNOTES:

[395:1] First published in 1828: included in 1829 and 1834.


LINENOTES:

[5] stood] were yet standing 1828.

[8] mediator] moderator 1828.

[9] The words 'not so' are omitted in 1828.

[11] _remain_ here all the days of his now mortal life, and enjoy the
respite thou mayest grant him, in this thy Paradise which thou gavest to
him, and hast planted with every tree pleasant to the sight of man and
of delicious fruitage. 1828.

[13 foll.] _Treacherous Fiend!_ guilt deep as thine could not be, yet
the love of kind not extinguished. But if having done what thou hast
done, thou hadst yet the heart of man within thee, and the yearning of
the soul for its answering image and completing counterpart, O spirit,
desperately wicked! the sentence thou counsellest had been thy own!
1828.

[20] from a Date tree 1828, 1839.

[48] Hope, Imagination, &c. 1828.

[53] With all their voices mute--O dare I accuse 1838.

[55] Or call my niggard destiny! No! No! 1838.

[61] thy] _thy_ 1828, 1829.

[77] thee] _thee_ 1828, 1829.




SEPARATION[397:1]


  A sworded man whose trade is blood,
    In grief, in anger, and in fear,
  Thro' jungle, swamp, and torrent flood,
    I seek the wealth you hold so dear!

  The dazzling charm of outward form,                                  5
    The power of gold, the pride of birth,
  Have taken Woman's heart by storm--
    Usurp'd the place of inward worth.

  Is not true Love of higher price
    Than outward Form, though fair to see,                            10
  Wealth's glittering fairy-dome of ice,
    Or echo of proud ancestry?--

  O! Asra, Asra! couldst thou see
    Into the bottom of my heart,
  There's such a mine of Love for thee,                               15
    As almost might supply desert!

  (This separation is, alas!
    Too great a punishment to bear;
  O! take my life, or let me pass
    That life, that happy life, with her!)                            20

  The perils, erst with steadfast eye
    Encounter'd, now I shrink to see--
  Oh! I have heart enough to die--
    Not half enough to part from Thee!

? 1805.


FOOTNOTES:

[397:1] First published in 1834. In Pickering's one-volume edition of
the issue of 1848 the following note is printed on p. 372:--

'The fourth and last stanzas are adapted from the twelfth and last of
Cotton's _Chlorinda_ [Ode]:--

  'O my Chlorinda! could'st thou see
   Into the bottom of my heart,
   There's such a Mine of Love for thee,
   The Treasure would supply desert.

   Meanwhile my Exit now draws nigh,
   When, sweet Chlorinda, thou shalt see
   That I have heart enough to die,
   Not half enough to part with thee.

'The fifth stanza is the eleventh of Cotton's poem.'

In 1852 (p. 385) the note reads: 'The fourth and last stanzas are from
Cotton's _Chlorinda_, with very slight alteration.'

A first draft of this adaptation is contained in one of Coleridge's
Malta Notebooks:--

         [I]

           Made worthy by excess of Love
         A wretch thro' power of Happiness,
           And poor from wealth I dare not use.

         [II]

         This separation etc.

         [III]

         [*The Pomp of Wealth*]
         [*Stores of Gold, the pomp of Wealth*]
         [*Nor less the Pride of Noble Birth*]
         The dazzling charm etc.
  (l. 4) Supplied the place etc.

         [IV]

         Is not true Love etc.

         [V]

         O ΑΣΡΑ! ΑΣΡΑ could'st thou see
           Into the bottom of my Heart!
         There's such a Mine of Love for Thee--
           The Treasure would supply desert.

         [VI]

         Death erst contemn'd--O ΑΣΡΑ! why
           Now terror-stricken do I see--
         Oh! I have etc.




THE RASH CONJURER[399:1]


  Strong spirit-bidding sounds!
      With deep and hollow voice,
      'Twixt Hope and Dread,
        Seven Times I said
          Iohva Mitzoveh                                               5
            Vohoeen![399:2]
  And up came an imp in the shape of a
            Pea-hen!
      I saw, I doubted,
      And seven times spouted                                         10
        Johva Mitzoveh
          Yahóevohāen!
  When Anti-Christ starting up, butting
                              and bāing,
      In the shape of a mischievous curly                             15
                              black Lamb--
      With a vast flock of Devils behind
                              and beside,
        And before 'em their Shepherdess
              Lucifer's Dam,                                          20
              Riding astride
            On an old black Ram,
  With Tartary stirrups, knees up to her chin.
  And a sleek chrysom imp to her Dugs muzzled in,--
            'Gee-up, my old Belzy! (she cried,                        25
          As she sung to her suckling cub)
  Trit-a-trot, trot! we'll go far and wide
  Trot, Ram-Devil! Trot! Belzebub!'
  Her petticoat fine was of scarlet Brocade,
  And soft in her lap her Baby she lay'd                              30
  With his pretty Nubs of Horns a-
                              sprouting,
  And his pretty little Tail all curly-twirly--
  St. Dunstan! and this comes of spouting--
    Of Devils what a Hurly-Burly!                                     35
  'Behold we are up! what want'st thou then?'
  'Sirs! only that'--'Say when and what'--
  You'd be so good'--'Say what and when'
  'This moment to get down again!'
  'We do it! we do it! we all get down!                               40
  But we take you with us to swim
                              or drown!
  Down a down to the grim Engulpher!'
  'O me! I am floundering in Fire and Sulphur!
  That the Dragon had scrounched you, squeal                          45
                              and squall--
  Cabbalists! Conjurers! great and small,
  Johva Mitzoveh Evohāen and all!
  Had _I_ never uttered your jaw-breaking words,
  I might now have been sloshing down Junket and Curds,
        Like a Devonshire Christian:                                  51
        But now a Philistine!

  Ye Earthmen! be warned by a judgement so tragic,
  And wipe yourselves cleanly with all books of magic--
  Hark! hark! it is Dives! 'Hold your Bother, you Booby!
  I am burnt ashy white, and you yet are but ruby.'                   56


  _Epilogue._

  We ask and urge (here ends the story)
  All Christian Papishes to pray
  That this unhappy Conjurer may
  Instead of Hell, be but in Purgatory--                              60
      For then there's Hope,--
      Long live the Pope!
                    Catholicus.

? 1805, ? 1814.


FOOTNOTES:

[399:1] Now first printed from one of Coleridge's Notebooks. The last
stanza--the Epilogue--was first published by H. N. Coleridge as part of
an 'Uncomposed Poem', in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 52: first
collected in Appendix to _P. and D. W._, 1877-80, ii. 366. There is no
conclusive evidence as to the date of composition. The handwriting, and
the contents of the Notebook might suggest a date between 1813 and 1816.
The verses are almost immediately preceded by a detached note printed at
the close of an essay entitled 'Self-love in Religion' which is included
among the '_Omniana_ of 1809', _Literary Remains_, 1834, i. 354-6: 'O
magical, sympathetic, _anima_! [Archeus, _MS._] _principium
hylarchichum! rationes spermaticæ!_ λόγοι ποιητικοί! O formidable words!
And O Man! thou marvellous beast-angel! thou ambitious beggar! How
pompously dost thou trick out thy very ignorance with such glorious
disguises, that thou mayest seem to hide in order to worship it.'

With this piece as a whole compare Southey's 'Ballad of a Young Man that
would read unlawful Books, and how he was punished'.

[399:2] A cabbalistic invocation of Jehovah, obscure in the original
Hebrew. I am informed that the second word Mitzoveh may stand for 'from
Sabaoth'.




A CHILD'S EVENING PRAYER[401:1]


  Ere on my bed my limbs I lay,
  God grant me grace my prayers to say:
  O God! preserve my mother dear
  In strength and health for many a year;
  And, O! preserve my father too,                                      5
  And may I pay him reverence due;
  And may I my best thoughts employ
  To be my parents' hope and joy;
  And O! preserve my brothers both
  From evil doings and from sloth,                                    10
  And may we always love each other
  Our friends, our father, and our mother:
  And still, O Lord, to me impart
  An innocent and grateful heart,
  That after my great sleep I may                                     15
  Awake to thy eternal day! _Amen._

1806.


FOOTNOTES:

[401:1] First published in 1852. A transcript in the handwriting of Mrs.
S. T. Coleridge is in the possession of the Editor.


LINENOTES:

[3] mother] father MS.

[5] father] mother MS.

[6] him] her MS.

[7-8]

  And may I still my thoughts employ
  To be her comfort and her joy

MS.

[9] O likewise keep MS.

[13] But chiefly, Lord MS.

[15] great] last P. W. 1877-80, 1893.

[After 16] Our father, &c. MS.




METRICAL FEET[401:2]

LESSON FOR A BOY


  Trōchĕe trīps frŏm lōng tŏ shōrt;
  From long to long in solemn sort
  Slōw Spōndēe stālks; strōng fo͞ot! yet ill able
  Ēvĕr tŏ cōme ŭp wĭth Dācty̆l trĭsȳllăblĕ.
  Ĭāmbĭcs mārch frŏm shōrt tŏ lōng;—           5
  Wĭth ă le͞ap ănd ă bo͞und thĕ swĭft Ānăpæ̆sts thrōng;
  One syllable long, with one short at each side,
  Ămphībrăchy̆s hāstes wĭth ă stātely̆ stride;--
  Fīrst ănd lāst bēĭng lōng, mīddlĕ shōrt, Am̄phĭmācer
  Strīkes hĭs thūndērīng ho͞ofs līke ă pro͞ud hīgh-brĕd Rācer.        10
  If Derwent be innocent, steady, and wise,
  And delight in the things of earth, water, and skies;
  Tender warmth at his heart, with these metres to show it,
  With sound sense in his brains, may make Derwent a poet,--
  May crown him with fame, and must win him the love                  15
  Of his father on earth and his Father above.
            My dear, dear child!
  Could you stand upon Skiddaw, you would not from its whole ridge
  See a man who so loves you as your fond S. T. COLERIDGE.

1806.


FOOTNOTES:

[401:2] First published in 1834. The metrical lesson was begun for
Hartley Coleridge in 1806 and, afterwards, finished or adapted for the
use of his brother Derwent. The Editor possesses the autograph of a
metrical rendering of the Greek alphabet, entitled 'A Greek Song set to
Music, and sung by Hartley Coleridge, Esq., Graecologian, philometrist
and philomelist'.


LINENOTES:

Title] The chief and most usual Metrical Feet expressed in metre and
addressed to Hartley Coleridge MS. of Lines 1-7.




FAREWELL TO LOVE[402:1]


  Farewell, sweet Love! yet blame you not my truth;
    More fondly ne'er did mother eye her child
  Than I your form: _yours_ were my hopes of youth,
    And as _you_ shaped my thoughts I sighed or smiled.

  While most were wooing wealth, or gaily swerving                     5
    To pleasure's secret haunts, and some apart
  Stood strong in pride, self-conscious of deserving,
    To you I gave my whole weak wishing heart.

  And when I met the maid that realised
    Your fair creations, and had won her kindness,                    10
  Say, but for her if aught on earth I prized!
    _Your_ dreams alone I dreamt, and caught your blindness.

  O grief!--but farewell, Love! I will go play me
  With thoughts that please me less, and less betray me.

1806.


FOOTNOTES:

[402:1] First published in the _Courier_, September 27, 1806, and
reprinted in the _Morning Herald_, October 11, 1806, and in the
_Gentleman's Magazine_ for November, 1815, vol. lxxxv, p. 448: included
in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 280, and in _Letters, Conversations,
&c._, [by T. Allsop], 1836, i. 143. First collected, appendix, 1863.
This sonnet is modelled upon and in part borrowed from Lord Brooke's
(Fulke Greville) Sonnet LXXIV of Coelica: and was inscribed on the
margin of Charles Lamb's copy of _Certain Learned and Elegant Works of
the Right Honourable Fulke Lord Brooke_ . . . 1633, p. 284.

_'Cælica'. Sonnet lxxiv._

  Farewell sweet Boy, complaine not of my truth;
  Thy Mother lov'd thee not with more devotion;
  For to thy Boyes play I gave all my youth
  Yong Master, I did hope for your promotion.

  While some sought Honours, Princes thoughts observing,
  Many woo'd _Fame, the child of paine and anguish_,
  Others judg'd inward good a chiefe deserving,
  I in thy wanton Visions joy'd to languish.

  I bow'd not to thy image for succession,
  Nor bound thy bow to shoot reformed kindnesse,
  The playes of hope and feare were my confession
  The spectacles to my life was thy blindnesse:

  But _Cupid_ now farewell, I will goe play me,
  With thoughts that please me lesse, and lesse betray me.

For an adaptation of Sonnet XCIV, entitled 'Lines on a King-and-
Emperor-Making King--altered from the 93rd Sonnet of Fulke Greville',
vide Appendices of this edition.


LINENOTES:

[1-2]

  Farewell my Love! yet blame ye not my Truth;
  More fondly never mother ey'd her child

MS. 1806.

  Sweet power of Love, farewell! nor blame my truth,
  More fondly never Mother ey'd her Child

Courier, M. H.

[4] And as you wove the dream I sigh'd or smil'd MS. 1806: And as you
wove my thoughts, I sigh'd or smil'd Courier, M. H.

[5-7]

  While some sought Wealth; others to Pleasure swerving,
    Many woo'd Fame: and some stood firm apart
  In joy of pride, self-conscious of deserving

MS. 1806, Courier, M. H.

[6] haunts] haunt L. R., Letters, &c., 1836, 1863.

[8] weak wishing] weak-wishing Courier, M. H.

[9] that] who Courier, M. H.

[13] will] must Courier, M. H.




TO WILLIAM WORDSWORTH[403:1]

COMPOSED ON THE NIGHT AFTER HIS RECITATION OF A POEM ON THE GROWTH OF AN
INDIVIDUAL MIND


  Friend of the wise! and Teacher of the Good!
  Into my heart have I received that Lay
  More than historic, that prophetic Lay
  Wherein (high theme by thee first sung aright)
  Of the foundations and the building up                               5
  Of a Human Spirit thou hast dared to tell
  What may be told, to the understanding mind
  Revealable; and what within the mind
  By vital breathings secret as the soul
  Of vernal growth, oft quickens in the heart                         10
  Thoughts all too deep for words!--
                                      Theme hard as high!
  Of smiles spontaneous, and mysterious fears
  (The first-born they of Reason and twin-birth),
  Of tides obedient to external force,
  And currents self-determined, as might seem,                        15
  Or by some inner Power; of moments awful,
  Now in thy inner life, and now abroad,
  When power streamed from thee, and thy soul received
  The light reflected, as a light bestowed--
  Of fancies fair, and milder hours of youth,                         20
  Hyblean murmurs of poetic thought
  Industrious in its joy, in vales and glens
  Native or outland, lakes and famous hills!
  Or on the lonely high-road, when the stars
  Were rising; or by secret mountain-streams,                         25
  The guides and the companions of thy way!

  Of more than Fancy, of the Social Sense
  Distending wide, and man beloved as man,
  Where France in all her towns lay vibrating
  Like some becalméd bark beneath the burst                           30
  Of Heaven's immediate thunder, when no cloud
  Is visible, or shadow on the main.
  For thou wert there, thine own brows garlanded,
  Amid the tremor of a realm aglow,
  Amid a mighty nation jubilant,                                      35
  When from the general heart of human kind
  Hope sprang forth like a full-born Deity!
  ----Of that dear Hope afflicted and struck down,
  So summoned homeward, thenceforth calm and sure
  From the dread watch-tower of man's absolute self,                  40
  With light unwaning on her eyes, to look
  Far on--herself a glory to behold,
  The Angel of the vision! Then (last strain)
  Of Duty, chosen Laws controlling choice,
  Action and joy!--An Orphic song indeed,                             45
  A song divine of high and passionate thoughts
  To their own music chaunted!

                               O great Bard!
  Ere yet that last strain dying awed the air,
  With stedfast eye I viewed thee in the choir
  Of ever-enduring men. The truly great                               50
  Have all one age, and from one visible space
  Shed influence! They, both in power and act,
  Are permanent, and Time is not with them,
  Save as it worketh for them, they in it.
  Nor less a sacred Roll, than those of old,                          55
  And to be placed, as they, with gradual fame
  Among the archives of mankind, thy work
  Makes audible a linkéd lay of Truth,
  Of Truth profound a sweet continuous lay,
  Not learnt, but native, her own natural notes!                      60
  Ah! as I listened with a heart forlorn,
  The pulses of my being beat anew:
  And even as Life returns upon the drowned,
  Life's joy rekindling roused a throng of pains--
  Keen pangs of Love, awakening as a babe                             65
  Turbulent, with an outcry in the heart;
  And fears self-willed, that shunned the eye of Hope;
  And Hope that scarce would know itself from Fear;
  Sense of past Youth, and Manhood come in vain,
  And Genius given, and Knowledge won in vain;                        70
  And all which I had culled in wood-walks wild,
  And all which patient toil had reared, and all,
  Commune with thee had opened out--but flowers
  Strewed on my corse, and borne upon my bier,
  In the same coffin, for the self-same grave!                        75

    That way no more! and ill beseems it me,
  Who came a welcomer in herald's guise,
  Singing of Glory, and Futurity,
  To wander back on such unhealthful road,
  Plucking the poisons of self-harm! And ill                          80
  Such intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths
  Strew'd before thy advancing!

                                Nor do thou,
  Sage Bard! impair the memory of that hour
  Of thy communion with my nobler mind
  By pity or grief, already felt too long!                            85
  Nor let my words import more blame than needs.
  The tumult rose and ceased: for Peace is nigh
  Where Wisdom's voice has found a listening heart.
  Amid the howl of more than wintry storms,
  The Halcyon hears the voice of vernal hours                         90
  Already on the wing.

                       Eve following eve,
  Dear tranquil time, when the sweet sense of Home
  Is sweetest! moments for their own sake hailed
  And more desired, more precious, for thy song,
  In silence listening, like a devout child,                          95
  My soul lay passive, by thy various strain
  Driven as in surges now beneath the stars,
  With momentary stars of my own birth,
  Fair constellated foam,[408:1] still darting off
  Into the darkness; now a tranquil sea,                             100
  Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the moon.

  And when--O Friend! my comforter and guide!
  Strong in thyself, and powerful to give strength!--
  Thy long sustainéd Song finally closed,
  And thy deep voice had ceased--yet thou thyself                    105
  Wert still before my eyes, and round us both
  That happy vision of belovéd faces--
  Scarce conscious, and yet conscious of its close
  I sate, my being blended in one thought
  (Thought was it? or aspiration? or resolve?)                       110
  Absorbed, yet hanging still upon the sound--
  And when I rose, I found myself in prayer.

_January_, 1807.


FOOTNOTES:

[403:1] First published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: included in 1828,
1829, 1834. The poem was sent in a Letter to Sir G. Beaumont dated
January, 1807, and in this shape was first printed by Professor Knight
in _Coleorton Letters_, 1887, i. 213-18; and as Appendix H, pp. 525-6,
of _P. W._, 1893 (_MS. B._). An earlier version of about the same date
was given to Wordsworth, and is now in the possession of his grandson,
Mr. Gordon Wordsworth (_MS. W._). The text of _Sibylline Leaves_ differs
widely from that of the original MSS. Lines 11-47 are quoted in a Letter
to Wordsworth, dated May 30, 1815 (_Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i.
646-7), and lines 65-75 at the end of Chapter X of the _Biographia
Literaria_, 1817, i. 220.

[408:1] 'A beautiful white cloud of Foam at momentary intervals coursed
by the side of the Vessel with a Roar, and little stars of flame danced
and sparkled and went out in it: and every now and then light
detachments of this white cloud-like foam dashed off from the vessel's
side, each with its own small constellation, over the Sea, and scoured
out of sight like a Tartar Troop over a wilderness.' _The Friend_, p.
220. [From Satyrane's First Letter, published in _The Friend_, No. 14,
Nov. 23, 1809.]


LINENOTES:

Title] To W. Wordsworth. Lines Composed, for the greater part on the
Night, on which he finished the recitation of his Poem (in thirteen
Books) concerning the growth and history of his own Mind, Jan. 7, 1807,
Cole-orton, near Ashby de la Zouch MS. W.: To William Wordsworth.
Composed for the greater part on the same night after the finishing of
his recitation of the Poem in thirteen Books, on the Growth of his own
Mind MS. B.: To a Gentleman, &c. S. L. 1828, 1829.

[1] O Friend! O Teacher! God's great gift to me! MSS. W., B.

[Between 5-13]

  Of thy own Spirit, thou hast lov'd to tell
  What may be told, to th' understanding mind
  Revealable; and what within the mind
  May rise enkindled. Theme as hard as high!
  Of Smiles spontaneous and mysterious Fear.

MS. W.

  Of thy own spirit thou hast loved to tell
  What _may_ be told, by words revealable;
  With heavenly breathings, like the secret soul
  Of vernal growth, oft quickening in the heart,
  Thoughts that obey no mastery of words,
  Pure self-beholdings! theme as hard as high,
  Of _smiles_ spontaneous and mysterious _fear_.

MS. B.

[9] By vital breathings like the secret soul S. L. 1828.

[16] Or by interior power MS. W: Or by some central breath MS. Letter,
1815.

[17] inner] hidden MSS. W., B.

[Between 17-41]

  Mid festive crowds, _thy_ Brows too garlanded,
  A Brother of the Feast: of Fancies fair,
  _Hyblaean murmurs of poetic Thought,
  Industrious in its Joy_, by lilied Streams
  _Native or outland, Lakes and famous Hills!
  Of more than Fancy_, of the Hope of Man
  _Amid the tremor of a Realm aglow--
  Where France in all her Towns lay vibrating_
  Ev'n as a Bark becalm'd on sultry seas
  Beneath the voice from Heav'n, the bursting crash
  _Of Heaven's immediate thunder! when no cloud
  Is visible, or Shadow on the Main!_
  Ah! soon night roll'd on night, and every Cloud
  Open'd its eye of Fire: and Hope aloft
  Now flutter'd, and now toss'd upon the storm
  Floating! Of _Hope afflicted and struck down
  Thence summoned homeward_--homeward to thy Heart,
  Oft from the _Watch-tower of Man's absolute self_,
  With light, &c.

MS. W.

[27] _social sense_ MS. B.

[28] Distending, and of man MS. B.

[29-30]

  Even as a bark becalm'd on sultry seas
  Quivers beneath the voice from Heaven, the burst

MS. B.

[30]

  Ev'n as a bark becalm'd beneath the burst

MS. Letter, 1815, S. L. 1828.

[33] thine] thy MS. B., MS. Letter, 1815.

[37] a full-born] an arméd MS. B.

[38] Of that dear hope afflicted and amazed MS. Letter, 1815.

[39] So homeward summoned MS. Letter, 1815.

[40] As from the watch-tower MS. B.

[44] controlling] ? impelling, ? directing MS. W.

[45-6]

  Virtue and Love--an Orphic Tale indeed
  A Tale divine

MS. W.

[45] song] tale MS. B.

[46] song] tale MS. B. thoughts] truths MS. Letter, 1815.

[47-9]

                   Ah! great Bard
  Ere yet that last swell dying aw'd the air
  With stedfast ken I viewed thee in the choir

MS. W.

[48] that] the MS. B.

[49] With steadfast eyes I saw thee MS. B.

[52] for they, both power and act MS. B.

[53] them] _them_ S. L. 1828, 1829.

[54] _for_ them, they _in_ it S. L. 1828, 1829.

[58] lay] song MSS. W., B.

[59] lay] song MSS. W., B.

[61 foll.]

  Dear shall it be to every human heart,
  To me how more than dearest! me, on whom
  Comfort from thee, and utterance of thy love,
  Came with such heights and depths of harmony,
  Such sense of wings uplifting, that the storm                        5
  Scatter'd and whirl'd me, till my thoughts became
  A bodily tumult; and thy faithful hopes,
  Thy hopes of me, dear Friend! by me unfelt!
  Were troublous to me, almost as a voice,
  Familiar once, and more than musical;                               10
  To one cast forth, whose hope had seem'd to die
  A wanderer with a worn-out heart
  Mid strangers pining with untended wounds.
  O Friend, too well thou know'st, of what sad years
  The long suppression had benumb'd my soul,                          15
  That even as life returns upon the drown'd,
  The unusual joy awoke a throng of pains--
  _Keen pangs_, &c.

MSS. B, W

with the following variants:--

ll. 5-6

  Such sense of wings uplifting, that its might
  Scatter'd and quell'd me--

MS. B.

ll. 11, 12

  As a dear woman's voice to one cast forth
  A wanderer with a worn-out heart forlorn.

[73] thee] _thee_ S. L. 1828, 1829.

[74] Strewed] Strewn MS. B., 1828, 1829.

[82] thy] _thy_ S. L. 1828, 1829.

[82-3]

                   Thou too, Friend!
  O injure not the memory of that hour

MS. W.

                   Thou too, Friend!
  Impair thou not the memory of that Hour

MS. B.

[93] Becomes most sweet! hours for their own sake hail'd MS. W.

[96] thy] the MS. B.

[98] my] her MS. B.

[102] and] my MSS. W., B.

[104] Song] lay MS. W.

[106] my] mine MSS. W., B.

[Between 107-8] (All whom I deepliest love--in one room all!) MSS. W.,
B.




AN ANGEL VISITANT[409:1]


  Within these circling hollies woodbine-clad--
  Beneath this small blue roof of vernal sky--
  How warm, how still! Tho' tears should dim mine eye,
  Yet will my heart for days continue glad,
  For here, my love, thou art, and here am I!

? 1801.


FOOTNOTES:

[409:1] First published in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 280. First
collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877-80. The title was prefixed to the
_Poems of Coleridge_ (illustrated edition), 1907. This 'exquisite
fragment . . . was probably composed as the opening of _Recollections of
Love_, and abandoned on account of a change of metre.'--_Editor's Note_,
1893 (p. 635). It is in no way a translation, but the thought or idea
was suggested by one of the German stanzas which Coleridge selected and
copied into one of his Notebooks as models or specimens of various
metres. For the original, vide Appendices of this edition.




RECOLLECTIONS OF LOVE[409:2]


  I

  How warm this woodland wild Recess!
    Love surely hath been breathing here;
    And this sweet bed of heath, my dear!
  Swells up, then sinks with faint caress,
    As if to have you yet more near.                                   5

  II

  Eight springs have flown, since last I lay
    On sea-ward Quantock's heathy hills,
    Where quiet sounds from hidden rills
  Float here and there, like things astray,
    And high o'er head the sky-lark shrills.                          10

  III

  No voice as yet had made the air
    Be music with your name; yet why
    That asking look? that yearning sigh?
  That sense of promise every where?
    Beloved! flew your spirit by?                                     15

  IV

  As when a mother doth explore
    The rose-mark on her long-lost child,
    I met, I loved you, maiden mild!
  As whom I long had loved before--
    So deeply had I been beguiled.                                    20

  V

  You stood before me like a thought,
    A dream remembered in a dream.
    But when those meek eyes first did seem
  To tell me, Love within you wrought--
    O Greta, dear domestic stream!                                    25

  VI

  Has not, since then, Love's prompture deep,
    Has not Love's whisper evermore
    Been ceaseless, as thy gentle roar?
  Sole voice, when other voices sleep,
    Dear under-song in clamor's hour.                                 30

1807.


FOOTNOTES:

[409:2] First published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: included in 1828,
1829, and 1834. It is impossible to fix the date of composition, though
internal evidence points to July, 1807, when Coleridge revisited Stowey
after a long absence. The first stanza, a variant of the preceding
fragment, is introduced into a prose fancy, entitled 'Questions and
Answers in the Court of Love', of uncertain date, but perhaps written at
Malta in 1805 (vide Appendices of this edition). A first draft of
stanzas 1-4 (vide supra) is included in the collection of metrical
experiments and metrical schemes, modelled on German and Italian
originals, which seems to have been begun in 1801, with a view to a
projected 'Essay on Metre'. Stanzas 5, 6 are not contemporary with
stanzas 1-4, and, perhaps, date from 1814, 1815, when _Sibylline Leaves_
were being prepared for the press.




TO TWO SISTERS[410:1]

[MARY MORGAN AND CHARLOTTE BRENT]

A WANDERER'S FAREWELL


  To know, to esteem, to love,--and then to part--
  Makes up life's tale to many a feeling heart;
  Alas for some abiding-place of love,
  O'er which my spirit, like the mother dove,
  Might brood with warming wings!
                                  O fair! O kind!                      5
  Sisters in blood, yet each with each intwined
  More close by sisterhood of heart and mind!
  Me disinherited in form and face
  By nature, and mishap of outward grace;
  Who, soul and body, through one guiltless fault                     10
  Waste daily with the poison of sad thought,
  Me did you soothe, when solace hoped I none!
  And as on unthaw'd ice the winter sun,
  Though stern the frost, though brief the genial day,
  You bless my heart with many a cheerful ray;                        15
  For gratitude suspends the heart's despair,
  Reflecting bright though cold your image there.
  Nay more! its music by some sweeter strain
  Makes us live o'er our happiest hours again,
  Hope re-appearing dim in memory's guise--                           20
  Even thus did you call up before mine eyes
  Two dear, dear Sisters, prized all price above,
  Sisters, like you, with more than sisters' love;
  _So_ like you _they_, and so in _you_ were seen
  Their relative statures, tempers, looks, and mien,                  25
  That oft, dear ladies! you have been to me
  At once a vision and reality.
  Sight seem'd a sort of memory, and amaze
  Mingled a trouble with affection's gaze.

  Oft to my eager soul I whisper blame,                               30
  A Stranger bid it feel the Stranger's shame--
  My eager soul, impatient of the name,
  No strangeness owns, no Stranger's form descries:
  The chidden heart spreads trembling on the eyes.
  First-seen I gazed, as I would look you thro'!                      35
  My best-beloved regain'd their youth in you,--
  And still I ask, though now familiar grown,
  Are you for _their_ sakes dear, or for your own?
  O doubly dear! may Quiet with you dwell!

  In Grief I love you, yet I love you well!                           40
  Hope long is dead to me! an orphan's tear
  Love wept despairing o'er his nurse's bier.
  Yet still she flutters o'er her grave's green <DW72>:
  For Love's despair is but the ghost of Hope!

  Sweet Sisters! were you placed around one hearth                    45
  With those, your other selves in shape and worth,
  Far rather would I sit in solitude,
  Fond recollections all my fond heart's food,
  And dream of _you_, sweet Sisters! (ah! not mine!)
  And only _dream_ of you (ah! dream and pine!)                       50
  Than boast the presence and partake the pride,
  And shine in the eye, of all the world beside.

1807.


FOOTNOTES:

[410:1] First published in _The Courier_, December 10, 1807, with the
signature SIESTI. First collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877-80. The
following abbreviated and altered version was included in _P. W._, 1834,
1844, and 1852, with the heading 'On taking Leave of ---- 1817':--

  To know, to esteem, to love--and then to part,
  Makes up life's tale to many a feeling heart!
  O for some dear abiding-place of Love,
  O'er which my spirit, like the mother dove
  Might brood with warming wings!--O fair as kind,
  Were but one sisterhood with you combined,
  (Your very image they in shape and mind)
  Far rather would I sit in solitude,
  The forms of memory all my mental food,
  And dream of you, sweet sisters, (ah, not mine!)
  And only dream of you (ah dream and pine!)
  Than have the presence, and partake the pride,
  And shine in the eye of all the world beside!




PSYCHE[412:1]


  The butterfly the ancient Grecians made
  The soul's fair emblem, and its only name--[412:2]
  But of the soul, escaped the slavish trade
  Of mortal life!--For in this earthly frame
  Ours is the reptile's lot, much toil, much blame,                    5
  Manifold motions making little speed,
  And to deform and kill the things whereon we feed.

1808.


FOOTNOTES:

[412:1] First published with a prefatory note:--'The fact that in Greek
Psyche is the common name for the soul, and the butterfly, is thus
alluded to in the following stanzas from an unpublished poem of the
Author', in the _Biographia Literaria_, 1817, i. 82, n.: included (as
No. II of 'Three Scraps') in _Amulet_, 1833: _Lit. Rem._, 1836, i. 53.
First collected in 1844. In _Lit. Rem._ and 1844 the poem is dated 1808.

[412:2] Psyche means both Butterfly and Soul. _Amulet_, 1833.

In some instances the Symbolic and Onomastic are united as in Psyche =
Anima et papilio. _MS. S. T. C._ (Hence the word 'name' was italicised
in the MS.)


LINENOTES:

Title] The Butterfly Amulet, 1833, 1877-81, 1893.

[4] Of earthly life. For in this fleshly frame MS. S. T. C.: Of earthly
life! For, in this mortal frame Amulet, 1833, 1893.




A TOMBLESS EPITAPH[413:1]


  'Tis true, Idoloclastes Satyrane!
  (So call him, for so mingling blame with praise,
  And smiles with anxious looks, his earliest friends,
  Masking his birth-name, wont to character
  His wild-wood fancy and impetuous zeal,)                             5
  'Tis true that, passionate for ancient truths,
  And honouring with religious love the Great
  Of elder times, he hated to excess,
  With an unquiet and intolerant scorn,
  The hollow Puppets of a hollow Age,                                 10
  Ever idolatrous, and changing ever
  Its worthless Idols! Learning, Power, and Time,
  (Too much of all) thus wasting in vain war
  Of fervid colloquy. Sickness, 'tis true,
  Whole years of weary days, besieged him close,                      15
  Even to the gates and inlets of his life!
  But it is true, no less, that strenuous, firm,
  And with a natural gladness, he maintained
  The citadel unconquered, and in joy
  Was strong to follow the delightful Muse.                           20
  For not a hidden path, that to the shades
  Of the beloved Parnassian forest leads,
  Lurked undiscovered by him; not a rill
  There issues from the fount of Hippocrene,
  But he had traced it upward to its source,                          25
  Through open glade, dark glen, and secret dell,
  Knew the gay wild flowers on its banks, and culled
  Its med'cinable herbs. Yea, oft alone,
  Piercing the long-neglected holy cave,
  The haunt obscure of old Philosophy,                                30
  He bade with lifted torch its starry walls
  Sparkle, as erst they sparkled to the flame
  Of odorous lamps tended by Saint and Sage.
  O framed for calmer times and nobler hearts!
  O studious Poet, eloquent for truth!                                35
  Philosopher! contemning wealth and death,
  Yet docile, childlike, full of Life and Love!
  Here, rather than on monumental stone,
  This record of thy worth thy Friend inscribes,
  Thoughtful, with quiet tears upon his cheek.                        40

? 1809.


FOOTNOTES:

[413:1] First published in _The Friend_, No. XIV, November 23, 1809.
There is no title or heading to the poem, which occupies the first page
of the number, but a footnote is appended:--'Imitated, though in the
movements rather than the thoughts, from the vii{th}, of _Gli Epitafi_
of Chiabrera:

  Fu ver, che Ambrosio Salinero a torto
  Si pose in pena d'odiose liti,' &c.

Included in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, 1828, 1829, 1834. Sir Satyrane, 'A
Satyres son yborne in forrest wylde' (Spenser's _Faery Queene_, Bk. I,
C. vi, l. 21) rescues Una from the violence of Sarazin. Coleridge may
have regarded Satyrane as the anonymn of Luther. Idoloclast, as he
explains in the preface to 'Satyrane's Letters', is a 'breaker of
idols'.


LINENOTES:

[10] a] an Friend, 1809, S. L. 1828, 1829.

[16] inlets] outlets Friend, 1809.

[37] Life] light The Friend, 1809.




FOR A MARKET-CLOCK[414:1]

(IMPROMPTU)


  What now, O Man! thou dost or mean'st to do
  Will help to give thee peace, or make thee rue,
  When hovering o'er the Dot this hand shall tell
  The moment that secures thee Heaven or Hell!

1809.


FOOTNOTES:

[414:1] Sent in a letter to T. Poole, October 9, 1809, and transferred
to one of Coleridge's Notebooks with the heading 'Inscription proposed
on a Clock in a market place': included in 'Omniana' of 1809-16
(_Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 347) with the erroneous title 'Inscription
on a Clock in Cheapside'. First collected in 1893.

  What now thou do'st, or art about to do,
  Will help to give thee peace, or make thee rue;
  When hov'ring o'er the line this hand will tell
  The last dread moment--'twill be heaven or hell.

Read for the last two lines:--

  When wav'ring o'er the dot this hand shall tell
  The moment that secures thee Heaven or Hell.
                                             _MS. Lit. Rem._




THE MADMAN AND THE LETHARGIST[414:2]

AN EXAMPLE


  Quoth Dick to me, as once at College
  We argued on the use of knowledge;--
  'In old King Olim's reign, I've read,
  There lay two patients in one bed.
  The one in fat lethargic trance,                                     5
  Lay wan and motionless as lead:
  The other, (like the Folks in France),
  Possess'd a different disposition--
  In short, the plain truth to confess,
  The man was madder than Mad Bess!                                   10
  But both diseases, none disputed,
  Were unmedicinably rooted;
  Yet, so it chanc'd, by Heaven's permission,
  Each prov'd the other's true physician.

  'Fighting with a ghostly stare                                      15
  Troops of Despots in the air,
  Obstreperously Jacobinical,
  The madman froth'd, and foam'd, and roar'd:
  The other, snoring octaves cynical,
  Like good John Bull, in posture clinical,                           20
  Seem'd living only when he snor'd.
  The _Citizen_ enraged to see
  This fat Insensibility,
  Or, tir'd with solitary labour,
  Determin'd to convert his neighbour;                                25
  So up he sprang and to 't he fell,
  Like devil piping hot from hell,
  With indefatigable fist
  Belabr'ing the poor Lethargist;
  Till his own limbs were stiff and sore,                             30
  And sweat-drops roll'd from every pore:--
  Yet, still, with flying fingers fleet,
  Duly accompanied by feet,
  With some short intervals of biting,
  He executes the self-same strain,                                   35
  Till the Slumberer woke for pain,
  And half-prepared himself for fighting--
  That moment that his mad Colleague
  Sunk down and slept thro' pure fatigue.
  So both were cur'd--and this example                                40
  Gives demonstration full and ample--
  That _Chance_ may bring a thing to bear,
  Where _Art_ sits down in blank despair.'

  'That's true enough, Dick,' answer'd I,
  'But as for the _Example_, 'tis a lie.'                             45

? 1809


FOOTNOTES:

[414:2] Now published for the first time from one of Coleridge's
Notebooks. The use of the party catchword 'Citizen' and the allusion to
'Folks in France' would suggest 1796-7 as a probable date, but the point
or interpretation of the 'Example' was certainly in Coleridge's mind
when he put together the first number of _The Friend_, published June 1,
1809:--'Though all men are in error, they are not all in the same error,
nor at the same time . . . each therefore may possibly heal the other
. . . even as two or more physicians, all diseased in their general
health, yet under the immediate action of the disease on different days,
may remove or alleviate the complaints of each other.'




THE VISIONARY HOPE[416:1]


  Sad lot, to have no Hope! Though lowly kneeling
  He fain would frame a prayer within his breast,
  Would fain entreat for some sweet breath of healing,
  That his sick body might have ease and rest;
  He strove in vain! the dull sighs from his chest                     5
  Against his will the stifling load revealing,
  Though Nature forced; though like some captive guest,
  Some royal prisoner at his conqueror's feast,
  An alien's restless mood but half concealing,
  The sternness on his gentle brow confessed,                         10
  Sickness within and miserable feeling:
  Though obscure pangs made curses of his dreams,
  And dreaded sleep, each night repelled in vain,
  Each night was scattered by its own loud screams:
  Yet never could his heart command, though fain,                     15
  One deep full wish to be no more in pain.

    That Hope, which was his inward bliss and boast,
  Which waned and died, yet ever near him stood,
  Though changed in nature, wander where he would--
  For Love's Despair is but Hope's pining Ghost!                      20
  For this one hope he makes his hourly moan,
  He wishes and can wish for this alone!
  Pierced, as with light from Heaven, before its gleams
  (So the love-stricken visionary deems)
  Disease would vanish, like a summer shower,                         25
  Whose dews fling sunshine from the noon-tide bower!
  Or let it stay! yet this one Hope should give
  Such strength that he would bless his pains and live.

? 1810.


FOOTNOTES:

[416:1] First published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: included in 1828,
1829, and 1834.


LINENOTES:

[22] can] _can_ S. L. 1828, 1829.




EPITAPH ON AN INFANT[417:1]


  Its balmy lips the infant blest
  Relaxing from its Mother's breast,
  How sweet it heaves the happy sigh
  Of innocent satiety!

  And such my Infant's latest sigh!                                    5
  Oh tell, rude stone! the passer by,
  That here the pretty babe doth lie,
  Death sang to sleep with Lullaby.

1811.


FOOTNOTES:

[417:1] First published, with the signature 'Aphilos,' in the _Courier_,
Wednesday, March 20, 1811: included in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, and in
1828, 1829, and 1834.


LINENOTES:

[1] balmy] milky Courier, 1811.

[5] Infant's] darling's Courier, 1811.

[6] Tell simple stone Courier, 1811.

[7] the] a Courier, 1811.




THE VIRGIN'S CRADLE-HYMN[417:2]

COPIED FROM A PRINT OF THE VIRGIN IN A ROMAN CATHOLIC VILLAGE IN GERMANY


  Dormi, Jesu! Mater ridet
  Quae tam dulcem somnum videt,
    Dormi, Jesu! blandule!
  Si non dormis, Mater plorat,
  Inter fila cantans orat,                                             5
   Blande, veni, somnule.


  ENGLISH[417:3]

  Sleep, sweet babe! my cares beguiling:
  Mother sits beside thee smiling;
    Sleep, my darling, tenderly!
  If thou sleep not, mother mourneth,                                 10
  Singing as her wheel she turneth:
    Come, soft slumber, balmily!

1811.


FOOTNOTES:

[417:2] First published as from 'A Correspondent in Germany' in the
_Morning Post_, December 26, 1801.

[417:3] First published with the Latin in the _Courier_, August 30,
1811, with the following introduction:--'About thirteen years ago or
more, travelling through the middle parts of Germany I saw a little
print of the Virgin and Child in the small public house of a Catholic
Village, with the following beautiful Latin lines under it, which I
transcribed. They may be easily adapted to the air of the famous
Sicilian Hymn, _Adeste fideles, laeti triumphantes_, by the omission of
a few notes.' First collected in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: included in
1828, 1829, and 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title--In a Roman Catholic] In a Catholic S. L., 1828, 1829.




TO A LADY[418:1]

OFFENDED BY A SPORTIVE OBSERVATION THAT WOMEN HAVE NO SOULS


  Nay, dearest Anna! why so grave?
    I said, you had no soul, 'tis true!
  For what you are, you cannot have:
    'Tis I, that have one since I first had you!

? 1811.


FOOTNOTES:

[418:1] First published in _Omniana_ (1812), i. 238; 'as a playful
illustration of the distinction between _To_ have _and to_ be.' First
collected in 1828: included in 1829 and 1834.


LINENOTES:

_To a Lady, &c._--In line 3 'are', 'have', and in line 4 'have', 'you',
are italicized in all editions except 1834.




REASON FOR LOVE'S BLINDNESS[418:2]


  I have heard of reasons manifold
    Why Love must needs be blind,
  But this the best of all I hold--
    His eyes are in his mind.

  What outward form and feature are                                    5
    He guesseth but in part;
  But that within is good and fair
    He seeth with the heart.

? 1811.


FOOTNOTES:

[418:2] First published in 1828: included in 1829 and 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] In 1828, 1829, 1834 these stanzas are printed without a title,
but are divided by a space from _Lines to a Lady_. The title appears
first in 1893.




THE SUICIDE'S ARGUMENT[419:1]


  Ere the birth of my life, if I wished it or no,
  No question was asked me--it could not be so!
  If the life was the question, a thing sent to try,
  And to live on be Yes; what can No be? to die.


  NATURE'S ANSWER

  Is't returned, as 'twas sent? Is't no worse for the wear?            5
  Think first, what you are! Call to mind what you were!
  I gave you innocence, I gave you hope,
  Gave health, and genius, and an ample scope.
  Return you me guilt, lethargy, despair?
  Make out the invent'ry; inspect, compare!                           10
  Then die--if die you dare!

1811.


FOOTNOTES:

[419:1] First published in 1828: included in 1829 and 1884. In a
Notebook of (?) 1811 these lines are preceded by the following
couplet:--

  Complained of, complaining, there shov'd and here shoving,
  Every one blaming me, ne'er a one loving.


LINENOTES:

[4] Yes] YES 1828, 1829.

[6] are] ARE 1828, 1829. were] WERE 1828, 1829.




TIME, REAL AND IMAGINARY[419:2]

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 out-spread,
  Two lovely children run an endless race,
        A sister and a brother!
        This far outstripp'd 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,                     10
  And knows not whether he be first or last.

? 1812.


FOOTNOTES:

[419:2] First published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817, in the preliminary
matter, p. v: included in 1828, 1829, and 1834. In the 'Preface' to
_Sibylline Leaves_, p. iii, an apology is offered for its insertion on
the plea that it was a 'school boy poem' added 'at the request of the
friends of my youth'. The title is explained as follows:--'By imaginary
Time, I meant the state of a school boy's mind when on his return to
school he projects his being in his day dreams, and lives in his next
holidays, six months hence; and this I contrasted with real Time.' In a
Notebook of (?) 1811 there is an attempt to analyse and illustrate the
'sense of Time', which appears to have been written before the lines as
published in _Sibylline Leaves_ took shape: 'How marked the contrast
between troubled manhood and joyously-active youth in the sense of time!
To the former, time like the sun in an empty sky is never seen to move,
but only to have _moved_. There, there it was, and now 'tis here, now
distant! yet all a blank between. To the latter it is as the full moon
in a fine breezy October night, driving on amid clouds of all shapes and
hues, and kindling shifting colours, like an ostrich in its speed, and
yet seems not to have moved at all. This I feel to be a just image of
time real and time as felt, in two different states of being. The title
of the poem therefore (for poem it ought to be) should be time real and
time felt (in the sense of time) in active youth, or activity with hope
and fullness of aim in any period, and in despondent, objectless
manhood--time objective and subjective.' _Anima Poetae_, 1895, pp.
241-2.




AN INVOCATION[420:1]

FROM _REMORSE_

[Act III, Scene i. ll. 69-82.]


  Hear, sweet Spirit, hear the spell,
  Lest a blacker charm compel!
  So shall the midnight breezes swell
  With thy deep long-lingering knell.

  And at evening evermore,                                             5
  In a chapel on the shore,
  Shall the chaunter, sad and saintly,
  Yellow tapers burning faintly,
  Doleful masses chaunt for thee,
      Miserere Domine!                                                10

  Hush! the cadence dies away
    On the quiet moonlight sea:
  The boatmen rest their oars and say,
        Miserere Domine!

1812.


FOOTNOTES:

[420:1] First published in _Remorse_, 1813. First collected, 1844.


LINENOTES:

_An Invocation_--7 chaunter] chaunters 1813, 1828, 1839, 1893.

[12] quiet] yellow 1813, 1828, 1829.




THE NIGHT-SCENE[421:1]

A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT


  _Sandoval._ You loved the daughter of Don Manrique?

  _Earl Henry._                                       Loved?

  _Sand._ Did you not say you wooed her?

  _Earl H._                              Once I loved
  Her whom I dared not woo!

  _Sand._                   And wooed, perchance,
  One whom you loved not!

  _Earl H._               Oh! I were most base,
  Not loving Oropeza. True, I wooed her,                               5
  Hoping to heal a deeper wound; but she
  Met my advances with impassioned pride,
  That kindled love with love. And when her sire,
  Who in his dream of hope already grasped
  The golden circlet in his hand, rejected                            10
  My suit with insult, and in memory
  Of ancient feuds poured curses on my head,
  Her blessings overtook and baffled them!
  But thou art stern, and with unkindly countenance
  Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me.                     15

  _Sand._ Anxiously, Henry! reasoning anxiously.
  But Oropeza--

  _Earl H._     Blessings gather round her!
  Within this wood there winds a secret passage,
  Beneath the walls, which opens out at length
  Into the gloomiest covert of the garden.--                          20
  The night ere my departure to the army,
  She, nothing trembling, led me through that gloom,
  And to that covert by a silent stream,
  Which, with one star reflected near its marge,
  Was the sole object visible around me.                              25
  No leaflet stirred; the air was almost sultry;
  So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us!
  No leaflet stirred;--yet pleasure hung upon
  The gloom and stillness of the balmy night-air.
  A little further on an arbour stood,                                30
  Fragrant with flowering trees--I well remember
  What an uncertain glimmer in the darkness
  Their snow-white blossoms made--thither she led me,
  To that sweet bower! Then Oropeza trembled--
  I heard her heart beat--if 'twere not my own.                       35

  _Sand._ A rude and soaring note, my friend!

  _Earl H._                                   Oh! no!
  I have small memory of aught but pleasure.
  The inquietudes of fear, like lesser streams
  Still flowing, still were lost in those of love:
  So love grew mightier from the fear, and Nature,                    40
  Fleeing from Pain, sheltered herself in Joy.
  The stars above our heads were dim and steady,
  Like eyes suffused with rapture. Life was in us:
  We were all life, each atom of our frames
  A living soul--I vowed to die for her:                              45
  With the faint voice of one who, having spoken,
  Relapses into blessedness, I vowed it:
  That solemn vow, a whisper scarcely heard,
  A murmur breathed against a lady's ear.
  Oh! there is joy above the name of pleasure.                        50
  Deep self-possession, an intense repose.

  _Sand. (with a sarcastic smile)._ No other than as eastern sages
      paint,
  The God, who floats upon a Lotos leaf,
  Dreams for a thousand ages; then awaking,
  Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble,                         55
  Relapses into bliss.

  _Earl H._            Ah! was that bliss
  Feared as an alien, and too vast for man?
  For suddenly, impatient of its silence,
  Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead.
  I caught her arms; the veins were swelling on them.                 60
  Through the dark bower she sent a hollow voice;--
  'Oh! what if all betray me? what if thou?'
  I swore, and with an inward thought that seemed
  The purpose and the substance of my being,
  I swore to her, that were she red with guilt,                       65
  I would exchange my unblenched state with hers.--
  Friend! by that winding passage, to that bower
  I now will go--all objects there will teach me
  Unwavering love, and singleness of heart.
  Go, Sandoval! I am prepared to meet her--                           70
  Say nothing of me--I myself will seek her--
  Nay, leave me, friend! I cannot bear the torment
  And keen inquiry of that scanning eye.--

                             [_Earl Henry retires into the wood._

  _Sand. (alone)._ O Henry! always striv'st thou to be great
  By thine own act--yet art thou never great                          75
  But by the inspiration of great passion.
  The whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up
  And shape themselves; from Earth to Heaven they stand,
  As though they were the pillars of a temple,
  Built by Omnipotence in its own honour!                             80
  But the blast pauses, and their shaping spirit
  Is fled: the mighty columns were but sand,
  And lazy snakes trail o'er the level ruins!

1813.


FOOTNOTES:

[421:1] First published in its present state in _Sibylline Leaves_,
1817: included in 1828, 1829, and 1834. For an earlier draft, forming
part of an 'Historic Drama in Five Acts' (unfinished) entitled _The
Triumph of Loyalty_, 1801, vide Appendices of this edition. A prose
sketch without title or heading is contained in one of Coleridge's
earliest notebooks.


LINENOTES:

[14] unkindly] unkindling 1893.

[23] And to the covert by that silent stream S. L., corrected in
_Errata_, p. [xi].

[24] near] o'er S. L., corrected in _Errata_, p. [xi].




A HYMN[423:1]


  My Maker! of thy power the trace
  In every creature's form and face
    The wond'ring soul surveys:
  Thy wisdom, infinite above
  Seraphic thought, a Father's love                                    5
    As infinite displays!

  From all that meets or eye or ear,
  There falls a genial holy fear
  Which, like the heavy dew of morn,
  Refreshes while it bows the heart forlorn!                          10

  Great God! thy works how wondrous fair!
  Yet sinful man didst thou declare
    The whole Earth's voice and mind!
  Lord, ev'n as Thou all-present art,
  O may we still with heedful heart                                   15
    Thy presence know and find!
  Then, come what will, of weal or woe,
  Joy's bosom-spring shall steady flow;
  For though 'tis Heaven THYSELF to see,
  Where but thy _Shadow_ falls, Grief cannot be!--                    20

1814.


FOOTNOTES:

[423:1] First published in _Poems_, 1852. The MS. was placed in the
hands of the Editors by J. W. Wilkins, Esq., of Trinity Hall, Cambridge.
'The accompanying autograph,' writes Mr. Wilkins, 'dated 1814, and
addressed to Mrs. Hood of Brunswick Square, was given not later than the
year 1817 to a relative of my own who was then residing at Clifton (and
was, at the time at which it passed into his hands, an attendant on Mr.
Coleridge's lectures, which were in course of delivery at that place),
either by the lady to whom it is addressed, or by some other friend of
Mr. Coleridge.' 1852, Notes, p. 385.




TO A LADY[424:1]

WITH FALCONER'S _SHIPWRECK_


  Ah! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams,
    In archéd groves, the youthful poet's choice;
  Nor while half-listening, 'mid delicious dreams,
    To harp and song from lady's hand and voice;

  Not yet while gazing in sublimer mood                                5
    On cliff, or cataract, in Alpine dell;
  Nor in dim cave with bladdery sea-weed strewed.
    Framing wild fancies to the ocean's swell;

  Our sea-bard sang this song! which still he sings,
    And sings for thee, sweet friend! Hark, Pity, hark!
  Now mounts, now totters on the tempest's wings,                     11
    Now groans, and shivers, the replunging bark!

  'Cling to the shrouds!' In vain! The breakers roar--
    Death shrieks! With two alone of all his clan
  Forlorn the poet paced the Grecian shore,                           15
    No classic roamer, but a shipwrecked man!

  Say then, what muse inspired these genial strains,
    And lit his spirit to so bright a flame?
  The elevating thought of suffered pains,
    Which gentle hearts shall mourn; but chief, the name              20

  Of gratitude! remembrances of friend,
    Or absent or no more! shades of the Past,
  Which Love makes substance! Hence to thee I send,
    O dear as long as life and memory last!

  I send with deep regards of heart and head,                         25
    Sweet maid, for friendship formed! this work to thee:
  And thou, the while thou canst not choose but shed
    A tear for Falconer, wilt remember me.

? 1814.


FOOTNOTES:

[424:1] First published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: included in 1828,
1829, and 1834. A different or emended version headed 'Written in a
Blank Leaf of Faulkner's Shipwreck, presented by a friend to Miss K',
was published in _Felix Farley's Bristol Journal_ of February 21, 1818.
[See Note by G. E. Weare, Weston-super-Mare, January, 1905.]


LINENOTES:

Title] To a Lady With Falkner's 'Shipwreck' S. L.

[2] archéd] cloyst'ring F. F.

[3] 'mid] midst F. F.

[4] lady's] woman's F. F.

[5] sublimer] diviner F. F.

[6] On torrent falls, on woody mountain dell F. F.

[7] sea-weed] sea-weeds F. F.

[8] Attuning wild tales to the ocean's swell F. F.

[9] this] _this_ F. F.

[10] thee] _thee_ F. F.

[11] It mounts, it totters F. F.

[12] It groans, it quivers F. F.

[14] of] and F. F.

[15] Forlorn the] The toil-worn F. F.

[17-20]

  Say then what power evoked such genial strains
    And beckon'd godlike to the trembling Muse?
  The thought not pleasureless of suffer'd pains
    But _chiefly_ friendship's voice, her holy dues.

F. F.

[21] Demanding dear remembrances of friend F. F.

[22] Which love makes real! Thence F. F.

[24] life] love F. F.

[26] Sweet Maid for friendship framed this song to thee F. F.

[28] Falconer] FALKNER S. L.: Faulkner F. F. me] ME S. L., 1828, 1829.




HUMAN LIFE[425:1]

--ON THE DENIAL OF IMMORTALITY


  If dead, we cease to be; if total gloom
    Swallow up life's brief flash for aye, we fare
  As summer-gusts, of sudden birth and doom,
    Whose sound and motion not alone declare,
  But are their whole of being! If the breath[425:2]                   5
    Be Life itself, and not its task and tent,
  If even a soul like Milton's can know death;
    O Man! thou vessel purposeless, unmeant,
  Yet drone-hive strange of phantom purposes!
    Surplus of Nature's dread activity,                               10
  Which, as she gazed on some nigh-finished vase,
  Retreating slow, with meditative pause,
    She formed with restless hands unconsciously.
  Blank accident! nothing's anomaly!
    If rootless thus, thus substanceless thy state,                   15
  Go, weigh thy dreams, and be thy hopes, thy fears,
  The counter-weights!--Thy laughter and thy tears
    Mean but themselves, each fittest to create
  And to repay the other! Why rejoices
    Thy heart with hollow joy for hollow good?                        20
    Why cowl thy face beneath the mourner's hood?
  Why waste thy sighs, and thy lamenting voices,
    Image of Image, Ghost of Ghostly Elf,
  That such a thing as thou feel'st warm or cold?
  Yet what and whence thy gain, if thou withhold                      25
    These costless shadows of thy shadowy self?
  Be sad! be glad! be neither! seek, or shun!
  Thou hast no reason why! Thou canst have none;
  Thy being's being is contradiction.

? 1815.


FOOTNOTES:

[425:1] First published in _Sibylline Leaves_, 1817: included in 1828,
1829, and 1834.

[425:2] Halitus = anima animae tabernaculum _MS. Note_ (? _S. T. C._)


LINENOTES:

[5] are] _are_ S. L., 1828, 1829. whole] _whole_ S. L., 1828, 1829.

[19] the] each 1887-80, 1893.




SONG[426:1]

FROM _ZAPOLYA_


  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 sank, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled                            5
    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.                                    10
  The blossoms they make no delay:
  The sparkling dew-drops will not stay.
    Sweet month of May,
      We must away;
        Far, far away!                                                15
          To-day! to-day!'

1815.


FOOTNOTES:

[426:1] First published in _Zapolya_, 1817 (Act II, Scene i, ll. 65-80).
First collected in 1844. Two MSS. are extant, one in the possession of
Mr. John Murray (_MS. M._), and a second in the possession of the Editor
(_MS. S. T. C._). For a prose version of Glycine's Song, probably a
translation from the German, vide Appendices of this edition.


LINENOTES:

Title] Sung by Glycine in _Zapolya_ 1893: Glycine's Song MS. M.

[1] A pillar grey did I behold MS. S. T. C.

[4] A faery Bird that chanted MS. S. T. C.

[6] sunny] shiny MS. S. T. C.

[11, 12] om. MS S. T. C., MS. M.




HUNTING SONG[427:1]

FROM _ZAPOLYA_


  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:                                     5
        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:                                       10
  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                                            15
      To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

1815.


FOOTNOTES:

[427:1] First published in _Zapolya_ (Act IV, Scene ii, ll. 56-71).
First collected, 1844.


LINENOTES:

Title] Choral Song 1893.




FAITH, HOPE, AND CHARITY[427:2]

FROM THE ITALIAN OF GUARINI


  FAITH

  Let those whose low delights to Earth are given
      Chaunt forth their earthly Loves! but we
      Must make an holier minstrelsy,
  And, heavenly-born, will sing the Things of Heaven.


  CHARITY

  But who for us the listening Heart shall gain?                       5
      Inaudible as of the sphere
      Our music dies upon the ear,
  Enchanted with the mortal Syren's strain.


  HOPE

  Yet let our choral songs abound!
      Th' inspiring Power, its living Source,                         10
      May flow with them and give them force,
  If, elsewhere all unheard, in Heaven they sound.


  ALL

  Aid thou our voice, Great Spirit! thou whose flame
      Kindled the Songster sweet of Israel,
      Who made so high to swell                                       15
  Beyond a mortal strain thy glorious Name.


  CHARITY AND FAITH

  Though rapt to Heaven, our mission and our care
      Is still to sojourn on the Earth,
      To shape, to soothe, Man's second Birth,
  And re-ascend to Heaven, Heaven's prodigal Heir!                    20


  CHARITY

  What is Man's soul of Love deprived?


  HOPE.  FAITH

      It like a Harp untunéd is,
      That sounds, indeed, but sounds amiss.


  CHARITY.  HOPE

  From holy Love all good gifts are derived.


  FAITH

      But 'tis time that every nation                                 25
      Should hear how loftily we sing.


  FAITH.  HOPE.  CHARITY

        See, O World, see thy salvation!
        Let the Heavens with praises ring.
        Who would have a Throne above,
        Let him hope, believe and love;                               30
        And whoso loves no earthly song,
        But does for heavenly music long,
        Faith, Hope, and Charity for him,
        Shall sing like wingéd Cherubim.

1815.


FOOTNOTES:

[427:2] From a hitherto unpublished MS. For the original _Dialogo: Fide,
Speranza, Fide_, included in the 'Madrigali . . .' del Signor Cavalier
Battista Guarini, 1663, vide Appendices of this edition. The translation
in Coleridge's handwriting is preceded by another version transcribed
and, possibly, composed by Hartley Coleridge.




TO NATURE[429:1]


  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.                                   5
    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,                        10
  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.

? 1820.


FOOTNOTES:

[429:1] First published in _Letters, Conversations and Recollections_ by
S. T. Coleridge, 1836, i. 144. First collected in _Poems_, 1863,
Appendix, p. 391.




LIMBO[429:2]


         *       *       *       *       *

  The sole true Something--This! In Limbo's Den
  It frightens Ghosts, as here Ghosts frighten men.
  Thence cross'd unseiz'd--and shall some fated hour
  Be pulveris'd by Demogorgon's power,
  And given as poison to annihilate souls--                            5
  Even now it shrinks them--they shrink in as Moles
  (Nature's mute monks, live mandrakes of the ground)
  Creep back from Light--then listen for its sound;--
  See but to dread, and dread they know not why--
  The natural alien of their negative eye.                            10

  'Tis a strange place, this Limbo!--not a Place,
  Yet name it so;--where Time and weary Space
  Fettered from flight, with night-mare sense of fleeing,
  Strive for their last crepuscular half-being;--
  Lank Space, and scytheless Time with branny hands                   15
  Barren and soundless as the measuring sands,
  Not mark'd by flit of Shades,--unmeaning they
  As moonlight on the dial of the day!
  But that is lovely--looks like Human Time,--
  An Old Man with a steady look sublime,                              20
  That stops his earthly task to watch the skies;
  But he is blind--a Statue hath such eyes;--
  Yet having moonward turn'd his face by chance,
  Gazes the orb with moon-like countenance,
  With scant white hairs, with foretop bald and high,                 25
  He gazes still,--his eyeless face all eye;--
  As 'twere an organ full of silent sight,
  His whole face seemeth to rejoice in light!
  Lip touching lip, all moveless, bust and limb--
  He seems to gaze at that which seems to gaze on him!                30
    No such sweet sights doth Limbo den immure,
  Wall'd round, and made a spirit-jail secure,
  By the mere horror of blank Naught-at-all,
  Whose circumambience doth these ghosts enthral.
  A lurid thought is growthless, dull Privation,                      35
  Yet that is but a Purgatory curse;
  Hell knows a fear far worse,
  A fear--a future state;--'tis positive Negation!

1817.


FOOTNOTES:

[429:2] First published, in its present shape, from an original MS. in
1893 (inscribed in a notebook). Lines 6-10 ('they shrink . . . negative
eye') were first printed in _The Friend_ (1818, iii. 215), and included
as a separate fragment with the title 'Moles' in _P. W._, 1834, i. 259.
Lines 11-38 were first printed with the title 'Limbo' in _P. W._, 1834,
i. 272-3. The lines as quoted in _The Friend_ were directed against 'the
partisans of a crass and sensual materialism, the advocates of the
_Nihil nisi ab extra_'. The following variants, now first printed, are
from a second MS. (_MS. S. T. C._) in the possession of Miss Edith
Coleridge. In the notebook _Limbo_ is followed by the lines entitled _Ne
Plus Ultra_, vide _post_, p. 431.


LINENOTES:

Title] Another Fragment, but in a very different style, from a Dream of
Purgatory, alias Limbus MS. S. T. C. [_Note._--In this MS. _Phantom_,
'All Look and Likeness,' &c. precedes _Limbo_.]

[Between 2-3]

  For skimming in the wake it mock'd the care
  Of the old Boat-God for his farthing fare;
  Tho' Irus' Ghost itself he ne'er frown'd blacker on
  The skin and skin-pent Druggist cross'd the Acheron,
  Styx, and with Periphlegeton Cocytus,--
  (The very names, methinks, might frighten us)
  Unchang'd it cross'd--_and shall some fated hour_

MS. Notebook.

[Coleridge marks these lines as 'a specimen of the Sublime dashed to
pieces by cutting too close with the fiery Four-in-Hand round the corner
of Nonsense.']

[6] They, like moles Friend, 1818.

[8] Shrink from the light, then listen for a sound Friend, 1818.

[12] so] such MS. S. T. C.

[16] the] his MS. S. T. C.

[17] Mark'd but by Flit MS. S. T. C.

[30] at] on MS. S. T. C.

[31 foll.]

  In one sole Outlet yawns the Phantom Wall,
  And through this grim road to [a] worser thrall
  Oft homeward scouring from a sick Child's dream
  Old Mother Brownrigg shoots upon a scream;
  And turning back her Face with hideous Leer,
  Leaves Sentry there _Intolerable Fear_!
      A horrid thought is growthless dull Negation:
      Yet that is but a Purgatory Curse,
          SHE knows a fear far worse
      Flee, lest thou hear its Name! Flee, rash Imagination!

         *       *       *       *       *

                                 _S. T. Coleridge,
                   1st Oct. 1827, Grove, Highgate._




_NE PLUS ULTRA_[431:1]


          Sole Positive of Night!
          Antipathist of Light!
  Fate's only essence! primal scorpion rod--
  The one permitted opposite of God!--
  Condenséd blackness and abysmal storm                                5
        Compacted to one sceptre
          Arms the Grasp enorm--
            The Intercepter--
  The Substance that still casts the shadow Death!--
        The Dragon foul and fell--                                    10
          The unrevealable,
  And hidden one, whose breath
  Gives wind and fuel to the fires of Hell!
        Ah! sole despair
      Of both th' eternities in Heaven!                               15
  Sole interdict of all-bedewing prayer,
        The all-compassionate!
      Save to the Lampads Seven
  Reveal'd to none of all th' Angelic State,
      Save to the Lampads Seven,                                      20
      That watch the throne of Heaven!

? 1826.


FOOTNOTES:

[431:1] First published in 1834. The MS., which is inscribed in a
notebook, is immediately preceded by that of the first draft of _Limbo_
(_ante_, p. 429). The so-called 'Ne Plus Ultra' may have been intended
to illustrate a similar paradox--the 'positivity of negation'. No date
can be assigned to either of these metaphysical conceits, but there can
be little doubt that they were 'written in later life'.




THE KNIGHT'S TOMB[432:1]


  Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn?
  Where may the grave of that good man be?--
  By the side of a spring, on the breast of Helvellyn,
  Under the twigs of a young birch tree!
  The oak that in summer was sweet to hear,                            5
  And rustled its leaves in the fall of the year,
  And whistled and roared in the winter alone,
  Is gone,--and the birch in its stead is grown.--
  The Knight's bones are dust,
  And his good sword rust;--                                          10
  His soul is with the saints, I trust.

? 1817.


FOOTNOTES:

[432:1] First published in _P. W._, 1834. Gillman (_Life_, p. 276) says
that the lines were composed 'as an experiment for a metre', and
repeated by the author to 'a mutual friend', who 'spoke of his visit to
Highgate' and repeated them to Scott on the following day. The last
three lines, 'somewhat altered', are quoted in _Ivanhoe_, chapter viii,
and again in _Castle Dangerous_, chapter ix. They run thus:--

  The knights are dust,
  And their good swords are rust;--
  Their souls are with the saints, we trust.

Gillman says that the _Ivanhoe_ quotation convinced Coleridge that Scott
was the author of the Waverley Novels. In the Appendix to the 'Notes' to
_Castle Dangerous_ (1834), which was edited and partly drawn up by
Lockhart, the poem is quoted in full, with a prefatory note ('The author
has somewhat altered part of a beautiful unpublished fragment of
Coleridge').

    Where is the grave of Sir Arthur Orellan,--
  Where may the grave of that good knight be?
    By the marge of a brook, on the <DW72> of Helvellyn,
  Under the boughs of a young birch-tree.
  The Oak that in summer was pleasant to hear,
  That rustled in autumn all wither'd and sear,
  That whistled and groan'd thro' the winter alone,
  He hath gone, and a birch in his place is grown.
    The knight's bones are dust,
    His good sword is rust;
  His spirit is with the saints, we trust.

This version must have been transcribed from a MS. in Lockhart's
possession, and represents a first draft of the lines as published in
1834. These lines are, no doubt, an 'experiment for a metre'. The upward
movement (ll. 1-7) is dactylic: the fall (ll. 8-11) is almost, if not
altogether, spondaic. The whole forms a complete stanza, or metrical
scheme, which may be compared with ll. 264-78 of the First Part of
_Christabel_. Mrs. H. N. Coleridge, who must have been familiar with
Gillman's story, dates the _Knight's Tomb_ 1802.




ON DONNE'S POETRY[433:1]


  With Donne, whose muse on dromedary trots,
  Wreathe iron pokers into true-love knots;
  Rhyme's sturdy <DW36>, fancy's maze and clue,
  Wit's forge and fire-blast, meaning's press and screw.

? 1818


FOOTNOTES:

[433:1] First published in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 148, from 'notes
written by Mr. Coleridge in a volume of "Chalmers's Poets"'. Line 2
finds a place in Hartley Coleridge's couplets on Donne which are written
on the fly-leaves and covers of his copy of Anderson's _British Poets_.
In the original MS. it is enclosed in quotation marks. First collected
in _P. W._, 1885, ii. 409.




ISRAEL'S LAMENT[433:2]

'A Hebrew Dirge, chaunted in the Great Synagogue, St. James's Place,
Aldgate, on the day of the Funeral of her Royal Highness the Princess
Charlotte. By Hyman Hurwitz, Master of the Hebrew Academy, Highgate:
with a Translation in English Verse, by S. T. Coleridge, Esq., 1817.'


  Mourn, Israel! Sons of Israel, mourn!
    Give utterance to the inward throe!
  As wails, of her first love forlorn,
    The Virgin clad in robes of woe.

  Mourn the young Mother, snatch'd away                                5
    From Light and Life's ascending Sun!
  Mourn for the Babe, Death's voiceless prey,
    Earn'd by long pangs and lost ere won.

  Mourn the bright Rose that bloom'd and went,
    Ere half disclosed its vernal hue!                                10
  Mourn the green Bud, so rudely rent,
    It brake the stem on which it grew.

  Mourn for the universal woe
    With solemn dirge and fault'ring tongue:
  For England's Lady is laid low,                                     15
    So dear, so lovely, and so young!

  The blossoms on her Tree of Life
    Shone with the dews of recent bliss:
  Transplanted in that deadly strife,
    She plucks its fruits in Paradise.                                20

  Mourn for the widow'd Lord in chief,
    Who wails and will not solaced be!
  Mourn for the childless Father's grief,
    The wedded Lover's agony!

  Mourn for the Prince, who rose at morn                              25
    To seek and bless the firstling bud
  Of his own Rose, and found the thorn,
    Its point bedew'd with tears of blood.

  O press again that murmuring string!
    Again bewail that princely Sire!                                  30
  A destined Queen, a future King,
    He mourns on one funereal pyre.

  Mourn for Britannia's hopes decay'd,
    Her daughters wail their dear defence;
  Their fair example, prostrate laid,                                 35
    Chaste Love and fervid Innocence.

  While Grief in song shall seek repose,
    We will take up a Mourning yearly:
  To wail the blow that crush'd the Rose,
    So dearly priz'd and lov'd so dearly.                             40

  Long as the fount of Song o'erflows
    Will I the yearly dirge renew:
  Mourn for the firstling of the Rose,
    That snapt the stem on which it grew.

  The proud shall pass, forgot; the chill,                            45
    Damp, trickling Vault their only mourner!
  Not so the regal Rose, that still
    Clung to the breast which first had worn her!

  O thou, who mark'st the Mourner's path
    To sad Jeshurun's Sons attend!                                    50
  Amid the Light'nings of thy Wrath
    The showers of Consolation send!

  Jehovah frowns! the Islands bow!
    And Prince and People kiss the Rod!--
  Their dread chastising Judge wert thou!                             55
    Be thou their Comforter, O God!

1817.


FOOTNOTES:

[433:2] First published, together with the Hebrew, as an octavo pamphlet
(pp. 13) in 1817. An abbreviated version was included in _Literary
Remains_, 1836, i. 57-8 and in the Appendix to _Poems_, 1863. The
_Lament_ as a whole was first collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877-80, ii.
282-5.


LINENOTES:

_Title_] Israel's Lament on the death of the Princess Charlotte of
Wales. From the Hebrew of Hyman Hurwitz L. R.

[19] Transplanted] Translated L. R., 1863.

[21-4] om. L. R, 1863.

[29-32] om. L. R., 1863.

[49-56] om. L. R., 1863.

[49] Mourner's] Mourners' L. R., 1863.




FANCY IN NUBIBUS[435:1]

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                      5
    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 closéd sight,                      10
  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.

1817.


FOOTNOTES:

[435:1] First published in _Felix Farley's Bristol Journal_ for February
7, 1818: and afterwards in _Blackwood's Magazine_ for November, 1819.
First collected in 1828: included in 1829 and 1834. A MS. in the
possession of Major Butterworth of Carlisle is signed 'S. T. Coleridge,
Little Hampton, Oct. 1818'. In a letter to Coleridge dated Jan. 10,
1820, Lamb asks, 'Who put your marine sonnet [i. e. A Sonnet written on
the Sea Coast, vide _Title_] . . . in _Blackwood_?' F. Freiligrath in
his Introduction to the Tauchnitz edition says that the last five lines
are borrowed from Stolberg's _An das Meer_; vide Appendices of this
edition.


LINENOTES:

Title] Fancy, &c. A Sonnet Composed by the Seaside, October 1817. F. F.:
Fancy in Nubibus. A Sonnet, composed on the Sea Coast 1819.

[4] let] bid 1819.

[5] Own] Owe F. F. 1818. quaint] strange 1819.

[6] head] heart MS.: head bow'd low 1819.

[9] through] o'er 1819.




THE TEARS OF A GRATEFUL PEOPLE[436:1]

A Hebrew Dirge and Hymn, chaunted in the Great Synagogue. St. James' pl.
Aldgate, on the Day of the Funeral of King George III. of blessed
memory. By Hyman Hurwitz of Highgate, Translated by a Friend.


_Dirge_

  Oppress'd, confused, with grief and pain,
    And inly shrinking from the blow,
  In vain I seek the dirgeful strain,
    The wonted words refuse to flow.

  A fear in every face I find,                                         5
    Each voice is that of one who grieves;
  And all my Soul, to grief resigned,
    Reflects the sorrow it receives.

  The Day-Star of our glory sets!
    Our King has breathed his latest breath!                          10
  Each heart its wonted pulse forgets,
    As if it own'd the pow'r of death.

  Our Crown, our heart's Desire is fled!
    Britannia's glory moults its wing!
  Let us with ashes on our head,                                      15
    Raise up a mourning for our King.

  Lo! of his beams the Day-Star shorn,[436:2]
    Sad gleams the Moon through cloudy veil!
  The Stars are dim! Our Nobles mourn;
    The Matrons weep, their Children wail.                            20

  No age records a King so just,
    His virtues numerous as his days;
  The Lord Jehovah was his trust,
    And truth with mercy ruled his ways.

  His Love was bounded by no Clime;                                   25
    Each diverse Race, each distant Clan
  He govern'd by this truth sublime,
    'God only knows the heart--not man.'

  His word appall'd the sons of pride,
    Iniquity far wing'd her way;                                      30
  Deceit and fraud were scatter'd wide,
    And truth resum'd her sacred sway.

  He sooth'd the wretched, and the prey
    From impious tyranny he tore;
  He stay'd th' Usurper's iron sway,                                  35
    And bade the Spoiler waste no more.

  Thou too, Jeshurun's Daughter! thou,
    Th' oppress'd of nations and the scorn!
  Didst hail on his benignant brow
    A safety dawning like the morn.                                   40

  The scoff of each unfeeling mind,
    Thy doom was hard, and keen thy grief;
  Beneath his throne, peace thou didst find,
    And blest the hand that gave relief.

  E'en when a fatal cloud o'erspread                                  45
    The moonlight splendour of his sway,
  Yet still the light remain'd, and shed
    Mild radiance on the traveller's way.

  But he is gone--the Just! the Good!
    Nor could a Nation's pray'r delay                                 50
  The heavenly meed, that long had stood
    His portion in the realms of day.

  Beyond the mighty Isle's extent
    The mightier Nation mourns her Chief:
  Him Judah's Daughter shall lament,                                  55
    In tears of fervour, love and grief.

  Britannia mourns in silent grief;
    Her heart a prey to inward woe.
  In vain she strives to find relief,
    Her pang so great, so great the blow.                             60

  Britannia! Sister! woe is me!
    Full fain would I console thy woe.
  But, ah! how shall I comfort thee,
    Who need the balm I would bestow?

  United then let us repair,                                          65
    As round our common Parent's grave;
  And pouring out our heart in prayer,
    Our heav'nly Father's mercy crave.

  Until Jehovah from his throne
    Shall heed his suffering people's fears;                          70
  Shall turn to song the Mourner's groan,
    To smiles of joy the Nation's tears.

  Praise to the Lord! Loud praises sing!
    And bless Jehovah's righteous hand!
  Again he bids a George, our King,                                   75
    Dispense his blessings to the Land.


_Hymn_

      O thron'd in Heav'n! Sole King of kings,
  Jehovah! hear thy Children's prayers and sighs!
  Thou Binder of the broken heart! with wings
      Of healing on thy people rise!                                  80
          Thy mercies, Lord, are sweet;
          And Peace and Mercy meet,
          Before thy Judgment seat:
          Lord, hear us! we entreat!

      When angry clouds thy throne surround,                          85
  E'en from the cloud thou bid'st thy mercy shine:
  And ere thy righteous vengeance strikes the wound,
      Thy grace prepares the balm divine!
          Thy mercies, Lord, are sweet;
              etc.

      The Parent tree thy hand did spare--                            90
  It fell not till the ripen'd fruit was won:
  Beneath its shade the Scion flourish'd fair,
      And for the Sire thou gav'st the Son.
              etc.

      This thy own Vine, which thou didst rear,
  And train up for us from the royal root,                            95
  Protect, O Lord! and to the Nations near
      Long let it shelter yield, and fruit,
              etc.

      Lord, comfort thou the royal line:
  Let Peace and Joy watch round us hand and hand.
  Our Nobles visit with thy grace divine,                            100
      And banish sorrow from the land!
          Thy mercies, Lord, are sweet;
          And Peace and Mercy meet
          Before thy Judgment seat;
          Lord, hear us! we entreat!                                 105

1820.


FOOTNOTES:

[436:1] First published with the Hebrew in pamphlet form in 1820. First
collected in 1893.

[436:2] The author, in the spirit of Hebrew Poetry, here represents the
Crown, the Peerage, and the Commonalty, by the figurative expression of
the Sun, Moon, and Stars.




YOUTH AND AGE[439:1]


  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!                                  5

  When I was young?--Ah, woful 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,                              10
  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!                                 15
  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.                            20
  Of Friendship, Love, and Liberty,
                          Ere I was old!

  Ere I was old? Ah woful Ere,
  Which tells me, Youth's no longer here!
  O Youth! for years so many and sweet,                               25
  '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!                                    30
  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.                               35
  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!                                      40
  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,                                  45
  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.


FOOTNOTES:

[439:1] First published in its present shape in 1834. Lines 1-38, with
the heading 'Youth and Age', were first published in the _Literary
Souvenir_, 1828, and also in the _Bijou_, 1828: included in 1828, 1829.
Lines 39-49 were first published in _Blackwood's Magazine_ for June
1832, entitled 'An Old Man's Sigh: a Sonnet', as 'an out-slough or
hypertrophic stanza of a certain poem called "Youth and Age".' Of lines
1-43 three MSS. are extant. (1) A fair copy (_MS. 1_) presented to
Derwent Coleridge, and now in the Editor's possession. In _MS. 1_ the
poem is divided into three stanzas: (i) lines 1-17; (ii) lines 18-38;
(iii) lines 39-43. The watermark of this MS. on a quarto sheet of Bath
Post letter-paper is 1822. (2) A rough draft, in a notebook dated Sept.
10, 1823; and (3) a corrected draft of forty-three lines (vide for _MSS.
2_, _3_ Appendices of this edition). A MS. version of _An Old Man's
Sigh_, dated 'Grove, Highgate, April 1832', was contributed to Miss
Rotha Quillinan's Album; and another version numbering only eight lines
was inscribed in an album in 1828 when Coleridge was on his Rhine tour
with Wordsworth. After line 42 this version continues:--

  As we creep feebly down life's <DW72>,
    Yet courteous dame, accept this truth,
  Hope leaves us not, but we leave hope,
    And quench the inward light of youth.
               T. Colley Grattan's _Beaten Paths_,
                                    1862, ii. 139.

There can be little doubt that lines 1-43 were composed in 1823, and
that the last six lines of the text which form part of _An Old Man's
Sigh_ were composed, as an afterthought, in 1832.


LINENOTES:

[1] Verse, a] Verse is a _with the alternative_ ? Vērse ă breeze MS. 1.

[2] clung] clings MS. 1, Bijou.

[6] When I] _When_ I 1828, 1829.

[8] This house of clay MS. 1, Bijou.

[10] O'er hill and dale and sounding sands MS. 1, Bijou.

[11] then] _then_ 1828, 1829.

[12] skiffs] boats MS. 1, Bijou.

[20] came] come Bijou.

[21] Of Beauty, Truth, and Liberty MS. 1, Bijou.

[23] Ere I] _Ere_ I 1828, 1829. woful] mournful Literary Souvenir.

[25] many] merry Bijou.

[27] fond] false MS. 1, Bijou.

[32] make believe] _make believe_ 1828, 1829.

[34] drooping] dragging MS. 1, Bijou.

[42-4]

  That only serves to make me grieve
                  Now I am old!
  Now I am old,--ah woful Now

MS. 1.

[44-5]

                    In our old age
  Whose bruised wings quarrel with the bars of the still
    narrowing cage.

Inserted in 1832.

[49] Two lines were added in 1832:--

  O might Life cease! and Selfless Mind,
  Whose total Being is Act, alone remain behind.




THE REPROOF AND REPLY[441:1]

Or, The Flower-Thief's Apology, for a robbery committed in Mr. and Mrs.
----'s garden, on Sunday morning, 25th of May, 1823, between the hours
of eleven and twelve.


  "Fie, Mr. Coleridge!--and can this be you?
  Break two commandments? and in church-time too!
  Have you not heard, or have you heard in vain,
  The birth-and-parentage-recording strain?--
  Confessions shrill, that out-shrill'd mack'rel drown                 5
  Fresh from the drop--the youth not yet cut down--
  Letter to sweet-heart--the last dying speech--
  And didn't all this begin in Sabbath-breach?
  You, that knew better! In broad open day,
  Steal in, steal out, and steal our flowers away?                    10
  What could possess you? Ah! sweet youth. I fear
  The chap with horns and tail was at your ear!"

  Such sounds of late, accusing fancy brought
  From fair Chisholm to the Poet's thought.
  Now hear the meek Parnassian youth's reply:--                       15
  A bow--a pleading look--a downcast eye,--
  And then:

            "Fair dame! a visionary wight,
  Hard by your hill-side mansion sparkling white,
  His thoughts all hovering round the Muses' home,
  Long hath it been your Poet's wont to roam,                         20
  And many a morn, on his becharméd sense
  So rich a stream of music issued thence,
  He deem'd himself, as it flowed warbling on,
  Beside the vocal fount of Helicon!
  But when, as if to settle the concern,                              25
  A Nymph too he beheld, in many a turn,
  Guiding the sweet rill from its fontal urn,--
  Say, can you blame?--No! none that saw and heard
  Could blame a bard, that he thus inly stirr'd;
  A muse beholding in each fervent trait,                             30
  Took Mary H---- for Polly Hymnia!
  Or haply as there stood beside the maid
  One loftier form in sable stole array'd,
  If with regretful thought he hail'd in _thee_
  Chisholm, his long-lost friend, Mol Pomene!                         35
  But most of _you_, soft warblings, I complain!
  'Twas ye that from the bee-hive of my brain
  Did lure the fancies forth, a freakish rout,
  And witch'd the air with dreams turn'd inside out.

  "Thus all conspir'd--each power of eye and ear,                     40
  And this gay month, th' enchantress of the year,
  To cheat poor me (no conjuror, God wot!)
  And Chisholm's self accomplice in the plot.
  Can you then wonder if I went astray?
  Not bards alone, nor lovers mad as they;--                          45
  All Nature _day-dreams_ in the month of May.
  And if I pluck'd 'each flower that _sweetest_ blows,'--
  Who walks in sleep, needs follow must his _nose_.

  "Thus, long accustom'd on the twy-fork'd hill,[442:1]
  To pluck both flower and floweret at my will;                       50
  The garden's maze, like No-man's-land, I tread,
  Nor common law, nor statute in my head;
  For my own proper smell, sight, fancy, feeling,
  With autocratic hand at once repealing
  Five Acts of Parliament 'gainst private stealing!                   55
  But yet from Chisholm who despairs of grace?
  There's no spring-gun or man-trap in _that_ face!
  Let Moses then look black, and Aaron blue,
  That look as if they had little else to do:
  For Chisholm speaks, 'Poor youth! he's but a waif!                  60
  The spoons all right? the hen and chickens safe?
  Well, well, he shall not forfeit our regards--
  The Eighth Commandment was not made for Bards!'"[443:1]

1823.


FOOTNOTES:

[441:1] First published in _Friendship's Offering_ for 1834, as the
first of four 'Lightheartednesses in Rhyme'. A motto was prefixed:--'I
expect no sense, worth listening to, from the man who never does talk
nonsense,'--_Anon._ In _F. O._, 1834, Chisholm was printed C---- in line
14, C----m in lines 35, 56, and 60, C----m's in line 43. In 1834, 1844
the name was omitted altogether. The text of the present edition follows
the MS. First collected in _P. W._, 1834. A MS. version is in the
possession of Miss Edith Coleridge. These lines were included in 1844,
but omitted from 1852, 1863, and 1870.

[442:1] The English Parnassus is remarkable for its two summits of
unequal height, the lower denominated Hampstead, the higher Highgate.

[443:1] Compare '_The Eighth Commandment_ was not made for Love', l. 16
of Elegy I of _The Love Elegies of Abel Shufflebottom_, by R. Southey.


LINENOTES:

Title] The Reproof and Reply (the alternative title is omitted) 1834.

[31] Mary H----] Mary ---- 1834, 1844.

[38] Did lure the] Lured the wild F. O. 1834.




FIRST ADVENT OF LOVE[443:2]


  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                           5
  Meets it with brow uplift, and stays his reaping.

? 1824.


FOOTNOTES:

[443:2] First published in 1834. In a MS. note, dated September 1827, it
is included in 'Relics of my School-boy Muse: i. e. fragments of poems
composed before my fifteenth year', _P. W._, 1852, Notes, p. 379; but in
an entry in a notebook dated 1824, Coleridge writes: 'A pretty
unintended couplet in the prose of Sidney's _Arcadia_:--

  'And, sweeter than a gentle south-west wind
   O'er flowery fields and shadowed waters creeping
   In summer's extreme heat.'

The passage which Coleridge versified is to be found in the _Arcadia_:--

     'Her breath is more sweet than a gentle south-west wind, which
     comes creeping over flowing fields and shadowed waters in the
     heat of summer.'


LINENOTES:

Title] Love's First Hope 1893.




THE DELINQUENT TRAVELLERS[443:3]


  Some are home-sick--some two or three,
  Their third year on the Arctic Sea--
  Brave Captain Lyon tells us so[444:1]--
  Spite of those charming Esquimaux.
  But O, what scores are sick of Home,                                 5
  Agog for Paris or for Rome!
  Nay! tho' contented to abide,
  You should prefer your own fireside;
  Yet since grim War has ceas'd its madding,
  And Peace has set John Bull agadding,                               10
  'Twould such a vulgar taste betray,
  For very shame you must away!
  'What? not yet seen the coast of France!
  The folks will swear, for lack of bail,
  You've spent your last five years in jail!'                         15

  Keep moving! Steam, or Gas, or Stage,
  Hold, cabin, steerage, hencoop's cage--
  Tour, Journey, Voyage, Lounge, Ride, Walk,
  Skim, Sketch, Excursion, Travel-talk--
  For move you must! 'Tis now the rage,                               20
  The law and fashion of the Age.
  If you but perch, where Dover tallies,
  So strangely with the coast of Calais,
  With a good glass and knowing look,
  You'll soon get matter for a book!                                  25
  Or else, in Gas-car, take your chance
  Like that adventurous king of France,
  Who, once, with twenty thousand men
  Went up--and then came down again;
  At least, he moved if nothing more:                                 30
  And if there's nought left to explore,
  Yet while your well-greased wheels keep spinning,
  The traveller's honoured name you're winning,
  And, snug as Jonas in the Whale,
  You may loll back and dream a tale.                                 35
  Move, or be moved--there's no protection,
  Our Mother Earth has ta'en the infection--
  (That rogue Copernicus, 'tis said
  First put the whirring in her head,)
  A planet She, and can't endure                                      40
  T'exist without her annual Tour:
  The _name_ were else a mere misnomer,
  Since Planet is but Greek for _Roamer_.
  The atmosphere, too, can do no less
  Than ventilate her emptiness,                                       45
  Bilks turn-pike gates, for no one cares,
  And gives herself a thousand airs--
  While streams and shopkeepers, we see,
  Will have their run toward the sea--
  And if, meantime, like old King Log,                                50
  Or ass with tether and a clog,
  Must graze at home! to yawn and bray
  'I guess we shall have rain to-day!'
  Nor clog nor tether can be worse
  Than the dead palsy of the purse.                                   55
  Money, I've heard a wise man say,
  Makes herself wings and flys away:
  Ah! would She take it in her head
  To make a pair for me instead!
  At all events, the Fancy's free,                                    60
  No traveller so bold as she.
  From Fear and Poverty released
  I'll saddle Pegasus, at least,
  And when she's seated to her mind,
  I within I can mount behind:                                        65
  And since this outward I, you know,
  Must stay because he cannot go,
  My fellow-travellers shall be they
  Who go because they cannot stay--
  Rogues, rascals, sharpers, blanks and prizes,                       70
  Delinquents of all sorts and sizes,
  Fraudulent bankrupts, Knights burglarious,
  And demireps of means precarious--
  All whom Law thwarted, Arms or Arts,
  Compel to visit foreign parts,                                      75
  All hail! No compliments, I pray,
  I'll follow where you lead the way!
  But ere we cross the main once more,
  Methinks, along my native shore,
  Dismounting from my steed I'll stray                                80
  Beneath the cliffs of Dumpton Bay.[446:1]
  Where, Ramsgate and Broadstairs between,
  Rude caves and grated doors are seen:
  And here I'll watch till break of day,
  (For Fancy in her magic might                                       85
  Can turn broad noon to starless night!)
  When lo! methinks a sudden band
  Of smock-clad smugglers round me stand.
  Denials, oaths, in vain I try,
  At once they gag me for a spy,                                      90
  And stow me in the boat hard by.
  Suppose us fairly now afloat,
  Till Boulogne mouth receives our Boat.
  But, bless us! what a numerous band
  Of cockneys anglicise the strand!                                   95
  Delinquent bankrupts, leg-bail'd debtors,
  Some for the news, and some for letters--
  With hungry look and tarnished dress,
  French shrugs and British surliness.
  Sick of the country for their sake                                 100
  Of them and France _French leave_ I take--
  And lo! a transport comes in view
  I hear the merry motley crew,
  Well skill'd in pocket to make entry,
  Of Dieman's Land the elected Gentry,                               105
  And founders of Australian Races.--
  The Rogues! I see it in their faces!
  Receive me, Lads! I'll go with you,
  Hunt the black swan and kangaroo,
  And that New Holland we'll presume                                 110
  Old England with some elbow-room.
  Across the mountains we will roam,
  And each man make himself a home:
  Or, if old habits ne'er forsaking,
  Like clock-work of the Devil's making,                             115
  Ourselves inveterate rogues should be,
  We'll have a virtuous progeny;
  And on the dunghill of our vices
  Raise human pine-apples and spices.
  Of all the children of John Bull                                   120
  With empty heads and bellies full,
  Who ramble East, West, North and South,
  With leaky purse and open mouth,
  In search of varieties exotic
  The usefullest and most patriotic,                                 125
  And merriest, too, believe me, Sirs!
  Are your Delinquent Travellers!

1824.


FOOTNOTES:

[443:3] From an hitherto unpublished MS., formerly in the possession of
Coleridge's friend and amanuensis Joseph Henry Green.

[444:1] _The Private Journal of Captain G. F. Lyon of the Mt. Hecla,
during the recent voyage of discovery under Captain Parry_, was
published by John Murray in 1824. In a letter dated May, 1823, Lucy
Caroline Lamb writes to Murray:--'If there is yet time, do tell Captain
Lyon, that I, and others far bettor than I am, are enchanted with his
book.' _Memoirs . . . of John Murray_, 1891, i. 145.

[446:1] A coast village near Ramsgate. Coleridge passed some weeks at
Ramsgate in the late autumn of 1824.




WORK WITHOUT HOPE[447:1]

LINES COMPOSED 21ST FEBRUARY 1825


  All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair--
  The bees are stirring--birds are on the wing--[447:2]
  And Winter slumbering in the open air,
  Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring!
  And I the while, the sole unbusy thing,                              5
  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!                     10
  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.

1825.


FOOTNOTES:

[447:1] First printed in the _Bijou_ for 1828: included in 1828, 1829,
and 1834. These lines, as published in the _Bijou_ for 1828, were an
excerpt from an entry in a notebook, dated Feb. 21, 1825. They were
preceded by a prose introduction, now for the first time printed, and
followed by a metrical interpretation or afterthought which was first
published in the Notes to the Edition of 1893. For an exact reproduction
of the prose and verse as they appear in the notebook, vide Appendices
of this edition.

[447:2] Compare the last stanza of George Herbert's _Praise_:--

  O raise me thus! Poor Bees that work all day,
      Sting my delay,
  Who have a work as well as they,
      And much, much more.


LINENOTES:

Title] Lines composed on a day in February. By S. T. Coleridge, Esq.
Bijou: Lines composed on the 21st of February, 1827 1828, 1829, 1834.

[1] Slugs] Snails erased MS. S. T. C.: Stags 1828, 1829, 1885.

[11]

  { With unmoist lip and wreathless brow I stroll
  { With lips unmoisten'd wreathless brow I stroll MS. S. T. C.




_SANCTI DOMINICI PALLIUM_[448:1]

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN POET AND FRIEND

FOUND WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF AT THE BEGINNING OF BUTLER'S 'BOOK OF
THE CHURCH' (1825)


  POET

  I note the moods and feelings men betray,
  And heed them more than aught they do or say;
  The lingering ghosts of many a secret deed
  Still-born or haply strangled in its birth;
  _These_ best reveal the smooth man's inward creed!                   5
  _These_ mark the spot where lies the treasure--Worth!

    Milner, made up of impudence and trick,[448:2]
  With cloven tongue prepared to hiss and lick,
  Rome's Brazen Serpent--boldly dares discuss
  The roasting of thy heart, O brave John Huss!                       10
  And with grim triumph and a truculent glee[448:3]
  Absolves anew the Pope-wrought perfidy,
  That made an empire's plighted faith a lie,
  And fix'd a broad stare on the Devil's eye--
  (Pleas'd with the guilt, yet envy-stung at heart                    15
  To stand outmaster'd in his own black art!)
  Yet Milner--


  FRIEND

                Enough of Milner! we're agreed,
  Who now defends would then have done the deed.
  But who not feels persuasion's gentle sway,
  Who but must meet the proffered hand half way                       20
  When courteous Butler--


  POET (_aside_)

                          (Rome's smooth go-between!)


  FRIEND

    Laments the advice that soured a milky queen--
  (For 'bloody' all enlightened men confess
  An antiquated error of the press:)
  Who rapt by zeal beyond her sex's bounds,                           25
  With actual cautery staunched the Church's wounds!
  And tho' he deems, that with too broad a blur
  We damn the French and Irish massacre,
  Yet _blames_ them both--and thinks the Pope _might_ err!
  What think you now? Boots it with spear and shield                  30
  Against such gentle foes to take the field
  Whose beckoning hands the mild Caduceus wield?


  POET

    What think I now? Even what I thought before;--
  What Milner boasts though Butler may deplore,
  Still I repeat, words lead me not astray                            35
  When the _shown_ feeling points a different way.
  Smooth Butler can say grace at slander's feast,[449:1]
  And bless each haut-gout cook'd by monk or priest;
  Leaves the full lie on Milner's gong to swell,
  Content with half-truths that do just as well;                      40
  But duly decks his mitred comrade's flanks,[450:1]
  And with him shares the Irish nation's thanks!

    So much for you, my friend! who own a Church,
  And would not leave your mother in the lurch!
  But when a Liberal asks me what I think--                           45
  Scared by the blood and soot of Cobbett's ink,
  And Jeffrey's glairy phlegm and Connor's foam,
  In search of some safe parable I roam--
  An emblem sometimes may comprise a tome!

    Disclaimant of his uncaught grandsire's mood,                     50
  I see a tiger lapping kitten's food:
  And who shall blame him that he purs applause,
  When brother Brindle pleads the good old cause;
  And frisks his pretty tail, and half unsheathes his claws!
  Yet not the less, for modern lights unapt,                          55
  I trust the bolts and cross-bars of the laws
  More than the Protestant milk all newly lapt,
  Impearling a tame wild-cat's whisker'd jaws!

1825, or 1826.


FOOTNOTES:

[448:1] First published in the _Evening Standard_, May 21, 1827. 'The
poem signed ΕΣΤΗΣΕ appeared likewise in the _St. James's
Chronicle_.' See Letter of S. T. C. to J. Blanco White, dated Nov. 28,
1827. _Life_, 1845, i. 439, 440. First collected in 1834. I have amended
the text of 1834 in lines 7, 17, 34, 39 in accordance with a MS. in the
possession of the poet's granddaughter, Miss Edith Coleridge. The poem
as published in 1834 and every subsequent edition (except 1907) is
meaningless. Southey's _Book of the Church_, 1825, was answered by
Charles Butler's _Book of the Roman Catholic Church_, 1825, and in an
anonymous pamphlet by the Vicar Apostolic, Dr. John Milner, entitled
_Merlin's Strictures_. Southey retaliated in his _Vindiciae Ecclesiae
Anglicanae_, 1826. In the latter work he addresses Butler as 'an
honourable and courteous opponent'--and contrasts his 'habitual
urbanity' with the malignant and scurrilous attacks of that
'ill-mannered man', Dr. Milner. In the 'Dialogue' the poet reminds his
'Friend' Southey that Rome is Rome, a 'brazen serpent', charm she never
so wisely. In the _Vindiciae_ Southey devotes pp. 470-506 to an excursus
on 'The Rosary'--the invention of St. Dominic. Hence the title--'Sancti
Dominici Pallium'.

[448:2] These lines were written before this Prelate's decease.
_Standard, 1827._

[448:3] Trŭcŭlĕnt: a tribrach as the isochronous substitute for the
Trochee ¯ ˘. N. B. If our accent, a _quality_ of sound were actually
equivalent to the _Quantity_ in the Greek ¯ ˘ ¯, or dactyl ¯ ˘ ˘ at
least. But it is not so, accent shortens syllables: thus Spīrĭt, sprite;
Hŏnĕy, mŏnĕy, nŏbŏdy, &c. _MS. S. T. C._

[449:1] 'Smooth Butler.' See the Rev. Blanco White's Letter to C.
Butler, Esq. _MS. S. T. C._, _Sd. 1827_.

[450:1] 'Your coadjutor the Titular Bishop Milner'--Bishop of Castabala
I had called him, till I learnt from the present pamphlet that he had
been translated to the see of Billingsgate.' _Vind. Ecl. Angl. 1826_, p.
228, _note_.


LINENOTES:

Title]--A dialogue written on a Blank Page of Butler's Book of the Roman
Catholic Church. Sd. 1827.

[7] Milner] ---- 1834, 1852: Butler 1893.

[17] Milner--Milner] ----, ---- 1834, 1852: Butler--Butler 1893. Yet
Milner] Yet Miln-- Sd. 1827.

[25] Who with a zeal that passed Sd. 1827.

[30] spear] helm Sd. 1827.

[32] beckoning] proffered Sd. 1827.

[34] Milner] ---- 1834, 1852: Butler 1893. boasts] lauds Sd. 1827.

[35] repeat] reply Sd. 1827.

[38] or] and Sd. 1827.

[39] Milner's] ----'s 1834, 1852: Butler's 1893.

[42] Irish] the O'Gorman MS. S. T. C., Sd. 1827.

[46] blood and soot] soot and blood Sd. 1827.

[55] lights] sights Sd. 1827.




SONG[450:2]


  Though veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath,
  Love is a sword which cuts its sheath,
  And through the clefts itself has made,
  We spy the flashes of the blade!
  But through the clefts itself has made                               5
  We likewise see Love's flashing blade,
  By rust consumed, or snapt in twain;
  And only hilt and stump remain.

? 1825.


FOOTNOTES:

[450:2] First published in 1828: included in 1852, 1885, and 1893. A MS.
version (undated) is inscribed in a notebook.


LINENOTES:

Title] Love, a Sword 1893.

[1] Tho' hid in spiral myrtle wreath MS.

[2] which] that MS.

[3] slits itself hath made MS.

[4] flashes] glitter MS.

[5] clefts] slits MS.

[6-8]

  We spy no less, too, that the Blade,
  Is cut away or snapt atwain
  And nought but Hilt or Stump remain.

MS.




A CHARACTER[451:1]


  A bird, who for his other sins
  Had liv'd amongst the Jacobins;
  Though like a kitten amid rats,
  Or callow tit in nest of bats,
  He much abhorr'd all democrats;                                      5
  Yet nathless stood in ill report
  Of wishing ill to Church and Court,
  Tho' he'd nor claw, nor tooth, nor sting,
  And learnt to pipe God save the King;
  Tho' each day did new feathers bring,                               10
  All swore he had a leathern wing;
  Nor polish'd wing, nor feather'd tail,
  Nor down-clad thigh would aught avail;
  And tho'--his tongue devoid of gall--
  He civilly assur'd them all:--                                      15
  'A bird am I of Phoebus' breed,
  And on the sunflower cling and feed;
  My name, good Sirs, is Thomas Tit!'
  The bats would hail him Brother Cit,
  Or, at the furthest, cousin-german.                                 20
  At length the matter to determine,
  He publicly denounced the vermin;
  He spared the mouse, he praised the owl;
  But bats were neither flesh nor fowl.
  Blood-sucker, vampire, harpy, goul,                                 25
  Came in full clatter from his throat,
  Till his old nest-mates chang'd their note
  To hireling, traitor, and turncoat,--
  A base apostate who had sold
  His very teeth and claws for gold;--                                30
  And then his feathers!--sharp the jest--
  No doubt he feather'd well his nest!
  'A Tit indeed! aye, tit for tat--
  With place and title, brother Bat,
  We soon shall see how well he'll play                               35
  Count Goldfinch, or Sir Joseph Jay!'
    Alas, poor Bird! and ill-bestarr'd--
  Or rather let us say, poor Bard!
  And henceforth quit the allegoric,
  With metaphor and simile,                                           40
  For simple facts and style historic:--
  Alas, poor Bard! no gold had he;
  Behind another's team he stept,
  And plough'd and sow'd, while others reapt;
  The work was his, but theirs the glory,                             45
  _Sic vos non vobis_, his whole story.
  Besides, whate'er he wrote or said
  Came from his heart as well as head;
  And though he never left in lurch
  His king, his country, or his church,                               50
  'Twas but to humour his own cynical
  Contempt of doctrines Jacobinical;
  To his own conscience only hearty,
  'Twas but by chance he serv'd the party;--
  The self-same things had said and writ,                             55
  Had Pitt been Fox, and Fox been Pitt;
  Content his own applause to win,
  Would never dash thro' thick and thin,
  And he can make, so say the wise,
  No claim who makes no sacrifice;--                                  60
  And bard still less:--what claim had he,
  Who swore it vex'd his soul to see
  So grand a cause, so proud a realm,
  With Goose and Goody at the helm;
  Who long ago had fall'n asunder                                     65
  But for their rivals' baser blunder,
  The coward whine and Frenchified
  Slaver and slang of the other side?--

    Thus, his own whim his only bribe,
  Our Bard pursued his old A. B. C.                                   70
  Contented if he could subscribe
  In fullest sense his name Ἔστησε;
  ('Tis Punic Greek for 'he hath stood!')
  Whate'er the men, the cause was good;
  And therefore with a right good will,                               75
  Poor fool, he fights their battles still.
  Tush! squeak'd the Bats;--a mere bravado
  To whitewash that base renegado;
  'Tis plain unless you're blind or mad,
  His conscience for the bays he barters;--                           80
  And true it is--as true as sad--
  These circlets of green baize he had--
  But then, alas! they were his garters!
    Ah! silly Bard, unfed, untended,
  His lamp but glimmer'd in its socket;                               85
  He lived unhonour'd and unfriended
  With scarce a penny in his pocket;--
  Nay--tho' he hid it from the many--
  With scarce a pocket for his penny!

1825.


FOOTNOTES:

[451:1] First published in 1834. It is probable that the immediate
provocation of these lines was the publication of Hazlitt's
character-sketch of Coleridge in _The Spirit of the Age_, 1825, pp.
57-75. Lines 1-7, 49, 50, 84, 89 are quoted by J. Payne Collier (_An Old
Man's Diary_, Oct. 20, 1833, Pt. IV, p. 56) from a MS. presented by
Charles Lamb to Martin Burney. A fragmentary MS. with the lines in
different order is in the British Museum.


LINENOTES:

Title] A Trifle MS. J. P. C.

[1] for] 'mongst MS. B. M.

[2] amongst] among J. P. C.

[3] amid] among J. P. C.

[5] all] the J. P. C.

[6] ill] bad J. P. C.

[7] Of ill to Church as well as Court J. P. C.

[11] had a] had but a MS. B. M.

[22] denounced] disowned MS. B. M.

[31] sharp] smoke MS. B. M.

[36] Joseph] Judas MS. B. M.

[69-74]

  Yet still pursu'd thro' scoff and gibe
  From A. to Z. his old A. B. C.
  Content that he could still subscribe
  In symbol just his name ΕΣΤΗΣΕ;
  (In punic Greek that's He hath stood:)
  Whate'er the men, the cause was good.

MS. B. M.

[84] Ah! silly bird and unregarded J. P. C.: Poor witless Bard, unfed,
untended MS. B. M.

[86] He liv'd unpraised, and unfriended MS. B. M.: unfriended] discarded
J. P. C.

[87] With scarce] Without J. P. C.




THE TWO FOUNTS[454:1]

STANZAS ADDRESSED TO A LADY ON HER RECOVERY WITH UNBLEMISHED LOOKS, FROM
A SEVERE ATTACK OF PAIN


  'Twas 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                            5
  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!                    10
  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                     15
  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;                   20

  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,                              25
  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                           30
  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,                         35
  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;                              40

  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 barbéd arrow send,                                  45
  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.


FOOTNOTES:

[454:1] First published in the _Annual Register_ for 1827: reprinted in
the _Bijou_ for 1828: included in 1828, 1829, 1834. 'In Gilchrist's
_Life of Blake_ (1863, i. 337) it is stated that this poem was addressed
to Mrs. Aders, the daughter of the engraver Raphael Smith.' _P. W._,
1892, p. 642.


LINENOTES:

Title]: Stanzas addressed to a Lady on her Recovery from a Severe attack
of Pain Annual Register.

[11] That--this] _That--this_ 1828, 1829.

[14] That] _That_ 1828, 1829.

[16-17] In a MS. dated 1826, the following stanza precedes stanza 5 of
the text:--

  Was ne'er on earth seen beauty like to this.
    A concentrated satisfying sight!
  In its deep quiet, ask no further bliss--
    At once the form and substance of delight.

[19-20]

  Looks forth upon the troubled air below
    Unmov'd, entire, inviolably bright.

MS. 1826.

[31] tort'ring] fost'ring Annual Register, Bijou.

[44] less--less--less] _less--less--less_ 1828, 1829.

[47] any] _any_ 1828, 1829.




CONSTANCY TO AN IDEAL OBJECT[455:1]


  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,                        5
  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,[456:1]
  Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death!                        10
  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,                            15
  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,                    20
  Lulled by the thrush and wakened by the lark,
  Without thee were but a becalméd 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                        25
  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[456:2] with a glory round its head;                        30
  The enamoured rustic worships its fair hues,
  Nor knows he makes the shadow, he pursues!

? 1826.


FOOTNOTES:

[455:1] There is no evidence as to date of composition. J. D. Campbell
(1893, p. 635) believed that it 'was written at Malta'. Line 18 seems to
imply that the poem was not written in England. On the other hand a
comparison of ll. 9, 10 with a passage in the _Allegoric Vision_, which
was re-written with large additions, and first published in 1817,
suggests a much later date. The editors of 1852 include these lines
among 'Poems written in Later Life', but the date (? 1826) now assigned
is purely conjectural. First published in 1828: included in 1829 and
1834.

[456:1] With lines 9, 10 J. D. Campbell compares, 'After a pause of
silence: even thus, said he, like two strangers that have fled to the
same shelter from the same storm, not seldom do Despair and Hope meet
for the first time in the porch of Death.' _Allegoric Vision_
(1798-1817); vide Appendices of this edition.

[456:2] This phenomenon, which the Author has himself experienced, and
of which the reader may find a description in one of the earlier volumes
of the _Manchester Philosophical Transactions_, is applied figuratively
to the following passage in the _Aids to Reflection_:--

'Pindar's fine remark respecting the different effects of Music, on
different characters, holds equally true of Genius--as many as are not
delighted by it are disturbed, perplexed, irritated. The beholder either
recognises it as a projected form of his own Being, that moves before
him with a Glory round its head, or recoils from it as a
Spectre.'--_Aids to Reflection_ [1825], p. 220.


LINENOTES:

[8] thee] _thee_ 1828, 1829.

[13] embodied] _embodied_ 1828, 1829.

[14] living] _living_ 1828, 1829.

[32] makes] _makes_ 1828, 1829.




THE PANG MORE SHARP THAN ALL[457:1]

AN ALLEGORY


  I

  He too has flitted from his secret nest,
  Hope's last and dearest child without a name!--
  Has flitted from me, like the warmthless flame,
  That makes false promise of a place of rest
  To the tired Pilgrim's still believing mind;--                       5
  Or like some Elfin Knight in kingly court,
  Who having won all guerdons in his sport,
  Glides out of view, and whither none can find!

  II

  Yes! he hath flitted from me--with what aim,
  Or why, I know not! 'Twas a home of bliss,                          10
  And he was innocent, as the pretty shame
  Of babe, that tempts and shuns the menaced kiss,
  From its twy-cluster'd hiding place of snow!
  Pure as the babe, I ween, and all aglow
  As the dear hopes, that swell the mother's breast--                 15
  Her eyes down gazing o'er her claspéd charge;--
  Yet gay as that twice happy father's kiss,
  That well might glance aside, yet never miss,
  Where the sweet mark emboss'd so sweet a targe--
  Twice wretched he who hath been doubly blest!                       20

  III

  Like a loose blossom on a gusty night
  He flitted from me--and has left behind
  (As if to them his faith he ne'er did plight)
  Of either sex and answerable mind
  Two playmates, twin-births of his foster-dame:--                    25
  The one a steady lad (Esteem he hight)
  And Kindness is the gentler sister's name.
  Dim likeness now, though fair she be and good,
  Of that bright Boy who hath us all forsook;--
  But in his full-eyed aspect when she stood,                         30
  And while her face reflected every look,
  And in reflection kindled--she became
  So like Him, that almost she seem'd the same!

  IV

  Ah! he is gone, and yet will not depart!--
  Is with me still, yet I from him exiled!                            35
  For still there lives within my secret heart
  The magic image of the magic Child,
  Which there he made up-grow by his strong art,
  As in that crystal[458:1] orb--wise Merlin's feat,--
  The wondrous 'World of Glass,' wherein inisled                      40
  All long'd-for things their beings did repeat;--
  And there he left it, like a Sylph beguiled,
  To live and yearn and languish incomplete!

  V

  Can wit of man a heavier grief reveal?
  Can sharper pang from hate or scorn arise?--                        45
  Yes! one more sharp there is that deeper lies,
  Which fond Esteem but mocks when he would heal.
  Yet neither scorn nor hate did it devise,
  But sad compassion and atoning zeal!
  One pang more blighting-keen than hope betray'd!                    50
  And this it is my woeful hap to feel,
  When, at her Brother's hest, the twin-born Maid
  With face averted and unsteady eyes,
  Her truant playmate's faded robe puts on;
  And inly shrinking from her own disguise                            55
  Enacts the faery Boy that's lost and gone.
  O worse than all! O pang all pangs above
  Is Kindness counterfeiting absent Love!

? 1825-6.


FOOTNOTES:

[457:1] First published in 1834. With lines 36-43, and with the poem as
a whole, compare the following fragments of uncertain date, which were
first published in a note to the edition of 1893. Both the poem as
completed and these fragments of earlier drafts seem to belong to the
last decade of the poet's life. The water-mark of the scrap of paper on
which these drafts are written is 1819, but the tone and workmanship of
the verse suggest a much later date, possibly 1826.

                  '---- into my Heart
  The magic Child as in a magic glass
  Transfused, and ah! he _left_ within my Heart
  A loving Image and a counterpart.'

                  '---- into my Heart
  As 'twere some magic Glass the magic child
  Transfused his Image and full counterpart;
  And then he left it like a Sylph beguiled
  To live and yearn and languish incomplete!
  Day following day, more rugged grows my path.
  There dwells a cloud before my heavy eyes;
  A Blank my Heart, and Hope is dead and buried,
  Yet the deep yearning will not die; but Love
  Clings on and cloathes the marrowless remains,
  Like the fresh moss that grows on dead men's bones,
  Quaint mockery! and fills its scarlet cups
  With the chill dewdamps of the Charnel House.
  O ask not for my Heart! my Heart is but
  The darksome vault where Hope lies dead and buried,
  And Love with Asbest Lamp bewails the Corse.'

[458:1] _Faerie Queene_, b. iii. c. 2, s. 19.




DUTY SURVIVING SELF-LOVE[459:1]

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                        5
  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:                             10
  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.


FOOTNOTES:

[459:1] First published in 1828: included in 1829 and 1834. The MS. of
the first draft, dated Sept. 2, 1826, is preceded by the following
introductory note:--

     'QUESTION, ANSWER, AND SOLILOQUY.

     And are _you_ (said Alia to Constantius, on whose head
     sickness and sorrow had antedated Winter, ere yet the time of
     Vintage had passed), Are you the happier for your Philosophy?
     And the smile of Constantius was as the light from a purple
     cluster of the vine, gleaming through snowflakes, as he
     replied, The Boons of Philosophy are of higher worth, than
     what you, O Alia, mean by Happiness. But I will not seem to
     evade the question--Am _I_ the happier for my Philosophy? The
     calmer at least and the less unhappy, answered Constantius,
     for it has enabled me to find that selfless Reason is the best
     Comforter, and only sure friend of declining Life. At this
     moment the sounds of a carriage followed by the usual bravura
     executed on the brazen knocker announced a morning visit: and
     Alia hastened to receive the party. Meantime the grey-haired
     philosopher, left to his own musings, continued playing with
     the thoughts that Alia and Alia's question had excited, till
     he murmured them to himself in half audible words, which at
     first casually, and then for the amusement of his ear, he
     _punctuated_ with rhymes, without however conceiting that he
     had by these means changed them into poetry.'


LINENOTES:

[4] When thy own body first the example set. MS. S. T. C.

[5-11] om. MS. S. T. C.

[8] While--on whom] _While--on whom_ 1828, 1829.

[9] object] Body MS. S. T. C.

[13] are] _are_ 1828, 1829.

[14] thee--were] _thee--were_ 1828, 1829.




HOMELESS[460:1]


  'O! Christmas Day, Oh! happy day!
    A foretaste from above,
  To him who hath a happy home
    And love returned from love!'

  O! Christmas Day, O gloomy day,                                      5
    The barb in Memory's dart,
  To him who walks alone through Life,
    The desolate in heart.

1826.


FOOTNOTES:

[460:1] First published in the _Literary Magnet_, January, 1827, p. 71.
First collected in 1893. A transcript, possibly in Mrs. Gillman's
handwriting, is inscribed on the fly-leaf of a copy of Bartram's
_Travels in South Carolina_ which Coleridge purchased in April 1818. J.
D. Campbell prefixed the title 'Homeless', and assigned 1810 as a
conjectural date. Attention was first called to publication in the
_Literary Magnet_ by Mr. Bertram Dobell in the _Athenaeum_.


LINENOTES:

Title] An Impromptu on Christmas Day L. M. 1827.

[4] from] for L. M. 1827.




LINES[460:2]

SUGGESTED BY THE LAST WORDS OF BERENGARIUS

OB. ANNO DOM. 1088


  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 condemnéd, as I fear.--


  REFLECTION ON THE ABOVE

  Lynx amid moles! had I stood by thy bed,                             5
  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                        10
  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                      15
  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!                          20
  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,                                25
  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                            30
  Hath lit each dew-drop on our trimmer lawn!
  Yet not for this, if wise, shall we decry
  The spots and struggles of the timid Dawn;
  Lest so we tempt th' approaching Noon to scorn
  The mists and painted vapours of our Morn.                          35

? 1826.


FOOTNOTES:

[460:2] First published in the _Literary Souvenir_, 1827. The
_Epitaphium Testamentarium_ (vide _post_, p. 462) is printed in a
footnote to the word 'Berengarius'. Included in 1828, 1829, and 1834.


LINENOTES:

[13] learned] _learned_ L. S.

[19] recreant] _recreant_ L. S., 1828, 1829.

[23] his] _his_ L. S.

[32] shall] will L. S., 1828, 1829.

[34] th' approaching] the coming L. S.




EPITAPHIUM TESTAMENTARIUM[462:1]

Τὸ τοῦ ἜΣΤΗΣΕ τοῦ ἐπιθανοῦς Epitaphium testamentarium αὐτόγραφον.


  Quae linquam, aut nihil, aut nihili, aut vix sunt mea. Sordes
  Do Morti: reddo caetera, Christe! tibi.

1826.


Ἔρως ἀεὶ λάληθρος ἑταῖρος[462:2]

  In many ways does the full heart reveal
  The presence of the love it would conceal;
  But in far more th' estrangéd heart lets know
  The absence of the love, which yet it fain would shew.

1826.


FOOTNOTES:

[462:1] First published in _Literary Souvenir_ of 1827, as footnote to
title of the _Lines Suggested by the Last Words of Berengarius_:
included in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 60: first collected in 1844.

[462:2] This quatrain was prefixed as a motto to 'Prose in Rhyme; and
Epigrams, Moralities, and Things without a Name', the concluding section
of 'Poems' in the edition of 1828, 1829, vol. ii, pp. 75-117. It was
prefixed to 'Miscellaneous Poems' in 1834, vol. ii, pp. 55-152, and to
'Poems written in Later Life', 1852, pp. 319-78.


LINENOTES:

Title] ΕΠΙΤΑΦΙΟΝ ΑΥΤΟΓΡΑΠΤΟΝ L. R., 1844: ἐπιθανοῦς] ἐπιδανοὺς L. S.

The emendation ἐπιθανοῦς (i. e. moribund) was suggested by the Reader of
Macmillan's edition of 1893. Other alternatives, e. g. ἐπιδευοῦς (the
lacking), to the word as misprinted in the Literary Souvenir have been
suggested, but there can be no doubt that what Coleridge intended to
imply was that he was near his end.

Greek motto: Ἔρως ἀεὶ λάλος MS. S. T. C.

[1-4]

  In many ways I own do we reveal.
  The Presence of the Love we would conceal,
  But in how many more do we let know
  The absence of the Love we found would show.

MS. S. T. C.




THE IMPROVISATORE[462:3]

OR, 'JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO, JOHN'


_Scene--A spacious drawing-room, with music-room adjoining._

_Katharine._ What are the words?

_Eliza._ Ask our friend, the Improvisatore; here he comes. Kate has a
favour to ask of you, Sir; it is that you will repeat the ballad[463:1]
that Mr. ---- sang so sweetly.

_Friend._ It is in Moore's Irish Melodies; but I do not recollect the
words distinctly. The moral of them, however, I take to be this:--

  Love would remain the same if true,
  When we were neither young nor new;
  Yea, and in all within the will that came,
  By the same proofs would show itself the same.

_Eliz._ What are the lines you repeated from Beaumont and Fletcher,
which my mother admired so much? It begins with something about two
vines so close that their tendrils intermingle.

_Fri._ You mean Charles' speech to Angelina, in _The Elder
Brother_[463:2].

  We'll live together, like two neighbour vines,
  Circling our souls and loves in one another!
  We'll spring together, and we'll bear one fruit;
  One joy shall make us smile, and one grief mourn;
  One age go with us, and one hour of death
  Shall close our eyes, and one grave make us happy.

_Kath._ A precious boon, that would go far to reconcile one to old
age--this love--_if_ true! But is there any such true love?

_Fri._ I hope so.

_Kath._ But do you believe it?

_Eliz._ (_eagerly_). I am sure he does.

_Fri._ From a man turned of fifty, Katharine, I imagine, expects a less
confident answer.

_Kath._ A more sincere one, perhaps.

_Fri._ Even though he should have obtained the nick-name of
Improvisatore, by perpetrating charades and extempore verses at
Christmas times?

_Eliz._ Nay, but be serious.

_Fri._ Serious! Doubtless. A grave personage of my years giving a
Love-lecture to two young ladies, cannot well be otherwise. The
difficulty, I suspect, would be for them to remain so. It will be asked
whether I am not the 'elderly gentleman' who sate 'despairing beside a
clear stream', with a willow for his wig-block.

_Eliz._ Say another word, and we will call it downright affectation.

_Kath._ No! we will be affronted, drop a courtesy, and ask pardon for
our presumption in expecting that Mr. ---- would waste his sense on two
insignificant girls.

_Fri._ Well, well, I will be serious. Hem! Now then commences the
discourse; Mr. Moore's song being the text. Love, as distinguished from
Friendship, on the one hand, and from the passion that too often usurps
its name, on the other--

_Lucius_ (_Eliza's brother, who had just joined the trio, in a whisper
to the Friend_). But is not Love the union of both?

_Fri._ (_aside to Lucius_). He never loved who thinks so.

_Eliz._ Brother, we don't want _you_. There! Mrs. H. cannot arrange the
flower vase without you. Thank you, Mrs. Hartman.

_Luc._ I'll have my revenge! I know what I will say!

_Eliz._ Off! Off! Now, dear Sir,--Love, you were saying--

_Fri._ Hush! _Preaching_, you mean, Eliza.

_Eliz._ (_impatiently_). Pshaw!

_Fri._ Well then, I was _saying_ that Love, truly such, is itself not
the most common thing in the world: and mutual love still less so. But
that enduring personal attachment, so beautifully delineated by Erin's
sweet melodist, and still more touchingly, perhaps, in the well-known
ballad, 'John Anderson, my Jo, John,' in addition to a depth and
constancy of character of no every-day occurrence, supposes a peculiar
sensibility and tenderness of nature; a constitutional communicativeness
and _utterancy_ of heart and soul; a delight in the detail of sympathy,
in the outward and visible signs of the sacrament within--to count, as
it were, the pulses of the life of love. But above all, it supposes a
soul which, even in the pride and summer-tide of life--even in the
lustihood of health and strength, had felt oftenest and prized highest
that which age cannot take away and which, in all our lovings, is _the_
Love;--

_Eliz._ There is something _here_ (_pointing to her heart_) that _seems_
to understand you, but wants the _word_ that would make it understand
itself.

_Kath._ I, too, seem to _feel_ what you mean. Interpret the feeling for
us.

_Fri._ ---- I mean that _willing_ sense of the insufficingness of the
_self_ for itself, which predisposes a generous nature to see, in the
total being of another, the supplement and completion of its own;--that
quiet perpetual _seeking_ which the presence of the beloved object
modulates, not suspends, where the heart momently finds, and, finding,
again seeks on;--lastly, when 'life's changeful orb has pass'd the
full', a confirmed faith in the nobleness of humanity, thus brought home
and pressed, as it were, to the very bosom of hourly experience; it
supposes, I say, a heartfelt reverence for worth, not the less deep
because divested of its solemnity by habit, by familiarity, by mutual
infirmities, and even by a feeling of modesty which will arise in
delicate minds, when they are conscious of possessing the same or the
correspondent excellence in their own characters. In short, there must
be a mind, which, while it feels the beautiful and the excellent in the
beloved as its own, and by right of love appropriates it, can call
Goodness its Playfellow; and dares make sport of time and infirmity,
while, in the person of a thousand-foldly endeared partner, we feel for
aged Virtue the caressing fondness that belongs to the Innocence of
childhood, and repeat the same attentions and tender courtesies which
had been dictated by the same affection to the same object when attired
in feminine loveliness or in manly beauty.

_Eliz._ What a soothing--what an elevating idea!

_Kath._ If it be not only an _idea_.

_Fri._ At all events, these qualities which I have enumerated, are
rarely found united in a single individual. How much more rare must it
be, that two such individuals should meet together in this wide world
under circumstances that admit of their union as Husband and Wife. A
person may be highly estimable on the whole, nay, amiable as neighbour,
friend, housemate--in short, in all the concentric circles of attachment
save only the last and inmost; and yet from how many causes be estranged
from the highest perfection in this! Pride, coldness, or fastidiousness
of nature, worldly cares, an anxious or ambitious disposition, a passion
for display, a sullen temper,--one or the other--too often proves 'the
dead fly in the compost of spices', and any one is enough to unfit it
for the precious balm of unction. For some mighty good sort of people,
too, there is not seldom a sort of solemn saturnine, or, if you will,
_ursine_ vanity, that keeps itself alive by sucking the paws of its own
self-importance. And as this high sense, or rather sensation of their
own value is, for the most part, grounded on negative qualities, so
they have no better means of preserving the same but by
_negatives_--that is, by _not_ doing or saying any thing, that might be
put down for fond, silly, or nonsensical;--or (to use their own phrase)
by _never forgetting themselves_, which some of their acquaintance are
uncharitable enough to think the most worthless object they could be
employed in remembering.

_Eliz._ (_in answer to a whisper from Katharine_). To a hair! He must
have sate for it himself. Save me from such folks! But they are out of
the question.

_Fri._ True! but the same effect is produced in thousands by the too
general insensibility to a very important truth; this, namely, that the
MISERY of human life is made up of large masses, each separated from the
other by certain intervals. One year, the death of a child; years after,
a failure in trade; after another longer or shorter interval, a daughter
may have married unhappily;--in all but the singularly unfortunate, the
integral parts that compose the sum total of the unhappiness of a man's
life, are easily counted, and distinctly remembered. The HAPPINESS of
life, on the contrary, is made up of minute fractions--the little,
soon-forgotten charities of a kiss, a smile, a kind look, a heartfelt
compliment in the disguise of playful raillery, and the countless other
infinitesimals of pleasurable thought and genial feeling.

_Kath._ Well, Sir; you have said quite enough to make me despair of
finding a 'John Anderson, my Jo, John', with whom to totter down the
hill of life.

_Fri._ Not so! Good men are not, I trust, so much scarcer than good
women, but that what another would find in you, you may hope to find in
another. But well, however, may that boon be rare, the possession of
which would be more than an adequate reward for the rarest virtue.

_Eliz._ Surely, he, who has described it so well, must have possessed
it?

_Fri._ If he were worthy to have possessed it, and had believingly
anticipated and not found it, how bitter the disappointment!

(_Then, after a pause of a few minutes_).

  ANSWER, _ex improviso_

  Yes, yes! that boon, life's richest treat
  He had, or fancied that he had;
  Say, 'twas but in his own conceit--
    The fancy made him glad!
  Crown of his cup, and garnish of his dish!                           5
  The boon, prefigured in his earliest wish,
  The fair fulfilment of his poesy,
  When his young heart first yearn'd for sympathy!
  But e'en the meteor offspring of the brain
          Unnourished wane;                                           10
  Faith asks her daily bread,
  And Fancy must be fed!
  Now so it chanced--from wet or dry,
  It boots not how--I know not why--
  She missed her wonted food; and quickly                             15
  Poor Fancy stagger'd and grew sickly.
  Then came a restless state, 'twixt yea and nay,
  His faith was fix'd, his heart all ebb and flow;
  Or like a bark, in some half-shelter'd bay,
  Above its anchor driving to and fro.                                20

  That boon, which but to have possess'd
  In a _belief_, gave life a zest--
  Uncertain both what it _had_ been,
  And if by error lost, or luck;
  And what it _was_;--an evergreen                                    25
  Which some insidious blight had struck,
  Or annual flower, which, past its blow,
  No vernal spell shall e'er revive;
  Uncertain, and afraid to know,
    Doubts toss'd him to and fro:                                     30
  Hope keeping Love, Love Hope alive,
  Like babes bewildered in a snow,
  That cling and huddle from the cold
  In hollow tree or ruin'd fold.

  Those sparkling colours, once his boast                             35
      Fading, one by one away,
  Thin and hueless as a ghost,
      Poor Fancy on her sick bed lay;
  Ill at distance, worse when near,
  Telling her dreams to jealous Fear!                                 40
  Where was it then, the sociable sprite
  That crown'd the Poet's cup and deck'd his dish!
  Poor shadow cast from an unsteady wish,
  Itself a substance by no other right
  But that it intercepted Reason's light;                             45
  It dimm'd his eye, it darken'd on his brow,
  A peevish mood, a tedious time, I trow!
      Thank Heaven! 'tis not so now.

  O bliss of blissful hours!
  The boon of Heaven's decreeing,                                     50
  While yet in Eden's bowers
  Dwelt the first husband and his sinless mate!
  The one sweet plant, which, piteous Heaven agreeing,
  They bore with them thro' Eden's closing gate!
  Of life's gay summer tide the sovran Rose!                          55
  Late autumn's Amaranth, that more fragrant blows
  When Passion's flowers all fall or fade;
  If this were ever his, in outward being,
  Or but his own true love's projected shade,
  Now that at length by certain proof he knows,                       60
  That whether real or a magic show,
  Whate'er it _was_, it _is_ no longer so;
  Though heart be lonesome, Hope laid low,
  Yet, Lady! deem him not unblest:
  The certainty that struck Hope dead,                                65
  Hath left Contentment in her stead:
      And that is next to Best!

1827.


FOOTNOTES:

[462:3] First published in the _Amulet_ for 1828 (with a prose
introduction entitled 'New Thoughts on Old Subjects; or Conversational
Dialogues on Interests and Events of Common Life.' By S. T. Coleridge):
included in 1829 and 1834. The text of 1834 is identical with that of
the _Amulet_, 1828, but the italics in the prose dialogue were not
reproduced. They have been replaced in the text of the present issue.
The title may have been suggested by L. E. L.'s _Improvisatrice_
published in 1824.

[463:1] 'Believe me if all those endearing young charms.'

[463:2] See Beaumont and Fletcher, _The Elder Brother_, Act III, Scene
v. In the original the lines are printed as prose. In line 1 of the
quotation Coleridge has substituted 'neighbour' for 'wanton', and in
line 6, 'close' for 'shut'.




TO MARY PRIDHAM[468:1]

[AFTERWARDS MRS. DERWENT COLERIDGE]


  Dear tho' unseen! tho' I have left behind
  Life's gayer views and all that stirs the mind,
  Now I revive, Hope making a new start,
  Since I have heard with most believing heart,
  That all my glad eyes would grow bright to see,                      5
  My Derwent hath found realiz'd in thee,
  The boon prefigur'd in his earliest wish
  Crown of his cup and garnish of his dish!
  The fair fulfilment of his poesy,
  When his young heart first yearn'd for sympathy!                    10
  Dear tho' unseen! unseen, yet long portray'd!
  A Father's blessing on thee, gentle Maid!
                                            S. T. COLERIDGE.

_16th October_ 1827.


FOOTNOTES:

[468:1] First published in 1893. Lines 7-10 are borrowed from lines 5-8
of the 'Answer _ex improviso_', which forms part of the _Improvisatore_
(ll. 7, 8 are transposed). An original MS. is inscribed on the first
page of an album presented to Mrs. Derwent Coleridge on her marriage, by
her husband's friend, the Reverend John Moultrie. The editor of _P. W._,
1893, printed from another MS. dated Grove, Highgate, 15th October,
1827.


LINENOTES:

Title]: To Mary S. Pridham MS. S. T. C.

[1-3]

  Dear tho' unseen! tho' hard has been my lot
  And rough my path thro' life, I murmur not--
  Rather rejoice--

MS. S. T. C.

[5] That all this shaping heart has yearned to see MS. S. T. C.

[8] his] the MS. S. T. C. his] the MS. S. T. C.




ALICE DU CLOS[469:1]

OR THE FORKED TONGUE

A BALLAD

     'One word with two meanings is the traitor's shield and shaft:
     and a slit tongue be his blazon!'--_Caucasian Proverb._


  'The Sun is not yet risen,
  But the dawn lies red on the dew:
  Lord Julian has stolen from the hunters away,
  Is seeking, Lady! for you.
  Put on your dress of green,                                          5
    Your buskins and your quiver:
  Lord Julian is a hasty man,
    Long waiting brook'd he never.
  I dare not doubt him, that he means
    To wed you on a day,                                              10
  Your lord and master for to be,
    And you his lady gay.
  O Lady! throw your book aside!
  I would not that my Lord should chide.'

  Thus spake Sir Hugh the vassal knight                               15
    To Alice, child of old Du Clos,
  As spotless fair, as airy light
    As that moon-shiny doe,
  The gold star on its brow, her sire's ancestral crest!
  For ere the lark had left his nest,                                 20
    She in the garden bower below
  Sate loosely wrapt in maiden white,
  Her face half drooping from the sight,
    A snow-drop on a tuft of snow!

  O close your eyes, and strive to see                                25
  The studious maid, with book on knee,--
    Ah! earliest-open'd flower;
  While yet with keen unblunted light
  The morning star shone opposite
    The lattice of her bower--                                        30
  Alone of all the starry host,
    As if in prideful scorn
  Of flight and fear he stay'd behind,
    To brave th' advancing morn.

  O! Alice could read passing well,                                   35
    And she was conning then
  Dan Ovid's mazy tale of loves,
    And gods, and beasts, and men.

  The vassal's speech, his taunting vein,
  It thrill'd like venom thro' her brain;                             40
    Yet never from the book
  She rais'd her head, nor did she deign
    The knight a single look.

  'Off, traitor friend! how dar'st thou fix
    Thy wanton gaze on me?                                            45
  And why, against my earnest suit,
    Does Julian send by thee?
  'Go, tell thy Lord, that slow is sure:
    Fair speed his shafts to-day!
  I follow here a stronger lure,                                      50
    And chase a gentler prey.'

  She said: and with a baleful smile
    The vassal knight reel'd off--
  Like a huge billow from a bark
    Toil'd in the deep sea-trough,                                    55
  That shouldering sideways in mid plunge,
    Is travers'd by a flash.
  And staggering onward, leaves the ear
    With dull and distant crash.

  And Alice sate with troubled mien                                   60
  A moment; for the scoff was keen,
    And thro' her veins did shiver!
  Then rose and donn'd her dress of green,
    Her buskins and her quiver.

  There stands the flow'ring may-thorn tree!                          65
  From thro' the veiling mist you see
    The black and shadowy stem;--
  Smit by the sun the mist in glee
  Dissolves to lightsome jewelry--
    Each blossom hath its gem!                                        70

  With tear-drop glittering to a smile,
  The gay maid on the garden-stile
    Mimics the hunter's shout.
  'Hip! Florian, hip! To horse, to horse!
    Go, bring the palfrey out.                                        75

  'My Julian's out with all his clan.
    And, bonny boy, you wis,
  Lord Julian is a hasty man,
    Who comes late, comes amiss.'

  Now Florian was a stripling squire,                                 80
    A gallant boy of Spain,
  That toss'd his head in joy and pride,
  Behind his Lady fair to ride,
    But blush'd to hold her train.

  The huntress is in her dress of green,--                            85
  And forth they go; she with her bow,
    Her buskins and her quiver!--
  The squire--no younger e'er was seen--
  With restless arm and laughing een,
    He makes his javelin quiver.                                      90

  And had not Ellen stay'd the race,
  And stopp'd to see, a moment's space,
    The whole great globe of light
  Give the last parting kiss-like touch
  To the eastern ridge, it lack'd not much,                           95
    They had o'erta'en the knight.

  It chanced that up the covert lane,
    Where Julian waiting stood,
  A neighbour knight prick'd on to join
    The huntsmen in the wood.                                        100

  And with him must Lord Julian go,
    Tho' with an anger'd mind:
  Betroth'd not wedded to his bride,
    In vain he sought, 'twixt shame and pride,
    Excuse to stay behind.                                           105

  He bit his lip, he wrung his glove,
  He look'd around, he look'd above,
    But pretext none could find or frame.
  Alas! alas! and well-a-day!
  It grieves me sore to think, to say,                               110
  That names so seldom meet with Love,
    Yet Love wants courage without a name!

  Straight from the forest's skirt the trees
    O'er-branching, made an aisle,
  Where hermit old might pace and chaunt                             115
    As in a minster's pile.

  From underneath its leafy screen,
    And from the twilight shade,
  You pass at once into a green,
    A green and lightsome glade.                                     120

  And there Lord Julian sate on steed;
    Behind him, in a round,
  Stood knight and squire, and menial train;
  Against the leash the greyhounds strain;
    The horses paw'd the ground.                                     125

  When up the alley green, Sir Hugh
    Spurr'd in upon the sward,
  And mute, without a word, did he
    Fall in behind his lord.

  Lord Julian turn'd his steed half round,--                         130
    'What! doth not Alice deign
  To accept your loving convoy, knight?
  Or doth she fear our woodland sleight,
    And join us on the plain?'

  With stifled tones the knight replied,                             135
  And look'd askance on either side,--
    'Nay, let the hunt proceed!--
  The Lady's message that I bear,
  I guess would scantly please your ear,
    And less deserves your heed.                                     140

  'You sent betimes. Not yet unbarr'd
    I found the middle door;--
  Two stirrers only met my eyes,
    Fair Alice, and one more.

  'I came unlook'd for; and, it seem'd,                              145
    In an unwelcome hour;
  And found the daughter of Du Clos
    Within the lattic'd bower.

  'But hush! the rest may wait. If lost,
    No great loss, I divine;                                         150
  And idle words will better suit
    A fair maid's lips than mine.'

  'God's wrath! speak out, man,' Julian cried,
    O'ermaster'd by the sudden smart;--
  And feigning wrath, sharp, blunt, and rude,                        155
  The knight his subtle shift pursued.--
  'Scowl not at me; command my skill,
  To lure your hawk back, if you will,
    But not a woman's heart.

  '"Go! (said she) tell him,--slow is sure;                          160
    Fair speed his shafts to-day!
  I follow here a stronger lure,
    And chase a gentler prey."

  'The game, pardie, was full in sight,
  That then did, if I saw aright,                                    165
    The fair dame's eyes engage;
  For turning, as I took my ways,
  I saw them fix'd with steadfast gaze
    Full on her wanton page.'

  The last word of the traitor knight                                170
    It had but entered Julian's ear,--
  From two o'erarching oaks between,
  With glist'ning helm-like cap is seen,
    Borne on in giddy cheer,

  A youth, that ill his steed can guide;                             175
  Yet with reverted face doth ride,
    As answering to a voice,
  That seems at once to laugh and chide--
  'Not mine, dear mistress,' still he cried,
    ''Tis this mad filly's choice.'                                  180

  With sudden bound, beyond the boy,
  See! see! that face of hope and joy,
    That regal front! those cheeks aglow!
  Thou needed'st but the crescent sheen,
  A quiver'd Dian to have been,                                      185
    Thou lovely child of old Du Clos!

  Dark as a dream Lord Julian stood,
  Swift as a dream, from forth the wood,
    Sprang on the plighted Maid!
  With fatal aim, and frantic force,                                 190
  The shaft was hurl'd!--a lifeless corse,
  Fair Alice from her vaulting horse,
    Lies bleeding on the glade.

? 1828.


FOOTNOTES:

[469:1] First published in 1834. The date of composition cannot be
ascertained. The MS., an early if not a first draft, is certainly of
late date. The water-marks of the paper (Bath Post) are 1822 and 1828.
There is a second draft (_MS. b_) of lines 97-112. Line 37, 'Dan Ovid's
mazy tale of loves,' may be compared with line 100 of _The Garden of
Boccaccio_, 'Peers Ovid's Holy Book of Love's sweet smart,' and it is
probable that _Alice Du Clos_ was written about the same time, 1828-9.
In line 91 'Ellen' is no doubt a slip of the pen for 'Alice'.


LINENOTES:

Title] Alice Du Clos: or &c. MS.

[19-25]

    Her sires had chosen for their Crest
      A star atwixt its brow,
    For she, already up and drest
      Sate in the garden bower below.
      For she enwrapt in }
      Enwrapt in robe of } Maiden white
      { face half drooping
  Her { [*visage drooping*] from the sight
      A snow-drop in a tuft of snow
    Ere the first lark had left the nest
      Sate in the garden bower below.

MS. erased.

[48] Go tell him I am well at home MS. erased.

[49] speed] fly MS. erased.

[50] stronger] sweeter MS. erased.

[51] gentler] lovelier MS. erased.

[53] reel'd] pass'd MS. erased.

[54-7]

                            { [*stormy*]
  Like a [*tall Wave that*] { [*huge and dark*]
  Reels sideway from a toiling Bark
  Toil'd in the deep sea-trough
  Is traversed by     }
  [*Catches askance*] } the Lightning flash

_or_

  Like a huge Billow, rude and dark
       { as it falls off from a Bark
  That { [*tumbling mainward from*]
    Toil'd in the deep Sea-trough

MS. erased.

[56] shouldering] wheeling MS. erased.

[61] A moment's pause MS. erased.

[65]

  Yon May-thorn tree dimly--

_or_

  O fairly flower yon may-thorn tree

MS. erased.

[69] lightsome] glittering MS.

[71] With] The MS.

[76] Lord Julian in the Greenwood stays MS. erased.

[87] With buskins and with quiver MS. erased.

[100] huntsmen] huntsman MS. b.

[104] He sought in vain twixt shame and pride MS. b.

[107] He look'd far round MS. b.

[110] sore] sair MS. b, MS. erased.

[111] Tho' names too seldom MS. b.

[122] With all his gay hunt round MS.

[126] When] And MS.

[128] And dark of Brow, without a word MS.

[135] stifled] muttering MS. erased.

[136] And Look askance MS.: Yet not unheard MS. erased.

[153-7]

                          { Lord Julian cry'd
  God's wrath! speak out! { What mean'st thou man?
  { Recoiling with a start
  { Cried Julian with a start.
       { well-feign'd anger
  With { feign'd resentment blunt and rude
  Sir Hugh his deep revenge pursued
  Why scowl at me? Command my skill.

MS. erased (_first draft_).

[159] She bade me tell you MS. erased.

[167] For as she clos'd her scoffing phrase MS. erased.

[173-4]

  And who from twixt those opening Trees
    Pricks on with laughing cheer

MS. erased (_first draft_).




LOVE'S BURIAL-PLACE[475:1]


  _Lady._ If Love be dead--
    _Poet._ And I aver it!
  _Lady._ Tell me, Bard! where Love lies buried?
    _Poet._ Love lies buried where 'twas born:
  Oh, gentle dame! think it no scorn                                   5
  If, in my fancy, I presume
  To call thy bosom poor Love's Tomb.
  And on that tomb to read the line:--
  'Here lies a Love that once seem'd mine,
  But caught a chill, as I divine,                                    10
  And died at length of a Decline.'

1828.


FOOTNOTES:

[475:1] First published in 1828: included in the _Amulet_, 1833, as the
first of 'Three Scraps', and in 1852. The present text is that of the
_Amulet_, 1833.


LINENOTES:

Title] The Alienated Mistress: A Madrigal (From an unfinished Melodrama)
1828, 1852.

[1-3]

  _Lady._ If Love be dead (and you aver it!)
           Tell me Bard! where Love lies buried.

1828, 1852.

[5] Ah faithless nymph 1828, 1852.

[7] call] name 1828, 1852.

[9] seem'd] was 1828, 1852.

[10] caught] took 1828, 1852.




LINES[476:1]

TO A COMIC AUTHOR, ON AN ABUSIVE REVIEW


  What though the chilly wide-mouth'd quacking chorus
  From the rank swamps of murk Review-land croak:
  So was it, neighbour, in the times before us,
  When Momus, throwing on his Attic cloak,
  Romp'd with the Graces; and each tickled Muse                        5
  (That Turk, Dan Phœbus, whom bards call divine,
  Was married to--at least, he kept--all nine)
  Fled, but still with reverted faces ran;
  Yet, somewhat the broad freedoms to excuse,
  They had allured the audacious Greek to use,                        10
  Swore they mistook him for their own good man.
  This Momus--Aristophanes on earth
  Men call'd him--maugre all his wit and worth,
  Was croak'd and gabbled at. How, then, should you,
  Or I, friend, hope to 'scape the skulking crew?                     15
  No! laugh, and say aloud, in tones of glee,
  'I hate the quacking tribe, and they hate me!'

? 1825.


FOOTNOTES:

[476:1] First published in _Friendship's Offering_, 1834, as No. III of
'Lightheartednesses in Rhyme': included in 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] To a Comic Author on an abusive review of his Aristophanes MS.

[1 foll.]

                      They fled;--
  Friend yet unknown! What tho' a brainless rout
  _Usurp the sacred title of the Bard_--
  What tho' the chilly wide-mouth'd chorus
  From Styx or Lethe's oozy Channel croak:
  So was it, Peter, in the times before us
  When Momus throwing on his Attic cloak
  Romp'd with the Graces and each tickled Muse
  The plighted coterie of Phœbus he bespoke
  And laughing with reverted faces ran,
  And somewhat the broad freedom to excuse
  They had allow'd the audacious Greek to use
  Swore they mistook him for their own good man!
  If the good dulness be the home of worth
  Duller than Frogs co-ax'd, or Jeffrey writ
  We, too, will Aristoff (_sic_) and welcome it--

_First draft_ MS. B. M.

[7] kept] _kept_ F. O. 1834.




COLOGNE[477:1]


    In Köhln[477:2], a town of monks and bones[477:3],
    And pavements fang'd with murderous stones
    And rags, and hags, and hideous wenches;
    I counted two and seventy stenches,
    All well defined, and several stinks!                              5
    Ye Nymphs that reign o'er sewers and sinks,
    The river Rhine, it is well known,
    Doth wash your city of Cologne;
  But tell me, Nymphs, what power divine
  Shall henceforth wash the river Rhine[477:4]?                       10

1828.


FOOTNOTES:

[477:1] First published in _Friendship's Offering_, 1834, as No. IV of
'Lightheartednesses in Rhyme'. It follows the lines 'On my joyful
Departure', &c., and is headed 'Expectoration the Second'. First
collected in 1834.

[477:2] Köhln Coln _F. O._ The German Name of Cologne. _F. O._]

[477:3] Of the eleven thousand virgin Martyrs. _F. O._

[477:4] As Necessity is the mother of Invention, and extremes beget each
other, the facts above recorded may explain how this _ancient_ town
(which, alas! as sometimes happens with venison, _has been kept too
long_), _came to be the birthplace of the most fragrant of spirituous
fluids, the_ EAU DE COLOGNE. _F. O._




ON MY JOYFUL DEPARTURE[477:5]

FROM THE SAME CITY


          As I am a Rhymer[477:6],
        And now at least a merry one,
        Mr. Mum's Rudesheimer[477:7]
        And the church of St. Geryon
        Are the two things alone                                       5
        That deserve to be known
  In the body-and-soul-stinking town of Cologne.

1828.


FOOTNOTES:

[477:5] First published in _Friendship's Offering_, 1834, with the
heading 'An Expectoration, or Splenetic Extempore, on my joyful
departure from the City of Cologne'. First collected in 1834.

[477:6] As I am Rhymer, _F. O._, _P. W._, 1834, 1893. The 'a' is
inserted by Coleridge on a page of _F. O._, 1834; the correction was not
adopted in _P. W._, 1834.

[477:7] The _apotheosis_ of Rhenish wine.




THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO[478:1]


  Or 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,                           5
  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 slumb'ring, seem'd alone to wake;                   10
  O Friend[478:2]! 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,                                   15
  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                            20
  Of music soft that not dispels the sleep,
    But casts in happier moulds the slumberer's dream,
  Grazed by an idle eye with silent might
  The picture stole upon my inward sight.
  A tremulous warmth crept gradual o'er my chest,                     25
  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;                             30
  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                   35
  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,                          40
  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:                             45
  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,                         50
  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,                            55
  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;                            60
  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,                                 65
  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,                          71
  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                        75
  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,                         80
  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;                85
  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,                     90
  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!                         95
  Mid gods of Greece and warriors of romance,
  See! Boccace sits, unfolding on his knees
  The new-found roll of old Maeonides;[480:1]
  But from his mantle's fold, and near the heart,
  Peers Ovid's Holy Book of Love's sweet smart![480:2]               100
  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 wingéd saints, all gracious to thy muse!

  Still in thy garden let me watch their pranks,                     105
  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.


FOOTNOTES:

[478:1] First published in _The Keepsake_ for 1829, to accompany a plate
by Stothard: included in 1829 and 1834. The variant of lines 49-56,
probably a fragment of some earlier unprinted poem, is inserted in one
of Coleridge's Notebooks.

[478:2] Mrs. Gillman.

[480:1] Boccaccio claimed for himself the glory of having first
introduced the works of Homer to his countrymen.

[480:2] I know few more striking or more interesting proofs of the
overwhelming influence which the study of the Greek and Roman classics
exercised on the judgments, feelings, and imaginations of the literati
of Europe at the commencement of the restoration of literature, than the
passage in the _Filocopo_ of Boccaccio, where the sage instructor,
Racheo, as soon as the young prince and the beautiful girl Biancofiore
had learned their letters, sets them to study the Holy Book, Ovid's Art
of Love. 'Incominciò Racheo a mettere il suo [officio] in esecuzione con
intera sollecitudine. E loro, in breve tempo, insegnato a conoscer le
lettere, fece leggere il santo libro d'Ovvidio, [!! _S. T. C._] nel
quale il sommo poeta mostra, come i santi fuochi di Venere si debbano
ne' freddi cuori con sollecitudine accendere.' ['Deeply interesting--but
observe, p. 63, ll. 33-5 [_loc. cit._], The _holy Book_--Ovid's Art of
Love!! This is not the result of mere Immorality:--

  Multum, Multum
  Hic jacet sepultum.'

MS. note on the fly-leaf of S. T. C.'s copy of vol. i of Boccaccio's
_Opere_, 1723.]


LINENOTES:

[49-56]

  And there was young Philosophy
  Unconscious of herself, pardie;
  And now she hight poesy,
  And like a child in playful glee
  Prattles and plays with flower and stone,
  As youth's fairy playfellows
  Revealed to Innocence alone.

MS. S. T. C.

[59] all] _all_ Keepsake, 1829.

[108] vestal] _vestal_ Keepsake, 1829.




LOVE, HOPE, AND PATIENCE IN EDUCATION[481:1]


  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                            5
  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,                     10
  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                           15
  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,
  Woos 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,                              21
              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,                     25
  And both supporting does the work of both.

1829.


FOOTNOTES:

[481:1] First published in _The Keepsake_ for 1830: included in _P. W._,
1834, iii. 381. An MS. version was forwarded to W. Sotheby in an
unpublished letter of July 12, 1829. A second MS., dated July 1, 1829,
is inscribed in an album now in the Editor's possession, which belonged
to Miss Emily Trevenen (the author of _Little Derwent's Breakfast_,
1839). With regard to the variant of ll. 24-6, vide _infra_, Coleridge
writes (Letter of July 12, 1829):--'They were struck out by the author,
not because he thought them bad lines in themselves (quamvis Delia
Cruscam fortasse nimis redolere videantur), but because they diverted
and retarded the stream of the thought, and injured the organic unity of
the composition. _Più nel uno_ is Francesco de Sallez' brief and happy
definition of the beautiful, and the shorter the poem the more
indispensable is it that the _Più_ should not overlay the _Uno_, that
the unity should be evident. But to sacrifice the _gratification_, the
sting of _pleasure_, from a fine _passage_ to the _satisfaction_, the
sense of _complacency_ arising from the contemplation of a symmetrical
_Whole_ is among the last conquests achieved by men of genial powers.'


LINENOTES:

Title] Lines in a Lady's Album in answer to her question respecting the
accomplishments most desirable in the Mistress or Governess of a
Preparatory School Letter, July 1829: The Poet's Answer, To a Lady's
Question respecting the accomplishments most desirable in an
instructress of Children Keepsake, 1830.

[2] And] Yet Letter, 1829.

[3] thy] _thy_ Keepsake.

[4] keep school] _keep school_ Keepsake.

[9-11]

  Methinks I see them now, the triune group,
  With straiten'd arms uprais'd, the Palms aslope
  Robe touching Robe beneath, and blending as they flow.

Letter, July 1829.

[15] doth] will Keepsake, 1833.

[24-6]

  Then like a Statue with a Statue's strength,
  And with a Smile, the Sister Fay of those
    Who at meek Evening's Close
    To teach our Grief repose,
  Their freshly-gathered store of Moonbeams wreath
  On Marble Lips, a Chantrey has made breathe.

Letter, July 1829.




TO MISS A. T.[482:1]

  Verse, pictures, music, thoughts both grave and gay,
  Remembrances of dear-loved friends away,
  On spotless page of virgin white displayed,
  Such should thine Album be, for such art thou, sweet maid!

1829.


FOOTNOTES:

[482:1] First published in _Essays on His Own Times_, 1850, iii, 998
with the title 'To Miss A. T.' First collected in 1893, with the title
'In Miss E. Trevenen's Album'. 'Miss A. T.' may have been a misprint for
Miss E. T., but there is no MS. authority for the title prefixed in
1893.




LINES[483:1]

WRITTEN IN COMMONPLACE BOOK OF MISS BARBOUR, DAUGHTER OF THE MINISTER OF
THE U.S.A. TO ENGLAND


  Child of my muse! in Barbour's gentle hand
  Go cross the main: thou seek'st no foreign land:
  'Tis not the clod beneath our feet we name
  Our country. Each heaven-sanctioned tie the same,
  Laws, manners, language, faith, ancestral blood,                     5
  Domestic honour, awe of womanhood:--
  With kindling pride thou wilt rejoice to see
  Britain with elbow-room and doubly free!
  Go seek thy countrymen! and if one scar
  Still linger of that fratricidal war,                               10
  Look to the maid who brings thee from afar;
  Be thou the olive-leaf and she the dove,
  And say, I greet thee with a brother's love!
                                            S. T. COLERIDGE.

GROVE, HIGHGATE, _August_ 1829.


FOOTNOTES:

[483:1] First published in the _New York Mirror_ for Dec. 19, 1829:
reprinted in _The Athenaeum_, May 3, 1884: first collected in 1893.


LINENOTES:

Title] lines written . . . daughter of the late Minister to England.
Athenaeum 1884.




SONG, _ex improviso_[483:2]

ON HEARING A SONG IN PRAISE OF A LADY'S BEAUTY


  'Tis not the lily-brow I prize,
  Nor roseate cheeks, nor sunny eyes,
    Enough of lilies and of roses!
  A thousand-fold more dear to me
  The gentle look that Love discloses,--                               5
    The look that Love alone can see!

_Keepsake_, 1830.


FOOTNOTES:

[483:2] First published in _The Keepsake_ for 1830: included in _Essays
on His Own Times_, 1850, iii. 997. First collected in _P. and D. W._,
1877-80.


LINENOTES:

Title] To a Lady Essays, &c. 1850.

[5-6]

  The look that gentle Love discloses,--
    That look which Love alone can see.

Essays, &c. 1850.




LOVE AND FRIENDSHIP OPPOSITE[484:1]


  Her attachment may differ from yours in degree,
    Provided they are both of one kind;
  But Friendship, how tender so ever it be,
    Gives no accord to Love, however refined.
  Love, that meets not with Love, its true nature revealing,           5
    Grows ashamed of itself, and demurs:
  If you cannot lift hers up to your state of feeling,
    You must lower down your state to hers.

? 1830.


FOOTNOTES:

[484:1] First published as No. ii of 'Lightheartednesses in Rhyme' in
_Friendship's Offering_ for 1834: included in _P. W._, 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] In Answer To A Friend's Question F. O.

[1] in degree] _in degree_ F. O.

[2] kind] _kind_ F. O.




NOT AT HOME[484:2]


  That Jealousy may rule a mind
    Where Love could never be
  I know; but ne'er expect to find
    Love without Jealousy.

  She has a strange cast in her ee,                                    5
    A swart sour-visaged maid--
  But yet Love's own twin-sister she
    His house-mate and his shade.

  Ask for her and she'll be denied:--
    What then? they only mean                                         10
  Their mistress has lain down to sleep,
    And can't just then be seen.

? 1830.


FOOTNOTES:

[484:2] First published in 1834.




PHANTOM OR FACT[484:3]

A DIALOGUE IN VERSE


  AUTHOR

  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,                          5
  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!                             10
  '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                            15
  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.                           20

? 1830.


FOOTNOTES:

[484:3] First published in 1834.




DESIRE[485:1]

  Where true Love burns Desire is Love's pure flame;
  It is the reflex of our earthly frame,
  That takes its meaning from the nobler part,
  And but translates the language of the heart.

? 1830.


FOOTNOTES:

[485:1] First published in 1834.


LINENOTES:

[1-4]

  Desire of pure Love born, itself the same;
  A pulse that animates the outer frame,
  And takes the impress of the nobler part,
  It but repeats the Life, that of the Heart.

MS. S. T. C.




CHARITY IN THOUGHT[486:1]


  To praise men as good, and to take them for such,
    Is a grace which no soul can mete out to a tittle;--
  Of which he who has not a little too much,
    Will by Charity's gauge surely have much too little.

? 1830.


FOOTNOTES:

[486:1] First published in 1834.




HUMILITY THE MOTHER OF CHARITY[486:2]


  Frail creatures are we all! To be the best,
    Is but the fewest faults to have:--
  Look thou then to thyself, and leave the rest
    To God, thy conscience, and the grave.

? 1830.


FOOTNOTES:

[486:2] First published in 1834.




[COELI ENARRANT][486:3]


  The stars that wont to start, as on a chace,
  Mid twinkling insult on Heaven's darken'd face,
  Like a conven'd conspiracy of spies
  Wink at each other with confiding eyes!
  Turn from the portent--all is blank on high,                         5
  No constellations alphabet the sky:
  The Heavens one large Black Letter only shew,
  And as a child beneath its master's blow
  Shrills out at once its task and its affright--[486:4]
  The groaning world now learns to read aright,                       10
  And with its Voice of Voices cries out, O!

? 1830.


FOOTNOTES:

[486:3] Now first published from a MS. of uncertain date. 'I wrote these
lines in imitation of Du Bartas as translated by our Sylvester.' _S. T.
C._

[486:4] Compare Leigh Hunt's story of Boyer's reading-lesson at Christ's
Hospital:--'_Pupil._--(. . . never remembering the stop at the word
"Missionary"). "_Missionary_ Can you see the wind?" (Master gives him a
slap on the cheek.) _Pupil._--(Raising his voice to a cry, and still
forgetting to stop.) "_Indian_ No."' _Autobiography of Leigh Hunt_,
1860, p. 68.




REASON[487:1]

     ['Finally, what is Reason? You have often asked me: and this
     is my answer':--]


  Whene'er the mist, that stands 'twixt God and thee,
  Defecates to a pure transparency,
  That intercepts no light and adds no stain--
  There Reason is, and then begins her reign!

  But alas!                                                            5
          ----'tu stesso, ti fai grosso
    Col falso immaginar, sì che non vedi
    Ciò che vedresti, se l'avessi scosso.'
                                 Dante, _Paradiso_, Canto i.

1830.


FOOTNOTES:

[487:1] First published as the conclusion of _On the Constitution of the
Church and State_, 1830, p. 227. First collected, _P. and D. W._,
1877-80, ii. 374.




SELF-KNOWLEDGE[487:2]

     --E coelo descendit γνῶθι σεαυτόν.--JUVENAL, xi. 27.


  Γνῶθι σεαυτόν!--and is this the prime
  And heaven-sprung adage of the olden time!--
  Say, canst thou make thyself?--Learn first that trade;--
  Haply thou mayst know what thyself had made.
  What hast thou, Man, that thou dar'st call thine own?--              5
  What is there in thee, Man, that can be known?--
  Dark fluxion, all unfixable by thought,
  A phantom dim of past and future wrought,
  Vain sister of the worm,--life, death, soul, clod--
  Ignore thyself, and strive to know thy God!                         10

1832.


FOOTNOTES:

[487:2] First published in 1834.


LINENOTES:

Title] The heading 'Self-knowledge' appears first in 1893.




FORBEARANCE[488:1]

     Beareth all things.--1 COR. xiii. 7.


  Gently I took that which ungently came,[488:2]
  And without scorn forgave:--Do thou the same.
  A wrong done to thee think a cat's-eye spark
  Thou wouldst not see, were not thine own heart dark.
  Thine own keen sense of wrong that thirsts for sin,                  5
  Fear that--the spark self-kindled from within,
  Which blown upon will blind thee with its glare,
  Or smother'd stifle thee with noisome air.
  Clap on the extinguisher, pull up the blinds,
  And soon the ventilated spirit finds                                10
  Its natural daylight. If a foe have kenn'd,
  Or worse than foe, an alienated friend,
  A rib of dry rot in thy ship's stout side,
  Think it God's message, and in humble pride
  With heart of oak replace it;--thine the gains--                    15
  Give him the rotten timber for his pains!

? 1832.


FOOTNOTES:

[488:1] First published in 1834.

[488:2] Compare Spenser's _Shepherd's Calendar_ (Februarie):--

  'Ne ever was to Fortune foeman,
   But gently took that ungently came.'


LINENOTES:

Title] The heading 'Forbearance' appears first in 1893.




LOVE'S APPARITION AND EVANISHMENT[488:3]

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 agéd head aslant,                               5
  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,                               10
  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,                       15
  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,                     20
    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;--                                          25
  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                               30
  That, nursed in tenderest care, yet fades away
  In the chill'd heart by gradual self-decay.

1833.


FOOTNOTES:

[488:3] Lines 1-28 were first published in _Friendship's Offering_ for
1834, signed and dated 'S. T. Coleridge, August 1833': included in _P.
W._, 1834. Lines 29-32 were first added as 'L'Envoy' in 1852. J. D.
Campbell in a note to this poem (1893, p. 644) prints an expanded
version of these lines, which were composed on April 24, 1824, 'as
Coleridge says, "without taking my pen off the paper"'. The same lines
were sent in a letter to Allsop, April 27, 1824 (_Letters, &c._, 1836,
ii. 174-5) with a single variant (line 3) 'uneclips'd' for
'unperturb'd'. In the draft of April 24, four lines were added, and of
these an alternative version was published in _P. W._, 1834, with the
heading 'Desire' (vide _ante_, p. 485). For an earlier draft in S. T.
C.'s handwriting vide Appendices of this edition.


LINENOTES:

[4] Where basking Dipsads[489:A] hiss and swell F. O. 1834.

     [489:A] The Asps of the sand-desert, anciently named Dipsads.

[7] And now] Anon F. O. 1834.

[14] Flitting across the idle sense the while F. O. 1834.

[27] That woke enough F. O. 1834.

[29-32]

  Idly we supplicate the Powers above:
  There is no resurrection for a Love
  That uneclips'd, unshadow'd, wanes away
  In the chill'd heart by inward self-decay.
  Poor mimic of the Past! the love is o'er
  That must _resolve_ to do what did itself of yore.
                           Letter, April 27, 1824.




TO THE YOUNG ARTIST[490:1]

KAYSER OF KASERWERTH


  Kayser! to whom, as to a second self,
  Nature, or Nature's next-of-kin, the Elf,
  Hight Genius, hath dispensed the happy skill
  To cheer or soothe the parting friend's 'Alas!'
  Turning the blank scroll to a magic glass,                           5
  That makes the absent present at our will;
  And to the shadowing of thy pencil gives
  Such seeming substance, that it almost lives.

  Well hast thou given the thoughtful Poet's face!
  Yet hast thou on the tablet of his mind                             10
  A more delightful portrait left behind--
  Even thy own youthful beauty, and artless grace,
  Thy natural gladness and eyes bright with glee!
        Kayser! farewell!
  Be wise! be happy! and forget not me.

1833.


FOOTNOTES:

[490:1] First published in 1834. The original of Kayser's portrait of S.
T. C., a pencil-sketch, is in the possession of the Editor. In 1852
Kaserwerth is printed Kayserwerth. The modern spelling is Kaiserswerth.




MY BAPTISMAL BIRTH-DAY[490:2]


  God's child in Christ adopted,--Christ my all,--
  What that earth boasts were not lost cheaply, rather
  Than forfeit that blest name, by which I call
  The Holy One, the Almighty God, my Father?--
  Father! in Christ we live, and Christ in Thee--                      5
  Eternal Thou, and everlasting we.
  The heir of heaven, henceforth I fear not death:
  In Christ I live! in Christ I draw the breath
  Of the true life!--Let then earth, sea, and sky
  Make war against me! On my heart I show                             10
  Their mighty master's seal. In vain they try
  To end my life, that can but end its woe.--
  Is that a death-bed where a Christian lies?--
  Yes! but not his--'tis Death itself there dies.

1833.


FOOTNOTES:

[490:2] First published in _Friendship's Offering_ for 1834: included in
_P. W._, 1834. Emerson heard Coleridge repeat an earlier version of
these lines on Aug. 5, 1833.


LINENOTES:

Title] Lines composed on a sick-bed, under severe bodily suffering, on
my spiritual birthday, October 28th. F. O.

[1] Born unto God in Christ--in Christ, my All! F. O.

[3] I] we F. O.

[4] my] our F. O.

[7] fear] dread F. O.

[9-10]

                Let Sea, and Earth and Sky
  Wage war against me! On my front I show

F. O.

[11] they] _they_ F. O.

[12] that] who F. O.

[14] his . . . there] _his . . . there_ F. O.




EPITAPH[491:1]


  Stop, Christian passer-by!--Stop, child of God,
  And read with gentle breast. Beneath this sod
  A poet lies, or that which once seem'd he.
  O, lift one thought in prayer for S. T. C.;
  That he who many a year with toil of breath                          5
  Found death in life, may here find life in death!
  Mercy for praise--to be forgiven for fame[492:1]
  He ask'd, and hoped, through Christ. Do thou the same!

_9th November_, 1833.



FOOTNOTES:

[491:1] First published in 1834. Six MS. versions are extant:--(_a_) in
a letter to Mrs. Aders of 1833 (_Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, ii. 770);
(_b_) in a letter to J. G. Lockhart; (_c_) in a letter to J. H. Green of
October 29, 1833: (_d_ _e_) in a copy of Grew's _Cosmologia Sacra_,
annotated by Coleridge in 1833; (_f_) in a copy of the _Todtentanz_,
which belonged to Thomas Poole.

[492:1] N.B. 'for' in the sense of 'instead of'. ἔστη κεῖται
ἀναστήσει--stetit: restat: resurget. ΕΣΤΗΣΕ. _Letter to J. G. Lockhart,
1833._


LINENOTES:

Title or Heading] (_a_) 'Epitaph on a Poet little known, yet better
known by the Initials of his name than by the Name Itself.' S. T. C.
Letter to Mrs. Aders: (_b_) 'Epitaph on a Writer better known by the
Initials of his Name than by the name itself. Suppose an upright
tombstone.' S. T. C. Letter to J. G. Lockhart: (_c_) 'On an author not
wholly unknown; but better known by the initials of his name than by the
name itself, which he partly Graecized, Hic jacet qui stetit, restat,
resurget--on a Tombstone.' Letter to J. H. Green: (_d_) 'Epitaph in
Hornsey Churchyard. Hic jacet S. T. C. Grew (1): (_e_) 'Etesi's (_sic_)
Epitaph,' (and below (_e_)) 'Inscription on the Tombstone of one not
unknown; yet more commonly known by the Initials of his Name than by the
Name itself.' Grew (2): (_f_) 'Esteese's αυτοεπιταφιον.' Note in Poole's
Todtentanz.

From the letter to Mrs. Aders it appears that Coleridge did not
contemplate the epitaph being inscribed on his tombstone, but that he
intended it to be printed 'in letters of a distinctly visible and
legible size' on the outline of a tomb-stone to be engraved as a
vignette to be published in a magazine, or to illustrate the last page
of his 'Miscellaneous Poems' in the second volume of his Poetical Works.
It would seem that the artist, Miss Denman, had included in her sketch
of the vignette the figure of a Muse, and to this Coleridge objects:--'A
rude old yew-tree, or a mountain ash, with a grave or two, or any other
characteristic of a village church-yard,--such a hint of a landscape was
all I meant; but if any figure rather that of an elderly man, thoughtful
with quiet tears upon his cheek.' Letters of S. T. C., 1895, ii. 770.

For the versions inscribed in Grew's _Cosmologia Sacra_, and in Poole's
copy of the _Todtentanz_, vide Appendices of this work.

[2] breast] heart MS. Letters to Mrs. Aders, J. G. Lockhart, J. H.
Green.

[3] seem'd he] was he MS. Letter to J. H. Green.

[5] toil of] toilsome MS. Letter to Mrs. Aden.

[7] to be forgiven] _to be forgiven_ MS. Letters to Mrs. Aders and J. H.
Green.




THE

COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS

OF

SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

INCLUDING

POEMS AND VERSIONS OF POEMS NOW
PUBLISHED FOR THE FIRST TIME


EDITED

WITH TEXTUAL AND BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTES

BY

ERNEST HARTLEY COLERIDGE
M.A., HON. F.R.S.L.


IN TWO VOLUMES

VOL. II: DRAMATIC WORKS AND APPENDICES


[Illustration]


OXFORD
AT THE CLARENDON PRESS
1912


HENRY FROWDE, M.A.
PUBLISHER TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD
LONDON, EDINBURGH, NEW YORK
TORONTO AND MELBOURNE




CONTENTS OF VOL. II


DRAMATIC WORKS

  1794                                                              PAGE
    THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE. An Historic Drama                       495

  1797
    OSORIO. A Tragedy                                                518

  1800
    THE PICCOLOMINI; or, THE FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEIN. A Drama
    translated from the German of Schiller.
      Preface to the First Edition                                   598
      The Piccolomini                                                600
    THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN. A Tragedy in Five Acts.
      Preface of the Translator to the First Edition                 724
      The Death of Wallenstein                                       726

  1812
    REMORSE.
      Preface                                                        812
      Prologue                                                       816
      Epilogue                                                       817
      Remorse. A Tragedy in Five Acts                                819

  1815
    ZAPOLYA. A Christmas Tale in Two Parts.
      Advertisement                                                  883
      Part I. The Prelude, entitled 'The Usurper's Fortune'          884
      Part II. The Sequel, entitled 'The Usurper's Fate'             901


EPIGRAMS                                                             951

  An Apology for Spencers                                            951
  On a Late Marriage between an Old Maid and French Petit Maître     952
  On an Amorous Doctor                                               952
  'Of smart pretty Fellows,' &c.                                     952
  On Deputy ----                                                     953
  'To be ruled like a Frenchman,' &c.                                953
  On Mr. Ross, usually Cognominated _Nosy_                           953
  'Bob now resolves,' &c.                                            953
  'Say what you will, Ingenious Youth'                               954
  'If the guilt of all lying,' &c.                                   954
  On an Insignificant                                                954
  'There comes from old Avaro's grave'                               954
  On a Slanderer                                                     955
  Lines in a German Student's Album                                  955
  [Hippona]                                                          955
  On a Reader of His Own Verses                                      955
  On a Report of a Minister's Death                                  956
  [Dear Brother Jem]                                                 956
  Job's Luck                                                         957
  On the Sickness of a Great Minister                                957
  [To a Virtuous Oeconomist]                                         958
  [L'Enfant Prodigue]                                                958
  On Sir Rubicund Naso                                               958
  To Mr. Pye                                                         959
  [Ninety-Eight]                                                     959
  Occasioned by the Former                                           959
  [A Liar by Profession]                                             960
  To a Proud Parent                                                  960
  Rufa                                                               960
  On a Volunteer Singer                                              960
  Occasioned by the Last                                             961
  Epitaph on Major Dieman                                            961
  On the Above                                                       961
  Epitaph on a Bad Man (Three Versions)                              961
  To a Certain Modern Narcissus                                      962
  To a Critic                                                        962
  Always Audible                                                     963
  Pondere non Numero                                                 963
  The Compliment Qualified                                           963
  'What is an Epigram,' &c.                                          963
  'Charles, grave or merry,' &c.                                     964
  'An evil spirit's on thee, friend,' &c.                            964
  'Here lies the Devil,' &c.                                         964
  To One Who Published in Print, &c.                                 964
  'Scarce any scandal,' &c.                                          965
  'Old Harpy,' &c.                                                   965
  To a Vain Young Lady                                               965
  A Hint to Premiers and First Consuls                               966
  'From me, Aurelia,' &c.                                            966
  For a House-Dog's Collar                                           966
  'In vain I praise thee, Zoilus'                                    966
  Epitaph on a Mercenary Miser                                       967
  A Dialogue between an Author and his Friend                        967
  Μωροσοφία, or Wisdom in Folly                                        967
  'Each Bond-street buck,' &c.                                       968
  From an Old German Poet                                            968
  On the Curious Circumstance, That in the German, &c.               968
  Spots in the Sun                                                   969
  'When Surface talks,' &c.                                          969
  To my Candle                                                       969
  Epitaph on Himself                                                 970
  The Taste of the Times                                             970
  On Pitt and Fox                                                    970
  'An excellent adage,' &c.                                          971
  Comparative Brevity of Greek and English                           971
  On the Secrecy of a Certain Lady                                   971
  Motto for a Transparency, &c. (Two Versions)                       972
  'Money, I've heard,' &c.                                           972
  Modern Critics                                                     972
  Written in an Album                                                972
  To a Lady who requested me to Write a Poem upon Nothing            973
  Sentimental                                                        973
  'So Mr. Baker,' &c.                                                973
  Authors and Publishers                                             973
  The Alternative                                                    974
  'In Spain, that land,' &c.                                         974
  Inscription for a Time-piece                                       974
  On the Most Veracious Anecdotist, &c.                              974
  'Nothing speaks but mind,' &c.                                     975
  Epitaph of the Present Year on the Monument of Thomas Fuller       975


JEUX D'ESPRIT                                                        976

  My Godmother's Beard                                               976
  Lines to Thomas Poole                                              976
  To a Well-known Musical Critic, &c.                                977
  To T. Poole: An Invitation                                         978
  Song, To be Sung by the Lovers of all the noble liquors, &c.       978
  Drinking _versus_ Thinking                                         979
  The Wills of the Wisp                                              979
  To Captain Findlay                                                 980
  On Donne's Poem 'To a Flea'                                        980
  [Ex Libris S. T. C.]                                               981
  ΕΓΩΕΝΚΑΙΠΑΝ                                                         981
  The Bridge Street Committee                                        982
  Nonsense Sapphics                                                  983
  To Susan Steele, &c.                                               984
  Association of Ideas                                               984
  Verses Trivocular                                                  985
  Cholera Cured Before-hand                                          985
  To Baby Bates                                                      987
  To a Child                                                         987


FRAGMENTS FROM A NOTEBOOK, (_circa_ 1796-1798)                       988


FRAGMENTS. (_For unnamed Fragments see_ Index of First Lines.)       996

  Over my Cottage                                                    997
  [The Night-Mare Death in Life]                                     998
  A Beck in Winter                                                   998
  [Not a Critic--But a Judge]                                       1000
  [De Profundis Clamavi]                                            1001
  Fragment of an Ode on Napoleon                                    1003
  Epigram on Kepler                                                 1004
  [Ars Poetica]                                                     1006
  Translation of the First Strophe of Pindar's Second Olympic       1006
  Translation of a Fragment of Heraclitus                           1007
  Imitated from Aristophanes                                        1008
  To Edward Irving                                                  1008
  [Luther--De Dæmonibus]                                            1009
  The Netherlands                                                   1009
  Elisa: Translated from Claudian                                   1009
  Profuse Kindness                                                  1010
  Napoleon                                                          1010
  The Three Sorts of Friends                                        1012
  Bo-Peep and I Spy--                                               1012
  A Simile                                                          1013
  Baron Guelph of Adelstan. A Fragment                              1013


METRICAL EXPERIMENTS                                                1014

  An Experiment for a Metre ('I heard a Voice, &c.')                1014
  Trochaics                                                         1015
  The Proper Unmodified Dochmius                                    1015
  Iambics                                                           1015
  Nonsense ('Sing, impassionate Soul,' &c.)                         1015
  A Plaintive Movement                                              1016
  An Experiment for a Metre ('When thy Beauty appears')             1016
  Nonsense Verses ('Ye fowls of ill presage')                       1017
  Nonsense ('I wish on earth to sing')                              1017
  'There in some darksome shade'                                    1018
  'Once again, sweet Willow, wave thee'                             1018
  'Songs of Shepherds, and rustical Roundelays'                     1018
  A Metrical Accident                                               1019
  Notes by Professor Saintsbury                                     1019


APPENDIX I

FIRST DRAFTS, EARLY VERSIONS, ETC.

  A. Effusion 35, August 20th, 1795. (First Draft.) [MS. R.]        1021
     Effusion, p. 96 [1797]. (Second Draft.) [MS. R.]               1021
  B. Recollection                                                   1023
  C. The Destiny of Nations. (Draft I.)   [Add. MSS. 34,225]        1024
            "    "    "      (Draft II.)  [_ibid._]                 1026
            "    "    "      (Draft III.) [_ibid._]                 1027
  D. Passages in Southey's _Joan of Arc_ (First Edition, 1796)
         contributed by S. T. Coleridge                             1027
  E. The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere [1798]                        1030
  F. The Raven. [_M. P._ March 10, 1798.]                           1048
  G. Lewti; or, The Circassian's Love-Chant. (1.) [B. M. Add. MSS.
         27,902.]                                                   1049
     The Circassian's Love-Chaunt. (2.) [Add. MSS. 35,343.]         1050
     Lewti; or, The Circassian's Love-Chant. (3.) [Add. MSS.
         35,343.]                                                   1051
  H. Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladie. [_M. P._ Dec. 21,
         1799.]                                                     1051
  I. The Triumph of Loyalty. An Historic Drama. [Add. MSS.
         34,225.]                                                   1069
  J. Chamouny; The Hour before Sunrise. A Hymn. [_M. P._ Sept. 11,
         1802.]                                                     1074
  K. Dejection: An Ode. [_M. P._ Oct. 4, 1802.]                     1076
  L. To W. Wordsworth. January 1807                                 1081
  M. Youth and Age. (MS. I, Sept. 10, 1823.)                        1084
       "        "   (MS. II. 1.)                                    1085
       "        "   (MS. II. 2.)                                    1086
  N. Love's Apparition and Evanishment. (First Draft.)              1087
  O. Two Versions of the Epitaph. ('Stop, Christian,' &c.)          1088
  P. [Habent sua Fata--Poetae.] ('The Fox, and Statesman,' &c.)     1089
  Q. To John Thelwall                                               1090
  R. [Lines to T. Poole.] [1807.]                                   1090


APPENDIX II

  ALLEGORIC VISION                                                  1091


APPENDIX III

  APOLOGETIC PREFACE TO 'FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER'               1097


APPENDIX IV

PROSE VERSIONS OF POEMS, ETC.

  A. Questions and Answers in the Court of Love                     1109
  B. Prose Version of Glycine's Song in _Zapolya_                   1109
  C. Work without Hope. (First Draft.)                              1110
  D. Note to Line 34 of the _Joan of Arc_ Book II. [4{o} 1796.]     1112
  E. Dedication. Ode on the Departing Year. [4{o} 1796.]            1113
  F. Preface to the MS. of _Osorio_                                 1114


APPENDIX V

ADAPTATIONS

  From Fulke Greville, Lord Brooke:
    God and the World _we_ worship still together                   1115
    The _Augurs_ we of all the world admir'd                        1116
    Of Humane Learning                                              1116
  From Sir John Davies: On the Immortality of the Soul              1116
  From Donne: Eclogue. 'On Unworthy Wisdom'                         1117
    Letter to Sir Henry Goodyere                                    1117
  From Ben Jonson: A Nymph's Passion (Mutual Passion)               1118
    Underwoods, No. VI. The Hour-glass                              1119
    The Poetaster, Act I, Scene i.                                  1120
  From Samuel Daniel: Epistle to Sir Thomas Egerton, Knight         1120
    Musophilus, Stanza CXLVII                                       1121
    Musophilus, Stanzas XXVII, XXIX, XXX                            1122
  From Christopher Harvey: The Synagogue (The Nativity, or
      Christmas Day.)                                               1122
  From Mark Akenside: Blank Verse Inscriptions                      1123
  From W. L. Bowles: 'I yet remain'                                 1124
  From an old Play: Napoleon                                        1124


APPENDIX VI

ORIGINALS OF TRANSLATIONS

  F. von Matthison: Ein milesisches Mährchen, Adonide.              1125
  Schiller: Schwindelnd trägt er dich fort auf rastlos strömenden
      Wogen.                                                        1125
    Im Hexameter steigt des Springquells flüssige Säule.            1125
  Stolberg: Unsterblicher Jüngling!                                 1126
    Seht diese heilige Kapell!                                      1126
  Schiller: Nimmer, das glaubt mir.                                 1127
  Goethe: Kennst du das Land, wo die Citronen blühn.                1128
  François-Antoine-Eugène de Planard: 'Batelier, dit Lisette.'      1128
  German Folk Song: Wenn ich ein Vöglein wär.                       1129
  Stolberg; Mein Arm wird stark und gross mein Muth.                1129
  Leasing: Ich fragte meine Schöne.                                 1130
  Stolberg: Erde, du Mutter zahlloser Kinder, Mutter und Amme!      1130
  Friederike Brun: Aus tiefem Schatten des schweigenden
      Tannenhains.                                                  1131
  Giambattista Marino: Donna, siam rei di morte. Errasti, errai.    1131
  MS. Notebook: In diesem Wald, in diesen Gründen.                  1132
  Anthologia Graeca: Κοινῇ πὰρ κλισίῃ ληθαργικὸς ἠδὲ φρενοπλὴξ                  1132
  Battista Guarini: Canti terreni amori.                            1132
  Stolberg: Der blinde Sänger stand am Meer.                        1134


BIBLIOGRAPHY OF THE POETICAL WORKS OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE       1135


BIBLIOGRAPHICAL APPENDIX

  No. I. Poems first published in Newspapers or Periodicals.        1178
  No. II. Epigrams and Jeux d'Esprit first published in Newspapers
      and Periodicals.                                              1182
  No. III. Poems included in Anthologies and other Works.           1183
  No. IV. Poems first printed or reprinted in _Literary Remains_,
      1836, &c.                                                     1187
  Poems first printed or reprinted in _Essays on His Own Times_,
      1850.                                                         1188


INDEX OF FIRST LINES                                                1189


ERRATA

On p. 1179, line 7, _for_ Sept. 27, _read_ Sept. 23.

On p. 1181, line 33, _for_ Oct. 9 _read_ Oct. 29.




DRAMATIC WORKS




THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE[495:1]

AN HISTORIC DRAMA

[_First Act_ by Coleridge: _Second and Third_ by Southey--1794.]


TO

H. MARTIN, ESQ.

OF

JESUS COLLEGE

CAMBRIDGE


DEAR SIR,

Accept, as a small testimony of my grateful attachment, the following
Dramatic Poem, in which I have endeavoured to detail, in an interesting
form, the fall of a man, whose great bad actions have cast a disastrous
lustre on his name. In the execution of the work, as intricacy of plot
could not have been attempted without a gross violation of recent facts,
it has been my sole aim to imitate the empassioned and highly figurative
language of the French orators, and to develope the characters of the
chief actors on a vast stage of horrors.

                                          Yours fraternally,
                                                 S. T. COLERIDGE.

JESUS COLLEGE, _September_ 22, 1794.


FOOTNOTES:

[495:1] First published (as an octavo pamphlet) at Cambridge by Benjamin
Flower in 1794: included in _Literary Remains_, 1836, i. (1)-32. First
collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877-80, in. (1)-39. 'It will be remarked,'
writes J. D. Campbell (_P. W._, 1893, p. 646), 'that neither title-page
nor dedication contains any hint of the joint authorship.' On this point
Coleridge writes to Southey, September 19, 1794:--'The tragedy will be
printed in less than a week. I shall put my name because it will sell at
least a hundred copies in Cambridge. It would appear ridiculous to print
two names to such a work. But if you choose it, mention it and it shall
be done. To every man who _praises_ it, of course I give the _true_
biography of it.' _Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 85.




ACT I


SCENE--_The Thuilleries._

  _Barrere._ The tempest gathers--be it mine to seek
  A friendly shelter, ere it bursts upon him.
  But where? and how? I fear the Tyrant's _soul_--
  Sudden in action, fertile in resource,
  And rising awful 'mid impending ruins;                               5
  In splendor gloomy, as the midnight meteor,
  That fearless thwarts the elemental war.
  When last in secret conference we met,
  He scowl'd upon me with suspicious rage,
  Making his eye the inmate of my bosom.                              10
  I know he scorns me--and I feel, I hate him--
  Yet there is in him that which makes me tremble!       [_Exit._

_Enter TALLIEN and LEGENDRE._

  _Tallien._ It was Barrere, Legendre! didst thou mark him?
  Abrupt he turn'd, yet linger'd as he went,
  And towards us cast a look of doubtful meaning.                     15

  _Legendre._ I mark'd him well. I met his eye's last glance;
  It menac'd not so proudly as of yore.
  Methought he would have spoke--but that he dar'd not--
  Such agitation darken'd on his brow.

  _Tallien._ 'Twas all-distrusting guilt that kept from bursting      20
  Th' imprison'd secret struggling in the face:
  E'en as the sudden breeze upstarting onwards
  Hurries the thundercloud, that pois'd awhile
  Hung in mid air, red with its mutinous burthen.

  _Legendre._ Perfidious Traitor!--still afraid to bask               25
  In the full blaze of power, the rustling serpent
  Lurks in the thicket of the Tyrant's greatness,
  Ever prepared to sting who shelters him.
  Each thought, each action in himself converges;
  And love and friendship on his coward heart                         30
  Shine like the powerless sun on polar ice;
  To all attach'd, by turns deserting all,
  Cunning and dark--a necessary villain!

  _Tallien._ Yet much depends upon him--well you know
  With plausible harangue 'tis his to paint                           35
  Defeat like victory--and blind the mob
  With truth-mix'd falsehood. They led on by him,
  And wild of head to work their own destruction,
  Support with uproar what he plans in darkness.

  _Legendre._ O what a precious name is Liberty                       40
  To scare or cheat the simple into slaves!
  Yes--we must gain him over: by dark hints
  We'll shew enough to rouse his watchful fears,
  Till the cold coward blaze a patriot.
  O Danton! murder'd friend! assist my counsels--                     45
  Hover around me on sad Memory's wings,
  And pour thy daring vengeance in my heart.
  Tallien! if but to-morrow's fateful sun
  Beholds the Tyrant living--we are dead!

  _Tallien._ Yet his keen eye that flashes mighty meanings--          50

  _Legendre._ Fear not--or rather fear th' alternative,
  And seek for courage e'en in cowardice--
  But see--hither he comes--let us away!
  His brother with him, and the bloody Couthon,
  And high of haughty spirit, young St. Just.      [_Exeunt._         55

_Enter ROBESPIERRE, COUTHON, ST. JUST, and ROBESPIERRE JUNIOR._

  _Robespierre._ What? did La Fayette fall before my power?
  And did I conquer Roland's spotless virtues?
  The fervent eloquence of Vergniaud's tongue?
  And Brissot's thoughtful soul unbribed and bold?
  Did zealot armies haste in vain to save them?                       60
  What! did th' assassin's dagger aim its point
  Vain, as a _dream_ of murder, at my bosom?
  And shall I dread the soft luxurious Tallien?
  Th' Adonis Tallien? banquet-hunting Tallien?
  Him, whose heart flutters at the dice-box? Him,                     65
  Who ever on the harlots' downy pillow
  Resigns his head impure to feverish slumbers!

  _St. Just._ I cannot fear him--yet we must not scorn him.
  Was it not Antony that conquer'd Brutus,
  Th' Adonis, banquet-hunting Antony?                                 70
  The state is not yet purified: and though
  The stream runs clear, yet at the bottom lies
  The thick black sediment of all the factions--
  It needs no magic hand to stir it up!

  _Couthon._ O we did wrong to spare them--fatal error!               75
  Why lived Legendre, when that Danton died?
  And Collot d'Herbois dangerous in crimes?
  _I've_ fear'd him, since his iron heart endured
  To make of Lyons one vast human shambles,
  Compar'd with which the sun-scorcht wilderness                      80
  Of Zara were a smiling paradise.

  _St. Just._ Rightly thou judgest, Couthon! He is one
  Who flies from silent solitary anguish,
  Seeking forgetful peace amid the jar
  Of elements. The howl of maniac uproar                              85
  Lulls to sad sleep the memory of himself.
  A calm is fatal to him--then he feels
  The dire upboilings of the storm within him.
  A tiger mad with inward wounds!--I dread
  The fierce and restless turbulence of guilt.                        90

  _Robespierre._ Is not the Commune ours? The stern tribunal?
  Dumas? and Vivier? Fleuriot? and Louvet?
  And Henriot? We'll denounce an hundred, nor
  Shall they behold to-morrow's sun roll westward.

  _Robespierre Junior._ Nay--I am sick of blood; my aching heart      95
  Reviews the long, long train of hideous horrors
  That still have gloom'd the rise of the Republic.
  I should have died before Toulon, when war
  Became the patriot!

  _Robespierre._      Most unworthy wish!
  He, whose heart sickens at the blood of traitors,                  100
  Would be himself a traitor, were he not
  A coward! 'Tis congenial souls alone
  Shed tears of sorrow for each other's fate.
  O thou art brave, my brother! and thine eye
  Full firmly shines amid the groaning battle--                      105
  Yet in thine heart the woman-form of pity
  Asserts too large a share, an ill-timed guest!
  There is unsoundness in the state--To-morrow
  Shall see it cleans'd by wholesome massacre!

  _Robespierre Junior._ Beware! already do the sections murmur--     110
  'O the great glorious patriot, Robespierre--
  The _tyrant guardian_ of the country's _freedom_!'

  _Couthon._ 'Twere folly sure to work great deeds by halves!
  Much I suspect the darksome fickle heart
  Of cold Barrere!

  _Robespierre._    I see the villain in him!                        115

  _Robespierre Junior._ If he--if all forsake thee--what remains?

  _Robespierre._ Myself! the steel-strong Rectitude of soul
  And Poverty sublime 'mid circling virtues!
  The giant Victories my counsels form'd
  Shall stalk around me with sun-glittering plumes,                  120
  Bidding the darts of calumny fall pointless.

                                [_Exeunt caeteri. Manet COUTHON._

  _Couthon (solus)._ So we deceive ourselves! What goodly virtues
  Bloom on the poisonous branches of ambition!
  Still, Robespierre! thou'lt guard thy country's freedom
  To despotize in all the patriot's pomp.                            125
  While Conscience, 'mid the mob's applauding clamours,
  Sleeps in thine ear, nor whispers--blood-stain'd tyrant!
  Yet what is Conscience? Superstition's dream,
  Making such deep impression on our sleep--
  That long th' awakened breast retains its horrors!                 130
  But he returns--and with him comes Barrere.    [_Exit COUTHON._

_Enter ROBESPIERRE and BARRERE._

  _Robespierre._ There is no danger but in cowardice.--
  Barrere! we _make_ the danger, when we _fear_ it.
  We have such force without, as will suspend
  The cold and trembling treachery of these members.                 135

  _Barrere._ 'Twill be a pause of terror.--

  _Robespierre._                            But to whom?
  Rather the short-lived slumber of the tempest,
  Gathering its strength anew. The dastard traitors!
  Moles, that would undermine the rooted oak!
  A pause!--a _moment's_ pause?--'Tis all _their life_.              140

  _Barrere._ Yet much they talk--and plausible their speech.
  Couthon's decree has given such powers, that--

  _Robespierre._                                 That what?

  _Barrere._ The freedom of debate--

  _Robespierre._                     Transparent mask!
  They wish to clog the wheels of government,
  Forcing the hand that guides the vast machine                      145
  To bribe them to their duty--_English_ patriots!
  Are not the congregated clouds of war
  Black all around us? In our very vitals
  Works not the king-bred poison of rebellion?
  Say, what shall counteract the selfish plottings                   150
  Of wretches, cold of heart, nor awed by fears
  Of him, whose power directs th' eternal justice?
  Terror? or secret-sapping gold? The first
  Heavy, but transient as the ills that cause it;
  And to the virtuous patriot rendered light                         155
  By the necessities that gave it birth:
  The other fouls the fount of the republic,
  Making it flow polluted to all ages:
  Inoculates the state with a slow venom,
  That once imbibed, must be continued ever.                         160
  Myself incorruptible I ne'er could bribe them--
  Therefore they hate me.

  _Barrere._              Are the sections friendly?

  _Robespierre._ There are who wish my ruin--but I'll make them
  Blush for the crime in blood!

  _Barrere._                    Nay--but I tell thee,
  Thou art too fond of slaughter--and the right                      165
  (If right it be) workest by most foul means!

  _Robespierre._ _Self-centering Fear!_ how well thou canst ape
      _Mercy_!
  Too fond of slaughter!--matchless hypocrite!
  Thought Barrere so, when Brissot, Danton died?
  Thought Barrere so, when through the streaming streets             170
  Of Paris red-eyed Massacre o'erwearied
  Reel'd heavily, intoxicate with blood?
  And when (O heavens!) in Lyons' death-red square
  Sick Fancy groan'd o'er putrid hills of slain,
  Didst thou not fiercely laugh, and bless the day?                  175
  Why, thou hast been the mouth-piece of all horrors,
  And, like a blood-hound, crouch'd for murder! Now
  Aloof thou standest from the tottering pillar,
  Or, like a frighted child behind its mother,
  Hidest thy pale face in the skirts of--_Mercy_!                    180

  _Barrere._ O prodigality of eloquent anger!
  Why now I see thou'rt weak--thy case is desperate!
  The cool ferocious Robespierre turn'd scolder!

  _Robespierre._ Who from a bad man's bosom wards the blow
  Reserves the whetted dagger for his own.                           185
  Denounced twice--and twice I saved his life!           [_Exit._

  _Barrere._ The sections will support them--there's the point!
  No! he can never weather out the storm--
  Yet he is sudden in revenge--No more!
  I must away to Tallien.                                [_Exit._    190


_SCENE changes to the house of ADELAIDE._

_ADELAIDE enters, speaking to a_ Servant.

  _Adelaide._ Didst thou present the letter that I gave thee?
  Did Tallien answer, he would soon return?

  _Servant._ He is in the Thuilleries--with him Legendre--
  In deep discourse they seem'd: as I approach'd
  He waved his hand as bidding me retire:                            195
  I did not interrupt him.                 [_Returns the letter._

  _Adelaide._              Thou didst rightly.   [_Exit_ Servant.
  O this new freedom! at how dear a price
  We've bought the seeming good! The peaceful virtues
  And every blandishment of private life,
  The father's cares, the mother's fond endearment,                  200
  All sacrificed to liberty's wild riot.
  The wingéd hours, that scatter'd roses round me,
  Languid and sad drag their slow course along,
  And shake big gall-drops from their heavy wings.
  But I will steal away these anxious thoughts                       205
  By the soft languishment of warbled airs,
  If haply melodies may lull the sense
  Of sorrow for a while.                           [_Soft music._

_Enter TALLIEN._

  _Tallien._ Music, my love? O breathe again that air!
  Soft nurse of pain, it sooths the weary soul                       210
  Of care, sweet as the whisper'd breeze of evening
  That plays around the sick man's throbbing temples.

       SONG[501:1]

       Tell me, on what holy ground
       May domestic peace be found?
       Halcyon daughter of the skies,                                215
       Far on fearful wing she flies,
       From the pomp of scepter'd state,
       From the rebel's noisy hate.

       In a cottag'd vale she dwells
       List'ning to the Sabbath bells!                               220
       Still around her steps are seen,
       Spotless honor's meeker mien,
       Love, the sire of pleasing fears,
       Sorrow smiling through her tears,
       And conscious of the past employ,                             225
       Memory, bosom-spring of joy.

  _Tallien._ I thank thee, Adelaide! 'twas sweet, though mournful.
  But why thy brow o'ercast, thy cheek so wan?
  Thou look'st as a lorn maid beside some stream
  That sighs away the soul in fond despairing,                       230
  While sorrow sad, like the dank willow near her,
  Hangs o'er the troubled fountain of her eye.

  _Adelaide._ Ah! rather let me ask what mystery lowers
  On Tallien's darken'd brow. Thou dost me wrong--
  Thy soul distemper'd, can my heart be tranquil?                    235

  _Tallien._ Tell me, by whom thy brother's blood was spilt?
  Asks he not vengeance on these patriot murderers?
  It has been borne too tamely. Fears and curses
  Groan on our midnight beds, and e'en our dreams
  Threaten the assassin hand of Robespierre.                         240
  He dies!--nor has the plot escaped his fears.

  _Adelaide._ Yet--yet--be cautious! much I fear the Commune--
  The tyrant's creatures, and their fate with his
  Fast link'd in close indissoluble union.
  The pale Convention--

  _Tallien._            Hate him as they fear him,                   245
  Impatient of the chain, resolv'd and ready.

  _Adelaide._ Th' enthusiast mob, confusion's lawless sons--

  _Tallien._ They are aweary of his stern morality,
  The fair-mask'd offspring of ferocious pride.
  The sections too support the delegates:                            250
  All--all is ours! e'en now the vital air
  Of Liberty, condens'd awhile, is bursting
  (Force irresistible!) from its compressure--
  To shatter the arch chemist in the explosion!

_Enter BILLAUD VARENNES and BOURDON L'OISE._

                                             [_ADELAIDE retires._

  _Bourdon l'Oise._ Tallien! was this a time for amorous
      conference?                                                    255
  Henriot, the tyrant's most devoted creature,
  Marshals the force of Paris: The fierce Club,
  With Vivier at their head, in loud acclaim
  Have sworn to make the guillotine in blood
  Float on the scaffold.--But who comes here?                        260

_Enter BARRERE abruptly._

  _Barrere._ Say, are ye friends to freedom? _I am her's!_
  Let us, forgetful of all common feuds,
  Rally around her shrine! E'en now the tyrant
  Concerts a plan of instant massacre!

  _Billaud Varennes._ Away to the Convention! with that voice        265
  So oft the herald of glad victory,
  Rouse their fallen spirits, thunder in their ears
  The names of tyrant, plunderer, assassin!
  The violent workings of my soul within
  Anticipate the monster's blood!                                    270

      [_Cry from the street of--No Tyrant! Down with the Tyrant!_

  _Tallien._ Hear ye that outcry?--If the trembling members
  Even for a moment hold his fate suspended,
  I swear by the holy poniard, that stabbed Caesar,
  This dagger probes his heart!                  [_Exeunt omnes._


FOOTNOTES:

[501:1] This Song was reprinted in Coleridge's _Poems_ of 1796, and
later under the title of _To Domestic Peace_, _vide ante_, pp. 71, 72.




ACT II


SCENE--_The Convention._

  _Robespierre mounts the Tribune._ Once more befits it that the voice
      of Truth,
  Fearless in innocence, though leaguered round
  By Envy and her hateful brood of hell,
  Be heard amid this hall; once more befits
  The patriot, whose prophetic eye so oft                              5
  Has pierced thro' faction's veil, to flash on crimes
  Of deadliest import. Mouldering in the grave
  Sleeps Capet's caitiff corse; my daring hand
  Levelled to earth his blood-cemented throne,
  My voice declared his guilt, and stirred up France                  10
  To call for vengeance. I too dug the grave
  Where sleep the Girondists, detested band!
  Long with the shew of freedom they abused
  Her ardent sons. Long time the well-turn'd phrase,
  The high-fraught sentence and the lofty tone                        15
  Of declamation, thunder'd in this hall,
  Till reason midst a labyrinth of words
  Perplex'd, in silence seem'd to yield assent.
  I durst oppose. Soul of my honoured friend,
  Spirit of Marat, upon thee I call--                                 20
  Thou know'st me faithful, know'st with what warm zeal
  I urg'd the cause of justice, stripp'd the mask
  From faction's deadly visage, and destroy'd
  Her traitor brood. Whose patriot arm hurl'd down
  Hébert and Rousin, and the villain friends                          25
  Of Danton, foul apostate! those, who long
  Mask'd treason's form in liberty's fair garb,
  Long deluged France with blood, and durst defy
  Omnipotence! but I it seems am false!
  I am a traitor too! I--Robespierre!                                 30
  I--at whose name the dastard despot brood
  Look pale with fear, and call on saints to help them!
  Who dares accuse me? who shall dare belie
  My spotless name? Speak, ye accomplice band,
  Of what am I accus'd? of what strange crime                         35
  Is Maximilian Robespierre accus'd,
  That through this hall the buz of discontent
  Should murmur? who shall speak?

  _Billaud Varennes._             O patriot tongue
  Belying the foul heart! Who was it urg'd
  Friendly to tyrants that accurst decree,                            40
  Whose influence brooding o'er this hallowed hall,
  Has chill'd each tongue to silence? Who destroyed
  The freedom of debate, and carried through
  The fatal law, that doom'd the delegates,
  Unheard before their equals, to the bar                             45
  Where cruelty sat throned, and murder reign'd
  With her Dumas coequal? Say--thou man
  Of mighty eloquence, whose law was that?

  _Couthon._ That law was mine. I urged it--I propos'd--
  The voice of France assembled in her sons                           50
  Assented, though the tame and timid voice
  Of traitors murmur'd. I advis'd that law--
  I justify it. It was wise and good.

  _Barrere._ Oh, wonderous wise and most convenient too!
  I have long mark'd thee, Robespierre--and now                       55
  Proclaim thee traitor tyrant!                [_Loud applauses._

  _Robespierre._                It is well.
  I am a traitor! oh, that I had fallen
  When Regnault lifted high the murderous knife,
  Regnault the instrument belike of those
  Who now themselves would fain assassinate,                          60
  And legalise their murders. I stand here
  An isolated patriot--hemmed around
  By faction's noisy pack; beset and bay'd
  By the foul hell-hounds who know no escape
  From Justice' outstretch'd arm, but by the force                    65
  That pierces through her breast.

                 [_Murmurs, and shouts of--Down with the Tyrant!_

  _Robespierre._ Nay, but I will be heard. There was a time
  When Robespierre began, the loud applauses
  Of honest patriots drown'd the honest sound.
  But times are chang'd, and villainy prevails.                       70

  _Collot d'Herbois._ No--villainy shall fall. France could not brook
  A monarch's sway--sounds the dictator's name
  More soothing to her ear?

  _Bourdon l'Oise._         Rattle her chains
  More musically now than when the hand
  Of Brissot forged her fetters; or the crew                          75
  Of Hébert thundered out their blasphemies,
  And Danton talk'd of virtue?

  _Robespierre._               Oh, that Brissot
  Were here again to thunder in this hall,
  That Hébert lived, and Danton's giant form
  Scowl'd once again defiance! so my soul                             80
  Might cope with worthy foes.

                               People of France,
  Hear me! Beneath the vengeance of the law
  Traitors have perish'd countless; more survive:
  The hydra-headed faction lifts anew
  Her daring front, and fruitful from her wounds,                     85
  Cautious from past defects, contrives new wiles
  Against the sons of Freedom.

  _Tallien._                   Freedom lives!
  Oppression falls--for France has felt her chains,
  Has burst them too. Who traitor-like stept forth
  Amid the hall of Jacobins to save                                   90
  Camille Desmoulins, and the venal wretch
  D'Eglantine?

  _Robespierre._ I did--for I thought them honest.
  And Heaven forefend that Vengeance e'er should strike,
  Ere justice doom'd the blow.

  _Barrere._                   Traitor, thou didst.
  Yes, the accomplice of their dark designs,                          95
  Awhile didst thou defend them, when the storm
  Lower'd at safe distance. When the clouds frown'd darker,
  Fear'd for yourself and left them to their fate.
  Oh, I have mark'd thee long, and through the veil
  Seen thy foul projects. Yes, ambitious man,                        100
  Self-will'd dictator o'er the realm of France,
  The vengeance thou hast plann'd for patriots
  Falls on thy head. Look how thy brother's deeds
  Dishonour thine! He the firm patriot,
  Thou the foul parricide of Liberty!                                105

  _Robespierre Junior._ Barrere--attempt not meanly to divide
  Me from my brother. I partake his guilt,
  For I partake his virtue.

  _Robespierre._            Brother, by my soul,
  More dear I hold thee to my heart, that thus
  With me thou dar'st to tread the dangerous path                    110
  Of virtue, than that Nature twined her cords
  Of kindred round us.

  _Barrere._           Yes, allied in guilt,
  Even as in blood ye are. O, thou worst wretch,
  Thou worse than Sylla! hast thou not proscrib'd,
  Yea, in most foul anticipation slaughter'd                         115
  Each patriot representative of France?

  _Bourdon l'Oise._ Was not the younger Caesar too to reign
  O'er all our valiant armies in the south,
  And still continue there his merchant wiles?

  _Robespierre Junior._ His merchant wiles! Oh, grant me patience,
      heaven!                                                        120
  Was it by merchant wiles I gain'd you back
  Toulon, when proudly on her captive towers
  Wav'd high the English flag? or fought I then
  With merchant wiles, when sword in hand I led
  Your troops to conquest? fought I merchant-like,                   125
  Or barter'd I for victory, when death
  Strode o'er the reeking streets with giant stride,
  And shook his ebon plumes, and sternly smil'd
  Amid the bloody banquet? when appall'd
  The hireling sons of England spread the sail                       130
  Of safety, fought I like a merchant then?
  Oh, patience! patience!

  _Bourdon l'Oise._       How this younger tyrant
  Mouths out defiance to us! even so
  He had led on the armies of the south,
  Till once again the plains of France were drench'd                 135
  With her best blood.

  _Collot d'Herbois._  Till once again display'd
  Lyons' sad tragedy had call'd me forth
  The minister of wrath, whilst slaughter by
  Had bathed in human blood.

  _Dubois Crancé._           No wonder, friend,
  That we are traitors--that our heads must fall                     140
  Beneath the axe of death! when Caesar-like
  Reigns Robespierre, 'tis wisely done to doom
  The fall of Brutus. Tell me, bloody man,
  Hast thou not parcell'd out deluded France,
  As it had been some province won in fight,                         145
  Between your curst triumvirate? You, Couthon,
  Go with my brother to the southern plains;
  St. Just, be yours the army of the north;
  Meantime I rule at Paris.

  _Robespierre._            Matchless knave!
  What--not one blush of conscience on thy cheek--                   150
  Not one poor blush of truth! most likely tale!
  That I who ruined Brissot's towering hopes,
  I who discover'd Hébert's impious wiles,
  And sharp'd for Danton's recreant neck the axe,
  Should now be traitor! had I been so minded,                       155
  Think ye I had destroyed the very men
  Whose plots resembled mine? bring forth your proofs
  Of this deep treason. Tell me in whose breast
  Found ye the fatal scroll? or tell me rather
  Who forg'd the shameless falsehood?

  _Collot d'Herbois._                 Ask you proofs?                160
  Robespierre, what proofs were ask'd when Brissot died?

  _Legendre._ What proofs adduced you when the Danton died?
  When at the imminent peril of my life
  I rose, and fearless of thy frowning brow,
  Proclaim'd him guiltless?

  _Robespierre._            I remember well                          165
  The fatal day. I do repent me much
  That I kill'd Caesar and spar'd Antony.
  But I have been too lenient. I have spared
  The stream of blood, and now my own must flow
  To fill the current.                         [_Loud applauses._
                       Triumph not too soon,                         170
  Justice may yet be victor.

_Enter ST. JUST, and mounts the Tribune._

  _St. Just._ I come from the Committee--charged to speak
  Of matters of high import. I omit
  Their orders. Representatives of France,
  Boldly in his own person speaks St. Just                           175
  What his own heart shall dictate.

  _Tallien._                        Hear ye this,
  Insulted delegates of France? St. Just
  From your Committee comes--comes charg'd to speak
  Of matters of high import, yet omits
  Their orders! Representatives of France,                           180
  That bold man I denounce, who disobeys
  The nation's orders.--I denounce St. Just.   [_Loud applauses._

  _St. Just._ Hear me!                        [_Violent murmurs._

  _Robespierre._       He shall be heard!

  _Bourdon l'Oise._ Must we contaminate this sacred hall
  With the foul breath of treason?

  _Collot d'Herbois._              Drag him away!                    185
  Hence with him to the bar.

  _Couthon._                 Oh, just proceedings!
  Robespierre prevented liberty of speech--
  And Robespierre is a tyrant! Tallien reigns,
  He dreads to hear the voice of innocence--
  And St. Just must be silent!

  _Legendre._                  Heed we well                          190
  That justice guide our actions. No light import
  Attends this day. I move St. Just be heard.

  _Freron._ Inviolate be the sacred right of man.
  The freedom of debate.                    [_Violent applauses._

  _St. Just._ I may be heard then! much the times are chang'd,       195
  When St. Just thanks this hall for hearing him.
  Robespierre is call'd a tyrant. Men of France,
  Judge not too soon. By popular discontent
  Was Aristides driven into exile,
  Was Phocion murder'd. Ere ye dare pronounce                        200
  Robespierre is guilty, it befits ye well,
  Consider who accuse him. Tallien,
  Bourdon of Oise--the very men denounced,
  For that their dark intrigues disturb'd the plan
  Of government. Legendre the sworn friend                           205
  Of Danton, fall'n apostate. Dubois Crancé,
  He who at Lyons spared the royalists--
  Collot d'Herbois--

  _Bourdon l'Oise._  What--shall the traitor rear
  His head amid our tribune--and blaspheme
  Each patriot? shall the hireling slave of faction--                210

  _St. Just._ I am of no one faction. I contend
  Against all factions.

  _Tallien._            I espouse the cause
  Of truth. Robespierre on yester morn pronounced
  Upon his own authority a report.
  To-day St. Just comes down. St. Just neglects                      215
  What the Committee orders, and harangues
  From his own will. O citizens of France
  I weep for you--I weep for my poor country--
  I tremble for the cause of Liberty,
  When individuals shall assume the sway,                            220
  And with more insolence than kingly pride
  Rule the Republic.

  _Billaud Varennes._ Shudder, ye representatives of France,
  Shudder with horror. Henriot commands
  The marshall'd force of Paris. Henriot,                            225
  Foul parricide--the sworn ally of Hébert,
  Denounced by all--upheld by Robespierre.
  Who spar'd La Valette? who promoted him,
  Stain'd with the deep dye of nobility?
  Who to an ex-peer gave the high command?                           230
  Who screen'd from justice the rapacious thief?
  Who cast in chains the friends of Liberty?
  Robespierre, the self-stil'd patriot Robespierre--
  Robespierre, allied with villain Daubigné--
  Robespierre, the foul arch-tyrant Robespierre.                     235

  _Bourdon l'Oise._ He talks of virtue--of morality--
  Consistent patriot! he Daubigné's friend!
  Henriot's supporter virtuous! preach of virtue,
  Yet league with villains, for with Robespierre
  Villains alone ally. Thou art a tyrant!                            240
  I stile thee tyrant, Robespierre!            [_Loud applauses._

  _Robespierre._ Take back the name. Ye citizens of France--

              [_Violent clamour. Cries of--Down with the Tyrant!_

  _Tallien._ Oppression falls. The traitor stands appall'd--
  Guilt's iron fangs engrasp his shrinking soul--
  He hears assembled France denounce his crimes!                     245
  He sees the mask torn from his secret sins--
  He trembles on the precipice of fate.
  Fall'n guilty tyrant! murder'd by thy rage
  How many an innocent victim's blood has stain'd
  Fair freedom's altar! Sylla-like thy hand                          250
  Mark'd down the virtues, that, thy foes removed,
  Perpetual Dictator thou might'st reign,
  And tyrannize o'er France, and call it freedom!
  Long time in timid guilt the traitor plann'd
  His fearful wiles--success emboldened sin--                        255
  And his stretch'd arm had grasp'd the diadem
  Ere now, but that the coward's heart recoil'd,
  Lest France awak'd should rouse her from her dream,
  And call aloud for vengeance. He, like Caesar,
  With rapid step urged on his bold career,                          260
  Even to the summit of ambitious power,
  And deem'd the name of King alone was wanting.
  Was it for this we hurl'd proud Capet down?
  Is it for this we wage eternal war
  Against the tyrant horde of murderers,                             265
  The crownéd cockatrices whose foul venom
  Infects all Europe? was it then for this
  We swore to guard our liberty with life,
  That Robespierre should reign? the spirit of freedom
  Is not yet sunk so low. The glowing flame                          270
  That animates each honest Frenchman's heart
  Not yet extinguish'd. I invoke thy shade,
  Immortal Brutus! I too wear a dagger;
  And if the representatives of France,
  Through fear or favour, should delay the sword                     275
  Of justice, Tallien emulates thy virtues;
  Tallien, like Brutus, lifts the avenging arm;
  Tallien shall save his country.           [_Violent applauses._

  _Billaud Varennes._             I demand
  The arrest of all the traitors. Memorable
  Will be this day for France.

  _Robespierre._               Yes! Memorable                        280
  This day will be for France--for villains triumph.

  _Lebas._ I will not share in this day's damning guilt.
  Condemn me too.            [_Great cry--Down with the Tyrants!_

(_The two ROBESPIERRES, COUTHON, ST. JUST, and LEBAS are led off._)




ACT III


SCENE CONTINUES.

  _Collot d'Herbois._ Caesar is fall'n! The baneful tree of Java,
  Whose death-distilling boughs dropt poisonous dew,
  Is rooted from its base. This worse than Cromwell,
  The austere, the self-denying Robespierre,
  Even in this hall, where once with terror mute                       5
  We listen'd to the hypocrite's harangues,
  Has heard his doom.

  _Billaud Varennes._ Yet must we not suppose
  The tyrant will fall tamely. His sworn hireling
  Henriot, the daring desperate Henriot,
  Commands the force of Paris. I denounce him.                        10

  _Freron._ I denounce Fleuriot too, the mayor of Paris.

_Enter DUBOIS CRANCÉ._

  _Dubois Crancé._ Robespierre is rescued. Henriot at the head
  Of the arm'd force has rescued the fierce tyrant.

  _Collot d'Herbois._ Ring the tocsin--call all the citizens
  To save their country--never yet has Paris                          15
  Forsook the representatives of France.

  _Tallien._ It is the hour of danger. I propose
  This sitting be made permanent.              [_Loud applauses._

  _Collot d'Herbois._ The National Convention shall remain
  Firm at its post.                                                   20

_Enter a_ Messenger.

  _Messenger._ Robespierre has reach'd the Commune. They espouse
  The tyrant's cause. St. Just is up in arms!
  St. Just--the young ambitious bold St. Just
  Harangues the mob. The sanguinary Couthon
  Thirsts for your blood.                        [_Tocsin rings._     25

  _Tallien._ These tyrants are in arms against the law:
  Outlaw the rebels.

_Enter MERLIN OF DOUAY._

  _Merlin._ Health to the representatives of France!
  I past this moment through the arméd force--
  They ask'd my name--and when they heard a delegate,                 30
  Swore I was not the friend of France.

  _Collot d'Herbois._ The tyrants threaten us as when they turn'd
  The cannon's mouth on Brissot.

_Enter another_ Messenger.

  _Second Messenger._ Vivier harangues the Jacobins--the Club
  Espouse the cause of Robespierre.                                   35

_Enter another_ Messenger.

  _Third Messenger._ All's lost--the tyrant triumphs. Henriot leads
  The soldiers to his aid.--Already I hear
  The rattling cannon destined to surround
  This sacred hall.

  _Tallien._        Why, we will die like men then.
  The representatives of France dare death,                           40
  When duty steels their bosoms.               [_Loud applauses._

  _Tallien (addressing the galleries)._ Citizens!
  France is insulted in her delegates--
  The majesty of the Republic is insulted--
  Tyrants are up in arms. An arméd force
  Threats the Convention. The Convention swears                       45
  To die, or save the country!

                         [_Violent applauses from the galleries._

  _Citizen (from above)._      We too swear
  To die, or save the country. Follow me.

                               [_All the men quit the galleries._

_Enter another_ Messenger.

  _Fourth Messenger._ Henriot is taken!        [_Loud applauses._
                                        Three of your brave soldiers
  Swore they would seize the rebel slave of tyrants,
  Or perish in the attempt. As he patroll'd                           50
  The streets of Paris, stirring up the mob,
  They seiz'd him.                                  [_Applauses._

  _Billaud Varennes._ Let the names of these brave men
  Live to the future day.

_Enter BOURDON L'OISE, sword in hand._

  _Bourdon l'Oise._       I have clear'd the Commune.

                                                    [_Applauses._

                Through the throng I rush'd,
  Brandishing my good sword to drench its blade                       55
  Deep in the tyrant's heart. The timid rebels
  Gave way. I met the soldiery--I spake
  Of the dictator's crimes--of patriots chain'd
  In dark deep dungeons by his lawless rage--
  Of knaves secure beneath his fostering power.                       60
  I spake of Liberty. Their honest hearts
  Caught the warm flame. The general shout burst forth,
  'Live the Convention--Down with Robespierre!'     [_Applauses._

(_Shouts from without--Down with the Tyrant!_)

  _Tallien._ I hear, I hear the soul-inspiring sounds,
  France shall be saved! her generous sons attached                   65
  To principles, not persons, spurn the idol
  They worshipp'd once. Yes, Robespierre shall fall
  As Capet fell! Oh! never let us deem
  That France shall crouch beneath a tyrant's throne,
  That the almighty people who have broke                             70
  On their oppressors' heads the oppressive chain,
  Will court again their fetters! easier were it
  To hurl the cloud-capt mountain from its base,
  Than force the bonds of slavery upon men
  Determined to be free!                            [_Applauses._     75

_Enter LEGENDRE--a pistol in one hand, keys in the other._

  _Legendre (flinging down the keys)._ So--let the mutinous Jacobins
      meet now
  In the open air.                             [_Loud applauses._
                   A factious turbulent party
  Lording it o'er the state since Danton died,
  And with him the Cordeliers.--A hireling band
  Of loud-tongued orators controull'd the Club,                       80
  And bade them bow the knee to Robespierre.
  Vivier has 'scaped me. Curse his coward heart--
  This fate-fraught tube of Justice in my hand,
  I rush'd into the hall. He mark'd mine eye
  That beam'd its patriot anger, and flash'd full                     85
  With death-denouncing meaning. 'Mid the throng
  He mingled. I pursued--but stay'd my hand,
  Lest haply I might shed the innocent blood.       [_Applauses._

  _Freron._ They took from me my ticket of admission--
  Expell'd me from their sittings.--Now, forsooth,                    90
  Humbled and trembling re-insert my name.
  But Freron enters not the Club again
  'Till it be purged of guilt:--'till, purified
  Of tyrants and of traitors, honest men
  May breathe the air in safety.          [_Shouts from without._     95

  _Barrere._ What means this uproar! if the tyrant band
  Should gain the people once again to rise--
  We are as dead!

  _Tallien._      And wherefore fear we death?
  Did Brutus fear it? or the Grecian friends
  Who buried in Hipparchus' breast the sword,                        100
  And died triumphant? Caesar should fear death,
  Brutus must scorn the bugbear.

(_Shouts from without--Live the Convention!--Down with the Tyrants!_)

  _Tallien._                     Hark! again
  The sounds of honest Freedom!

_Enter_ Deputies _from the_ Sections.

  _Citizen._ Citizens! representatives of France!
  Hold on your steady course. The men of Paris                       105
  Espouse your cause. The men of Paris swear
  They will defend the delegates of Freedom.

  _Tallien._ Hear ye this, Colleagues? hear ye this, my brethren?
  And does no thrill of joy pervade your breasts?
  My bosom bounds to rapture. I have seen                            110
  The sons of France shake off the tyrant yoke;
  I have, as much as lies in mine own arm,
  Hurl'd down the usurper.--Come death when it will,
  I have lived long enough.                    [_Shouts without._

  _Barrere._ Hark! how the noise increases! through the gloom        115
  Of the still evening--harbinger of death,
  Rings the tocsin! the dreadful generale
  Thunders through Paris--

                            [_Cry without--Down with the Tyrant!_

_Enter LECOINTRE._

  _Lecointre._ So may eternal justice blast the foes
  Of France! so perish all the tyrant brood,                         120
  As Robespierre has perish'd! Citizens,
  Caesar is taken.                [_Loud and repeated applauses._
  I marvel not that with such fearless front
  He braved our vengeance, and with angry eye
  Scowled round the hall defiance. He relied                         125
  On Henriot's aid--the Commune's villain friendship,
  And Henriot's _boughten_ succours. Ye have heard
  How Henriot rescued him--how with open arms
  The Commune welcom'd in the rebel tyrant--
  How Fleuriot aided, and seditious Vivier                           130
  Stirr'd up the Jacobins. All had been lost--
  The representatives of France had perish'd--
  Freedom had sunk beneath the tyrant arm
  Of this foul parricide, but that her spirit
  Inspir'd the men of Paris. Henriot call'd                          135
  'To arms' in vain, whilst Bourdon's patriot voice
  Breathed eloquence, and o'er the Jacobins
  Legendre frown'd dismay. The tyrants fled--
  They reach'd the Hôtel. We gather'd round--we call'd
  For vengeance! Long time, obstinate in despair,                    140
  With knives they hack'd around them. 'Till foreboding
  The sentence of the law, the clamorous cry
  Of joyful thousands hailing their destruction,
  Each sought by suicide to escape the dread
  Of death. Lebas succeeded. From the window                         145
  Leapt the younger Robespierre, but his fractur'd limb
  Forbade to escape. The self-will'd dictator
  Plunged often the keen knife in his dark breast,
  Yet impotent to die. He lives all mangled
  By his own tremulous hand! All gash'd and gored                    150
  He lives to taste the bitterness of death.
  Even now they meet their doom. The bloody Couthon,
  The fierce St. Just, even now attend their tyrant
  To fall beneath the axe. I saw the torches
  Flash on their visages a dreadful light--                          155
  I saw them whilst the black blood roll'd adown
  Each stern face, even then with dauntless eye
  Scowl round contemptuous, dying as they lived,
  Fearless of fate!               [_Loud and repeated applauses._

  _Barrere mounts the Tribune._ For ever hallowed be this glorious
      day,                                                           160
  When Freedom, bursting her oppressive chain,
  Tramples on the oppressor. When the tyrant
  Hurl'd from his blood-cemented throne, by the arm
  Of the almighty people, meets the death
  He plann'd for thousands. Oh! my sickening heart                   165
  Has sunk within me, when the various woes
  Of my brave country crowded o'er my brain
  In ghastly numbers--when assembled hordes,
  Dragg'd from their hovels by despotic power,
  Rush'd o'er her frontiers, plunder'd her fair hamlets,             170
  And sack'd her populous towns, and drench'd with blood
  The reeking fields of Flanders.--When within,
  Upon her vitals prey'd the rankling tooth
  Of treason; and oppression, giant form,
  Trampling on freedom, left the alternative                         175
  Of slavery, or of death. Even from that day,
  When, on the guilty Capet, I pronounced
  The doom of injured France, has faction reared
  Her hated head amongst us. Roland preach'd
  Of mercy--the uxorious dotard Roland,                              180
  The woman-govern'd Roland durst aspire
  To govern France; and Petion talk'd of virtue,
  And Vergniaud's eloquence, like the honeyed tongue
  Of some soft Syren wooed us to destruction.
  We triumphed over these. On the same scaffold                      185
  Where the last Louis pour'd his guilty blood,
  Fell Brissot's head, the womb of darksome treasons,
  And Orleans, villain kinsman of the Capet,
  And Hébert's atheist crew, whose maddening hand
  Hurl'd down the altars of the living God,                          190
  With all the infidel's intolerance.
  The last worst traitor triumphed--triumph'd long,
  Secur'd by matchless villainy--by turns
  Defending and deserting each accomplice
  As interest prompted. In the goodly soil                           195
  Of Freedom, the foul tree of treason struck
  Its deep-fix'd roots, and dropt the dews of death
  On all who slumber'd in its specious shade.
  He wove the web of treachery. He caught
  The listening crowd by his wild eloquence,                         200
  His cool ferocity that persuaded murder,
  Even whilst it spake of mercy!--never, never
  Shall this regenerated country wear
  The despot yoke. Though myriads round assail,
  And with worse fury urge this new crusade                          205
  Than savages have known; though the leagued despots
  Depopulate all Europe, so to pour
  The accumulated mass upon our coasts,
  Sublime amid the storm shall France arise,
  And like the rock amid surrounding waves                           210
  Repel the rushing ocean.--She shall wield
  The thunder-bolt of vengeance--she shall blast
  The despot's pride, and liberate the world!

FINIS




OSORIO

A TRAGEDY[518:1]


DRAMATIS PERSONAE

[_Not in MSS._]

  _Osorio_, 1797.     _Remorse._
  _VELEZ_           = _MARQUIS VALDEZ, Father to the two brothers, and
                          Doña Teresa's Guardian._
  _ALBERT_          = _DON ALVAR, the eldest son._
  _OSORIO_          = _DON ORDONIO, the youngest son._
  _FRANCESCO_       = _MONVIEDRO, a Dominican and Inquisitor._
  _MAURICE_         = _ZULIMEZ, the faithful attendant on Alvar._
  _FERDINAND_       = _ISIDORE, a Moresco Chieftain, ostensibly a
                          Christian._
  _NAOMI_           = _NAOMI._
  _MARIA_           = _DOÑA TERESA, an Orphan Heiress._
  _ALHADRA, wife
      of FERDINAND_ = _ALHADRA, Wife of Isidore._
  _FAMILIARS OF THE INQUISITION._
  _MOORS, SERVANTS, &C._


_Time. The reign of Philip II., just at the close of the civil wars
against the Moors, and during the heat of the persecution which raged
against them, shortly after the edict which forbad the wearing of
Moresco apparel under pain of death._


FOOTNOTES:

[518:1] First published in 1873 by Mr. John Pearson (under the
editorship of R. H. Shepherd): included in _P. and D. W._ 1877-80, and
in _P. W._ 1893.

Four MSS. are (or were) extant, (1) the transcript of the play as sent
to Sheridan in 1797 (_MS. I_); (2) a contemporary transcript sent by
Coleridge to a friend (_MS. II_); (3) a third transcript (the
handwriting of a 'legal character') sold at Christie's, March 8, 1895
(_MS. III_); (4) a copy of Act I in Coleridge's handwriting, which
formerly belonged to Thomas Poole, and is now in the British Museum
(_MS. P._). The text of the present issue follows MS. I. The variants
are derived from MSS. I, II as noted by J. <DW18>s Campbell in _P. W._
1893, from a MS. collation (by J. D. Campbell) of MS. III, now published
for the first time, and from a fresh collation of MS. P.

_Osorio_ was begun at Stowey in March, 1797. Two and a half Acts were
written before June, four and a half Acts before September 13, 1797. A
transcript of the play (_MS. I_) was sent to Drury Lane in October, and
rejected, on the score of the 'obscurity of the last three acts', on or
about December 1, 1797. See 'Art.' Coleridge, _Osorio_ and _Remorse_, by
J. D. Campbell, _Athenaeum_, April 8, 1890.

In the reign of Philip II shortly after the civil war against the Moors,
and during the heat of the Persecution which raged against them. Maria
an orphan of fortune had been espoused to Albert the eldest son of Lord
Velez, but he having been supposed dead, is now addressed by Osorio the
brother of Albert.

In the character of Osorio I wished to represent a man, who, from his
childhood had mistaken constitutional abstinence from vices, for
strength of character--thro' his pride duped into guilt, and then
endeavouring to shield himself from the reproaches of his own mind by
misanthropy.

Don Garcia (supposed dead) and Valdez father of Don Ordoño, and Guardian
of Teresa di Monviedro. Don Garcia eldest son of the Marquis di Valdez,
supposed dead, having been six years absent, and for the last three
without any tidings of him.

Teresa Senñora [_sic_] di Monviedro, an orphan lady, bequeathed by both
Parents on their death-bed to the wardship of the Marquis, and betrothed
to Don Garcia--Gulinaez a Moorish Chieftain and ostensibly a new
Christian--Alhadra his wife. _MS. III._

For the Preface of _MS. I_, vide Appendices of this edition.


LINENOTES:

_Osorio A Tragedy_--Title] Osorio, a Dramatic Poem MS. II: Osorio, The
Sketch of a Tragedy MS. III.




ACT THE FIRST[519:1]


SCENE--_The sea shore on the coast of Granada._

_VELEZ, MARIA._

  _Maria._ I hold Osorio dear: he is your son,
  And Albert's brother.

  _Velez._              Love him for himself,
  Nor make the living wretched for the dead.

  _Maria._ I mourn that you should plead in vain, Lord Velez!
  But Heaven hath heard my vow, and I remain                           5
  Faithful to Albert, be he dead or living.

  _Velez._ Heaven knows with what delight I saw your loves;
  And could my heart's blood give him back to thee
  I would die smiling. But these are idle thoughts!
  Thy dying father comes upon my soul                                 10
  With that same look, with which he gave thee to me:
  I held thee in mine arms, a powerless babe,
  While thy poor mother with a mute entreaty
  Fix'd her faint eyes on mine: ah, not for this,
  That I should let thee feed thy soul with gloom,                    15
  And with slow anguish wear away thy life,
  The victim of a useless constancy.
  I must not see thee wretched.

  _Maria._                      There are woes
  Ill-barter'd for the garishness of joy!
  If it be wretched with an untired eye                               20
  To watch those skiey tints, and this green ocean;
  Or in the sultry hour beneath some rock,
  My hair dishevell'd by the pleasant sea-breeze,
  To shape sweet visions, and live o'er again
  All past hours of delight; if it be wretched                        25
  To watch some bark, and fancy Albert there;
  To go through each minutest circumstance
  Of the bless'd meeting, and to frame adventures
  Most terrible and strange, and hear _him_ tell them:
  (As once I knew a crazy Moorish maid,                               30
  Who dress'd her in her buried lover's cloaths,
  And o'er the smooth spring in the mountain cleft
  Hung with her lute, and play'd the selfsame tune
  He used to play, and listen'd to the shadow
  Herself had made); if this be wretchedness,                         35
  And if indeed it be a wretched thing
  To trick out mine own death-bed, and imagine
  That I had died--died, just ere his return;
  Then see him listening to my constancy;
  And hover round, as he at midnight ever                             40
  Sits on my grave and gazes at the moon;
  Or haply in some more fantastic mood
  To be in Paradise, and with choice flowers
  Build up a bower where he and I might dwell,
  And there to wait his coming! O my sire!                            45
  My Albert's sire! if this be wretchedness
  That eats away the life, what were it, think you,
  If in a most assur'd reality
  He should return, and see a brother's infant
  Smile at him from _my_ arms?          [_Clasping her forehead._
                               O what a thought!                      50
  'Twas horrible! it pass'd my brain like lightning.

  _Velez._ 'Twere horrible, if but one doubt remain'd
  The very week he promised his return.

  _Maria._ Ah, what a busy joy was ours--to see him
  After his three years' travels! tho' that absence                   55
  His still-expected, never-failing letters
  Almost endear'd to me! Even then what tumult!

  _Velez._ O power of youth to feed on pleasant thoughts
  Spite of conviction! I am old and heartless!
  Yes, I am old--I have no pleasant dreams--                          60
  Hectic and unrefresh'd with rest.

  _Maria (with great tenderness)._  My father!

  _Velez._ Aye, 'twas the morning thou didst try to cheer me
  With a fond gaiety. My heart was bursting,
  And yet I could not tell me, how my sleep
  Was throng'd with swarthy faces, and I saw                          65
  The merchant-ship in which my son was captured--
  Well, well, enough--captured in sight of land--
  We might almost have seen it from our house-top!

  _Maria (abruptly)._ He did not perish there!

  _Velez (impatiently)._ Nay, nay--how aptly thou forgett'st a tale   70
  Thou ne'er didst wish to learn--my brave Osorio
  Saw them both founder in the storm that parted
  Him and the pirate: both the vessels founder'd.
  Gallant Osorio!                       [_Pauses, then tenderly._
                  O belov'd Maria,
  Would'st thou best prove thy faith to generous Albert               75
  And most delight his spirit, go and make
  His brother happy, make his agéd father
  Sink to the grave with joy!

  _Maria._                    For mercy's sake
  Press me no more. I have no power to love him!
  His proud forbidding eye, and his dark brow                         80
  Chill me, like dew-damps of the unwholesome night.
  My love, a timorous and tender flower,
  Closes beneath his touch.

  _Velez._                  You wrong him, maiden.
  You wrong him, by my soul! Nor was it well
  To character by such unkindly phrases                               85
  The stir and workings of that love for you
  Which he has toil'd to smother. 'Twas not well--
  Nor is it grateful in you to forget
  His wounds and perilous voyages, and how
  With an heroic fearlessness of danger                               90
  He roamed the coast of Afric for your Albert.
  It was not well--you have moved me even to tears.

  _Maria._ O pardon me, my father! pardon me.
  It was a foolish and ungrateful speech,
  A most ungrateful speech! But I am hurried                          95
  Beyond myself, if I but dream of one
  Who aims to rival Albert. Were we not
  Born on one day, like twins of the same parent?
  Nursed in one cradle? Pardon me, my father!
  A six years' absence is an heavy thing;                            100
  Yet still the hope survives----

  _Velez (looking forwards)._     Hush--hush! Maria.

  _Maria._ It is Francesco, our Inquisitor;
  That busy man, gross, ignorant, and cruel!

_Enter FRANCESCO and ALHADRA._

  _Francesco (to Velez)._ Where is your son, my lord? Oh! here he
      comes.

_Enter OSORIO._

  My Lord Osorio! this Moresco woman                                 105
  (Alhadra is her name) asks audience of you.

  _Osorio._ Hail, reverend father! What may be the business?

  _Francesco._ O the old business--a Mohammedan!
  The officers are in her husband's house,
  And would have taken him, but that he mention'd                    110
  Your name, asserting that you were his friend,
  Aye, and would warrant him a Catholic.
  But I know well these children of perdition,
  And all their idle fals[e]hoods to gain time;
  So should have made the officers proceed,                          115
  But that this woman with most passionate outcries,
  (Kneeling and holding forth her infants to me)
  So work'd upon me, who (you know, my lord!)
  Have human frailties, and am tender-hearted,
  That I came with her.

  _Osorio._             You are merciful.  [_Looking at ALHADRA._    120
  I would that I could serve you; but in truth
  Your face is new to me.

              [_ALHADRA is about to speak, but is interrupted by_

  _Francesco._            Aye, aye--I thought so;
  And so I said to one of the familiars.
  A likely story, said I, that Osorio,
  The gallant nobleman, who fought so bravely                        125
  Some four years past against these rebel Moors;
  Working so hard from out the garden of faith
  To eradicate these weeds detestable;
  That he should countenance this vile Moresco,
  Nay, be his friend--and warrant him, forsooth!                     130
  Well, well, my lord! it is a warning to me;
  Now I return.

  _Alhadra._    My lord, my husband's name
  Is Ferdinand: you may remember it.
  Three years ago--three years this very week--
  You left him at Almeria.

  _Francesco (triumphantly)._ Palpably false!                        135
  This very week, three years ago, my lord!
  (You needs must recollect it by your wound)
  You were at sea, and fought the Moorish fiends
  Who took and murder'd your poor brother Albert.

              [_MARIA looks at FRANCESCO with disgust and horror.
                   OSORIO'S appearance to be collected from the
                   speech that follows._

  _Francesco (to Velez and pointing to Osorio)._ What? is he ill, my
      lord? How strange he looks!                                    140

  _Velez (angrily)._ You started on him too abruptly, father!
  The fate of one, on whom you know he doted.

  _Osorio (starting as in a sudden agitation)._ O heavens! _I_
      doted!                   [_Then, as if recovering himself._
             Yes! I DOTED on him!

                          [_OSORIO walks to the end of the stage.
                               VELEZ follows soothing him._

  _Maria (her eye following them)._ I do not, cannot love him. Is my
      heart hard?
  Is my heart hard? that even now the thought                        145
  Should force itself upon me--yet I feel it!

  _Francesco._ The drops did start and stand upon his forehead!
  I will return--in very truth I grieve
  To have been the occasion. Ho! attend me, woman!

  _Alhadra (to Maria)._ O gentle lady, make the father stay          150
  Till that my lord recover. I am sure
  That he will say he is my husband's friend.

  _Maria._ Stay, father, stay--my lord will soon recover.

                                   [_OSORIO and VELEZ returning._

  _Osorio (to Velez as they return)._ Strange! that this Francesco
  Should have the power so to distemper me.                          155

  _Velez._ Nay, 'twas an amiable weakness, son!

  _Francesco (to Osorio)._ My lord, I truly grieve----

  _Osorio._                                            Tut! name it
      not.
  A sudden seizure, father! think not of it.
  As to this woman's husband, I _do_ know him:
  I know him well, and that he is a Christian.                       160

  _Francesco._ I hope, my lord, your sensibility
  Doth not prevail.

  _Osorio._         Nay, nay--you know me better.
  You hear what I have said. But 'tis a trifle.
  I had something here of more importance.

       [_Touching his forehead as if in the act of recollection._

                                           Hah!
  The Count Mondejar, our great general,                             165
  Writes, that the bishop we were talking of
  Has sicken'd dangerously.

  _Francesco._              Even so.

  _Osorio._ I must return my answer.

  _Francesco._                       When, my lord?

  _Osorio._ To-morrow morning, and shall not forget
  How bright and strong your zeal for the Catholic faith.            170

  _Francesco._ You are too kind, my lord! You overwhelm me.

  _Osorio._ Nay, say not so. As for this Ferdinand,
  'Tis certain that he _was_ a Catholic.
  What changes may have happen'd in three years,
  I cannot say, but grant me this, good father!                      175
  I'll go and sift him: if I find him sound,
  You'll grant me your authority and name
  To liberate his house.

  _Francesco._           My lord you have it.

  _Osorio (to Alhadra)._ I will attend you home within an hour.
  Meantime return with us, and take refreshment.                     180

  _Alhadra._ Not till my husband's free, I may not do it.
  I will stay here.

  _Maria (aside)._  Who is this Ferdinand?

  _Velez._ Daughter!

  _Maria._           With your permission, my dear lord,
  I'll loiter a few minutes, and then join you.

                          [_Exeunt VELEZ, FRANCESCO, and OSORIO._

  _Alhadra._ Hah! there he goes. A bitter curse go with him.         185
  A scathing curse!     [_ALHADRA had been betrayed by the warmth
                             of her feelings into an imprudence.
                             She checks herself, yet recollecting
                             MARIA'S manner towards FRANCESCO,
                             says in a shy and distrustful
                             manner_
                    You hate him, don't you, lady!

  _Maria._ Nay, fear me not! my heart is sad for you.

  _Alhadra._ These fell Inquisitors, these sons of blood!
  As I came on, his face so madden'd me
  That ever and anon I clutch'd my dagger                            190
  And half unsheathed it.

  _Maria._                Be more calm, I pray you.

  _Alhadra._ And as he stalk'd along the narrow path
  Close on the mountain's edge, my soul grew eager.
  'Twas with hard toil I made myself remember
  That his foul officers held my babes and husband.                  195
  To have leapt upon him with a Tyger's plunge
  And hurl'd him down the ragged precipice,
  O--it had been most sweet!

  _Maria._                   Hush, hush! for shame.
  Where is your woman's heart?

  _Alhadra._                   O gentle lady!
  You have no skill to guess my many wrongs,                         200
  Many and strange. Besides I am a Christian,
  And they do never pardon, 'tis their faith!

  _Maria._ Shame fall on those who so have shown it to thee!

  _Alhadra._ I know that man; 'tis well he knows not me!
  Five years ago, and he was the prime agent.                        205
  Five years ago the Holy Brethren seized me.

  _Maria._ What might your crime be?

  _Alhadra._                         Solely my complexion.
  They cast me, then a young and nursing mother,
  Into a dungeon of their prison house.
  There was no bed, no fire, no ray of light,                        210
  No touch, no sound of comfort! The black air,
  It was a toil to breathe it! I have seen
  The gaoler's lamp, the moment that he enter'd,
  How the flame sunk at once down to the socket.
  O miserable, by that lamp to see                                   215
  My infant quarrelling with the coarse hard bread
  Brought daily: for the little wretch was sickly--
  My rage had dry'd away its natural food!
  In darkness I remain'd, counting the clocks[528:1]
  Which haply told me that the blessed sun                           220
  Was rising on my garden. When I dozed,
  My infant's moanings mingled with my dreams
  And wak'd me. If you were a mother, Lady,
  I should scarce dare to tell you, that its noises
  And peevish cries so fretted on my brain                           225
  That I have struck the innocent babe in anger!

  _Maria._ O God! it is too horrible to hear!

  _Alhadra._ What was it then to suffer? 'Tis most right
  That such as you should hear it. Know you not
  What Nature makes you mourn, she bids you heal?                    230
  Great evils ask great passions to redress them,
  And whirlwinds fitliest scatter pestilence.

  _Maria._ You were at length deliver'd?

  _Alhadra._                             Yes, at length
  I saw the blessed arch of the whole heaven.
  'Twas the first time my infant smiled! No more.                    235
  For if I dwell upon that moment, lady,
  A fit comes on, which makes me o'er again
  All I then was, my knees hang loose and drag,
  And my lip falls with such an ideot laugh
  That you would start and shudder!

  _Maria._                          But your husband?                240

  _Alhadra._ A month's imprisonment would kill him, lady!

  _Maria._ Alas, poor man!

  _Alhadra._               He hath a lion's courage,
  But is not stern enough for fortitude.
  Unfit for boisterous times, with gentle heart
  He worships Nature in the hill and valley,                         245
  Not knowing what he loves, but loves it all!

                    [_Enter ALBERT disguised as a Moresco, and in
                         Moorish garments._

  _Albert (not observing Maria and Alhadra)._ Three weeks have I been
      loitering here, nor ever
  Have summon'd up my heart to ask one question,
  Or stop one peasant passing on this way.

  _Maria._ Know you that man?

  _Alhadra._                  His person, not his name.              250
  I doubt not, he is some Moresco chieftain
  Who hides himself among the Alpuxarras.
  A week has scarcely pass'd since first I saw him;
  He has new-roof'd the desolate old cottage
  Where Zagri lived--who dared avow the prophet                      255
  And died like one of the faithful! There he lives,
  And a friend with him.

  _Maria._               Does he know his danger
  So near this seat?

  _Alhadra._         He wears the Moorish robes too,
  As in defiance of the royal edict.

              [_ALHADRA advances to ALBERT, who has walked to the
                   back of the stage near the rocks. MARIA drops
                   her veil._

  _Alhadra._ Gallant Moresco! you are near the castle                260
  Of the Lord Velez, and hard by does dwell
  A priest, the creature of the Inquisition.

  _Albert (retiring)._ You have mistaken me--I am a Christian.

  _Alhadra (to Maria)._ He deems that we are plotting to ensnare him.
  Speak to him, lady! none can hear you speak                        265
  And not believe you innocent of guile.

              [_ALBERT, on hearing this, pauses and turns round._

  _Maria._ If aught enforce you to concealment, sir!

  _Alhadra._ He trembles strangely.

           [_ALBERT sinks down and hides his face in his garment_
                [_robe_ Remorse].

  _Maria._                          See--we have disturb'd him.

                                     [_Approaches nearer to him._

  I pray you, think us friends--uncowl your face,
  For you seem faint, and the night-breeze blows healing.            270
  I pray you, think us friends!

  _Albert (raising his head)._  Calm--very calm;
  'Tis all too tranquil for reality!
  And she spoke to me with her innocent voice.
  That voice! that innocent voice! She is no traitress!
  It was a dream, a phantom of my sleep,                             275
  A lying dream.     [_He starts up, and abruptly addresses her._
                 Maria! you are not wedded?

  _Maria (haughtily to Alhadra)._ Let us retire.

                       [_They advance to the front of the stage._

  _Alhadra._                                     He is indeed a
      Christian.
  Some stray Sir Knight, that falls in love of a sudden.

  _Maria._ What can this mean? How should he know my name?
  It seems all shadowy.

  _Alhadra._            Here he comes again.                         280

  _Albert (aside)._ She deems me dead, and yet no mourning garment!
  Why should my brother's wife wear mourning garments?
  God of all mercy, make me, make me quiet!          [_To MARIA._
  Your pardon, gentle maid! that I disturb'd you.
  I had just started from a frightful dream.                         285

  _Alhadra._ These renegado Moors--how soon they learn
  The crimes and follies of their Christian tyrants!

  _Albert._ I dreamt I had a friend, on whom I lean'd
  With blindest trust, and a betrothéd maid
  Whom I was wont to call not mine, but me,                          290
  For mine own self seem'd nothing, lacking her!
  This maid so idoliz'd, that trusted friend,
  Polluted in my absence soul and body!
  And she with him and he with her conspired
  To have me murder'd in a wood of the mountains:                    295
  But by my looks and most impassion'd words
  I roused the virtues, that are dead in no man,
  Even in the assassins' hearts. They made their terms,
  And thank'd me for redeeming them from murder.

  _Alhadra (to Maria)._ You are lost in thought. Hear him no more,
      sweet lady!                                                    300

  _Maria._ From morn to night I am myself a dreamer,
  And slight things bring on me the idle mood.
  Well, sir, what happen'd then?

  _Albert._                      On a rude rock,
  A rock, methought, fast by a grove of firs
  Whose threaddy leaves to the low breathing gale                    305
  Made a soft sound most like the distant ocean,
  I stay'd as tho' the hour of death were past,
  And I were sitting in the world of spirits,
  For all things seem'd unreal! There I sate.
  The dews fell clammy, and the night descended,                     310
  Black, sultry, close! and ere the midnight hour
  A storm came on, mingling all sounds of fear
  That woods and sky and mountains seem'd one havock!
  The second flash of lightning show'd a tree
  Hard by me, newly-scathed. I rose tumultuous:                      315
  My soul work'd high: I bared my head to the storm,
  And with loud voice and clamorous agony
  Kneeling I pray'd to the great Spirit that made me,
  Pray'd that Remorse might fasten on their hearts,
  And cling, with poisonous tooth, inextricable                      320
  As the gored lion's bite!

  _Maria._                  A fearful curse!

  _Alhadra._ But dreamt you not that you return'd and kill'd him?
  Dreamt you of no revenge?

  _Albert (his voice trembling, and in tones of deep distress)._ She
      would have died,
  Died in her sins--perchance, by her own hands!
  And bending o'er her self-inflicted wounds                         325
  I might have met the evil glance of frenzy
  And leapt myself into an unblest grave!
  I pray'd for the punishment that cleanses hearts,
  For still I loved her!

  _Alhadra._             And you dreamt all this?

  _Maria._ My soul is full of visions, all is wild!                  330

  _Alhadra._ There is no room in this heart for puling love-tales.
  Lady! your servants there seem seeking us.

  _Maria (lifts up her veil and advances to Albert)._ Stranger,
      farewell! I guess not who you are,
  Nor why you so address'd your tale to me.
  Your mien is noble, and, I own, perplex'd me                       335
  With obscure memory of something past,
  Which still escap'd my efforts, or presented
  Tricks of a fancy pamper'd with long-wishing.
  If (as it sometimes happens) our rude startling,
  While your full heart was shaping out its dream,                   340
  Drove you to this, your not ungentle wildness,
  You have my sympathy, and so farewell!
  But if some undiscover'd wrongs oppress you,
  And you need strength to drag them into light,
  The generous Velez, and my Lord Osorio                             345
  Have arm and will to aid a noble sufferer,
  Nor shall you want my favourable pleading.

                                     [_Exeunt MARIA and ALHADRA._

  _Albert (alone)._ 'Tis strange! it cannot be! my Lord Osorio!
  Her Lord Osorio! Nay, I will not do it.
  I curs'd him once, and one curse is enough.                        350
  How sad she look'd and pale! but not like guilt,
  And her calm tones--sweet as a song of mercy!
  If the bad spirit retain'd his angel's voice,
  Hell scarce were hell. And why not innocent?
  Who meant to murder me might well cheat her.                       355
  But ere she married him, he had stain'd her honour.
  Ah! there I am hamper'd. What if this were a lie
  Fram'd by the assassin? who should tell it him
  If it were truth? Osorio would not tell him.
  Yet why one lie? All else, I know, was truth.                      360
  No start! no jealousy of stirring conscience!
  And she referr'd to me--fondly, methought!
  Could she walk here, if that she were a traitress?
  Here where we play'd together in our childhood?
  Here where we plighted vows? Where her cold cheek                  365
  Received my last kiss, when with suppress'd feelings
  She had fainted in my arms? It cannot be!
  'Tis not in nature! I will die, believing
  That I shall meet her where no evil is,
  No treachery, no cup dash'd from the lips!                         370
  I'll haunt this scene no more--live she in peace!
  Her husband--ay, her husband! May this Angel
  New-mould his canker'd heart! Assist me, Heaven!
  That I may pray for my poor guilty brother!

END OF ACT THE FIRST.


FOOTNOTES:

[519:1] For Act I, Scene 1 (ll. 1-118) of _Remorse_, vide _post_, pp.
820-3.

[528:1] With lines 219-21 compare _Fragments from a Notebook_, No. 17,
p. 990.


LINENOTES:

[Before 1] ACT THE FIRST (The Portrait and the Picture). Corr. in MS.
III.

Scene--_The sea shore, &c._] Scene--The Sea shore on the coast of
Granada, in the Seigniory of the Marquis Valdez. _Valdez_ _Teresa_ corr.
in MS. III. [For _Velez_, _Maria_, _Osorio_, _Albert_, _Francesco_, read
_Valdez_, _Teresa_, _Ordonio_, _Alvar_, _Isidore_ throughout, Remorse.

[Before 1] SCENE II. _Enter_ Teresa _and_ Valdez. Remorse. Osorio]
Ordoño] corr. in MS. II.

[2] Albert's] Garcia's corr. in MS. III.

[12] mine] my Remorse, 1813.

[29] _him_] him Remorse.

[40] Or hover round, as he at midnight oft Remorse.

[50] _my_] my Remorse. Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[51-2] _Erased MS. III._

[52-3]

  _Valdez._ A thought? even so! mere thought! an empty thought.
  The very week he promised his return--

Remorse.

                                     an empty thought
  That boasts no neighbourhood with Hope or Reason

Corr. in MS. III.

[54-7]

  _Ter._ Was it not then a busy joy? to see him,
  After those three years' travels! we had no fears--
  The frequent tidings, the ne'er failing letter,
  Almost endeared his absence! yet the gladness,
  The tumult of our joy! What then, if now--

Marginal correction in MS. III, Remorse.

[60] dreams] fancies Remorse.

[61] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[62-8] Erased MS. III.

[62-73]

  _Vald._ The sober truth is all too much for me!
  I see no sail which brings not to my mind
  The home-bound bark, in which my son was captured
  By the Algerine--to perish with his captors!

  _Ter._ Oh no! he did not!

  _Vald._                   Captured in sight of land!
  From yon Hill-point, nay, from our castle watch-tower
  We might have seen--

  _Ter._               His capture, not his death.

  _Vald._ Alas! how aptly thou forgett'st a tale
  Thou ne'er didst wish to learn! my brave Ordonio
  Saw both the pirate and his prize go down,
  In the same storm that baffled his own valour,
  And thus twice snatched a brother from his hopes.

Marginal correction in MS. III, Remorse.

[74] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[76] And most delight his spirit, go, make thou Remorse.

[78] with] in Remorse.

[93] my father] Lord Valdez Remorse.

[96] dream] hear Remorse.

[101-5] Erased MS. III.

  _Vald. (looking forward)._ Hush! 'tis Monviedro.

  _Ter._ The Inquisitor--on what new scent of blood?

_Enter_ Monviedro _with_ Alhadra.

  _Mon._ Peace and the truth be with you! Good my Lord.
  My present need is with your son.
  We have hit the time. Here comes he! Yes, 'tis he.

_Enter from the opposite side_ Don Ordonio

  My Lord Ordonio, this Moresco woman

MS. III, Remorse.

[108] Erased MS. III.

[109] The] Our MS. III.

[108-31]

  _Mon._ My lord, on strong suspicion of relapse
  To his false creed, so recently abjured,
  The secret servants of the Inquisition
  Have seized her husband, and at my command
  To the supreme tribunal would have led him,
  But that he made appeal to you, my lord,
  As surety for his soundness in the faith.
  Tho' lesson'd by experience what small trust
  The asseverations of these Moors deserve,
  Yet still the deference to Ordonio's name,
  Nor less the wish to prove, with what high honour
  The Holy Church regards her faithful soldiers,
  Thus far prevailed with me that--

  _Ord._                            Reverend father,
  I am much beholden to your high opinion,
  Which so o'erprizes my light services.              [_then to Alhadra_
  I would that I could serve you; but in truth
  Your face is new to me.

  _Mon._                  My mind foretold me
  That such would be the event. In truth, Lord Valdez,
  'Twas little probable, that Don Ordonio,
  That your illustrious son, who fought so bravely
  Some four years since to quell these rebel Moors,
  Should prove the patron of this infidel!
  The warranter of a Moresco's faith!

Remorse.

[114] Have learnt by heart their falsehoods to gain time. Corr. in MS.
III.

[118-20] who (you know, &c., . . . with her Erased MS. III. The
stage-direction (_Alhadra here advances towards Ordonio_) is inserted at
the end of Francesco's speech.

[127-8] om. MS. III.

[133] Is Isidore. (_Ordonio starts_) Remorse.

[135] Stage-direction (_triumphantly_) om. Remorse.

[138-9]

  You were at sea, and there engaged the pirates,
  The murderers doubtless of your brother Alvar!

Remorse.

[139] The stage-direction _Maria looks, &c._, om. Remorse.

[140] _Francesco (. . . Osorio)_ om. Remorse.

[141] _Val._ You pressed upon him too abruptly father Remorse.

[143] _Ord._ O heavens! I?--I doted?-- Remorse. Stage-directions
(_starting, &c._), (_Then, as, &c._) om. Remorse.

[Before 144] stage direction ends at '_follows_' Remorse.

[144] Stage-direction (_her eye, &c._) om. Remorse.

[151] Till that] Until Remorse.

Stage-direction before 154 om. Remorse.

[154] Ordonio (_as they return to Valdez_). Remorse.

[157] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[159] _do_] do Remorse.

[161] I hope, my lord, your merely human pity MS. III, Remorse.

[162-72] Nay, nay . . . Ferdinand om. Remorse.

[173] _was_] was Remorse.

[176] Myself I'll sift him Remorse.

[178] [_Francesco's speech_ 'My lord you have it' _is thus
expanded_]:--

  _Monviedro._     Your zeal, my lord,
  And your late merits in this holy warfare
  Would authorize an ampler trust--you have it.

Remorse.

[179] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[180] Attributed to Valdez in Remorse.

[184] I'll loiter yet awhile t'enjoy the sea breeze. Remorse.

[186] The stage-direction, _Alhadra had been, &c._, was interpolated by
_S. T. C._ in MS. III, and 'distrustful' is written 'mistrustful'. It is
omitted in Remorse.

[187] The line was originally written:--

  Nay, nay, not hate him. I try not to do it;

and in this form it stands in the Poole MS. MSS. II, III have the line
as amended, but have also this stage-direction '(_perceiving that
Alhadra is conscious she has spoken imprudently_)'; and MS. II has the
word _me_ underlined.

  Oh fear not me! my heart is sad for you

Remorse.

[188] In Poole MS. this line was originally--

  These wolfish Priests! these lappers-up of Blood.

[192] stalk'd] walk'd Remorse.

[193] on] by Remorse.

[195] Interpolated by S. T. C.

  That his vile Slaves, his pitiless officers
  Held in their custody my babes and husband.

MS. III.

[195] foul officers] familiars Remorse.

[197] ragged] rugged Remorse.

[201] '(_ironically_)' only in MS. II.

[202] And they do] And Christians Remorse.

[207] Solely my complexion] I was a Moresco Remorse.

[210] There] Where Remorse.

[212-14]

  It was a toil to breathe it! When the door,
  Slow opening at the appointed hour, disclosed
  One human countenance, the lamp's red flame
  Cowered as it entered, and at once sank down

Remorse.

[219] the dull bell counting Remorse.

[220] blessed] all-cheering. Remorse.

[221] my] our Remorse.

[222] dreams] slumbers Remorse.

[227] God] Heaven Remorse.

[233] deliver'd] released Corr. in MS. III, Remorse.

[237] fit] trance Remorse.

[243] Fearless in act, but feeble in endurance Corr. in MS. III,
Remorse.

[247-9] MS. III erased: om. Remorse.

[Between 249-50]

  _Teresa. (starting)._ This sure must be the man  (_to ALHADRA_)
                                                  Know you that man?

Corr. in MS. III.

[Between 250 and 263]

  _Ter._ Know you that stately Moor?

  _Alhad._                           I know him not:
  But doubt not he is some Moresco chieftain,
  Who hides himself among the Alpujarras.

  _Ter._ The Alpujarras? Does he know his danger,
  So near this seat?

  _Alhad._           He wears the Moorish robes too,
  As in defiance of the royal edict.

                      [_ALHADRA advances to ALVAR, who has walked to the
                           back of the stage near the rocks. TERESA
                           drops her veil._

  _Alhad._ Gallant Moresco! An inquisitor,
  Monviedro, of known hatred to our race--

Remorse.

[254-7]

  His ends, his motives, why he shrinks from notice
  And spurns all commune with the Moorish chieftain,
  Baffles conjecture--

Corr. in MS. III.

Before stage-direction affixed to 259.

  _Teresa._ Ask of him whence he came? if he bear tidings
  Of any Christian Captive--if he knows--

Corr. in MS. III.

[259] _Philip the Second had forbidden under pain of death the Moorish
Robes_ MS. II: _Phillip (sic) the Second had prohibited under pain of
death all the Moorish customs and garments_ MS. III.

[262] the creature] a brother Corr. in MS. III.

[263] _Albert (retiring)_] _advancing as if to pass them_ Corr. in MS.
III. Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[264] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[266] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[275-6] om. Remorse.

[277] Stage-direction _They advance . . . followed by Alvar_ Corr. in
MS. III: om. Remorse.

[277] _Alhadra (with bitter scorn)._ Corr. in MS. III.

[278-80] om. Remorse.

[Prefixed to 279.] _Alhadra walks away to the back of the stage, to the
part where Alvar had first placed himself, stoops in the act of taking
up a small Picture, looks at it and in dumb show appears as talking to
herself._ Corr. in MS. III.

[279-80]

  _Maria._ This cannot be the Moor the Peasant spoke of
  Nor face, nor stature squares with his description.

  _Alhadra._ A painted tablet which he held and por'd on
  Caught my eye strangely, and as I disturb'd him
  He hid it hastily within his sash,
  Yet when he started up (if my sight err'd not)
  It slipt unnotic'd by him on the Sand.

Corr. in MS. III.

[281] She deems me dead yet wears no mourning garments Remorse.

[283] om. Remorse.

[284] gentle maid] noble dame Remorse.

[286-7] om. Remorse.

[Between 285 and 288]

  _Ter._ Dreams tell but of the past, and yet, 'tis said
  They prophesy--

  _Alv._          The Past lives o'er again
  In its effects, and to the guilty spirit,
  The ever frowning [guilty _MS. III_] Present is its image.

  _Ter._ Traitress! [guilty _MS. III_]                    (_then aside_)
                    What sudden spell o'er-masters me?
  Why seeks he me, shunning the Moorish woman.

Corr. in MS. III: Remorse.

[293] Polluted] Dishonour'd MS. III, Remorse. [In MS. III S. T. C.
substituted 'Polluted' for 'Dishonoured.']

[294-5]

  Fear, following guilt, tempted to blacker guilt,
  And murderers were suborned against my life

Remorse.

[Affixed to 296] _During this speech Alhadra returns, and unobserved by
Alvar and Teresa scans the picture, and in dumb show compares it with
the countenance of Alvar. Then conceals it in her robe._ MS. III.

[300] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[305] threaddy] thready Remorse.

[322] him] them Remorse.

[323] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[324] sins] guilt Remorse.

[330] all is] all as MS. III, Remorse.

[332] MS. III erased.

[332 foll.]

  ALHADRA (_aside_).
  I must reserve all knowledge of this Table
  Till I can pierce the mystery of the slander--
  Form, Look, Features,--the scar below the Temple
  All, all are Isidore's--and the whole Picture--     (_then to ALVAR._)
  On matter of concerning Import . .
  . . . I would discourse with you:
  Thou hast ta'en up thy sojourn in the Dell,
  Where Zagri liv'd--who dar'd avow the Prophet,
  And died like one of the Faithful--there expect me.

Addition on margin of MS. III.

[332] om. Remorse.

[340] While] Whilst Remorse.

[359] Interpolated by S. T. C. MS. III.

[363] Could she walk here, if she had been a traitress Remorse.




ACT THE SECOND


SCENE THE FIRST.--_A wild and mountainous country. OSORIO and FERDINAND
are discovered at a little distance from a house, which stands under the
brow of a slate rock, the rock covered with vines._

_FERDINAND and OSORIO._

  _Ferdinand._ Thrice you have sav'd my life. Once in the battle
  You gave it me, next rescued me from suicide,
  When for my follies I was made to wander
  With mouths to feed, and not a morsel for them.
  Now, but for you, a dungeon's slimy stones                           5
  Had pillow'd my snapt joints.

  _Osorio._                     Good Ferdinand!
  Why this to me? It is enough you know it.

  _Ferdinand._ A common trick of gratitude, my lord!
  Seeking to ease her own full heart.

  _Osorio._                           Enough.
  A debt repay'd ceases to be a debt.                                 10
  You have it in your power to serve me greatly.

  _Ferdinand._ As how, my lord? I pray you name the thing!
  I would climb up an ice-glaz'd precipice
  To pluck a weed you fancied.

  _Osorio (with embarrassment and hesitation)._ Why--that--lady--

  _Ferdinand._ 'Tis now three years, my lord! since last I saw you.   15
  Have you a son, my lord?

  _Osorio._                O miserable!                 [_Aside._
  Ferdinand! you are a man, and know this world.
  I told you what I wish'd--now for the truth!
  She lov'd the man you kill'd!

  _Ferdinand (looking as suddenly alarmed)._ You jest, my lord?

  _Osorio._ And till his death is proved, she will not wed me.        20

  _Ferdinand._ You sport with me, my lord?

  _Osorio._                                Come, come, this foolery
  Lives only in thy looks--thy heart disowns it.

  _Ferdinand._ I can bear this, and anything more grievous
  From you, my lord!--but how can I serve you here?

  _Osorio._ Why, you can mouth set speeches solemnly,                 25
  Wear a quaint garment, make mysterious antics.

  [_Ferdinand._ I am dull, my lord! I do not comprehend you.

  _Osorio._ In blunt terms] you can play the sorcerer.
  She has no faith in Holy Church, 'tis true.
  Her lover school'd her in some newer nonsense:                      30
  Yet still a tale of spirits works on her.
  She is a lone enthusiast, sensitive,
  Shivers, and cannot keep the tears in her eye.
  Such ones do love the marvellous too well
  Not to believe it. We will wind her up                              35
  With a strange music, that she knows not of,
  With fumes of frankincense, and mummery--
  Then leave, as one sure token of his death,
  That portrait, which from off the dead man's neck
  I bade thee take, the trophy of thy conquest.                       40

  _Ferdinand (with hesitation)._ Just now I should have cursed the
      man who told me
  You could ask aught, my lord! and I refuse.
  But this I cannot do.

  _Osorio._             Where lies your scruple?

  _Ferdinand._ That shark Francesco.

  _Osorio._                          O! an o'ersiz'd gudgeon!
  I baited, sir, my hook with a painted mitre,                        45
  And now I play with him at the end of the line.
  Well--and what next?

  _Ferdinand (stammering)._ Next, next--my lord!
  You know you told me that the lady loved you,
  Had loved you with incautious tenderness.
  That if the young man, her betrothéd husband,                       50
  Return'd, yourself, and she, and an unborn babe,
  Must perish. Now, my lord! to be a man!

  _Osorio (aloud, though to express his contempt he speaks in the
      third person)._ This fellow is a man! he kill'd for hire
  One whom he knew not--yet has tender scruples.

                                    [_Then turning to FERDINAND._

  Thy hums and ha's, thy whine and stammering.                        55
  Pish--fool! thou blunder'st through the devil's book,
  Spelling thy villany!

  _Ferdinand._          My lord--my lord!
  I can bear much, yes, very much from you.
  But there's a point where sufferance is meanness!
  I am no villain, never kill'd for hire.                             60
  My gratitude----

  _Osorio._        O! aye, your gratitude!
  'Twas a well-sounding word--what have you done with it?

  _Ferdinand._ Who proffers his past favours for my virtue
  Tries to o'erreach me, is a very sharper,
  And should not speak of gratitude, my lord!                         65
  I knew not 'twas your brother!

  _Osorio (evidently alarmed)._  And who told you?

  _Ferdinand._ He himself told me.

  _Osorio._                        Ha! you talk'd with him?
  And those, the two Morescoes, that went with you?

  _Ferdinand._ Both fell in a night-brawl at Malaga.

  _Osorio (in a low voice)._ My brother!

  _Ferdinand._                           Yes, my lord! I could not
      tell you:                                                       70
  I thrust away the thought, it drove me wild.
  But listen to me now. I pray you, listen!

  _Osorio._ Villain! no more! I'll hear no more of it.

  _Ferdinand._ My lord! it much imports your future safety
  That you should hear it.

  _Osorio (turning off from Ferdinand)._ Am I not a man?              75
  'Tis as it should be! Tut--the deed itself
  Was idle--and these after-pangs still idler!

  _Ferdinand._ We met him in the very place you mention'd,
  Hard by a grove of firs.

  _Osorio._                Enough! enough!

  _Ferdinand._ He fought us valiantly, and wounded all;               80
  In fine, compell'd a parley!

  _Osorio (sighing as if lost in thought)._ Albert! Brother!

  _Ferdinand._ He offer'd me his purse.

  _Osorio._                             Yes?

  _Ferdinand._                               Yes! I spurn'd it.
  He promis'd us I know not what--in vain!
  Then with a look and voice which overaw'd me,
  He said--What mean you, friends? My life is dear.                   85
  I have a brother and a promised wife
  Who make life dear to me, and if I fall
  That brother will roam earth and hell for vengeance.
  There was a likeness in his face to yours.
  I ask'd his brother's name; he said, Osorio,                        90
  Son of Lord Velez! I had well-nigh fainted!
  At length I said (if that indeed I said it,
  And that no spirit made my tongue his organ),
  That woman is now pregnant by that brother,
  And he the man who sent us to destroy you,                          95
  He drove a thrust at me in rage. I told him,
  He wore her portrait round his neck--he look'd
  As he had been made of the rock that propp'd him back;
  Ay, just as you look now--only less ghastly!
  At last recovering from his trance, he threw                       100
  His sword away, and bade us take his life--
  It was not worth his keeping.

  _Osorio._                     And you kill'd him?
  O blood-hounds! may eternal wrath flame round you!
  He was the image of the Deity.                      [_A pause._
  It seizes me--by Hell! I will go on!                               105
  What? would'st thou stop, man? thy pale looks won't save thee!

                          [_Then suddenly pressing his forehead._

  Oh! cold, cold, cold--shot thro' with icy cold!

  _Ferdinand (aside)._ Were he alive, he had return'd ere now.
  The consequence the same, dead thro' his plotting!

  _Osorio._ O this unutterable dying away here,                      110
  This sickness of the heart!                         [_A pause._
                              What if I went
  And liv'd in a hollow tomb, and fed on weeds?
  Ay! that's the road to heaven! O fool! fool! fool!  [_A pause._
  What have I done but that which nature destin'd
  Or the blind elements stirr'd up within me?                        115
  If good were meant, why were we made these beings?
  And if not meant----

  _Ferdinand._         How feel you now, my lord?

              [_OSORIO starts, looks at him wildly, then, after a
                   pause, during which his features are forced
                   into a smile._

  _Osorio._ A gust of the soul! i'faith, it overset me.
  O 'twas all folly--all! idle as laughter!
  Now, Ferdinand, I swear that thou shalt aid me.                    120

  _Ferdinand (in a low voice)._ I'll perish first! Shame on my
      coward heart,
  That I must slink away from wickedness
  Like a cow'd dog!

  _Osorio._         What dost thou mutter of?

  _Ferdinand._ Some of your servants know me, I am certain.

  _Osorio._ There's some sense in that scruple; but we'll mask you.  125

  _Ferdinand._ They'll know my gait. But stay! of late I have
      watch'd
  A stranger that lives nigh, still picking weeds,
  Now in the swamp, now on the walls of the ruin,
  Now clamb'ring, like a runaway lunatic,
  Up to the summit of our highest mount.                             130
  I have watch'd him at it morning-tide and noon,
  Once in the moonlight. Then I stood so near,
  I heard him mutt'ring o'er the plant. A wizard!
  Some gaunt slave, prowling out for dark employments.

  _Osorio._ What may his name be?

  _Ferdinand._                    That I cannot tell you.            135
  Only Francesco bade an officer
  Speak in your name, as lord of this domain.
  So he was question'd, who and what he was.
  This was his answer: Say to the Lord Osorio,
  'He that can bring the dead to life again.'                        140

  _Osorio._ A strange reply!

  _Ferdinand._               Aye--all of him is strange.
  He call'd himself a Christian--yet he wears
  The Moorish robe, as if he courted death.

  _Osorio._ Where does this wizard live?

  _Ferdinand (pointing to a distance)._ You see that brooklet?
  Trace its course backward thro' a narrow opening                   145
  It leads you to the place.

  _Osorio._                  How shall I know it?

  _Ferdinand._ You can't mistake. It is a small green dale
  Built all around with high off-sloping hills,
  And from its shape our peasants aptly call it
  The Giant's Cradle. There's a lake in the midst,                   150
  And round its banks tall wood, that branches over
  And makes a kind of faery forest grow
  Down in the water. At the further end
  A puny cataract falls on the lake;
  And there (a curious sight) you see its shadow                     155
  For ever curling, like a wreath of smoke,
  Up through the foliage of those faery trees.
  His cot stands opposite--you cannot miss it.
  Some three yards up the hill a mountain ash
  Stretches its lower boughs and scarlet clusters                    160
  O'er the new thatch.

  _Osorio._            I shall not fail to find it.

                   [_Exit OSORIO. FERDINAND goes into his house._


_Scene changes._

_The inside of a cottage, around which flowers and plants of various
kinds are seen._

_ALBERT and MAURICE._

  _Albert._ He doth believe himself an iron soul,
  And therefore puts he on an iron outward
  And those same mock habiliments of strength
  Hide his own weakness from himself.

  _Maurice._                          His weakness!                  165
  Come, come, speak out! Your brother is a villain!
  Yet all the wealth, power, influence, which is yours
  You suffer him to hold!

  _Albert._               Maurice! dear Maurice!
  That my return involved Osorio's death
  I trust would give me an unmingl'd pang--                          170
  Yet bearable. But when I see my father
  Strewing his scant grey hairs even on the ground
  Which soon must be his grave; and my Maria,
  Her husband proved a monster, and her infants
  His infants--poor Maria!--all would perish,                        175
  All perish--all!--and I (nay bear with me!)
  Could not survive the complicated ruin!

  _Maurice (much affected)._ Nay, now, if I have distress'd you--you
      well know,
  I ne'er will quit your fortunes! true, 'tis tiresome.
  You are a painter--one of many fancies--                           180
  You can call up past deeds, and make them live
  On the blank canvas, and each little herb,
  That grows on mountain bleak, or tangled forest,
  You've learnt to name--but _I_----

  _Albert._                          Well, to the Netherlands
  We will return, the heroic Prince of Orange                        185
  Will grant us an asylum, in remembrance
  Of our past service.

  _Maurice._           Heard you not some steps?

  _Albert._ What if it were my brother coming onward!
  Not very wisely (but his creature teiz'd me)
  I sent a most mysterious message to him.                           190

  _Maurice._ Would he not know you?

  _Albert._                         I unfearingly
  Trust this disguise. Besides, he thinks me dead;
  And what the mind believes impossible,
  The bodily sense is slow to recognize.
  Add too my youth, when last we saw each other;                     195
  Manhood has swell'd my chest, and taught my voice
  A hoarser note.

  _Maurice._      Most true! And Alva's Duke
  Did not improve it by the unwholesome viands
  He gave so scantily in that foul dungeon,
  During our long imprisonment.

_Enter OSORIO._

  _Albert._                     It is he!                            200

  _Maurice._ Make yourself talk; you'll feel the less. Come, speak.
  How do you find yourself? Speak to me, Albert.

  _Albert (placing his hand on his heart)._ A little fluttering
      here; but more of sorrow!

  _Osorio._ You know my name, perhaps, better than me.
  I am Osorio, son of the Lord Velez.                                205

  _Albert (groaning aloud)._ The son of Velez!

               [_OSORIO walks leisurely round the room, and looks
                    attentively at the plants._

  _Maurice._                                   Why, what ails you now?

                    [_ALBERT grasps MAURICE'S hand in agitation._

  _Maurice._ How your hand trembles, Albert! Speak! what wish you?

  _Albert._ To fall upon his neck and weep in anguish!

  _Osorio (returning)._ All very curious! from a ruin'd abbey
  Pluck'd in the moonlight. There's a strange power in weeds         210
  When a few odd prayers have been mutter'd o'er them.
  Then they work miracles! I warrant you,
  There's not a leaf, but underneath it lurks
  Some serviceable imp. There's one of you,
  Who sent me a strange message.

  _Albert._                      I am he!                            215

  _Osorio._ I will speak with you, and by yourself.

                                                 [_Exit MAURICE._

  _Osorio._ 'He that can bring the dead to life again.'
  Such was your message, Sir! You are no dullard,
  But one that strips the outward rind of things!

  _Albert._ 'Tis fabled there are fruits with tempting rinds         220
  That are all dust and rottenness within.
  Would'st thou I should strip such?

  _Osorio._                          Thou quibbling fool,
  What dost thou mean? Think'st thou I journey'd hither
  To sport with thee?

  _Albert._           No, no! my lord! to sport
  Best fits the gaiety of innocence!                                 225

  _Osorio (draws back as if stung and embarrassed, then folding his
      arms)._ O what a thing is Man! the wisest heart
  A fool--a fool, that laughs at its own folly,
  Yet still a fool!                   [_Looks round the cottage._
                    It strikes me you are poor!

  _Albert._ What follows thence?

  _Osorio._                      That you would fain be richer.
  Besides, you do not love the rack, perhaps,                        230
  Nor a black dungeon, nor a fire of <DW19>s.
  The Inquisition--hey? You understand me,
  And you are poor. Now I have wealth and power,
  Can quench the flames, and cure your poverty.
  And for this service, all I ask you is                             235
  That you should serve me--once--for a few hours.

  _Albert (solemnly)._ Thou art the son of Velez! Would to Heaven
  That I could truly and for ever serve thee!

  _Osorio._ The canting scoundrel softens.              [_Aside._
                                           You are my friend!
  'He that can bring the dead to life again.'                        240
  Nay, no defence to me. The holy brethren
  Believe these calumnies. I know thee better.

                                   [_Then with great bitterness._

  Thou art a man, and as a man I'll trust thee!

  _Albert._ Alas, this hollow mirth! Declare your business!

  _Osorio._ I love a lady, and she would love me                     245
  But for an idle and fantastic scruple.
  Have you no servants round the house? no listeners?

                                     [_OSORIO steps to the door._

  _Albert._ What! faithless too? false to his angel wife?
  To such a wife? Well might'st thou look so wan,
  Ill-starr'd Maria! Wretch! my softer soul                          250
  Is pass'd away! and I will probe his conscience.

  _Osorio (returned)._ In truth this lady loved another man,
  But he has perish'd.

  _Albert._            What? you kill'd him? hey?

  _Osorio._ I'll dash thee to the earth, if thou but think'st it,
  Thou slave! thou galley-slave! thou mountebank!                    255
  I leave thee to the hangman!

  _Albert._                    Fare you well!
  I pity you, Osorio! even to anguish!

                                 [_ALBERT retires off the stage._

  _Osorio (recovering himself)._ 'Twas ideotcy! I'll tie myself to
      an aspen,
  And wear a Fool's Cap. Ho!             [_Calling after ALBERT._

  _Albert (returning)._      Be brief, what wish you?

  _Osorio._ You are deep at bartering--you charge yourself           260
  At a round sum. Come, come, I spake unwisely.

  _Albert._ I listen to you.

  _Osorio._                  In a sudden tempest
  Did Albert perish--he, I mean, the lover--
  The fellow----

  _Albert._      Nay, speak out, 'twill ease your heart
  To call him villain! Why stand'st thou aghast?                     265
  Men think it natural to hate their rivals!

  _Osorio (hesitating and half doubting whether he should proceed)._
      Now till she knows him dead she will not wed me!

  _Albert (with eager vehemence)._ Are you not wedded, then?
      Merciful God!
  Not wedded to Maria?

  _Osorio._            Why, what ails thee?
  Art mad or drunk? Why look'st thou upward so?                      270
  Dost pray to Lucifer, prince of the air?

  _Albert._ Proceed. I shall be silent.

         [_ALBERT sits, and leaning on the table hides his face._

  _Osorio._                             To Maria!
  Politic wizard! ere you sent that message,
  You had conn'd your lesson, made yourself proficient
  In all my fortunes! Hah! you prophesied                            275
  A golden crop!--well, you have not mistaken--
  Be faithful to me, and I'll pay thee nobly.

  _Albert (lifting up his head)._ Well--and this lady!

  _Osorio._ If we could make her certain of his death,
  She needs must wed me. Ere her lover left her,                     280
  She tied a little portrait round his neck
  Entreating him to wear it.

  _Albert (sighing)._        Yes! he did so!

  _Osorio._ Why, no! he was afraid of accidents,
  Of robberies and shipwrecks, and the like.
  In secrecy he gave it me to keep                                   285
  Till his return.

  _Albert._ What, he was your friend then?

  _Osorio (wounded and embarrassed)._ I was his friend.

                                                      [_A pause._

                                           Now that he gave it me
  This lady knows not. You are a mighty wizard--
  Can call this dead man up--he will not come--                      290
  He is in heaven then!--there you have no influence--
  Still there are tokens; and your imps may bring you
  Something he wore about him when he died.
  And when the smoke of the incense on the altar
  Is pass'd, your spirits will have left this picture.               295
  What say you now?

  _Albert (after a long pause)._ Osorio, I will do it.

  _Osorio._ Delays are dangerous. It shall be to-morrow
  In the early evening. Ask for the Lord Velez.
  I will prepare him. Music, too, and incense,
  All shall be ready. Here is this same picture--                    300
  And here what you will value more, a purse.
  Before the dusk----

  _Albert._           I will not fail to meet you.

  _Osorio._ Till next we meet, farewell!

  _Albert (alone, gazes passionately at the portrait)._ And I did
      curse thee?
  At midnight? on my knees? And I believed
  _Thee_ perjured, _thee_ polluted, thee a murderess?                305
  O blind and credulous fool! O guilt of folly!
  Should not thy inarticulate fondnesses,
  Thy infant loves--should not thy maiden vows,
  Have come upon my heart? And this sweet image
  Tied round my neck with many a chaste endearment                   310
  And thrilling hands, that made me weep and tremble.
  Ah, coward dupe! to yield it to the miscreant
  Who spake pollutions of thee!
  I am unworthy of thy love, Maria!
  Of that unearthly smile upon those lips,                           315
  Which ever smil'd on me! Yet do not scorn me.
  I lisp'd thy name ere I had learnt my mother's!

_Enter MAURICE._

  _Albert._ Maurice! that picture, which I painted for thee,
  Of my assassination.

  _Maurice._           I'll go fetch it.

  _Albert._ Haste! for I yearn to tell thee what has pass'd.         320

                                             [_MAURICE goes out._

  _Albert (gazing at the portrait)._ Dear image! rescued from a
       traitor's keeping,
  I will not now prophane thee, holy image!
  To a dark trick! That worst bad man shall find
  A picture which shall wake the hell within him,
  And rouse a fiery whirlwind in his conscience!                     325

END OF ACT THE SECOND.


LINENOTES:

[Before 1]

_A wild and mountainous Country. ORDONIO and ISIDORE are discovered,
supposed at a little distance from Isidore's house._

  _Ord._ Here we may stop: your house distinct in view,
  Yet we secured from listeners.

  _Isid._                        Now indeed
  My house! and it looks cheerful as the clusters
  Basking in sunshine on yon vine-clad rock
  That overbrows it! Patron! Friend! Preserver!
  Thrice have you sav'd my life.

Remorse.

[6] Had been my bed and pillow Remorse.

[12] And how, my Lord, I pray you to name Remorse.

[14] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[17] this world] mankind Remorse.

[19] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[Between 24 and 26]

  Why you can utter with a solemn gesture
  Oracular sentences of deep no-meaning

Remorse.

[27-8] The words in square brackets are interpolated in MS. I. They are
in their place, as here, in MSS. II, III, and in Remorse.

[31] on] upon Remorse.

[34-5]

  And such do love the marvellous too well
  Not to believe it. We will wind up her fancy

Remorse.

[Between 40 and 41]

  _Isid._ Will that be a sure sign?

  _Ord._                            Beyond suspicion.
  Fondly caressing him, her favour'd lover,
  (By some base spell he had bewitched her senses.)
  She whisper'd such dark fears of me forsooth,
  As made this heart pour gall into my veins,
  And as she coyly bound it round his neck,
  She made him promise silence; and now holds
  The secret of the existence of this portrait
  Known only to her lover and herself.
  But I had traced her, stolen unnotic'd on them,
  And unsuspected saw and heard the whole.

Remorse.

[41] _Isid._ But now, &c. Remorse.

[44-7] om. Remorse.

[47] _Isidore._ Why--why, my lord! Remorse.

[Between 50 and 53]

  Return'd, yourself, and she, and the honour of both
  Must perish. Now though with no tenderer scruples
  Than those which being native to the heart,
  Than those, my lord, which merely being a man--

Remorse.

Stage-direction before 53 om. Remorse.

[55-6]

  These doubts, these fears, thy whine, thy stammering--
  Pish, fool! thou blund'rest through the book of guilt

Remorse.

[After 63] _Ord._ Virtue-- Remorse.

[64] _Isid._ Tries to o'erreach me, &c. Remorse.

[66] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[68] And those, the two Morescoes who were with you? Remorse.

[75] Am not I a man? Remorse.

[81] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[84] which] that Remorse.

[93] his] its Remorse.

[94] That woman is dishonoured Remorse.

[98] him] his Remorse.

[100] last] length Remorse.

[103] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[104] He was his Maker's image undefac'd Remorse.

[106] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[111] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[113] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[117] _Isidore._ You are disturb'd, my lord Remorse.

[After 117] _Ord. (starts)._ A gust, &c. Remorse.

[121-3] Shame . . . dog om. Remorse.

[Between 125 and 140.]

  _Isidore._ They'll know my gait: but stay! last night I watched
  A stranger near the ruin in the wood,
  Who as it seemed was gathering herbs and wild flowers.
  I had followed him at distance, seen him scale
  Its western wall, and by an easier entrance
  Stole after him unnoticed. There I marked,
  That mid the chequer work of light and shade,
  With curious choice he plucked no other flowers,
  But those on which the moonlight fell: and once
  I heard him muttering o'er the plant. A wizard--
  Some gaunt slave prowling here for dark employment.

  _Ordonio._ Doubtless you question'd him?

  _Isidore._                               'Twas my intention,
  Having first traced him homeward to his haunt.
  But lo! the stern Dominican, whose spies
  Lurk everywhere, already (as it seemed)
  Had given commission to his apt familiar
  To seek and sound the Moor; who now returning,
  Was by this trusty agent stopped midway.
  I, dreading fresh suspicion if found near him
  In that lone place, again concealed myself;
  Yet within hearing. So the Moor was question'd,
  And in your name, as lord of this domain,
  Proudly he answered, 'Say to the Lord Ordonio,

Remorse.

[143] robe] robes Remorse.

[144] Stage-direction, _a_] _the_ Remorse.

[147] You cannot err. It is a small green dell Remorse.

[Between 158 and 205:]

  _Ordonio (in retiring stops suddenly at the edge of the scene, and
      then turning round to ISIDORE)._ Ha! Who lurks there! Have we been
      overheard?
  There where the smooth high wall of slate-rock glitters----

  _Isidore._ 'Neath those tall stones, which propping each the other,
  Form a mock portal with their pointed arch?
  Pardon my smiles! 'Tis a poor idiot boy,
  Who sits in the sun, and twirls a bough about,
  His weak eyes seeth'd in most unmeaning tears.
  And so he sits, swaying his cone-like head,
  And, staring at his bough from morn to sun-set,
  See-saws his voice in inarticulate noises.

  _Ordonio._ 'Tis well! and now for this same wizard's lair.

  _Isidore._ Some three strides up the hill, a mountain ash
  Stretches its lower boughs and scarlet clusters
  O'er the old thatch.

  _Ordonio._           I shall not fail to find it.

                                          [_Exeunt ORDONIO and ISIDORE._


SCENE II.

_The inside of a Cottage, around which flowers and plants of various
kinds are seen. Discovers ALVAR, ZULIMEZ and ALHADRA, as on the point of
leaving._

  _Alhadra (addressing ALVAR)._ Farewell then! and though many thoughts
      perplex me,
  Aught evil or ignoble never can I
  Suspect of thee! If what thou seem'st thou art,
  The oppressed brethren of thy blood have need
  Of such a leader.

  _Alvar._          Nobly minded woman!
  Long time against oppression have I fought,
  And for the native liberty of faith
  Have bled and suffered bonds. Of this be certain:
  Time, as he courses onward, still unrolls
  The volume of concealment. In the future,
  As in the optician's glassy cylinder,
  The indistinguishable blots and colours
  Of the dim past collect and shape themselves,
  Upstarting in their own completed image
  To scare or to reward.
                         I sought the guilty,
  And what I sought I found: but ere the spear
  Flew from my hand, there rose an angel form
  Betwixt me and my aim. With baffled purpose
  To the Avenger I leave Vengeance, and depart!

  Whate'er betide, if aught my arm may aid,
  Or power protect, my word is pledged to thee:
  For many are thy wrongs, and thy soul noble.
  Once more, farewell.                                  [_Exit ALHADRA._
                       Yes, to the Belgic states
  We will return. These robes, this stained complexion,
  Akin to falsehood, weigh upon my spirit.
  Whate'er befall us, the heroic Maurice
  Will grant us an asylum, in remembrance
  Of our past services.

  _Zulimez._ And all the wealth, power, influence which is yours,
  You let a murderer hold?

  _Alvar._                 O faithful Zulimez!
  That my return involved Ordonio's death,
  I trust, would give me an unmingled pang,
  Yet bearable:--but when I see my father
  Strewing his scant grey hairs, e'en on the ground,
  Which soon must be his grave, and my Teresa--
  Her husband proved a murderer, and her infants
  His infants--poor Teresa!--all would perish,
  All perish--all; and I (nay bear with me)
  Could not survive the complicated ruin!

  _Zulimez._ Nay now! I have distress'd you--you well know,
  I ne'er will quit your fortunes. True, 'tis tiresome:
  You are a painter, one of many fancies!
  You can call up past deeds, and make them live
  On the blank canvass! and each little herb,
  That grows on mountain bleak, or tangled forest,
  You have learnt to name--
                            Hark! heard you not some footsteps?

  _Alvar._ What if it were my brother coming onwards?
  I sent a most mysterious message to him.

_Enter ORDONIO._

  _Alvar._ It is he!

  _Ordonio (to himself as he enters)._ If I distinguished right her gait
      and stature,
  It was the Moorish woman, Isidore's wife,
  That passed me as I entered. A lit taper,
  In the night air, doth not more naturally
  Attract the night flies round it, than a conjuror
  Draws round him the whole female neighbourhood.   [_Addressing ALVAR._
  You know my name, I guess, if not my person.

Remorse.

[For lines 31-46 of Remorse, Act II, Scene II, vide _supra_ Osorio, Act
II, Scene II, lines 169-84.]

Stage-direction preceding 162:

_Albert and an old servant both drest as Morescoes._ Corr. in MS. III.

[162-6] MS. III erased.

[167-8]

  And all the wealth, power, influence, which is yours
  You let a murderer hold!

  _Albert._ O faithful Ali

Corr. in MS. III.

[184-7]

  _Albert._            Yes to the Netherlands
  We will return, these robes this stained complexion
  Akin to Falsehood, weigh upon my spirit
  What e'er befal us, the heroic Maurice
  Will grant us an asylum, in remembrance
  Of our past service.

Corr. in MS. III.

[200] After _Enter OSORIO._

                             Be quick
  Remove these tablets--quick conceal it--

Corr. in MS. III.

[201-3] om. MS. III.

Stage-directions (_groaning_, &c.) before 206, and (_Albert_, &c.) after
206 om. Remorse.

[206] _Zul. (to Alvar)._ Why, &c. Remorse.

[208] in anguish] forgiveness Remorse.

[209-10]

  _Ord. (returning and aloud)._
  Plucked in the moonlight from a ruin'd abbey--
  Those only, which the pale rays visited!
  O the unintelligible power of weeds,

Remorse.

[215] Who] Hath Remorse.

[216]

  _Ord._ With you, then, I am to speak.

                                [_Haughtily waving his hand to ZULIMEZ._

  And mark you, alone.                                  [_Exit ZULIMEZ._

Remorse.

[224] No, no!] O no! Remorse.

[225] fits] suits Remorse.

[Before 226] _Ord. (aside)._ O what a, &c. Remorse.

[228]

  Yet still a fool!                          [_Looks round the cottage._
                    You are poor!

Remorse.

[230-3]

  The Inquisition, too--You comprehend me?
  You are poor, in peril. I have wealth and power

Remorse.

[235] And for the boon I ask of you but this Remorse.

[237] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[239]

  _Ord._ The slave begins to soften.                           [_aside._
                                     You are my friend

Remorse.

[After 242] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[244] _Alv. (aside)._ Alas! &c. Remorse.

[247] Have you no servants here, &c.? Remorse.

[252] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[255-9]

  Insolent slave! how dar'dst thou--

                      [_Turns abruptly from ALVAR, and then to himself._

                                     Why! What's this?
  'Twas idiocy! I'll tie myself to an aspen,
  And wear a fool's cap--

  _Alvar._                Fare thee well--
  I pity thee, Ordonio, even to anguish.           [_ALVAR is retiring._

  _Ordonio._ Ho!                                    [_Calling to ALVAR._

  _Alvar._ Be brief, &c.

Remorse.

[267] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[268] Stage-direction om. Remorse. God] Heaven Remorse.

[270] What, art thou mad? Why look'st thou upward so? Remorse.

[272] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[278] Stage-direction om. Remorse. Well--and this lady! Pray, proceed my
lord MS. III. erased.

[282] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[Before and after 287] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[290] this] the Remorse.

[296] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[297] _Ordonio._ We'll hazard no delay. Be it to-night, Remorse.

[300-2]

  (For I have arranged it--music, altar, incense)
  All shall be ready. Here is this same picture,
  And here, what you will value more, a purse.
  Come early for your magic ceremonies.

Remorse.

[303] _Exit ORDONIO. ALVAR (alone, indignantly flings the purse away and
gazes_, &c. Remorse.

[305] Thee perjur'd, thee a traitress! Thee dishonour'd! Remorse.

[Between 312 and 313:]

  Who spake pollution of thee! barter for life
  This farewell pledge, which with impassioned vow
  I had sworn that I would grasp--ev'n in my death-pang!

Remorse.

Affixed to 318-19 omitted. (_Ali re-enters_).

  Ali! new Hope, new joy! A life thrills thro' me
  As if renew'd from Heaven! Bring back that tablet
  Restor'd to me by a fortunate Star. This picture
  Of my assassination will I leave
  As the token of my Fate:--
  Haste, for I yearn to tell thee what has pass'd           [_Exit Ali._

MS. III.

[318-20] and stage-directions [_Maurice_, &c.; (_gazing_, &c.) om.
Remorse.

[321] image] portrait Remorse.

[324] shall] will Remorse.




ACT THE THIRD


SCENE THE FIRST.--_A hall of armory, with an altar in the part farthest
from the stage._

_VELEZ, OSORIO, MARIA._

  _Maria._ Lord Velez! you have ask'd my presence here,
  And I submit; but (Heaven bear witness for me!)
  My heart approves it not! 'tis mockery!

                      [_Here ALBERT enters in a sorcerer's robe._

  _Maria (to Albert)._ Stranger! I mourn and blush to see _you_ here
  On such employments! With far other thoughts                         5
  I left you.

  _Osorio (aside)._ Ha! he has been tampering with her!

  _Albert._ O high-soul'd maiden, and more dear to me
  Than suits the stranger's name, I swear to thee,
  I will uncover all concealed things!
  Doubt, but decide not!
                         Stand from off the altar.                    10

                [_Here a strain of music is heard from behind the
                     scenes, from an instrument of glass or
                     steel--the harmonica or Celestina stop, or
                     Clagget's metallic organ._

  _Albert._ With no irreverent voice or uncouth charm
  I call up the departed. Soul of Albert!
  Hear our soft suit, and heed my milder spells:
  So may the gates of Paradise unbarr'd
  Cease thy swift toils, since haply thou art one                     15
  Of that innumerable company,
  Who in broad circle, lovelier than the rainbow,
  Girdle this round earth in a dizzy motion,
  With noise too vast and constant to be heard--
  Fitliest unheard! For, O ye numberless                              20
  And rapid travellers! what ear unstun'd,
  What sense unmadden'd, might bear up against
  The rushing of your congregated wings?
  Even now your living wheel turns o'er my head!
  Ye, as ye pass, toss high the desart sands,                         25
  That roar and whiten, like a burst of waters,
  A sweet appearance, but a dread illusion,
  To the parch'd caravan that roams by night.
  And ye build up on the becalmed waves
  That whirling pillar, which from earth to heaven                    30
  Stands vast, and moves in blackness. Ye too split
  The ice-mount, and with fragments many and huge,
  Tempest the new-thaw'd sea, whose sudden gulphs
  Suck in, perchance, some Lapland wizard's skiff.
  Then round and round the whirlpool's marge ye dance,                35
  Till from the blue-swoln corse the soul toils out,
  And joins your mighty army.
                              Soul of Albert!
  Hear the mild spell and tempt no blacker charm.
  By sighs unquiet and the sickly pang
  Of an half dead yet still undying hope,                             40
  Pass visible before our mortal sense;
  So shall the Church's cleansing rites be thine,
  Her knells and masses that redeem the dead.

       THE SONG

       (_Sung behind the scenes, accompanied by the same
       instrument as before._)

       Hear, sweet spirit! hear the spell
       Lest a blacker charm compel!                                   45
       So shall the midnight breezes swell
       With thy deep long-lingering knell.
       And at evening evermore
       In a chapel on the shore
       Shall the chanters sad and saintly,                            50
       Yellow tapers burning faintly,
       Doleful masses chant for thee,
       Miserere, Domine!

       Hark! the cadence dies away
       On the quiet moonlight sea,                                    55
       The boatmen rest their oars, and say,
       Miserere, Domine!                         [_A long pause._

  _Osorio._ This was too melancholy, father!

  _Velez._                                   Nay!
  My Albert lov'd sad music from a child.
  Once he was lost; and after weary search                            60
  We found him in an open place of the wood,
  To which spot he had follow'd a blind boy
  Who breathed into a pipe of sycamore
  Some strangely-moving notes, and these, he said,
  Were taught him in a dream; him we first saw                        65
  Stretch'd on the broad top of a sunny heath-bank;
  And, lower down, poor Albert fast asleep,
  His head upon the blind boy's dog--it pleased me
  To mark, how he had fasten'd round the pipe
  A silver toy, his grandmother had given him.                        70
  Methinks I see him now, as he then look'd.
  His infant dress was grown too short for him,
  Yet still he wore it.

  _Albert (aside)._     My tears must not flow--
  I must not clasp his knees, and cry, my father!

  _Osorio._ The innocent obey nor charm nor spell.                    75
  My brother is in heaven. Thou sainted spirit
  Burst on our sight, a passing visitant!
  Once more to hear thy voice, once more to see thee,
  O 'twere a joy to me.

  _Albert (abruptly)._  A joy to thee!
  What if thou heard'st him now? What if his spirit                   80
  Re-enter'd its cold corse, and came upon thee,
  With many a stab from many a murderer's poniard?
  What if, his steadfast eye still beaming pity
  And brother's love, he turn'd his head aside,
  Lest he should look at thee, and with one look                      85
  Hurl thee beyond all power of penitence?

  _Velez._ These are unholy fancies!

  _Osorio (struggling with his feelings)._ Yes, my father!
  He is in heaven!

  _Albert (still to Osorio)._ But what if this same brother
  Had lived even so, that at his dying hour
  The name of heaven would have convuls'd his face                    90
  More than the death-pang?

  _Maria._                  Idly-prating man!
  He was most virtuous.

  _Albert (still to Osorio)._ What if his very virtues
  Had pamper'd his swoln heart, and made him proud?
  And what if pride had duped him into guilt,
  Yet still he stalk'd, a self-created God,                           95
  Not very bold, but excellently cunning;
  And one that at his mother's looking-glass,
  Would force his features to a frowning sternness?
  Young lord! I tell thee, that there are such beings,--
  Yea, and it gives fierce merriment to the damn'd,                  100
  To see these most proud men, that loathe mankind,
  At every stir and buz of coward conscience,
  Trick, cant, and lie, most whining hypocrites!
  Away! away! Now let me hear more music.     [_Music as before._

  _Albert._ The spell is mutter'd--come, thou wandering shape,       105
  Who own'st no master in an eye of flesh,
  Whate'er be this man's doom, fair be it or foul,
  If he be dead, come quick, and bring with thee
  That which he grasp'd in death; and if he lives,
  Some token of his obscure perilous life.                           110

                  [_The whole orchestra crashes into one chorus._

       Wandering demon! hear the spell
       Lest a blacker charm compel!

                 [_A thunder-clap. The incense on the altar takes
                      fire suddenly._

  _Maria._ This is some trick--I know, it is a trick.
  Yet my weak fancy, and these bodily creepings,
  Would fain give substance to the shadow.[555:1]

  _Velez (advancing to the altar)._        Hah!                      115
  A picture!

  _Maria._   O God! _my_ picture?

  _Albert (gazing at Maria with wild impatient distressfulness)._
  Pale--pale--deadly pale!

  _Maria._ He grasp'd it when he died.

            [_She swoons. ALBERT rushes to her and supports her._

  _Albert._                            My love! my wife!
  Pale--pale, and cold! My love! my wife! Maria!

            [_VELEZ is at the altar. OSORIO remains near him in a
                 state of stupor._

  _Osorio (rousing himself)._ Where am I? 'Twas a lazy chilliness.   120

  _Velez (takes and conceals the picture in his robe)._ This way, my
      son! She must not see this picture.
  Go, call the attendants! Life will soon ebb back!

                             [_VELEZ and OSORIO leave the stage._

  _Albert._ Her pulse doth flutter. Maria! my Maria!

  _Maria (recovering--looks round)._ I heard a voice--but often in
      my dreams,
  I hear that voice, and wake; and try, and try,                     125
  To hear it waking--but I never could!
  And 'tis so now--even so! Well, he is dead,
  Murder'd perhaps! and I am faint, and feel
  As if it were no painful thing to die!

  _Albert (eagerly)._ Believe it not, sweet maid! believe it not,    130
  Beloved woman! 'Twas a low imposture
  Framed by a guilty wretch.

  _Maria._                   Ha! who art thou?

  _Albert (exceedingly agitated)._ My heart bursts over thee!

  _Maria._                               Didst _thou_ murder him?
  And dost thou now repent? Poor troubled man!
  I do forgive thee, and may Heaven forgive thee!                    135

  _Albert (aside)._ Let me be gone.

  _Maria._                          If thou didst murder him,
  His spirit ever, at the throne of God,
  Asks mercy for thee, prays for mercy for thee,
  With tears in heaven!

  _Albert._             Albert was not murder'd.
  Your foster-mother----

  _Maria._               And doth she know aught?                    140

  _Albert._ She knows not aught--but haste thou to her cottage
  To-morrow early--bring Lord Velez with thee.
  There ye must meet me--but your servants come.

  _Maria (wildly)._ Nay--nay--but tell me!

                           [_A pause--then presses her forehead._

                                           Ah! 'tis lost again!
  This dead confused pain!       [_A pause--she gazes at ALBERT._
                           Mysterious man!                           145
  Methinks, I cannot fear thee--for thine eye
  Doth swim with pity--I will lean on thee.

                                      [_Exeunt ALBERT and MARIA._

_Re-enter VELEZ and OSORIO._

  _Velez (sportively)._ You shall not see the picture, till you own
      it.[556:1]

  _Osorio._ This mirth and raillery, sir! beseem your age.
  I am content to be more serious.[556:2]                            150

  _Velez._ Do you think I did not scent it from the first?
  An excellent scheme, and excellently managed.
  'Twill blow away her doubts, and now she'll wed you,
  I'faith, the likeness is most admirable.
  I saw the trick--yet these old eyes grew dimmer                    155
  With very foolish tears, it look'd so like him!

  _Osorio._ Where should I get her portrait?

  _Velez._                                   Get her portrait?
  Portrait? You mean the picture! At the painter's--
  No difficulty then--but that you lit upon
  A fellow that could play the sorcerer,                             160
  With such a grace and terrible majesty,
  It was most rare good fortune. And how deeply
  He seem'd to suffer when Maria swoon'd,
  And half made love to her! I suppose you'll ask me
  Why did he so?

  _Osorio (with deep tones of suppressed agitation)._ Ay, wherefore
      did he so?                                                     165

  _Velez._ Because you bade him--and an excellent thought!
  A mighty man, and gentle as he is mighty.
  He'll wind into her confidence, and rout
  A host of scruples--come, confess, Osorio!

  _Osorio._ You pierce through mysteries with a lynx's eye,          170
  In this, your merry mood! you see it all!

  _Velez._ Why, no!--not all. I have not yet discover'd,
  At least, not wholly, what his speeches meant.
  Pride and hypocrisy, and guilt and cunning--
  Then when he fix'd his obstinate eye on you,                       175
  And you pretended to look strange and tremble.
  Why--why--what ails you now?

  _Osorio (with a stupid stare)._ Me? why? what ails me?
  A pricking of the blood--it might have happen'd
  At any other time. Why scan you me?

  _Velez (clapping him on the shoulder)._ 'Twon't do--'twon't do--I
      have lived too long in the world.                              180
  His speech about the corse and stabs and murderers,
  Had reference to the assassins in the picture:
  That I made out.

  _Osorio (with a frantic eagerness)._ Assassins! what assassins!

  _Velez._ Well-acted, on my life! Your curiosity
  Runs open-mouth'd, ravenous as winter wolf.                        185
  I dare not stand in its way.    [_He shows OSORIO the picture._

  _Osorio._                    Dup'd--dup'd--dup'd!
  That villain Ferdinand! (_aside_).

  _Velez._                Dup'd--dup'd--not I.
  As he swept by me----

  _Osorio._             Ha! _what_ did he say?

  _Velez._ He caught his garment up and hid his face.
  It seem'd as he were struggling to suppress----                    190

  _Osorio._ A laugh! a laugh! O hell! he laughs at me!

  _Velez._ It heaved his chest more like a violent sob.

  _Osorio._ A choking laugh!        [_A pause--then very wildly._
                             I tell thee, my dear father!
  I am most glad of this!

  _Velez._                Glad!--aye--to be sure.

  _Osorio._ I was benumb'd, and stagger'd up and down                195
  Thro' darkness without light--dark--dark--dark--
  And every inch of this my flesh did feel
  As if a cold toad touch'd it! Now 'tis sunshine,
  And the blood dances freely thro' its channels!

          [_He turns off--then (to himself) mimicking FERDINAND'S
               manner._[558:1]

  'A common trick of gratitude, my lord!                             200
  Old Gratitude! a dagger would dissect
  His own full heart,' 'twere good to see its colour!

  _Velez (looking intently at the picture)._ Calm, yet commanding!
      how he bares his breast,
  Yet still they stand with dim uncertain looks,
  As penitence had run before their crime.                           205
  A crime too black for aught to follow it
  Save blasphemous despair! See _this_ man's face--
  With what a difficult toil he drags his soul
  To do the deed.                              [_Then to OSORIO._
                  O this was delicate flattery
  To poor Maria, and I love thee for it!                             210

  _Osorio (in a slow voice with a reasoning laugh)._ Love--love--and
      then we hate--and what? and wherefore?
  Hatred and love. Strange things! both strange alike!
  What if one reptile sting another reptile,
  Where is the crime? The goodly face of Nature
  Hath one trail less of slimy filth upon it.                        215
  Are we not all predestined rottenness
  And cold dishonor? Grant it that this hand
  Had given a morsel to the hungry worms
  Somewhat too early. Where's the guilt of this?
  That this must needs bring on the idiotcy                          220
  Of moist-eyed penitence--'tis like a dream!

  _Velez._ Wild talk, my child! but thy excess of feeling

                                        [_Turns off from OSORIO._

  Sometimes, I fear, it will unhinge his brain!

  _Osorio._ I kill a man and lay him in the sun,
  And in a month there swarm from his dead body                      225
  A thousand--nay, ten thousand sentient beings
  In place of that one man whom I had kill'd.
  Now who shall tell me, that each one and all,
  Of these ten thousand lives, is not as happy
  As that one life, which being shov'd aside                         230
  Made room for these ten thousand?[559:1]

  _Velez._                          Wild as madness!

  _Osorio._ Come, father! you have taught me to be merry,
  And merrily we'll pore upon this picture.

  _Velez (holding the picture before Osorio)._ That Moor, who points
      his sword at Albert's breast----

  _Osorio (abruptly)._ A tender-hearted, scrupulous, grateful
      villain,                                                       235
  Whom I will strangle!

  _Velez._              And these other two----

  _Osorio._ Dead--dead already!--what care I for the dead?

  _Velez._ The heat of brain and your too strong affection
  For Albert, fighting with your other passion,
  Unsettle you, and give reality                                     240
  To these your own contrivings.

  _Osorio._                      Is it so?
  You see through all things with _your_ penetration.
  Now I am calm. How fares it with Maria?
  My heart doth ache to see her.

  _Velez._                       Nay--defer it!
  Defer it, dear Osorio! I will go.                [_Exit VELEZ._    245

  _Osorio._ A rim of the sun lies yet upon the sea--
  And now 'tis gone! all may be done this night!

_Enter a_ Servant.

  _Osorio._ There is a man, once a Moresco chieftain,
  One Ferdinand.

  _Servant._     He lives in the Alpuxarras,
  Beneath a slate rock.

  _Osorio._             Slate rock?

  _Servant._                        Yes, my lord!                    250
  If you had seen it, you must have remember'd
  The flight of steps his children had worn up it
  With often clambering.

  _Osorio._              Well, it may be so.

  _Servant._ Why, now I think on't, at this time of the year
  'Tis hid by vines.

  _Osorio (in a muttering voice)._ The cavern--aye--the cavern.
  He cannot fail to find it.                   [_To the_ Servant.    255
                             Where art going?
  You must deliver to this Ferdinand
  A letter. Stay till I have written it.     [_Exit the_ Servant.

  _Osorio (alone)._ The tongue can't stir when the mouth is fill'd
      with mould.
  A little earth stops up most eloquent mouths,                      260
  And a square stone with a few pious texts
  Cut neatly on it, keeps the earth down tight.


_Scene changes to the space before the castle._

_FRANCESCO and a_ Spy.

  _Francesco._ Yes! yes! I have the key of all their lives.
  If a man fears me, he is forced to love me.
  And if I can, and do not ruin him,                                 265
  He is fast bound to serve and honour me!

                 [_ALBERT enters from the castle, and is crossing
                      the stage._

  _Spy._ There--there--your Reverence! That is the sorcerer.

                   [_FRANCESCO runs up and rudely catches hold of
                        ALBERT. ALBERT dashes him to the earth.
                        FRANCESCO and the_ Spy _make an uproar,
                        and the servants rush from out the
                        castle._

  _Francesco._ Seize, seize and gag him! or the Church curses you!

                            [_The servants seize and gag ALBERT._

_Enter VELEZ and OSORIO._

  _Osorio (aside)._ This is most lucky!

  _Francesco (inarticulate with rage)._ See you this, Lord Velez?
  Good evidence have I of most foul sorcery,                         270
  And in the name of Holy Church command you
  To give me up the keys--the keys, my lord!
  Of that same dungeon-hole beneath your castle.
  This imp of hell--but we delay enquiry
  Till to Granada we have convoy'd him.                              275

  _Osorio (to the Servants)._ Why haste you not? Go, fly and
      dungeon him!
  Then bring the keys and give them to his Reverence.

                [_The_ Servants _hurry off ALBERT. OSORIO goes up
                     to FRANCESCO, and pointing at ALBERT._

  _Osorio (with a laugh)._ 'He that can bring the dead to life
      again.'

  _Francesco._ What? did _you_ hear it?

  _Osorio._                             Yes, and plann'd this scheme
  To bring conviction on him. Ho! a wizard,                          280
  Thought I--but where's the proof! I plann'd this scheme.
  The scheme has answer'd--we have proof enough.

  _Francesco._ My lord, your pious policy astounds me.
  I trust my honest zeal----

  _Osorio._                  Nay, reverend father!
  It has but raised my veneration for you.                           285
  But 'twould be well to stop all intertalk
  Between my servants and this child of darkness.

  _Francesco._ My lord! with speed I'll go, make swift return,
  And humbly redeliver you the keys.           [_Exit FRANCESCO._

  _Osorio (alone)._ 'The stranger, that lives nigh, still picking
      weeds.'                                                        290
  And this was his friend, his crony, his twin-brother!
  O! I am green, a very simple stripling--
  The wise men of this world make nothing of me.
  By Heaven, 'twas well contrived! And I, forsooth,
  I was to cut my throat in honour of conscience.                    295
  And this tall wizard--ho!--he was to pass
  For Albert's friend! He _hath_ a trick of his manner.
  He was to tune his voice to honey'd sadness,
  And win her to a transfer of her love
  By lamentable tales of her dear Albert,                            300
  And his dear Albert! Yea, she would have lov'd him.
  He, that can sigh out in a woman's ear
  Sad recollections of her perish'd lover,
  And sob and smile with veering sympathy,
  And, now and then, as if by accident,                              305
  Pass his mouth close enough to touch her cheek
  With timid lip, he takes the lover's place,
  He takes his place, for certain! Dusky rogue,
  Were it not sport to whimper with thy mistress,
  Then steal away and roll upon my grave,                            310
  Till thy sides shook with laughter? Blood! blood! blood!
  They want thy blood! thy blood, Osorio!

[END OF ACT THE THIRD.]


FOOTNOTES:

[555:1] In MS. II this speech is crossed out, and on the blank page
opposite the following is written in Coleridge's hand:--

'Instead of Maria's portrait, Albert places on the altar a small picture
of his attempted assassination. The scene is not wholly without
_poetical_ merit, but it is miserably undramatic, or rather untragic. A
scene of magic is introduced in which no single person on the stage has
the least faith--all, though in different ways, think or know it to be a
_trick_----consequently, &c.' _P. W._, 1893, p. 494, _Editor's Note_.

In MS. III the following stage-direction is written (in S. T. C.'s
handwriting) on the page opposite to lines 113-15:--

'Albert has placed on the altar a small picture representing the attempt
to assassinate him, instead of the portrait of Maria which Osorio had
given him.'

[556:1] In MS. II Coleridge has written opposite this:--'Velez supposes
the picture is an innocent contrivance of Osorio's to remove Maria's
scruples: Osorio, that it is the portrait of Maria which he had himself
given the supposed Wizard.' _P. W._, 1893, p. 495, _Editors Note_.

In MS. III Coleridge wrote on the opposite page:--'Velez supposes the
picture which represents the attempt to assassinate Albert, to have been
a mere invention contrived by Osorio with the most innocent intentions.
Osorio supposes it of course, to be the _portrait_ of Maria which he had
restored to Albert!'

[556:2] The transcriber of MS. I had here written 'superstitious', which
is marked through with ink, and 'serious' is substituted, in Coleridge's
own hand. In MS. II 'superstitious' is left undisturbed. _P. W._, 1893,
p. 495, _Editor's Note_. In MS. III 'serious' is erased and
'superstitious' is superscribed.

[558:1] In MS. II Coleridge has written opposite this:--'Osorio
immediately supposes that this wizard whom Ferdinand had recommended to
him, was in truth, an accomplice of Ferdinand, to whom the whole secret
had been betrayed.' _P. W._, 1893, p. 496, _Editor's Note_.

[559:1] Opposite the passage in MS. II the following is written
in the transcriber's hand:--

  Ce malheur, dites-vous, est le bien d'un autre être--
  De mon corps tout sanglant, mille insectes vont naître.
  Quand la mort met le comble aux maux que j'ai souffert,
  Le beau soulagement d'être mangé de vers!
  Je ne suis du grand TOUT qu'une faible partie--
  Oui; mais les animaux condamnés à la vie
  Sous les êtres sentants nés sous la mème loi
  Vivent dans la douleur, et meurent comme moi.

  _Désastre de Lisbonne._ _P. W._, 1893, p. 491, _Editor's Note_.


LINENOTES:

[Before 1]

ACT III.

SCENE 1.--_A Hall of armory, with an altar at the back of the stage.
Soft music from an instrument of glass or steel. VALDEZ, ORDONIO, and
ALVAR in a Sorcerer's robe, are discovered._

  _Ord._ This was too melancholy, father.

  _Val._                                  Nay,
  My Alvar lov'd sad music from a child.
  Once he was lost; and after weary search
  We found him in an open place in [of _Osor._] the wood,
  To which spot he had followed a blind boy,
  Who breath'd into a pipe of sycamore
  Some strangely-moving notes: and these, he said,
  Were taught him in a dream. Him we first saw
  Stretch'd on the broad top of a sunny heath-bank;
  And lower down poor Alvar, fast asleep,
  His head upon the blind boy's dog. It pleas'd me
  To mark how he had fasten'd round the pipe
  A silver toy his {grandmother had _Osor._
                   {grandam had late given him.
  Methinks I see him now as he then look'd--
  { His infant dress was grown too short for him, _Osor._
  { Even so!--He had outgrown his infant dress,
  Yet still he wore it.

  _Alv. (aside)._       My tears must not flow!
  I must not clasp his knees, and cry, My father!

_Enter TERESA and attendants._

Remorse.

[These lines with the variants as noted above are included in Osorio,
Act III, lines 58-74.]

[After 3] stage-direction om. Remorse.

[Between 3 and 4]

  _Ordonio._ Believe you then no preternatural influence?
  { Believe you not that spirits throng around us?
  { I thought you held that spirits throng'd around us?

Corr. in MS. III.

  _Ter._ Say rather that I have imagined it
  A possible thing; and it has sooth'd my soul
  As other fancies have; but ne'er seduced me
  To traffic with the black and frenzied hope,
  That the dead hear the voice of witch or wizard.

Remorse.

[4] _you_] you Remorse.

[5] employments] employment Remorse.

[9] things] guilt Remorse.

[10] Stand ye from the altar Remorse.

[After 10] [_Here_, &c. . . . scene Remorse.

[13] spells] spell Remorse.

[21] unstun'd] unstunn'd Remorse.

[After 23] [_Music_ Remorse.

[29] build up] upbuild Remorse.

[37] [_Here behind the scenes a voice sings the three words, 'Hear,
sweet Spirit.'_ Remorse.

[After 43] SONG.--_Behind the scenes_, &c. Remorse.

[50] chanters] chaunter Remorse.

[58-74] are printed as ll. 1-17, Act III, Sc. I Remorse.

[61] of] in Remorse.

[70-72]

  A silver toy his grandam had late given him,
  Methinks I see him now as he then look'd--
  Even so!--He had outgrown his infant dress,

Remorse, Act III, ll. 13-15.

[79] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[87] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[88-9]

           But what if he had a brother,
  Who had lived even so

Remorse.

[91-2]

  _Valdez._                Idly prating man!
  Thou hast guess'd ill: Don Alvar's only brother
  Stands here before thee--a father's blessing on him!
  He is most virtuous.

Remorse.

[96] excellently] exquisitely Remorse.

[Between 104 and 105]

                                                         [_Music again._

  _Teresa._ 'Tis strange, I tremble at my own conjectures!
  But whatso'er it mean, I dare no longer
  Be present at these lawless mysteries,
  This dark provoking of the hidden Powers!
  Already I affront--if not high Heaven--
  Yet Alvar's memory!--Hark! I make appeal
  Against the unholy rite, and hasten hence
  To bend before a lawful shrine, and seek
  That voice which whispers, when the still heart listens,
  Comfort and faithful hope! Let us retire.

  _Alv. (to TERESA)._
  O full of faith and guileless love, thy spirit
  Still prompts thee wisely. Let the pangs of guilt
  Surprise the guilty: thou art innocent!

                        [_Exeunt TERESA and Attendant. Music as before._

Remorse.

[106] an eye of flesh] a human eye Remorse.

[108] come quick] O come Remorse.

[109] and if he lives] but if he live Remorse.

[After 110] _The whole music clashes into a Chorus_ Remorse.

[111] demon] demons Remorse.

[113 foll.] For the rest of Act III, as published in Remorse, vide
_post_ pp. 851-8. According to the Editor of Osorio as first published
in 1873, 'The rest of this Act is entirely different in the published
Remorse.' This statement needs qualification. The remainder of Act III
of Osorio was rewritten, much was omitted, much added, and the 'dramatic
ordonnance' of this part of the play was remodelled on a different plan,
but the following lines 174-82, 195-202, 210-31 and 246-7 were included,
with certain alterations, in Remorse. See Remorse, Act III, Scene II,
ll. 64-71, 79-87, 94-114 and 185-6.

[140-3] _And . . . come_ MS. III erased.

[After 146]

  Doth swim with love and pity--Well Ordonio
  O my foreboding Spirit, he suborn'd thee,
  And thou didst spare his life

Corr. in MS. III.

[299] interpolated by S. T. C. MS. III.




ACT THE FOURTH


SCENE THE FIRST.--_A cavern, dark except where a gleam of moonlight is
seen on one side of the further end of it, supposed to be cast on it
from a cranny_ [_crevice_ Remorse] _in a part of the cavern out of
sight._

            [_FERDINAND alone, an extinguished torch in his hand._

  _Ferdinand._ Drip! drip! drip! drip!--in such a place as this
  It has nothing else to do but drip! drip! drip!
  I wish it had not dripp'd upon my torch.
  Faith 'twas a moving letter--very moving!
  His life in danger--no place safe but this.                          5
  'Twas his turn now to talk of gratitude!
  And yet--but no! there can't be such a villain.
  It cannot be!
                Thanks to that little cranny
  Which lets the moonlight in! I'll go and sit by it.
  To peep at a tree, or see a he-goat's beard,                        10
  Or hear a cow or two breathe loud in their sleep,
  'Twere better than this dreary noise of water-drops!

                 [_He goes out of sight, opposite to the patch of
                      moonlight,_ [_and returns_. Remorse]
                      _returns after a minute's elapse in an
                      ecstasy of fear._

  A hellish pit! O God--'tis like my night-mair!
  I was just in!--and those damn'd fingers of ice
  Which clutch'd my hair up! Ha! what's that? it moved!               15

              [_FERDINAND stands_ [_motionless_ _MS. III erased_]
                   _staring at another recess in the cavern. In
                   the mean time OSORIO enters with a torch and
                   hollas to him_ [_halloes to ISIDORE_ Remorse].

  _Ferdinand._ I swear, I saw a something moving there!
  The moonshine came and went, like a flash of lightning.
  I swear, I saw it move!

            [_OSORIO goes into the recess, then returns, and with
                 great scorn._

  _Osorio._               A jutting clay-stone
  Drips on the long lank weed that grows beneath;
  And the weed nods and drips.

  _Ferdinand (forcing a faint laugh)._ A joke to laugh at!            20
  It was not that which frighten'd me, my lord!

  _Osorio._ What frighten'd you?

  _Ferdinand._                   You see that little cranny?
  But first permit me,

          [_Lights his torch at OSORIO'S, and while lighting it._

                       (A lighted torch in the hand
  Is no unpleasant object here--one's breath
  Floats round the flame, and makes as many colours                   25
  As the thin clouds that travel near the moon.)[564:1]
  You see that cranny there?

  _Osorio._                  Well, what of that?

  _Ferdinand._ I walk'd up to it, meaning to sit there.
  When I had reach'd it within twenty paces----

         [_FERDINAND starts as if he felt the terror over again._

  Merciful Heaven! Do go, my lord! and look.                          30

                                      [_OSORIO goes and returns._

  _Osorio._ It must have shot some pleasant feelings thro' you?

  _Ferdinand._ If every atom of a dead man's flesh
  Should move, each one with a particular life,
  Yet all as cold as ever--'twas just so!
  Or if it drizzled needle-points of frost                            35
  Upon a feverish head made suddenly bald--

  _Osorio (interrupting him)._ Why, Ferdinand! I blush for thy
      cowardice.
  It would have startled any man, I grant thee.
  But such a panic.

  _Ferdinand._      When a boy, my lord!
  I could have sat whole hours beside that chasm,                     40
  Push'd in huge stones and heard them thump and rattle
  Against its horrid sides; and hung my head
  Low down, and listen'd till the heavy fragments
  Sunk, with faint crash, in that still groaning well,
  Which never thirsty pilgrim blest, which never                      45
  A living thing came near; unless, perchance,
  Some blind-worm battens on the ropy mould,
  Close at its edge.

  _Osorio._          Art thou more coward now?

  _Ferdinand._ Call him that fears his fellow-men a coward.
  I fear not man. But this inhuman cavern                             50
  It were too bad a prison-house for goblins.
  Besides (you'll laugh, my lord!) but true it is,
  My last night's sleep was very sorely haunted[565:1]
  By what had pass'd between us in the morning.
  I saw you in a thousand hideous ways,                               55
  And doz'd and started, doz'd again and started.
  I do entreat your lordship to believe me,
  In my last dream----

  _Osorio._            Well?

  _Ferdinand._               I was in the act
  Of falling down that chasm, when Alhadra
  Waked me. She heard my heart beat!

  _Osorio._                          Strange enough!                  60
  Had you been here before?

  _Ferdinand._              Never, my lord!
  But my eyes do not see it now more clearly
  Than in my dream I saw that very chasm.

           [_OSORIO stands in a deep study--then, after a pause._

  _Osorio._ There is no reason why it should be so.
  And yet it is.

  _Ferdinand._   What is, my lord?

  _Osorio._                        Unpleasant                         65
  To kill a man!

  _Ferdinand._   Except in self-defence.

  _Osorio._ Why that's my case: and yet 'tis still unpleasant.
  At least I find it so! But you, perhaps,
  Have stronger nerves?

  _Ferdinand._          Something doth trouble you.
  How can I serve you? By the life you gave me,                       70
  By all that makes that life of value to me,
  My wife, my babes, my honour, I swear to you,
  Name it, and I will toil to do the thing,
  If it be innocent! But this, my lord!
  Is not a place where you could perpetrate,                          75
  No, nor propose a wicked thing. The darkness
  (When ten yards off, we know, 'tis chearful moonlight)
  Collects the guilt and crowds it round the heart.
  It must be innocent.

  _Osorio._            Thyself be judge.

         [_OSORIO walks round the cavern--then looking round it._

  One of our family knew this place well.                             80

  _Ferdinand._ Who? when? my lord.

  _Osorio._                        What boots it who or when?
  Hang up the torch. I'll tell his tale to thee.

                 [_They hang [up] their torches in some shelf of_
                      [_on some ridge in_ Remorse] _the cavern._

  _Osorio._ He was a man different from other men,
  And he despised them, yet revered himself.[567:1]

  _Ferdinand._ What? he was mad?

  _Osorio._                      All men seem'd mad to him,           85
  Their actions noisome folly, and their talk--
  A goose's gabble was more musical.
  Nature had made him for some other planet,
  And press'd his soul into a human shape
  By accident or malice. In this world                                90
  He found no fit companion!

  _Ferdinand._               Ah, poor wretch!
  Madmen are mostly proud.

  _Osorio._                He walk'd alone,
  And phantasies, unsought for, troubled him.
  Something within would still be shadowing out
  All possibilities, and with these shadows                           95
  His mind held dalliance. Once, as so it happen'd,
  A fancy cross'd him wilder than the rest:
  To this in moody murmur, and low voice,
  He yielded utterance as some talk in sleep.
  The man who heard him----
                            Why didst thou look round?               100

  _Ferdinand._ I have a prattler three years old, my lord!
  In truth he is my darling. As I went
  From forth my door, he made a moan in sleep--
  But I am talking idly--pray go on!
  And what did this man?

  _Osorio._              With his human hand                         105
  He gave a being and reality
  To that wild fancy of a possible thing.
  Well it was done.                          [_Then very wildly._
                    Why babblest thou of guilt?
  The deed was done, and it pass'd fairly off.
  And he, whose tale I tell thee--dost thou listen?                  110

  _Ferdinand._ I would, my lord, you were by _my_ fireside!
  I'd listen to you with an eager eye,
  Tho' you began this cloudy tale at midnight.
  But I do listen--pray proceed, my lord!

  _Osorio._ Where was I?

  _Ferdinand._           He of whom you tell the tale--              115

  _Osorio._ Surveying all things with a quiet scorn
  Tamed himself down to living purposes,
  The occupations and the semblances
  Of ordinary men--and such he seem'd.
  But that some over-ready agent--he----                             120

  _Ferdinand._ Ah! what of him, my lord?

  _Osorio._                              He proved a villain;
  Betray'd the mystery to a brother villain;
  And they between them hatch'd a damnéd plot
  To hunt him down to infamy and death
  To share the wealth of a most noble family,                        125
  And stain the honour of an orphan lady
  With barbarous mixture and unnatural union.
  What did the Velez? I am proud of the name,
  Since he dared do it.

          [_OSORIO grasps his sword and turns off from FERDINAND,
               then, after a pause, returns._

  _Osorio._             Our links burn dimly.

  _Ferdinand._ A dark tale darkly finish'd! Nay, my lord!            130
  Tell what he did.

  _Osorio (fiercely)._ That which his wisdom prompted.
  He made the traitor meet him in this cavern,
  And here he kill'd the traitor.

  _Ferdinand._                    No!--the fool.
  He had not wit enough to be a traitor.
  Poor thick-eyed beetle! not to have foreseen                       135
  That he, who gull'd thee with a whimper'd lie
  To murder _his own brother_, would not scruple
  To murder _thee_, if e'er his guilt grew jealous
  And he could steal upon thee in the dark!

  _Osorio._ Thou would'st not then have come, if----

  _Ferdinand._                                     O yes, my lord!   140
  I would have met him arm'd, and scared the coward!

            [_FERDINAND throws off his robe, shows himself armed,
                 and draws his sword._

  _Osorio._ Now this is excellent, and warms the blood!
  My heart was drawing back, drawing me back
  With womanish pulls of pity. Dusky slave,
  Now I will kill thee pleasantly, and count it                      145
  Among my comfortable thoughts hereafter.

  _Ferdinand._ And all my little ones fatherless! Die thou first.

         [_They fight. OSORIO disarms FERDINAND, and in disarming
              him, throws his sword up that recess, opposite to
              which they were standing._

  _Ferdinand (springing wildly towards Osorio)._ Still I can strangle
      thee!

  _Osorio._ Nay, fool! stand off.
  I'll kill thee--but not so! Go fetch thy sword.

              [_FERDINAND hurries into the recess with his torch.
                   OSORIO follows him, and in a moment returns
                   alone._

  _Osorio._ Now--this was luck! No bloodstains, no dead body!        150
  His dream, too, is made out. Now for his friend.[570:1]

                                                         [_Exit._


_SCENE changes to the court before the Castle of VELEZ._

_MARIA and her FOSTER-MOTHER._

  _Maria._ And when I heard that you desired to see me,
  I thought your business was to tell me of him.

  _Foster-Mother._ I never saw the Moor, whom you describe.

  _Maria._ 'Tis strange! he spake of you familiarly                  155
  As mine and Albert's common foster-mother.

  _Foster-Mother._ Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be,
  That join'd your names with mine! O my sweet lady,
  As often as I think of those dear times
  When you two little ones would stand at eve,                       160
  On each side of my chair, and make me learn
  All you had learnt in the day; and how to talk
  In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you,
  'Tis more like heaven to come, that what _has_ been!

  _Maria._ O my dear mother! this strange man has left me            165
  Wilder'd with wilder fancies than yon moon
  Breeds in the love-sick maid--who gazes at it
  Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye
  She gazes idly! But that entrance, mother!

  _Foster-Mother._ Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale!           170

  _Maria._ No one.

  _Foster-Mother._ My husband's father told it me,
  Poor old Leoni. Angels rest his soul!
  He was a woodman, and could fell and saw
  With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam
  Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel?                    175
  Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree,
  He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined
  With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool
  As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,
  And rear'd him at the then Lord Velez' cost.                       180
  And so the babe grew up a pretty boy.
  A pretty boy, but most unteachable--
  And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead,
  But knew the names of birds, and mock'd their notes,
  And whistled, as he were a bird himself.                           185
  And all the autumn 'twas his only play
  To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them
  With earth and water on the stumps of trees.
  A friar who gather'd simples in the wood,
  A grey-hair'd man--he loved this little boy,                       190
  The boy loved him--and, when the friar taught him,
  He soon could write with the pen; and from that time
  Lived chiefly at the convent or the castle.
  So he became a very learned youth.
  But O! poor wretch--he read, and read, and read,                   195
  Till his brain turn'd--and ere his twentieth year,
  He had unlawful thoughts of many things.
  And though he pray'd, he never loved to pray
  With holy men, nor in a holy place.
  But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,                      200
  The late Lord Velez ne'er was wearied with him,
  And once as by the north side of the chapel
  They stood together, chain'd in deep discourse,
  The earth heav'd under them with such a groan,
  That the wall totter'd, and had well-nigh fall'n                   205
  Right on their heads. My lord was sorely frighten'd;
  A fever seiz'd him; and he made confession
  Of all the heretical and lawless talk
  Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seiz'd
  And cast into that hole. My husband's father                       210
  Sobb'd like a child--it almost broke his heart.
  And once as he was working in the cellar,
  He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's,
  Who sung a doleful song about green fields,
  How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah                         215
  To hunt for food, and be a naked man,
  And wander up and down at liberty.
  He always doted on the youth, and now
  His love grew desperate; and defying death,
  He made that cunning entrance I described:                         220
  And the young man escaped.

  _Maria._                   'Tis a sweet tale:
  Such as would lull a list'ning child to sleep,
  His rosy face besoil'd with unwiped tears.
  And what became of him?

  _Foster-Mother._        He went on shipboard
  With those bold voyagers, who made discovery                       225
  Of golden lands; Leoni's younger brother
  Went likewise, and when he return'd to Spain,
  He told Leoni that the poor mad youth,
  Soon after they arrived in that new world,
  In spite of his dissuasion seized a boat,                          230
  And all alone set sail by silent moonlight,
  Up a great river, great as any sea,
  And ne'er was heard of more; but 'tis supposed
  He liv'd and died among the savage men.

_Enter VELEZ._

  _Velez._ Still sad, Maria? This same wizard haunts you.            235

  _Maria._ O Christ! the tortures that hang o'er his head,
  If ye betray him to these holy brethren!

  _Velez (with a kind of sneer)._ A portly man, and eloquent, and
      tender!
  In truth, I shall not wonder if you mourn
  That their rude grasp should seize on _such_ a victim.             240

  _Maria._ The horror of their ghastly punishments
  Doth so o'ertop the height of sympathy,
  That I should feel too little for mine enemy--
  Ah! far too little--if 'twere possible,
  I could feel more, even tho' my child or husband                   245
  Were doom'd to suffer them! That such things are----

  _Velez._ Hush! thoughtless woman!

  _Maria._                          Nay--it wakes within me
  More than a woman's spirit.

  _Velez (angrily)._          No more of this--
  I can endure no more.

  _Foster-Mother._      My honour'd master!
  Lord Albert used to talk so.

  _Maria._                     Yes! my mother!                       250
  These are my Albert's lessons, and I con them
  With more delight than, in my fondest hour,
  I bend me o'er his portrait.

  _Velez (to the Foster-Mother)._ My good woman,
  You may retire.                      [_Exit the FOSTER-MOTHER._

  _Velez._        We have mourn'd for Albert.
  Have I no living son?

  _Maria._              Speak not of him!                            255
  That low imposture--my heart sickens at it,
  If it be madness, must I wed a madman?
  And if not madness, there is mystery,
  And guilt doth lurk behind it!

  _Valdez._                      Is this well?

  _Maria._ Yes! it is truth. Saw you his countenance?                260
  How rage, remorse, and scorn, and stupid fear,
  Displac'd each other with swift interchanges?
  If this were all assumed, as you believe,
  He must needs be a most consummate actor;
  And hath so vast a power to deceive me,                            265
  I never could be safe. And why assume
  The semblance of such execrable feelings?

  _Velez._ Ungrateful woman! I have tried to stifle
  An old man's passion! Was it not enough
  That thou hast made my son a restless man,                         270
  Banish'd his health and half-unhinged his reason,
  But that thou wilt insult him with suspicion,
  And toil to blast his honour? I am old--
  A comfortless old man! Thou shalt not stay
  Beneath my roof!

                        [_FRANCESCO enters and stands listening._

  _Velez._         Repent and marry him--                            275
  Or to the convent.

  _Francesco (muttering)._ Good! good! very good!

  _Maria._ Nay, grant me some small pittance of my fortune,
  And I will live a solitary woman,
  Or my poor foster-mother and her grandsons
  May be my household.

  _Francesco (advancing)._ I abhor a listener;                       280
  But you spoke so, I could not choose but hear you.
  I pray, my lord! will you embolden me
  To ask you why this lady doth prefer
  To live in lonely sort, without a friend
  Or fit companion?

  _Velez._          Bid her answer you.                              285

  _Maria._ Nature will be my friend and fit companion.

                                          [_Turns off from them._

  O Albert! Albert! that they could return,
  Those blessed days, that imitated heaven!
  When we two wont to walk at evening-tide;
  When we saw nought but beauty; when we heard                       290
  The voice of that Almighty One, who lov'd us,
  In every gale that breath'd, and wave that murmur'd!
  O we have listen'd, even till high-wrought pleasure
  Hath half-assumed the countenance of grief,
  And the deep sigh seem'd to heave up a weight                      295
  Of bliss, that press'd too heavy on the heart.

  _Francesco._ But in the convent, lady, you would have
  Such aids as might preserve you from perdition.
  There you might dwell.

  _Maria._               With tame and credulous faith,
  Mad melancholy, antic merriment,                                   300
  Leanness, disquietude, and secret pangs!
  O God! it is a horrid thing to know
  That each pale wretch, who sits and drops her beads
  Had once a mind, which might have given her wings
  Such as the angels wear!

  _Francesco (stifling his rage)._ Where is your son, my lord?       305

  _Velez._ I have not seen him, father, since he left you.

  _Francesco._ His lordship's generous nature hath deceiv'd him!
  _That_ Ferdinand (or if not he his wife)
  I have fresh evidence--are infidels.
  We are not safe until they are rooted out.                         310

  _Maria._ Thou man, who call'st thyself the minister
  Of Him whose law was love unutterable!
  Why is thy soul so parch'd with cruelty,
  That still thou thirstest for thy brother's blood?

  _Velez (rapidly)._ Father! I have long suspected it--her brain--   315
  Heed it not, father!

  _Francesco._ Nay--but I _must_ heed it.

  _Maria._ Thou miserable man! I fear thee not,
  Nor prize a life which soon may weary me.
  Bear witness, Heav'n! I neither scorn nor hate him--               320
  But O! 'tis wearisome to mourn for evils,
  Still mourn, and have no power to remedy!        [_Exit MARIA._

  _Francesco._ My lord! I shall presume to wait on you
  To-morrow early.

  _Velez._         Be it so, good father!      [_Exit FRANCESCO._

  _Velez (alone)._ I do want solace, but not such as thine!          325
  The moon is high in heaven, and my eyes ache,
  But not with sleep. Well--it is ever so.
  A child, a child is born! and the fond heart
  Dances! and yet the childless are most happy.


[_SCENE changes to the mountains by moonlight. ALHADRA alone in a
Moorish dress, her eyes fixed on the earth. Then drop in one after
another, from different parts of the stage, a considerable number of_
Morescoes, _all in their Moorish garments. They form a circle at a
distance round ALHADRA. After a pause one of the_ Morescoes _to the man
who stands next to him._

  _First Moresco._ The law which forced these Christian dresses on
      us,                                                            330
  'Twere pleasant to cleave down the wretch who framed it.

  _Second._ Yet 'tis not well to trample on it idly.

  _First._ Our country robes are dear.

  _Second._ And like dear friends,
  May chance to prove most perilous informers.

[_A third Moresco, NAOMI, advances from out the circle._

  _Naomi._ Woman! may Alla and the prophet bless thee!               335
  We have obey'd thy call. Where is our chief?
  And why didst thou enjoin the Moorish garments?

  _Alhadra (lifting up_ [_raising_ Remorse] _her eyes, and looking
      round on the circle)._
  Warriors of Mahomet, faithful in the battle,
  My countrymen! Come ye prepared to work
  An honourable deed? And would ye work it                           340
  In the slave's garb? Curse on those Christian robes!
  They are _spell_-blasted; and whoever wears them,
  His arm shrinks wither'd, his heart melts away,
  And his bones soften!

  _Naomi._              Where is Ferdinand?

  _Alhadra (in a deep low voice)._ This night I went from forth my
      house, and left                                                345
  His children all asleep; and he was living!
  And I return'd, and found them still asleep--
  But he had perish'd.

  _All._               Perished?

  _Alhadra._                     He had perish'd!
  Sleep on, poor babes! not one of you doth know
  That he is fatherless, a desolate orphan!                          350
  Why should we wake them? Can an infant's arm
  Revenge his murder?

  _One to Another._   Did she say his murder?

  _Naomi._ Murder'd? Not murder'd?

  _Alhadra._                       Murder'd by a Christian!

[_They all, at once, draw their sabres._

  _Alhadra (to Naomi, who on being addressed again advances from
      the circle)._ Brother of Zagri! fling away thy sword:
  This is thy chieftain's!        [_He steps forward to take it._
                           Dost thou dare receive it?                355
  For I have sworn by Alia and the prophet,
  No tear shall dim these eyes, this woman's heart
  Shall heave no groan, till I have seen that sword
  Wet with the blood of all the house of Velez!

_Enter MAURICE._

  _All._ A spy! a spy!                         [_They seize him._

  _Maurice._           Off! off! unhand me, slaves!                  360

          [_After much struggling he disengages himself and draws
               his sword._

  _Naomi (to Alhadra)._ Speak! shall we kill him?

  _Maurice._                                      Yes! ye can kill a
      man,
  Some twenty of you! But ye are Spanish slaves!
  And slaves are always cruel, always cowards.

  _Alhadra._ That man has spoken truth. Whence and who art thou?

  _Maurice._ I seek a dear friend, whom for aught I know             365
  The son of Velez hath hired one of you
  To murder! Say, do ye know aught of Albert?

  _Alhadra (starting)._ Albert?--three years ago I heard that name
  Murmur'd in sleep! High-minded foreigner!
  Mix thy revenge with mine, and stand among us.                     370

[_MAURICE stands among the_ Morescoes.

  _Alhadra._ Was not Osorio my husband's friend?

  _Old Man._ He kill'd my son in battle; yet our chieftain
  Forced me to sheathe my dagger. See--the point
  Is bright, unrusted with the villain's blood!

  _Alhadra._ He is your chieftain's murderer!

  _Naomi._                                    He dies by Alla!

  _All (dropping on one knee)._                                By
      Alla!                                                          375

  _Alhadra._ This night a reeking slave came with loud pant,
  Gave Ferdinand a letter, and departed,
  Swift as he came. Pale, with unquiet looks,
  He read the scroll.

  _Maurice._          Its purport?

  _Alhadra._                       Yes, I ask'd it.
  He answer'd me, 'Alhadra! thou art worthy                          380
  A nobler secret; but I have been faithful
  To this bad man, and faithful I will be.'
  He said, and arm'd himself, and lit a torch;
  Then kiss'd his children, each one on its pillow,
  And hurried from me. But I follow'd him                            385
  At distance, till I saw him enter _there_.

  _Naomi._ The cavern?

  _Alhadra._           Yes--the mouth of yonder cavern.
  After a pause I saw the son of Velez
  Rush by with flaring torch; he likewise enter'd--
  There was another and a longer pause--                             390
  And once, methought, I heard the clash of swords,
  And soon the son of Velez reappear'd.
  He flung his torch towards the moon in sport,
  And seem'd as he were mirthful! I stood listening
  Impatient for the footsteps of my husband!                         395

  _Maurice._ Thou called'st him?

  _Alhadra._                     I crept into the cavern:
  'Twas dark and very silent.                     [_Then wildly._
                              What said'st thou?
  No, no! I did not dare call, Ferdinand!
  Lest I should hear no answer. A brief while,
  Belike, I lost all thought and memory                              400
  Of that for which I came! After that pause,
  O God! I heard a groan!--and follow'd it.
  And yet another groan--which guided me
  Into a strange recess--and there was _light_,
  A _hideous_ light! his torch lay on the ground--                   405
  Its flame burnt dimly o'er a chasm's brink.
  I spake--and while I spake, a feeble groan
  Came from that chasm! It was his last! his death groan!

  _Maurice._ Comfort her, comfort her, Almighty Father!

  _Alhadra._ I stood in unimaginable trance                          410
  And agony, that cannot be remember'd,
  Listening with horrid hope to hear a groan!
  But I had heard his last--my husband's death-groan!

  _Naomi._ Haste! let us go!

  _Alhadra._                 I look'd far down the pit.
  My sight was bounded by a jutting fragment,                        415
  And it was stain'd with blood! Then first I shriek'd!
  My eyeballs burnt! my brain grew hot as fire!
  And all the hanging drops of the wet roof
  Turn'd into blood. I saw them turn to blood!
  And I was leaping wildly down the chasm                            420
  When on the further brink I saw his sword,
  And it said, Vengeance! Curses on my tongue!
  The moon hath moved in heaven, and I am here,
  And he hath not had vengeance! Ferdinand!
  Spirit of Ferdinand! thy murderer lives!                           425
  Away! away!                   [_She rushes off, all following._

END OF THE FOURTH ACT


FOOTNOTES:

[564:1] The square brackets (which appear in both MSS.) seem to indicate
that these words were an 'aside'. _P. W._ 1893, p. 499. _Editor's Note_.

[565:1] Against this passage Coleridge has written in MS. II:--'This
will be held by many for a mere Tragedy-dream--by many who have never
given themselves the trouble to ask themselves from what grounds dreams
pleased in Tragedy, and wherefore they have become so common. I believe,
however, that in the present case, the whole is here psychologically
true and accurate. Prophetical dreams are things of nature, and
explicable by that law of the mind in which where dim ideas are
connected with vivid feelings, Perception and Imagination insinuate
themselves and mix with the forms of Recollection, till the Present
appears to exactly correspond with the Past. Whatever is partially like,
the Imagination will gradually represent as wholly like--a law of our
nature which, when it is perfectly understood, woe to the great city
Babylon--to all the superstitions of Men!' _P. W._, 1893, p. 499.

[567:1] Against this passage Coleridge writes in MS. II:--'Under the
mask of the third person Osorio relates his own story, as in the
delusion of self-justification and pride, it appeared to himself--at
least as he wished it to appear to himself.' _P. W._, 1893, p. 499.

'Osorio darkly, and in the feeling of self-justification, tells what he
conceives of his own character and actions--speaking of himself in the
third person.' _MS. III_.

[570:1] Against this line Coleridge writes in MS. II:--'Osorio has
thrust Ferdinand down the chasm. I think it an important instance how
Dreams and Prophecies coöperate to their own completion.' _P. W._, 1893,
p. 501.


LINENOTES:

[1-3] Erased MS. III.: om. Remorse.

                                 { [*water drops*]
  This ceaseless dreary sound of { dropping water--
  I would they had not fallen upon my Torch!

Corr. in MS. III.

[5-6] In inverted commas. Remorse.

[8] cannot] can not Remorse. cranny] crevice Remorse.

[12] MS. III erased.

[Between 11 and 13]

  (_a_) Any thing but this crash of water drops!
        These dull abortive sounds that fret the silence
        With puny thwartings and mock opposition!
        So beats the death-watch to a sick man's ear

Remorse.

  (_b_) Anything but this {  crash of water-drops
                          { [*noise*]
                          {  scoffing
        At broken measure { [*mocking*] intervals--
        Their discontinuous, interruptive sound
     {  These
     { [*With*] dull abortive &c.

MS. III erased.

Affixed to variant (a) of l. 12 '--this at all events is the final
result of this correction.' _S. T. C._

[13] A hellish pit! O God--'tis that I dreamt of! Corr. in MS. III: A
hellish pit! The very same I dreamt of! Remorse.

[Affixed to 13] 'You mean like the dream presented to my mind when under
the influence of the night-mare. This is most ludicrously expressed.' C.
Ll[oyd]

[16] I swear that I saw something Remorse.

[18] In the stage-direction the last four words are omitted Remorse.

[19] Drips] Drops Remorse.

[Between 19 and 31.]

  _Isidore._                  A jest to laugh at!
  It was not that which scar'd me, good my lord.

  _Ordonio._ What scar'd you, then?

  _Isidore._                        You see that little rift?
  But first permit me!
                              [_Lights his torch at ORDONIO'S, and while
                                   lighting it._
                       (A lighted torch in the hand
  Is no unpleasant object here--one's breath
  Floats round the flame, and makes as many colours
  As the thin clouds that travel near the moon.)
  You see that crevice there?
  My torch extinguished by these water drops,
  And marking that the moonlight came from thence,
  I stept in to it, meaning to sit there;
  But scarcely had I measured twenty paces--
  My body bending forward, yea, o'erbalanced
  Almost beyond recoil, on the dim brink
  Of a hugh chasm I stept. The shadowy moonshine
  Filling the void so counterfeited substance,
  That my foot hung aslant adown the edge.
  Was it my own fear?
                      Fear too hath its instincts!
  (And yet such dens as these are wildly told of,
  And there are beings that live, yet not for the eye)
  An arm of frost above and from behind me
  Pluck'd up and snatched me backward. Merciful Heaven!
  You smile! alas, even smiles look ghastly here!
  My lord, I pray you, go yourself and view it.

Remorse.

[33] move] creep Remorse.

[35] if] had Remorse.

[37-9]

  _Ordonio._              Why, Isidore,
  I blush for thy cowardice. It might have startled,
  I grant you, even a brave man for a moment--

Remorse.

[41] thump] strike Corr. in MS. III, Remorse.

[42] and] then Remorse.

[44] Sunk with a faint splash in that groaning Corr. in MS. III. Sunk]
Sank Remorse.

[49] fellow-men] fellow man Remorse.

[52] laugh] smile Remorse.

[Between 54 and 57:]

  O sleep of horrors! Now run down and stared at
  By forms so hideous that they mock remembrance--
  Now seeing nothing and imagining nothing,
  But only being afraid--stifled with fear!
  While every goodly or familiar form
  Had a strange power of breathing terror round me!
  I saw you in a thousand fearful shapes;
  And I entreat your lordship to believe me,

Remorse.

[56] om. Remorse.

[62] my] mine Remorse.

[64] _Ord. (after a pause)._ I know not why it should be! yet it is--
Remorse.

[65] Abhorrent from our nature, Remorse.

[67-70]

  _Ord._ Why that's my case! and yet the soul recoils from it--
  'Tis so with me at least. But you, perhaps,
  Have sterner feelings?

  _Isid._                Something troubles you.
  How shall I serve you?

Remorse.

[77] yards] strides Remorse.

[80] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[82] the] thy Remorse.

[Between 84 and 88]

  _Isid. (aside)._ He? He despised? Thou'rt speaking of thyself!
  I am on my guard however: no surprise              [_Then to ORDONIO._

Remorse.

[86-7] om. Remorse.

[91-2]

  _Isidore._ Of himself he speaks.                             [_Aside._
                                   Alas! poor wretch!
  Mad men, &c.

Remorse.

[93] phantasies] phantom thoughts Remorse.

[104] go on] proceed Remorse.

[105] his] this Remorse.

[106] being] substance Remorse.

[108] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[120] some] same Remorse.

[121-2]

               He proved a traitor,
  Betrayed the mystery to a brother traitor

Remorse.

[125-7] om. Remorse.

[131] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[Between 143 and 145.]

  With weak and womanish scruples. Now my vengeance
  Beckons me onwards with a warrior's mien,
  And claims that life, my pity robb'd her of--
  Now will I kill thee, thankless slave, and count it

Remorse.

[Affixed to 147.] _Ferdinand on hearing the threat of Osorio feels a
momentary horror at the consequences of his being killed, and in tones
of mingled fear and sorrow_--

  And all my little ones fatherless!

_then bursting into indignation_ 'Die thou first',

MS. III.

[After 147]

                 [_They fight. ORDONIO disarms ISIDORE, and in disarming
                      him throws his sword up that recess opposite to
                      which they were standing. ISIDORE hurries into the
                      recess with his torch, ORDONIO follows him; a loud
                      cry of 'Traitor! Monster!' is heard from the
                      cavern, and in a moment ORDONIO returns alone._

  _Ordonio._ I have hurl'd him down the chasm! treason for treason.
  He dreamt of it, henceforward let him sleep,
  A dreamless sleep, from which no wife can wake him.
  His dream too is made out--Now for his friend.       [_Exit. ORDONIO._

Remorse.

[148-51] om. Remorse.

[150] Now] So MS. III.

[Affixed to 150.] 'Ferdinand's death is not sufficiently explained to
the Audience. There should be a struggling behind the scene, as if
Osorio had taken him unawares, and was hurrying him down the Precipice.
An exclamation or even groans would add still more to the interest of
the scene.' MS. III erased.

[152-234] om. Remorse. vide _ante_ The Foster-Mother's Tale: a Dramatic
Fragment, pp. 182-4.

[Between 152 and 246:]

SCENE II

_The interior Court of a Saracenic or Gothic Castle with the iron gate
of a dungeon visible._

  _Teresa._ Heart-chilling Superstition! thou canst glaze
  Ev'n Pity's eye with her own frozen tear.
  In vain I urge the tortures that await him:
  Even Selma, reverend guardian of my childhood,
  My second mother, shuts her heart against me!
  Well, I have won from her what most imports
  The present need, this secret of the dungeon
  Known only to herself.--A Moor! a Sorcerer!
  No, I have faith, that nature ne'er permitted
  Baseness to wear a form so noble. True,
  I doubt not, that Ordonio had suborned him
  To act some part in some unholy fraud;
  As little doubt, that for some unknown purpose
  He hath baffled his suborner, terror-struck him,
  And that Ordonio meditates revenge!
  But my resolve is fixed! myself will rescue him,
  And learn if haply he knew aught of Alvar.

_Enter VALDEZ._

  _Valdez._ Still sad?--and gazing at the massive door
  Of that fell dungeon which thou ne'er had'st sight of,
  Save what, perchance, thy infant fancy shap'd it
  When the nurse still'd thy cries with unmeant threats.
  Now by my faith, girl! this same wizard haunts thee!
  A stately man, and eloquent and tender--
  Who then need wonder if a lady sighs
  Even at the thought of what these stern Dominicans--

  _Teresa._ The horror of their ghastly punishments
  Doth so o'ertop the height of all compassion,
  That I should feel too little for mine enemy,
  If it were possible I could feel more,
  Even though the dearest inmates of our household
  Were doom'd to suffer them. That such things are--

Remorse.

[155] _Maria._ 'Tis strange] _Teresa._ 'Tis said MS. III.

[157] _Foster-Mother_] _Selma_ Corr. in MS. III.

[165-6]

  O honor'd Selma! this strange man has left me
  Wilder'd with stranger fancies than yon moon

Corr. in MS. III.

[169]

  She gazes idly!

  _Ter._          But that entrance, Selma

Corr. in MS. III.

[170] _Foster-Mother_] _Selma_ Corr. in MS. III.

[171] _Maria_] _Teresa._ _Foster-Mother_] _Selma_ Corr. in MS. III.

[172] Leoni] Sesina Corr. in MS. III.

[180] Velez] Valdez Corr. in MS. III.

[201] Velez] Valdez Corr. in MS. III.

[212] And once as he was working near this dungeon Corr. in MS. III.

[221] _Maria_] _Teresa_ Corr. in MS. III.

[226] Leoni's] Sesina's Corr. in MS. III.

[228] Leoni] Sesina Corr. in MS. III.

[Between 248 and 255:]

  What if Monviedro or his creatures hear us!
  I dare not listen to you.

  _Teresa._                 My honoured lord,
  These were my Alvar's lessons, and whene'er
  I bend me o'er his portrait, I repeat them,
  As if to give a voice to the mute image.

  _Valdez._                                ----We have mourned for
      Alvar.
  Of his sad fate there now remains no doubt.
  Have I no other son?

Remorse.

[256] That low imposture! That mysterious picture! Remorse. it] this
Remorse.

[Between 262 and 268:]

  O that I had indeed the sorcerer's power.--
  I would call up before thine eyes the image
  Of my betrothed Alvar, of thy first-born!
  His own fair countenance, his kingly forehead,
  His tender smiles, love's day-dawn on his lips!
  That spiritual and almost heavenly light
  In his commanding eye--his mien heroic,
  Virtue's own native heraldry! to man
  Genial, and pleasant to his guardian angel.
  Whene'er he gladden'd, how the gladness spread
  Wide round him! and when oft with swelling tears,
  Flash'd through by indignation, he bewail'd
  The wrongs of Belgium's martyr'd patriots,
  Oh, what a grief was there--for joy to envy,
  Or gaze upon enamour'd!
                          O my father!
  Recall that morning when we knelt together,
  And thou didst bless our loves! O even now,
  Even now, my sire! to thy mind's eye present him,
  As at that moment he rose up before thee,
  Stately, with beaming look! Place, place beside him
  Ordonio's dark perturbed countenance!
  Then bid me (Oh thou could'st not) bid me turn
  From him, the joy, the triumph of our kind!
  To take in exchange that brooding man, who never
  Lifts up his eye from the earth, unless to scowl.

Remorse.

[274-86] (Thou shalt not stay . . . companion) om. Remorse.

[Between 274-87:]

  _Teresa._               O grief! to hear
  Hateful intreaties from a voice we love!

_Enter a PEASANT and presents a letter to VALDEZ._

  _Valdez (reading it)._ 'He dares not venture hither!' Why what can
      this mean?
  'Lest the Familiars of the Inquisition,
  That watch around my gates, should intercept him;
  But he conjures me, that without delay
  I hasten to him--for my own sake entreats me
  To guard from danger him I hold imprison'd--
  He will reveal a secret, the joy of which
  Will even outweigh the sorrow.'--Why what can this be?
  Perchance it is some Moorish stratagem,
  To have in me a hostage for his safety.
  Nay, that they dare not! Ho! collect my servants!
  I will go thither--let them arm themselves.            [_Exit VALDEZ._

  _Teresa (alone)._ The moon is high in heaven, and all is hush'd.
  Yet anxious listener! I have seem'd to hear
  A low dead thunder mutter thro' the night,
  As 'twere a giant angry in his sleep.
  O Alvar! Alvar! &c.

Remorse.

[After 276] And all his wealth perhaps come to the Church MS. III.
erased.

[289] evening-tide] eventide Remorse.

[296-334] om. Remorse.

[After 296]

                                                             [_A pause._

  And this majestic Moor, seems he not one
  Who oft and long communing with my Alvar,
  Hath drunk in kindred lustre from his presence,
  And guides me to him with reflected light?
  What if in yon dark dungeon coward treachery
  Be groping for him with envenomed poniard--
  Hence womanish fears, traitors to love and duty--
  I'll free him.                                         [_Exit TERESA._


SCENE III

_The mountains by moonlight. ALHADRA alone in a Moorish dress._

  _Alhadra._ Yon hanging woods, that touch'd by autumn seem
  As they were blossoming hues of fire and gold;
  { The hanging Act V, l. 41.
  { The flower-like woods, most lovely in decay,
  The many clouds, the sea, the rock, the sands,
  Lie in the silent moonshine: and the owl,
  (Strange! very strange!) the scritch-owl only wakes!
  Sole voice, sole eye of all this world of beauty!
  Unless, perhaps, she sing her screeching song
  To a herd of wolves, that skulk athirst for blood.
  Why such a thing am I?--Where are these men?
  I need the sympathy of human faces,
  To beat away this deep contempt for all things,
  Which quenches my revenge. O! would to Alla,
  The raven, or the sea-mew, were appointed
  To bring me food! or rather that my soul
  Could drink in life from the universal air!
  It were a lot divine in some small skiff
  Along some Ocean's boundless solitude,
  To float for ever with a careless course,
  And think myself the only being alive.

[_Vide post Osorio_, Act V, ll. 39-56.]

  My children!--Isidore's children!--Son of Valdez,
  This hath new strung mine arm. Thou coward tyrant!
  To stupify a woman's heart with anguish,
  Till she forgot--even that she was a mother!

                [_She fixes her eye on the earth. Then drop in one after
                     another, from different parts of the stage, a
                     considerable number of Morescoes, all in Moorish
                     garments and Moorish armour. They form a circle at
                     a distance round ALHADRA, and remain silent till
                     NAOMI enters._

Remorse.

[337] the] these Remorse.

[342] _spell_-blasted] spell-blasted Remorse.

[345] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[348] _All_] _All Morescoes._ Remorse.

[352] _One to Another_] _One Morescoe (to another)._ Remorse.

[353] Murder? Not murder'd? Remorse.

[After 353] [Stage-direction] _Alhadra (to Naomi, who advances from the
circle)._ Remorse.

[359] house] sons MS. III. Wet with the life-blood of the son of Valdez
Remorse.

[After 359] _Enter_ Warville. MS. III.

                                                             [_A pause._

Ordonio was your chieftain's murderer

Remorse.

[360-70] Erased MS. III.

[360-75] om. Remorse.

[373-80] Erased MS. III.

[375] Stage-direction _All (kneeling)._ Remorse.

[After 375] _Alhadra._ This night your chieftain armed himself Remorse.

[Affixed to 375] (not in S. T. C.'s handwriting) and erased:

  _Naomi._
  Proceed, proceed, Alhadra.

  _Alhadra._
                             Yestermorning
  He stood before our house, startful and gloomy,
  And stirr'd up fierce dispute with Ferdinand,
  I saw him when the vehement Gripe of Conscience
  Had wrenched his features to a visible agony.
  When he was gone Ferdinand sighed out 'Villain'
  And spake no other word.

  _Warville (mournfully)._
  The brother of Albert.

MS. III erased.

[_Note._--Warville was a character introduced into the deleted passage
360-70, the name being always altered by S. T. C. to 'Maurice'.]

[376-84] om. Remorse.

[384] its] their Corr. in MS. III.

[386] _there_] there Remorse.

[388] a pause] a while Remorse.

[397] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[399] A brief while] A little while Corr. in MS. III erased.

[402] God] Heaven Remorse.

[404] _light_] light Remorse.

[405] _hideous_] hideous Remorse.

[407] while] whilst Remorse.

[409] Erased MS. III. _Naomi._ Comfort her, Alla! Remorse.

[414] go] onward Remorse.

[421] his] the MS. III.

[After 425

  _All._ Away! away!               [_She rushes off, all following her._

Remorse.




ACT THE FIFTH


SCENE THE FIRST.--_The Sea Shore._

_NAOMI and a_ Moresco.

  _Moresco._ This was no time for freaks of useless vengeance.

  _Naomi._ True! but Francesco, the Inquisitor,
  Thou know'st the bloodhound--'twas a strong temptation.
  And when they pass'd within a mile of his house,
  We could not curb them in. They swore by Mahomet,                    5
  It were a deed of treachery to their brethren
  To sail from Spain and leave that man alive.

  _Moresco._ Where is Alhadra?

  _Naomi._                     She moved steadily on
  Unswerving from the path of her resolve.
  Yet each strange object fix'd her eye: for grief                    10
  Doth love to dally with fantastic shapes,
  And smiling, like a sickly moralist,
  Gives some resemblance of her own concerns
  To the straws of chance, and things inanimate.
  I seek her here; stand thou upon the watch.                         15

                                                 [_Exit_ Moresco.

  _Naomi (looking wistfully to the distance)._ Stretch'd on the rock!
      It must be she--Alhadra!

              [_ALHADRA rises from the rock, and advances slowly,
                   as if musing._

  _Naomi._ Once more, well met! what ponder'st thou so deeply?

  _Alhadra._ I scarce can tell thee! For my many thoughts
  Troubled me, till with blank and naked mind
  I only listen'd to the dashing billows.                             20
  It seems to me, I could have closed my eyes
  And wak'd without a dream of what has pass'd;
  So well it counterfeited quietness,
  This wearied heart of mine!

  _Naomi._                    'Tis thus by nature
  Wisely ordain'd, that so excess of sorrow                           25
  Might bring its own cure with it.

  _Alhadra._                        Would to Heaven
  That it had brought its last and certain cure!
  That ruin in the wood.

  _Naomi._               It is a place
  Of ominous fame; but 'twas the shortest road,
  Nor could we else have kept clear of the village.                   30
  Yet some among us, as they scal'd the wall,
  Mutter'd old rhyming prayers.

  _Alhadra._                    On that broad wall
  I saw a skull; a poppy grew beside it,
  There was a ghastly solace in the sight!

  _Naomi._ I mark'd it not, and in good truth the night-bird          35
  Curdled my blood, even till it prick'd the heart.
  Its note comes dreariest in the fall of the year:

                                    [_Looking round impatiently._

  Why don't they come? I will go forth and meet them.

                                                   [_Exit NAOMI._

  _Alhadra (alone)._ The hanging woods, that touch'd by autumn
      seem'd
  As they were blossoming hues of fire and gold,                      40
  The hanging woods, most lovely in decay,
  The many clouds, the sea, the rock, the sands,
  Lay in the silent moonshine; and the owl,
  (Strange! very strange!) the scritch owl only wak'd,
  Sole voice, sole eye of all that world of beauty!                   45
  Why such a thing am I! Where are these men?
  I need the sympathy of human faces
  To beat away this deep contempt for all things
  Which quenches my revenge. Oh!--would to Alla
  The raven and the sea-mew were appointed                            50
  To bring me food, or rather that my soul
  Could drink in life from the universal air!
  It were a lot divine in some small skiff,
  Along some ocean's boundless solitude,
  To float for ever with a careless course,                           55
  And think myself the only being alive!      [_NAOMI re-enters._

  _Naomi._ Thy children----

  _Alhadra._ Children? _Whose_ children?

                                       [_A pause--then fiercely._

                                         Son of Velez,
  This hath new-strung my arm! Thou coward tyrant,
  To stupify a woman's heart with anguish,                            60
  Till she forgot even that she was a mother!

         [_A noise--enter a part of the_ Morescoes; _and from the
              opposite side of the stage a_ Moorish Seaman.

  _Moorish Seaman._ The boat is on the shore, the vessel waits.
  Your wives and children are already stow'd;
  I left them prattling of the Barbary coast,
  Of Mosks, and minarets, and golden crescents.                       65
  Each had her separate dream; but all were gay,
  Dancing, in thought, to finger-beaten timbrels!

                   [_Enter MAURICE and the rest of the_ Morescoes
                        _dragging in FRANCESCO._

  _Francesco._ O spare me, spare me! only spare my life!

  _An Old Man._ All hail, Alhadra! O that thou hadst heard him
  When first we dragg'd him forth!   [_Then turning to the band._
                                   Here! in her presence----          70

       [_He advances with his sword as about to kill him. MAURICE
            leaps in and stands with his drawn sword between
            FRANCESCO and the_ Morescoes.

  _Maurice._                               Nay, but ye shall not!

  _Old Man._ Shall not? Hah? Shall not?

  _Maurice._                            What, an unarm'd man?
  A man that never wore a sword? A priest?
  It is unsoldierly! I say, ye shall not!

  _Old Man (turning to the bands)._ He bears himself most like an
      insolent Spaniard!                                              75

  _Maurice._ And ye like slaves, that have destroy'd their master,
  But know not yet what freedom means; how holy
  And just a thing it is! He's a fallen foe!
  Come, come, forgive him!

  _All._                   No, by Mahomet!

  _Francesco._ O mercy, mercy! talk to them of mercy!                 80

  _Old Man._ Mercy to thee! No, no, by Mahomet!

  _Maurice._ Nay, Mahomet taught mercy and forgiveness.
  I am sure he did!

  _Old Man._        Ha! Ha! Forgiveness! Mercy!

  _Maurice._ If he did not, he needs it for himself!

  _Alhadra._ Blaspheming fool! the law of Mahomet                     85
  Was given by him, who framed the soul of man.
  This the best proof--it fits the soul of man!
  Ambition, glory, thirst of enterprize,
  The deep and stubborn purpose of revenge,
  With all the boiling revelries of pleasure--                        90
  These grow in the heart, yea, intertwine their roots
  With its minutest fibres! And that Being
  Who made us, laughs to scorn the lying faith,
  Whose puny precepts, like a wall of sand,
  Would stem the full tide of predestined Nature!                     95

  _Naomi (who turns toward Francesco with his sword)._ Speak!

  _All (to Alhadra)._                                         Speak!

  _Alhadra._ Is the murderer of your chieftain dead?
  Now as God liveth, who hath suffer'd him
  To make my children orphans, none shall die
  Till I have seen his blood!
                              Off with him to the vessel!

                      [_A part of the_ Morescoes _hurry him off._

  _Alhadra._ The Tyger, that with unquench'd cruelty,                100
  Still thirsts for blood, leaps on the hunter's spear
  With prodigal courage. 'Tis not so with man.

  _Maurice._ It is not so, remember that, my friends!
  Cowards are cruel, and the cruel cowards.

  _Alhadra._ Scatter yourselves, take each a separate way,           105
  And move in silence to the house of Velez.           [_Exeunt._


SCENE.--_A Dungeon._

_ALBERT (alone) rises slowly from a bed of reeds._

  _Albert._ And this place my forefathers made for men!
  This is the process of our love and wisdom
  To each poor brother who offends against us--
  Most innocent, perhaps--and what if guilty?                        110
  Is this the only cure? Merciful God!
  Each pore and natural outlet shrivell'd up
  By ignorance and parching poverty,
  His energies roll back upon his heart,
  And stagnate and corrupt till changed to poison,                   115
  They break out on him like a loathsome plague-spot!
  Then we call in our pamper'd mountebanks--
  And this is their best cure! uncomforted
  And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
  And savage faces at the clanking hour                              120
  Seen thro' the steaming vapours of his dungeon
  By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies
  Circled with evil, till his very soul
  Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deform'd
  By sights of ever more deformity!                                  125
  With other ministrations thou, O Nature!
  Healest thy wandering and distemper'd child:
  Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
  Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets,
  Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters,                      130
  Till he relent, and can no more endure
  To be a jarring and a dissonant thing
  Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
  But bursting into tears wins back his way,
  His angry spirit heal'd and harmoniz'd                             135
  By the benignant touch of love and beauty.

              [_A noise at the dungeon-door. It opens, and OSORIO
                   enters with a goblet in his hand._

  _Osorio._ Hail, potent wizard! In my gayer mood
  I pour'd forth a libation to old Pluto;
  And as I brimm'd the bowl, I thought of thee!

  _Albert (in a low voice)._ I have not summon'd up my heart to
      give                                                           140
  That pang, which I must give thee, son of Velez!

  _Osorio (with affected levity)._ Thou hast conspired against my
      life and honour,
  Hast trick'd me foully; yet I hate thee not!
  Why should I hate thee? This same world of ours--
  It is a puddle in a storm of rain,                                 145
  And we the air-bladders, that course up and down,
  And joust and tilt in merry tournament,
  And when one bubble runs foul of another,

                                    [_Waving his hand at ALBERT._

  The lesser must needs break!

  _Albert._                    I see thy heart!
  There is a frightful glitter in thine eye,                         150
  Which doth betray thee. Crazy-conscienc'd man,
  This is the gaiety of drunken anguish,
  Which fain would scoff away the pang of guilt,
  And quell each human feeling!

  _Osorio._                     Feeling! feeling!
  The death of a man--the breaking of a bubble.                      155
  'Tis true, I cannot sob for such misfortunes!
  But faintness, cold, and hunger--curses on me
  If willingly I e'er inflicted them!
  Come, share the beverage--this chill place demands it.
  Friendship and wine!         [_OSORIO proffers him the goblet._

  _Albert._            Yon insect on the wall,                       160
  Which moves this way and that its hundred legs,
  Were it a toy of mere mechanic craft,
  It were an infinitely curious thing!
  But it has life, Osorio! life and thought;
  And by the power of its miraculous will                            165
  Wields all the complex movements of its frame
  Unerringly, to pleasurable ends!
  Saw I that insect on this goblet's brink,
  I would remove it with an eager terror.

  _Osorio._ What meanest thou?

  _Albert._                    There's poison in the wine.           170

  _Osorio._ Thou hast guess'd well. There's poison in the wine.
  Shall we throw dice, which of us two shall drink it?
  For one of us must die!

  _Albert._               Whom dost thou think me?

  _Osorio._ The accomplice and sworn friend of Ferdinand.

  _Albert._ Ferdinand! Ferdinand! 'tis a name I know not.            175

  _Osorio._ Good! good! that lie! by Heaven! it has restor'd me.
  Now I am thy master! Villain, thou shalt drink it,
  Or die a bitterer death.

  _Albert._                What strange solution
  Hast thou found out to satisfy thy fears,
  And drug them to unnatural sleep?

             [_ALBERT takes the goblet, and with a sigh throws it
                  on the ground._

                                    _My_ master!                     180

  _Osorio._ Thou mountebank!

  _Albert._                  Mountebank and villain!
  What then art thou? For shame, put up thy sword!
  What boots a weapon in a wither'd arm?
  I fix mine eye upon thee, and thou tremblest!
  I speak--and fear and wonder crush thy rage,                       185
  And turn it to a motionless distraction!
  Thou blind self-worshipper! thy pride, thy cunning,
  Thy faith in universal villainy,
  Thy shallow sophisms, thy pretended scorn
  For all thy human brethren--out upon them!                         190
  What have they done for thee? Have they given thee peace?
  Cured thee of starting in thy sleep? or made
  The darkness pleasant, when thou wakest at midnight?
  Art happy when alone? can'st walk by thyself
  With even step, and quiet cheerfulness?                            195
  Yet, yet thou mayst be saved.

  _Osorio (stupidly reiterating the word)._ Saved? saved?

  _Albert._                                               One pang--
  Could I call up one pang of true remorse!

  _Osorio._ He told me of the babe, that prattled to him,
  His fatherless little ones! Remorse! remorse!
  Where gott'st thou that fool's word? Curse on remorse!             200
  Can it give up the dead, or recompact
  A mangled body--mangled, dash'd to atoms!
  Not all the blessings of an host of angels
  Can blow away a desolate widow's curse;
  And tho' thou spill thy heart's blood for atonement,               205
  It will not weigh against an orphan's tear.

  _Albert (almost overcome by his feelings)._ But Albert----

  _Osorio._                                                  Ha! it
      chokes thee in the throat,
  Even thee! and yet, I pray thee, speak it out.
  Still Albert! Albert! Howl it in mine ear!
  Heap it, like coals of fire, upon my heart!                        210
  And shoot it hissing through my brain!

  _Albert._                              Alas--
  That day, when thou didst leap from off the rock
  Into the waves, and grasp'd thy sinking brother,
  And bore him to the strand, then, son of Velez!
  How sweet and musical the name of Albert!                          215
  Then, then, Osorio! he was dear to thee,
  And thou wert dear to him. Heaven only knows
  How very dear thou wert! Why didst thou hate him?
  O Heaven! how he would fall upon thy neck,
  And weep forgiveness!

  _Osorio._             Spirit of the dead!                          220
  Methinks I know thee! Ha!--my brain turns wild
  At its own dreams--off--off, fantastic shadow!

  _Albert (seizing his hand)._ I fain would tell thee what I am,
      but dare not!

  _Osorio (retiring from him)._ Cheat, villain, traitor! whatsoe'er
      thou be
  I fear thee, man!

           [_He starts, and stands in the attitude of listening._

                    And is _this_ too my madness?                    225

  _Albert._ It is the step of one that treads in fear
  Seeking to cheat the echo.

  _Osorio._                  It approaches--
  This nook shall hide me.

             [_MARIA enters from a plank which slips to and fro._

  _Maria._                 I have put aside
  The customs and the terrors of a woman,
  To work out thy escape. Stranger! begone,                          230
  And only tell me what thou know'st of Albert.

          [_ALBERT takes her portrait from his neck, and gives it
               her with unutterable tenderness._

  _Albert._ Maria! _my_ Maria!

  _Maria._                     Do not mock me.
  This is my face--and thou--ha! who art thou?
  Nay, I will call thee Albert!

             [_She falls upon his neck. OSORIO leaps out from the
                  nook with frantic wildness, and rushes towards
                  ALBERT with his sword. MARIA gapes at him, as
                  one helpless with terror, then leaves ALBERT,
                  and flings herself upon OSORIO, arresting his
                  arm._

  _Maria._                      Madman, stop!

  _Albert (with majesty and tenderness)._ Does then this thin
      disguise impenetrably                                          235
  Hide Albert from thee? Toil and painful wounds,
  And long imprisonment in unwholesome dungeons,
  Have marr'd perhaps all trace and lineament
  Of what I was! But chiefly, chiefly, brother!
  My anguish for thy guilt. Spotless Maria,                          240
  I thought thee guilty too! Osorio, brother!
  Nay, nay, thou _shalt_ embrace me!

  _Osorio (drawing back and gazing at Albert with a countenance
      expressive at once of awe and terror)._ Touch me not!
  Touch not pollution, Albert!--I will die!

             [_He attempts to fall on his sword. ALBERT and MARIA
                  struggle with him._

  _Albert._ We will invent some tale to save your honour.
  Live, live, Osorio!

  _Maria._            You may yet be happy.                          245

  _Osorio (looking at Maria)._ O horror! Not a thousand years in
      heaven
  Could recompose this miserable heart,
  Or make it capable of one brief joy.
  Live! live!--why yes! 'Twere well to live with you--
  For is it fit a villain should be proud?                           250
  My brother! I will kneel to you, my brother!

                              [_Throws himself at ALBERT'S feet._

  Forgive me, Albert!--_Curse_ me with forgiveness!

  _Albert._ Call back thy soul, my brother! and look round thee.
  Now is the time for greatness. Think that Heaven----

  _Maria._ O mark his eye! he hears not what you say.                255

  _Osorio (pointing at vacancy)._ Yes, mark his eye! there's
      fascination in it.
  Thou said'st thou didst not know him. That is he!
  He comes upon me!

  _Albert (lifting his eye to heaven)._ Heal, O heal him, Heaven!

  _Osorio._ Nearer and nearer! And I cannot stir!
  Will no one hear these stifled groans, and wake me?                260
  He would have died to save me, and I kill'd him--
  A husband and a father!

  _Maria._                Some secret poison
  Drinks up his spirit!

  _Osorio (fiercely recollecting himself)._ Let the eternal Justice
  Prepare my punishment in the obscure world.
  I will not bear to live--to live! O agony!                         265
  And be myself alone, my own sore torment!

          [_The doors of the dungeon are burst open with a crash.
               ALHADRA, MAURICE, and the band of_ Morescoes
               _enter._

  _Alhadra (pointing at Osorio)._ Seize first that man!

                                      [_The_ Moors _press round._

  _Albert (rushing in among them)._ Draw thy sword, Maurice, and
      defend my brother.

                  [_A scuffle, during which they disarm MAURICE._

  _Osorio._ Off, ruffians! I have flung away my sword.
  Woman, my life is thine! to thee I give it.                        270
  Off! he that touches me with his hand of flesh,
  I'll rend his limbs asunder! I have strength
  With this bare arm to scatter you like ashes!

  _Alhadra._ My husband----

  _Osorio._                 Yes! I murder'd him most foully.

  _Albert (throws himself on the earth)._ O horrible!

  _Alhadra._                                          Why didst thou
      leave his children?                                            275
  Demon! thou shouldst have sent thy dogs of hell
  To lap _their_ blood. Then, then, I might have harden'd
  My soul in misery, and have had comfort.
  I would have stood far off, quiet tho' dark,
  And bade the race of men raise up a mourning                       280
  For the deep horror of a desolation
  Too great to be one soul's particular lot!
  Brother of Zagri! let me lean upon thee.

                           [_Struggling to suppress her anguish._

  The time is not yet come for woman's anguish--
  I have not seen his blood. Within an hour                          285
  Those little ones will crowd around and ask me,
  Where is our father?                        [_Looks at OSORIO._
                       I shall curse thee then!
  Wert thou in heaven, my curse would pluck thee thence!

  _Maria._ See--see! he doth repent. I kneel to thee.
  Be merciful!

      [_MARIA kneels to her. ALHADRA regards her face wistfully._

  _Alhadra._   Thou art young and innocent;                          290
  'Twere merciful to kill thee! Yet I will not.
  And for thy sake none of this house shall perish,
  Save only he.

  _Maria._      That aged man, his father!

  _Alhadra (sternly)._ Why had he such a son?

                                         [_The_ Moors _press on._

  _Maria (still kneeling, and wild with affright)._ Yet spare his
      life!
  They must not murder him!

  _Alhadra._                And is it then                           295
  An enviable lot to waste away
  With inward wounds, and like the spirit of chaos
  To wander on disquietly thro' the earth,
  Cursing all lovely things? to let him live--
  It were a deep revenge!

  _All the band cry out_--No mercy! no mercy!                        300

                 [_NAOMI advances with the sword towards OSORIO._

  _Alhadra._ Nay, bear him forth! Why should this innocent maid
  Behold the ugliness of death?

  _Osorio (with great majesty)._ O woman!
  I have stood silent like a slave[596:1] before thee,
  That I might taste the wormwood and the gall,
  And satiate this self-accusing spirit                              305
  With bitterer agonies than death can give.

          [_The_ Moors _gather round him in a crowd, and pass off
               the stage._

  _Alhadra._ I thank thee, Heaven! thou hast ordain'd it wisely,
  That still extremes bring their own cure. That point
  In misery which makes the oppressed man
  Regardless of his own life, makes him too                          310
  Lord of the oppressor's! Knew I an hundred men
  Despairing, but not palsied by despair,
  This arm should shake the kingdoms of this world;
  The deep foundations of iniquity
  Should sink away, earth groaning from beneath them;                315
  The strong holds of the cruel men should fall,
  Their temples and their mountainous towers should fall;
  Till desolation seem'd a beautiful thing,
  And all that were and had the spirit of life
  Sang a new song to him who had gone forth                          320
  Conquering and still to conquer!

THE END[597:1]


FOOTNOTES:

[596:1] In _MS. II_ 'worm' has the place of 'slave', which is the word
in _MS. I_.

[597:1] On a blank page of _MS. III_ some one, probably Bowles, has
written:--'Upon the whole a very masterly production, and with judicious
contractments might be rendered an interesting Drama on the stage.'


LINENOTES:

[1-106] om. Remorse.

[39] The hanging] Yon pendent Corr. in MS. III.

[41]

  hanging] { pendent
           { flowerlike

Corr. in MS. III.

[45] that] this Corr. in MS. III.

[Affixed to 57] _Naomi, the second in command to Isidore, enters in
haste._ MS. III erased.

[After 61] stage-direction erased MS. III.

[62] _Moorish Seaman_] _Naomi_ Corr. in MS. III.

[100-106] Erased MS. III.

[107 foll.] _vide ante_, 'The Dungeon,' p. 185.

[121] steaming] steam and Corr. in MS. III, Remorse.

[125] ever more] _evermore_ Remorse.

[After 136]

  I am chill and weary! Yon rude bench of stone,
  In that dark angle, the sole resting-place!
  But the self-approving mind is its own light,
  And Life's best warmth still radiates from the heart
  Where love sits brooding, and an honest purpose.

_Enter TERESA._                                 [_Retires out of sight._

Corr. in MS. III, Remorse.

Stage-direction affixed to 136 and 136-9 erased in MS. III: om. Remorse.

[Between 136 and 137:]

  I am chill and weary, &c. . . . honest purpose.

_Enter TERESA with a taper._

  _Teresa._ It has chilled my very life--my own voice scares me;
  Yet when I hear it not I seem to lose
  The substance of my being--my strongest grasp
  Sends inwards but weak witness that I am.
  I seek to cheat the echo.--How the half sounds
  Blend with this strangled light! Is he not here--    [_Looking round._
  O for one human face here--but to see
  One human face here to sustain me.--Courage!
  It is but my own fear! The life within me,
  It sinks and wavers like this cone of flame,
  Beyond which I scarce dare look onward! Oh!
  If I faint? If this inhuman den should be
  At once my death-bed and my burial vault?

                    [_Faintly screams as ALVAR emerges from the recess._

  _Alvar (rushes towards her, and catches her as she is falling)._ O
      gracious heaven! it is, it is Teresa!
  Shall I reveal myself? The sudden shock
  Of rapture will blow out this spark of life,
  And joy complete what terror has begun.
  O ye impetuous beatings here, be still!
  Teresa, best beloved! pale, pale, and cold!
  Her pulse doth flutter! Teresa! my Teresa!

  _Teresa (recovering)._ I heard a voice; but often in my dreams
  I hear that voice! and wake and try--and try--
  To hear it waking! but I never could--
  And 'tis so now--even so! Well! he is dead--
  Murdered perhaps! And I am faint, and feel
  As if it were no painful thing to die!

  _Alvar._ Believe it not, sweet maid! Believe it not,
  Beloved woman! 'Twas a low imposture
  Framed by a guilty wretch.

  _Teresa._                  Ha! Who art thou?

  _Alvar._ Suborned by his brother--

  _Teresa._                          Didst thou murder him?
  And dost thou now repent? Poor troubled man,
  I do forgive thee, and may Heaven forgive thee!

  _Alvar._ Ordonio--he----

  _Teresa._                If thou didst murder him--
  His spirit ever at the throne of God
  Asks mercy for thee: prays for mercy for thee,
  With tears in Heaven!

  _Alvar._              Alvar was not murdered.
  Be calm! be calm, sweet maid!

  _Teresa._ Nay, nay, but tell me!                           [_A pause._
                                   O 'tis lost again!
  This dull confused pain--                                  [_A pause._
                            Mysterious man!
  Methinks I can not fear thee: for thine eye
  Doth swim with love and pity--Well! Ordonio--
  Oh my foreboding heart! And he suborned thee,
  And thou didst spare his life? Blessings shower on thee,
  As many as the drops twice counted o'er
  In the fond faithful heart of his Teresa!

  _Alvar._ I can endure no more. The Moorish sorcerer
  Exists but in the stain upon his face.
  That picture----

  _Teresa._        Ha! speak on!

  _Alvar._                       Beloved Teresa!
  It told but half the truth. O let this portrait
  Tell all--that Alvar lives--that he is here!
  Thy much deceived but ever faithful Alvar.

                  [_Takes her portrait from his neck, and gives it her._

  _Teresa (receiving the portrait)._ The same--it is the same. Ah! Who
      art thou?
  Nay, I will call thee, Alvar!                [_She falls on his neck._

  _Alvar._                      O joy unutterable!
  But hark! a sound as of removing bars
  At the dungeon's outer door. A brief, brief while
  Conceal thyself, my love! It is Ordonio.
  For the honour of our race, for our dear father;
  O for himself too (he is still my brother)
  Let me recall him to his nobler nature,
  That he may wake as from a dream of murder!
  O let me reconcile him to himself,
  Open the sacred source of penitent tears,
  And be once more his own beloved Alvar.

  _Teresa._ O my all virtuous love! I fear to leave thee
  With that obdurate man.

  _Alvar._                Thou dost not leave me!
  But a brief while retire into the darkness:
  O that my joy could spread its sunshine round thee!

  _Teresa._ The sound of thy voice shall be my music!
  Alvar! my Alvar! am I sure I hold thee?
  Is it no dream? thee in my arms, my Alvar!                    [_Exit._

            [_A noise at the dungeon door. It opens, and ORDONIO enters,
                 with a goblet in his hand._

Remorse.

[139] of] on Remorse.

[140-1] and stage-direction before 142 om. Remorse.

[145] 'Tis but a pool amid a storm of rain Remorse.

[148] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[149] lesser must needs] weaker needs must Remorse.

[151-2]

                               Inly-tortured man,
  This is the revelry of a drunken anguish

Remorse.

[Before 160] [_ORDONIO proffers the goblet._ Remorse.

[160] Friendship and wine om. Remorse.

[161] legs] limbs Remorse.

[164] life and thought] life, enjoyment Remorse.

[168] brink] brim Remorse.

[169] I would remove it with an anxious pity Remorse.

[171-2]

  Thou hast guessed right; there's poison in the wine.
  There's poison in't--which of us two shall drink it?

Remorse.

[Between 174 and 176:]

  _Alvar._                           I know him not.
  And yet methinks, I have heard the name but lately.
  Means he the husband of the Moorish woman?
  Isidore? Isidore?

Remorse.

[175] om. Remorse.

[180] Stage-direction [_ALVAR takes the goblet, and throws it to the
ground._ Remorse. _My_] My Remorse.

[196] Stage-direction om. Remorse.]

[198] babe] babes Remorse.

[207] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[223] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[224] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[225-35] om. Remorse.

[Between 225 and 235]

_Teresa (rushing out and falling on ALVAR'S neck)._
        Ordonio! 'tis thy brother!

                 [_ORDONIO runs upon ALVAR with his sword. TERESA flings
                      herself on ORDONIO and arrests his arm._

                                   Stop, madman, stop!

Remorse.

[235] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[238] trace] trial corr. in MS. III; trait Remorse.

[240-41] Spotless . . . guilty too om. Remorse.

[242] _shalt_] shalt Remorse.

[After 242] stage-direction (_Drawing back and gazing at Alvar_)
Remorse.

[Between 243 and 245]

  _Alvar._ We will find means to save your honour. Live,
  Oh live, Ordonio! for our father's sake!
  Spare his gray hairs!

  _Teresa._             And you may yet be happy

  _Ordonio._ O horror, &c.

Remorse.

[After 243] _struggle with_] _prevent_ Remorse.

[After 251] [_Throws himself, &c._] _Kneeling_ Remorse.

[252] _Curse_] Curse Remorse.

[253] my brother] Ordonio Remorse.

[256] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[258] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[263] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[After 266]

                      [_The doors of the dungeon are broken open, and in
                           rush ALHADRA, and the band of_ Morescoes.

  _Alh._ Seize first that man!

                              [_ALVAR presses onward to defend ORDONIO._

  _Ord._ Off, &c.

Remorse.

[274] _Alvar and Teresa._ O horrible Remorse.

[277] _their_] their Remorse.

[283] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[287] Stage-direction om. Remorse.

[Between 288 and 304:]

  _Teresa._ He doth repent! See, see, I kneel to thee!
  O let him live! That aged man, his father----

  _Alhadra._ Why had he such a son?

                  [_Shouts from the distance of_, Rescue! Rescue! Alvar!
                       Alvar! _and the voice of VALDEZ heard._

  Rescue?--and Isidore's spirit unavenged?--
  The deed be mine!                           [_Suddenly stabs ORDONIO._
                    Now take my Life!

  _Ordonio (staggering from the wound)._ Atonement!

  _Alvar (while with TERESA supporting ORDONIO)._ Arm of avenging Heaven
  Thou hast snatched from me my most cherished hope--
  But go! my word was pledged to thee.

  _Ordonio._                           Away!
  Brave not my father's rage! I thank thee! Thou--
                     [_Then turning his eyes languidly to ALVAR._
  She hath avenged the blood of Isidore!
  I stood in silence like a slave before her

Remorse.

[290-303] om. Remorse.

[Affixed to 300] _ALHADRA snatches it from him and suddenly stabs
ORDONIO. ALVAR rushes towards him through the_ Moors, _and catches him
in his arms, &c._ MS. III.

[303-4]

  'Tis well! thou hast avenged thyself
  I have stood in silence like a slave before thee

Corr. in MS. III.

[305] spirit] heart Remorse.

[After 306]

  Forgive me, Alvar! O couldst thou forgive thyself.

Corr. in MS. III.

  Forgive me, Alvar!
                     Oh!--couldst thou forget me!               [_Dies._

                      [_ALVAR and TERESA bend over the body of ORDONIO._

  _Alh._ (_to the_ Moors). I thank thee, Heaven! &c.

Remorse.

_Shouts of_ Alvar! _Alvar!_ _Noises heard; a_ Moor _rushes in._

  _Moor._ We are surprised, away! away! the instant--
  The country is in arms. The old man heads them
  And still cries out, 'My son! My son is living'
  Haste to the shore! They come the opposite road.

  _ALHADRA (to ALVAR)._
  Thou then art Alvar! to my aid and safety
  Thy word stands pledged.

  _Alvar._                 Arm of avenging Heaven!
  My word stands pledged nor shall it be retracted.

            (_The_ Moors _surround ALHADRA) and force her off. The stage
                 fills with armed peasants. ALI and VALDEZ at their
                 head. VALDEZ rushes into ALVAR'S arms and the Curtain
                 drops._

[Alternative ending in S. T. C.'s handwriting affixed to lines 307-21,
MS. III]

[320] him] her Remorse.

[After 321]

                 [_ALHADRA hurries off with the_ Moors; _the stage fills
                      with armed_ Peasants _and_ Servants, _ZULIMEZ and
                      VALDEZ at their head. VALDEZ rushes into ALVAR'S
                      arms._

  _Alvar._ Turn not thy face that way, my father! hide,
  Oh hide it from his eye! Oh let thy joy
  Flow in unmingled stream through thy first blessing.

                                                [_both kneel to VALDEZ._

  _Valdez._ My Son! My Alvar! bless, Oh bless him, heaven!

  _Teresa._ Me too, my Father?

  _Valdez._                    Bless, Oh, bless my children!

                                                           [_both rise._

  _Alvar._ Delights so full, if unalloyed with grief,
  Were ominous. In these strange dread events
  Just Heaven instructs us with an awful voice,
  That Conscience rules us e'en against our choice.
  Our inward monitress to guide or warn,
  If listened to; but if repelled with scorn,
  At length as dire Remorse, she reappears,
  Works in our guilty hopes, and selfish fears!
  Still bids, Remember! and still cries, Too late!
  And while she scares us, goads us to our fate.

Remorse.




THE PICCOLOMINI[598:1]

OR, THE FIRST PART OF WALLENSTEIN

A DRAMA

TRANSLATED FROM THE GERMAN OF SCHILLER


PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION

It was my intention to have prefixed a Life of Wallenstein to this
translation; but I found that it must either have occupied a space
wholly disproportionate to the nature of the publication, or have been
merely a meagre catalogue of events narrated not more fully than they
already are in the Play itself. The recent translation, likewise, of
Schiller's _History of the Thirty Years' War_ diminished the motives
thereto. In the translation I endeavoured to render my Author literally
wherever I was not prevented by absolute differences of idiom; but I am
conscious that in two or three short passages I have been guilty of
dilating the original; and, from anxiety to give the full meaning, have
weakened the force. In the metre I have availed myself of no other
liberties than those which Schiller had permitted to himself, except the
occasional breaking-up of the line by the substitution of a trochee for
an iambus; of which liberty, so frequent in our tragedies, I find no
instance in these dramas.

  S. T. COLERIDGE.


FOOTNOTES:

[598:1] First published in a single octavo volume, 1800: included in
1828, 1829, 1834, and in _Dramatic Works_ (one vol. 8vo) 1852. The
_Piccolomini_ and the _Death of Wallenstein_ were translated from MS.
copies which had been acquired by the Messrs. Longman. The MS. copy of
the original of the _Death of Wallenstein_ is in the possession of Mrs.
Alexander Gillman. The MS. of the copy of the original of the
_Piccolomini_ was at one time in the possession of Mr. Henry R. Mark of
17 Highbury Crescent. A note in Schiller's handwriting, dated 'Jena, 30.
September 1799', attesting the genuineness of the copies, is attached to
either play. The MS. copy of _Wallenstein's Camp_ ('Wallenstein's
Lager'), which Coleridge did not attempt to translate, is not
forthcoming. See two articles by Ferdinand Freiligrath, published in the
_Athenæum_, July 15 and August 31, 1861. See, too, _Die
Wallensteinübersetzung von Samuel T. Coleridge und ihr Deutsches
Original_ . . . vorgelegt von Hans Roscher. Borna-Leipzig, 1905. A copy
of the translation which Macready marked for acting is in the Forster
Library, which forms part of the Victoria and Albert Museum at South
Kensington. See note by J. <DW18>s Campbell, _P. W._, 1893, p. 649. An
annotated copy (in Coleridge's handwriting) of the translation of the
_Piccolomini_ and the _Death of Wallenstein_, presented by Mr. Shadworth
Hodgson, is in the Library of Rugby School [_MS. R._]. The MS. contents
of this volume are now published for the first time. Coleridge began his
translation of the two plays at No. 21 Buckingham Street, Strand, in
December, 1799, and finished the 'last sheet' at Town End, Grasmere,
April 20, 1800.

'These dramas have two grievous faults: they are prolix in the
particular parts and slow in the general movement. But they have
passion, distinct and diversified character, and they abound in passages
of great moral and poetic beauty.' S. T. COLERIDGE.

'The defects of these dramas are all of an instructive character; for
tho' not the products of genius, like those of Shakespere, they result
from an energetic and thinking mind. (1) The speeches are seldom suited
to characters--the characters are truly diversified and distinctly
conceived--but we learn them from the actions and from the descriptions
given by other characters, or from particular speeches. The brutal Illo
repeatedly talks language which belongs to the Countess, &c. (2)
Astrology (an undramatic superstition because it inspires no terror, and
its foundation of imagination is overbuilt and concealed by its
scientific superstructure, with other cause from the imagery, is thus
unpopular or swallowed up in more general and pleasing associations, as
the Sun and Moon) is made prophetic, and yet treated ludicrously: the
author as philosopher is in compleat discord with himself as Historian.
This is a most grievous fault. (3) The assassins talk ludicrously. This
is a most egregious misimitation of Shakespere--Schiller should not have
attempted tragico-comedy, and none but Shakespere has succeeded. It is
wonderful, however, that Schiller, who had studied Shakespere, should
not have perceived his divine judgment in the management of his
assassins, as in Macbeth. They are fearful and almost pitiable
Beings--not loathsome, ludicrous miscreants. (4) The character of Thekla
= O, the bold Heroine of any novel. Nothing of the Convent, no
superstition, nothing of the Daughter of Wallenstein, nothing that her
past life is represented by. (5) Wallenstein is a finer psychological
than dramatic, and a more dramatic than a tragic character. Shakespere
draws _strength_ as in Richard the Third, and even when he blends
weakness as in Macbeth--yet it is weakness of a specific kind that
leaves the strength in full and fearful energy--but Schiller has drawn
weakness imposing on itself the love of power for the sense of strength
(a fine conception in itself, but not tragic--at least for the principal
character of a long drama).--Hence Wallenstein, with one exception (that
of the Regimental Deputation to him in the Second Part) evaporates in
mock-mysterious speeches. These are the chief defects, I think. On the
other hand, the character of Butler is admirable throughout. Octavio is
very grand, and Max, tho' it may be an easy character to draw, for a man
of thought and lofty feeling--for a man who possesses all the _analoga_
of genius, is yet so delightful, and its moral influence so grand and
salutary, that we must allow it great praise. The childish love-toying
with the glove and Aunt Tertsky in the first act should be omitted.
Certain whole scenes are masterly, and far above anything since the
dramatists of Eliz. & James the first.' _Note on fly-leaf of annotated
copy (MS. R.)._




THE PICCOLOMINI[600:1]




ACT I


SCENE I

_An old Gothic Chamber in the Council House at Pilsen, decorated with
Colours and other War Insignia._

_ILLO with BUTLER and ISOLANI._

  _Illo._ Ye have come late--but ye are come! The distance,
  Count Isolan, excuses your delay.

  _Isolani._ Add this too, that we come not empty-handed.
  At Donauwert[600:2] it was reported to us,
  A Swedish caravan was on its way                                     5
  Transporting a rich cargo of provision,
  Almost six hundred waggons. This my Croats
  Plunged down upon and seized, this weighty prize!----
  We bring it hither----

  _Illo._                Just in time to banquet
  The illustrious company assembled here.                             10

  _Butler._ 'Tis all alive! a stirring scene here!

  _Isolani._                                       Ay!
  The very churches are all full of soldiers.
  And in the Council-house, too, I observe,
  You're settled, quite at home! Well, well! we soldiers
  Must shift and suit us in what way we can.                          15

  _Illo._ We have the Colonels here of thirty regiments.
  You'll find Count Tertsky here, and Tiefenbach,
  Kolatto, Goetz, Maradas, Hinnersam,
  The Piccolomini, both son and father----
  You'll meet with many an unexpected greeting                        20
  From many an old friend and acquaintance. Only
  Galas is wanting still, and Altringer.

  _Butler._ Expect not Galas.

  _Illo._ How so? Do you know----

  _Isolani._ Max Piccolomini here?--O bring me to him.                25
  I see him yet, ('tis now ten years ago,
  We were engaged with Mansfeld hard by Dessau)
  I see the youth, in my mind's eye I see him,
  Leap his black war-horse from the bridge adown,
  And t'ward his father, then in extreme peril,                       30
  Beat up against the strong tide of the Elbe.
  The down was scarce upon his chin! I hear
  He has made good the promise of his youth,
  And the full hero now is finished in him.

  _Illo._ You'll see him yet ere evening. He conducts                 35
  The Duchess Friedland hither, and the Princess[601:1]
  From Carnthen. We expect them here at noon.

  _Butler._ Both wife and daughter does the Duke call hither?
  He crowds in visitants from all sides.

  _Isolani._                             Hm!
  So much the better! I had framed my mind                            40
  To hear of nought but warlike circumstance,
  Of marches, and attacks, and batteries:
  And lo! the Duke provides, that something too
  Of gentler sort, and lovely, should be present
  To feast our eyes.                                                  45

  _Illo (aside to Butler)._ And how came you to know
  That the Count Galas joins us not?

  _Butler._                          Because
  He importuned me to remain behind.

  _Illo._ And you?--You hold out firmly?
                                         Noble Butler!

  _Butler._ After the obligation which the Duke                       50
  Had laid so newly on me----

  _Illo._                     I had forgotten
  A pleasant duty--Major-General,
  I wish you joy!

  _Isolani._ What, you mean, of his regiment?
  I hear, too, that to make the gift still sweeter,                   55
  The Duke has given him the very same
  In which he first saw service, and since then,
  Worked himself, step by step, through each preferment,
  From the ranks upwards. And verily, it gives
  A precedent of hope, a spur of action                               60
  To the whole corps, if once in their remembrance
  An old deserving soldier makes his way.

  _Butler._ I am perplexed and doubtful, whether or no
  I dare accept this your congratulation.
  The Emperor has not yet confirmed the appointment.                  65

  _Isolani._ Seize it, friend! Seize it! The hand which in that post
  Placed you, is strong enough to keep you there,
  Spite of the Emperor and his Ministers!

  _Illo._ Ay, if we would but so consider it!--
  If we would all of us consider it so!                               70
  The Emperor gives us nothing; from the Duke
  Comes all--whate'er we hope, whate'er we have.

  _Isolani (to Illo)._ My noble brother! did I tell you how
  The Duke will satisfy my creditors?
  Will be himself my banker for the future,                           75
  Make me once more a creditable man!--
  And this is now the third time, think of that!
  This kingly-minded man has rescued me
  From absolute ruin, and restored my honour.

  _Illo._ O that his power but kept pace with his wishes!             80
  Why, friend! he'd give the whole world to his soldiers.
  But at Vienna, brother! here's the grievance!--
  What politic schemes do they not lay to shorten
  His arm, and, where they can, to clip his pinions.
  Then these new dainty requisitions! these,                          85
  Which this same Questenberg brings hither!--

  _Butler._                                    Ay,
  These requisitions of the Emperor,--
  I too have heard about them; but I hope
  The Duke will not draw back a single inch!                          90

  _Illo._ Not from his right most surely, unless first
  --From office!

  _Butler._      Know you aught then? You alarm me.

  _Isolani (at the same time with Butler, and in a hurrying voice)._
      We should be ruined, every one of us!

  _Illo._                                   No more!
  Yonder I see our worthy friend[603:1] approaching
  With the Lieutenant-General, Piccolomini.

  _Butler._ I fear we shall not go hence as we came.                  95


FOOTNOTES:

[600:1] In 1800 the following table of _Dramatis Personae_ was prefixed
to Act I of _The Piccolomini, or The First Part of Wallenstein_. In
1828, 1829, and 1834 this table was omitted.


DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  _WALLENSTEIN, Duke of Friedland, Generalissimo of the Imperial Forces
      in The Thirty-years' War._
  _OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI, Lieutenant-General._
  _MAX PICCOLOMINI, his son, Colonel of a Regiment of Cuirassiers._
  _COUNT TERTSKY, the Commander of several Regiments, and Brother-in-law
      of Wallenstein._
  _ILLO, Field Marshal, Wallenstein's Confidant._
  _ISOLANI, General of the Croats._
  _BUTLER, an Irishman, Commander of a Regiment of Dragoons._
  _TIEFENBACH_,   }
  _DON MARADAS_,  } _Generals under Wallenstein._
  _GOETZ_,        }
  _KOLATTO_,      }
  _NEUMANN, Captain of Cavalry, Aide-de-Camp to Tertsky._
  _The War Commissioner, VON QUESTENBERG, Imperial Envoy._
  _GENERAL WRANGEL, Swedish Envoy._
  _BAPTISTA SENI, Astrologer._
  _DUCHESS OF FRIEDLAND, Wife of Wallenstein._
  _THEKLA, her Daughter, Princess of Friedland._
  _The COUNTESS TERTSKY, Sister of the Duchess._
  _A CORNET._
  _Several COLONELS and GENERALS._
  _PAGES and ATTENDANTS belonging to Wallenstein._
  _ATTENDANTS and HOBÖISTS belonging to Tertsky._
  _The MASTER OF THE CELLAR to Count Tertsky._
  _VALET DE CHAMBRE of Count Piccolomini._

[600:2] A town about 12 German miles NE. of Ulm.

[601:1] The Dukes in Germany being always reigning powers, their sons
and daughters are entitled Princes and Princesses. _1800_, _1828_,
_1829_.

[603:1] _Spoken with a sneer._ _1800_, _1828_, _1829_.


LINENOTES:

[1] _are_ 1800.

[After 12] [_Casts his eye round._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[24] _Illo (hesitating)._ How so? 1817, 1828, 1829. _you_ 1800, 1828,
1829.

[Before 25] _Isolani (interrupting him)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[45] _Illo (who has been standing in the attitude of meditation, to
Butler, whom he leads a little on one side)._ And how, &c. 1817, 1828,
1829.

[48] _me_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[49]

  _Illo (with warmth)._ And you?--You hold out firmly?

                                    [_Grasping his hand with affection._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[70] _all_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 91] _Butler (shocked and confused)._ 1817, 1828, 1829. _aught_
1800, 1828, 1829.

[93] _our worthy friend_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 95] _Butler (shaking his head significantly)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.


SCENE II

_Enter OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI and QUESTENBERG._

  _Octavio._ Ay, ay! more still! Still more new visitors!
  Acknowledge, friend! that never was a camp,
  Which held at once so many heads of heroes.
  Welcome, Count Isolani!

  _Isolani._              My noble brother,
  Even now am I arrived; it had been else my duty--                    5

  _Octavio._ And Colonel Butler--trust me, I rejoice
  Thus to renew acquaintance with a man
  Whose worth and services I know and honour.
  See, see, my friend!
  There might we place at once before our eyes                        10
  The sum of war's whole trade and mystery--

           [_To QUESTENBERG, presenting BUTLER and ISOLANI at the
                same time to him._

  These two the total sum--Strength and Dispatch.

  _Questenberg (to Octavio)._ And lo! betwixt them both experienced
      Prudence!

  _Octavio (presenting Questenberg to Butler and Isolani)._ The
      Chamberlain and War-commissioner Questenberg,
  The bearer of the Emperor's behests,                                15
  The long-tried friend and patron of all soldiers,
  We honour in this noble visitor.

  _Illo._ 'Tis not the first time, noble Minister,
  You have shewn our camp this honour.

  _Questenberg._                       Once before
  I stood before these colours.                                       20

  _Illo._ Perchance too you remember where that was.
  It was at Znäim[604:1] in Moravia, where
  You did present yourself upon the part
  Of the Emperor, to supplicate our Duke
  That he would straight assume the chief command.                    25

  _Questenberg._ To supplicate? Nay, noble General!
  So far extended neither my commission
  (At least to my own knowledge) nor my zeal.

  _Illo._ Well, well, then--to compel him, if you choose.
  I can remember me right well, Count Tilly                           30
  Had suffered total rout upon the Lech.
  Bavaria lay all open to the enemy,
  Whom there was nothing to delay from pressing
  Onwards into the very heart of Austria.
  At that time you and Werdenberg appeared                            35
  Before our General, storming him with prayers,
  And menacing the Emperor's displeasure,
  Unless he took compassion on this wretchedness.

  _Isolani._ Yes, yes, 'tis comprehensible enough,
  Wherefore with your commission of to-day                            40
  You were not all too willing to remember
  Your former one.

  _Questenberg._   Why not, Count Isolan?
  No contradiction sure exists between them.
  It was the urgent business of that time                             45
  To snatch Bavaria from her enemy's hand;
  And my commission of to-day instructs me
  To free her from her good friends and protectors.

  _Illo._ A worthy office! After with our blood
  We have wrested this Bohemia from the Saxon,                        50
  To be swept out of it is all our thanks,
  The sole reward of all our hard-won victories.

  _Questenberg._ Unless that wretched land be doomed to suffer
  Only a change of evils, it must be
  Freed from the scourge alike of friend and foe.                     55

  _Illo._ What? 'Twas a favourable year; the Boors
  Can answer fresh demands already.

  _Questenberg._                    Nay,
  If you discourse of herds and meadow-grounds--

  _Isolani._ The war maintains the war. Are the Boors ruined,
  The Emperor gains so many more new soldiers.                        60

  _Questenberg._ And is the poorer by even so many subjects.

  _Isolani._ Poh! We are all his subjects.

  _Questenberg._ Yet with a difference, General! The one fill
  With profitable industry the purse,
  The others are well skilled to empty it.                            65
  The sword has made the Emperor poor; the plough
  Must reinvigorate his resources.

  _Isolani._                       Sure!
  Times are not yet so bad. Methinks I see

                 [_Examining with his eye the dress and ornaments
                      of QUESTENBERG._

  Good store of gold that still remains uncoined.

  _Questenberg._ Thank Heaven! that means have been found out to
      hide                                                            70
  Some little from the fingers of the Croats.

  _Illo._ There! The Stawata and the Martinitz,
  On whom the Emperor heaps his gifts and graces,
  To the heart-burning of all good Bohemians--
  Those minions of court favour, those court harpies,                 75
  Who fatten on the wrecks of citizens
  Driven from their house and home--who reap no harvests
  Save in the general calamity--
  Who now, with kingly pomp, insult and mock
  The desolation of their country--these,                             80
  Let these, and such as these, support the war,
  The fatal war, which they alone enkindled!

  _Butler._ And those state-parasites, who have their feet
  So constantly beneath the Emperor's table,
  Who cannot let a benefice fall, but they                            85
  Snap at it with dog's hunger--they, forsooth,
  Would pare the soldier's bread, and cross his reckoning!

  _Isolani._ My life long will it anger me to think,
  How when I went to court seven years ago,
  To see about new horses for our regiment,                           90
  How from one antechamber to another
  They dragged me on, and left me by the hour
  To kick my heels among a crowd of simpering
  Feast-fattened slaves, as if I had come thither
  A mendicant suitor for the crumbs of favour                         95
  That fall beneath their tables. And, at last,
  Whom should they send me but a Capuchin!
  Straight I began to muster up my sins
  For absolution--but no such luck for me!
  This was the man, this Capuchin, with whom                         100
  I was to treat concerning the army horses:
  And I was forced at last to quit the field,
  The business unaccomplished. Afterwards
  The Duke procured me in three days, what I
  Could not obtain in thirty at Vienna.                              105

  _Questenberg._ Yes, yes! your travelling bills soon found their
      way to us:
  Too well I know we have still accounts to settle.

  _Illo._ War is a violent trade; one cannot always
  Finish one's work by soft means; every trifle
  Must not be blackened into sacrilege.                              110
  If we should wait till you, in solemn council,
  With due deliberation had selected
  The smallest out of four-and-twenty evils,
  I'faith, we should wait long.--
  'Dash! and through with it!'--That's the better watch-word.        115
  Then after come what may come. 'Tis man's nature
  To make the best of a bad thing once past.
  A bitter and perplexed 'what shall I do?'
  Is worse to man than worst necessity.

  _Questenberg._ Ay, doubtless, it is true: the Duke does spare us   120
  The troublesome task of choosing.

  _Butler._                         Yes, the Duke
  Cares with a father's feelings for his troops;
  But how the Emperor feels for us, we see.

  _Questenberg._ His cares and feelings all ranks share alike,
  Nor will he offer one up to another.                               125

  _Isolani._ And therefore thrusts he us into the deserts
  As beasts of prey, that so he may preserve
  His dear sheep fattening in his fields at home.

  _Questenberg._ Count, this comparison you make, not I.

  _Butler._ Why, were we all the Court supposes us,                  130
  'Twere dangerous, sure, to give us liberty.

  _Questenberg._ You have taken liberty--it was not given you.
  And therefore it becomes an urgent duty
  To rein it in with curbs.

  _Octavio._                My noble friend,
  This is no more than a remembrancing                               135
  That you are now in camp, and among warriors.
  The soldier's boldness constitutes his freedom.
  Could he act daringly, unless he dared
  Talk even so? One runs into the other.
  The boldness of this worthy officer,     [_pointing to BUTLER._    140
  Which now has but mistaken in its mark,
  Preserved, when nought but boldness could preserve it,
  To the Emperor his capital city, Prague,
  In a most formidable mutiny
  Of the whole garrison.         [_Military music at a distance._    145
  Hah! here they come!

  _Illo._ The sentries are saluting them: this signal
  Announces the arrival of the Duchess.

  _Octavio._ Then my son Max too has returned. 'Twas he
  Fetched and attended them from Carnthen hither.                    150

  _Isolani (to Illo)._ Shall we not go in company to greet them?

  _Illo._ Well, let us go.--Ho! Colonel Butler, come.

                                                   [_To OCTAVIO._

  You'll not forget, that yet ere noon we meet
  The noble Envoy at the General's palace.

                       [_Exeunt all but QUESTENBERG and OCTAVIO._


FOOTNOTES:

[604:1] A town not far from the Mine-mountains, on the high road from
Vienna to Prague.


LINENOTES:

[Before 1] _Octavio (still in the distance)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 4] [_Approaching nearer._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[17]

  We honour in this noble visitor.             [_Universal silence._

  _Illo (moving towards Questenberg)._ 'Tis not, &c.

1817, 1828, 1829.

[21] _where_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[26] _supplicate_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[30] _compel_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 39] _Isolani (steps up to them)._ _1817_, _1828_, _1829_.

[51] _out_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[58] _you_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[80] _these_ 1800.

[81] _these_ 1800.

[87] _pare_ 1800.

[99] _me_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[100] _This was, &c._ 1800.

[120] _does_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[124] _His_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 129] _Questenberg (with a sneer)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[134] _Octavio (interposing and addressing Questenberg)._ 1817, 1828,
1829.

[138] _act_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 149] _Octavio (to Questenberg)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[149] _Max_ 1800.


SCENE III

_QUESTENBERG and OCTAVIO._

  _Questenberg._ What have I not been forced to hear, Octavio!
  What sentiments! what fierce, uncurbed defiance!
  And were this spirit universal--

  _Octavio._                       Hm!
  You are now acquainted with three-fourths of the army.

  _Questenberg._ Where must we seek then for a second host             5
  To have the custody of this? That Illo
  Thinks worse, I fear me, than he speaks. And then
  This Butler too--he cannot even conceal
  The passionate workings of his ill intentions.

  _Octavio._ Quickness of temper--irritated pride;                    10
  'Twas nothing more. I cannot give up Butler.
  I know a spell that will soon dispossess
  The evil spirit in him.

  _Questenberg._          Friend, friend!
  O! this is worse, far worse, than we had suffered
  Ourselves to dream of at Vienna. There                              15
  We saw it only with a courtier's eyes,
  Eyes dazzled by the splendour of the throne.
  We had not seen the War-Chief, the Commander,
  The man all-powerful in his camp. Here, here,
  'Tis quite another thing.                                           20
  Here is no Emperor more--the Duke is Emperor.
  Alas, my friend! alas, my noble friend!
  This walk which you have ta'en me through the camp
  Strikes my hopes prostrate.

  _Octavio._                  Now you see yourself
  Of what a perilous kind the office is,                              25
  Which you deliver to me from the Court.
  The least suspicion of the General
  Costs me my freedom and my life, and would
  But hasten his most desperate enterprise.

  _Questenberg._ Where was our reason sleeping when we trusted        30
  This madman with the sword, and placed such power
  In such a hand? I tell you, he'll refuse,
  Flatly refuse, to obey the Imperial orders.
  Friend, he can do 't, and what he can, he will.
  And then the impunity of his defiance--                             35
  O! what a proclamation of our weakness!

  _Octavio._ D'ye think too, he has brought his wife and daughter
  Without a purpose hither? Here in camp!
  And at the very point of time, in which
  We're arming for the war? That he has taken                         40
  These, the last pledges of his loyalty,
  Away from out the Emperor's domains--
  This is no doubtful token of the nearness
  Of some eruption!

  _Questenberg._    How shall we hold footing
  Beneath this tempest, which collects itself                         45
  And threats us from all quarters? The enemy
  Of the empire on our borders, now already
  The master of the Danube, and still farther,
  And farther still, extending every hour!
  In our interior the alarum-bells                                    50
  Of insurrection--peasantry in arms----
  All orders discontented--and the army,
  Just in the moment of our expectation
  Of aidance from it--lo! this very army
  Seduced, run wild, lost to all discipline,                          55
  Loosened, and rent asunder from the state
  And from their sovereign, the blind instrument
  Of the most daring of mankind, a weapon
  Of fearful power, which at his will he wields!

  _Octavio._ Nay, nay, friend! let us not despair too soon,           60
  Men's words are ever bolder than their deeds:
  And many a resolute, who now appears
  Made up to all extremes, will, on a sudden
  Find in his breast a heart he knew not of,
  Let but a single honest man speak out                               65
  The true name of his crime! Remember, too,
  We stand not yet so wholly unprotected.
  Counts Altringer and Galas have maintained
  Their little army faithful to its duty,
  And daily it becomes more numerous.                                 70
  Nor can he take us by surprise: you know,
  I hold him all-encompassed by my listeners.
  Whate'er he does, is mine, even while 'tis doing--
  No step so small, but instantly I hear it;
  Yea, his own mouth discloses it.

  _Questenberg._                   'Tis quite                         75
  Incomprehensible, that he detects not
  The foe so near!

  _Octavio._       Beware, you do not think,
  That I by lying arts, and complaisant
  Hypocrisy, have skulked into his graces:
  Or with the sustenance of smooth professions                        80
  Nourish his all-confiding friendship! No--
  Compelled alike by prudence, and that duty
  Which we all owe our country, and our sovereign,
  To hide my genuine feelings from him, yet
  Ne'er have I duped him with base counterfeits!                      85

  _Questenberg._ It is the visible ordinance of heaven.

  _Octavio._ I know not what it is that so attracts
  And links him both to me and to my son.
  Comrades and friends we always were--long habit,
  Adventurous deeds performed in company,                             90
  And all those many and various incidents
  Which store a soldier's memory with affections,
  Had bound us long and early to each other--
  Yet I can name the day, when all at once
  His heart rose on me, and his confidence                            95
  Shot out in sudden growth. It was the morning
  Before the memorable fight at Lützner.
  Urged by an ugly dream, I sought him out,
  To press him to accept another charger.
  At distance from the tents, beneath a tree,                        100
  I found him in a sleep. When I had waked him,
  And had related all my bodings to him,
  Long time he stared upon me, like a man
  Astounded; thereon fell upon my neck,
  And manifested to me an emotion                                    105
  That far outstripped the worth of that small service.
  Since then his confidence has followed me
  With the same pace that mine has fled from him.

  _Questenberg._ You lead your son into the secret?

  _Octavio._                                        No!

  _Questenberg._ What? and not warn him either what bad hands        110
  His lot has placed him in?

  _Octavio._                 I must perforce
  Leave him in wardship to his innocence.
  His young and open soul--dissimulation
  Is foreign to its habits! Ignorance
  Alone can keep alive the cheerful air,                             115
  The unembarrassed sense and light free spirit,
  That make the Duke secure.

  _Questenberg._ My honoured friend! most highly do I deem
  Of Colonel Piccolomini--yet--if----
  Reflect a little----

  _Octavio._           I must venture it.                            120
  Hush!--There he comes!


LINENOTES:

[Before 1] _Questenberg (with signs of aversion and astonishment)._
1817, 1828, 1829.

[13] _him_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

_Questenberg (walking up and down in evident disquiet)._ Friend, &c.
1817, 1828, 1829.

[34] _can_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[59] _he_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[64] knew] wot 1800, 1828, 1829.

[84] _genuine_ 1800.

[95] _rose_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[118] _Questenberg (anxiously)._ My honoured, &c. 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE IV

_MAX PICCOLOMINI, OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI, QUESTENBERG._

  _Max._ Ha! there he is himself. Welcome, my father!
  You are engaged, I see. I'll not disturb you.

  _Octavio._ How, Max? Look closer at this visitor;
  Attention, Max, an old friend merits--Reverence
  Belongs of right to the envoy of your sovereign.                     5

  _Max._ Von Questenberg!--Welcome--if you bring with you
  Aught good to our head quarters.

  _Questenberg (seizing his hand)._ Nay, draw not
  Your hand away, Count Piccolomini!
  Not on mine own account alone I seized it,
  And nothing common will I say therewith.                            10

                                     [_Taking the hands of both._

  Octavio--Max Piccolomini!
  O saviour names, and full of happy omen!
  Ne'er will her prosperous genius turn from Austria,
  While two such stars, with blessed influences
  Beaming protection, shine above her hosts.                          15

  _Max._ Heh!--Noble minister! You miss your part.
  You came not here to act a panegyric.
  You're sent, I know, to find fault and to scold us--
  I must not be beforehand with my comrades.

  _Octavio._ He comes from court, where people are not quite          20
  So well contented with the duke, as here.

  _Max._ What now have they contrived to find out in him?
  That he alone determines for himself
  What he himself alone doth understand?
  Well, therein he does right, and will persist in 't.                25
  Heaven never meant him for that passive thing
  That can be struck and hammered out to suit
  Another's taste and fancy. He'll not dance
  To every tune of every minister.
  It goes against his nature--he can't do it.                         30
  He is possessed by a commanding spirit,
  And his too is the station of command.
  And well for us it is so! There exist
  Few fit to rule themselves, but few that use
  Their intellects intelligently.--Then                               35
  Well for the whole, if there be found a man,
  Who makes himself what nature destined him,
  The pause, the central point to thousand thousands--
  Stands fixed and stately, like a firm-built column,
  Where all may press with joy and confidence.                        40
  Now such a man is Wallenstein; and if
  Another better suits the court--no other
  But such a one as he can serve the army.

  _Questenberg._ The army? Doubtless!

  _Octavio (aside)._                  Hush! suppress it, friend!
  Unless some end were answered by the utterance.--                   45
  Of him there you'll make nothing.

  _Max._                            In their distress
  They call a spirit up, and when he comes,
  Straight their flesh creeps and quivers, and they dread him
  More than the ills for which they called him up.
  The uncommon, the sublime, must seem and be                         50
  Like things of every day.--But in the field,
  Aye, there the Present Being makes itself felt.
  The personal must command, the actual eye
  Examine. If to be the chieftain asks
  All that is great in nature, let it be                              55
  Likewise his privilege to move and act
  In all the correspondencies of greatness.
  The oracle within him, that which lives,
  He must invoke and question--not dead books,
  Not ordinances, not mould-rotted papers.                            60

  _Octavio._ My son! of those old narrow ordinances
  Let us not hold too lightly. They are weights
  Of priceless value, which oppressed mankind
  Tied to the volatile will of their oppressors.
  For always formidable was the league                                65
  And partnership of free power with free will.
  The way of ancient ordinance, though it winds,
  Is yet no devious way. Straight forward goes
  The lightning's path, and straight the fearful path
  Of the cannon-ball. Direct it flies and rapid,                      70
  Shattering that it may reach, and shattering what it reaches.
  My son! the road the human being travels,
  That on which blessing comes and goes, doth follow
  The river's course, the valley's playful windings,
  Curves round the corn-field and the hill of vines,                  75
  Honouring the holy bounds of property!
  And thus secure, though late, leads to its end.

  _Questenberg._ O hear your father, noble youth! hear him,
  Who is at once the hero and the man.

  _Octavio._ My son, the nursling of the camp spoke in thee!          80
  A war of fifteen years
  Hath been thy education and thy school.
  Peace hast thou never witnessed! There exists
  A higher than the warrior's excellence.
  In war itself war is no ultimate purpose.                           85
  The vast and sudden deeds of violence,
  Adventures wild, and wonders of the moment,
  These are not they, my son, that generate
  The calm, the blissful, and the enduring mighty!
  Lo there! the soldier, rapid architect!                             90
  Builds his light town of canvas, and at once
  The whole scene moves and bustles momently,
  With arms, and neighing steeds, and mirth and quarrel
  The motley market fills; the roads, the streams
  Are crowded with new freights, trade stirs and hurries!             95
  But on some morrow morn, all suddenly,
  The tents drop down, the horde renews its march.
  Dreary, and solitary as a church-yard
  The meadow and down-trodden seed-plot lie,
  And the year's harvest is gone utterly.                            100

  _Max._ O let the Emperor make peace, my father!
  Most gladly would I give the blood-stained laurel
  For the first violet[614:1] of the leafless spring,
  Plucked in those quiet fields where I have journeyed!

  _Octavio._ What ails thee? What so moves thee all at once?         105

  _Max._ Peace have I ne'er beheld? I have beheld it.
  From thence am I come hither: O! that sight,
  It glimmers still before me, like some landscape
  Left in the distance,--some delicious landscape!
  My road conducted me through countries where                       110
  The war has not yet reached. Life, life, my father--
  My venerable father, life has charms
  Which we have ne'er experienced. We have been
  But voyaging along its barren coasts,
  Like some poor ever-roaming horde of pirates,                      115
  That, crowded in the rank and narrow ship,
  House on the wild sea with wild usages,
  Nor know aught of the main land, but the bays
  Where safeliest they may venture a thieves' landing.
  Whate'er in the inland dales the land conceals                     120
  Of fair and exquisite, O! nothing, nothing,
  Do we behold of that in our rude voyage.

  _Octavio._ And so your journey has revealed this to you?

  _Max._ 'Twas the first leisure of my life. O tell me,
  What is the meed and purpose of the toil,                          125
  The painful toil, which robbed me of my youth,
  Left me a heart unsoul'd and solitary,
  A spirit uninformed, unornamented.
  For the camp's stir and crowd and ceaseless larum,
  The neighing war-horse, the air-shattering trumpet,                130
  The unvaried, still-returning hour of duty,
  Word of command, and exercise of arms--
  There's nothing here, there's nothing in all this
  To satisfy the heart, the gasping heart!
  Mere bustling nothingness, where the soul is not--                 135
  This cannot be the sole felicity,
  These cannot be man's best and only pleasures.

  _Octavio._ Much hast thou learnt, my son, in this short journey.

  _Max._ O! day thrice lovely! when at length the soldier
  Returns home into life; when he becomes                            140
  A fellow-man among his fellow-men.
  The colours are unfurled, the cavalcade
  Marshals, and now the buzz is hushed, and hark!
  Now the soft peace-march beats, home, brothers, home!
  The caps and helmets are all garlanded                             145
  With green boughs, the last plundering of the fields.
  The city gates fly open of themselves,
  They need no longer the petard to tear them.
  The ramparts are all filled with men and women,
  With peaceful men and women, that send onwards                     150
  Kisses and welcomings upon the air,
  Which they make breezy with affectionate gestures.
  From all the towers rings out the merry peal,
  The joyous vespers of a bloody day.
  O happy man, O fortunate! for whom                                 155
  The well-known door, the faithful arms are open,
  The faithful tender arms with mute embracing.

  _Questenberg._ O! that you should speak
  Of such a distant, distant time, and not
  Of the to-morrow, not of this to-day.                              160

  _Max._ Where lies the fault but on you in Vienna?
  I will deal openly with you, Questenberg.
  Just now, as first I saw you standing here,
  (I'll own it to you freely) indignation
  Crowded and pressed my inmost soul together.                       165
  'Tis ye that hinder peace, ye!--and the warrior,
  It is the warrior that must force it from you.
  Ye fret the General's life out, blacken him,
  Hold him up as a rebel, and Heaven knows
  What else still worse, because he spares the Saxons,               170
  And tries to awaken confidence in the enemy;
  Which yet 's the only way to peace: for if
  War intermit not during war, how then
  And whence can peace come?--Your own plagues fall on you!
  Even as I love what's virtuous, hate I you.                        175
  And here make I this vow, here pledge myself;
  My blood shall spurt out for this Wallenstein,
  And my heart drain off, drop by drop, ere ye
  Shall revel and dance jubilee o'er his ruin.           [_Exit._


FOOTNOTES:

[614:1] In the original,

  Den blut'gen Lorbeer geb ich him mit Freuden
  Fürs erste Veilchen, das der Merz uns bringt,
  Das duftige Pffand der neuverjüngten Erde.

_1800_, _1828_, _1829_.


LINENOTES:

[After 1] [_He embraces His father. As he turns round he observes
Questenberg, and draws back with a cold and reserved air._ 1800, 1828,
1829.

[Before 6] _Max (drily)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 20] _Octavio (to Max)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[38] to] of 1800.

[44] _Octavio (to Questenberg)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[45] _some_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[46] _him_ 1800, 1828, 1829. _Max (continuing)._ In their, &c. 1800,
1828, 1829.

[52] _there_ the _Present Being_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[58] _lives_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[63] _th' oppressed_ MS. R.

[71] _may_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[73] BLESSING 1800, 1828, 1829.

[78] _him_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[106] _have_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[113] _we_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 123] _Octavio (attentive, with an appearance of uneasiness)._
1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 158] _Questenberg (apparently much affected)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 161] _Max (turning round to him, quick and vehement)._ 1800,
1828, 1829.

[165] peace, _ye_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[172] _how_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[173] _whence_ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE V

_QUESTENBERG, OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI._

  _Questenberg._ Alas, alas! and stands it so?
  What, friend! and do we let him go away
  In this delusion--let him go away?
  Not call him back immediately, not open
  His eyes upon the spot?

  _Octavio._              He has now opened mine,                      5
  And I see more than pleases me.

  _Questenberg._                  What is it?

  _Octavio._ Curse on this journey!

  _Questenberg._                    But why so? What is it?

  _Octavio._ Come, come along, friend! I must follow up
  The ominous track immediately. Mine eyes
  Are opened now, and I must use them. Come!                          10

                                [_Draws QUESTENBERG on with him._

  _Questenberg._ What now? Where go you then?

  _Octavio._                                  To her herself.

  _Questenberg._                                              To----

  _Octavio._ To the Duke. Come, let us go--'Tis done, 'tis done,
  I see the net that is thrown over him.
  O! he returns not to me as he went.

  _Questenberg._ Nay, but explain yourself.

  _Octavio._                                And that I should not     15
  Foresee it, not prevent this journey! Wherefore
  Did I keep it from him?--You were in the right.
  I should have warned him! Now it is too late.

  _Questenberg._ But what's too late? Bethink yourself, my friend,
  That you are talking absolute riddles to me.                        20

  _Octavio._ Come!--to the Duke's. 'Tis close upon the hour
  Which he appointed you for audience. Come!
  A curse, a threefold curse, upon this journey!

                                     [_He leads QUESTENBERG off._


LINENOTES:

[After 1] [_Then in pressing and impatient tones._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[5] _Octavio (recovering himself out of a deep study)._ 1800, 1828,
1829.

[11] _Where_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 12] _Octavio (interrupting him, and correcting himself)._ 1800,
1828, 1829.

[19] _what's_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 21] _Octavio (more collected)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE VI

_Changes to a spacious chamber in the house of the Duke of
Friedland._--Servants _employed in putting the tables and chairs in
order. During this enters SENI, like an old Italian doctor, in black,
and clothed somewhat fantastically. He carries a white staff, with which
he marks out the quarters of the heaven._

  _First Servant._ Come--to it, lads, to it! Make an end of it.
  I hear the sentry call out, 'Stand to your arms!' They will
  be there in a minute.

  _Second Servant._ Why were we not told before that the
  audience would be held here? Nothing prepared--no orders--no         5
  instructions--

  _Third Servant._ Ay, and why was the balcony-chamber
  countermanded, that with the great worked carpet?--there one can
  look about one.

  _First Servant._ Nay, that you must ask the mathematician there.    10
  He says it is an unlucky chamber.

  _Second Servant._ Poh! stuff and nonsense! That's what I call
  a hum. A chamber is a chamber; what much can the place
  signify in the affair?

  _Seni._ My son, there's nothing insignificant,                      15
  Nothing! But yet in every earthly thing
  First and most principal is place and time.

  _First Servant (to the Second)._ Say nothing to him, Nat. The
  Duke himself must let him have his own will.

  _Seni (counts the chairs, half in a loud, half in a low voice, till
      he comes to eleven, which he repeats)._ Eleven! an evil number!
      Set twelve chairs.                                              20
  Twelve! twelve signs hath the zodiac: five and seven,
  The holy numbers, include themselves in twelve.

  _Second Servant._ And what may you have to object against
  eleven? I should like to know that now.

  _Seni._ Eleven is--transgression; eleven oversteps                  25
  The ten commandments.

  _Second Servant._ That's good! and why do you call five an
  holy number?

  _Seni._ Five is the soul of man: for even as man
  Is mingled up of good and evil, so                                  30
  The five is the first number that's made up
  Of even and odd.

  _Second Servant._ The foolish old coxcomb!

  _First Servant._ Ey! let him alone though. I like to hear
  him; there is more in his words than can be seen at first sight.    35

  _Third Servant._ Off! They come.

  _Second Servant._ There! Out at the side-door.

         [_They hurry off. SENI follows slowly. A page brings the
              staff of command on a red cushion, and places it on
              the table near the DUKE'S chair. They are announced
              from without, and the wings of the door fly open._


LINENOTES:

[13] _hum_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 15] _Seni (with gravity)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[15] _nothing_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[16] _Nothing_ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE VII

_WALLENSTEIN, DUCHESS._

  _Wallenstein._ You went then through Vienna, were presented
  To the Queen of Hungary?

  _Duchess._               Yes, and to the Empress too,
  And by both Majesties were we admitted
  To kiss the hand.

  _Wallenstein._    And how was it received,
  That I had sent for wife and daughter hither                         5
  To the camp, in winter time?

  _Duchess._                   I did even that
  Which you commissioned me to do. I told them,
  You had determined on our daughter's marriage,
  And wished, ere yet you went into the field,
  To shew the elected husband his betrothed.                          10

  _Wallenstein._ And did they guess the choice which I had made?

  _Duchess._ They only hoped and wished it may have fallen
  Upon no foreign nor yet Lutheran noble.

  _Wallenstein._ And you--what do you wish, Elizabeth?

  _Duchess._ Your will, you know, was always mine.

  _Wallenstein._                                   Well, then?        15
  And in all else, of what kind and complexion
  Was your reception at the court?
  Hide nothing from me. How were you received?

  _Duchess._ O! my dear lord, all is not what it was.
  A cankerworm, my lord, a cankerworm                                 20
  Has stolen into the bud.

  _Wallenstein._           Ay! is it so!
  What, they were lax? they failed of the old respect?

  _Duchess._ Not of respect. No honours were omitted,
  No outward courtesy; but in the place
  Of condescending, confidential kindness,                            25
  Familiar and endearing, there were given me
  Only these honours and that solemn courtesy.
  Ah! and the tenderness which was put on,
  It was the guise of pity, not of favour.
  No! Albrecht's wife, Duke Albrecht's princely wife,                 30
  Count Harrach's noble daughter, should not so--
  Not wholly so should she have been received.

  _Wallenstein._ Yes, yes; they have ta'en offence. My latest
      conduct,
  They railed at it, no doubt.

  _Duchess._                   O that they had!
  I have been long accustomed to defend you,                          35
  To heal and pacify distempered spirits.
  No; no one railed at you. They wrapped them up,
  O Heaven! in such oppressive, solemn silence!--
  Here is no every-day misunderstanding,
  No transient pique, no cloud that passes over;                      40
  Something most luckless, most unhealable,
  Has taken place. The Queen of Hungary
  Used formerly to call me her dear aunt,
  And ever at departure to embrace me--

  _Wallenstein._ Now she omitted it?

  _Duchess._                         She did embrace me,              45
  But then first when I had already taken
  My formal leave, and when the door already
  Had closed upon me, then did she come out
  In haste, as she had suddenly bethought herself,
  And pressed me to her bosom, more with anguish                      50
  Than tenderness.

  _Wallenstein (seizes her hand soothingly)._ Nay, now collect
      yourself,
  And what of Eggenberg and Lichtenstein,
  And of our other friends there?

  _Duchess._                      I saw none.

  _Wallenstein._ The Ambassador from Spain, who once was wont
  To plead so warmly for me?--

  _Duchess._                   Silent, Silent!                        55

  _Wallenstein._ These suns then are eclipsed for us. Henceforward
  Must we roll on, our own fire, our own light.

  _Duchess._ And were it--were it, my dear lord, in that
  Which moved about the court in buzz and whisper,
  But in the country let itself be heard                              60
  Aloud--in that which Father Lamormain
  In sundry hints and----

  _Wallenstein._          Lamormain! what said he?

  _Duchess._ That you're accused of having daringly
  O'erstepped the powers entrusted to you, charged
  With traitorous contempt of the Emperor                             65
  And his supreme behests. The proud Bavarian,
  He and the Spaniards stand up your accusers--
  That there's a storm collecting over you
  Of far more fearful menace than that former one
  Which whirled you headlong down at Regensburg.                      70
  And people talk, said he, of----Ah!--

  _Wallenstein._                        Proceed!

  _Duchess._ I cannot utter it!

  _Wallenstein._                Proceed!

  _Duchess._                             They talk----

  _Wallenstein._ Well!

  _Duchess._           Of a second----

  _Wallenstein._                       Second----

  _Duchess._                                      More disgraceful
  ----Dismission.

  _Wallenstein._  Talk they?
                             O! they force, they thrust me
  With violence, against my own will, onward!                         75

  _Duchess_. O! if there yet be time, my husband! if
  By giving way and by submission, this
  Can be averted--my dear lord, give way!
  Win down your proud heart to it! Tell that heart
  It is your sovereign lord, your Emperor                             80
  Before whom you retreat. O let no longer
  Low tricking malice blacken your good meaning
  With abhorred venomous glosses. Stand you up
  Shielded and helm'd and weapon'd with the truth,
  And drive before you into uttermost shame                           85
  These slanderous liars! Few firm friends have we--
  You know it!--The swift growth of our good fortune
  It hath but set us up, a mark for hatred.
  What are we, if the sovereign's grace and favour
  Stand not before us?                                                90


LINENOTES:

[14] _you_ wish 1800, 1828, 1829.

[15] _Wallenstein (after a pause)._ Well, then? 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 17] [_The DUCHESS casts her eyes on the ground and remains
silent._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[31] _so_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[45] _Now_ 1800, 1828, 1829. _Duchess (wiping away her tears, after a
pause)._ 1800, 1828, 1829. _did_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[53] _Duchess (shaking her head)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[62] _Wallenstein (eagerly)._ Lamormain, &c. 1800, 1828, 1829. _he_
1800, 1828, 1829.

[71]

  And people . . . Ah!--                    [_Stifling extreme emotion._

1800, 1828, 1829.

[73] _Duchess._ Of a second---- (_catches her voice and hesitates_).
1800, 1828, 1829.

[74]

  _Wallenstein._ Talk they?     [_Strides across the chamber in vehement
                                     agitation._

1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 76] _Duchess (presses near to him, in entreaty)._ 1800, 1828,
1829.


SCENE VIII

_Enter the COUNTESS TERTSKY, leading in her hand the PRINCESS THEKLA,
richly adorned with brilliants._

_COUNTESS, THEKLA, WALLENSTEIN, DUCHESS._

  _Countess._ How, sister? What already upon business,
  And business of no pleasing kind I see,
  Ere he has gladdened at his child. The first
  Moment belongs to joy. Here, Friedland! father!
  This is thy daughter.                                                5

          (_THEKLA approaches with a shy and timid air, and bends
               herself as about to kiss his hand. He receives her
               in his arms, and remains standing for some time
               lost in the feeling of her presence._)

  _Wallenstein._ Yes! pure and lovely hath hope risen on me:
  I take her as the pledge of greater fortune.

  _Duchess._ 'Twas but a little child when you departed
  To raise up that great army for the Emperor:
  And after, at the close of the campaign,                            10
  When you returned home out of Pomerania,
  Your daughter was already in the convent,
  Wherein she has remain'd till now.

  _Wallenstein._                     The while
  We in the field here gave our cares and toils
  To make her great, and fight her a free way                         15
  To the loftiest earthly good, lo! mother Nature
  Within the peaceful silent convent walls
  Has done her part, and out of her free grace
  Hath she bestowed on the beloved child
  The godlike; and now leads her thus adorned                         20
  To meet her splendid fortune, and my hope.

  _Duchess (to Thekla)._ Thou wouldst not have recognized thy father,
  Wouldst thou, my child? She counted scarce eight years,
  When last she saw your face.

  _Thekla._                    O yes, yes, mother!
  At the first glance!--My father is not altered.                     25
  The form, that stands before me, falsifies
  No feature of the image that hath lived
  So long within me!

  _Wallenstein._     The voice of my child!

                                           [_Then after a pause._

  I was indignant at my destiny
  That it denied me a man-child to be                                 30
  Heir of my name and of my prosperous fortune,
  And re-illume my soon extinguished being
  In a proud line of princes.
  I wronged my destiny. Here upon this head
  So lovely in its maiden bloom will I                                35
  Let fall the garland of a life of war,
  Nor deem it lost, if only I can wreath it
  Transmitted to a regal ornament,
  Around these beauteous brows.

              [_He clasps her in his arms as PICCOLOMINI enters._


LINENOTES:

[After 1] [_Observing the countenance of the Duchess._ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE IX

_Enter MAX PICCOLOMINI, and some time after COUNT TERTSKY, the others
remaining as before._

  _Countess._ There comes the Paladin who protected us.

  _Wallenstein._ Max! Welcome, ever welcome! Always wert thou
  The morning star of my best joys!

  _Max._                            My General----

  _Wallenstein._ 'Till now it was the Emperor who rewarded thee,
  I but the instrument. This day thou hast bound                       5
  The father to thee, Max! the fortunate father,
  And this debt Friedland's self must pay.

  _Max._                                   My prince!
  You made no common hurry to transfer it.
  I come with shame: yea, not without a pang!
  For scarce have I arrived here, scarce delivered                    10
  The mother and the daughter to your arms,
  But there is brought to me from your equerry
  A splendid richly-plated hunting dress
  So to remunerate me for my troubles----
  Yes, yes, remunerate me! Since a trouble                            15
  It must be, a mere office, not a favour
  Which I leapt forward to receive, and which
  I came already with full heart to thank you for.
  No! 'twas not so intended, that my business
  Should be my highest best good fortune!                             20

        [_TERTSKY enters, and delivers letters to the DUKE, which
             he breaks open hurryingly._

  _Countess (to Max)._ Remunerate your trouble! For his joy
  He makes you recompense. 'Tis not unfitting
  For you, Count Piccolomini, to feel
  So tenderly--my brother it beseems
  To shew himself for ever great and princely.                        25

  _Thekla._ Then I too must have scruples of his love:
  For his munificent hands did ornament me
  Ere yet the father's heart had spoken to me.

  _Max._ Yes; 'tis his nature ever to be giving
  And making happy.
                    How my heart pours out                            30
  Its all of thanks to him: O! how I seem
  To utter all things in the dear name Friedland.
  While I shall live, so long will I remain
  The captive of this name: in it shall bloom
  My every fortune, every lovely hope.                                35
  Inextricably as in some magic ring
  In this name hath my destiny charm-bound me!

  _Countess._ My brother wishes us to leave him. Come.

  _Wallenstein (turns himself round quick, collects himself, and
      speaks with cheerfulness to the Duchess)._ Once more I
      bid thee welcome to the camp,
  Thou art the hostess of this court. You, Max,                       40
  Will now again administer your old office,
  While we perform the sovereign's business here.

                [_MAX PICCOLOMINI offers the DUCHESS his arm, the
                     COUNTESS accompanies the PRINCESS._

  _Tertsky (calling after him)._ Max, we depend on seeing you at the
      meeting.


LINENOTES:

[30]

  And making happy.       [_He grasps the hand of the DUCHESS with still
                               increasing warmth._

1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 38] _Countess (who during this time has been anxiously watching
the Duke, and remarks that he is lost in thought over the letters)._
1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE X

_WALLENSTEIN, COUNT TERTSKY._

  _Wallenstein (to himself)._ She hath seen all things as they are--It
      is so
  And squares completely with my other notices.
  They have determined finally in Vienna,
  Have given me my successor already;
  It is the king of Hungary, Ferdinand,                                5
  The Emperor's delicate son! he's now their saviour,
  He's the new star that's rising now! Of us
  They think themselves already fairly rid,
  And as we were deceased, the heir already
  Is entering on possession--Therefore--dispatch!                     10

           [_As he turns round he observes TERTSKY, and gives him
                a letter._

  Count Altringer will have himself excused,
  And Galas too--I like not this!

  _Tertsky._                      And if
  Thou loiterest longer, all will fall away,
  One following the other.

  _Wallenstein._           Altringer
  Is master of the Tyrole passes. I must forthwith                    15
  Send some one to him, that he let not in
  The Spaniards on me from the Milanese.
  ----Well, and the old Sesin, that ancient trader
  In contraband negotiations, he
  Has shewn himself again of late. What brings he                     20
  From the Count Thur?

  _Tertsky._           The Count communicates,
  He has found out the Swedish chancellor
  At Halberstadt, where the convention's held,
  Who says, you've tired him out, and that he'll have
  No further dealings with you.

  _Wallenstein._                And why so?                           25

  [625:1]_Tertsky._ He says, you are never in earnest in your
      speeches,
  That you decoy the Swedes--to make fools of them,
  Will league yourself with Saxony against them,
  And at last make yourself a riddance of them
  With a paltry sum of money.

  _Wallenstein._              So then, doubtless,                     30
  Yes, doubtless, this same modest Swede expects
  That I shall yield him some fair German tract
  For his prey and booty, that ourselves at last
  On our own soil and native territory,
  May be no longer our own lords and masters!                         35
  An excellent scheme! No, no! They must be off,
  Off, off! away! we want no such neighbours.

  _Tertsky._ Nay, yield them up that dot, that speck of land--
  It goes not from your portion. If you win
  The game what matters it to you who pays it?                        40

  _Wallenstein._ Off with them, off! Thou understand'st not this.
  Never shall it be said of me, I parcelled
  My native land away, dismembered Germany,
  Betrayed it to a foreigner, in order
  To come with stealthy tread, and filch away                         45
  My own share of the plunder--Never! never!--
  No foreign power shall strike root in the empire,
  And least of all, these Goths! these hunger-wolves!
  Who send such envious, hot and greedy glances
  T'wards the rich blessings of our German lands!                     50
  I'll have their aid to cast and draw my nets,
  But not a single fish of all the draught
  Shall they come in for.

  _Tertsky._              You will deal, however,
  More fairly with the Saxons? They lose patience
  While you shift ground and make so many curves.                     55
  Say, to what purpose all these masks? Your friends
  Are plunged in doubts, baffled, and led astray in you.
  There's Oxenstirn, there's Arnheim--neither knows
  What he should think of your procrastinations.
  And in the end I prove the liar: all                                60
  Passes through me. I have not even your hand-writing.

  _Wallenstein._ I never give my handwriting; thou knowest it.

  _Tertsky._ But how can it be known that you're in earnest,
  If the act follows not upon the word?
  You must yourself acknowledge, that in all                          65
  Your intercourses hitherto with the enemy
  You might have done with safety all you have done,
  Had you meant nothing further than to gull him
  For the Emperor's service.

  _Wallenstein (after a pause, during which he looks narrowly on
      Tertsky)._             And from whence dost thou know
  That I'm not gulling him for the Emperor's service?                 70
  Whence knowest thou that I'm not gulling all of you?
  Dost thou know me so well? When made I thee
  The intendant of my secret purposes?
  I am not conscious that I ever open'd
  My inmost thoughts to thee. The Emperor, it is true,                75
  Hath dealt with me amiss; and if I would,
  I could repay him with usurious interest
  For the evil he hath done me. It delights me
  To know my power; but whether I shall use it,
  Of that, I should have thought that thou could'st speak             80
  No wiselier than thy fellows.

  _Tertsky._ So hast thou always played thy game with us.

                                                   [_Enter ILLO._


FOOTNOTES:

[625:1] This passing off of his real irresolution and fancy-dalliance
for depth of Reserve and for Plan formed within the magic circle of his
own inapproachable spirits is very fine; but still it is not tragic--nay
scarce obvious enough to be altogether _dramatic_, if in this word we
involve theatre-representation. Iago (so far only analogous to
Wallenstein as in him an _Impulse_ is the source of his conduct rather
than the _motive_), always acting is not the object of Interest, [but]
derives a constant interest from Othello, on whom he is acting; from
Desdemona, Cassio, every one; and, besides, for the purpose of theatric
comprehensibility he is furnished with a set of outside motives that
actually pass with the groundling for the true springs of action. _MS.
R_.


LINENOTES:

[Before 1] _Wallenstein (in deep thought to himself)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[37] _we_ 1800

[62] _never_ 1800.

[63] _known_ 1800.

[69] _thou_ 1800.

[70] _not_ 1800.

[72] _me_ 1800.

[76] _would_ 1800.

[79] _power_ 1800.


SCENE XI

_ILLO, WALLENSTEIN, TERTSKY._

  _Wallenstein._ How stand affairs without? Are they prepared?

  _Illo._ You'll find them in the very mood you wish.
  They know about the Emperor's requisitions,
  And are tumultuous.

  _Wallenstein._      How hath Isolan
  Declared himself?

  _Illo._           He's yours, both soul and body,                    5
  Since you built up again his Faro-bank.

  _Wallenstein._ And which way doth Kolatto bend? Hast thou
  Made sure of Tiefenbach and Deodate?

  _Illo._ What Piccolomini does, that they do too.

  _Wallenstein._ You mean then I may venture somewhat with them?      10

  _Illo._--If you are assured of the Piccolomini.

  _Wallenstein._ Not more assured of mine own self.

  _Tertsky._                                        And yet
  I would you trusted not so much to Octavio,
  The fox!

  _Wallenstein._ Thou teachest me to know my man?
  Sixteen campaigns I have made with that old warrior.                15
  Besides, I have his horoscope,
  We both are born beneath like stars--in short
  To this belongs its own particular aspect,
  If therefore thou canst warrant me the rest----

  _Illo._ There is among them all but this one voice,                 20
  You must not lay down the command. I hear
  They mean to send a deputation to you.

  _Wallenstein._ If I'm in aught to bind myself to them,
  They too must bind themselves to me.

  _Illo._                              Of course.

  _Wallenstein._ Their words of honour they must give, their oaths,   25
  Give them in writing to me, promising
  Devotion to my service unconditional.

  _Illo._ Why not?

  _Tertsky._       Devotion unconditional?
  The exception of their duties towards Austria
  They'll always place among the premises.                            30
  With this reserve----

  _Wallenstein._        All unconditional!
  No premises, no reserves.

  _Illo._                   A thought has struck me.
  Does not Count Tertsky give us a set banquet
  This evening?

  _Tertsky._    Yes; and all the Generals
  Have been invited.

  _Illo (to Wallenstein)._ Say, will you here fully                   35
  Commission me to use my own discretion?
  I'll gain for you the Generals' words of honour,
  Even as you wish.

  _Wallenstein._    Gain me their signatures!
  How you come by them, that is your concern.

  _Illo._ And if I bring it to you, black on white,                   40
  That all the leaders who are present here
  Give themselves up to you, without condition;
  Say, will you then--then will you shew yourself
  In earnest, and with some decisive action
  Make trial of your luck?

  _Wallenstein._           The signatures!                            45
  Gain me the signatures.

  _Illo._                 [628:1]Seize, seize the hour
  Ere it slips from you. Seldom comes the moment
  In life, which is indeed sublime and weighty.
  To make a great decision possible,
  O! many things, all transient and all rapid,                        50
  Must meet at once: and, haply, they thus met
  May by that confluence be enforced to pause
  Time long enough for wisdom, though too short,
  Far, far too short a time for doubt and scruple!
  This is that moment. See, our army chieftains,                      55
  Our best, our noblest, are assembled around you,
  Their kinglike leader! On your nod they wait.
  The single threads, which here your prosperous fortune
  Hath woven together in one potent web
  Instinct with destiny, O let them not                               60
  Unravel of themselves. If you permit
  These chiefs to separate, so unanimous
  Bring you them not a second time together.
  'Tis the high tide that heaves the stranded ship,
  And every individual's spirit waxes                                 65
  In the great stream of multitudes. Behold
  They are still here, here still! But soon the war
  Bursts them once more asunder, and in small
  Particular anxieties and interests
  Scatters their spirit, and the sympathy                             70
  Of each man with the whole. He, who to-day
  Forgets himself, forced onward with the stream,
  Will become sober, seeing but himself,
  Feel only his own weakness, and with speed
  Will face about, and march on in the old                            75
  High road of duty, the old broad-trodden road,
  And seek but to make shelter in good plight.

  _Wallenstein._ The time is not yet come.

  _Tertsky._                               So you say always.
  But when will it be time?

  _Wallenstein._            When I shall say it.

  _Illo._ You'll wait upon the stars, and on their hours,             80
  Till the earthly hour escapes you. O, believe me,
  In your own bosom are your destiny's stars.
  Confidence in yourself, prompt resolution,
  This is your Venus! and the sole malignant,
  The only one that harmeth you is Doubt.                             85

  _Wallenstein._ Thou speakest as thou understand'st. How oft
  And many a time I've told thee, Jupiter,
  That lustrous god, was setting at thy birth.
  Thy visual power subdues no mysteries;
  Mole-eyed, thou mayest but burrow in the earth,                     90
  [629:1]Blind as that subterrestrial, who with wan,
  Lead- shine lighted thee into life.
  The common, the terrestrial, thou mayest see,
  With serviceable cunning knit together
  The nearest with the nearest; and therein                           95
  I trust thee and believe thee! but whate'er
  Full of mysterious import Nature weaves,
  And fashions in the depths--the spirit's ladder,
  That from this gross and visible world of dust
  Even to the starry world, with thousand rounds,                    100
  Builds itself up; on which the unseen powers
  Move up and down on heavenly ministries--
  The circles in the circles, that approach
  The central sun with ever-narrowing orbit--
  These see the glance alone, the unsealed eye,                      105
  Of Jupiter's glad children born in lustre.

        [_He walks across the chamber, then returns, and standing
             still, proceeds._

  The heavenly constellations make not merely
  The day and nights, summer and spring, not merely
  Signify to the husbandman the seasons
  Of sowing and of harvest. Human action,                            110
  That is the seed too of contingencies,
  Strewed on the dark land of futurity
  In hopes to reconcile the powers of fate.
  Whence it behoves us to seek out the seed-time,
  To watch the stars, select their proper hours,                     115
  And trace with searching eye the heavenly houses,
  Whether the enemy of growth and thriving
  Hide himself not, malignant, in his corner.
  Therefore permit me my own time. Meanwhile
  Do you your part. As yet I cannot say                              120
  What I shall do--only, give way I will not.
  Depose me too they shall not. On these points
  You may rely.

  _Page (entering)._ My Lords, the Generals.

  _Wallenstein._ Let them come in.


FOOTNOTES:

[628:1] Here is an instance of the defect classed No. 1 in the blank
leaf. With what propriety is this speech of profound moral insight put
in the mouth of that stupid, foolish Illo? _MS. R_.

[629:1] This is _said_, and finely too; but in what one instance is it
shown realized in Illo? This is a common fault of a man of genius whose
genius is not however _creative_ but _ideative_. There is just such
another in my Maria as described by Osorio, the Character exists only in
the description. _MS. R_.


LINENOTES:

[After 17] (_with an air of mystery_) 1800, 1828, 1829.

[21] _must_ 1800.

[27] _unconditional_ 1800.

[28] _unconditional_ 1800.

[31] _unconditional_ 1800.

[32] _Wallenstein (shaking his head)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[39] _your_ 1800.

[43] _then_--_then_ 1800.

[66] multitudes] multitude 1800.

[79] _when_ 1800.

[108] nights] night 1800, 1828, 1829.

[121] _I_ 1800.


SCENE XII

_WALLENSTEIN, TERTSKY, ILLO.--To them enter QUESTENBERG, OCTAVIO, and
MAX PICCOLOMINI, BUTLER, ISOLANI, MARADAS, and three other_ Generals.
_WALLENSTEIN motions QUESTENBERG, who in consequence takes the Chair
directly opposite to him; the others follow, arranging themselves
according to their rank._

  _Wallenstein._ I have understood, 'tis true, the sum and import
  Of your instructions, Questenberg, have weighed them,
  And formed my final, absolute resolve;
  Yet it seems fitting, that the Generals
  Should hear the will of the Emperor from your mouth.                 5
  May't please you then to open your commission
  Before these noble Chieftains.

  _Questenberg._                 I am ready
  To obey you; but will first entreat your Highness,
  And all these noble Chieftains, to consider,
  The Imperial dignity and sovereign right                            10
  Speaks from my mouth, and not my own presumption.

  _Wallenstein._ We excuse all preface.

  _Questenberg._                        When his Majesty
  The Emperor to his courageous armies
  Presented in the person of Duke Friedland
  A most experienced and renowned commander,                          15
  He did it in glad hope and confidence
  To give thereby to the fortune of the war
  A rapid and auspicious change. The onset
  Was favourable to his royal wishes.
  Bohemia was delivered from the Saxons,                              20
  The Swede's career of conquest checked! These lands
  Began to draw breath freely, as Duke Friedland
  From all the streams of Germany forced hither
  The scattered armies of the enemy,
  Hither invoked as round one magic circle                            25
  The Rhinegrave, Bernhard, Banner, Oxenstirn,
  Yea, and that never-conquered King himself;
  Here finally, before the eye of Nürnberg,
  The fearful game of battle to decide.

  _Wallenstein._ May't please you to the point.                       30

  _Questenberg._ In Nürnberg's camp the Swedish monarch left
  His fame--in Lützen's plains his life. But who
  Stood not astounded, when victorious Friedland
  After this day of triumph, this proud day,
  Marched toward Bohemia with the speed of flight,                    35
  And vanished from the theatre of war;
  While the young Weimar hero forced his way
  Into Franconia, to the Danube, like
  Some delving winter-stream, which, where it rushes,
  Makes its own channel; with such sudden speed                       40
  He marched, and now at once 'fore Regenspurg
  Stood to the affright of all good Catholic Christians.
  Then did Bavaria's well-deserving Prince
  Entreat swift aidance in his extreme need;
  The Emperor sends seven horsemen to Duke Friedland,                 45
  Seven horsemen couriers sends he with the entreaty:
  He superadds his own, and supplicates
  Where as the sovereign lord he can command.
  In vain his supplication! At this moment
  The Duke hears only his old hate and grudge,                        50
  Barters the general good to gratify
  Private revenge--and so falls Regenspurg.

  _Wallenstein._ Max, to what period of the war alludes he?
  My recollection fails me here.

  _Max._                         He means
  When we were in Silesia.

  _Wallenstein._           Ay! Is it so!                              55
  But what had we to do there?

  _Max._                       To beat out
  The Swedes and Saxons from the province.

  _Wallenstein._                           True.
  In that description which the Minister gave
  I seemed to have forgotten the whole war.    [_To QUESTENBERG._
  Well, but proceed a little.

  _Questenberg._              Yes! at length                          60
  Beside the river Oder did the Duke
  Assert his ancient fame. Upon the fields
  Of Steinau did the Swedes lay down their arms,
  Subdued without a blow. And here, with others,
  The righteousness of Heaven to his avenger                          65
  Delivered that long-practised stirrer-up
  Of insurrection, that curse-laden torch
  And kindler of this war, Matthias Thur.
  But he had fallen into magnanimous hands;
  Instead of punishment he found reward,                              70
  And with rich presents did the Duke dismiss
  The arch-foe of his Emperor.

  _Wallenstein (laughs)._      I know,
  I know you had already in Vienna
  Your windows and balconies all forestalled
  To see him on the executioner's cart.                               75
  I might have lost the battle, lost it too
  With infamy, and still retained your graces--
  But, to have cheated them of a spectacle,
  Oh! that the good folks of Vienna never,
  No, never can forgive me.

  _Questenberg._            So Silesia                                80
  Was freed, and all things loudly called the Duke
  Into Bavaria, now pressed hard on all sides.
  And he did put his troops in motion: slowly,
  Quite at his ease, and by the longest road
  He traverses Bohemia; but ere ever                                  85
  He hath once seen the enemy, faces round,
  Breaks up the march, and takes to winter quarters.

  _Wallenstein._ The troops were pitiably destitute
  Of every necessary, every comfort.
  The winter came. What thinks his Majesty                            90
  His troops are made of? Arn't we men? subjected
  Like other men to wet, and cold, and all
  The circumstances of necessity?
  O miserable lot of the poor soldier!
  Wherever he comes in, all flee before him,                          95
  And when he goes away, the general curse
  Follows him on his route. All must be seized,
  Nothing is given him. And compelled to seize
  From every man, he's every man's abhorrence.
  Behold, here stand my Generals. Karaffa!                           100
  Count Deodate! Butler! Tell this man
  How long the soldiers' pay is in arrears.

  _Butler._ Already a full year.

  _Wallenstein._                 And 'tis the hire
  That constitutes the hireling's name and duties,
  The soldier's pay is the soldier's covenant.[634:1]                105

  _Questenberg._ Ah! this is a far other tone from that
  In which the Duke spoke eight, nine years ago.

  _Wallenstein._ Yes! 'tis my fault, I know it: I myself
  Have spoilt the Emperor by indulging him.
  Nine years ago, during the Danish war,                             110
  I raised him up a force, a mighty force,
  Forty or fifty thousand men, that cost him
  Of his own purse no doit. Through Saxony
  The fury goddess of the war marched on,
  E'en to the surf-rocks of the Baltic, bearing                      115
  The terrors of his name. That was a time!
  In the whole Imperial realm no name like mine
  Honoured with festival and celebration--
  And Albrecht Wallenstein, it was the title
  Of the third jewel in his crown!                                   120
  But at the Diet, when the Princes met
  At Regenspurg, there, there the whole broke out,
  There 'twas laid open, there it was made known,
  Out of what money-bag I had paid the host.
  And what was now my thank, what had I now,                         125
  That I, a faithful servant of the Sovereign,
  Had loaded on myself the people's curses,
  And let the Princes of the empire pay
  The expenses of this war, that aggrandizes
  The Emperor alone--What thanks had I!                              130
  What? I was offered up to their complaints,
  Dismissed, degraded!

  _Questenberg._       But your Highness knows
  What little freedom he possessed of action
  In that disastrous diet.

  _Wallenstein._           Death and hell!
  I had that which could have procured him freedom.                  135
  No! Since 'twas proved so inauspicious to me
  To serve the Emperor at the empire's cost,
  I have been taught far other trains of thinking
  Of the empire, and the diet of the empire.
  From the Emperor, doubtless, I received this staff,                140
  But now I hold it as the empire's general--
  For the common weal, the universal interest,
  And no more for that one man's aggrandizement!
  But to the point. What is it that's desired of me?

  _Questenberg._ First, his imperial Majesty hath willed             145
  That without pretexts of delay the army
  Evacuate Bohemia.

  _Wallenstein._    In this season?
  And to what quarter wills the Emperor
  That we direct our course?

  _Questenberg._             To the enemy.
  His Majesty resolves, that Regenspurg                              150
  Be purified from the enemy, ere Easter,
  That Lutheranism may be no longer preached
  In that cathedral, nor heretical
  Defilement desecrate the celebration
  Of that pure festival.

  _Wallenstein._         My generals,                                155
  Can this be realized?

  _Illo._               'Tis not possible.

  _Butler._ It can't be realized.

  _Questenberg._                  The Emperor
  Already hath commanded Colonel Suys
  To advance toward Bavaria!

  _Wallenstein._             What did Suys?

  _Questenberg._ That which his duty prompted. He advanced!          160

  _Wallenstein._ What? he advanced? And I, his general,
  Had given him orders, peremptory orders,
  Not to desert his station! Stands it thus
  With my authority? Is this the obedience
  Due to my office, which being thrown aside                         165
  No war can be conducted? Chieftains, speak!
  You be the judges, generals! What deserves
  That officer, who of his oath neglectful
  Is guilty of contempt of orders?

  _Illo._                          Death.

  _Wallenstein._ Count Piccolomini! what has he deserved?            170

  _Max Piccolomini._ According to the letter of the law,
  Death.

  _Isolani._ Death.

  _Butler._         Death, by the laws of war.

          [_QUESTENBERG rises from his seat, WALLENSTEIN follows;
               all the rest rise._

  _Wallenstein._ To this the law condemns him, and not I.
  And if I shew him favour, 'twill arise
  From the reverence that I owe my Emperor.                          175

  _Questenberg._ If so, I can say nothing further--here!

  _Wallenstein._ I accepted the command but on conditions!
  And this the first, that to the diminution
  Of my authority no human being,
  Not even the Emperor's self, should be entitled                    180
  To do aught, or to say aught, with the army.
  If I stand warranter of the event,
  Placing my honour and my head in pledge,
  Needs must I have full mastery in all
  The means thereto. What rendered this Gustavus                     185
  Resistless, and unconquered upon earth?
  This--that he was the monarch in his army!
  A monarch, one who is indeed a monarch,
  Was never yet subdued but by his equal.
  But to the point! The best is yet to come.                         190
  Attend now, generals!

  _Questenberg._        The prince Cardinal
  Begins his route at the approach of spring
  From the Milanese; and leads a Spanish army
  Through Germany into the Netherlands.
  That he may march secure and unimpeded,                            195
  'Tis the Emperor's will you grant him a detachment
  Of eight horse-regiments from the army here.

  _Wallenstein._ Yes, yes! I understand!--Eight regiments! Well,
  Right well concerted, father Lamormain!
  Eight thousand horse! Yes, yes! 'Tis as it should be!              200
  I see it coming!

  _Questenberg._   There is nothing coming.
  All stands in front: the counsel of state-prudence,
  The dictate of necessity!----

  _Wallenstein._                What then?
  What, my Lord Envoy? May I not be suffered
  To understand, that folks are tired of seeing                      205
  The sword's hilt in my grasp: and that your court
  Snatch eagerly at this pretence, and use
  The Spanish title, to drain off my forces,
  To lead into the empire a new army
  Unsubjected to my control. To throw me                             210
  Plumply aside,--I am still too powerful for you
  To venture that. My stipulation runs,
  That all the Imperial forces shall obey me
  Where'er the German is the native language.
  Of Spanish troops and of Prince Cardinals                          215
  That take their route, as visitors, through the empire,
  There stands no syllable in my stipulation.
  No syllable! And so the politic court
  Steals in a-tiptoe, and creeps round behind it;
  First makes me weaker, then to be dispensed with,                  220
  Till it dares strike at length a bolder blow
  And make short work with me.
  What need of all these crooked ways, Lord Envoy?
  Straight-forward man! His compact with me pinches
  The Emperor. He would that I moved off!--                          225
  Well!--I will gratify him!

           [_Here there commences an agitation among the Generals
                which increases continually._

  It grieves me for my noble officers' sakes!
  I see not yet, by what means they will come at
  The moneys they have advanced, or how obtain
  The recompense their services demand.                              230
  Still a new leader brings new claimants forward,
  And prior merit superannuates quickly.
  There serve here many foreigners in the army,
  And were the man in all else brave and gallant,
  I was not wont to make nice scrutiny                               235
  After his pedigree or catechism.
  This will be otherwise, i'the time to come.
  Well--me no longer it concerns.            [_He seats himself._

  _Max Piccolomini._ Forbid it. Heaven, that it should come to this!
  Our troops will swell in dreadful fermentation--                   240
  The Emperor is abused--it cannot be.

  _Isolani._ It cannot be; all goes to instant wreck.

  _Wallenstein._ Thou hast said truly, faithful Isolani!
  What we with toil and foresight have built up,
  Will go to wreck--all go to instant wreck.                         245
  What then? another chieftain is soon found,
  Another army likewise (who dares doubt it?)
  Will flock from all sides to the Emperor
  At the first beat of his recruiting drum.

         [_During this speech, ISOLANI, TERTSKY, ILLO and MARADAS
              talk confusedly with great agitation._

  _Max Piccolomini (busily and passionately going from one to
      another, and soothing them)._ Hear, my commander! Hear me,
      generals!                                                      250
  Let me conjure you, Duke! Determine nothing,
  Till we have met and represented to you
  Our joint remonstrances.--Nay, calmer! Friends!
  I hope all may be yet set right again.

  _Tertsky._ Away! let us away! in the antechamber                   255
  Find we the others.                                 [_They go._

  _Butler (to Questenberg)._ If good counsel gain
  Due audience from your wisdom, my Lord Envoy!
  You will be cautious how you shew yourself
  In public for some hours to come--or hardly
  Will that gold key protect you from maltreatment.                  260

                                [_Commotions heard from without._

  _Wallenstein._ A salutary counsel----Thou, Octavio!
  Wilt answer for the safety of our guest.
  Farewell, Von Questenberg!    [_QUESTENBERG is about to speak._
                             Nay, not a word.
  Not one word more of that detested subject!
  You have performed your duty--We know how                          265
  To separate the office from the man.

               [_As QUESTENBERG is going off with OCTAVIO, GOETZ,
                    TIEFENBACH, KOLATTO, press in; several other_
                    Generals _following them._

  _Goetz._ Where's he who means to rob us of our general?

  _Tiefenbach (at the same time)._ What are we forced to hear?
  That thou wilt leave us?

  _Kolatto (at the same time)._ We will live with thee, we will die
      with thee.

  _Wallenstein (pointing to Illo)._ There! the Field-Marshal knows
      our will.                                          [_Exit._    270


FOOTNOTES:

[634:1] The original is not translatable into English:

                              ----Und sein _Sold_
  Muss dem _Soldaten_ werden, darnach heisst er.

It might perhaps have been thus rendered:

  'And that for which he sold his services,
   The soldier must receive.'

But a false or doubtful etymology is no more than a dull pun.


LINENOTES:

[Before 1] _WALLENSTEIN, TERTSKY, &c. . . . rank. There reigns a
momentary silence._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[56] _there_ 1800.

[79] _that_ 1800.

[83] _did_ 1800.

[91] Arn't] An't 1800, 1828, 1829.

[105] _pay . . . covenant_ 1800.

[135] _I_ 1800.

[Before 170] _Wallenstein (raising his voice, as all, but Illo, had
remained silent, and seemingly scrupulous)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[171] _Max Piccolomini (after a long pause)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[176] _so . . . here_ 1800.

[182] _event_ 1800.

[206] _my_ 1800.

[244] _we_ 1800.

[270] _Wallenstein (with stateliness and, &c.)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 270] [_While all are going off the stage, the curtain drops._
1800, 1828, 1829.




ACT II


SCENE I

SCENE--_A small Chamber._

_ILLO and TERTSKY._

  _Tertsky._ Now for this evening's business! How intend you
  To manage with the generals at the banquet?

  _Illo._ Attend! We frame a formal declaration,
  Wherein we to the Duke consign ourselves
  Collectively, to be and to remain                                    5
  His both with life and limb, and not to spare
  The last drop of our blood for him, provided
  So doing we infringe no oath nor duty,
  We may be under to the Emperor.--Mark!
  This reservation we expressly make                                  10
  In a particular clause, and save the conscience.
  Now hear! This formula so framed and worded
  Will be presented to them for perusal
  Before the banquet. No one will find in it
  Cause of offence or scruple. Hear now further!                      15
  After the feast, when now the vap'ring wine
  Opens the heart, and shuts the eyes, we let
  A counterfeited paper, in the which
  This one particular clause has been left out,
  Go round for signatures.

  _Tertsky._               How? think you then                        20
  That they'll believe themselves bound by an oath,
  Which we had tricked them into by a juggle?

  _Illo._ We shall have caught and caged them! Let them then
  Beat their wings bare against the wires, and rave
  Loud as they may against our treachery,                             25
  At court their signatures will be believed
  Far more than their most holy affirmations.
  Traitors they are, and must be; therefore wisely
  Will make a virtue of necessity.

  _Tertsky._ Well, well, it shall content me; let but something       30
  Be done, let only some decisive blow
  Set us in motion.

  _Illo._ Besides, 'tis of subordinate importance
  How, or how far, we may thereby propel
  The generals. 'Tis enough that we persuade                          35
  The Duke, that they are his--Let him but act
  In his determined mood, as if he had them,
  And he will have them. Where he plunges in,
  He makes a whirlpool, and all stream down to it.

  _Tertsky._ His policy is such a labyrinth,                          40
  That many a time when I have thought myself
  Close at his side, he's gone at once, and left me
  Ignorant of the ground where I was standing.
  He lends the enemy his ear, permits me
  To write to them, to Arnheim; to Sesina                             45
  Himself comes forward blank and undisguised;
  Talks with us by the hour about his plans,
  And when I think I have him--off at once----
  He has slipped from me, and appears as if
  He had no scheme, but to retain his place.                          50

  _Illo._ He give up his old plans! I'll tell you, friend!
  His soul is occupied with nothing else,
  Even in his sleep--They are his thoughts, his dreams,
  That day by day he questions for this purpose
  The motions of the planets----

  _Tertsky._                     Ay! you know                         55
  This night, that is now coming, he with Seni
  Shuts himself up in the astrological tower
  To make joint observations--for I hear,
  It is to be a night of weight and crisis;
  And something great, and of long expectation,                       60
  Is to make its procession in the heaven.

  _Illo._ Come! be we bold and make dispatch. The work
  In this next day or two must thrive and grow
  More than it has for years. And let but only
  Things first turn up auspicious here below----                      65
  Mark what I say--the right stars too will shew themselves.
  Come, to the generals. All is in the glow,
  And must be beaten while 'tis malleable.

  _Tertsky._ Do you go thither, Illo. I must stay
  And wait here for the Countess Tertsky. Know                        70
  That we too are not idle. Break one string,
  A second is in readiness.

  _Illo._                   Yes! Yes!
  I saw your Lady smile with such sly meaning.
  What's in the wind?

  _Tertsky._ A secret. Hush! she comes.             [_Exit ILLO._


LINENOTES:

[6] _His_ 1800.

[7] _him_ 1800.

[8] nor] or 1800, 1828, 1829.

[31] _done_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[38] _will_ 1800.

[70] _wait_ 1800.


SCENE II

_The COUNTESS steps out from a Closet._

_COUNT and COUNTESS TERTSKY._

  _Tertsky._ Well--is she coming?--I can keep him back
  No longer.

  _Countess._ She will be there instantly.
  You only send him.

  _Tertsky._         I am not quite certain,
  I must confess it, Countess, whether or not
  We are earning the Duke's thanks hereby. You know,                   5
  No ray has broken from him on this point.
  You have o'er-ruled me, and yourself know best
  How far you dare proceed.

  _Countess._               I take it on me.

                   [_Talking to herself, while she is advancing._

  Here's no need of full powers and commissions--
  My cloudy Duke! we understand each other--                          10
  And without words. What, could I not unriddle,
  Wherefore the daughter should be sent for hither,
  Why first he, and no other, should be chosen
  To fetch her hither! This sham of betrothing her
  To a bridegroom,[641:1] whom no one knows--No! no!----              15
  This may blind others! I see through thee, Brother!
  But it beseems thee not, to draw a card
  At such a game. Not yet!--It all remains
  Mutely delivered up to my finessing----
  Well--thou shalt not have been deceived, Duke Friedland!
  In her who is thy sister.----                                       20

  _Servant (enters)._           The commanders!

  _Tertsky (to the Countess)._ Take care you heat his fancy and
      affections--
  Possess him with a reverie, and send him,
  Absent and dreaming, to the banquet; that
  He may not boggle at the signature.                                 25

  _Countess._ Take you care of your guests!--Go, send him hither.

  _Tertsky._ All rests upon his undersigning.

  _Countess._ Go to your guests! Go----

  _Illo (comes back)._ Where art staying, Tertsky?
  The house is full, and all expecting you.                           30

  _Tertsky._ Instantly! Instantly!            [_To the COUNTESS._
                                   And let him not
  Stay here too long. It might awake suspicion
  In the old man----

  _Countess._        A truce with your precautions!

                                      [_Exeunt TERTSKY and ILLO._


FOOTNOTES:

[641:1] In Germany, after honourable addresses have been paid and
formally accepted, the lovers are called Bride and Bridegroom, even
though the marriage should not take place till years afterwards.


LINENOTES:

[6] broken] broke out 1800, 1828, 1829.

[13] _he_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[15] whom] when 1800, 1828, 1829.

[28] _Countess (interrupting him)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE III

_COUNTESS, MAX PICCOLOMINI._

  _Max._ Aunt Tertsky? may I venture?

                 [_Advances to the middle of the stage, and looks
                      around him with uneasiness._

                                      She's not here!
  Where is she?

  _Countess._   Look but somewhat narrowly
  In yonder corner, lest perhaps she lie
  Conceal'd behind that screen.

  _Max._                        There lie her gloves![642:1]

        [_Snatches at them, but the COUNTESS takes them herself._

  You unkind Lady! You refuse me this--                                5
  You make it an amusement to torment me.

  _Countess._ And this the thanks you give me for my trouble?

  _Max._ O, if you felt the oppression at my heart!
  Since we've been here, so to constrain myself--
  With such poor stealth to hazard words and glances--                10
  These, these are not my habits!

  _Countess._                     You have still
  Many new habits to acquire, young friend!
  But on this proof of your obedient temper
  I must continue to insist; and only
  On this condition can I play the agent                              15
  For your concerns.

  _Max._             But wherefore comes she not?
  Where is she?

  _Countess._   Into my hands you must place it
  Whole and entire. Whom could you find, indeed,
  More zealously affected to your interest?
  No soul on earth must know it--not your father.                     20
  He must not above all.

  _Max._                 Alas! what danger?
  Here is no face on which I might concentre
  All the enraptured soul stirs up within me.
  O Lady! tell me. Is all changed around me?
  Or is it only I?
                   I find myself,                                     25
  As among strangers! Not a trace is left
  Of all my former wishes, former joys.
  Where has it vanished to? There was a time
  When even, methought, with such a world as this
  I was not discontented. Now how flat!                               30
  How stale! No life, no bloom, no flavour in it!
  My comrades are intolerable to me.
  My father--Even to him I can say nothing.
  My arms, my military duties--O!
  They are such wearying toys!

  _Countess._                  But, gentle friend!                    35
  I must entreat it of your condescension,
  You would be pleased to sink your eye, and favour
  With one short glance or two this poor stale world,
  Where even now much, and of much moment,
  Is on the eve of its completion.

  _Max._                           Something,                         40
  I can't but know, is going forward round me.
  I see it gathering, crowding, driving on,
  In wild uncustomary movements. Well,
  In due time, doubtless, it will reach even me.
  Where think you I have been, dear lady? Nay,                        45
  No raillery. The turmoil of the camp,
  The spring-tide of acquaintance rolling in,
  The pointless jest, the empty conversation,
  Oppress'd and stifled me. I gasped for air--
  I could not breathe--I was constrain'd to fly,                      50
  To seek a silence out for my full heart;
  And a pure spot wherein to feel my happiness.
  No smiling, Countess! In the church was I.
  There is a cloister here to the heaven's gate,[644:1]
  Thither I went, there found myself alone.                           55
  Over the altar hung a holy mother;
  A wretched painting 'twas, yet 'twas the friend
  That I was seeking in this moment. Ah,
  How oft have I beheld that glorious form
  In splendour, mid ecstatic worshippers;                             60
  Yet, still it moved me not! and now at once
  Was my devotion cloudless as my love.

  _Countess._ Enjoy your fortune and felicity!
  Forget the world around you. Meantime, friendship
  Shall keep strict vigils for you, anxious, active.                  65
  Only be manageable when that friendship
  Points you the road to full accomplishment.
  How long may it be since you declared your passion?

  _Max._ This morning did I hazard the first word.

  _Countess._ This morning the first time in twenty days?             70

  _Max._ 'Twas at that hunting-castle, betwixt here
  And Nepomuck, where you had joined us, and--
  That was the last relay of the whole journey!
  In a balcony we were standing mute,
  And gazing out upon the dreary field:                               75
  Before us the dragoons were riding onward,
  The safe-guard which the Duke had sent us--heavy
  The inquietude of parting lay upon me,
  And trembling ventured I at length these words:
  This all reminds me, noble maiden, that                             80
  To-day I must take leave of my good fortune.
  A few hours more, and you will find a father,
  Will see yourself surrounded by new friends,
  And I henceforth shall be but as a stranger,
  Lost in the many--'Speak with my aunt Tertsky!'                     85
  With hurrying voice she interrupted me.
  She faltered. I beheld a glowing red
  Possess her beautiful cheeks, and from the ground
  Raised slowly up her eye met mine--no longer
  Did I control myself.

         [_The PRINCESS THEKLA appears at the door, and remains
              standing, observed by the COUNTESS, but not by
              PICCOLOMINI._

                        With instant boldness                         90
  I caught her in my arms, my mouth touched hers;
  There was a rustling in the room close by;
  It parted us--'Twas you. What since has happened,
  You know.

  _Countess._ And is it your excess of modesty;
  Or are you so incurious, that you do not                            95
  Ask me too of my secret?

  _Max._                   Of your secret?

  _Countess._ Why, yes! When in the instant after you
  I stepped into the room, and found my niece there,
  What she in this first moment of the heart
  Ta'en with surprise--

  _Max._                Well?                                        100


FOOTNOTES:

[642:1] All this is terribly childish, at least appears so to an
_English_ lover. Besides it is modern French Comedy--for which, by the
by, we want a word to distinguish it from the _toto caelo_ different
Comedy which Shakespere and his contemporaries worked up into their
Tragedy with such felicity of action and reaction. _MS. R_.

[644:1] I am doubtful whether this be the dedication of the cloister or
the name of one of the city gates, near which it stood. I have
translated it in the former sense; but fearful of having made some
blunder, I add the original--Es ist ein Kloster hier _zur
Himmelspforte_.


LINENOTES:

_Max (peeping in on the stage shyly)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[7] thanks] thank 1800, 1828, 1829.

[8] _my_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[17] _my_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[21] _He_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[72] _you_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[91] mouth] _lips_ MS. R.

[94] _Countess (after a pause, with a stolen glance at Thekla)._ 1800,
1828, 1829.

[96] _your_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[100] _Max (with eagerness)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE IV

_THEKLA (hurries forward), COUNTESS, MAX PICCOLOMINI._

  _Thekla (to the Countess)._ Spare yourself the trouble:
  That hears he better from myself.

  _Max._                            My Princess!
  What have you let her hear me say, aunt Tertsky?

  _Thekla (to the Countess)._ Has he been here long?

  _Countess._                                        Yes; and soon
      must go.
  Where have you stayed so long?

  _Thekla._                      Alas! my mother                       5
  Wept so again! and I--I see her suffer,
  Yet cannot keep myself from being happy.

  _Max._ Now once again I have courage to look on you.
  To-day at noon I could not.
  The dazzle of the jewels that play'd round you                      10
  Hid the beloved from me.

  _Thekla._                Then you saw me
  With your eye only--and not with your heart?

  _Max._ This morning, when I found you in the circle
  Of all your kindred, in your father's arms,
  Beheld myself an alien in this circle,                              15
  O! what an impulse felt I in that moment
  To fall upon his neck, to call him father!
  But his stern eye o'erpowered the swelling passion--
  It dared not but be silent. And those brilliants,
  That like a crown of stars enwreathed your brows,                   20
  They scared me too! O wherefore, wherefore should he
  At the first meeting spread as 'twere the ban
  Of excommunication round you, wherefore
  Dress up the angel as for sacrifice,
  And cast upon the light and joyous heart                            25
  The mournful burthen of his station? Fitly
  May love dare woo for love; but such a splendour
  Might none but monarchs venture to approach.

  _Thekla._ Hush! not a word more of this mummery.
  You see how soon the burthen is thrown off.                         30

                                              [_To the COUNTESS._

  He is not in spirits. Wherefore is he not?
  'Tis you, aunt, that have made him all so gloomy!
  He had quite another nature on the journey--
  So calm, so bright, so joyous eloquent.              [_To MAX._
  It was my wish to see you always so,                                35
  And never otherwise!

  _Max._               You find yourself
  In your great father's arms, belovéd lady!
  All in a new world, which does homage to you,
  And which, wer't only by its novelty,
  Delights your eye.

  _Thekla._          Yes; I confess to you                            40
  That many things delight me here: this camp,
  This motley stage of warriors, which renews
  So manifold the image of my fancy,
  And binds to life, binds to reality,
  What hitherto had but been present to me                            45
  As a sweet dream!

  _Max._            Alas! not so to me.
  It makes a dream of my reality.
  Upon some island in the ethereal heights
  I've lived for these last days. This mass of men
  Forces me down to earth. It is a bridge                             50
  That, reconducting to my former life,
  Divides me and my heaven.

  _Thekla._                 The game of life
  Looks cheerful, when one carries in one's heart
  The inalienable treasure. 'Tis a game,
  Which having once reviewed, I turn more joyous                      55
  Back to my deeper and appropriate bliss.
  In this short time that I've been present here,
  What new unheard-of things have I not seen!
  And yet they all must give place to the wonder
  Which this mysterious castle guards.

  _Countess._                          And what                       60
  Can this be then? Methought I was acquainted
  With all the dusky corners of this house.

  _Thekla._ Ay, but the road thereto is watched by spirits,
  Two griffins still stand sentry at the door.

  _Countess (laughs)._ The astrological tower!--How happens it        65
  That this same sanctuary, whose access
  Is to all others so impracticable,
  Opens before you even at your approach?

  _Thekla._ A dwarfish old man with a friendly face
  And snow-white hairs, whose gracious services                       70
  Were mine at first sight, opened me the doors.

  _Max._ That is the Duke's astrologer, old Seni.

  _Thekla._ He questioned me on many points; for instance,
  When I was born, what month, and on what day,
  Whether by day or in the night.

  _Countess._                     He wished                           75
  To erect a figure for your horoscope.

  _Thekla._ My hand too he examined, shook his head
  With much sad meaning, and the lines methought,
  Did not square over truly with his wishes.

  _Countess._ Well, Princess, and what found you in this tower?       80
  My highest privilege has been to snatch
  A side-glance, and away!

  _Thekla._                [647:1]It was a strange
  Sensation that came o'er me, when at first
  From the broad sunshine I stepped in; and now
  The narrowing line of day-light, that ran after                     85
  The closing door, was gone; and all about me
  'Twas pale and dusky night, with many shadows
  Fantastically cast. Here six or seven
  Colossal statues, and all kings, stood round me
  In a half-circle. Each one in his hand                              90
  A sceptre bore, and on his head a star;
  And in the tower no other light was there
  But from these stars: all seemed to come from them.
  'These are the planets,' said that low old man,
  'They govern worldly fates, and for that cause                      95
  Are imaged here as kings. He farthest from you,
  Spiteful, and cold, an old man melancholy,
  With bent and yellow forehead, he is Saturn.
  He opposite, the king with the red light,
  An arm'd man for the battle, that is Mars:                         100
  And both these bring but little luck to man.'
  But at his side a lovely lady stood,
  The star upon her head was soft and bright,
  And that was Venus, the bright star of joy.
  On the left hand, lo! Mercury, with wings.                         105
  Quite in the middle glittered silver-bright
  A cheerful man, and with a monarch's mien;
  And this was Jupiter, my father's star:
  And at his side I saw the Sun and Moon.

  _Max._ O never rudely will I blame his faith                       110
  In the might of stars and angels! 'Tis not merely
  The human being's Pride that peoples space
  With life and mystical predominance;
  Since likewise for the stricken heart of Love
  This visible nature, and this common world,                        115
  Is all too narrow: yea, a deeper import
  Lurks in the legend told my infant years
  Than lies upon that truth, we live to learn.
  For fable is Love's world, his home, his birth-place;
  Delightedly dwells he '<DW41> fays and talismans,                    120
  And spirits; and delightedly believes
  Divinities, being himself divine.
  The intelligible forms of ancient poets,
  The fair humanities of old religion,
  The Power, the Beauty, and the Majesty,                            125
  That had their haunts in dale, or piny mountain,
  Or forest by slow stream, or pebbly spring,
  Or chasms and wat'ry depths; all these have vanished.
  They live no longer in the faith of reason!
  But still the heart doth need a language, still                    130
  Doth the old instinct bring back the old names,
  And to yon starry world they now are gone,
  Spirits or gods, that used to share this earth
  With man as with their friend;[649:1] and to the lover
  Yonder they move, from yonder visible sky                          135
  Shoot influence down: and even at this day
  'Tis Jupiter who brings whate'er is great,
  And Venus who brings every thing that's fair!

  _Thekla._ And if this be the science of the stars,
  I too, with glad and zealous industry,                             140
  Will learn acquaintance with this cheerful faith.
  It is a gentle and affectionate thought,
  That in immeasurable heights above us,
  At our first birth, the wreath of love was woven,
  With sparkling stars for flowers.

  _Countess._                       Not only roses,                  145
  But thorns too hath the heaven; and well for you
  Leave they your wreath of love inviolate;
  What Venus twined, the bearer of glad fortune,
  The sullen orb of Mars soon tears to pieces.

  _Max._ Soon will his gloomy empire reach its close.                150
  Blest be the General's zeal: into the laurel
  Will he inweave the olive-branch, presenting
  Peace to the shouting nations. Then no wish
  Will have remained for his great heart! Enough
  Has he performed for glory, and can now                            155
  Live for himself and his. To his domains
  Will he retire; he has a stately seat
  Of fairest view at Gitschin; Reichenberg,
  And Friedland Castle, both lie pleasantly--
  Even to the foot of the huge mountains here                        160
  Stretches the chase and covers of his forests:
  His ruling passion, to create the splendid,
  He can indulge without restraint; can give
  A princely patronage to every art,
  And to all worth a Sovereign's protection.                         165
  Can build, can plant, can watch the starry courses--

  _Countess._ Yet I would have you look, and look again,
  Before you lay aside your arms, young friend!
  A gentle bride, as she is, is well worth it,
  That you should woo and win her with the sword.                    170

  _Max._ O, that the sword could win her!

  _Countess._                             What was that?
  Did you hear nothing? Seem'd, as if I heard
  Tumult and larum in the banquet-room.         [_Exit COUNTESS._


FOOTNOTES:

[647:1] In this and in Max's reply to it I have taken more liberty than
in any other part of the play--except perhaps in Gordon's character of
Wallenstein [Act III. Scene ii]. In truth, Max's reply after the first
nine lines is almost my own, as are the first seven lines of Thekla's
description. The remainder I take a little pride in as a specimen of
translation, fully equal, and in diction and rhythmic feeling superior,
to the original. _S. T. C._ _MS. R_.

[649:1]

  No more of talk, where God or Angel Guest
  With Man, as with his friend, familiar used
  To sit indulgent.

_Paradise Lost_, ix. 1-3. _1800_, _1828_, _1829_.


LINENOTES:

[2] _Max (stepping backward)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[5] _you_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[17] _father_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[26] _his_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[54] inalienable] unalienable 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 56] [_Breaking off, and in a sportive tone._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[60] _Countess (recollecting)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[63] _Thekla (smiling)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[126] their] her 1829.

[160] huge] _Silesian_ MS. R.


SCENE V

_THEKLA and MAX PICCOLOMINI._

  _Thekla (as soon us the Countess is out of sight, in a quick low
  voice to Piccolomini)._ Don't trust them! They are false!

  _Max._                                                    Impossible!

  _Thekla._ Trust no one here but me. I saw at once,
  They had a purpose.

  _Max._              Purpose! but what purpose?
  And how can we be instrumental to it?

  _Thekla._ I know no more than you; but yet believe me:               5
  There's some design in this! to make us happy,
  To realize our union--trust me, love!
  They but pretend to wish it.

  _Max._                       But these Tertskys----
  Why use we them at all? Why not your mother?
  Excellent creature! she deserves from us                            10
  A full and filial confidence.

  _Thekla._                     She doth love you,
  Doth rate you high before all others--but--
  But such a secret--she would never have
  The courage to conceal it from my father.
  For her own peace of mind we must preserve it                       15
  A secret from her too.

  _Max._                 Why any secret?
  I love not secrets. Mark, what I will do.
  I'll throw me at your father's feet--let him
  Decide upon my fortunes!--He is true,
  He wears no mask--he hates all crooked ways--                       20
  He is so good, so noble!

  _Thekla (falls on his neck)._ That are you!

  _Max._ You knew him only since this morn; but I
  Have liv'd ten years already in his presence,
  And who knows whether in this very moment
  He is not merely waiting for us both                                25
  To own our loves, in order to unite us.
  You are silent!----
  You look at me with such a hopelessness!
  What have you to object against your father?

  _Thekla._ I? Nothing. Only he's so occupied--                       30
  He has no leisure time to think about
  The happiness of us two.           [_Taking his hand tenderly._
                           Follow me!
  Let us not place too great a faith in men.
  These Tertskys--we will still be grateful to them
  For every kindness, but not trust them further                      35
  Than they deserve;--and in all else rely----
  On our own hearts!

  _Max._             O! shall we e'er be happy?

  _Thekla._ Are we not happy now? Art thou not mine?
  Am I not thine? There lives within my soul
  A lofty courage--'tis love gives it me!                             40
  I ought to be less open--ought to hide
  My heart more from thee--so decorum dictates:[651:1]
  But where in this place could'st thou seek for truth,
  If in my mouth thou did'st not find it?


FOOTNOTES:

[651:1] What may not a man write and publish, who writes with the press
waiting, and composes p. 86 while the printer is composing p. 85? _MS.
R_.


LINENOTES:

[3] _purpose_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[18] _him_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[37] _e'er_ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE VI

_To them enters the COUNTESS TERTSKY._

  _Countess._ Come!
  My husband sends me for you--It is now
  The latest moment.
                     Part you!

  _Thekla._                    O, not yet!
  It has been scarce a moment.

  _Countess._                  Aye! Then time
  Flies swiftly with your Highness, Princess niece!                    5

  _Max._ There is no hurry, aunt.

  _Countess._                     Away! Away!
  The folks begin to miss you. Twice already
  His father has asked for him.

  _Thekla._                     Ha! his father?

  _Countess._ You understand that, niece!

  _Thekla._                               Why needs he
  To go at all to that society?                                       10
  'Tis not his proper company. They may
  Be worthy men, but he's too young for them.
  In brief, he suits not such society.

  _Countess._ You mean, you'd rather keep him wholly here?

  _Thekla._ Yes! you have hit it, aunt! That is my meaning.           15
  Leave him here wholly! Tell the company--

  _Countess._ What? have you lost your senses, niece?--
  Count, you remember the conditions. Come!

  _Max (to Thekla)._ Lady, I must obey. Farewell, dear lady!

               [_THEKLA turns away from him with a quick motion._

  What say you then, dear lady?

  _Thekla (without looking at him)._ Nothing. Go!                     20

  _Max._ Can I, when you are angry----

         [_He draws up to her, their eyes meet, she stands silent
              a moment, then throws herself into his arms; he
              presses her fast to his heart._

  _Countess._ Off! Heavens! if any one should come!
  Hark! What's that noise? It comes this way.----Off!

          [_MAX tears himself away out of her arms, and goes. The
               COUNTESS accompanies him. THEKLA follows him with
               her eyes at first, walks restlessly across the
               room, then stops, and remains standing, lost in
               thought. A guitar lies on the table, she seizes it
               as by a sudden emotion, and after she has played a
               while an irregular and melancholy symphony, she
               falls gradually into the music and sings._

_Thekla (plays and sings)._

       The cloud doth gather, the greenwood roar,
       The damsel paces along the shore;                              25
       The billows they tumble with might, with might;
       And she flings out her voice to the darksome night;

         Her bosom is swelling with sorrow;
       The world it is empty, the heart will die,
       There's nothing to wish for beneath the sky:                   30
       Thou Holy One, call thy child away!
       I've lived and loved, and that was to-day--
         Make ready my grave-clothes to-morrow.[653:1]


FOOTNOTES:

[653:1] I found it not in my power to translate this song with _literal_
fidelity, preserving at the same time the Alcaic Movement, and have
therefore added the original with a prose translation. Some of my
readers may be more fortunate.

_Thekla (spielt und singt)._

  Der Eichwald brauset, die Wolken ziehn,
  Das Mägdlein wandelt an Ufers Grün,
  Es bricht sich die Welle mit Macht, mit Macht,
  Und sie singt hinaus in die finstre Nacht,
    Das Auge von Weinen getrübet:
  Das Herz ist gestorben, die Welt ist leer,
  Und weiter giebt sie dem Wunsche nichts mehr.
  Du Heilige, rufe dein Kind zurück,
  Ich habe genossen das irdische Glück,
    Ich habe gelebt und geliebet.


LITERAL TRANSLATION.

_Thekla (plays and sings)._

The oak-forest bellows, the clouds gather, the damsel walks to and fro
on the green of the shore; the wave breaks with might, with might, and
she sings out into the dark night, her eye discoloured with weeping: the
heart is dead, the world is empty, and further gives it nothing more to
the wish. Thou Holy One, call thy child home. I have enjoyed the
happiness of this world, I have lived and have loved.

I cannot but add here an imitation of this song, with which the author
of _The Tale of Rosamond Gray and Blind Margaret_ has favoured me, and
which appears to me to have caught the happiest manner of our old
ballads.

  The clouds are black'ning, the storms threat'ning,
    The cavern doth mutter, the greenwood moan;
  Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart aching,
    Thus in the dark night she singeth alone,
      Her eye upward roving:
  The world is empty, the heart is dead surely,
    In this world plainly all seemeth amiss;
  To thy heaven, Holy One, take home thy little one,
  I have partaken of all earth's bliss,
      Both living and loving.

The text of Lamb's version as printed in _Works_, 1818, i. 42 is as
follows:


BALLAD.

FROM THE GERMAN.

  The clouds are blackening, the storms threatening,
    And ever the forest maketh a moan:
  Billows are breaking, the damsel's heart aching,
    Thus by herself she singeth alone,
      Weeping right plenteously.
  The world is empty, the heart is dead surely,
    In this world plainly all seemeth amiss:
  To thy breast, holy one, take now thy little one,
    I have had earnest of all earth's bliss
      Living most lovingly.

_Spring, 1800._


LINENOTES:

[1] _Countess (in a pressing manner)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[3]

  The latest, &c.       [_They not appearing to attend to what she says,
                             she steps between them._

1800, 1828, 1829.

[9] _that_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[15] _Thekla (with energy)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE VII

_COUNTESS (returns), THEKLA._

  _Countess._ Fie, lady niece! to throw yourself upon him,
  Like a poor gift to one who cares not for it,
  And so must be flung after him! For you,
  Duke Friedland's only child, I should have thought
  It had been more beseeming to have shewn yourself                    5
  More chary of your person.

  _Thekla._                  And what mean you?

  _Countess._ I mean, niece, that you should not have forgotten
  Who you are, and who he is. But perchance
  That never once occurred to you.

  _Thekla._                        What then?

  _Countess._ That you're the daughter of the Prince-Duke Friedland.  10

  _Thekla._ Well--and what farther?

  _Countess._                       What? a pretty question!

  _Thekla._ He was born that which we have but become.
  He's of an ancient Lombard family,
  Son of a reigning princess.

  _Countess._                 Are you dreaming?
  Talking in sleep? An excellent jest, forsooth!                      15
  We shall no doubt right courteously entreat him
  To honour with his hand the richest heiress
  In Europe.

  _Thekla._  That will not be necessary.

  _Countess._ Methinks 'twere well though not to run the hazard.

  _Thekla._ His father loves him, Count Octavio                       20
  Will interpose no difficulty----

  _Countess._                      His!
  His father! his! But yours, niece, what of yours?

  _Thekla._ Why I begin to think you fear his father,
  So anxiously you hide it from the man!
  His father, his, I mean.

  _Countess (looks at her)._ Niece, you are false.                    25

  _Thekla._ Are you then wounded? O, be friends with me!

  _Countess._ You hold your game for won already. Do not
  Triumph too soon!--

  _Thekla._           Nay now, be friends with me.

  _Countess._ It is not yet so far gone.

  _Thekla._                              I believe you.

  _Countess._ Did you suppose your father had laid out                30
  His most important life in toils of war,
  Denied himself each quiet earthly bliss,
  Had banished slumber from his tent, devoted
  His noble head to care, and for this only,
  To make a happy pair of you? At length                              35
  To draw you from your convent, and conduct
  In easy triumph to your arms the man
  That chanc'd to please your eyes! All this, methinks,
  He might have purchased at a cheaper rate.

  _Thekla._ That which he did not plant for me might yet              40
  Bear me fair fruitage of its own accord.
  And if my friendly and affectionate fate,
  Out of his fearful and enormous being,
  Will but prepare the joys of life for me--

  [655:1]_Countess._ Thou seest it with a love-lorn maiden's eyes.    45
  Cast thine eye round, bethink thee who thou art.
  Into no house of joyance hast thou stepped,
  For no espousals dost thou find the walls
  Deck'd out, no guests the nuptial garland wearing.
  Here is no splendour but of arms. Or think'st thou                  50
  That all these thousands are here congregated
  To lead up the long dances at thy wedding?
  Thou see'st thy father's forehead full of thought,
  Thy mother's eye in tears: upon the balance
  Lies the great destiny of all our house.                            55
  Leave now the puny wish, the girlish feeling,
  O thrust it far behind thee! Give thou proof,
  Thou'rt the daughter of the Mighty--his
  Who where he moves creates the wonderful.
  Not to herself the woman must belong,                               60
  Annexed and bound to alien destinies.
  But she performs the best part, she the wisest,
  Who can transmute the alien into self,
  Meet and disarm necessity by choice;
  And what must be, take freely to her heart,                         65
  And bear and foster it with mother's love.

  _Thekla._ Such ever was my lesson in the convent.
  I had no loves, no wishes, knew myself
  Only as his--his daughter--his, the Mighty!
  His fame, the echo of whose blast drove to me                       70
  From the far distance, wakened in my soul
  No other thought than this--I am appointed
  To offer up myself in passiveness to him.

  _Countess._ That is thy fate. Mould thou thy wishes to it.
  I and thy mother gave thee the example.                             75

  _Thekla._ My fate hath shewn me him, to whom behoves it
  That I should offer up myself. In gladness
  Him will I follow.

  _Countess._        Not thy fate hath shewn him!
  Thy heart, say rather--'twas thy heart, my child!

  _Thekla._ Fate hath no voice but the heart's impulses.              80
  I am all his! His Present--his alone,
  Is this new life, which lives in me. He hath
  A right to his own creature. What was I
  Ere his fair love infused a soul into me?

  _Countess._ Thou would'st oppose thy father then, should he         85
  Have otherwise determined with thy person?

                [_THEKLA remains silent. The COUNTESS continues._

  Thou mean'st to force him to thy liking?--Child,
  His name is Friedland.

  _Thekla._              My name too is Friedland.
  He shall have found a genuine daughter in me.

  _Countess._ What? he has vanquished all impediment,                 90
  And in the wilful mood of his own daughter
  Shall a new struggle rise for him? Child! child!
  As yet thou hast seen thy father's smiles alone;
  The eye of his rage thou hast not seen. Dear child,
  I will not frighten thee. To that extreme,                          95
  I trust, it ne'er shall come. His will is yet
  Unknown to me: 'tis possible his aims
  May have the same direction as thy wish.
  But this can never, never be his will,
  That thou, the daughter of his haughty fortunes,                   100
  Should'st e'er demean thee as a love-sick maiden;
  And like some poor cost-nothing, fling thyself
  Toward the man, who, if that high prize ever
  Be destined to await him, yet, with sacrifices
  The highest love can bring, must pay for it.  [_Exit COUNTESS._    105

  _Thekla._ I thank thee for the hint. It turns
  My sad presentiment to certainty.
  And it is so!--Not one friend have we here,
  Not one true heart! we've nothing but ourselves!
  O she said rightly--no auspicious signs                            110
  Beam on this covenant of our affections.
  This is no theatre, where hope abides.
  The dull thick noise of war alone stirs here.
  And love himself, as he were armed in steel,
  Steps forth, and girds him for the strife of death.                115

                         [_Music from the banquet-room is heard._

  There's a dark spirit walking in our house,
  And swiftly will the Destiny close on us.
  It drove me hither from my calm asylum,
  It mocks my soul with charming witchery,
  It lures me forward in a seraph's shape,                           120
  I see it near, I see it nearer floating,
  It draws, it pulls me with a god-like power--
  And lo! the abyss--and thither am I moving--
  I have no power within me not to move!

               [_The music from the banquet-room becomes louder._

  O when a house is doomed in fire to perish,                        125
  Many a dark heaven drives his clouds together,
  Yea, shoots his lightnings down from sunny heights,
  Flames burst from out the subterraneous chasms,
  And fiends and angels mingling in their fury,
  Sling fire-brands at the burning edifice.[658:1]                   130

                                                  [_Exit THEKLA._


FOOTNOTES:

[655:1] A noble speech, and with the additional excellence of being in
character. _MS. R_.

[658:1] There are few, who will not have taste enough to laugh at the
two concluding lines of this soliloquy; and still fewer, I would fain
hope, who would not have been more disposed to shudder, had I given a
_faithful_ translation. For the readers of German I have added the
original:

  Blind-wüthend schleudert selbst der Gott der Freude
  Den Pechkranz in das brennende Gebäude.[658:A]

     [658:A] The two lines are sufficiently fustian, but this seems
     no reason for interpreting 'the God of Joy' as any higher
     divinity than Comus or rather an allegoric personage.
     Festivity alluding to the festive music and uproar heard from
     the banquet-room. _MS. R_.


LINENOTES:

[6] _Thekla (rising)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[8] _you_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[12] _born . . . become_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[16] _entreat_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[21] _His_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[22] _His . . . his_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[25] _His . . . his_ 1800, 1828, 1829. _Countess (looks at her, as
scrutinizing)._ 1800, 1828, 1829. _false_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[28] _Thekla (interrupting her, and attempting to soothe her)._ 1800,
1828, 1829.

[58] _his_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[74] _is_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[76] _him_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[78] _Him_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[81] _His_ Present--_his_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[88] _My_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[103] _if_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 106] _Thekla (who during the last speech had been standing
evidently lost in her reflections)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[111] covenant] couvenant 1800.

[126] a] and 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE VIII

_A large Saloon lighted up with festal Splendour; in the midst of it,
and in the Centre of the Stage, a Table richly set out, at which eight_
Generals _are sitting, among whom are OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI, TERTSKY, and
MARADAS. Right and left of this, but farther back, two other Tables, at
each of which six Persons are placed. The Middle Door, which is standing
open, gives to the Prospect a Fourth Table, with the same Number of
Persons. More forward stands the sideboard. The whole front of the Stage
is kept open for the Pages and Servants in waiting. All is in Motion.
The Band of Music belonging to Tertsky's Regiment march across the
Stage, and draw up round the Tables. Before they are quite off from the
Front of the Stage, MAX PICCOLOMINI appears, TERTSKY advances towards
him with a Paper, ISOLANI comes up to meet him with a Beaker or
Service-cup._

_TERTSKY, ISOLANI, MAX PICCOLOMINI._

  _Isolani._ Here brother, what we love! Why, where hast been?
  Off to thy place--quick! Tertsky here has given
  The mother's holiday wine up to free booty.
  Here it goes on as at the Heidelberg castle.
  Already hast thou lost the best. They're giving                      5
  At yonder table ducal crowns in shares;
  There's Sternberg's lands and chattels are put up,
  With Egenberg's, Stawata's, Lichtenstein's,
  And all the great Bohemian feodalities.
  Be nimble, lad! and something may turn up                           10
  For thee--who knows? off--to thy place! quick! march!

  _Tiefenbach and Goetz (call out from the second and third tables)._
      Count Piccolomini!

  _Tertsky._ Stop, ye shall have him in an instant.--Read
  This oath here, whether as 'tis here set forth,
  The wording satisfies you. They've all read it,                     15
  Each in his turn, and each one will subscribe
  His individual signature.

  _Max (reads)._            'Ingratis servire nefas.'

  _Isolani._ That sounds to my ears very much like Latin,
  And being interpreted, pray what may't mean?

  _Tertsky._ No honest man will serve a thankless master.             20

  _Max._ 'Inasmuch as our supreme Commander, the illustrious
  Duke of Friedland, in consequence of the manifold affronts and
  grievances which he has received, had expressed his determination
  to quit the Emperor, but on our unanimous entreaty has
  graciously consented to remain still with the army, and not to      25
  part from us without our approbation thereof, so we, collectively
  and _each in particular_, in the stead of an oath personally taken,
  do hereby oblige ourselves--likewise by him honourably and
  faithfully to hold, and in nowise whatsoever from him to
  part, and to be ready to shed for his interests the last drop of    30
  our blood, so far, namely, as _our oath to the Emperor will permit
  it_. (_These last words are repeated by ISOLANI._) In testimony of
  which we subscribe our names.'

  _Tertsky._ Now!--are you willing to subscribe this paper?

  _Isolani._ Why should he not? All officers of honour                35
  Can do it, aye, must do it.--Pen and ink here!

  _Tertsky._ Nay, let it rest till after meal.

  _Isolani (drawing Max along)._               Come, Max.

                          [_Both seat themselves at their table._


LINENOTES:

[9] feodalities] feodalties 1800.


SCENE IX

_TERTSKY, NEUMANN._

  _Tertsky (beckons to Neumann who is waiting at the side-table, and
      steps forward with him to the edge of the stage)._ Have you the
      copy with you, Neumann? Give it.
  It may be changed for the other?

  _Neumann._                       I have copied it
  Letter by letter, line by line; no eye
  Would e'er discover other difference,
  Save only the omission of that clause,                               5
  According to your Excellency's order.

  _Tertsky._ Right! lay it yonder, and away with this--
  It has performed its business--to the fire with it--

_NEUMANN lays the copy on the table and steps back again to the
side-table._


SCENE X

_ILLO (comes out from the second chamber), TERTSKY._

  _Illo._ How goes it with young Piccolomini?

  _Tertsky._ All right, I think. He has started no objection.

  _Illo._ He is the only one I fear about--
  He and his father. Have an eye on both!

  _Tertsky._ How looks it at your table: you forget not                5
  To keep them warm and stirring?

  _Illo._                         O, quite cordial,
  They are quite cordial in the scheme. We have them.
  And 'tis as I predicted too. Already
  It is the talk, not merely to maintain
  The Duke in station. 'Since we're once for all                      10
  Together and unanimous, why not,'
  Says Montecuculi, 'aye, why not onward,
  And make conditions with the Emperor
  There in his own Vienna?' Trust me, Count,
  Were it not for these said Piccolomini,                             15
  We might have spared ourselves the cheat.

  _Tertsky._                                And Butler?
  How goes it there? Hush!


SCENE XI

_To them enter BUTLER from the second table._

  _Butler._                Don't disturb yourselves.
  Field Marshal, I have understood you perfectly.
  Good luck be to the scheme; and as to me,
  You may depend upon me.

  _Illo._                 May we, Butler?

  _Butler._ With or without the clause, all one to me!                 5
  You understand me? My fidelity
  The Duke may put to any proof--I'm with him!
  Tell him so! I'm the Emperor's officer,
  As long as 'tis his pleasure to remain
  The Emperor's general! and Friedland's servant,                     10
  As soon as it shall please him to become
  His own lord.

  _Tertsky._    You would make a good exchange.
  No stern economist, no Ferdinand,
  Is he to whom you plight your services.

  _Butler._ I do not put up my fidelity                               15
  To sale, Count Tertsky! Half a year ago
  I would not have advised you to have made me
  An overture to that, to which I now
  Offer myself of my own free accord.--
  But that is past! and to the Duke, Field Marshal,                   20
  I bring myself together with my regiment.
  And mark you, 'tis my humour to believe,
  The example which I give will not remain
  Without an influence.

  _Illo._               Who is ignorant,
  That the whole army look to Colonel Butler,                         25
  As to a light that moves before them?

  _Butler._                             Ey?
  Then I repent me not of that fidelity
  Which for the length of forty years I held,
  If in my sixtieth year my old good name
  Can purchase for me a revenge so full.                              30
  Start not at what I say, sir Generals!
  My real motives--they concern not you.
  And you yourselves, I trust, could not expect
  That this your game had crooked my judgment--or
  That fickleness, quick blood, or such light cause,                  35
  Had driven the old man from the track of honour,
  Which he so long had trodden.--Come, my friends!
  I'm not thereto determined with less firmness,
  Because I know and have looked steadily
  At that on which I have determined.

  _Illo._                             Say,                            40
  And speak roundly, what are we to deem you?

  _Butler._ A friend! I give you here my hand! I'm yours
  With all I have. Not only men, but money
  Will the Duke want.----Go, tell him, sirs!
  I've earned and laid up somewhat in his service,                    45
  I lend it him; and is he my survivor,
  It has been already long ago bequeathed him.
  He is my heir. For me, I stand alone,
  Here in the world; nought know I of the feeling
  That binds the husband to a wife and children.                      50
  My name dies with me, my existence ends.

  _Illo._ 'Tis not your money that he needs--a heart
  Like yours weighs tons of gold down, weighs down millions!

  _Butler._ I came a simple soldier's boy from Ireland
  To Prague--and with a master, whom I buried.                        55
  From lowest stable-duty I climbed up,
  Such was the fate of war, to this high rank,
  The plaything of a whimsical good fortune.
  And Wallenstein too is a child of luck,
  I love a fortune that is like my own.                               60

  _Illo._ All powerful souls have kindred with each other.

  _Butler._ This is an awful moment! to the brave,
  To the determined, an auspicious moment.
  The Prince of Weimar arms, upon the Maine
  To found a mighty dukedom. He of Halberstadt,                       65
  That Mansfeld, wanted but a longer life
  To have marked out with his good sword a lordship
  That should reward his courage. Who of these
  Equals our Friedland? there is nothing, nothing
  So high, but he may set the ladder to it!                           70

  _Tertsky._ That's spoken like a man!

  _Butler._ Do you secure the Spaniard and Italian--
  I'll be your warrant for the Scotchman Lesly.
  Come! to the company!

  _Tertsky._ Where is the master of the cellar? Ho!                   75
  Let the best wines come up. Ho! cheerly, boy!
  Luck comes to-day, so give her hearty welcome.

                                    [_Exeunt, each to his table._


LINENOTES:

[After 3] [_with an air of mystery_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[4] _Illo (with vivacity)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[15] _Butler (with a haughty look)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[34] _my_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[36] Had] Has 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE XII

_The_ Master of the Cellar _advancing with NEUMANN_, Servants _passing
backwards and forwards._

  _Master of the Cellar._ The best wine! O! if my old mistress,
  his lady mother, could but see these wild goings on, she
  would turn herself round in her grave. Yes, yes, sir officer!
  'tis all down the hill with this noble house! no end, no
  moderation! And this marriage with the Duke's sister, a              5
  splendid  connection, a very splendid connection! but I tell you,
  sir officer, it bodes no good.

  _Neumann._ Heaven forbid! Why, at this very moment the
  whole prospect is in bud and blossom!

  _Master of the Cellar._ You think so?--Well, well! much             10
  may be said on that head.

  _First Servant (comes)._ Burgundy for the fourth table.

  _Master of the Cellar._ Now, sir lieutenant, if this isn't the
  seventieth flask----

  _First Servant._ Why, the reason is, that German lord,              15
  Tiefenbach, sits at that table.

  _Master of the Cellar (continuing his discourse to Neumann)._
  They are soaring too high. They would rival kings and
  electors in their pomp and splendour; and wherever the
  Duke leaps, not a minute does my gracious master, the
  Count, loiter on the brink----(_To the_ Servants)--What do          20
  you stand there listening for? I will let you know you have
  legs presently. Off! see to the tables, see to the flasks!
  Look there! Count Palfi has an empty glass before him!

  _Runner (comes)._ The great service-cup is wanted, sir; that
  rich gold cup with the Bohemian arms on it. The Count               25
  says you know which it is.

  _Master of the Cellar._ Ay! that was made for Frederick's
  coronation by the artist William--there was not such
  another prize in the whole booty at Prague.

  _Runner._ The same!--a health is to go round in him.                30

  _Master of the Cellar._ This will be something for the
  tale-bearers--this goes to Vienna.

  _Neumann._ Permit me to look at it.--Well, this is a cup
  indeed! How heavy! as well it may be, being all
  gold.--And what neat things are embossed on it! how natural         35
  and elegant they look! There, on that first quarter, let me
  see. That proud Amazon there on horseback, she that is
  taking a leap over the crosier and mitres, and carries on a
  wand a hat together with a banner, on which there's
  a goblet represented. Can you tell me what all this signifies?      40

  _Master of the Cellar._ The woman whom you see there on
  horseback, is the Free Election of the Bohemian Crown.
  That is signified by the round hat, and by that fiery steed
  on which she is riding. The hat is the pride of man; for
  he who cannot keep his hat on before kings and emperors             45
  is no free man.

  _Neumann._ But what is the cup there on the banner?

  _Master of the Cellar._ The cup signifies the freedom of the
  Bohemian Church, as it was in our forefathers' times. Our
  forefathers in the wars of the Hussites forced from the Pope        50
  this noble privilege: for the Pope, you know, will not grant
  the cup to any layman. Your true Moravian values nothing
  beyond the cup; it is his costly jewel, and has cost the
  Bohemians their precious blood in many and many a battle.

  _Neumann._ And what says that chart that hangs in the air           55
  there, over it all?

  _Master of the Cellar._ That signifies the Bohemian letter
  royal, which we forced from the Emperor Rudolph--a
  precious, never to be enough valued parchment that secures
  to the new Church the old privileges of free ringing and            60
  open psalmody. But since he of Steiermärk has ruled over
  us, that is at an end; and after the battle of Prague, in
  which Count Palatine Frederick lost crown and empire, our
  faith hangs upon the pulpit and the altar--and our brethren
  look at their homes over their shoulders; but the letter            65
  royal the Emperor himself cut to pieces with his scissors.

  _Neumann._ Why, my good Master of the Cellar! you are
  deep read in the chronicles of your country!

  _Master of the Cellar._ So were my forefathers, and for that
  reason were they minstrels, and served under Procopius and          70
  Ziska. Peace be with their ashes! Well, well! they fought
  for a good cause though--There! carry it up!

  _Neumann._ Stay! let me but look at this second quarter.
  Look there! That is, when at Prague Castle the Imperial
  Counsellors, Martinitz and Stawata were hurled down head            75
  over heels. 'Tis even so! there stands Count Thur who
  commands it.

            [Runner _takes the service-cup and goes off with it._

  _Master of the Cellar._ O let me never more hear of that day.
  It was the three and twentieth of May, in the year of our
  Lord one thousand, six hundred, and eighteen. It seems to me        80
  as it were but yesterday--from that unlucky day it all began,
  all the heart-aches of the country. Since that day it is now
  sixteen years, and there has never once been peace on the earth.

                       [_Health drunk aloud at the second table._

  The Prince of Weimar! Hurra!

                                [_At the third and fourth table._

  Long live Prince William! Long live Duke Bernard!                   85
  Hurra!                                     [_Music strikes up._

  _First Servant._ Hear 'em! Hear 'em! What an uproar!

  _Second Servant (comes in running)._ Did you hear? They have
  drunk the Prince of Weimar's health.

  _Third Servant._ The Swedish Chief Commander!                       90

  _First Servant (speaking at the same time)._ The Lutheran!

  _Second Servant._ Just before, when Count Deodate gave out
  the Emperor's health, they were all as mum as a nibbling
  mouse.

  _Master of the Cellar._ Po, po! When the wine goes in,              95
  strange things come out. A good servant hears, and hears
  not!--You should be nothing but eyes and feet, except when
  you are called.

  _Second Servant (to the Runner, to whom he gives secretly a flask
  of wine, keeping his eye on the Master of the Cellar, standing
  between him and the Runner)._ Quick, Thomas! before the
  Master of the Cellar runs this way--'tis a flask of                100
  Frontignac!--Snapped it up at the third table.--Canst go off
  with it?

  _Runner (hides it in his pocket)._ All right!

                                      [_Exit the_ Second Servant.

  _Third Servant (aside to the First)._ Be on the hark, Jack! that
  we may have right plenty to tell to father Quivoga--He will        105
  give us right plenty of absolution in return for it.

  _First Servant._ For that very purpose I am always having
  something to do behind Illo's chair.--He is the man for speeches
  to make you stare with!

  _Master of the Cellar (to Neumann)._ Who, pray, may that           110
  swarthy man be, he with the cross, that is chatting so
  confidentially with Esterhats?

  _Neumann._ Ay! he too is one of those to whom they confide
  too much. He calls himself Maradas, a Spaniard is he.

  _Master of the Cellar (impatiently)._ Spaniard! Spaniard!--I       115
  tell you, friend; nothing good comes of those Spaniards. All
  these out-landish[665:1] fellows are little better than rogues.

  _Neumann._ Fy, fy! you should not say so, friend. There are
  among them our very best generals, and those on whom the
  Duke at this moment relies the most.                               120

  _Master of the Cellar (taking the flask out of the Runner's
      pocket)._
  My son, it will be broken to pieces in your pocket.

          [_TERTSKY hurries in, fetches away the paper, and calls
               to a_ Servant _for pen and ink, and goes to the
               back of the stage._

  _Master of the Cellar (to the Servants)._ The Lieutenant-General
  stands up.--Be on the watch.--Now! They break up.--Off,
  and move back the forms.

          [_They rise at all the tables, the_ Servants _hurry off
               the front of the stage to the tables; part of the
               guests come forward._


FOOTNOTES:

[665:1] There is a humour in the original which cannot be given in the
translation. 'Die _welschen_ alle,' &c., which word in classical German
means the _Italians_ alone; but in its first sense, and at present in
the _vulgar_ use of the word, signifies foreigners in general. Our word
wall-nuts, I suppose, means _outlandish_ nuts--Wallae nuces, in German
'Welschnüsse'.--_T._


LINENOTES:

[13] isn't] a'nt 1800, 1828, 1829.

[31] _Master of the Cellar (shaking his head while he fetches and rinses
the cups)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[74] _there_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 83] _drunk_] _drank_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[89] drunk] drank 1800, 1828, 1829.

[98] called] called to 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE XIII

_OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI enters in conversation with MARADAS, and both place
themselves quite on the edge of the stage on one side of the proscenium.
On the side directly opposite, MAX PICCOLOMINI, by himself, lost in
thought, and taking no part in any thing that is going forward. The
middle space between both, but rather more distant from the edge of the
stage, is filled up by BUTLER, ISOLANI, GOETZ, TIEFENBACH, and KOLATTO._

  _Isolani (while the company is coming forward)._ Good night,
  good night, Kolatto! Good night, Lieutenant-General!--I should
  rather say, good morning.

  _Goetz (to Tiefenbach)._ Noble brother!

  _Tiefenbach._ Ay! 'twas a royal feast indeed.                        5

  _Goetz._ Yes, my Lady Countess understands these matters.
  Her mother-in-law, heaven rest her soul, taught her!--Ah!
  that was a housewife for you!

  _Tiefenbach._ There was not her like in all Bohemia for setting
  out a table.                                                        10

  _Octavio (aside to Maradas)._ Do me the favour to talk to
  me--talk of what you will--or of nothing. Only preserve the
  appearance at least of talking. I would not wish to stand by
  myself, and yet I conjecture that there will be goings on here
  worthy of our attentive observation.                                15

  _Isolani (on the point of going)._ Lights! lights!

  _Tertsky (advances with the paper to Isolani)._ Noble brother!
  two minutes longer!--Here is something to subscribe.

  _Isolani._ Subscribe as much as you like--but you must excuse
  me from reading it.                                                 20

  _Tertsky._ There is no need. It is the oath which you have
  already read.--Only a few marks of your pen!

         [_ISOLANI hands over the paper to OCTAVIO respectfully._

  _Tertsky._ Nay, nay, first come first served. There is no
  precedence here.

        [_OCTAVIO runs over the paper with apparent indifference.
             TERTSKY watches him at some distance._

  _Goetz (to Tertsky)._ Noble Count! with your                        25
  permission--Good night.

  _Tertsky._ Where's the hurry? Come, one other composing
  draught. (_To the Servants_)--Ho!

  _Goetz._ Excuse me--an't able.

  _Tertsky._ A thimble-full!                                          30

  _Goetz._ Excuse me.

  _Tiefenbach (sits down)._ Pardon me, nobles!--This standing
  does not agree with me.

  _Tertsky._ Consult only your own convenience, General!

  _Tiefenbach._ Clear at head, sound in stomach--only my legs         35
  won't carry me any longer.

  _Isolani._ Poor legs! how should they? Such an unmerciful
  load!

        [_OCTAVIO subscribes his name, and reaches over the paper
             to TERTSKY, who gives it to ISOLANI; and he goes to
             the table to sign his name._

  _Tiefenbach._ 'Twas that war in Pomerania that first brought
  it on. Out in all weathers--ice and snow--no help for it.--I        40
  shall never get the better of it all the days of my life.

  _Goetz._ Why, in simple verity, your Swede makes no nice
  enquiries about the season.

  _Tertsky (observing Isolani, whose hand trembles excessively, so
  that he can scarce direct his pen)._ Have you had that ugly
  complaint long, noble brother?--Dispatch it.                        45

  _Isolani._ The sins of youth! I have already tried the
  Chalybeate waters. Well--I must bear it.

            [_TERTSKY gives the paper to MARADAS; he steps to the
                 table to subscribe._

  _Octavio (advancing to Butler)._ You are not over fond of the
  orgies of Bacchus, Colonel! I have observed it. You would, I
  think, find yourself more to your liking in the uproar of a
      battle,                                                         50
  than of a feast.

  _Butler._ I must confess, 'tis not in my way.

  _Octavio._ Nor in mine either, I can assure you; and I am not
  a little glad, my much honoured Colonel Butler, that we agree
  so well in our opinions. A half dozen good friends at most,         55
  at a small round table, a glass of genuine Tokay, open hearts,
  and a rational conversation--that's my taste!

  _Butler._ And mine too, when it can be had.

          [_The paper comes to TIEFENBACH, who glances over it at
               the same time with GOETZ and KOLATTO. MARADAS in
               the mean time returns to OCTAVIO, all this takes
               place, the conversation with BUTLER proceeding
               uninterrupted._

  _Octavio (introducing Maradas to Butler)._ Don Balthasar
  Maradas! likewise a man of our stamp, and long ago your admirer.    60

                                                  [_BUTLER bows._

  _Octavio (continuing)._ You are a stranger here--'twas but
  yesterday you arrived--you are ignorant of the ways and means
  here. 'Tis a wretched place--I know, at our age, one loves to
  be snug and quiet--What if you moved your lodgings?--Come,
  be my visitor. (_BUTLER makes a low bow._) Nay, without             65
  compliment!--For a friend like you, I have still a corner
  remaining.

  _Butler._ Your obliged humble servant, my Lord
  Lieutenant-General!

            [_The paper comes to BUTLER, who goes to the table to
                 subscribe it. The front of the stage is vacant,
                 so that both the PICCOLOMINIS, each on the side
                 where he had been from the commencement of the
                 scene, remain alone._

  _Octavio (after having some time watched his son in silence, advances
  somewhat nearer to him)._ You were long absent from us,
  friend!                                                             70

  _Max._ I----urgent business detained me.

  _Octavio._ And, I observe, you are still absent!

  _Max._ You know this crowd and bustle always makes me
  silent.                                                             75

  _Octavio._ May I be permitted to ask what business 'twas that
  detained you? Tertsky knows it without asking!

  _Max._ What does Tertsky know?

  _Octavio._ He was the only one who did not miss you.

  _Isolani._ Well done, father! Rout out his baggage! Beat            80
  up his quarters! there is something there that should not be.

  _Tertsky (with the paper)._ Is there none wanting? Have the
  whole subscribed?

  _Octavio._ All.

  _Tertsky (calling aloud)._ Ho! Who subscribes?                      85

  _Butler (to Tertsky)._ Count the names. There ought to be
  just thirty.

  _Tertsky._ Here is a cross.

  _Tiefenbach._ That's my mark.

  _Isolani._ He cannot write; but his cross is a good cross, and      90
  is honoured by Jews as well as Christians.

  _Octavio (presses on to Max)._ Come, general! let us go. It is late.

  _Tertsky._ One Piccolomini only has signed.

  _Isolani (pointing to Max)._ Look! that is your man, that statue
  there, who has had neither eye, ear, nor tongue for us the          95
  whole evening.

            [_MAX receives the paper from TERTSKY, which he looks
                 upon vacantly._


LINENOTES:

[After 4] (_making the usual compliment after meals_) 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 15] [_He continues to fix his eye on the whole following scene._
1800, 1828, 1829.

[37] _Isolani (pointing at his corpulence)._ 1800, 1828, 1829. should]
_should_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 53] _Octavio (stepping nearer to him friendlily)._ 1800, 1828,
1829.

[Before 68] _Butler (coldly)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 76] _Octavio (advancing still nearer)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[76] business 'twas] the business was 1800, 1828, 1829.

[77] _Tertsky_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 80] _Isolani (who has been attending to them from some distance,
steps up)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[93] _One_ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE XIV

_To these enter ILLO from the inner room. He has in his hand the golden
service-cup, and is extremely distempered with drinking: GOETZ and
BUTLER follow him, endeavouring to keep him back._

  _Illo._ What do you want? Let me go.

  _Goetz and Butler._ Drink no more, Illo! For heaven's sake,
  drink no more.

  _Illo (goes up to Octavio, and shakes him cordially by the hand,
  and then drinks)._ Octavio! I bring this to you! Let all grudge
  be drowned in this friendly bowl! I know well enough, ye             5
  never loved me--Devil take me!--and I never loved you!--I am
  always even with people in that way!--Let what's past be past--that
  is, you understand--forgotten! I esteem you infinitely.
  (_Embracing him repeatedly._) You have not a dearer friend on
  earth than I--but that you know. The fellow that cries rogue        10
  to you calls me villain--and I'll strangle him!--my dear friend!

  _Tertsky (whispering to him)._ Art in thy senses? For heaven's
  sake, Illo! think where you are!

  _Illo (aloud)._ What do you mean?--There are none but friends
  here, are there? Not a sneaker among us, thank heaven!              15

  _Tertsky (to Butler)._ Take him off with you, force him off,
  I entreat you, Butler!

  _Butler (to Illo)._ Field Marshal! a word with you.

                                   [_Leads him to the sideboard._

  _Illo._ A thousand for one! Fill--Fill it once more up to the
  brim.--To this gallant man's health!                                20

  _Isolani (to Max, who all the while has been staring on the paper
  with fixed but vacant eyes)._ Slow and sure, my noble
  brother!--Hast parsed it all yet?--Some words yet to go
      through?--Ha?

  _Max._ What am I to do?

  _Tertsky (and at the same time Isolani)._ Sign your name.

  _Max (returns the paper)._ Let it stay till to-morrow. It is        25
  business--to-day I am not sufficiently collected. Send it to me
  to-morrow.

  _Tertsky._ Nay, collect yourself a little.

  _Isolani._ Awake, man! awake!--Come, thy signature, and
  have done with it! What? Thou art the youngest in the               30
  whole company, and wouldest be wiser than all of us together?
  Look there! thy father has signed--we have all signed.

  _Tertsky (to Octavio)._ Use your influence. Instruct him.

  _Octavio._ My son is at the age of discretion.

  _Illo (leaves the service-cup on the sideboard)._ What's the
  dispute?                                                            35

  _Tertsky._ He declines subscribing the paper.

  _Max._ I say, it may as well stay till to-morrow.

  _Illo._ It cannot stay. We have all subscribed to it--and so
  must you.--You must subscribe.

  _Max._ Illo, good night!                                            40

  _Illo._ No! You come not off so! The Duke shall learn
  who are his friends.         [_All collect round ILLO and MAX._

  _Max._ What my sentiments are towards the Duke, the Duke
  knows, every one knows--what need of this wild stuff?               45

  _Illo._ This is the thanks the Duke gets for his partiality to
  Italians and foreigners.--Us Bohemians he holds for little better
  than dullards--nothing pleases him but what's outlandish.

  _Tertsky (to the commanders, who at Illo's words give a sudden
  start, as preparing to resent them)._ It is the wine that speaks,
  and not his reason. Attend not to him, I entreat you.               50

  _Isolani._ Wine invents nothing: it only tattles.

  _Illo._ He who is not with me is against me. Your tender
  consciences! Unless they can slip out by a back-door, by a
  puny proviso----

  _Tertsky._ He is stark mad--don't listen to him!                    55

  _Illo._ Unless they can slip out by a proviso.--What of the
  proviso? The devil take this proviso!

  _Max._ What is there here then of such perilous import?
  You make me curious--I must look closer at it.

  _Tertsky (in a low voice to Illo)._ What are you doing, Illo?       60
  You are ruining us.

  _Tiefenbach (to Kolatto)._ Ay, ay! I observed, that before we
  sat down to supper, it was read differently.

  _Goetz._ Why, I seemed to think so too.

  _Isolani._ What do I care for that? Where there stand other         65
  names, mine can stand too.

  _Tiefenbach._ Before supper there was a certain proviso therein,
  or short clause concerning our duties to the Emperor.

  _Butler (to one of the commanders)._ For shame, for shame!
  Bethink you. What is the main business here? The question           70
  now is, whether we shall keep our General, or let him retire.
  One must not take these things too nicely and
  over-scrupulously.

  _Isolani (to one of the Generals)._ Did the Duke make any of
  these provisos when he gave you your regiment?                      75

  _Tertsky (to Goetz)._ Or when he gave you the office of
  army-purveyancer, which brings you in yearly a thousand pistoles!

  _Illo._ He is a rascal who makes us out to be rogues. If
  there be any one that wants satisfaction, let him say so,--I am
  his man.                                                            80

  _Tiefenbach._ Softly, softly! 'Twas but a word or two.

  _Max (having read the paper gives it back)._ Till to-morrow,
  therefore!

  _Illo (stammering with rage and fury, loses all command over
  himself, and presents the paper to Max with one hand, and his
  sword in the other)._ Subscribe--Judas!

  _Isolani._ Out upon you, Illo!                                      85

  _Octavio, Tertsky, Butler (all together)._ Down with the sword!

  _Max (rushes on him suddenly and disarms him, then to Count
  Tertsky)._ Take him off to bed.

          [_MAX leaves the stage. ILLO cursing and raving is held
               back by some of the Officers, and amidst a
               universal confusion the curtain drops._


LINENOTES:

[11] _dear_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[15] here, are there? (_looks round the whole circle with a jolly and
triumphant air_) 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 16] _Tertsky (to Butler, eagerly)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 19] _Illo (cordially)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[22] _parsed_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 23] _Max (waking as from a dream)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 24] [_OCTAVIO directs his eyes on him with intense anxiety._
1800, 1828, 1829.

[26] _business_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 49] _Tertsky (in extreme embarrassment, to the, &c._ 1800, 1828,
1829.

[Before 51] _Isolani (with a bitter laugh)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[51] _tattles_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 55] _Tertsky (interrupting him)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 56] _Illo (raising his voice to the highest pitch)._ 1800, 1828,
1829.

[57] _proviso_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 58] _Max (has his attention roused, and looks again into the
paper)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[67] _was_ 1800, 1828, 1829.




ACT III


SCENE I

SCENE.--_A Chamber in PICCOLOMINI'S Mansion.--Night._

_OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI. A_ Valet de Chambre, _with Lights._

  _Octavio._----And when my son comes in, conduct him hither.
  What is the hour?

  _Valet._          'Tis on the point of morning.

  _Octavio._ Set down the light. We mean not to undress.
  You may retire to sleep.

         [_Exit Valet. OCTAVIO paces, musing, across the chamber;
              MAX PICCOLOMINI enters unobserved, and looks at his
              father for some moments in silence._

  _Max._ Art thou offended with me? Heaven knows                       5
  That odious business was no fault of mine.
  'Tis true, indeed, I saw thy signature.
  What thou hadst sanctioned, should not, it might seem,
  Have come amiss to me. But--'tis my nature--
  Thou know'st that in such matters I must follow                     10
  My own light, not another's.

  _Octavio (embraces him)._    Follow it,
  O follow it still further, my best son!
  To-night, dear boy! it hath more faithfully
  Guided thee than the example of thy father.

  _Max._ Declare thyself less darkly.

  _Octavio._                          I will do so.                   15
  For after what has taken place this night,
  There must remain no secrets 'twixt us two.

                                         [_Both seat themselves._

  Max Piccolomini! what thinkest thou of
  The oath that was sent round for signatures?

  _Max._ I hold it for a thing of harmless import,                    20
  Although I love not these set declarations.

  _Octavio._ And on no other ground hast thou refused
  The signature they fain had wrested from thee?

  _Max._ It was a serious business----I was absent--
  The affair itself seemed not so urgent to me.                       25

  _Octavio._ Be open, Max. Thou hadst then no suspicion?

  _Max._ Suspicion! what suspicion? Not the least.

  _Octavio._ Thank thy good angel, Piccolomini:
  He drew thee back unconscious from the abyss.

  _Max._ I know not what thou meanest.

  _Octavio._                           I will tell thee.              30
  Fain would they have extorted from thee, son,
  The sanction of thy name to villainy;
  Yea, with a single flourish of thy pen,
  Made thee renounce thy duty and thy honour!

  _Max (rises)._ Octavio!

  _Octavio._              Patience! Seat yourself. Much yet           35
  Hast thou to hear from me, friend!--hast for years
  Lived in incomprehensible illusion.
  Before thine eyes is Treason drawing out
  As black a web as e'er was spun for venom:
  A power of hell o'erclouds thy understanding.                       40
  I dare no longer stand in silence--dare
  No longer see thee wandering on in darkness,
  Nor pluck the bandage from thine eyes.

  _Max._                                 My father!
  Yet, ere thou speak'st, a moment's pause of thought!
  If your disclosures should appear to be                             45
  Conjectures only--and almost I fear
  They will be nothing further--spare them! I
  Am not in that collected mood at present,
  That I could listen to them quietly.

  _Octavio._ The deeper cause thou hast to hate this light,           50
  The more impatient cause have I, my son,
  To force it on thee. To the innocence
  And wisdom of thy heart I could have trusted thee
  With calm assurance--but I see the net
  Preparing--and it is thy heart itself                               55
  Alarms me for thine innocence--that secret,
  Which thou concealest, forces mine from me.
  Know, then, they are duping thee!--a most foul game
  With thee and with us all--nay, hear me calmly--
  The Duke even now is playing. He assumes                            60
  The mask, as if he would forsake the army;
  And in this moment makes he preparations
  That army from the Emperor to steal,
  And carry it over to the enemy!

  _Max._ That low Priest's legend I know well, but did not            65
  Expect to hear it from thy mouth.

  _Octavio._                        That mouth,
  From which thou hearest it at this present moment,
  Doth warrant thee that it is no Priest's legend.

  _Max._ How mere a maniac they supposed the Duke!
  What, he can meditate?--the Duke?--can dream                        70
  That he can lure away full thirty thousand
  Tried troops and true, all honourable soldiers,
  More than a thousand noblemen among them,
  From oaths, from duty, from their honour lure them,
  And make them all unanimous to do                                   75
  A deed that brands them scoundrels?

  _Octavio._                          Such a deed,
  With such a front of infamy, the Duke
  No wise desires--what he requires of us
  Bears a far gentler appellation. Nothing
  He wishes, but to give the Empire peace.                            80
  And so, because the Emperor hates this peace,
  Therefore the Duke--the Duke will force him to it.
  All parts of the Empire will he pacify,
  And for his trouble will retain in payment
  (What he has already in his gripe)--Bohemia!                        85

  _Max._ Has he, Octavio, merited of us,
  That we--that we should think so vilely of him?

  _Octavio._ What we would think is not the question here.
  The affair speaks for itself--and clearest proofs!
  Hear me, my son--'tis not unknown to thee,                          90
  In what ill credit with the Court we stand.
  But little dost thou know, or guess, what tricks,
  What base intrigues, what lying artifices,
  Have been employed--for this sole end--to sow
  Mutiny in the camp! All bands are loosed--                          95
  Loosed all the bands, that link the officer
  To his liege Emperor, all that bind the soldier
  Affectionately to the citizen.
  Lawless he stands, and threateningly beleaguers
  The state he's bound to guard. To such a height                    100
  'Tis swoln, that at this hour the Emperor
  Before his armies--his own armies--trembles;
  Yea, in his capital, his palace, fears
  The traitor's poniards, and is meditating
  To hurry off and hide his tender offspring----                     105
  Not from the Swedes, not from the Lutherans--
  No! from his own troops hide and hurry them!

  _Max._ Cease, cease! thou tortur'st, shatter'st me. I know
  That oft we tremble at an empty terror;
  But the false phantasm brings a real misery.                       110

  _Octavio._ It is no phantasm. An intestine war,
  Of all the most unnatural and cruel,
  Will burst out into flames, if instantly
  We do not fly and stifle it. The Generals
  Are many of them long ago won over;                                115
  The subalterns are vacillating--whole
  Regiments and garrisons are vacillating.
  To foreigners our strong holds are entrusted;
  To that suspected Schafgotch is the whole
  Force of Silesia given up: to Tertsky                              120
  Five regiments, foot and horse--to Isolani,
  To Illo, Kinsky, Butler, the best troops.

  _Max._ Likewise to both of us.

  _Octavio._                     Because the Duke
  Believes he has secured us--means to lure us
  Still further on by splendid promises.                             125
  To me he portions forth the princedoms, Glatz
  And Sagan; and too plain I see the angle
  With which he doubts not to catch thee.

  _Max._                                  No! no!
  I tell thee--no!

  _Octavio._       O open yet thine eyes!
  And to what purpose think'st thou he has called us                 130
  Hither to Pilsen?--to avail himself
  Of our advice?--O when did Friedland ever
  Need our advice?--Be calm, and listen to me.
  To sell ourselves are we called hither, and,
  Decline we that--to be his hostages.                               135
  Therefore doth noble Galas stand aloof;
  Thy father, too, thou would'st not have seen here,
  If higher duties had not held him fettered.

  _Max._ He makes no secret of it--needs make none--
  That we're called hither for his sake--he owns it.                 140
  He needs our aidance to maintain himself--
  He did so much for us; and 'tis but fair
  That we too should do somewhat now for him.

  _Octavio._ And know'st thou what it is which we must do?
  That Illo's drunken mood betrayed it to thee.                      145
  Bethink thyself--what hast thou heard, what seen?
  The counterfeited paper--the omission
  Of that particular clause, so full of meaning,
  Does it not prove, that they would bind us down
  To nothing good?

  _Max._           That counterfeited paper                          150
  Appears to me no other than a trick
  Of Illo's own device. These underhand
  Traders in great men's interests ever use
  To urge and hurry all things to the extreme.
  They see the Duke at variance with the court,                      155
  And fondly think to serve him, when they widen
  The breach irreparably. Trust me, father,
  The Duke knows nothing of all this.

  _Octavio._                          It grieves me
  That I must dash to earth, that I must shatter
  A faith so specious; but I may not spare thee!                     160
  For this is not a time for tenderness.
  Thou must take measures, speedy ones--must act.
  I therefore will confess to thee, that all
  Which I've entrusted to thee now--that all
  Which seems to thee so unbelievable,                               165
  That--yes, I will tell thee--Max! I had it all
  From his own mouth--from the Duke's mouth I had it.

  _Max._ No!--no!--never!

  _Octavio._              Himself confided to me
  What I, 'tis true, had long before discovered
  By other means--himself confided to me,                            170
  That 'twas his settled plan to join the Swedes;
  And, at the head of the united armies,
  Compel the Emperor--

  _Max._               He is passionate.
  The Court has stung him--he is sore all over
  With injuries and affronts; and in a moment                        175
  Of irritation, what if he, for once,
  Forgot himself? He's an impetuous man.

  _Octavio._ Nay, in cold blood he did confess this to me:
  And having construed my astonishment
  Into a scruple of his power, he shewed me                          180
  His written evidences--shewed me letters,
  Both from the Saxon and the Swede, that gave
  Promise of aidance, and defin'd the amount.

  _Max._ It cannot be!--can _not_ be! _can_ not be!
  Dost thou not see, it cannot!                                      185
  Thou wouldest of necessity have shewn him
  Such horror, such deep loathing--that or he
  Had taken thee for his better genius, or
  Thou stood'st not now a living man before me--

  _Octavio._ I have laid open my objections to him,                  190
  Dissuaded him with pressing earnestness;
  But my abhorrence, the full sentiment
  Of my whole heart--that I have still kept sacred
  To my own consciousness.

  _Max._                   And thou hast been
  So treacherous? That looks not like my father!                     195
  I trusted not thy words, when thou didst tell me
  Evil of him; much less can I now do it,
  That thou calumniatest thy own self.

  _Octavio._ I did not thrust myself into his secrecy.

  _Max._ Uprightness merited his confidence.                         200

  _Octavio._ He was no longer worthy of sincerity.

  _Max._ Dissimulation, sure, was still less worthy
  Of thee, Octavio!

  _Octavio._        Gave I him a cause
  To entertain a scruple of my honour?

  _Max._ That he did not, evinced his confidence.                    205

  _Octavio._ Dear son, it is not always possible
  Still to preserve that infant purity
  Which the voice teaches in our inmost heart.
  Still in alarm, for ever on the watch
  Against the wiles of wicked men, e'en Virtue                       210
  Will sometimes bear away her outward robes
  Soiled in the wrestle with Iniquity.
  This is the curse of every evil deed,
  That, propagating still, it brings forth evil.
  I do not cheat my better soul with sophisms:                       215
  I but perform my orders; the Emperor
  Prescribes my conduct to me. Dearest boy,
  Far better were it, doubtless, if we all
  Obeyed the heart at all times; but so doing,
  In this our present sojourn with bad men,                          220
  We must abandon many an honest object.
  'Tis now our call to serve the Emperor,
  By what means he can best be served--the heart
  May whisper what it will--this is our call!

  _Max._ It seems a thing appointed, that to-day                     225
  I should not comprehend, not understand thee.
  The Duke thou say'st did honestly pour out
  His heart to thee, but for an evil purpose;
  And thou dishonestly hast cheated him
  For a good purpose! Silence, I entreat thee--                      230
  My friend thou stealest not from me--
  Let me not lose my father!

  _Octavio._ As yet thou know'st not all, my son. I have
  Yet somewhat to disclose to thee.             [_After a pause._
                                    Duke Friedland
  Hath made his preparations. He relies                              235
  Upon his stars. He deems us unprovided,
  And thinks to fall upon us by surprise.
  Yea, in his dream of hope, he grasps already
  The golden circle in his hand. He errs.
  We too have been in action--he but grasps                          240
  His evil fate, most evil, most mysterious!

  _Max._ O nothing rash, my sire! By all that's good
  Let me invoke thee--no precipitation!

  _Octavio._ With light tread stole he on his evil way,
  With light tread hath Vengeance stole on after him.                245
  Unseen she stands already, dark behind him--
  But one step more--he shudders in her grasp!
  Thou hast seen Questenberg with me. As yet
  Thou know'st but his ostensible commission;
  He brought with him a private one, my son!                         250
  And that was for me only.

  _Max._                    May I know it?

  _Octavio (seizes the patent)._           Max!       [_A pause._
  ----In this disclosure place I in thy hands
  The Empire's welfare and thy father's life.
  Dear to thy inmost heart is Wallenstein:
  A powerful tie of love, of veneration,                             255
  Hath knit thee to him from thy earliest youth.
  Thou nourishest the wish.--O let me still
  Anticipate thy loitering confidence!
  The hope thou nourishest to knit thyself
  Yet closer to him----

  _Max._                Father----

  _Octavio._                       O my son!                         260
  I trust thy heart undoubtingly. But am I
  Equally sure of thy collectedness?
  Wilt thou be able, with calm countenance,
  To enter this man's presence, when that I
  Have trusted to thee his whole fate?

  _Max._                               According                     265
  As thou dost trust me, father, with his crime.

         [_OCTAVIO takes a paper out of his escrutoire, and gives
              it to him._

  _Max._ What? how? a full Imperial patent!

  _Octavio._                                Read it.

  _Max (just glances on it)._ Duke Friedland sentenced and condemned!

  _Octavio._ Even so.

  _Max (throws down the paper)._ O this is too much! O unhappy
      error!                                                         270

  _Octavio._ Read on. Collect thyself.

  _Max (after he has read further, with a look of affright and
      astonishment on his father)._ How! what! Thou! thou!

  _Octavio._ But for the present moment, till the King
  Of Hungary may safely join the army,
  Is the command assigned to me.

  _Max._                         And think'st thou,
  Dost thou believe, that thou wilt tear it from him?                275
  O never hope it!--Father! father! father!
  An inauspicious office is enjoined thee.
  This paper here--this! and wilt thou enforce it?
  The mighty in the middle of his host,
  Surrounded by his thousands, him would'st thou                     280
  Disarm--degrade! Thou art lost, both thou and all of us.

  _Octavio._ What hazard I incur thereby, I know.
  In the great hand of God I stand. The Almighty
  Will cover with his shield the Imperial house,
  And shatter, in his wrath, the work of darkness.                   285
  The Emperor hath true servants still; and even
  Here in the camp, there are enough brave men,
  Who for the good cause will fight gallantly.
  The faithful have been warned--the dangerous
  Are closely watched. I wait but the first step,                    290
  And then immediately----

  _Max._                   What! on suspicion?
  Immediately?

  _Octavio._   The Emperor is no tyrant.
  The deed alone he'll punish, not the wish.
  The Duke hath yet his destiny in his power.
  Let him but leave the treason uncompleted,                         295
  He will be silently displaced from office,
  And make way to his Emperor's royal son.
  An honourable exile to his castles
  Will be a benefaction to him rather
  Than punishment. But the first open step----                       300

  _Max._ What callest thou such a step? A wicked step
  Ne'er will he take; but thou mightest easily,
  Yea, thou hast done it, misinterpret him.

  _Octavio._ Nay, howsoever punishable were
  Duke Friedland's purposes, yet still the steps                     305
  Which he hath taken openly, permit
  A mild construction. It is my intention
  To leave this paper wholly uninforced
  Till some act is committed which convicts him
  Of a high-treason, without doubt or plea,                          310
  And that shall sentence him.

  _Max._                       But who the judge?

  _Octavio._ Thyself.

  _Max._ For ever, then, this paper will lie idle.

  _Octavio._ Too soon, I fear, its powers must all be proved.
  After the counter-promise of this evening,                         315
  It cannot be but he must deem himself
  Secure of the majority with us;
  And of the army's general sentiment
  He hath a pleasing proof in that petition
  Which thou delivered'st to him from the regiments.                 320
  Add this too--I have letters that the Rhinegrave
  Hath changed his route, and travels by forced marches
  To the Bohemian Forest. What this purports,
  Remains unknown; and, to confirm suspicion,
  This night a Swedish nobleman arrived here.                        325

  _Max._ I have thy word. Thou'lt not proceed to action
  Before thou hast convinced me--me myself.

  _Octavio._ Is it possible? Still, after all thou know'st,
  Canst thou believe still in his innocence?

  _Max._ Thy judgment may mistake; my heart can not.                 330
  These reasons might expound thy spirit or mine;
  But they expound not Friedland--I have faith:
  For as he knits his fortunes to the stars,
  Even so doth he resemble them in secret,
  Wonderful, still inexplicable courses!                             335
  Trust me, they do him wrong. All will be solved.
  These smokes, at once, will kindle into flame--
  The edges of this black and stormy cloud
  Will brighten suddenly, and we shall view
  The Unapproachable glide out in splendour.                         340

  _Octavio._ I will await it.


LINENOTES:

Act III, Scene I. _A Chamber, &c. . . . It is Night. Octavio, &c._ 1800,
1828, 1829.

[8] _thou_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 12] _Octavio (goes up to him and embraces him)._ 1800, 1828,
1829.

[39] for] from 1800, 1828, 1829.

[47] They] There 1828, 1829.

[After 56] [_Fixing his eye steadfastly on his son's face._ 1800, 1828,
1829.

[57] _mine_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 57] [_Max attempts to answer but hesitates, and casts his eyes to
the ground, embarrassed. Octavio, after a pause._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[63] _steal_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[69] supposed] suppose 1800, 1828, 1829.

[78] wise] ways 1800, 1828, 1829.

[81] _this_ 1800.

[82] _force_ 1800.

[88] _we would_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[104] traitor's] traitors' 1800, 1828, 1829.

[127] angle] _angel_ 1800, 1828, 1829, 1834 _angle_ 1852. Angle, der
Angel, a curious misprint perpetuated in the new edition. [MS. note by
Derwent Coleridge.]

[128] _thee_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[166] That--yes, I will tell thee-- (_a pause_), &c. 1800, 1828, 1829.]

[Before 168] _Max (in excessive agitation)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[192] _abhorrence_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[193] _whole_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[194] _thou_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[197] _now_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[209] alarm] alarum 1828, 1829.

[233] _Octavio (suppressing resentment)._ _1800, 1828, 1829.

[245] With light tread] And light of tread 1800, 1828, 1829.

[250] _private_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[257] _wish_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[259] _hope_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[317] _us_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[322] Hath] Had 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 330] _Max (with enthusiasm)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 330] [_Moderates his voice and manner._ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE II

_OCTAVIO and MAX as before. To them the_ Valet of the Chamber.

  _Octavio._ How now, then?

  _Valet._                  A dispatch is at the door.

  _Octavio._ So early? From whom comes he then? Who is it?

  _Valet._ That he refused to tell me.

  _Octavio._                           Lead him in:
  And, hark you--let it not transpire.

                          [_Exit_ Valet--_the_ Cornet _steps in._

  _Octavio._ Ha! Cornet--is it you? and from Count Galas?              5
  Give me your letters.

  _Cornet._             The Lieutenant-General
  Trusted it not to letters.

  _Octavio._                 And what is it?

  _Cornet._ He bade me tell you--Dare I speak openly here?

  _Octavio._ My son knows all.

  _Cornet._                    We have him.

  _Octavio._                                Whom?

  _Cornet._                                       Sesina,
  The old negotiator.

  _Octavio._          And you have him?                               10

  _Cornet._ In the Bohemian Forest Captain Mohrbrand
  Found and secured him yester morning early:
  He was proceeding then to Regenspurg,
  And on him were dispatches for the Swede.

  _Octavio._ And the dispatches----

  _Cornet._                         The Lieutenant-General            15
  Sent them that instant to Vienna, and
  The prisoner with them.

  _Octavio._              This is, indeed, a tiding!
  That fellow is a precious casket to us,
  Enclosing weighty things.--Was much found on him?

  _Cornet._ I think, six packets, with Count Tertsky's arms.          20

  _Octavio._ None in the Duke's own hand?

  _Cornet._                               Not that I know.

  _Octavio._ And old Sesina?

  _Cornet._                  He was sorely frightened,
  When it was told him he must to Vienna.
  But the Count Altringer bade him take heart,
  Would he but make a full and free confession.                       25

  _Octavio._ Is Altringer then with your Lord? I heard
  That he lay sick at Linz.

  _Cornet._                 These three days past
  He's with my master, the Lieutenant-General,
  At Frauenberg. Already have they sixty
  Small companies together, chosen men;                               30
  Respectfully they greet you with assurances,
  That they are only waiting your commands.

  _Octavio._ In a few days may great events take place.
  And when must you return?

  _Cornet._                 I wait your orders.

  _Octavio._ Remain till evening.

                 [Cornet _signifies his assent and obeisance, and
                      is going._

  _Octavio._                      No one saw you--ha?                 35

  _Cornet._ No living creature. Through the cloister wicket
  The Capuchins, as usual, let me in.

  _Octavio._ Go, rest your limbs, and keep yourself concealed.
  I hold it probable, that yet ere evening
  I shall dispatch you. The development                               40
  Of this affair approaches: ere the day,
  That even now is dawning in the heaven,
  Ere this eventful day hath set, the lot
  That must decide our fortunes will be drawn.    [_Exit_ Cornet.


LINENOTES:

[9] _Sesina_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 10] _Octavio (eagerly)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE III

_OCTAVIO and MAX PICCOLOMINI._

  _Octavio._ Well--and what now, son? All will soon be clear;
  For all, I'm certain, went through that Sesina.

  _Max._ I will procure me light a shorter way.
  Farewell.

  _Octavio._ Where now?--Remain here.

  _Max._ To the Duke.                                                  5

  _Octavio._          What----

  _Max._ If thou hast believed that I shall act
  A part in this thy play----
  Thou hast miscalculated on me grievously.
  My way must be straight on. True with the tongue,                   10
  False with the heart--I may not, cannot be:
  Nor can I suffer that a man should trust me--
  As his friend trust me--and then lull my conscience
  With such low pleas as these:--'I ask'd him not--
  He did it all at his own hazard--and                                15
  My mouth has never lied to him.'--No, no!
  What a friend takes me for, that I must be.
  --I'll to the Duke; ere yet this day is ended
  Will I demand of him that he do save
  His good name from the world, and with one stride                   20
  Break through and rend this fine-spun web of yours.
  He can, he will!--I still am his believer.
  Yet I'll not pledge myself, but that those letters
  May furnish you, perchance, with proofs against him.
  How far may not this Tertsky have proceeded--                       25
  What may not he himself too have permitted
  Himself to do, to snare the enemy,
  The laws of war excusing? Nothing, save
  His own mouth shall convict him--nothing less!
  And face to face will I go question him.                            30

  _Octavio._ Thou wilt?

  _Max._                I will, as sure as this heart beats.

  _Octavio._ I have, indeed, miscalculated on thee.
  I calculated on a prudent son,
  Who would have blest the hand beneficent
  That plucked him back from the abyss--and lo!                       35
  A fascinated being I discover,
  Whom his two eyes befool, whom passion wilders,
  Whom not the broadest light of noon can heal.
  Go, question him!--Be mad enough, I pray thee.
  The purpose of thy father, of thy Emperor,                          40
  Go, give it up free booty:--Force me, drive me
  To an open breach before the time. And now,
  Now that a miracle of heaven had guarded
  My secret purpose even to this hour,
  And laid to sleep Suspicion's piercing eyes,                        45
  Let me have lived to see that mine own son,
  With frantic enterprise, annihilates
  My toilsome labours and state-policy.

  _Max._ Aye--this state-policy! O how I curse it!
  You will some time, with your state-policy,                         50
  Compel him to the measure: it may happen,
  Because ye are determined that he is guilty,
  Guilty ye'll make him. All retreat cut off,
  You close up every outlet, hem him in
  Narrower and narrower, till at length ye force him--                55
  Yes, ye,--ye force him, in his desperation,
  To set fire to his prison. Father! Father!
  That never can end well--it cannot--will not!
  And let it be decided as it may,
  I see with boding heart the near approach                           60
  Of an ill-starred unblest catastrophe.
  For this great Monarch-spirit, if he fall,
  Will drag a world into the ruin with him.
  And as a ship (that midway on the ocean
  Takes fire) at once, and with a thunder-burst                       65
  Explodes, and with itself shoots out its crew
  In smoke and ruin betwixt sea and heaven;
  So will he, falling, draw down in his fall
  All us, who're fixed and mortised to his fortune.
  Deem of it what thou wilt; but pardon me,                           70
  That I must bear me on in my own way.
  All must remain pure betwixt him and me;
  And, ere the day-light dawns, it must be known
  Which I must lose--my father, or my friend.

                            [_During his exit the curtain drops._


LINENOTES:

[Before 3] _Max (who through the whole of the foregoing scene has been
in a violent and visible struggle of feelings, at length starts as one
resolved)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 6] _Octavio (alarmed)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 7] _Max (returning)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[14] ask'd] ask 1800, 1828, 1829.

[16] _mouth_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[22] _I_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[52] _determined_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[53] _make_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[56] _ye_,--_ye force_ 1800, 1828, 1829.




ACT IV


SCENE I

SCENE--_A Room fitted up for astrological Labours, and provided with
celestial Charts, with Globes, Telescopes, Quadrants, and other
mathematical Instruments.--Seven Colossal Figures, representing the
Planets, each with a transparent Star of a different Colour on its Head,
stand in a Semi-circle in the Back-ground, so that Mars and Saturn are
nearest the Eye.--The remainder of the Scene, and its Disposition, is
given in the Fourth Scene of the Second Act.--There must be a Curtain
over the Figures, which may be dropped, and conceal them on Occasions._

[_In the Fifth Scene of this Act it must be dropped; but in the Seventh
Scene, it must be again drawn up wholly or in part._]

_WALLENSTEIN at a black Table, on which a Speculum Astrologicum is
described with Chalk. SENI is taking Observations through a window._

  _Wallenstein._ All well--and now let it be ended, Seni.--Come,
  The dawn commences, and Mars rules the hour.
  We must give o'er the operation. Come,
  We know enough.

  _Seni._         Your Highness must permit me
  Just to contemplate Venus. She's now rising:                         5
  Like as a sun, so shines she in the east.

  _Wallenstein._ She is at present in her perigee,
  And shoots down now her strongest influences.

                        [_Contemplating the figure on the table._

  Auspicious aspect! fateful in conjunction,
  At length the mighty three corradiate;                              10
  And the two stars of blessing, Jupiter
  And Venus, take between them the malignant
  Slily-malicious Mars, and thus compel
  Into my service that old mischief-founder;
  For long he viewed me hostilely, and ever                           15
  With beam oblique, or perpendicular,
  Now in the Quartile, now in the Secundan,
  Shot his red lightnings at my stars, disturbing
  Their blessed influences and sweet aspects.
  Now they have conquered the old enemy,                              20
  And bring him in the heavens a prisoner to me.

  _Seni (who has come down from the window)._ And in a corner house,
      your Highness--think of that!
  That makes each influence of double strength.

  _Wallenstein._ And sun and moon, too, in the Sextile aspect,
  The soft light with the vehement--so I love it.                     25
  Sol is the heart, Luna the head of heaven,
  Bold be the plan, fiery the execution.

  _Seni._ And both the mighty Lumina by no
  Maleficus affronted. Lo! Saturnus,
  Innocuous, powerless, in cadente Domo.                              30

  _Wallenstein._ The empire of Saturnus is gone by;
  Lord of the secret birth of things is he;
  Within the lap of earth, and in the depths
  Of the imagination dominates;
  And his are all things that eschew the light.                       35
  The time is o'er of brooding and contrivance;
  For Jupiter, the lustrous, lordeth now,
  And the dark work, complete of preparation,
  He draws by force into the realm of light.
  Now must we hasten on to action, ere                                40
  The scheme, and most auspicious positure
  Parts o'er my head, and takes once more its flight;
  For the heavens journey still, and sojourn not.

                                 [_There are knocks at the door._

  There's some one knocking there. See who it is.

  _Tertsky (from without)._ Open, and let me in.

  _Wallenstein._                                 Aye--'tis Tertsky.   45
  What is there of such urgence? We are busy.

  _Tertsky (from without)._ Lay all aside at present, I entreat you.
  It suffers no delaying.

  _Wallenstein._          Open, Seni!

            [_While SENI opens the doors for TERTSKY, WALLENSTEIN
                 draws the curtain over the figures._

  _Tertsky (enters)._ Hast thou already heard it? He is taken.
  Galas has given him up to the Emperor.                              50

                     [_SENI draws off the black table, and exit._


LINENOTES:

[14] _my_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[26] SOL . . . LUNA 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE II

_WALLENSTEIN, COUNT TERTSKY._

  _Wallenstein (to Tertsky)._ Who has been taken?--Who is given up?

  _Tertsky._ The man who knows our secrets, who knows every
  Negotiation with the Swede and Saxon,
  Through whose hands all and every thing has passed--

  _Wallenstein (drawing back)._ Nay, not Sesina?--Say, No! I entreat
      thee.                                                            5

  _Tertsky._ All on his road for Regenspurg to the Swede
  He was plunged down upon by Galas' agent,
  Who had been long in ambush, lurking for him.
  There must have been found on him my whole packet
  To Thur, to Kinsky, to Oxenstirn, to Arnheim:                       10
  All this is in their hands; they have now an insight
  Into the whole--our measures, and our motives.


SCENE III

_To them enters ILLO._

  _Illo (to Tertsky)._ Has he heard it?

  _Tertsky._                            He has heard it.

  _Illo (to Wallenstein)._                               Thinkest thou
      still
  To make thy peace with the Emperor, to regain
  His confidence?--E'en were it now thy wish
  To abandon all thy plans, yet still they know
  What thou hast wished; then forwards thou must press;                5
  Retreat is now no longer in thy power.

  _Tertsky._ They have documents against us, and in hands,
  Which shew beyond all power of contradiction--

  _Wallenstein._ Of my hand-writing--no iota. Thee
  I punish for thy lies.

  _Illo._                And thou believest,                          10
  That what this man, that what thy sister's husband,
  Did in thy name, will not stand on thy reck'ning?
  His word must pass for thy word with the Swede,
  And not with those that hate thee at Vienna.

  _Tertsky._ In writing thou gav'st nothing--But bethink thee,        15
  How far thou ventured'st by word of mouth
  With this Sesina? And will he be silent?
  If he can save himself by yielding up
  Thy secret purposes, will he retain them?

  _Illo._ Thyself dost not conceive it possible;                      20
  And since they now have evidence authentic
  How far thou hast already gone, speak!--tell us,
  What art thou waiting for? thou canst no longer
  Keep thy command; and beyond hope of rescue
  Thou'rt lost, if thou resign'st it.

  _Wallenstein._                      In the army                     25
  Lies my security. The army will not
  Abandon me. Whatever they may know,
  The power is mine, and they must gulp it down--
  And substitute I caution for my fealty,
  They must be satisfied, at least appear so.                         30

  _Illo._ The army, Duke, is thine now--for this moment--
  'Tis thine: but think with terror on the slow,
  The quiet power of time. From open violence
  The attachment of thy soldiery secures thee
  To-day--to-morrow; but grant'st thou them a respite,                35
  Unheard, unseen, they'll undermine that love
  On which thou now dost feel so firm a footing,
  With wily theft will draw away from thee
  One after the other----

  _Wallenstein._          'Tis a curséd accident!

  _Illo._ O, I will call it a most blessed one,                       40
  If it work on thee as it ought to do,
  Hurry thee on to action--to decision.
  The Swedish General----

  _Wallenstein._          He's arrived! Know'st thou
  What his commission is----

  _Illo._                    To thee alone
  Will he entrust the purpose of his coming.                          45

  _Wallenstein._ A curséd, curséd accident! Yes, yes,
  Sesina knows too much, and won't be silent.

  _Tertsky._ He's a Bohemian fugitive and rebel,
  His neck is forfeit. Can he save himself
  At thy cost, think you he will scruple it?                          50
  And if they put him to the torture, will he,
  Will he, that dastardling, have strength enough----

  _Wallenstein._ Their confidence is lost--irreparably!
  And I may act what way I will, I shall
  Be and remain for ever in their thought                             55
  A traitor to my country. How sincerely
  Soever I return back to my duty,
  It will no longer help me----

  _Illo._                       Ruin thee,
  That it will do! Not thy fidelity,
  Thy weakness will be deemed the sole occasion----                   60

  _Wallenstein._ What! I must realize it now in earnest,
  Because I toy'd too freely with the thought?
  Accurséd he who dallies with a devil!
  And must I--I must realize it now--
  Now, while I have the power, it must take place?                    65

  _Illo._ Now--now--ere they can ward and parry it!

  _Wallenstein (looking at the paper of signatures)._ I have the
      Generals' word--a written promise!
  Max Piccolomini stands not here--how's that?

  _Tertsky._ It was----he fancied----

  _Illo._                             Mere self-willedness.
  There needed no such thing 'twixt him and you.                      70

  _Wallenstein._ He is quite right--there needeth no such thing.
  The regiments, too, deny to march for Flanders--
  Have sent me in a paper of remonstrance,
  And openly resist the Imperial orders.
  The first step to revolt's already taken.                           75

  _Illo._ Believe me, thou wilt find it far more easy
  To lead them over to the enemy
  Than to the Spaniard.

  _Wallenstein._        I will hear, however,
  What the Swede has to say to me.

  _Illo (to Tertsky)._             Go, call him!
  He stands without the door in waiting.

  _Wallenstein._                         Stay!                        80
  Stay yet a little. It hath taken me
  All by surprise,--it came too quick upon me;
  'Tis wholly novel, that an accident,
  With its dark lordship, and blind agency,
  Should force me on with it.

  _Illo._                     First hear him only,                    85
  And after weigh it.                 [_Exeunt TERTSKY and ILLO._


LINENOTES:

[13] _His_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[31] _is_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[52] _he_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 53] _Wallenstein (lost in thought)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 61] _Wallenstein (pacing up and down in extreme agitation)._
1800, 1828, 1829.

[64] I _must_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[65] _must_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[79] _Illo (eagerly to Tertsky)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE IV

  _Wallenstein._      Is it possible?
  Is't so? I can no longer what I would?
  No longer draw back at my liking? I
  Must do the deed, because I thought of it,
  And fed this heart here with a dream? Because                        5
  I did not scowl temptation from my presence,
  Dallied with thoughts of possible fulfilment,
  Commenced no movement, left all time uncertain,
  And only kept the road, the access open?
  By the great God of Heaven! it was not                              10
  My serious meaning, it was ne'er resolve.
  I but amused myself with thinking of it.
  The free-will tempted me, the power to do
  Or not to do it.--Was it criminal
  To make the fancy minister to hope,                                 15
  To fill the air with pretty toys of air,
  And clutch fantastic sceptres moving t'ward me?
  Was not the will kept free? Beheld I not
  The road of duty close beside me--but
  One little step, and once more I was in it!                         20
  Where am I? Whither have I been transported?
  No road, no track behind me, but a wall,
  Impenetrable, insurmountable,
  Rises obedient to the spells I muttered
  And meant not--my own doings tower behind me.                       25
  A punishable man I seem, the guilt,
  Try what I will, I cannot roll off from me;
  The equivocal demeanour of my life
  Bears witness on my prosecutor's party;
  And even my purest acts from purest motives                         30
  Suspicion poisons with malicious gloss.
  Were I that thing, for which I pass, that traitor,
  A goodly outside I had sure reserved,
  Had drawn the coverings thick and double round me,
  Been calm and chary of my utterance.                                35
  But being conscious of the innocence
  Of my intent, my uncorrupted will,
  I gave way to my humours, to my passion:
  Bold were my words, because my deeds were not.
  Now every planless measure, chance event,                           40
  The threat of rage, the vaunt of joy and triumph,
  And all the May-games of a heart o'erflowing,
  Will they connect, and weave them all together
  Into one web of treason; all will be plan,
  My eye ne'er absent from the far-off mark,                          45
  Step tracing step, each step a politic progress;
  And out of all they'll fabricate a charge
  So specious, that I must myself stand dumb.
  I am caught in my own net, and only force,
  Naught but a sudden rent can liberate me.                           50
  How else! since that the heart's unbiass'd instinct
  Impelled me to the daring deed, which now
  Necessity, self-preservation, orders.
  Stern is the On-look of Necessity,
  Not without shudder many a human hand                               55
  Grasps the mysterious urn of destiny.
  My deed was mine, remaining in my bosom,
  Once suffered to escape from its safe corner
  Within the heart, its nursery and birthplace,
  Sent forth into the Foreign, it belongs                             60
  For ever to those sly malicious powers
  Whom never art of man conciliated.
  What is thy enterprize? thy aim? thy object?
  Hast honestly confessed it to thyself?
  Power seated on a quiet throne thou'dst shake,                      65
  Power on an ancient consecrated throne,
  Strong in possession, founded in old custom;
  Power by a thousand tough and stringy roots
  Fixed to the people's pious nursery-faith.
  This, this will be no strife of strength with strength.             70
  That feared I not. I brave each combatant,
  Whom I can look on, fixing eye to eye,
  Who full himself of courage kindles courage
  In me too. 'Tis a foe invisible,
  The which I fear--a fearful enemy,                                  75
  Which in the human heart opposes me,
  By its coward fear alone made fearful to me.
  Not that, which full of life, instinct with power,
  Makes known its present being, that is not
  The true, the perilously formidable.                                80
  O no! it is the common, the quite common,
  The thing of an eternal yesterday,
  What ever was, and evermore returns,
  Sterling to-morrow, for to-day 'twas sterling!
  For of the wholly common is man made,                               85
  And custom is his nurse! Woe then to them,
  Who lay irreverent hands upon his old
  House furniture, the dear inheritance
  From his forefathers. For time consecrates;
  And what is grey with age becomes religion.                         90
  Be in possession, and thou hast the right,
  And sacred will the many guard it for thee!

                               [_To the_ Page, _who here enters._

  The Swedish officer?--Well, let him enter.

             [_The_ Page _exit, WALLENSTEIN fixes his eye in deep
                  thought on the door._

  Yet is it pure--as yet!--the crime has come
  Not o'er this threshold yet--so slender is                          95
  The boundary that divideth life's two paths.


LINENOTES:

[Before 1] _Wallenstein (in soliloquy)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[2] _can . . . would_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[4] _do . . . thought_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 25] [_Pauses and remains in deep thought._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[39] _not_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[48] _dumb_ 1800.

[50] _rent_ 1800.

[After 50] [_Pauses again._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[53] _orders_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[55] many] may 1800, 1828, 1829.

[56] Grasps] Grasp 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 62] [_Paces in agitation through the chamber, then pauses, and,
after the pause, breaks out again into audible soliloquy._ 1800, 1828,
1829.


SCENE V

_WALLENSTEIN and WRANGEL._

  _Wallenstein._ Your name is Wrangel?

  _Wrangel._                           Gustave Wrangel, General
  Of the Sudermanian Blues.

  _Wallenstein._            It was a Wrangel
  Who injured me materially at Stralsund,
  And by his brave resistance was the cause
  Of the opposition which that sea-port made.                          5

  _Wrangel._ It was the doing of the element
  With which you fought, my Lord! and not my merit.
  The Baltic Neptune did assert his freedom,
  The sea and land, it seemed, were not to serve
  One and the same.

  _Wallenstein (makes a motion for him to take a seat, and seats
      himself)._ And where are your credentials?                      10
  Come you provided with full powers, Sir General?

  _Wrangel._ There are so many scruples yet to solve----

  _Wallenstein (having read the credentials)._ An able
      letter!--Ay--he is a prudent,
  Intelligent master, whom you serve, Sir General!
  The Chancellor writes me, that he but fulfils                       15
  His late departed Sovereign's own idea
  In helping me to the Bohemian crown.

  _Wrangel._ He says the truth. Our great King, now in heaven,
  Did ever deem most highly of your Grace's
  Pre-eminent sense and military genius;                              20
  And always the commanding Intellect,
  He said, should have command, and be the King.

  _Wallenstein._ Yes, he might say it safely.--General Wrangel,

                                              [_Taking his hand._

  Come, fair and open--Trust me, I was always
  A Swede at heart. Ey! that did you experience                       25
  Both in Silesia and at Nuremburg;
  I had you often in my power, and let you
  Always slip out by some back door or other.
  'Tis this for which the Court can ne'er forgive me,
  Which drives me to this present step: and since                     30
  Our interests so run in one direction,
  E'en let us have a thorough confidence
  Each in the other.

  _Wrangel._         Confidence will come
  Has each but only first security.

  _Wallenstein._ The Chancellor still, I see, does not quite trust
      me;                                                             35
  And, I confess--the gain does not wholly lie
  To my advantage--Without doubt he thinks
  If I can play false with the Emperor,
  Who is my Sov'reign, I can do the like
  With the enemy, and that the one too were                           40
  Sooner to be forgiven me than the other.
  Is not this your opinion too, Sir General?

  _Wrangel._ I have here an office merely, no opinion.

  _Wallenstein._ The Emperor hath urged me to the uttermost.
  I can no longer honourably serve him.                               45
  For my security, in self-defence,
  I take this hard step, which my conscience blames.

  _Wrangel._ That I believe. So far would no one go
  Who was not forced to it.                     [_After a pause._
                            What may have impelled
  Your princely Highness in this wise to act                          50
  Toward your Sovereign Lord and Emperor,
  Beseems not us to expound or criticize.
  The Swede is fighting for his good old cause.
  With his good sword and conscience. This concurrence,
  This opportunity, is in our favour,                                 55
  And all advantages in war are lawful.
  We take what offers without questioning;
  And if all have its due and just proportions----

  _Wallenstein._ Of what then are ye doubting? Of my will?
  Or of my power? I pledged me to the Chancellor,                     60
  Would he trust me with sixteen thousand men,
  That I would instantly go over to them
  With eighteen thousand of the Emperor's troops.

  _Wrangel._ Your Grace is known to be a mighty war-chief,
  To be a second Attila and Pyrrhus.                                  65
  'Tis talked of still with fresh astonishment,
  How some years past, beyond all human faith,
  You called an army forth, like a creation:
  But yet----

  _Wallenstein._ But yet?

  _Wrangel._              But still the Chancellor thinks,
  It might yet be an easier thing from nothing                        70
  To call forth sixty thousand men of battle,
  Than to persuade one sixtieth part of them--

  _Wallenstein._ What now? Out with it, friend!

  _Wrangel._                                    To break their oaths.

  _Wallenstein._ And he thinks so?--He judges like a Swede,
  And like a Protestant. You Lutherans                                75
  Fight for your Bible. You are interested
  About the cause; and with your hearts you follow
  Your banners.--Among you, whoe'er deserts
  To the enemy, hath broken covenant
  With two Lords at one time.--We've no such fancies.                 80

  _Wrangel._ Great God in Heaven! Have then the people here
  No house and home, no fire-side, no altar?

  _Wallenstein._ I will explain that to you, how it stands--
  The Austrian has a country, ay, and loves it,
  And has good cause to love it--but this army,                       85
  That calls itself the Imperial, this that houses
  Here in Bohemia, this has none--no country;
  This is an outcast of all foreign lands,
  Unclaimed by town or tribe, to whom belongs
  Nothing, except the universal sun.                                  90

  _Wrangel._ But then the Nobles and the Officers?
  Such a desertion, such a felony,
  It is without example, my Lord Duke,
  In the world's history.

  _Wallenstein._          They are all mine--
  Mine unconditionally--mine on all terms.                            95
  Not me, your own eyes you must trust.

            [_He gives him the paper containing the written oath.
                 WRANGEL reads it through, and, having read it,
                 lays it on the table, remaining silent._

                                        So then?
  Now comprehend you?

  _Wrangel._          Comprehend who can!
  My Lord Duke; I will let the mask drop--yes!
  I've full powers for a final settlement.
  The Rhinegrave stands but four days' march from here               100
  With fifteen thousand men, and only waits
  For orders to proceed and join your army.
  Those orders I give out, immediately
  We're compromised.

  _Wallenstein._     What asks the Chancellor?

  _Wrangel._ Twelve Regiments, every man a Swede--my head            105
  The warranty--and all might prove at last
  Only false play----

  _Wallenstein (starting)._ Sir Swede!

  _Wrangel._                           Am therefore forced
  T' insist thereon, that he do formally,
  Irrevocably break with the Emperor,
  Else not a Swede is trusted to Duke Friedland.                     110

  _Wallenstein._ Come, brief and open! What is the demand?

  _Wrangel._ That he forthwith disarm the Spanish regiments
  Attached to the Emperor, that he seize Prague,
  And to the Swedes give up that city, with
  The strong pass Egra.

  _Wallenstein._        That is much indeed!                         115
  Prague!--Egra's granted--But--but Prague!--'Twon't do.
  I give you every security
  Which you may ask of me in common reason--
  But Prague--Bohemia--these, Sir General,
  I can myself protect.

  _Wrangel._            We doubt it not.                             120
  But 'tis not the protection that is now
  Our sole concern. We want security,
  That we shall not expend our men and money
  All to no purpose.

  _Wallenstein._     'Tis but reasonable.

  _Wrangel._ And till we are indemnified, so long                    125
  Stays Prague in pledge.

  _Wallenstein._          Then trust you us so little?

  _Wrangel (rising)._ The Swede, if he would treat well with the
      German,
  Must keep a sharp look-out. We have been called
  Over the Baltic, we have saved the empire
  From ruin--with our best blood have we seal'd                      130
  The liberty of faith, and gospel truth.
  But now already is the benefaction
  No longer felt, the load alone is felt.----
  Ye look askance with evil eye upon us,
  As foreigners, intruders in the empire,                            135
  And would fain send us, with some paltry sum
  Of money, home again to our old forests.
  No, no! my Lord Duke! no!--it never was
  For Judas' pay, for chinking gold and silver,
  That we did leave our King by the Great Stone.[696:1]              140
  No, not for gold and silver have there bled
  So many of our Swedish Nobles--neither
  Will we, with empty laurels for our payment,
  Hoist sail for our own country. Citizens
  Will we remain upon the soil, the which                            145
  Our Monarch conquered for himself, and died.

  _Wallenstein._ Help to keep down the common enemy,
  And the fair border land must needs be yours.

  _Wrangel._ But when the common enemy lies vanquished,
  Who knits together our new friendship then?                        150
  We know, Duke Friedland! though perhaps the Swede
  Ought not t' have known it, that you carry on
  Secret negotiations with the Saxons.
  Who is our warranty, that we are not
  The sacrifices in those articles                                   155
  Which 'tis thought needful to conceal from us?

  _Wallenstein (rises)._ Think you of something better, Gustave
      Wrangel!
  Of Prague no more.

  _Wrangel._         Here my commission ends.

  _Wallenstein._ Surrender up to you my capital!
  Far liever would I face about, and step                            160
  Back to my Emperor.

  _Wrangel._          If time yet permits----

  _Wallenstein._ That lies with me, even now, at any hour.

  _Wrangel._ Some days ago, perhaps. To-day, no longer,
  No longer since Sesina is a prisoner.
  My Lord Duke, hear me--We believe that you                         165
  At present do mean honourably by us.
  Since yesterday we're sure of that--and now
  This paper warrants for the troops, there's nothing
  Stands in the way of our full confidence.
  Prague shall not part us. Hear! The Chancellor                     170
  Contents himself with Albstadt, to your Grace
  He gives up Ratschin and the narrow side,
  But Egra above all must open to us,
  Ere we can think of any junction.

  _Wallenstein._                    You,
  You therefore must I trust, and you not me?                        175
  I will consider of your proposition.

  _Wrangel._ I must entreat, that your consideration
  Occupy not too long a time. Already
  Has this negotiation, my Lord Duke!
  Crept on into the second year. If nothing                          180
  Is settled this time, will the Chancellor
  Consider it as broken off for ever.

  _Wallenstein._ Ye press me hard. A measure, such as this,
  Ought to be thought of.

  _Wrangel._              Ay! but think of this too,
  That sudden action only can procure it                             185
  Success--think first of this, your Highness.   [_Exit WRANGEL._


FOOTNOTES:

[696:1] A great stone near Lützen, since called the Swede's Stone, the
body of their great King having been found at the foot of it, after the
battle in which he lost his life.


LINENOTES:

[Before 1] _Wallenstein (after having fixed a searching look on him)._
1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 10] _Wallenstein (makes the motion, &c._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[23] _might_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 23] [_Taking his hand affectionately._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[36] wholly lie] lie wholly 1828, 1829.

[40] _the one_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[41] _other_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[61] _me_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[74] _so_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[77] _hearts_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[78] _you_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[84] _has_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[96] must] may 1800, 1828, 1829.

[103] _I_ 1800, 1828, 1829. out] you 1828, 1829.

[Before 105] _Wrangel (considerately)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[107] _Wrangel (calmly proceeding)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[144] _Citizens_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[154] _we_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[164] Sesina is] Sesina's been 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 164] [_Wallenstein is struck, and silenced._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[167] _yesterday_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[184] _thought_ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE VI

_WALLENSTEIN, TERTSKY, and ILLO (re-enter)._

  _Illo._ Is't all right?

  _Tertsky._              Are you compromised?

  _Illo._                                      This Swede
  Went smiling from you. Yes! you're compromised.

  _Wallenstein._ As yet is nothing settled: and (well weighed)
  I feel myself inclined to leave it so.

  _Tertsky._                             How? What is that?

  _Wallenstein._ Come on me what will come,                            5
  The doing evil to avoid an evil
  Cannot be good!

  _Tertsky._      Nay, but bethink you, Duke?

  _Wallenstein._ To live upon the mercy of these Swedes!
  Of these proud-hearted Swedes! I could not bear it.

  _Illo._ Goest thou as fugitive, as mendicant?                       10
  Bringest thou not more to them than thou receivest?


LINENOTES:

[10] _Wallenstein (sarcastically)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[11] _Countess (to the others)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE VII

_To these enter the COUNTESS TERTSKY._

  _Wallenstein._ Who sent for you? There is no business here
  For women.

  _Countess._ I am come to bid you joy.

  _Wallenstein._ Use thy authority, Tertsky, bid her go.

  _Countess._ Come I perhaps too early? I hope not.

  _Wallenstein._ Set not this tongue upon me, I entreat you.           5
  You know it is the weapon that destroys me.
  I am routed, if a woman but attack me.
  I cannot traffic in the trade of words
  With that unreasoning sex.

  _Countess._                I had already
  Given the Bohemians a king.

  _Wallenstein._              They have one,                          10
  In consequence, no doubt.

  _Countess._               Ha! what new scruple?

  _Tertsky._ The Duke will not.

  _Countess._                   He will not what he must!

  _Illo._ It lies with you now. Try. For I am silenced,
  When folks begin to talk to me of conscience,
  And of fidelity.

  _Countess._      How? then, when all                                15
  Lay in the far-off distance, when the road
  Stretched out before thine eyes interminably,
  Then hadst thou courage and resolve; and now,
  Now that the dream is being realized,
  The purpose ripe, the issue ascertained,                            20
  Dost thou begin to play the dastard now?
  Planned merely, 'tis a common felony;
  Accomplished, an immortal undertaking:
  And with success comes pardon hand in hand;
  For all event is God's arbitrement.                                 25

  _Servant (enters)._ The Colonel Piccolomini.

  _Countess._                                  --Must wait.

  _Wallenstein._ I cannot see him now. Another time.

  _Servant._ But for two minutes he entreats an audience.
  Of the most urgent nature is his business.

  _Wallenstein._ Who knows what he may bring us? I will hear him.     30

  _Countess._ Urgent for him, no doubt; but thou mayest wait.

  _Wallenstein._ What is it?

  _Countess._                Thou shalt be informed hereafter.
  First let the Swede and thee be compromised.   [_Exit_ Servant.

  _Wallenstein._ If there were yet a choice! if yet some milder
  Way of escape were possible--I still                                35
  Will choose it, and avoid the last extreme.

  _Countess._ Desir'st thou nothing further? Such a way
  Lies still before thee. Send this Wrangel off.
  Forget thou thy old hopes, cast far away
  All thy past life; determine to commence                            40
  A new one. Virtue hath her heroes too,
  As well as Fame and Fortune.--To Vienna--
  Hence--to the Emperor--kneel before the throne;
  Take a full coffer with thee--say aloud,
  Thou did'st but wish to prove thy fealty;                           45
  Thy whole intention but to dupe the Swede.

  _Illo._ For that too 'tis too late. They know too much.
  He would but bear his own head to the block.

  _Countess._ I fear not that. They have not evidence
  To attaint him legally, and they avoid                              50
  The avowal of an arbitrary power.
  They'll let the Duke resign without disturbance.
  I see how all will end. The King of Hungary
  Makes his appearance, and 'twill of itself
  Be understood, that then the Duke retires.                          55
  There will not want a formal declaration.
  The young King will administer the oath
  To the whole army; and so all returns
  To the old position. On some morrow morning
  The Duke departs; and now 'tis stir and bustle                      60
  Within his castles. He will hunt, and build,
  Superintend his horses' pedigrees;
  Creates himself a court, gives golden keys,
  And introduceth strictest ceremony
  In fine proportions, and nice etiquette;                            65
  Keeps open table with high cheer; in brief,
  Commenceth mighty King--in miniature.
  And while he prudently demeans himself,
  And gives himself no actual importance,
  He will be let appear whate'er he likes;                            70
  And who dares doubt, that Friedland will appear
  A mighty Prince to his last dying hour?
  Well now, what then? Duke Friedland is as others,
  A fire-new Noble, whom the war hath raised
  To price and currency, a Jonah's Gourd,                             75
  An over-night creation of court-favour,
  Which with an undistinguishable ease
  Makes Baron or makes Prince.

  _Wallenstein._               Take her away.
  Let in the young Count Piccolomini.

  _Countess._ Art thou in earnest? I entreat thee! Canst thou         80
  Consent to bear thyself to thy own grave,
  So ignominiously to be dried up?
  Thy life, that arrogated such a height
  To end in such a nothing! To be nothing,
  When one was always nothing, is an evil                             85
  That asks no stretch of patience, a light evil,
  But to become a nothing, having been----

  _Wallenstein (starts up)._ Shew me a way out of this stifling crowd,
  Ye Powers of Aidance! Shew me such a way
  As I am capable of going.--I                                        90
  Am no tongue-hero, no fine virtue-prattler;
  I cannot warm by thinking; cannot say
  To the good luck that turns her back upon me,
  Magnanimously: 'Go! I need thee not.'
  Cease I to work, I am annihilated,                                  95
  Dangers nor sacrifices will I shun,
  If so I may avoid the last extreme;
  But ere I sink down into nothingness,
  Leave off so little, who began so great,
  Ere that the world confuses me with those                          100
  Poor wretches, whom a day creates and crumbles,
  This age and after-ages[701:1] speak my name
  With hate and dread; and Friedland be redemption
  For each accurséd deed!

  _Countess._             What is there here, then,
  So against nature? Help me to perceive it!                         105
  O let not Superstition's nightly goblins
  Subdue thy clear bright spirit! Art thou bid
  To murder?--with abhorr'd accurséd poniard,
  To violate the breasts that nourished thee?
  That were against our nature, that might aptly                     110
  Make thy flesh shudder, and thy whole heart sicken.[701:2]
  Yet not a few, and for a meaner object,
  Have ventured even this, ay, and performed it.
  What is there in thy case so black and monstrous?
  Thou art accused of treason--whether with                          115
  Or without justice is not now the question--
  Thou art lost if thou dost not avail thee quickly
  Of the power which thou possessest--Friedland! Duke!
  Tell me, where lives that thing so meek and tame,
  That doth not all his living faculties                             120
  Put forth in preservation of his life?
  What deed so daring, which necessity
  And desperation will not sanctify?

  _Wallenstein._ Once was this Ferdinand so gracious to me:
  He loved me; he esteemed me; I was placed                          125
  The nearest to his heart. Full many a time
  We like familiar friends, both at one table,
  Have banquetted together. He and I--
  And the young kings themselves held me the bason
  Wherewith to wash me--and is't come to this?                       130

  _Countess._ So faithfully preserv'st thou each small favour,
  And hast no memory for contumelies?
  Must I remind thee, how at Regenspurg
  This man repaid thy faithful services?
  All ranks and all conditions in the Empire                         135
  Thou hadst wronged, to make him great,--hadst loaded on thee,
  On thee, the hate, the curse of the whole world.
  No friend existed for thee in all Germany,
  And why? because thou hadst existed only
  For the Emperor. To the Emperor alone                              140
  Clung Friedland in that storm which gathered round him
  At Regenspurg in the Diet--and he dropped thee!
  He let thee fall! He let thee fall a victim
  To the Bavarian, to that insolent!
  Deposed, stript bare of all thy dignity                            145
  And power, amid the taunting of thy foes,
  Thou wert let drop into obscurity.--
  Say not, the restoration of thy honour
  Hath made atonement for that first injustice.
  No honest good-will was it that replaced thee,                     150
  The law of hard necessity replaced thee,
  Which they had fain opposed, but that they could not.

  _Wallenstein._ Not to their good wishes, that is certain,
  Nor yet to his affection I'm indebted
  For this high office; and if I abuse it,                           155
  I shall therein abuse no confidence.

  _Countess_. Affection! confidence!--They needed thee.
  Necessity, impetuous remonstrant!
  Who not with empty names, or shews of proxy,
  Is served, who'll have the thing and not the symbol,               160
  Ever seeks out the greatest and the best,
  And at the rudder places him, e'en though
  She had been forced to take him from the rabble--
  She, this Necessity, it was that placed thee
  In this high office, it was she that gave thee                     165
  Thy letters patent of inauguration.
  For, to the uttermost moment that they can.
  This race still help themselves at cheapest rate
  With slavish souls, with puppets! At the approach
  Of extreme peril, when a hollow image                              170
  Is found a hollow image and no more,
  Then falls the power into the mighty hands
  Of Nature, of the spirit giant-born,
  Who listens only to himself, knows nothing
  Of stipulations, duties, reverences                                175
  And, like the emancipated force of fire,
  Unmastered scorches, ere it reaches them,
  Their fine-spun webs, their artificial policy.

  _Wallenstein._ 'Tis true! they saw me always as I am--
  Always! I did not cheat them in the bargain.                       180
  I never held it worth my pains to hide
  The bold all-grasping habit of my soul.

  _Countess._ Nay rather--thou hast ever shewn thyself
  A formidable man, without restraint;
  Hast exercised the full prerogatives                               185
  Of thy impetuous nature, which had been
  Once granted to thee. Therefore, Duke, not thou,
  Who hast still remained consistent with thyself,
  But they are in the wrong, who fearing thee,
  Entrusted such a power in hands they feared.                       190
  For, by the laws of Spirit, in the right
  Is every individual character
  That acts in strict consistence with itself.
  Self-contradiction is the only wrong.
  Wert thou another being, then, when thou                           195
  Eight years ago pursuedst thy march with fire
  And sword, and desolation, through the Circles
  Of Germany, the universal scourge,
  Didst mock all ordinances of the empire,
  The fearful rights of strength alone exertedst,                    200
  Trampledst to earth each rank, each magistracy,
  All to extend thy Sultan's domination?
  Then was the time to break thee in, to curb
  Thy haughty will, to teach thee ordinance.
  But no! the Emperor felt no touch of conscience,                   205
  What served him pleased him, and without a murmur
  He stamped his broad seal on these lawless deeds.
  What at that time was right, because thou didst it
  For him, to-day is all at once become
  Opprobrious, foul, because it is directed                          210
  Against him.--O most flimsy superstition!

  _Wallenstein (rising)._ I never saw it in this light before.
  'Tis even so. The Emperor perpetrated
  Deeds through my arm, deeds most unorderly.
  And even this prince's mantle, which I wear,                       215
  I owe to what were services to him,
  But most high misdemeanours 'gainst the empire.

  _Countess._ Then betwixt thee and him (confess it, Friedland!)
  The point can be no more of right and duty,
  Only of power and opportunity.                                     220
  That opportunity, lo! it comes yonder,
  Approaching with swift steeds; then with a swing
  Throw thyself up into the chariot-seat,
  Seize with firm hand the reins, ere thy opponent
  Anticipate thee, and himself make conquest                         225
  Of the now empty seat. The moment comes--
  It is already here, when thou must write
  The absolute total of thy life's vast sum.
  The constellations stand victorious o'er thee,
  The planets shoot good fortune in fair junctions,                  230
  And tell thee, 'Now's the time!' The starry courses
  Hast thou thy life long measured to no purpose?
  The quadrant and the circle, were they playthings?

                [_Pointing to the different objects in the room._

  The zodiacs, the rolling orbs of heaven,
  Hast pictured on these walls, and all around thee                  235
  In dumb, foreboding symbols hast thou placed
  These seven presiding Lords of Destiny--
  For toys? Is all this preparation nothing?
  Is there no marrow in this hollow art,
  That even to thyself it doth avail                                 240
  Nothing, and has no influence over thee
  In the great moment of decision?----

  _Wallenstein (interrupting the Countess)._ Send Wrangel to me--I
      will instantly
  Dispatch three couriers----

  _Illo (hurrying out)._      God in heaven be praised!

  _Wallenstein._ It is his evil genius and mine.                     245
  Our evil genius! It chastises him
  Through me, the instrument of his ambition;
  And I expect no less, than that Revenge
  E'en now is whetting for my breast the poniard.
  Who sows the serpent's teeth, let him not hope                     250
  To reap a joyous harvest. Every crime
  Has, in the moment of its perpetration,
  Its own avenging angel--dark misgiving,
  An ominous sinking at the inmost heart.
  He can no longer trust me--Then no longer                          255
  Can I retreat--so come that which must come.--
  Still destiny preserves its due relations,
  The heart within us is its absolute
  Vicegerent.                                      [_To TERTSKY._
              Go, conduct you Gustave Wrangel
  To my state-cabinet. Myself will speak to                          260
  The couriers.--And dispatch immediately
  A servant for Octavio Piccolomini.          [_To the COUNTESS._
  No exultation--woman, triumph not!
  For jealous are the Powers of Destiny.
  Joy premature, and shouts ere victory,                             265
  Incroach upon their rights and privileges.
  We sow the seed, and they the growth determine.

                [_While he is making his exit the curtain drops._


FOOTNOTES:

[701:1] Could I have hazarded such a Germanism as the use of the word
'after-world' for _posterity_, 'Es spreche Welt und _Nachwelt_ meinen
Nahmen' might have been rendered with more literal fidelity:

  'Let world and after-world speak out my name,' &c.

1800, 1828, 1829.

[701:2] I have not ventured to affront the fastidious delicacy of our
age with a literal translation of this line:

                              'werth
  Die Eingeweide schaudernd aufzuregen.'

1800, 1828, 1829.


LINENOTES:

[12] _will not . . . must_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[26] _Countess (hastily)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 31] _Countess (laughs)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[78] _Wallenstein (in extreme agitation)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 88] _Wallenstein (starts up in violent agitation)._ 1800, 1828,
1829.

[90] _As I_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[110] _were_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[118] _Duke_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[137] _thee_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[149] Hath] Has 1800, 1828, 1829.

[157] _needed_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[163] _him_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[187] _thou_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[189] _they_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[209] _For him_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[211] _Against him_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[220] and opportunity] and th' opportunity 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 242] _Wallenstein (during this last speech walks up and down with
inward struggles, labouring with passions; stops suddenly, stands still,
then, &c._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[245] _his . . . mine_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[246] _him_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[249] _my_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 262] [_To the COUNTESS, who cannot conceal her triumph._ 1800,
1828, 1829.




ACT V


SCENE I

SCENE--_As in the preceding Act._

_WALLENSTEIN, OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI._

  _Wallenstein (coming forward in conversation)._ He sends me word
      from Linz, that he lies sick;
  But I have sure intelligence, that he
  Secretes himself at Frauenberg with Galas.
  Secure them both, and send them to me hither.
  Remember, thou tak'st on thee the command                            5
  Of those same Spanish regiments,--constantly
  Make preparation, and be never ready;
  And if they urge thee to draw out against me,
  Still answer yes, and stand as thou wert fettered.
  I know, that it is doing thee a service                             10
  To keep thee out of action in this business.
  Thou lovest to linger on in fair appearances;
  Steps of extremity are not thy province,
  Therefore have I sought out this part for thee.
  Thou wilt this time be of most service to me                        15
  By thy inertness. The mean time, if fortune
  Declare itself on my side, thou wilt know
  What is to do.

_Enter MAX PICCOLOMINI._

                 Now go, Octavio.
  This night must thou be off, take my own horses:
  Him here I keep with me--make short farewell--                      20
  Trust me, I think we all shall meet again
  In joy and thriving fortunes.

  _Octavio (to his son)._       I shall see you
  Yet ere I go.


LINENOTES:

[3] Secretes] Secrets 1828, 1829, 1893.

[9] YES 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE II

_WALLENSTEIN, MAX PICCOLOMINI._

  _Max (advances to him)._ My General!

  _Wallenstein._                       That am I no longer, if
  Thou styl'st thyself the Emperor's officer.

  _Max._ Then thou wilt leave the army, General?

  _Wallenstein._ I have renounced the service of the Emperor.

  _Max._ And thou wilt leave the army?

  _Wallenstein._                       Rather hope I                   5
  To bind it nearer still and faster to me.  [_He seats himself._
  Yes, Max, I have delayed to open it to thee,
  Even till the hour of acting 'gins to strike.
  Youth's fortunate feeling doth seize easily
  The absolute right, yea, and a joy it is                            10
  To exercise the single apprehension
  Where the sums square in proof;
  But where it happens, that of two sure evils
  One must be taken, where the heart not wholly
  Brings itself back from out the strife of duties,                   15
  There 'tis a blessing to have no election,
  And blank necessity is grace and favour.
  --This is now present: do not look behind thee.--
  It can no more avail thee. Look thou forwards!
  Think not! judge not! prepare thyself to act!                       20
  The Court--it hath determined on my ruin,
  Therefore I will to be beforehand with them.
  We'll join the Swedes--right gallant fellows are they,
  And our good friends.

             [_He stops himself, expecting PICCOLOMINI'S answer._

  I have ta'en thee by surprise. Answer me not.                       25
  I grant thee time to recollect thyself.

            [_He rises, and retires at the back of the stage. MAX
                 remains for a long time motionless, in a trance
                 of excessive anguish. At his first motion
                 WALLENSTEIN returns, and places himself before
                 him._

  _Max._ My General, this day thou makest me
  Of age to speak in my own right and person,
  For till this day I have been spared the trouble
  To find out my own road. Thee have I followed                       30
  With most implicit unconditional faith,
  Sure of the right path if I followed thee.
  To-day, for the first time, dost thou refer
  Me to myself, and forcest me to make
  Election between thee and my own heart.                             35

  _Wallenstein._ Soft cradled thee thy Fortune till to-day;
  Thy duties thou couldst exercise in sport,
  Indulge all lovely instincts, act for ever
  With undivided heart. It can remain
  No longer thus. Like enemies, the roads                             40
  Start from each other. Duties strive with duties.
  Thou must needs choose thy party in the war
  Which is now kindling 'twixt thy friend and him
  Who is thy Emperor.

  _Max._              War! is that the name?
  War is as frightful as heaven's pestilence.                         45
  Yet it is good, is it heaven's will as that is.
  Is that a good war, which against the Emperor
  Thou wagest with the Emperor's own army?
  O God of heaven! what a change is this.
  Beseems it me to offer such persuasion                              50
  To thee, who like the fixed star of the pole
  Wert all I gazed at on life's trackless ocean?
  O! what a rent thou makest in my heart!
  The ingrained instinct of old reverence.
  The holy habit of obediency,                                        55
  Must I pluck live asunder from thy name?
  Nay, do not turn thy countenance upon me--
  It always was as a god looking at me!
  Duke Wallenstein, its power is not departed:
  The senses still are in thy bonds, although,                        60
  Bleeding, the soul hath freed itself.

  _Wallenstein._                        Max, hear me.

  _Max._ O! do it not, I pray thee, do it not!
  There is a pure and noble soul within thee,
  Knows not of this unblest, unlucky doing.
  Thy will is chaste, it is thy fancy only                            65
  Which hath polluted thee--and innocence,
  It will not let itself be driven away
  From that world-awing aspect. Thou wilt not,
  Thou canst not, end in this. It would reduce
  All human creatures to disloyalty                                   70
  Against the nobleness of their own nature.
  'Twill justify the vulgar misbelief,
  Which holdeth nothing noble in free will,
  And trusts itself to impotence alone
  Made powerful only in an unknown power.                             75

  _Wallenstein._ The world will judge me sternly, I expect it.
  Already have I said to my own self
  All thou canst say to me. Who but avoids
  The extreme,--can he by going round avoid it?
  But here there is no choice. Yes--I must use                        80
  Or suffer violence--so stands the case,
  There remains nothing possible but that.

  _Max._ O that is never possible for thee!
  'Tis the last desperate resource of those
  Cheap souls, to whom their honour, their good name                  85
  Is their poor saving, their last worthless keep,
  Which having staked and lost, they stake themselves
  In the mad rage of gaming. Thou art rich,
  And glorious; with an unpolluted heart
  Thou canst make conquest of whate'er seems highest!                 90
  But he, who once hath acted infamy,
  Does nothing more in this world.

  _Wallenstein (grasps his hand)._ Calmly, Max!
  Much that is great and excellent will we
  Perform together yet. And if we only
  Stand on the height with dignity, 'tis soon                         95
  Forgotten, Max, by what road we ascended.
  Believe me, many a crown shines spotless now,
  That yet was deeply sullied in the winning.
  To the evil spirit doth the earth belong,
  Not to the good. All, that the powers divine                       100
  Send from above, are universal blessings:
  Their light rejoices us, their air refreshes,
  But never yet was man enriched by them:
  In their eternal realm no property
  Is to be struggled for--all there is general.                      105
  The jewel, the all-valued gold we win
  From the deceiving Powers, depraved in nature,
  That dwell beneath the day and blessed sun-light.
  Not without sacrifices are they rendered
  Propitious, and there lives no soul on earth                       110
  That e'er retired unsullied from their service.

  _Max._ Whate'er is human, to the human being
  Do I allow--and to the vehement
  And striving spirit readily I pardon
  The excess of action; but to thee, my General!                     115
  Above all others make I large concession.
  For thou must move a world, and be the master--
  He kills thee, who condemns thee to inaction.
  So be it then! maintain thee in thy post
  By violence. Resist the Emperor,                                   120
  And if it must be, force with force repel:
  I will not praise it, yet I can forgive it.
  But not--not to the traitor--yes!--the word
  Is spoken out----
  Not to the traitor can I yield a pardon.                           125
  That is no mere excess! that is no error
  Of human nature--that is wholly different,
  O that is black, black as the pit of hell!
  Thou canst not hear it nam'd, and wilt thou do it?
  O turn back to thy duty. That thou canst,                          130
  I hold it certain. Send me to Vienna.
  I'll make thy peace for thee with the Emperor.
  He knows thee not. But I do know thee. He
  Shall see thee, Duke! with my unclouded eye,
  And I bring back his confidence to thee.                           135

  _Wallenstein._ It is too late. Thou knowest not what has happened.

  _Max._ Were it too late, and were things gone so far,
  That a crime only could prevent thy fall,
  Then--fall! fall honourably, even as thou stood'st.
  Lose the command. Go from the stage of war.                        140
  Thou canst with splendour do it--do it too
  With innocence. Thou hast liv'd much for others,
  At length live thou for thy own self. I follow thee.
  My destiny I never part from thine.

  _Wallenstein._ It is too late! Even now, while thou art losing     145
  Thy words, one after the other are the mile-stones
  Left fast behind by my post couriers,
  Who bear the order on to Prague and Egra.
  Yield thyself to it. We act as we are forced.
  I cannot give assent to my own shame                               150
  And ruin. Thou--no--thou canst not forsake me!
  So let us do, what must be done, with dignity,
  With a firm step. What am I doing worse
  Than did famed Cæsar at the Rubicon,
  When he the legions led against his country,                       155
  The which his country had delivered to him?
  Had he thrown down the sword, he had been lost,
  As I were, if I but disarmed myself.
  I trace out something in me of his spirit.
  Give me his luck, that other thing I'll bear.                      160

              [_MAX quits him abruptly. WALLENSTEIN, startled and
                   overpowered, continues looking after him, and
                   is still in this posture when TERTSKY enters._


LINENOTES:

[86] _saving . . . Keep_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[104] _property_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[116] _all_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[123] _traitor_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 128] [_WALLENSTEIN betrays a sudden agitation._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[129] _nam'd . . . do_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 148] [_MAX stands as convulsed, with a gesture and countenance
expressing the most intense anguish._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[150] _I_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[151] _Thou_--no 1800, 1828, 1829.

[160] _that other thing_ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE III

_WALLENSTEIN, TERTSKY._

  _Tertsky._ Max Piccolomini just left you?

  _Wallenstein._                            Where is Wrangel?

  _Tertsky._ He is already gone.

  _Wallenstein._                 In such a hurry?

  _Tertsky._ It is as if the earth had swallowed him.
  He had scarce left thee, when I went to seek him.
  I wished some words with him--but he was gone.                       5
  How, when, and where, could no one tell me. Nay,
  I half believe it was the devil himself;
  A human creature could not so at once
  Have vanished.

  _Illo (enters)._ Is it true that thou wilt send
  Octavio?

  _Tertsky._ How, Octavio! Whither send him?                          10

  _Wallenstein._ He goes to Frauenberg, and will lead hither
  The Spanish and Italian regiments.

  _Illo._                            No!
  Nay, Heaven forbid!

  _Wallenstein._      And why should Heaven forbid?

  _Illo._ Him!--that deceiver! Would'st thou trust to him
  The soldiery? Him wilt thou let slip from thee,                     15
  Now, in the very instant that decides us----

  _Tertsky._ Thou wilt not do this!--No! I pray thee, no!

  _Wallenstein._ Ye are whimsical.

  _Illo._                          O but for this time, Duke,
  Yield to our warning! Let him not depart.

  _Wallenstein._ And why should I not trust him only this time,       20
  Who have always trusted him? What, then, has happened,
  That I should lose my good opinion of him?
  In complaisance to your whims, not my own,
  I must, forsooth, give up a rooted judgment.
  Think not I am a woman. Having trusted him                          25
  E'en till to-day, to-day too will I trust him.

  _Tertsky._ Must it be he--he only? Send another.

  _Wallenstein._ It must be he, whom I myself have chosen;
  He is well fitted for the business. Therefore
  I gave it him.

  _Illo._        Because he's an Italian--                            30
  Therefore is he well fitted for the business.

  _Wallenstein._ I know you love them not--nor sire nor son--
  Because that I esteem them, love them--visibly
  Esteem them, love them more than you and others,
  E'en as they merit. Therefore are they eye-blights,                 35
  Thorns in your foot-path. But your jealousies,
  In what affect they me or my concerns?
  Are they the worse to me because you hate them?
  Love or hate one another as you will,
  I leave to each man his own moods and likings;                      40
  Yet know the worth of each of you to me.

  _Illo._ Von Questenberg, while he was here, was always
  Lurking about with this Octavio.

  _Wallenstein._ It happened with my knowledge and permission.

  _Illo._ I know that secret messengers came to him                   45
  From Galas----

  _Wallenstein._ That's not true.

  _Illo._                         O thou art blind
  With thy deep-seeing eyes.

  _Wallenstein._             Thou wilt not shake
  My faith for me--my faith, which founds itself
  On the profoundest science. If 'tis false,
  Then the whole science of the stars is false.                       50
  For know, I have a pledge from fate itself,
  That he is the most faithful of my friends.

  _Illo._ Hast thou a pledge, that this pledge is not false?

  _Wallenstein._ There exist moments in the life of man,
  When he is nearer the great soul of the world                       55
  Than is man's custom, and possesses freely
  The power of questioning his destiny:
  And such a moment 'twas, when in the night
  Before the action in the plains of Lützen,
  Leaning against a tree, thoughts crowding thoughts,                 60
  I looked out far upon the ominous plain.
  My whole life, past and future, in this moment
  Before my mind's eye glided in procession,
  And to the destiny of the next morning
  The spirit, filled with anxious presentiment,                       65
  Did knit the most removed futurity.
  Then said I also to myself, 'So many
  Dost thou command. They follow all thy stars,
  And as on some great number set their All
  Upon thy single head, and only man                                  70
  The vessel of thy fortune. Yet a day
  Will come, when destiny shall once more scatter
  All these in many a several direction:
  Few be they who will stand out faithful to thee.'
  I yearn'd to know which one was faithfullest                        75
  Of all, this camp included. Great Destiny,
  Give me a sign! And he shall be the man,
  Who, on the approaching morning, comes the first
  To meet me with a token of his love:
  And thinking this, I fell into a slumber.                           80
  Then midmost in the battle was I led
  In spirit. Great the pressure and the tumult!
  Then was my horse killed under me: I sank:
  And over me away, all unconcernedly,
  Drove horse and rider--and thus trod to pieces                      85
  I lay, and panted like a dying man.
  Then seized me suddenly a saviour arm;
  It was Octavio's--I awoke at once,
  'Twas broad day, and Octavio stood before me.
  'My brother,' said he,'do not ride to-day                           90
  The dapple, as you're wont; but mount the horse
  Which I have chosen for thee. Do it, brother!
  In love to me. A strong dream warned me so.'
  It was the swiftness of this horse that snatched me
  From the hot pursuit of Bannier's dragoons.                         95
  My cousin rode the dapple on that day.
  And never more saw I or horse or rider.

  _Illo._ That was a chance.

  _Wallenstein._             There's no such thing as chance.
  In brief, 'tis signed and sealed that this Octavio
  Is my good angel--and now no word more.      [_He is retiring._

  _Tertsky._ This is my comfort--Max remains our hostage.            100

  _Illo._ And he shall never stir from here alive.

  _Wallenstein (stops and turns himself round)._ Are ye not like the
      women, who for ever
  Only recur to their first word, although
  One had been talking reason by the hour?                           105
  Know, that the human being's thoughts and deeds
  Are not, like ocean billows, blindly moved.
  The inner world, his microcosmus, is
  The deep shaft, out of which they spring eternally.
  They grow by certain laws, like the tree's fruit--                 110
  No juggling chance can metamorphose them.
  Have I the human kernel first examined?
  Then I know, too, the future will and action.


LINENOTES:

[38] _me_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[76] included] include 1800.

[89] _Octavio_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[98] _Wallenstein (significantly)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[112] _kernel_ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE IV

SCENE--_A Chamber in PICCOLOMINI'S Dwelling-House._

_OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI, ISOLANI (entering)._

  _Isolani._ Here am I--Well! who comes yet of the others?

  _Octavio._ But, first, a word with you, Count Isolani.

  _Isolani._ Will it explode, ha?--Is the Duke about
  To make the attempt? In me, friend, you may place
  Full confidence.--Nay, put me to the proof.                          5

  _Octavio._ That may happen.

  _Isolani._                  Noble brother, I am
  Not one of those men who in words are valiant,
  And when it comes to action skulk away.
  The Duke has acted towards me as a friend.
  God knows it is so; and I owe him all----                           10
  He may rely on my fidelity.

  _Octavio._ That will be seen hereafter.

  _Isolani._                              Be on your guard,
  All think not as I think; and there are many
  Who still hold with the Court--yes, and they say
  That those stolen signatures bind them to nothing.                  15

  _Octavio._ I am rejoiced to hear it.

  _Isolani._                           You rejoice!

  _Octavio._ That the Emperor has yet such gallant servants
  And loving friends.

  _Isolani._          Nay, jeer not, I entreat you.
  They are no such worthless fellows, I assure you.

  _Octavio._ I am assured already. God forbid                         20
  That I should jest!--In very serious earnest
  I am rejoiced to see an honest cause
  So strong.

  _Isolani._ The Devil!--what!--why, what means this?
  Are you not, then----For what, then, am I here?

  _Octavio._ That you may make full declaration, whether              25
  You will be called the friend or enemy
  Of the Emperor.

  _Isolani._      That declaration, friend,
  I'll make to him in whom a right is placed
  To put that question to me.

  _Octavio._                  Whether, Count,                         30
  That right is mine, this paper may instruct you.

  _Isolani._ Why,--why--what! This is the Emperor's hand and seal!

                                                        [_Reads._

  'Whereas the officers collectively
  Throughout our army will obey the orders
  Of the Lieutenant-General Piccolomini                               35
  As from ourselves.'----Hem!--Yes! so!--Yes! yes!--
  I--I give you joy, Lieutenant-General!

  _Octavio._ And you submit you to the order?

  _Isolani._                                  I----
  But you have taken me so by surprise--
  Time for reflection one must have----

  _Octavio._                            Two minutes.                  40

  _Isolani._ My God! But then the case is----

  _Octavio._                                  Plain and simple.
  You must declare you, whether you determine
  To act a treason 'gainst your Lord and Sovereign,
  Or whether you will serve him faithfully.

  _Isolani._ Treason!--My God!--But who talks then of treason?        45

  _Octavio._ That is the case. The Prince-Duke is a traitor--
  Means to lead over to the enemy
  The Emperor's army.--Now, Count!--brief and full--
  Say, will you break your oath to the Emperor?
  Sell yourself to the enemy?--Say, will you?                         50

  _Isolani._ What mean you? I--I break my oath, d'ye say,
  To his Imperial Majesty?
  Did I say so?--When, when have I said that?

  _Octavio._ You have not said it yet--not yet. This instant
  I wait to hear, Count, whether you will say it.                     55

  _Isolani._ Aye! that delights me now, that you yourself
  Bear witness for me that I never said so.

  _Octavio._ And you renounce the Duke then?

  _Isolani._                                 If he's planning
  Treason--why, treason breaks all bonds asunder.

  _Octavio._ And are determined, too, to fight against him?           60

  _Isolani._ He has done me service--but if he's a villain,
  Perdition seize him!--All scores are rubbed off.

  _Octavio._ I am rejoiced that you're so well disposed.
  This night break off in the utmost secrecy
  With all the light-armed troops--it must appear                     65
  As came the order from the Duke himself.
  At Frauenberg's the place of rendezvous;
  There will Count Galas give you further orders.

  _Isolani._ It shall be done. But you'll remember me
  With the Emperor--how well disposed you found me.                   70

  _Octavio._ I will not fail to mention it honourably.

                             [_Exit ISOLANI. A_ Servant _enters._

  What, Colonel Butler!--Shew him up.

  _Isolani (returning)._ Forgive me too my bearish ways, old father!
  Lord God! how should I know, then, what a great
  Person I had before me.

  _Octavio._              No excuses!                                 75

  _Isolani._ I am a merry lad, and if at time
  A rash word might escape me 'gainst the court
  Amidst my wine--You know no harm was meant.            [_Exit._

  _Octavio._ You need not be uneasy on that score.
  That has succeeded. Fortune favour us                               80
  With all the others only but as much!


LINENOTES:

[Before 2] _Octavio (with an air of mystery)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 3] _Isolani (assuming the same air of mystery)._ 1800, 1828,
1829.

[27] _Isolani (with an air of defiance)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 32] _Isolani (stammering)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[36] _Hem_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[40] _must_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[55] _will_ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE V

_OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI, BUTLER._

  _Butler._ At your command, Lieutenant-General.

  _Octavio._ Welcome, as honoured friend and visitor.

  _Butler._ You do me too much honour.

  _Octavio (after both have seated themselves)._ You have not
  Returned the advances which I made you yesterday--
  Misunderstood them, as mere empty forms.                             5
  That wish proceeded from my heart--I was
  In earnest with you--for 'tis now a time
  In which the honest should unite most closely.

  _Butler._ 'Tis only the like-minded can unite.

  _Octavio._ True! and I name all honest men like-minded.             10
  I never charge a man but with those acts
  To which his character deliberately
  Impels him; for alas! the violence
  Of blind misunderstandings often thrusts
  The very best of us from the right track.                           15
  You came through Frauenberg. Did the Count Galas
  Say nothing to you? Tell me. He's my friend.

  _Butler._ His words were lost on me.

  _Octavio._                           It grieves me sorely
  To hear it: for his counsel was most wise.
  I had myself the like to offer.

  _Butler._                       Spare                               20
  Yourself the trouble--me th' embarrassment,
  To have deserved so ill your good opinion.

  _Octavio._ The time is precious--let us talk openly.
  You know how matters stand here. Wallenstein
  Meditates treason--I can tell you further--                         25
  He has committed treason; but few hours
  Have past, since he a covenant concluded
  With the enemy. The messengers are now
  Full on their way to Egra and to Prague.
  To-morrow he intends to lead us over                                30
  To the enemy. But he deceives himself;
  For prudence wakes--the Emperor has still
  Many and faithful friends here, and they stand
  In closest union, mighty though unseen.
  This manifesto sentences the Duke--                                 35
  Recalls the obedience of the army from him,
  And summons all the loyal, all the honest,
  To join and recognize in me their leader.
  Choose--will you share with us an honest cause?
  Or with the evil share an evil lot?                                 40

  _Butler (rises)._ His lot is mine.

  _Octavio._                         Is that your last resolve?

  _Butler._ It is.

  _Octavio._       Nay, but bethink you, Colonel Butler!
  As yet you have time. Within my faithful breast
  That rashly uttered word remains interred.
  Recall it, Butler! choose a better party:                           45
  You have not chosen the right one.

  _Butler (going)._                  Any other
  Commands for me, Lieutenant-General?

  _Octavio._ See your white hairs! Recall that word!

  _Butler._                                          Farewell!

  _Octavio._ What, would you draw this good and gallant sword
  In such a cause? Into a curse would you                             50
  Transform the gratitude which you have earned
  By forty years' fidelity from Austria?

  _Butler (laughing with bitterness)._ Gratitude from the House of
      Austria.                                    [_He is going._

  _Octavio (permits him to go as far as the door, then calls after
      him)._ Butler!

  _Butler._          What wish you?

  _Octavio._                        How was't with the Count?

  _Butler._ Count? what?

  _Octavio._             The title that you wished, I mean.           55

  _Butler (starts in sudden passion)._ Hell and damnation!

  _Octavio._                                               You
      petitioned for it--
  And your petition was repelled--Was it so?

  _Butler._ Your insolent scoff shall not go by unpunished.
  Draw!

  _Octavio._ Nay! your sword to 'ts sheath![718:1] and tell me
      calmly,
  How all that happened. I will not refuse you                        60
  Your satisfaction afterwards.--Calmly, Butler!

  _Butler._ Be the whole world acquainted with the weakness
  For which I never can forgive myself.
  Lieutenant-General! Yes--I have ambition.
  Ne'er was I able to endure contempt.                                65
  It stung me to the quick, that birth and title
  Should have more weight than merit has in the army.
  I would fain not be meaner than my equal,
  So in an evil hour I let myself
  Be tempted to that measure--It was folly!                           70
  But yet so hard a penance it deserved not.
  It might have been refused; but wherefore barb
  And venom the refusal with contempt?
  Why dash to earth and crush with heaviest scorn
  The grey-haired man, the faithful veteran?                          75
  Why to the baseness of his parentage
  Refer him with such cruel roughness, only
  Because he had a weak hour and forgot himself?
  But nature gives a sting e'en to the worm
  Which wanton power treads on in sport and insult.                   80

  _Octavio._ You must have been calumniated. Guess you
  The enemy, who did you this ill service?

  _Butler._ Be't who it will--a most low-hearted scoundrel,
  Some vile court-minion must it be, some Spaniard,
  Some young squire of some ancient family,                           85
  In whose light I may stand, some envious knave,
  Stung to his soul by my fair self-earned honours!

  _Octavio._ But tell me! Did the Duke approve that measure?

  _Butler._ Himself impelled me to it, used his interest
  In my behalf with all the warmth of friendship.                     90

  _Octavio._ Ay? Are you sure of that?

  _Butler._                            I read the letter.

  _Octavio._ And so did I--but the contents were different.
  By chance I'm in possession of that letter--
  Can leave it to your own eyes to convince you.

                                      [_He gives him the letter._

  _Butler._ Ha! what is this?

  _Octavio._                  I fear me, Colonel Butler,              95
  An infamous game have they been playing with you.
  The Duke, you say, impelled you to this measure?
  Now, in this letter talks he in contempt
  Concerning you, counsels the Minister
  To give sound chastisement to your conceit,                        100
  For so he calls it.

         [_BUTLER reads through the letter, his knees tremble, he
              seizes a chair, and sinks down in it._

  You have no enemy, no persecutor;
  There's no one wishes ill to you. Ascribe
  The insult you received to the Duke only.
  His aim is clear and palpable. He wished                           105
  To tear you from your Emperor--he hoped
  To gain from your revenge what he well knew
  (What your long-tried fidelity convinced him)
  He ne'er could dare expect from your calm reason.
  A blind tool would he make you, in contempt                        110
  Use you, as means of most abandoned ends.
  He has gained his point. Too well has he succeeded
  In luring you away from that good path
  On which you had been journeying forty years!

  _Butler._ Can e'er the Emperor's Majesty forgive me?               115

  _Octavio._ More than forgive you. He would fain compensate
  For that affront, and most unmerited grievance
  Sustained by a deserving, gallant veteran.
  From his free impulse he confirms the present,
  Which the Duke made you for a wicked purpose.                      120
  The regiment, which you now command, is yours.

          [_BUTLER attempts to rise, sinks down again. He labours
               inwardly with violent emotions; tries to speak,
               and cannot. At length he takes his sword from the
               belt, and offers it to PICCOLOMINI._

  _Octavio._ What wish you? Recollect yourself, friend.

  _Butler._                                             Take it.

  _Octavio._ But to what purpose? Calm yourself.

  _Butler._                                      O take it!
  I am no longer worthy of this sword.

  _Octavio._ Receive it then anew from my hands--and                 125
  Wear it with honour for the right cause ever.

  _Butler._----Perjure myself to such a gracious Sovereign!

  _Octavio._ You'll make amends. Quick! break off from the Duke!

  _Butler._ Break off from him!

  _Octavio._                    What now? Bethink thyself.

  _Butler (no longer governing his emotion)._ Only break off from
      him?--He dies!--he dies!                                       130

  _Octavio._ Come after me to Frauenberg, where now
  All who are loyal are assembling under
  Counts Altringer and Galas. Many others
  I've brought to a remembrance of their duty.
  This night be sure that you escape from Pilsen.                    135

  _Butler._ Count Piccolomini! Dare that man speak
  Of honour to you, who once broke his troth?

  _Octavio._ He, who repents so deeply of it, dares.

  _Butler._ Then leave me here, upon my word of honour!

  _Octavio._ What's your design?

  _Butler._                      Leave me and my regiment.           140

  _Octavio._ I have full confidence in you. But tell me
  What are you brooding?

  _Butler._              That the deed will tell you.
  Ask me no more at present. Trust to me.
  Ye may trust safely. By the living God
  Ye give him over, not to his good angel!                           145
  Farewell.                                       [_Exit BUTLER._

  _Servant (enters with a billet)._ A stranger left it, and is gone.
  The Prince-Duke's horses wait for you below.

                                                 [_Exit_ Servant.

  _Octavio (reads)._ 'Be sure, make haste! Your faithful Isolan.'
  --O that I had but left this town behind me.
  To split upon a rock so near the haven!--                          150
  Away! This is no longer a safe place for me!
  Where can my son be tarrying?


FOOTNOTES:

[718:1] It probably did not suit Schiller's purposes to remark, what he
doubtless knew, that Butler was of a noble Irish family, indeed one of
the noblest. _MS. R_.


LINENOTES:

[18] _me_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[55] _Octavio (coldly)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 92] [_BUTLER is suddenly struck._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 115] _Butler (his voice trembling)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 136] _Butler (strides up and down in excessive agitation, then
steps up to Octavio with resolved countenance)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE VI

_OCTAVIO and MAX PICCOLOMINI._

  _Octavio (advances to Max)._ I am going off, my son.

                        [_Receiving no answer he takes his hand._

                                                       My son, farewell.

  _Max._ Farewell.

  _Octavio._       Thou wilt soon follow me?

  _Max._                                     I follow thee?
  Thy way is crooked--it is not my way.

                      [_OCTAVIO drops his hand, and starts back._

  O, hadst thou been but simple and sincere,
  Ne'er had it come to this--all had stood otherwise.                  5
  He had not done that foul and horrible deed,
  The virtuous had retained their influence o'er him:
  He had not fallen into the snares of villains.
  Wherefore so like a thief, and thief's accomplice
  Did'st creep behind him--lurking for thy prey?                      10
  O, unblest falsehood! Mother of all evil!
  Thou misery-making demon, it is thou
  That sink'st us in perdition. Simple truth,
  Sustainer of the world, had saved us all!
  Father, I will not, I cannot excuse thee!                           15
  Wallenstein has deceived me--O, most foully!
  But thou hast acted not much better.

  _Octavio._                           Son!
  My son, ah! I forgive thy agony!

  _Max._ Was't possible? had'st thou the heart, my father,
  Had'st thou the heart to drive it to such lengths,                  20
  With cold premeditated purpose? Thou--
  Had'st thou the heart, to wish to see him guilty,
  Rather than saved? Thou risest by his fall.
  Octavio, 'twill not please me.

  _Octavio._                     God in Heaven!

  _Max._ O, woe is me! sure I have changed my nature.                 25
  How comes suspicion here--in the free soul?
  Hope, confidence, belief, are gone; for all
  Lied to me, all what I e'er loved or honoured.
  No! No! Not all! She--she yet lives for me,
  And she is true, and open as the Heavens!                           30
  Deceit is every where, hypocrisy,
  Murder, and poisoning, treason, perjury:
  The single holy spot is now our love,
  The only unprofaned in human nature.

  _Octavio._ Max!--we will go together. 'Twill be better.             35

  _Max._ What? ere I've taken a last parting leave,
  The very last--no never!

  _Octavio._               Spare thyself
  The pang of necessary separation.
  Come with me! Come, my son!   [_Attempts to take him with him._

  _Max._ No! as sure as God lives, no!                                40

  _Octavio._ Come with me, I command thee! I, thy father.

  _Max._ Command me what is human. I stay here.

  _Octavio._ Max! in the Emperor's name I bid thee come.

  _Max._ No Emperor has power to prescribe
  Laws to the heart; and would'st thou wish to rob me                 45
  Of the sole blessing which my fate has left me,
  Her sympathy? Must then a cruel deed
  Be done with cruelty? The unalterable
  Shall I perform ignobly--steal away,
  With stealthy coward flight forsake her? No!                        50
  She shall behold my suffering, my sore anguish,
  Hear the complaints of the disparted soul,
  And weep tears o'er me. Oh! the human race
  Have steely souls--but she is as an angel.
  From the black deadly madness of despair                            55
  Will she redeem my soul, and in soft words
  Of comfort, plaining, loose this pang of death!

  _Octavio._ Thou wilt not tear thyself away; thou canst not.
  O, come, my son! I bid thee save thy virtue.

  _Max._ Squander not thou thy words in vain.                         60
  The heart I follow, for I dare trust to it.

  _Octavio._ Max! Max! if that most damnéd thing could be,
  If thou--my son--my own blood--(dare I think it?)
  Do sell thyself to him, the infamous,
  Do stamp this brand upon our noble house,                           65
  Then shall the world behold the horrible deed,
  And in unnatural combat shall the steel
  Of the son trickle with the father's blood.

  _Max._ O hadst thou always better thought of men,
  Thou hadst then acted better. Curst suspicion!                      70
  Unholy miserable doubt! To him
  Nothing on earth remains unwrenched and firm,
  Who has no faith.

  _Octavio._        And if I trust thy heart,
  Will it be always in thy power to follow it?

  _Max._ The heart's voice thou hast not o'erpower'd--as little       75
  Will Wallenstein be able to o'erpower it.

  _Octavio._ O, Max! I see thee never more again!

  _Max._ Unworthy of thee wilt thou never see me.

  _Octavio._ I go to Frauenberg--the Pappenheimers
  I leave thee here, the Lothrings too; Toskana                       80
  And Tiefenbach remain here to protect thee.
  They love thee, and are faithful to their oath,
  And will far rather fall in gallant contest
  Than leave their rightful leader, and their honour.

  _Max._ Rely on this, I either leave my life                         85
  In the struggle, or conduct them out of Pilsen.

  _Octavio._ Farewell, my son!

  _Max._                       Farewell!

  _Octavio._                             How? not one look
  Of filial love? No grasp of the hand at parting?
  It is a bloody war, to which we are going,
  And the event uncertain and in darkness.                            90
  So used we not to part--it was not so!
  Is it then true? I have a son no longer?

            [_MAX falls into his arms, they hold each [other] for
                 a long time in a speechless embrace, then go
                 away at different sides._

_The Curtain drops._


LINENOTES:

[Before 1] (_MAX enters almost in a state of derangement from extreme
agitation, his eyes roll wildly, his walk is unsteady, and he appears
not to observe his father, who stands at a distance, and gazes at him
with a countenance expressive of compassion. He paces with long strides
through the chamber, then stands still again, and at last throws himself
into a chair, staring vacantly at the object directly before him_).
1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 19] _Max (rises and contemplates his father with looks of
suspicion)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[28] what] that 1828, 1829.

[33] The single holy spot is our love 1800.

[Before 41] _Octavio (more urgently)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 62] _Octavio (trembling, and losing all self-command)._ 1800,
1828, 1829.

[63] _think_ 1800.

[75] _thou_ 1800.




THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN

A TRAGEDY
IN FIVE ACTS




PREFACE OF THE TRANSLATOR
TO THE FIRST EDITION


  The two Dramas, PICCOLOMINI, or the first part of
  WALLENSTEIN, and WALLENSTEIN, are introduced in the original
  manuscript by a Prelude in one Act, entitled WALLENSTEIN'S
  CAMP. This is written in rhyme, and in nine-syllable verse, in
  the same _lilting_ metre (if that expression may be permitted)       5
  with the second Eclogue of Spenser's Shepherd's Calendar.

  This Prelude possesses a sort of broad humour, and is not
  deficient in character; but to have translated it into prose, or
  into any other metre than that of the original, would have
  given a false notion both of its style and purport; to have         10
  translated it into the same metre would have been incompatible with
  a faithful adherence to the sense of the German, from the
  comparative poverty of our language in rhymes; and it would have
  been unadvisable from the incongruity of those lax verses with
  the present taste of the English Public. Schiller's intention       15
  seems to have been merely to have prepared his reader for the
  Tragedies by a lively picture of the laxity of discipline, and the
  mutinous dispositions of Wallenstein's soldiery. It is not
  necessary as a preliminary explanation. For these reasons it
  has been thought expedient not to translate it.                     20

  The admirers of Schiller, who have abstracted their conception
  of that author from the _Robbers_, and the _Cabal_ and _Love_, plays
  in which the main interest is produced by the excitement of
  curiosity, and in which the curiosity is excited by terrible and
  extraordinary incident, will not have perused without some          25
  portion of disappointment the Dramas, which it has been my
  employment to translate. They should, however, reflect that
  these are Historical Dramas, taken from a popular German
  History; that we must therefore judge of them in some measure
  with the feelings of Germans; or by analogy, with the interest      30
  excited in us by similar Dramas in our own language. Few,
  I trust, would be rash or ignorant enough to compare Schiller
  with Shakspeare yet, merely as illustration, I would say
  that we should proceed to the perusal of Wallenstein, not
  from Lear or Othello, but from Richard the Second, or the           35
  three parts of Henry the Sixth. We scarcely expect rapidity
  in an Historical Drama; and many prolix speeches are
  pardoned from characters, whose names and actions have
  formed the most amusing tales of our early life. On the other
  hand, there exist in these plays more individual beauties,          40
  more passages the excellence of which will bear reflection,
  than in the former productions of Schiller. The description of
  the Astrological Tower, and the reflections of the Young Lover,
  which follow it, form in the original a fine poem; and my
  translation must have been wretched indeed, if it can have          45
  wholly overclouded the beauties of the Scene in the first Act of
  the first Play between Questenberg, Max, and Octavio Piccolomini.
  If we except the Scene of the setting sun in the _Robbers_,
  I know of no part in Schiller's Plays which equals the whole
  of the first Scene of the fifth Act of the concluding Play. It      50
  would be unbecoming in me to be more diffuse on this subject.
  A Translator stands connected with the original Author by
  a certain law of subordination, which makes it more decorous
  to point out excellencies than defects: indeed he is not likely
  to be a fair judge of either. The pleasure or disgust from his      55
  own labour will mingle with the feelings that arise from an
  afterview of the original. Even in the first perusal of a work
  in any foreign language which we understand, we are apt to
  attribute to it more excellence than it really possesses from our
  own pleasurable sense of difficulty overcome without effect.        60
  Translation of poetry into poetry is difficult, because the
  Translator must give a brilliancy to his language without that warmth
  of original conception, from which such brilliancy would follow
  of its own accord. But the translator of a living Author is
  encumbered with additional inconveniences. If he render his         65
  original faithfully, as to the sense of each passage, he must
  necessarily destroy a considerable portion of the spirit; if he
  endeavour to give a work executed according to laws of
  compensation, he subjects himself to imputations of vanity, or
  misrepresentation. I have thought it my duty to remain              70
  bound by the sense of my original, with as few exceptions as
  the nature of the languages rendered possible.


LINENOTES:

Title] Part Second. The Death of Wallenstein. A Tragedy. The Death of
Wallenstein. Preface of the Translator. 1828, 1829.

[10] notion] idea 1800, 1828, 1829.

[21] conception] idea 1800, 1828, 1829.

[41] the excellence of which] whose excellence 1800, 1828, 1829.

[60] effect] effort 1834.

[66] sense] _sense_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[67] spirit] _spirit_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[68] compensation] _compensation_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 72] S. T. Coleridge 1800, 1828, 1829.


DRAMATIS PERSONAE

  _WALLENSTEIN, Duke of Friedland, Generalissimo of the Imperial Forces
      in the Thirty Years' War._
  _DUCHESS OF FRIEDLAND, Wife of Wallenstein._
  _THEKLA, her Daughter, Princess of Friedland._
  _THE COUNTESS TERTSKY, Sister of the Duchess._
  _LADY NEUBRUNN._
  _OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI, Lieutenant-General._
  _MAX PICCOLOMINI, his Son, Colonel of a Regiment of Cuirassiers._
  _COUNT TERTSKY, the Commander of several Regiments, and Brother-in-law
      of Wallenstein._
  _ILLO, Field Marshal, Wallenstein's confidant._
  _BUTLER, an Irishman, Commander of a Regiment of Dragoons._
  _GORDON, Governor of Egra._
  _MAJOR GERALDIN._
  _CAPTAIN DEVEREUX._
  _CAPTAIN MACDONALD._
  _NEUMANN, Captain of Cavalry, Aide-de-Camp to Tertsky._
  _SWEDISH CAPTAIN._
  _SENI._
  _BURGOMASTER of Egra._
  _ANSPESSADE of the Cuirassiers._
  _GROOM OF THE CHAMBER_, } _belonging to the Duke._
  _A PAGE_,               }
  _CUIRASSIERS, DRAGOONS, SERVANTS._




THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN




ACT I


SCENE I

SCENE--_A Chamber in the House of the DUCHESS OF FRIEDLAND._

_COUNTESS TERTSKY, THEKLA, LADY NEUBRUNN (the two latter sit at the same
table at work)._

  _Countess (watching them from the opposite side)._ So you have
      nothing, niece, to ask me? Nothing?
  I have been waiting for a word from you.
  And could you then endure in all this time
  Not once to speak his name?

                       [_The COUNTESS rises and advances to her._

                              Why, how comes this?
  Perhaps I am already grown superfluous,                              5
  And other ways exist, besides through me?
  Confess it to me, Thekla! have you seen him?

  _Thekla._ To-day and yesterday I have not seen him.

  _Countess._ And not heard from him either? Come, be open!

  _Thekla._ No syllable.

  _Countess._            And still you are so calm?                   10

  _Thekla._ I am.

  _Countess._     May't please you, leave us, Lady Neubrunn!

                                           [_Exit LADY NEUBRUNN._


LINENOTES:

[4] [_THEKLA remaining silent, the, &c._, 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE II

_The COUNTESS, THEKLA._

  _Countess._ It does not please me, Princess! that he holds
  Himself so still, exactly at this time.

  _Thekla._ Exactly at this time?

  _Countess._                     He now knows all.
  'Twere now the moment to declare himself.

  _Thekla._ If I'm to understand you, speak less darkly.               5

  _Countess._ 'Twas for that purpose that I bade her leave us.
  Thekla, you are no more a child. Your heart
  Is now no more in nonage: for you love,
  And boldness dwells with love--that you have proved.
  Your nature moulds itself upon your father's                        10
  More than your mother's spirit. Therefore may you
  Hear, what were too much for her fortitude.

  _Thekla._ Enough! no further preface, I entreat you.
  At once, out with it! Be it what it may,
  It is not possible that it should torture me                        15
  More than this introduction. What have you
  To say to me? Tell me the whole and briefly!

  _Countess._ You'll not be frightened--

  _Thekla._                              Name it, I entreat you.

  _Countess._ It lies within your power to do your father
  A weighty service--

  _Thekla._           Lies within my power?                           20

  _Countess._ Max Piccolomini loves you. You can link him
  Indissolubly to your father.

  _Thekla._                    I?
  What need of me for that? And is he not
  Already linked to him?

  _Countess._            He was.

  _Thekla._                      And wherefore
  Should he not be so now--not be so always?                          25

  _Countess._ He cleaves to the Emperor too.

  _Thekla._                                  Not more than duty
  And honour may demand of him.

  _Countess._                   We ask
  Proofs of his love, and not proofs of his honour.
  Duty and honour!
  Those are ambiguous words with many meanings.                       30
  You should interpret them for him: his love
  Should be the sole definer of his honour.

  _Thekla._ How?

  _Countess._    The Emperor or you must he renounce.

  _Thekla._ He will accompany my father gladly
  In his retirement. From himself you heard,                          35
  How much he wished to lay aside the sword.

  _Countess._ He must not lay the sword aside, we mean;
  He must unsheath it in your father's cause.

  _Thekla._ He'll spend with gladness and alacrity
  His life, his heart's blood in my father's cause,                   40
  If shame or injury be intended him.

  _Countess._ You will not understand me. Well, hear then!
  Your father has fallen off from the Emperor,
  And is about to join the enemy
  With the whole soldiery--

  _Thekla._                 Alas, my mother!                          45

  _Countess._ There needs a great example to draw on
  The army after him. The Piccolomini
  Possess the love and reverence of the troops;
  They govern all opinions, and wherever
  They lead the way, none hesitate to follow.                         50
  The son secures the father to our interests--
  You've much in your hands at this moment.

  _Thekla._                                 Ah,
  My miserable mother! what a death-stroke
  Awaits thee!--No! She never will survive it.

  _Countess._ She will accommodate her soul to that                   55
  Which is and must be. I do know your mother.
  The far-off future weights upon her heart
  With torture of anxiety; but is it
  Unalterably, actually present,
  She soon resigns herself, and bears it calmly.                      60

  _Thekla._ O my fore-boding bosom! Even now,
  E'en now 'tis here, that icy hand of horror!
  And my young hope lies shuddering in its grasp;
  I knew it well--no sooner had I entered,
  A heavy ominous presentiment                                        65
  Revealed to me, that spirits of death were hovering
  Over my happy fortune. But why think I
  First of myself? My mother! O my mother!

  _Countess._ Calm yourself! Break not out in vain lamenting!
  Preserve you for your father the firm friend,                       70
  And for yourself the lover, all will yet
  Prove good and fortunate.

  _Thekla._                 Prove good? What good?
  Must we not part? Part ne'er to meet again?

  _Countess._ He parts not from you! He can not part from you.

  _Thekla._ Alas for his sore anguish! It will rend                   75
  His heart asunder.

  _Countess._        If indeed he loves you,
  His resolution will be speedily taken.

  _Thekla._ His resolution will be speedily taken--
  O do not doubt of that! A resolution!
  Does there remain one to be taken?

  _Countess._                        Hush!                            80
  Collect yourself! I hear your mother coming.

  _Thekla._ How shall I bear to see her?

  _Countess._                            Collect yourself.


LINENOTES:

[2] _still . . . this_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[3] _this_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[9] _you_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[20] _my_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[31] _You_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[37] _not_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[72] Prove _good_ 1800.

[74] _can_ 1800.

[80] _taken_ 1800.


SCENE III

_To them enter the DUCHESS._

  _Duchess (to the Countess)._ Who was here, sister? I heard some one
      talking,
  And passionately too.

  _Countess._           Nay! There was no one.

  _Duchess._ I am grown so timorous, every trifling noise
  Scatters my spirits, and announces to me
  The footstep of some messenger of evil.                              5
  And can you tell me, sister, what the event is?
  Will he agree to do the Emperor's pleasure,
  And send the horse-regiments to the Cardinal?
  Tell me, has he dismissed Von Questenberg
  With a favourable answer?

  _Countess._               No, he has not.                           10

  _Duchess._ Alas! then all is lost! I see it coming,
  The worst that can come! Yes, they will depose him;
  The accurséd business of the Regenspurg diet
  Will all be acted o'er again!

  _Countess._                   No! never!
  Make your heart easy, sister, as to that.                           15

         [_THEKLA throws herself upon her mother, and enfolds her
              in her arms, weeping._

  _Duchess._ Yes, my poor child!
  Thou too hast lost a most affectionate godmother
  In the Empress. O that stern unbending man!
  In this unhappy marriage what have I
  Not suffered, not endured. For ev'n as if                           20
  I had been linked on to some wheel of fire
  That restless, ceaseless, whirls impetuous onward,
  I have passed a life of frights and horrors with him,
  And ever to the brink of some abyss
  With dizzy headlong violence he whirls me.                          25
  Nay, do not weep, my child! Let not my sufferings
  Presignify unhappiness to thee,
  Nor blacken with their shade the fate that waits thee.
  There lives no second Friedland: thou, my child,
  Hast not to fear thy mother's destiny.                              30

  _Thekla._ O let us supplicate him, dearest mother!
  Quick! quick! here's no abiding-place for us.
  Here every coming hour broods into life
  Some new affrightful monster.

  _Duchess._                    Thou wilt share
  An easier, calmer lot, my child! We too,                            35
  I and thy father, witnessed happy days.
  Still think I with delight of those first years,
  When he was making progress with glad effort,
  When his ambition was a genial fire,
  Not that consuming flame which now it is.                           40
  The Emperor loved him, trusted him: and all
  He undertook could not but be successful.
  But since that ill-starred day at Regenspurg,
  Which plunged him headlong from his dignity,
  A gloomy uncompanionable spirit,                                    45
  Unsteady and suspicious, has possessed him.
  His quiet mind forsook him, and no longer
  Did he yield up himself in joy and faith
  To his old luck, and individual power;
  But thenceforth turned his heart and best affections                50
  All to those cloudy sciences, which never
  Have yet made happy him who followed them.

  _Countess._ You see it, sister! as your eyes permit you.
  But surely this is not the conversation
  To pass the time in which we are waiting for him.                   55
  You know he will be soon here. Would you have him
  Find her in this condition?

  _Duchess._                  Come, my child!
  Come, wipe away thy tears, and shew thy father
  A cheerful countenance. See, the tie-knot here
  Is off--this hair must not hang so dishevelled.                     60
  Come, dearest! dry thy tears up. They deform
  Thy gentle eye--well now--what was I saying?
  Yes, in good truth, this Piccolomini
  Is a most noble and deserving gentleman.

  _Countess._ That is he, sister!

  _Thekla (to the Countess)._ Aunt, you will excuse me?               65

                                                       [_Is going._

  _Countess._ But whither? See, your father comes.

  _Thekla._ I cannot see him now.

  _Countess._                     Nay, but bethink you.

  _Thekla._ Believe me, I cannot sustain his presence.

  _Countess._ But he will miss you, will ask after you.

  _Duchess._ What now? Why is she going?                              70

  _Countess._                            She's not well.

  _Duchess._ What ails then my beloved child?

         [_Both follow the PRINCESS, and endeavour to detain her.
              During this WALLENSTEIN appears, engaged in
              conversation with ILLO._


LINENOTES:

[Between 14, 15] [_THEKLA, in extreme agitation, throws herself, &c._
1800, 1828, 1829.

[28] _fate_ 1800.

[40] _flame_ 1800.

[53] _your_ 1800.

[56] be soon] soon be 1828, 1829.

[57] _her_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[65] _Thekla (to the Countess, with marks of great oppression of
spirits)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 72] _Duchess (anxiously)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE IV

_WALLENSTEIN, ILLO, COUNTESS, DUCHESS, THEKLA._

  _Wallenstein._ All quiet in the camp?

  _Illo._                               It is all quiet.

  _Wallenstein._ In a few hours may couriers come from Prague
  With tidings, that this capital is ours.
  Then we may drop the mask, and to the troops
  Assembled in this town make known the measure                        5
  And its result together. In such cases
  Example does the whole. Whoever is foremost
  Still leads the herd. An imitative creature
  Is man. The troops at Prague conceive no other,
  Than that the Pilsen army has gone through                          10
  The forms of homage to us; and in Pilsen
  They shall swear fealty to us, because
  The example has been given them by Prague.
  Butler, you tell me, has declared himself.

  _Illo._ At his own bidding, unsolicited,                            15
  He came to offer you himself and regiment.

  _Wallenstein._ I find we must not give implicit credence
  To every warning voice that makes itself
  Be listened to in the heart. To hold us back,
  Oft does the lying spirit counterfeit                               20
  The voice of Truth and inward Revelation,
  Scattering false oracles. And thus have I
  To intreat forgiveness, for that secretly
  I've wrong'd this honourable gallant man,
  This Butler: for a feeling, of the which                            25
  I am not master (fear I would not call it),
  Creeps o'er me instantly, with sense of shuddering,
  At his approach, and stops love's joyous motion.
  And this same man, against whom I am warned,
  This honest man is he, who reaches to me                            30
  The first pledge of my fortune.

  _Illo._                         And doubt not
  That his example will win over to you
  The best men in the army.

  _Wallenstein._           Go and send
  Isolani hither. Send him immediately.
  He is under recent obligations to me.                               35
  With him will I commence the trial. Go.           [_ILLO exit._

  _Wallenstein (turns himself round to the females)._ Lo, there the
      mother with the darling daughter!
  For once we'll have an interval of rest--
  Come! my heart yearns to live a cloudless hour
  In the beloved circle of my family.                                 40

  _Countess._ 'Tis long since we've been thus together, brother.

  _Wallenstein (to the Countess aside)._ Can she sustain the news? Is
      she prepared?

  _Countess._       Not yet.

  _Wallenstein._ Come here, my sweet girl! Seat thee by me,
  For there is a good spirit on thy lips.
  Thy mother praised to me thy ready skill:                           45
  She says a voice of melody dwells in thee,
  Which doth enchant the soul. Now such a voice
  Will drive away from me the evil demon
  That beats his black wings close above my head.

  _Duchess._ Where is thy lute, my daughter? Let thy father           50
  Hear some small trial of thy skill.

  _Thekla._                           My mother!
  I--

  _Duchess._ Trembling? Come, collect thyself. Go, cheer
  Thy father.

  _Thekla._   O my mother! I--I cannot.

  _Countess._ How, what is that, niece?

  _Thekla (to the Countess)._ O spare me--sing--now--in this sore
      anxiety,                                                        55
  Of the o'erburthen'd soul--to sing to him,
  Who is thrusting, even now, my mother headlong
  Into her grave!

  _Duchess._      How, Thekla? Humoursome?
  What! shall thy father have expressed a wish
  In vain?

  _Countess._ Here is the lute.

  _Thekla._                     My God! how can I--                   60

              [_The orchestra plays. During the ritornello THEKLA
                   expresses in her gestures and countenance the
                   struggle of her feelings: and at the moment
                   that she should begin to sing, contracts
                   herself together, as one shuddering, throws
                   the instrument down, and retires abruptly._

  _Duchess._ My child! O she is ill--

  _Wallenstein._                      What ails the maiden?
  Say, is she often so?

  _Countess._           Since then herself
  Has now betrayed it, I too must no longer
  Conceal it.

  _Wallenstein._ What?

  _Countess._          She loves him!

  _Wallenstein._                      Loves him! Whom?

  _Countess._ Max does she love! Max Piccolomini.                     65
  Hast thou ne'er noticed it? Nor yet my sister?

  _Duchess._ Was it this that lay so heavy on her heart?
  God's blessing on thee, my sweet child! Thou needest
  Never take shame upon thee for thy choice.

  _Countess._ This journey, if 'twere not thy aim, ascribe it         70
  To thine own self. Thou shouldest have chosen another
  To have attended her.

  _Wallenstein._        And does he know it?

  _Countess._ Yes, and he hopes to win her.

  _Wallenstein._                            Hopes to win her!
  Is the boy mad?

  _Countess._     Well--hear it from themselves.

  _Wallenstein._ He thinks to carry off Duke Friedland's daughter!    75

  Aye?--The thought pleases me.
  The young man has no grovelling spirit.

  _Countess._                             Since
  Such and such constant favour you have shewn him--

  _Wallenstein._ He chooses finally to be my heir.
  And true it is, I love the youth; yea, honour him.                  80
  But must he therefore be my daughter's husband!
  Is it daughters only? Is it only children
  That we must shew our favour by?

  _Duchess._ His noble disposition and his manners--

  _Wallenstein._ Win him my heart, but not my daughter.

  _Duchess._                                            Then          85
  His rank, his ancestors--

  _Wallenstein._            Ancestors! What?
  He is a subject, and my son-in-law
  I will seek out upon the thrones of Europe.

  _Duchess._ O dearest Albrecht! Climb we not too high.
  Lest we should fall too low.

  _Wallenstein._               What? have I paid                      90
  A price so heavy to ascend this eminence,
  And jut out high above the common herd,
  Only to close the mighty part I play
  In Life's great drama, with a common kinsman?
  Have I for this-- [_pause._] She is the only thing                  95
  That will remain behind of me on earth;
  And I will see a crown around her head,
  Or die in the attempt to place it there.
  I hazard all--all! and for this alone,
  To lift her into greatness--                                       100
  Yea, in this moment, in the which we are speaking--   [_pause._
  And I must now, like a soft-hearted father,
  Couple together in good peasant fashion
  The pair, that chance to suit each other's liking--
  And I must do it now, even now, when I                             105
  Am stretching out the wreath that is to twine
  My full accomplished work--no! she is the jewel,
  Which I have treasured long, my last, my noblest,
  And 'tis my purpose not to let her from me
  For less than a king's sceptre.

  _Duchess._                      O my husband!                      110
  You're ever building, building to the clouds,
  Still building higher, and still higher building,
  And ne'er reflect, that the poor narrow basis
  Cannot sustain the giddy tottering column.

  _Wallenstein (to the Countess)._ Have you announced the place of
      residence                                                      115
  Which I have destined for her?

  _Countess._                    No! not yet.
  'Twere better you yourself disclosed it to her.

  _Duchess._ How? Do we not return to Karn then?

  _Wallenstein._                                 No.

  _Duchess._ And to no other of your lands or seats?

  _Wallenstein._ You would not be secure there.

  _Duchess._                                    Not secure           120
  In the Emperor's realms, beneath the Emperor's
  Protection?

  _Wallenstein._ Friedland's wife may be permitted
  No longer to hope that.

  _Duchess._              O God in heaven!
  And have you brought it even to this?

  _Wallenstein._                        In Holland
  You'll find protection.

  _Duchess._              In a Lutheran country?                     125
  What? And you send us into Lutheran countries?

  _Wallenstein._ Duke Franz of Lauenburg conducts you thither.

  _Duchess._ Duke Franz of Lauenburg?
  The ally of Sweden, the Emperor's enemy.

  _Wallenstein._ The Emperor's enemies are mine no longer.           130

  _Duchess (casting a look of terror on the Duke and the Countess)._
      Is it then true? It is. You are degraded?
  Deposed from the command? O God in heaven!

  _Countess (aside to the Duke)._ Leave her in this belief. Thou seest
      she cannot
  Support the real truth.


LINENOTES:

[26] _fear_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[48] from] _for_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[56] _him_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[95]

  Have I for this--               [_Stops suddenly, repressing himself._

1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 101] [_He recollects himself._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[118] Kärn 1800.

[123] _that_ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE V

_To them enter COUNT TERTSKY._

  _Countess._             --Tertsky!
  What ails him? What an image of affright!
  He looks as he had seen a ghost.

  _Tertsky (leading Wallenstein aside)._ Is it thy command that all
      the Croats--

  _Wallenstein._   Mine!                                               5

  _Tertsky._ We are betrayed.

  _Wallenstein._              What?

  _Tertsky._                        They are off! This night
  The Jägers likewise--all the villages
  In the whole round are empty.

  _Wallenstein._                Isolani?

  _Tertsky._ Him thou hast sent away. Yes, surely.

  _Wallenstein._                                   I?

  _Tertsky._ No! Hast thou not sent him off? Nor Deodate?             10
  They are vanished both of them.


SCENE VI

_To them enter ILLO._

  _Illo._ Has Tertsky told thee?

  _Tertsky._                     He knows all.

  _Illo._                                      And likewise
  That Esterhatzy, Goetz, Maradas, Kaunitz,
  Kolatto, Palfi, have forsaken thee?

  _Tertsky._ Damnation!

  _Wallenstein (winks at them)._ Hush!

  _Countess (who has been watching them anxiously from the distance
      and now advances to them)._ Tertsky! Heaven! What is it? What
      has happened?                                                    5

  _Wallenstein (scarcely suppressing his emotions)._ Nothing! let us
      be gone!

  _Tertsky (following him)._ Theresa, it is nothing.

  _Countess (holding him back)._ Nothing? Do I not see, that all the
      lifeblood
  Has left your cheeks--look you not like a ghost?
  That even my brother but affects a calmness?                        10

  _Page (enters)._ An Aid-de-Camp enquires for the Count Tertsky.

                                     [_TERTSKY follows the Page._

  _Wallenstein._ Go, hear his business.               [_To ILLO._
                                        This could not have happened
  So unsuspected without mutiny.
  Who was on guard at the gates?

  _Illo._                        'Twas Tiefenbach.                    15

  _Wallenstein._ Let Tiefenbach leave guard without delay,
  And Tertsky's grenadiers relieve him.         [_ILLO is going._
                                        Stop!
  Hast thou heard aught of Butler?

  _Illo._                          Him I met.
  He will be here himself immediately.
  Butler remains unshaken.

                      [_ILLO exit. WALLENSTEIN is following him._

  _Countess._ Let him not leave thee, sister! go, detain him!         20
  There's some misfortune.

  _Duchess (clinging to him)._ Gracious heaven! What is it?

  _Wallenstein._ Be tranquil! leave me, sister! dearest wife!
  We are in camp, and this is nought unusual;
  Here storm and sunshine follow one another
  With rapid interchanges. These fierce spirits                       25
  Champ the curb angrily, and never yet
  Did quiet bless the temples of the leader.
  If I am to stay, go you. The plaints of women
  Ill suit the scene where men must act.

                                 [_He is going: TERTSKY returns._

  _Tertsky._ Remain here. From this window must we see it.            30

  _Wallenstein (to the Countess)._ Sister, retire!

  _Countess._                                      No--never.

  _Wallenstein._                                    'Tis my will.

  _Tertsky (leads the Countess aside, and drawing her attention to the
      Duchess)._ Theresa!

  _Duchess._              Sister, come! since he commands it.


LINENOTES:

[4] _Wallenstein (winks to them)._ 1800.


SCENE VII

_WALLENSTEIN, TERTSKY._

  _Wallenstein (stepping to the window)._ What now, then?

  _Tertsky._ There are strange movements among all the troops,
  And no one knows the cause. Mysteriously,
  With gloomy silentness, the several corps
  Marshal themselves, each under its own banners.                      5
  Tiefenbach's corps makes threatening movements; only
  The Pappenheimers still remain aloof
  In their own quarters, and let no one enter.

  _Wallenstein._ Does Piccolomini appear among them?

  _Tertsky._ We are seeking him: he is no where to be met with.       10

  _Wallenstein._ What did the Aid-de-Camp deliver to you?

  _Tertsky._ My regiments had dispatched him; yet once more
  They swear fidelity to thee, and wait
  The shout for onset, all prepared, and eager.

  _Wallenstein._ But whence arose this larum in the camp?             15
  It should have been kept secret from the army,
  Till fortune had decided for us at Prague.

  _Tertsky._ O that thou hadst believed me! Yester evening
  Did we conjure thee not to let that skulker,
  That fox, Octavio, pass the gates of Pilsen.                        20
  Thou gav'st him thy own horses to flee from thee.

  _Wallenstein._ The old tune still! Now, once for all, no more
  Of this suspicion--it is doting folly.

  _Tertsky._ Thou did'st confide in Isolani too;
  And lo! he was the first that did desert thee.                      25

  _Wallenstein._ It was but yesterday I rescued him
  From abject wretchedness. Let that go by.
  I never reckon'd yet on gratitude.
  And wherein doth he wrong in going from me?
  He follows still the god whom all his life                          30
  He has worshipped at the gaming table. With
  My Fortune, and my seeming destiny,
  He made the bond, and broke it not with me.
  I am but the ship in which his hopes were stowed,
  And with the which well-pleased and confident                       35
  He traversed the open sea; now he beholds it
  In imminent jeopardy among the coast-rocks,
  And hurries to preserve his wares. As light
  As the free bird from the hospitable twig
  Where it had nested, he flies off from me:                          40
  No human tie is snapped betwixt us two.
  Yea, he deserves to find himself deceived,
  Who seeks a heart in the unthinking man.
  Like shadows on a stream, the forms of life
  Impress their characters on the smooth forehead,                    45
  Nought sinks into the bosom's silent depth:
  Quick sensibility of pain and pleasure
  Moves the light fluids lightly; but no soul
  Warmeth the inner frame.

  _Tertsky._               Yet, would I rather
  Trust the smooth brow than that deep furrowed one.                  50


LINENOTES:

[6] makes] make 1800, 1828, 1829.

[11] Aid-de-Camp] Aide-de-Camp 1800.

[32] FORTUNE 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE VIII

_WALLENSTEIN, TERTSKY, ILLO._

  _Illo._ Treason and mutiny!

  _Tertsky._                  And what further now?

  _Illo._ Tiefenbach's soldiers, when I gave the orders
  To go off guard--Mutinous villains!

  _Tertsky._                          Well!

  _Wallenstein._ What followed?

  _Illo._ They refused obedience to them.                              5

  _Tertsky._ Fire on them instantly! Give out the order.

  _Wallenstein._ Gently! what cause did they assign?

  _Illo._                                            No other,
  They said, had right to issue orders but
  Lieutenant-General Piccolomini.

  _Wallenstein._ What? How is that?                                   10

  _Illo._ He takes that office on him by commission,
  Under sign-manual of the Emperor.

  _Tertsky._ From the Emperor--hear'st thou, Duke?

  _Illo._                                          At his incitement
  The Generals made that stealthy flight--

  _Tertsky._                               Duke! hearest thou?

  _Illo._ Caraffa too, and Montecuculi,                               15
  Are missing, with six other Generals,
  All whom he had induced to follow him.
  This plot he has long had in writing by him
  From the Emperor; but 'twas finally concluded
  With all the detail of the operation                                20
  Some days ago with the Envoy Questenberg.

                 [_WALLENSTEIN sinks down into a chair and covers
                      his face._

  _Tertsky._ O hadst thou but believed me!


LINENOTES:

[Before 1] _Illo (who enters agitated with rage)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[9] _Piccolomini_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[10] _Wallenstein (in a convulsion of agony)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE IX

_To them enter the COUNTESS._

  _Countess._                              This suspense,
  This horrid fear--I can no longer bear it.
  For heaven's sake, tell me, what has taken place.

  _Illo._ The regiments are all falling off from us.

  _Tertsky._ Octavio Piccolomini is a traitor.                         5

  _Countess._ O my foreboding!         [_Rushes out of the room._

  _Tertsky._                   Hadst thou but believed me!
  Now seest thou how the stars have lied to thee.

  _Wallenstein._ The stars lie not; but we have here a work
  Wrought counter to the stars and destiny.
  The science is still honest: this false heart                       10
  Forces a lie on the truth-telling heaven.
  On a divine law divination rests;
  Where nature deviates from that law, and stumbles
  Out of her limits, there all science errs.
  True, I did not suspect! Were it superstition                       15
  Never by such suspicion t' have affronted
  The human form, O may that time ne'er come
  In which I shame me of the infirmity.
  The wildest savage drinks not with the victim
  Into whose breast he means to plunge the sword.                     20
  This, this, Octavio, was no hero's deed:
  'Twas not thy prudence that did conquer mine;
  A bad heart triumphed o'er an honest one.
  No shield received the assassin stroke; thou plungest
  Thy weapon on an unprotected breast--                               25
  Against such weapons I am but a child.


SCENE X

_To these enter BUTLER._

  _Tertsky (meeting him)._ O look there! Butler! Here we've still a
      friend!

  _Wallenstein (meets him with outspread arms, and embraces him with
      warmth)._ Come to my heart, old comrade! Not the sun
  Looks out upon us more revivingly
  In the earliest month of spring,
  Than a friend's countenance in such an hour.                         5

  _Butler._ My General: I come--

  _Wallenstein (leaning on Butler's shoulders)._ Know'st thou
      already?
  That old man has betrayed me to the Emperor.
  What say'st thou? Thirty years have we together
  Lived out, and held out, sharing joy and hardship.
  We have slept in one camp-bed, drunk from one glass,                10
  One morsel shared! I leaned myself on him,
  As now I lean me on thy faithful shoulder.
  And now in the very moment, when, all love,
  All confidence, my bosom beat to his,
  He sees and takes the advantage, stabs the knife                    15
  Slowly into my heart.  [_He hides his face on BUTLER'S breast._

  _Butler._             Forget the false one.
  What is your present purpose?

  _Wallenstein._                Well remembered!
  Courage my soul! I am still rich in friends,
  Still loved by Destiny; for in the moment,
  That it unmasks the plotting hypocrite,                             20
  It sends and proves to me one faithful heart.
  Of the hypocrite no more! Think not, his loss
  Was that which struck the pang: O no! his treason
  Is that which strikes this pang! No more of him!
  Dear to my heart, and honoured were they both,                      25
  And the young man--yes--he did truly love me,
  He--he--has not deceived me. But enough,
  Enough of this--Swift counsel now beseems us.
  The Courier, whom Count Kinsky sent from Prague
  I expect him every moment: and whatever                             30
  He may bring with him, we must take good care
  To keep it from the mutineers. Quick, then!
  Dispatch some messenger you can rely on
  To meet him, and conduct him to me.           [_ILLO is going._

  _Butler (detaining him)._ My General, whom expect you then?

  _Wallenstein._                                              The
      Courier                                                         35
  Who brings me word of the event at Prague.

  _Butler (hesitating)._ Hem!

  _Wallenstein._              And what now?

  _Butler._                                 You do not know it?

  _Wallenstein._                                                Well?

  _Butler._ From what that larum in the camp arose?

  _Wallenstein._ From what?

  _Butler._                 That Courier.

  _Wallenstein._                          Well?

  _Butler._                                     Is already here.

  _Tertsky and Illo (at the same time)._ Already here?

  _Wallenstein._                                       My Courier?

  _Butler._                                        For some hours.    40

  _Wallenstein._ And I not know it?

  _Butler._                         The centinels detain him
  In custody.

  _Illo._     Damnation!

  _Butler._              And his letter
  Was broken open, and is circulated
  Through the whole camp.

  _Wallenstein._          You know what it contains?

  _Butler._ Question me not.

  _Tertsky._                 Illo! alas for us.                       45

  _Wallenstein._ Hide nothing from me--I can hear the worst.
  Prague then is lost. It is. Confess it freely.

  _Butler._ Yes! Prague is lost. And all the several regiments
  At Budweiss, Tabor, Brannau, Konigingratz,
  At Brun and Znaym, have forsaken you,                               50
  And ta'en the oaths of fealty anew
  To the Emperor. Yourself, with Kinsky, Tertsky,
  And Illo have been sentenced.

           [_TERTSKY and ILLO express alarm and fury. WALLENSTEIN
                remains firm and collected._

  _Wallenstein._                'Tis decided!
  'Tis well! I have received a sudden cure
  From all the pangs of doubt: with steady stream                     55
  Once more my life-blood flows! My soul's secure!
  In the night only Friedland's stars can beam.
  Lingering irresolute, with fitful fears
  I drew the sword--'twas with an inward strife,
  While yet the choice was mine. The murderous knife                  60
  Is lifted for my heart! Doubt disappears!
  I fight now for my head and for my life.

                      [_Exit WALLENSTEIN; the others follow him._


LINENOTES:

[11] _him_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[12] _thy_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[21] _faithful_ 1800.

[26] _did_ 1800.

[39] _Wallenstein (with eager expectation)._ Well? 1800, 1828, 1829.

[42] _Illo (stamping with his foot)._ Damnation! 1800, 1828, 1829.

[48] _is_ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE XI

  _Countess Tertsky (enters from a side room)._ I can endure no
      longer. No!                            [_Looks around her._
                  Where are they?
  No one is here. They leave me all alone,
  Alone in this sore anguish of suspense.
  And I must wear the outward shew of calmness
  Before my sister, and shut in within me                              5
  The pangs and agonies of my crowded bosom.
  It is not to be borne.--If all should fail;
  If--if he must go over to the Swedes,
  An empty-handed fugitive, and not
  As an ally, a covenanted equal,                                     10
  A proud commander with his army following;
  If we must wander on from land to land,
  Like the Count Palatine, of fallen greatness
  An ignominious monument--But no!
  That day I will not see! And could himself                          15
  Endure to sink so low, I would not bear
  To see him so low sunken.


SCENE XII

_COUNTESS, DUCHESS, THEKLA._

  _Thekla (endeavouring to hold back the Duchess)._ Dear mother, do
      stay here!

  _Duchess._     No! Here is yet
  Some frightful mystery that is hidden from me.
  Why does my sister shun me? Don't I see her
  Full of suspense and anguish roam about
  From room to room?--Art thou not full of terror?                     5
  And what import these silent nods and gestures
  Which stealthwise thou exchangest with her?

  _Thekla._                                   Nothing:
  Nothing, dear Mother!

  _Duchess (to the Countess)._ Sister, I will know.

  _Countess._ What boots it now to hide it from her? Sooner
  Or later she must learn to hear and bear it.                        10
  'Tis not the time now to indulge infirmity,
  Courage beseems us now, a heart collected,
  And exercise and previous discipline
  Of fortitude. One word, and over with it!
  Sister, you are deluded. You believe,                               15
  The Duke has been deposed--The Duke is not
  Deposed--he is----

  _Thekla (going to the Countess)._ What? do you wish to kill her?

  _Countess._ The Duke is----

  _Thekla (throwing her arms round her mother)._ O stand firm! stand
      firm, my mother!

  _Countess._ Revolted is the Duke, he is preparing                   20
  To join the enemy, the army leave him,
  And all has failed.


LINENOTES:

[10] _must_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[12] collected] collect 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 22] [_During these words the DUCHESS totters, and
falls in a fainting fit into the arms of her daughter. While THEKLA is
calling for help, the curtain drops._ 1800, 1828, 1829.




ACT II


SCENE I

SCENE--_A spacious Room in the DUKE OF FRIEDLAND'S Palace._

  _Wallenstein (in armour)._ Thou hast gained thy point, Octavio! Once
      more am I
  Almost as friendless as at Regenspurg.
  There I had nothing left me, but myself--
  But what one man can do, you have now experience.
  The twigs have you hewed off, and here I stand                       5
  A leafless trunk. But in the sap within
  Lives the creating power, and a new world
  May sprout forth from it. Once already have I
  Proved myself worth an army to you--I alone!
  Before the Swedish strength your troops had melted;                 10
  Beside the Lech sank Tilly, your last hope;
  Into Bavaria, like a winter torrent,
  Did that Gustavus pour, and at Vienna
  In his own palace did the Emperor tremble.
  Soldiers were scarce, for still the multitude                       15
  Follow the luck: all eyes were turned on me,
  Their helper in distress; the Emperor's pride
  Bowed itself down before the man he had injured.
  'Twas I must rise, and with creative word
  Assemble forces in the desolate camps.                              20
  I did it. Like a god of war, my name
  Went through the world. The drum was beat--and, lo!
  The plough, the work-shop is forsaken, all
  Swarm to the old familiar long-loved banners;
  And as the wood-choir rich in melody                                25
  Assemble quick around the bird of wonder,
  When first his throat swells with his magic song,
  So did the warlike youth of Germany
  Crowd in around the image of my eagle.
  I feel myself the being that I was.                                 30
  It is the soul that builds itself a body,
  And Friedland's camp will not remain unfilled.
  Lead then your thousands out to meet me--true!
  They are accustomed under me to conquer,
  But not against me. If the head and limbs                           35
  Separate from each other, 'twill be soon
  Made manifest, in which the soul abode.

(_ILLO and TERTSKY enter._)

  Courage, friends! Courage! We are still unvanquished;
  I feel my footing firm; five regiments, Tertsky,
  Are still our own, and Butler's gallant troops;                     40
  And a host of sixteen thousand Swedes to-morrow.
  I was not stronger, when nine years ago
  I marched forth, with glad heart and high of hope,
  To conquer Germany for the Emperor.


LINENOTES:

[11] sank] sunk 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE II

_WALLENSTEIN, ILLO, TERTSKY. (To them enter NEUMANN, who leads TERTSKY
aside, and talks with him.)_

  _Tertsky._ What do they want?

  _Wallenstein._                What now?

  _Tertsky._                              Ten Cuirassiers
  From Pappenheim request leave to address you
  In the name of the regiment.

  _Wallenstein (hastily to Neumann)._ Let them enter.

                                                 [_Exit NEUMANN._

                                                      This
  May end in something. Mark you. They are still
  Doubtful, and may be won.                                            5


SCENE III

_WALLENSTEIN, TERTSKY, ILLO, Ten_ Cuirassiers _(led by an_
Anspessade,[745:1] _march up and arrange themselves, after the word of
command, in one front before the DUKE, and make their obeisance. He
takes his hat off, and immediately covers himself again)._

  _Anspessade._ Halt! Front! Present!

  _Wallenstein (after he has run through them with his eye, to the
  Anspessade)._ I know thee well. Thou art out of Brüggin in Flanders:
  Thy name is Mercy.

  _Anspessade._      Henry Mercy.

  _Wallenstein._ Thou wert cut off on the march, surrounded
  by the Hessians, and didst fight thy way with a hundred and          5
  eighty men through their thousand.

  _Anspessade._ 'Twas even so, General!

  _Wallenstein._ What reward hadst thou for this gallant exploit?

  _Anspessade._ That which I asked for: the honour to serve
  in this corps.                                                      10

  _Wallenstein (turning to a second)._ Thou wert among the
  volunteers that seized and made booty of the Swedish battery
  at Altenburg.

  _Second Cuirassier._ Yes, General!

  _Wallenstein._ I forget no one with whom I have exchanged           15
  words. (_A pause_). Who sends you?

  _Anspessade._ Your noble regiment, the Cuirassiers of
  Piccolomini.

  _Wallenstein._ Why does not your colonel deliver in your
  request, according to the custom of service?                        20

  _Anspessade._ Because we would first know whom we serve.

  _Wallenstein._ Begin your address.

  _Anspessade (giving the word of command)._ Shoulder your arms!

  _Wallenstein (turning to a third)._ Thy name is Risbeck, Cologne
  is thy birthplace.                                                  25

  _Third Cuirassier._ Risbeck of Cologne.

  _Wallenstein._ It was thou that broughtest in the Swedish
  colonel, Diebald, prisoner, in the camp at Nuremberg.

  _Third Cuirassier._ It was not I, General!

  _Wallenstein._ Perfectly right! It was thy elder brother:           30
  thou hadst a younger brother too: Where did he stay?

  _Third Cuirassier._ He is stationed at Olmutz with the
  Imperial army.

  _Wallenstein (to the Anspessade)._ Now then--begin.

  _Anspessade._ There came to hand a letter from the Emperor          35
  Commanding us----

  _Wallenstein._    Who chose you?

  _Anspessade._                    Every company
  Drew its own man by lot.

  _Wallenstein._           Now! to the business.

  _Anspessade._ There came to hand a letter from the Emperor
  Commanding us collectively, from thee
  All duties of obedience to withdraw,                                40
  Because thou wert an enemy and traitor.

  _Wallenstein._ And what did you determine?

  _Anspessade._                              All our comrades
  At Brannau, Budweiss, Prague and Olmutz, have
  Obeyed already, and the regiments here,                             45
  Tiefenbach and Toscana, instantly
  Did follow their example. But--but we
  Do not believe that thou art an enemy
  And traitor to thy country, hold it merely
  For lie and trick, and a trumped-up Spanish story!                  50
  Thyself shalt tell us what thy purpose is,
  For we have found thee still sincere and true:
  No mouth shall interpose itself betwixt
  The gallant General and the gallant troops.

  _Wallenstein._ Therein I recognize my Pappenheimers.                55

  _Anspessade._ And this proposal makes thy regiment to thee:
  Is it thy purpose merely to preserve
  In thy own hands this military sceptre,
  Which so becomes thee, which the Emperor
  Made over to thee by a covenant?                                    60
  Is it thy purpose merely to remain
  Supreme commander of the Austrian armies?--
  We will stand by thee, General! and guarantee
  Thy honest rights against all opposition.
  And should it chance, that all the other regiments                  65
  Turn from thee, by ourselves will we stand forth
  Thy faithful soldiers, and, as is our duty,
  Far rather let ourselves be cut to pieces,
  Than suffer thee to fall. But if it be
  As the Emperor's letter says, if it be true,                        70
  That thou in traitorous wise wilt lead us over
  To the enemy, which God in heaven forbid!
  Then we too will forsake thee, and obey
  That letter----

  _Wallenstein._  Hear me, children!

  _Anspessade._                      Yes, or no!
  There needs no other answer.

  _Wallenstein._               Yield attention.                       75
  You're men of sense, examine for yourselves;
  Ye think, and do not follow with the herd:
  And therefore have I always shewn you honour
  Above all others, suffered you to reason;
  Have treated you as free men, and my orders                         80
  Were but the echoes of your prior suffrage.--

  _Anspessade._ Most fair and noble has thy conduct been
  To us, my General! With thy confidence
  Thou hast honoured us, and shewn us grace and favour
  Beyond all other regiments; and thou seest                          85
  We follow not the common herd. We will
  Stand by thee faithfully. Speak but one word--
  Thy word shall satisfy us, that it is not
  A treason which thou meditatest--that
  Thou meanest not to lead the army over                              90
  To the enemy; nor e'er betray thy country.

  _Wallenstein._ Me, me are they betraying. The Emperor
  Hath sacrificed me to my enemies,
  And I must fall, unless my gallant troops
  Will rescue me. See! I confide in you.                              95
  And be your hearts my strong hold! At this breast
  The aim is taken, at this hoary head.
  This is your Spanish gratitude, this is our
  Requital for that murderous fight at Lutzen!
  For this we threw the naked breast against                         100
  The halbert, made for this the frozen earth
  Our bed, and the hard stone our pillow! never stream
  Too rapid for us, nor wood too impervious:
  With cheerful spirit we pursued that Mansfield
  Through all the turns and windings of his flight;                  105
  Yea, our whole life was but one restless march;
  And homeless, as the stirring wind, we travelled
  O'er the war-wasted earth. And now, even now,
  That we have well-nigh finished the hard toil,
  The unthankful, the curse-laden toil of weapons,                   110
  With faithful indefatigable arm
  Have rolled the heavy war-load up the hill,
  Behold! this boy of the Emperor's bears away
  The honours of the peace, an easy prize!
  He'll weave, forsooth, into his flaxen locks                       115
  The olive branch, the hard-earn'd ornament
  Of this grey head, grown grey beneath the helmet.

  _Anspessade._ That shall he not, while we can hinder it!
  No one, but thou, who hast conducted it
  With fame, shall end this war, this frightful war.                 120
  Thou led'st us out into the bloody field
  Of death, thou and no other shalt conduct us home,
  Rejoicing, to the lovely plains of peace--
  Shalt share with us the fruits of the long toil--

  _Wallenstein._ What? Think you then at length in late old age      125
  To enjoy the fruits of toil? Believe it not.
  Never, no never, will you see the end
  Of the contest! you and me, and all of us,
  This war will swallow up! War, war, not peace,
  Is Austria's wish; and therefore, because I                        130
  Endeavoured after peace, therefore I fall.
  For what cares Austria, how long the war
  Wears out the armies and lays waste the world?
  She will but wax and grow amid the ruin,
  And still win new domains.

          [_The Cuirassiers express agitation by their gestures._

                             Ye're moved--I see                      135
  A noble rage flash from your eyes, ye warriors!
  Oh that my spirit might possess you now
  Daring as once it led you to the battle!
  Ye would stand by me with your veteran arms,
  Protect me in my rights; and this is noble!                        140
  But think not that you can accomplish it,
  Your scanty number! to no purpose will you
  Have sacrificed you for your General.
  No! let us tread securely, seek for friends;
  The Swedes have proffered us assistance, let us                    145
  Wear for a while the appearance of good will,
  And use them for your profit, till we both
  Carry the fate of Europe in our hands,
  And from our camp to the glad jubilant world
  Lead Peace forth with the garland on her head!                     150

  _Anspessade._ 'Tis then but mere appearances which thou
  Dost put on with the Swede? Thou'lt not betray
  The Emperor? Wilt not turn us into Swedes?
  This is the only thing which we desire
  To learn from thee.

  _Wallenstein._      What care I for the Swedes?                    155
  I hate them as I hate the pit of hell,
  And under Providence I trust right soon
  To chase them to their homes across their Baltic.
  My cares are only for the whole: I have
  A heart--it bleeds within me for the miseries                      160
  And piteous groaning of my fellow-Germans.
  Ye are but common men, but yet ye think
  With minds not common; ye appear to me
  Worthy before all others, that I whisper ye
  A little word or two in confidence!                                165
  See now! already for full fifteen years
  The war-torch has continued burning, yet
  No rest, no pause of conflict. Swede and German,
  <DW7> and Lutheran! neither will give way
  To the other, every hand's against the other.                      170
  Each one is party and no one a judge.
  Where shall this end? Where's he that will unravel
  This tangle, ever tangling more and more.
  It must be cut asunder.
  I feel that I am the man of destiny,                               175
  And trust, with your assistance, to accomplish it.


FOOTNOTES:

[745:1] Anspessade, in German, _Gefreiter_, a soldier inferior to a
corporal, but above the centinels. The German name implies that he is
exempt from mounting guard.


LINENOTES:

[21] _whom_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[36] _Wallenstein (interrupting him)._ Who chose you? 1800, 1828, 1829.

[46] Toscana] Toscano 1828, 1829.

[After 50] (_With warmth._) 1800, 1828, 1829.

[141] _you_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 143] [_Confidentially._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[147] your] our 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE IV

_To these enter BUTLER._

  _Butler (passionately)._ General! This is not right!

  _Wallenstein._                                      What is not right?

  _Butler._ It must needs injure us with all honest men.

  _Wallenstein._ But what?

  _Butler._                It is an open proclamation
  Of insurrection.

  _Wallenstein._   Well, well--but what is it?

  _Butler._ Count Tertsky's regiments tear the Imperial Eagle          5
  From off the banners, and instead of it,
  Have reared aloft thy arms.

  _Anspessade (abruptly to the Cuirassiers)._ Right about! March!

  _Wallenstein._ Cursed be this counsel, and accursed who gave it!

                         [_To the Cuirassiers, who are retiring._

  Halt, children, halt! There's some mistake in this;
  Hark!--I will punish it severely. Stop!                             10
  They do not hear. (_To ILLO._) Go after them, assure them,
  And bring them back to me, cost what it may.

                                             [_ILLO hurries out._

  This hurls us headlong. Butler! Butler!
  You are my evil genius, wherefore must you
  Announce it in their presence? It was all                           15
  In a fair way. They were half won, those madmen
  With their improvident over-readiness--
  A cruel game is fortune playing with me.
  The zeal of friends it is that razes me,
  And not the hate of enemies.                                        20


SCENE V

_To these enter the DUCHESS, who rushes into the Chamber. THEKLA and the
COUNTESS follow her._

  _Duchess._                   O Albrecht!
  What hast thou done?

  _Wallenstein._       And now comes this beside.

  _Countess._ Forgive me, brother! It was not in my power.
  They know all.

  _Duchess._     What hast thou done?

  _Countess (to Tertsky)._ Is there no hope? Is all lost utterly?      5

  _Tertsky._ All lost. No hope. Prague in the Emperor's hands,
  The soldiery have ta'en their oaths anew.

  _Countess._ That lurking hypocrite. Octavio!
  Count Max is off too?

  _Tertsky._            Where can he be? He's
  Gone over to the Emperor with his father.                           10

          [_THEKLA rushes out into the arms of her mother, hiding
               her face in her bosom._

  _Duchess (enfolding her in her arms)._ Unhappy child! and more
      unhappy mother!

  _Wallenstein (aside to Tertsky)._ Quick! Let a carriage stand in
      readiness
  In the court behind the palace. Scherfenberg
  Be their attendant; he is faithful to us;
  To Egra he'll conduct them, and we follow.                          15

                                         [_To ILLO, who returns._

  Thou hast not brought them back?

  _Illo._                          Hear'st thou the uproar?
  The whole corps of the Pappenheimers is
  Drawn out: the younger Piccolomini,
  Their colonel, they require; for they affirm,
  That he is in the palace here, a prisoner;                          20
  And if thou dost not instantly deliver him,
  They will find means to free him with the sword.

  _Tertsky._ What shall we make of this?

  _Wallenstein._                         Said I not so?
  O my prophetic heart! he is still here.
  He has not betrayed me--he could not betray me.                     25
  I never doubted of it.

  _Countess._            If he be
  Still here, then all goes well; for I know what

                                             [_Embracing THEKLA._

  Will keep him here for ever.

  _Tertsky._                   It can't be.
  His father has betrayed us, is gone over
  To the Emperor--the son could not have ventured                     30
  To stay behind.

  _Thekla (her eye fixed on the door)._ There he is!


LINENOTES:

[9] _he_ 1800.

[After 22] [_All stand amazed._ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE VI

_To these enter MAX PICCOLOMINI._

  _Max._ Yes! here he is! I can endure no longer
  To creep on tiptoe round this house, and lurk
  In ambush for a favourable moment.
  This loitering, this suspense exceeds my powers.

                                          [_Advancing to THEKLA._

  Turn not thine eyes away. O look upon me!                            5
  Confess it freely before all. Fear no one,
  Let who will hear that we both love each other.
  Wherefore continue to conceal it? Secrecy
  Is for the happy--misery, hopeless misery,
  Needeth no veil! Beneath a thousand suns                            10
  It dares act openly.

                [_He observes the COUNTESS looking on THEKLA with
                     expressions of triumph._

                       No, Lady! No!
  Expect not, hope it not. I am not come
  To stay: to bid farewell, farewell for ever.
  For this I come! 'Tis over! I must leave thee!
  Thekla, I must--must leave thee! Yet thy hatred                     15
  Let me not take with me. I pray thee, grant me
  One look of sympathy, only one look.
  Say that thou dost not hate me. Say it to me, Thekla!

                                              [_Grasps her hand._

  O God! I cannot leave this spot--I cannot!
  Cannot let go this hand. O tell me, Thekla!                         20
  That thou dost suffer with me, art convinced
  That I cannot act otherwise.

             [_THEKLA, avoiding his look, points with her hand to
                  her father. MAX turns round to the DUKE, whom
                  he had not till then perceived._

  Thou here? It was not thou, whom here I sought.
  I trusted never more to have beheld thee.
  My business is with her alone. Here will I                          25
  Receive a full acquittal from this heart--
  For any other I am no more concerned.

  _Wallenstein._ Think'st thou, that fool-like, I shall let thee go,
  And act the mock-magnanimous with thee?
  Thy father is become a villain to me;                               30
  I hold thee for his son, and nothing more:
  Nor to no purpose shalt thou have been given
  Into my power. Think not, that I will honour
  That ancient love, which so remorselessly
  He mangled. They are now past by, those hours                       35
  Of friendship and forgiveness. Hate and vengeance
  Succeed--'tis now their turn--I too can throw
  All feelings of the man aside--can prove
  Myself as much a monster as thy father!

  _Max._ Thou wilt proceed with me, as thou hast power.               40
  Thou know'st, I neither brave nor fear thy rage.
  What has detained me here, that too thou know'st.

                                    [_Taking THEKLA by the hand._

  See, Duke! All--all would I have owed to thee,
  Would have received from thy paternal hand
  The lot of blessed spirits. This hast thou                          45
  Laid waste for ever--that concerns not thee.
  Indifferent thou tramplest in the dust
  Their happiness, who most are thine. The god
  Whom thou dost serve, is no benignant deity.
  Like as the blind irreconcileable                                   50
  Fierce element, incapable of compact,
  Thy heart's wild impulse only dost thou follow.[753:1]

  _Wallenstein._ Thou art describing thy own father's heart.
  The adder! O, the charms of hell o'erpowered me.
  He dwelt within me, to my inmost soul                               55
  Still to and fro he passed, suspected never!
  On the wide ocean, in the starry heaven
  Did mine eyes seek the enemy, whom I
  In my heart's heart had folded! Had I been
  To Ferdinand what Octavio was to me,                                60
  War had I ne'er denounced against him. No,
  I never could have done it. The Emperor was
  My austere master only, not my friend.
  There was already war 'twixt him and me
  When he delivered the Commander's Staff                             65
  Into my hands; for there's a natural
  Unceasing war 'twixt cunning and suspicion;
  Peace exists only betwixt confidence
  And faith. Who poisons confidence, he murders
  The future generations.

  _Max._                  I will not                                  70
  Defend my father. Woe is me, I cannot!
  Hard deeds and luckless have ta'en place, one crime
  Drags after it the other in close link.
  But we are innocent: how have we fallen
  Into this circle of mishap and guilt?                               75
  To whom have we been faithless? Wherefore must
  The evil deeds and guilt reciprocal
  Of our two fathers twine like serpents round us?
  Why must our fathers'
  Unconquerable hate rend us asunder,
  Who love each other?

  _Wallenstein._       Max, remain with me.                           80
  Go you not from me, Max! Hark! I will tell thee--
  How when at Prague, our winter quarters, thou
  Wert brought into my tent a tender boy,
  Not yet accustomed to the German winters;
  Thy hand was frozen to the heavy colours;                           85
  Thou would'st not let them go.--
  At that time did I take thee in my arms,
  And with my mantle did I cover thee;
  I was thy nurse, no woman could have been
  A kinder to thee; I was not ashamed                                 90
  To do for thee all little offices,
  However strange to me; I tended thee
  Till life returned; and when thine eyes first opened,
  I had thee in my arms. Since then, when have I
  Altered my feelings towards thee? Many thousands                    95
  Have I made rich, presented them with lands;
  Rewarded them with dignities and honours;
  Thee have I loved: my heart, my self, I gave
  To thee! They all were aliens: thou wert
  Our child and inmate.[755:1] Max! Thou canst not leave me;         100
  It cannot be; I may not, will not think
  That Max can leave me.

  _Max._                 O my God!

  _Wallenstein._                   I have
  Held and sustained thee from thy tottering childhood.
  What holy bond is there of natural love?
  What human tie, that does not knit thee to me?                     105
  I love thee, Max! What did thy father for thee,
  Which I too have not done, to the height of duty?
  Go hence, forsake me, serve thy Emperor;
  He will reward thee with a pretty chain
  Of gold; with his ram's fleece will he reward thee;                110
  For that the friend, the father of thy youth,
  For that the holiest feeling of humanity,
  Was nothing worth to thee.

  _Max._                     O God! how can I
  Do otherwise? Am I not forced to do it?
  My oath--my duty--honour--

  _Wallenstein._             How? Thy duty?                          115
  Duty to whom? Who art thou? Max! bethink thee
  What duties may'st thou have? If I am acting
  A criminal part toward the Emperor,
  It is my crime, not thine. Dost thou belong
  To thine own self? Art thou thine own commander?                   120
  Stand'st thou, like me, a freeman in the world,
  That in thy actions thou should'st plead free agency?
  On me thou'rt planted, I am thy Emperor;
  To obey me, to belong to me, this is
  Thy honour, this a law of nature to thee!                          125
  And if the planet, on the which thou liv'st
  And hast thy dwelling, from its orbit starts,
  It is not in thy choice, whether or no
  Thou'lt follow it. Unfelt it whirls thee onward
  Together with his ring and all his moons.                          130
  With little guilt stepp'st thou into this contest,
  Thee will the world not censure, it will praise thee,
  For that thou heldst thy friend more worth to thee
  Than names and influences more removed.
  For justice is the virtue of the ruler,                            135
  Affection and fidelity the subject's.
  Not every one doth it beseem to question
  The far-off high Arcturus. Most securely
  Wilt thou pursue the nearest duty--let
  The pilot fix his eye upon the pole-star.                          140


FOOTNOTES:

[753:1] I have here ventured to omit a considerable number of lines. I
fear that I should not have done amiss, had I taken this liberty more
frequently. It is, however, incumbent on me to give the original with a
literal translation.

  Weh denen die auf dich vertraun, an Dich
  Die sichre Hütte ihres Glückes lehnen,
  Gelockt von deiner gastlichen Gestalt.
  Schnell, unverhofft, bei nächtlich stiller Weile
  Gährt's in dem tückschen Feuerschlunde, ladet
  Sich aus mit tobender Gewalt, und weg
  Treibt über alle Pflanzungen der Menschen
  Der wilde Strom in grausender Zerstörung.

  WALLENSTEIN.
  Du schilderst deines Vaters Herz. Wie Du's
  Beschreibst, so ist's in seinem Eingeweide,
  In dieser schwarzen Heuchlersbrust gestaltet.
  O mich hat Höllenkunst getäuscht. Mir sandte
  Der Abgrund den verstecktesten der Geister,
  Den Lügekundigsten herauf, und stellt' ihn
  Als Freund an meine Seite. Wer vermag
  Der Hölle Macht zu widerstehn! Ich zog
  Den Basilisken auf an meinem Busen,
  Mit meinem Herzblut nährt' ich ihn, er sog
  Sich schwelgend voll an meiner Liebe Brüsten.
  Ich hatte nimmer Arges gegen ihn,
  Weit offen Hess ich des Gedankens Thore,
  Und warf die Schlüssel weiser Vorsicht weg,
  Am Sternenhimmel, &c.

LITERAL TRANSLATION.

Alas! for those who place their confidence on thee, against thee lean
the secure hut of their fortune, allured by thy hospitable form.
Suddenly, unexpectedly, in a moment still as night, there is a
fermentation in the treacherous gulf of fire; it discharges itself with
raging force, and away over all the plantations of men drives the wild
stream in frightful devastation. WALLENSTEIN. Thou art portraying thy
father's heart; as thou describest, even so is it shaped in his
entrails, in this black hypocrite's breast. O, the art of hell has
deceived me! The Abyss sent up to me the most spotted of the spirits,
the most skilful in lies, and placed him as a friend by my side. Who may
withstand the power of hell? I took the basilisk to my bosom, with my
heart's blood I nourished him; he sucked himself glutfull at the breasts
of my love. I never harboured evil towards him; wide open did I leave
the door of my thoughts; I threw away the key of wise foresight. In the
starry heaven, &c.--We find a difficulty in believing this to have been
written by Schiller. _1800_, _1828_, _1829_. I have here ventured to
omit a considerable number of lines, which it is difficult to believe
that Schiller could have written. _1834_.

[755:1] This is a poor and inadequate translation of the affectionate
simplicity of the original--

  Sie alle waren Fremdlinge, _Du_ warst
  Das Kind des Hauses.

Indeed the whole speech is in the best style of Massinger. _O si sic
omnia!_


LINENOTES:

[After 4] [_Advancing to THEKLA, who has thrown herself into her
mother's arms._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[14] _must_ leave 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 40] _Max (calmly)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[60] _Ferdinand . . . me_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[98] _lov'd_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[117] _thou_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[124] _me . . . belong_ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE VII

_To these enter NEUMANN._

  _Wallenstein._ What now?

  _Neumann._               The Pappenheimers are dismounted,
  And are advancing now on foot, determined
  With sword in hand to storm the house, and free
  The Count, their colonel.

  _Wallenstein (to Tertsky)._ Have the cannon planted.
  I will receive them with chain-shot.           [_Exit TERTSKY._      5
  Prescribe to me with sword in hand! Go, Neumann!
  'Tis my command that they retreat this moment,
  And in their ranks in silence wait my pleasure.

                       [_NEUMANN exit. ILLO steps to the window._

  _Countess._ Let him go, I entreat thee, let him go.

  _Illo (at the window)._ Hell and perdition!

  _Wallenstein._                              What is it?             10

  _Illo._ They scale the council-house, the roof's uncovered.
  They level at this house the cannon----

  _Max._                                  Madmen!

  _Illo._ They are making preparations now to fire on us.

  _Duchess and Countess._ Merciful Heaven!

  _Max (to Wallenstein)._                  Let me go to them!

  _Wallenstein._ Not a step!

  _Max (pointing to Thekla and the Duchess)._ But their life!
      Thine!                                                          15

  _Wallenstein._ What tidings bring'st thou, Tertsky?


SCENE VIII

_To these TERTSKY (returning)._

  _Tertsky._ Message and greeting from our faithful regiments.
  Their ardour may no longer be curbed in.
  They intreat permission to commence the attack,
  And if thou would'st but give the word of onset,
  They could now charge the enemy in rear,                             5
  Into the city wedge them, and with ease
  O'erpower them in the narrow streets.

  _Illo._                               O come!
  Let not their ardour cool. The soldiery
  Of Butler's corps stand by us faithfully;
  We are the greater number. Let us charge them,                      10
  And finish here in Pilsen the revolt.

  _Wallenstein._ What? shall this town become a field of slaughter,
  And brother-killing Discord, fire-eyed,
  Be let loose through its streets to roam and rage?
  Shall the decision be delivered over                                15
  To deaf remorseless Rage, that hears no leader?
  Here is not room for battle, only for butchery.
  Well, let it be! I have long thought of it,
  So let it burst then!                          [_Turns to MAX._
                        Well, how is it with thee?
  Wilt thou attempt a heat with me. Away!                             20
  Thou art free to go. Oppose thyself to me,
  Front against front, and lead them to the battle;
  Thou'rt skilled in war, thou hast learned somewhat under me,
  I need not be ashamed of my opponent,
  And never had'st thou fairer opportunity                            25
  To pay me for thy schooling.

  _Countess._                  Is it then,
  Can it have come to this?--What! Cousin, Cousin!
  Have you the heart?

  _Max._ The regiments that are trusted to my care
  I have pledged my troth to bring away from Pilsen                   30
  True to the Emperor, and this promise will I
  Make good, or perish. More than this no duty
  Requires of me. I will not fight against thee,
  Unless compelled; for though an enemy,
  Thy head is holy to me still.                                       35

           [_Two reports of cannon. ILLO and TERTSKY hurry to the
                window._

  _Wallenstein._ What's that?

  _Tertsky._                  He falls.

  _Wallenstein._                        Falls! Who?

  _Illo._                                           Tiefenbach's corps
  Discharged the ordnance.

  _Wallenstein._           Upon whom?

  _Illo._                             On Neumann,
  Your messenger.

  _Wallenstein (starting up)._ Ha! Death and hell! I will--

  _Tertsky._ Expose thyself to their blind frenzy?

  _Duchess and Countess._                          No!
  For God's sake, no!

  _Illo._             Not yet, my General!                            40

  _Countess._ O, hold him! hold him!

  _Wallenstein._                     Leave me----

  _Max._                                          Do it not
  Not yet! This rash and bloody deed has thrown them
  Into a frenzy-fit--allow them time----

  _Wallenstein._ Away! too long already have I loitered.
  They are emboldened to these outrages,                              45
  Beholding not my face. They shall behold
  My countenance, shall hear my voice----
  Are they not my troops? Am I not their General,
  And their long-feared commander? Let me see,
  Whether indeed they do no longer know                               50
  That countenance, which was their sun in battle!
  From the balcony (mark!) I shew myself
  To these rebellious forces, and at once
  Revolt is mounded, and the high-swoln current
  Shrinks back into the old bed of obedience.                         55

           [_Exit WALLENSTEIN; ILLO, TERTSKY, and BUTLER follow._


LINENOTES:

[48] _my_ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE IX

_COUNTESS, DUCHESS, MAX, and THEKLA._

  _Countess (to the Duchess)._ Let them but see him--there is hope
      still, sister.

  _Duchess._ Hope! I have none!

  _Max (who during the last scene has been standing at a distance,
      advances)._               This can I not endure.
  With most determined soul did I come hither,
  My purposed action seemed unblameable
  To my own conscience--and I must stand here                          5
  Like one abhorred, a hard inhuman being;
  Yea, loaded with the curse of all I love!
  Must see all whom I love in this sore anguish,
  Whom I with one word can make happy--O!
  My heart revolts within me, and two voices                          10
  Make themselves audible within my bosom.
  My soul's benighted; I no longer can
  Distinguish the right track. O, well and truly
  Didst thou say, father, I relied too much
  On my own heart. My mind moves to and fro--                         15
  I know not what to do.

  _Countess._            What! you know not?
  Does not your own heart tell you? O! then I
  Will tell it you. Your father is a traitor,
  A frightful traitor to us--he has plotted
  Against our General's life, has plunged us all                      20
  In misery--and you're his son! 'Tis yours
  To make the amends--Make you the son's fidelity
  Outweigh the father's treason, that the name
  Of Piccolomini be not a proverb
  Of infamy, a common form of cursing                                 25
  To the posterity of Wallenstein.

  _Max._ Where is that voice of truth which I dare follow?
  It speaks no longer in my heart. We all
  But utter what our passionate wishes dictate:
  O that an angel would descend from Heaven,                          30
  And scoop for me the right, the uncorrupted,
  With a pure hand from the pure Fount of Light.

                                    [_His eyes glance on THEKLA._

  What other angel seek I? To this heart,
  To this unerring heart, will I submit it,
  Will ask thy love, which has the power to bless                     35
  The happy man alone, averted ever
  From the disquieted and guilty--canst thou
  Still love me, if I stay? Say that thou canst,
  And I am the Duke's----

  _Countess._             Think, niece----

  _Max._                                   Think nothing, Thekla!
  Speak what thou feelest.

  _Countess._              Think upon your father.                    40

  _Max._ I did not question thee, as Friedland's daughter.
  Thee, the beloved and the unerring god
  Within thy heart, I question. What's at stake?
  Not whether diadem of royalty
  Be to be won or not--that might'st thou think on.                   45
  Thy friend, and his soul's quiet, are at stake;
  The fortune of a thousand gallant men,
  Who will all follow me; shall I forswear
  My oath and duty to the Emperor?
  Say, shall I send into Octavio's camp                               50
  The parricidal ball? For when the ball
  Has left its cannon, and is on its flight,
  It is no longer a dead instrument!
  It lives, a spirit passes into it,
  The avenging furies seize possession of it,                         55
  And with sure malice guide it the worst way.

  _Thekla._ O! Max----

  _Max._               Nay, not precipitately either, Thekla.
  I understand thee. To thy noble heart
  The hardest duty might appear the highest.
  The human, not the great part, would I act.                         60
  Ev'n from my childhood to this present hour,
  Think what the Duke has done for me, how loved me,
  And think too, how my father has repaid him.
  O likewise the free lovely impulses
  Of hospitality, the pious friend's                                  65
  Faithful attachment, these too are a holy
  Religion to the heart; and heavily
  The shudderings of nature do avenge
  Themselves on the barbarian that insults them.
  Lay all upon the balance, all--then speak,                          70
  And let thy heart decide it.

  _Thekla._                    O, thy own
  Hath long ago decided. Follow thou
  Thy heart's first feeling----

  _Countess._                   Oh! ill-fated woman!

  _Thekla._ Is it possible, that that can be the right,
  The which thy tender heart did not at first                         75
  Detect and seize with instant impulse? Go,
  Fulfil thy duty! I should ever love thee.
  Whate'er thou had'st chosen, thou would'st still have acted
  Nobly and worthy of thee--but repentance
  Shall ne'er disturb thy soul's fair peace.

  _Max._                                     Then I                   80
  Must leave thee, must part from thee!

  _Thekla._                             Being faithful
  To thine own self, thou art faithful too to me:
  If our fates part, our hearts remain united.
  A bloody hatred will divide for ever
  The houses Piccolomini and Friedland;                               85
  But we belong not to our houses--Go!
  Quick! quick! and separate thy righteous cause
  From our unholy and unblessed one!
  The curse of heaven lies upon our head:
  'Tis dedicate to ruin. Even me                                      90
  My father's guilt drags with it to perdition.
  Mourn not for me:
  My destiny will quickly be decided.

         [_MAX clasps her in his arms. There is heard from behind
              the Scene a loud, wild, long continued cry, 'Vivat
              Ferdinandus,' accompanied by warlike instruments._


LINENOTES:

[Before 3] _Max (who . . . distance in a visible struggle of feelings,
advances)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[22] _amends_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[23] _Outweigh_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[28] _my_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[37] _can'st_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[40] _feelest_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[45] _think_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[46] _his_ _1800_.]

[57] _Max (interrupting her)._ Nay, &c. 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 92] [_MAX . . . in extreme emotion. There is . . . instruments.
MAX and THEKLA remain without motion in each other's embraces._ 1800,
1828, 1829.


SCENE X

_To these enter TERTSKY._

  _Countess (meeting him)._ What meant that cry? What was it?

  _Tertsky._                                                  All is
      lost!

  _Countess._ What! they regarded not his countenance?

  _Tertsky._ 'Twas all in vain.

  _Duchess._                    They shouted Vivat!

  _Tertsky._                                        To the Emperor.

  _Countess._ The traitors!

  _Tertsky._                Nay! he was not once permitted
  Even to address them. Soon as he began,                              5
  With deafening noise of warlike instruments
  They drowned his words. But here he comes.


SCENE XI

_To these enter WALLENSTEIN, accompanied by ILLO and BUTLER._

  _Wallenstein (as he enters)._              Tertsky!

  _Tertsky._ My General?

  _Wallenstein._         Let our regiments hold themselves
  In readiness to march; for we shall leave
  Pilsen ere evening.                            [_Exit TERTSKY._
                      Butler!

  _Butler._                   Yes, my General.

  _Wallenstein._ The Governor at Egra is your friend                   5
  And countryman. Write to him instantly
  By a Post Courier. He must be advised,
  That we are with him early on the morrow.
  You follow us yourself, your regiment with you.

  _Butler._ It shall be done, my General!

  _Wallenstein (steps between Max and Thekla)._ Part!

  _Max._                                              O God!          10

           [Cuirassiers _enter with drawn swords, and assemble in
                the back-ground. At the same time there are heard
                from below some spirited passages out of the
                Pappenheim March, which seem to address MAX._

  _Wallenstein (to the Cuirassiers)._ Here he is, he is at liberty: I
      keep him
  No longer.

           [_He turns away, and stands so that MAX cannot pass by
                him nor approach the PRINCESS._

  _Max._ Thou know'st that I have not yet learnt to live
  Without thee! I go forth into a desert,
  Leaving my all behind me. O do not turn                             15
  Thine eyes away from me! O once more shew me
  Thy ever dear and honoured countenance.

             [_MAX attempts to take his hand, but is repelled; he
                  turns to the COUNTESS._

  Is there no eye that has a look of pity for me?

              [_The COUNTESS turns away from him; he turns to the
                   DUCHESS._

  My mother!

  _Duchess._ Go where duty calls you. Haply
  The time may come, when you may prove to us                         20
  A true friend, a good angel at the throne
  Of the Emperor.

  _Max._          You give me hope; you would not
  Suffer me wholly to despair. No! No!
  Mine is a certain misery--Thanks to heaven
  That offers me a means of ending it.                                25

          [_The military music begins again. The stage fills more
               and more with armed men. MAX sees BUTLER, and
               addresses him._

  And you here, Colonel Butler--and will you
  Not follow me? Well, then! remain more faithful
  To your new lord, than you have proved yourself
  To the Emperor. Come, Butler! promise me,
  Give me your hand upon it, that you'll be                           30
  The guardian of his life, its shield, its watchman.
  He is attainted, and his princely head
  Fair booty for each slave that trades in murder.
  Now he doth need the faithful eye of friendship,
  And those whom here I see--

                  [_Casting suspicious looks on ILLO and BUTLER._

  _Illo._                     Go--seek for traitors                   35
  In Galas', in your father's quarters. Here
  Is only one. Away! away! and free us
  From his detested sight! Away!

         [_MAX attempts once more to approach THEKLA. WALLENSTEIN
              prevents him. MAX stands irresolute, and in
              apparent anguish. In the mean time the stage fills
              more and more; and the horns sound from below
              louder and louder, and each time after a shorter
              interval._

  _Max._ Blow, blow! O were it but the Swedish Trumpets,
  And all the naked swords, which I see here,                         40
  Were plunged into my breast! What purpose you?
  You come to tear me from this place! Beware,
  Ye drive me not in desperation.--Do it not!
  Ye may repent it!

                  [_The stage is entirely filled with armed men._

  Yet more! weight upon weight to drag me down!                       45
  Think what ye're doing. It is not well done
  To choose a man despairing for your leader;
  You tear me from my happiness. Well, then,
  I dedicate your souls to vengeance. Mark!
  For your own ruin you have chosen me:                               50
  Who goes with me, must be prepared to perish.

          [_He turns to the background, there ensues a sudden and
               violent movement among the_ Cuirassiers; _they
               surround him, and carry him off in wild tumult.
               WALLENSTEIN remains immovable. THEKLA sinks into
               her mother's arms. The curtain falls. The music
               becomes loud and overpowering, and passes into a
               complete war-march--the orchestra joins it--and
               continues during the interval between the second
               and third Act._


LINENOTES:

[10] _Wallenstein (steps between Max and Thekla, who have remained
during this time in each others arms)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.




ACT III


SCENE I

_The_ Burgomaster's _House at Egra._

_BUTLER._

  _Butler._ Here then he is, by his destiny conducted.
  Here, Friedland! and no farther! From Bohemia
  Thy meteor rose, traversed the sky awhile,
  And here upon the borders of Bohemia
  Must sink.
             Thou hast forsworn the ancient colours,                   5
  Blind man! yet trustest to thy ancient fortunes.
  Profaner of the altar and the hearth,
  Against thy Emperor and fellow-citizens
  Thou mean'st to wage the war. Friedland, beware--
  The evil spirit of revenge impels thee--                            10
  Beware thou, that revenge destroy thee not!


LINENOTES:

[Before 1] _Butler (just arrived)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE II

_BUTLER and GORDON._

  _Gordon._ Is it you?
  How my heart sinks! The Duke a fugitive traitor!
  His princely head attainted! O my God!

  _Butler._ You have received the letter which I sent you
  By a post-courier?

  _Gordon._          Yes! and in obedience to it                       5
  Opened the strong hold to him without scruple.
  For an imperial letter orders me
  To follow your commands implicitly.
  But yet forgive me; when even now I saw
  The Duke himself, my scruples recommenced.                          10
  For truly, not like an attainted man,
  Into this town did Friedland make his entrance;
  His wonted majesty beamed from his brow,
  And calm, as in the days when all was right,
  Did he receive from me the accounts of office;                      15
  'Tis said, that fallen pride learns condescension:
  But sparing and with dignity the Duke
  Weighed every syllable of approbation,
  As masters praise a servant who has done
  His duty, and no more.

  _Butler._              'Tis all precisely                           20
  As I related in my letter. Friedland
  Has sold the army to the enemy,
  And pledged himself to give up Prague and Egra.
  On this report the regiments all forsook him,
  The five excepted that belong to Tertsky,                           25
  And which have followed him, as thou hast seen.
  The sentence of attainder is passed on him,
  And every loyal subject is required
  To give him in to justice, dead or living.

  _Gordon._ A traitor to the Emperor--Such a noble!                   30
  Of such high talents! What is human greatness!
  I often said, this can't end happily.
  His might, his greatness, and this obscure power
  Are but a covered pit-fall. The human being
  May not be trusted to self-government.                              35
  The clear and written law, the deep trod foot-marks
  Of ancient custom, are all necessary
  To keep him in the road of faith and duty.
  The authority entrusted to this man
  Was unexampled and unnatural                                        40
  It placed him on a level with his Emperor,
  Till the proud soul unlearned submission. Wo is me;
  I mourn for him! for where he fell, I deem
  Might none stand firm. Alas! dear General,
  We in our lucky mediocrity                                          45
  Have ne'er experienced, cannot calculate,
  What dangerous wishes such a height may breed
  In the heart of such a man.

  _Butler._                   Spare your laments
  Till he need sympathy; for at this present
  He is still mighty, and still formidable.                           50
  The Swedes advance to Egra by forced marches,
  And quickly will the junction be accomplished.
  This must not be! The Duke must never leave
  This strong hold on free footing; for I have
  Pledged life and honour here to hold him prisoner,                  55
  And your assistance 'tis on which I calculate.

  _Gordon._ O that I had not lived to see this day!
  From his hand I received this dignity,
  He did himself entrust this strong hold to me,
  Which I am now required to make his dungeon.                        60
  We subalterns have no will of our own:
  The free, the mighty man alone may listen
  To the fair impulse of his human nature.
  Ah! we are but the poor tools of the law,
  Obedience the sole virtue we dare aim at!                           65

  _Butler._ Nay, let it not afflict you, that your power
  Is circumscribed. Much liberty, much error!
  The narrow path of duty is securest.

  _Gordon._ And all then have deserted him, you say?
  He has built up the luck of many thousands;                         70
  For kingly was his spirit: his full hand
  Was ever open! Many a one from dust
  Hath he selected, from the very dust
  Hath raised him into dignity and honour.
  And yet no friend, not one friend hath he purchased,                75
  Whose heart beats true to him in the evil hour.

  _Butler._ Here's one, I see.

  _Gordon._                    I have enjoyed from him
  No grace or favour. I could almost doubt,
  If ever in his greatness he once thought on
  An old friend of his youth. For still my office                     80
  Kept me at distance from him; and when first
  He to this citadel appointed me,
  He was sincere and serious in his duty.
  I do not then abuse his confidence,
  If I preserve my fealty in that                                     85
  Which to my fealty was first delivered.

  _Butler._ Say, then, will you fulfil the attainder on him?

  _Gordon._ If it be so--if all be as you say--
  If he've betrayed the Emperor, his master,
  Have sold the troops, have purposed to deliver                      90
  The strong holds of the country to the enemy--
  Yea, truly!---there is no redemption for him!
  Yet it is hard, that me the lot should destine
  To be the instrument of his perdition;
  For we were pages at the court of Bergau                            95
  At the same period; but I was the senior.

  _Butler._ I have heard so----

  _Gordon._                     'Tis full thirty years since then.
  A youth who scarce had seen his twentieth year
  Was Wallenstein, when he and I were friends:
  Yet even then he had a daring soul:                                100
  His frame of mind was serious and severe
  Beyond his years: his dreams were of great objects.
  He walked amidst us of a silent spirit,
  Communing with himself: yet I have known him
  Transported on a sudden into utterance                             105
  Of strange conceptions; kindling into splendour
  His soul revealed itself, and he spake so
  That we looked round perplexed upon each other,
  Not knowing whether it were craziness,
  Or whether it were a god that spoke in him.                        110

  _Butler._ But was it where he fell two story high
  From a window-ledge, on which he had fallen asleep;
  And rose up free from injury? From this day
  (It is reported) he betrayed clear marks
  Of a distempered fancy.

  _Gordon._               He became                                  115
  Doubtless more self-enwrapt and melancholy;
  He made himself a Catholic. Marvellously
  His marvellous preservation had transformed him.
  Thenceforth he held himself for an exempted
  And privileged being, and, as if he were                           120
  Incapable of dizziness or fall,
  He ran along the unsteady rope of life.
  But now our destinies drove us asunder:
  He paced with rapid step the way of greatness,
  Was Count, and Prince, Duke-regent, and Dictator.                  125
  And now is all, all this too little for him;
  He stretches forth his hands for a king's crown,
  And plunges in unfathomable ruin.

  _Butler._ No more, he comes.


LINENOTES:

[After 72] [_With a sly glance on BUTLER._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 88] _Gordon (pauses reflecting--then as in deep dejection)._
1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE III

_To these enter WALLENSTEIN, in conversation with the_ Burgomaster _of
Egra._

  _Wallenstein._ You were at one time a free town. I see,
  Ye bear the half eagle in your city arms.
  Why the half eagle only?

  _Burgomaster._           We were free,
  But for these last two hundred years has Egra
  Remained in pledge to the Bohemian crown,                            5
  Therefore we bear the half eagle, the other half
  Being cancelled till the empire ransom us,
  If ever that should be.

  _Wallenstein._          Ye merit freedom.
  Only be firm and dauntless. Lend your ears
  To no designing whispering court-minions.                           10
  What may your imposts be?

  _Burgomaster._            So heavy that
  We totter under them. The garrison
  Lives at our costs.

  _Wallenstein._      I will relieve you. Tell me,
  There are some Protestants among you still?

                                  [_The_ Burgomaster _hesitates._

  Yes, yes; I know it. Many lie concealed                             15
  Within these walls--Confess now--you yourself--
  Be not alarmed. I hate the Jesuits.
  Could my will have determined it, they had
  Been long ago expelled the empire. Trust me--
  Mass-book or Bible--'tis all one to me.                             20
  Of that the world has had sufficient proof.
  I built a church for the reformed in Glogan
  At my own instance. Hark'e, Burgomaster!
  What is your name?

  _Burgomaster._     Pachhälbel, may it please you.

  _Wallenstein._ Hark'e!----                                          25
  But let it go no further, what I now
  Disclose to you in confidence.

              [_Laying his hand on the_ Burgomaster's _shoulder._

                                 The times
  Draw near to their fulfilment, Burgomaster!
  The high will fall, the low will be exalted.
  Hark'e! But keep it to yourself! The end                            30
  Approaches of the Spanish double monarchy--
  A new arrangement is at hand. You saw
  The three moons that appeared at once in the Heaven.

  _Burgomaster._ With wonder and affright!

  _Wallenstein._                           Whereof did two
  Strangely transform themselves to bloody daggers.                   35
  And only one, the middle moon, remained
  Steady and clear.

  _Burgomaster._    We applied it to the Turks.

  _Wallenstein._ The Turks! That all?--I tell you, that two empires
  Will set in blood, in the East and in the West,
  And Luth'ranism alone remain.   [_Observing GORDON and BUTLER._
                                I'faith,                              40
  'Twas a smart cannonading that we heard
  This evening, as we journeyed hitherward;
  'Twas on our left hand. Did you hear it here?

  _Gordon._ Distinctly. The wind brought it from the South.

  _Butler._ It seemed to come from Weiden or from Neustadt.           45

  _Wallenstein._ Tis likely. That's the route the Swedes are taking.
  How strong is the garrison?

  _Gordon._                   Not quite two hundred
  Competent men, the rest are invalids.

  _Wallenstein._ Good! And how many in the vale of Jochim?

  _Gordon._ Two hundred arquebussiers have I sent thither             50
  To fortify the posts against the Swedes.

  _Wallenstein._ Good! I commend your foresight. At the works too
  You have done somewhat?

  _Gordon._               Two additional batteries
  I caused to be run up. They were needless.
  The Rhinegrave presses hard upon us, General!                       55

  _Wallenstein._ You have been watchful in your Emperor's service.
  I am content with you, Lieutenant-Colonel.        [_To BUTLER._
  Release the outposts in the vale of Jochim
  With all the stations in the enemy's route.       [_To GORDON._
  Governor, in your faithful hands I leave                            60
  My wife, my daughter, and my sister. I
  Shall make no stay here, and wait but the arrival
  Of letters, to take leave of you, together
  With all the regiments.


LINENOTES:

[2] _half_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 16] [_Fixes his eye on him. The_ Burgomaster _alarmed._ 1800,
1828, 1829.

[27]

  Disclose to you in confidence.          [_Laying . . . shoulder with a
                                               certain solemnity._

1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE IV

_To these enter COUNT TERTSKY._

  _Tertsky._ Joy, General; joy! I bring you welcome tidings.

  _Wallenstein._ And what may they be?

  _Tertsky._                           There has been an engagement
  At Neustadt; the Swedes gained the victory.

  _Wallenstein._ From whence did you receive the intelligence?

  _Tertsky._ A countryman from Tirschenseil conveyed it.               5
  Soon after sunrise did the fight begin!
  A troop of the Imperialists from Fachau
  Had forced their way into the Swedish camp;
  The cannonade continued full two hours;
  There were left dead upon the field a thousand                      10
  Imperialists, together with their Colonel;
  Further than this he did not know.

  _Wallenstein._                     How came
  Imperial troops at Neustadt? Altringer,
  But yesterday, stood sixty miles from there.
  Count Galas' force collects at Frauenberg,                          15
  And have not the full complement. Is it possible,
  That Suys perchance had ventured so far onward?
  It cannot be.

  _Tertsky._    We shall soon know the whole,
  For here comes Illo, full of haste, and joyous.


SCENE V

_To these enter ILLO._

  _Illo (to Wallenstein)._ A courier, Duke! he wishes to speak with
      thee.

  _Tertsky._ Does he bring confirmation of the victory?

  _Wallenstein._ What does he bring? Whence comes he?

  _Illo._                                             From the
      Rhinegrave.
  And what he brings I can announce to you
  Beforehand. Seven leagues distant are the Swedes;                    5
  At Neustadt did Max Piccolomini
  Throw himself on them with the cavalry;
  A murderous fight took place! o'erpower'd by numbers
  The Pappenheimers all, with Max their leader,
  Were left dead on the field.                                        10

  _Wallenstein (after a pause)._ Where is the messenger? Conduct me
      to him.

           [_WALLENSTEIN is going, when LADY NEUBRUNN rushes into
                the room. Some servants follow her and run across
                the stage._

  _Neubrunn._ Help! Help!

  _Illo and Tertsky (at the same time)._ What now?

  _Neubrunn._                                      The Princess!

  _Wallenstein and Tertsky._ Does she know it?

  _Neubrunn._                                  She is dying!

            [_Hurries off the stage, when WALLENSTEIN and TERTSKY
                 follow her._


LINENOTES:

[Before 2] _Tertsky (eagerly)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 3] _Wallenstein (at the same time)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[After 9] [_WALLENSTEIN shudders and turns pale._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 11] _Wallenstein (after a pause, in a low voice)._ 1800, 1828,
1829.

[13] _Neubrunn (at the same time with them)._ She is dying! 1800, 1828,
1829.


SCENE VI

_BUTLER and GORDON._

  _Gordon._ What's this?

  _Butler._              She has lost the man she lov'd--
  Young Piccolomini, who fell in the battle.

  _Gordon._ Unfortunate Lady!

  _Butler._                   You have heard what Illo
  Reporteth, that the Swedes are conquerors,
  And marching hitherward.

  _Gordon._                Too well I heard it.                        5

  _Butler._ They are twelve regiments strong, and there are five
  Close by us to protect the Duke. We have
  Only my single regiment; and the garrison
  Is not two hundred strong.

  _Gordon._                  'Tis even so.

  _Butler._ It is not possible with such small force                  10
  To hold in custody a man like him.

  _Gordon._ I grant it.

  _Butler._             Soon the numbers would disarm us.
  And liberate him.

  _Gordon._         It were to be feared.

  _Butler (after a pause)._ Know, I am warranty for the event;
  With my head have I pledged myself for his,                         15
  Must make my word good, cost it what it will,
  And if alive we cannot hold him prisoner,
  Why--death makes all things certain!

  _Gordon._                            Butler! What?
  Do I understand you? Gracious God! You could--

  _Butler._ He must not live.

  _Gordon._                   And you can do the deed!                20

  _Butler._ Either you or I. This morning was his last.

  _Gordon._ You would assassinate him.

  _Butler._                            'Tis my purpose.

  _Gordon._ Who leans with his whole confidence upon you!

  _Butler._ Such is his evil destiny!

  _Gordon._                           Your General!
  The sacred person of your General!                                  25

  _Butler._ My General he has been.

  _Gordon._                         That 'tis only
  A '_has been_' washes out no villainy.
  And without judgment passed?

  _Butler._                    The execution
  Is here instead of judgment.

  _Gordon._                    This were murder,
  Not justice. The most guilty should be heard.                       30

  _Butler._ His guilt is clear, the Emperor has passed judgment,
  And we but execute his will.

  _Gordon._                    We should not
  Hurry to realize a bloody sentence.
  A word may be recalled, a life can never be.

  _Butler._ Dispatch in service pleases sovereigns.                   35

  _Gordon._ No honest man's ambitious to press forward
  To the hangman's service.

  _Butler._                 And no brave man loses
  His colour at a daring enterprize.

  _Gordon._ A brave man hazards life, but not his conscience.

  _Butler._ What then? Shall he go forth anew to kindle               40
  The unextinguishable flame of war?

  _Gordon._ Seize him, and hold him prisoner--do not kill him.

  _Butler._ Had not the Emperor's army been defeated,
  I might have done so.--But 'tis now past by.

  _Gordon._ O, wherefore opened I the strong hold to him!             45

  _Butler._ His destiny and not the place destroys him.

  _Gordon._ Upon these ramparts, as beseemed a soldier,
  I had fallen, defending the Emperor's citadel!

  _Butler._ Yes! and a thousand gallant men have perished.

  _Gordon._ Doing their duty--that adorns the man!                    50
  But murder's a black deed, and nature curses it.

  _Butler (brings out a paper)._ Here is the manifesto which
      commands us
  To gain possession of his person. See--
  It is addressed to you as well as me.
  Are you content to take the consequences,                           55
  If through our fault he escape to the enemy?

  _Gordon._ I?--Gracious God!

  _Butler._                   Take it on yourself.
  Let come of it what may, on you I lay it.

  _Gordon._ O God in heaven!

  _Butler._                  Can you advise aught else
  Wherewith to execute the Emperor's purpose?                         60
  Say if you can. For I desire his fall,
  Not his destruction.

  _Gordon._            Merciful heaven! what must be
  I see as clear as you. Yet still the heart
  Within my bosom beats with other feelings!

  _Butler._ Mine is of harder stuff! Necessity                        65
  In her rough school hath steeled me. And this Illo
  And Tertsky likewise, they must not survive him.

  _Gordon._ I feel no pang for these. Their own bad hearts
  Impelled them, not the influence of the stars.
  'Twas they who strewed the seeds of evil passions                   70
  In his calm breast, and with officious villainy
  Watered and nursed the pois'nous plants. May they
  Receive their earnests to the uttermost mite!

  _Butler._ And their death shall precede his!
  We meant to have taken them alive this evening                      75
  Amid the merry-making of a feast,
  And kept them prisoners in the citadels.
  But this makes shorter work. I go this instant
  To give the necessary orders.


LINENOTES:

[19] _You_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[20] _you_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[26] _has been_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[58] Come of it what it may, on you I lay it. 1800, 1828, 1829.

[77] kept] keep 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE VII

_To these enter ILLO and TERTSKY._

  _Tertsky._ Our luck is on the turn. To-morrow come
  The Swedes--twelve thousand gallant warriors, Illo!
  Then straightways for Vienna. Cheerily, friend!
  What! meet such news with such a moody face?

  _Illo._ It lies with us at present to prescribe                      5
  Laws, and take vengeance on those worthless traitors,
  Those skulking cowards that deserted us;
  One has already done his bitter penance
  The Piccolomini, be his the fate
  Of all who wish us evil! This flies sure                            10
  To the old man's heart; he has his whole life long
  Fretted and toiled to raise his ancient house
  From a Count's title to the name of Prince;
  And now must seek a grave for his only son.

  _Butler._ 'Twas pity though! A youth of such heroic                 15
  And gentle temperament! The Duke himself,
  'Twas easily seen, how near it went to his heart.

  _Illo._ Hark'e, old friend! That is the very point
  That never pleased me in our General--
  He ever gave the preference to the Italians.                        20
  Yea, at this very moment, by my soul!
  He'd gladly see us all dead ten times over,
  Could he thereby recall his friend to life.

  _Tertsky._ Hush, hush! Let the dead rest! This evening's business
  Is, who can fairly drink the other down--                           25
  Your regiment, Illo! gives the entertainment.
  Come! we will keep a merry carnival--
  The night for once be day, and mid full glasses
  Will we expect the Swedish Avantgarde.

  _Illo._ Yes, let us be of good cheer for to-day,                    30
  For there's hot work before us, friends! This sword
  Shall have no rest, till it be bathed to the hilt
  In Austrian blood.

  _Gordon._          Shame, shame! what talk is this,
  My Lord Field Marshal? Wherefore foam you so
  Against your Emperor?

  _Butler._             Hope not too much                             35
  From this first victory. Bethink you, sirs!
  How rapidly the wheel of Fortune turns;
  The Emperor still is formidably strong.

  _Illo._ The Emperor has soldiers, no commander,
  For this King Ferdinand of Hungary                                  40
  Is but a tyro. Galas? He's no luck,
  And was of old the ruiner of armies.
  And then this viper, this Octavio,
  Is excellent at stabbing in the back,
  But ne'er meets Friedland in the open field.                        45

  _Tertsky._ Trust me, my friends, it cannot but succeed;
  Fortune, we know, can ne'er forsake the Duke!
  And only under Wallenstein can Austria
  Be conqueror.

  _Illo._       The Duke will soon assemble
  A mighty army, all come crowding, streaming                         50
  To banners dedicate by destiny
  To fame and prosperous fortune. I behold
  Old times come back again, he will become
  Once more the mighty Lord which he has been.
  How will the fools, who've now deserted him,                        55
  Look then? I can't but laugh to think of them,
  For lands will he present to all his friends,
  And like a King and Emperor reward
  True services; but we've the nearest claims.      [_To GORDON._
  You will not be forgotten, Governor!                                60
  He'll take you from this nest and bid you shine
  In higher station: your fidelity
  Well merits it.

  _Gordon._       I am content already,
  And wish to climb no higher; where great height is
  The fall must needs be great. 'Great height, great depth.'          65

  _Illo._ Here you have no more business for to-morrow;
  The Swedes will take possession of the citadel.
  Come, Tertsky, it is supper-time. What think you?
  Say, shall we have the State illuminated
  In honour of the Swede? And who refuses                             70
  To do it is a Spaniard and a traitor.

  _Tertsky._ Nay! Nay! not that, it will not please the Duke--

  _Illo._ What! we are masters here; no soul shall dare
  Avow himself imperial where we've rule.
  Gordon! Good night, and for the last time, take                     75
  A fair leave of the place. Send out patroles
  To make secure, the watch-word may be altered
  At the stroke of ten; deliver in the keys
  To the Duke himself, and then you're quit for ever
  Your wardship of the gates, for on to-morrow                        80
  The Swedes will take possession of the citadel.

  _Tertsky (as he is going, to Butler)._ You come though to the
      castle.

  _Butler._ At the right time.        [_Exeunt TERTSKY and ILLO._


LINENOTES:

[50] come] comes 1800, 1828, 1829.

[74] Avow himself imperial where we've the rule. 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE VIII

_GORDON and BUTLER._

  _Gordon (looking after them)._ Unhappy men! How free from all
      foreboding!
  They rush into the outspread net of murder,
  In the blind drunkenness of victory;
  I have no pity for their fate. This Illo,
  This overflowing and fool-hardy villain                              5
  That would fain bathe himself in his Emperor's blood.

  _Butler._ Do as he ordered you. Send round patroles.
  Take measures for the citadel's security;
  When they are within I close the castle gate
  That nothing may transpire.

  _Gordon._                   Oh! haste not so!                       10
  Nay, stop; first tell me----

  _Butler._                    You have heard already,
  To-morrow to the Swedes belongs. This night
  Alone is ours. They make good expedition.
  But we will make still greater. Fare you well.

  _Gordon._ Ah! your looks tell me nothing good. Nay, Butler,         15
  I pray you, promise me!

  _Butler._               The sun has set;
  A fateful evening doth descend upon us,
  And brings on their long night! Their evil stars
  Deliver them unarmed into our hands.
  And from their drunken dream of golden fortunes                     20
  The dagger at their heart shall rouse them. Well,
  The Duke was ever a great calculator;
  His fellow-men were figures on his chess-board,
  To move and station, as his game required.
  Other men's honour, dignity, good name,                             25
  Did he shift like pawns, and made no conscience of it:
  Still calculating, calculating still;
  And yet at last his calculation proves
  Erroneous; the whole game is lost; and lo!
  His own life will be found among the forfeits.                      30

  _Gordon._ O think not of his errors now; remember
  His greatness, his munificence, think on all
  The lovely features of his character,
  On all the noble exploits of his life,
  And let them, like an angel's arm, unseen                           35
  Arrest the lifted sword.

  _Butler._                It is too late.
  I suffer not myself to feel compassion,
  Dark thoughts and bloody are my duty now:

                                       [_Grasping GORDON'S hand._

  Gordon! 'Tis not my hatred (I pretend not
  To love the Duke, and have no cause to love him)                    40
  Yet 'tis not now my hatred that impels me
  To be his murderer. 'Tis his evil fate.
  Hostile concurrences of many events
  Control and subjugate me to the office.
  In vain the human being meditates                                   45
  Free action. He is but the wire-worked[777:1] puppet
  Of the blind power, which out of his own choice
  Creates for him a dread necessity.
  What too would it avail him, if there were
  A something pleading for him in my heart--                          50
  Still I must kill him.

  _Gordon._              If your heart speak to you,
  Follow its impulse. 'Tis the voice of God.
  Think you your fortunes will grow prosperous
  Bedewed with blood--his blood? Believe it not!

  _Butler._ You know not. Ask not! Wherefore should it happen,        55
  That the Swedes gained the victory, and hasten
  With such forced marches hitherward? Fain would I
  Have given him to the Emperor's mercy.--Gordon!
  I do not wish his blood--But I must ransom
  The honour of my word--it lies in pledge--                          60
  And he must die, or----

                          [_Passionately grasping GORDON'S hand._

                          Listen then, and know!
  I am dishonoured if the Duke escape us.

  _Gordon._ O! to save such a man----

  _Butler._                           What!

  _Gordon._                                 It is worth
  A sacrifice.--Come, friend! Be noble-minded!
  Our own heart, and not other men's opinions,                        65
  Forms our true honour.

  _Butler._              He is a great Lord,
  This Duke--and I am but of mean importance.
  This is what you would say? Wherein concerns it
  The world at large, you mean to hint to me,
  Whether the man of low extraction keeps                             70
  Or blemishes his honour--
  So that the man of princely rank be saved.
  We all do stamp our value on ourselves.
  The price we challenge for ourselves is given us.
  There does not live on earth the man so stationed,                  75
  That I despise myself compared with him.
  Man is made great or little by his own will;
  Because I am true to mine, therefore he dies.

  _Gordon._ I am endeavouring to move a rock.
  Thou hadst a mother, yet no human feelings.                         80
  I cannot hinder you, but may some God
  Rescue him from you!                            [_Exit GORDON._


FOOTNOTES:

[777:1] We doubt the propriety of putting so blasphemous a sentiment in
the mouth of any character.--T[RANSLATOR]. _1800_, _1828_, _1829_.


LINENOTES:

[10] _Gordon (with earnest anxiety)._ Oh! &c. 1800, 1828, 1829.

[38] _duty_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[62] _dishonour'd_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[66] _Butler (with a cold and haughty air)._ He is, &c. 1800, 1828,
1829.


SCENE IX

  _Butler (alone)._ I treasured my good name all my life long;
  The Duke has cheated me of life's best jewel,
  So that I blush before this poor weak Gordon!
  He prizes above all his fealty;
  His conscious soul accuses him of nothing;                           5
  In opposition to his own soft heart
  He subjugates himself to an iron duty.
  Me in a weaker moment passion warped;
  I stand beside him, and must feel myself
  The worst man of the two. What though the world                     10
  Is ignorant of my purposed treason, yet
  One man does know it, and can prove it too--
  High-minded Piccolomini!
  There lives the man who can dishonour me!
  This ignominy blood alone can cleanse!                              15
  Duke Friedland, thou or I--Into my own hands
  Fortune delivers me--The dearest thing a man has is himself.

(_The curtain drops._)


LINENOTES:

[12] _One_ 1800, 1828, 1829.




ACT IV


SCENE I

SCENE--_BUTLER'S Chamber._

_BUTLER, and MAJOR GERALDIN._

  _Butler._ Find me twelve strong dragoons, arm them with pikes,
  For there must be no firing----
  Conceal them somewhere near the banquet-room,
  And soon as the dessert is served up, rush all in
  And cry--Who is loyal to the Emperor?                                5
  I will overturn the table--while you attack
  Illo and Tertsky, and dispatch them both.
  The castle-palace is well barred and guarded,
  That no intelligence of this proceeding
  May make its way to the Duke.--Go instantly;                        10
  Have you yet sent for Captain Devereux
  And the Macdonald?----

  _Geraldin._            They'll be here anon.

                                                [_Exit GERALDIN._

  _Butler._ Here's no room for delay. The citizens
  Declare for him, a dizzy drunken spirit
  Possesses the whole town. They see in the Duke                      15
  A Prince of peace, a founder of new ages
  And golden times. Arms too have been given out
  By the town-council, and a hundred citizens
  Have volunteered themselves to stand on guard.
  Dispatch then be the word. For enemies                              20
  Threaten us from without and from within.


SCENE II

_BUTLER, CAPTAIN DEVEREUX, and MACDONALD._

  _Macdonald._ Here we are, General.

  _Devereux._                        What's to be the watchword?

  _Butler._ Long live the Emperor!

  _Both (recoiling)._              How?

  _Butler._                             Live the House of Austria!

  _Devereux._ Have we not sworn fidelity to Friedland?

  _Macdonald._ Have we not marched to this place to protect him?

  _Butler._ Protect a traitor, and his country's enemy!                5

  _Devereux._ Why, yes! in his name you administered
  Our oath.

  _Macdonald._ And followed him yourself to Egra.

  _Butler._ I did it the more surely to destroy him.

  _Devereux._ So then!

  _Macdonald._         An altered case!

  _Butler (to Devereux)._               Thou wretched man!
  So easily leav'st thou thy oath and colours?                        10

  _Devereux._ The devil!--I but followed your example,
  If you could prove a villain, why not we?

  _Macdonald._ We've nought to do with thinking--that's your business.
  You are our General, and give out the orders;
  We follow you, though the track lead to hell.                       15

  _Butler._ Good then! we know each other.

  _Macdonald._                             I should hope so.

  _Devereux._ Soldiers of fortune are we--who bids most,
  He has us.

  _Macdonald._ 'Tis e'en so!

  _Butler._                  Well, for the present
  Ye must remain honest and faithful soldiers.

  _Devereux._ We wish no other.

  _Butler._                     Ay, and make your fortunes.           20

  _Macdonald._ That is still better.

  _Butler._                          Listen!

  _Both._                                    We attend.

  _Butler._ It is the Emperor's will and ordinance
  To seize the person of the Prince-Duke Friedland,
  Alive or dead.

  _Devereux._    It runs so in the letter.

  _Macdonald._ Alive or dead--these were the very words.              25

  _Butler._ And he shall be rewarded from the State
  In land and gold, who proffers aid thereto.

  _Devereux._ Ay? That sounds well. The words sound always well
  That travel hither from the Court. Yes! yes!
  We know already what Court-words import.                            30
  A golden chain perhaps in sign of favour,
  Or an old charger, or a parchment patent,
  And such like.--The Prince-duke pays better.

  _Macdonald._                                 Yes,
  The Duke's a splendid paymaster.

  _Butler._                        All over
  With that, my friends! His lucky stars are set.                     35

  _Macdonald._ And is that certain?

  _Butler._                         You have my word for it.

  _Devereux._ His lucky fortunes all past by?

  _Butler._                                   For ever.
  He is as poor as we.

  _Macdonald._         As poor as we?

  _Devereux._ Macdonald, we'll desert him.

  _Butler._                                We'll desert him?
  Full twenty thousand have done that already;                        40
  We must do more, my countrymen! In short--
  We--we must kill him.

  _Both._               Kill him!

  _Butler._                       Yes! must kill him.
  And for that purpose have I chosen you.

  _Both._                                 Us!

  _Butler._ You, Captain Devereux, and thee, Macdonald.               45

  _Devereux (after a pause)._ Choose you some other.

  _Butler._                                          What? art
      dastardly?
  Thou, with full thirty lives to answer for--
  Thou conscientious of a sudden?

  _Devereux._                     Nay,
  To assassinate our Lord and General--

  _Macdonald._ To whom we've sworn a soldier's oath--

  _Butler._                                           The oath        50
  Is null, for Friedland is a traitor.

  _Devereux._ No, no! It is too bad!

  _Macdonald._                       Yes, by my soul!
  It is too bad. One has a conscience too--

  _Devereux._ If it were not our chieftain, who so long
  Has issued the commands, and claim'd our duty.                      55

  _Butler._ Is that the objection?

  _Devereux._                      Were it my own father,
  And the Emperor's service should demand it of me,
  It might be done perhaps--But we are soldiers,
  And to assassinate our chief commander,
  That is a sin, a foul abomination,                                  60
  From which no monk or confessor absolves us.

  _Butler._ I am your Pope, and give you absolution.
  Determine quickly!

  _Devereux._        'Twill not do!

  _Macdonald._                      'Twon't do!

  _Butler._ Well, off then! and--send Pestalutz to me.

  _Devereux._ The Pestalutz--

  _Macdonald._                What may you want with him?             65

  _Butler._ If you reject it, we can find enough--

  _Devereux._ Nay, if he must fall, we may earn the bounty
  As well as any other. What think you,
  Brother Macdonald?

  _Macdonald._       Why if he must fall,
  And will fall, and it can't be otherwise,                           70
  One would not give place to this Pestalutz.

  _Devereux._ When do you purpose he should fall?

  _Butler._                                       This night.
  To-morrow will the Swedes be at our gates.

  _Devereux._ You take upon you all the consequences!

  _Butler._ I take the whole upon me.

  _Devereux._                         And it is                       75
  The Emperor's will, his express absolute will?
  For we have instances, that folks may like
  The murder, and yet hang the murderer.

  _Butler._ The manifesto says--alive or dead.
  Alive--'tis not possible--you see it is not.                        80

  _Devereux._ Well, dead then! dead! But how can we come at him?
  The town is fill'd with Tertsky's soldiery.

  _Macdonald._ Ay! and then Tertsky still remains, and Illo--

  _Butler._ With these you shall begin--you understand me?

  _Devereux._ How? And must they too perish?

  _Butler._                                  They the first.          85

  _Macdonald._ Hear, Devereux? A bloody evening this.

  _Devereux._ Have you a man for that? Commission me--

  _Butler._ 'Tis given in trust to Major Geraldin;
  This is a carnival night, and there's a feast
  Given at the castle--there we shall surprise them,                  90
  And hew them down. The Pestalutz and Lesley
  Have that commission--soon as that is finished--

  _Devereux._ Hear, General! It will be all one to you.
  Hark'e! let me exchange with Geraldin.

  _Butler._ 'Twill be the lesser danger with the Duke.                95

  _Devereux._ Danger! The devil! What do you think me, General?
  'Tis the Duke's eye, and not his sword, I fear.

  _Butler._ What can his eye do to thee?

  _Devereux._                            Death and hell!
  Thou know'st that I'm no milk-sop, General!
  But 'tis not eight days since the Duke did send me                 100
  Twenty gold pieces for this good warm coat
  Which I have on! and then for him to see me
  Standing before him with the pike, his murderer,
  That eye of his looking upon this coat--
  Why--why--the devil fetch me! I'm no milk-sop!                     105

  _Butler._ The Duke presented thee this good warm coat,
  And thou, a needy wight, hast pangs of conscience
  To run him through the body in return.
  A coat that is far better and far warmer
  Did the Emperor give to him, the Prince's mantle.                  110
  How doth he thank the Emperor? With revolt,
  And treason.

  _Devereux._  That is true. The devil take
  Such thankers! I'll dispatch him.

  _Butler._                         And would'st quiet
  Thy conscience, thou hast nought to do but simply
  Pull off the coat; so canst thou do the deed                       115
  With light heart and good spirits.

  _Devereux._                        You are right.
  That did not strike me. I'll pull off the coat--
  So there's an end of it.

  _Macdonald._             Yes, but there's another
  Point to be thought of.

  _Butler._               And what's that, Macdonald?

  _Macdonald._ What avails sword or dagger against him?              120
  He is not to be wounded--he is--

  _Butler._                        What?

  _Macdonald._ Safe against shot, and stab and flash! Hard frozen,
  Secured, and warranted by the black art!
  His body is impenetrable, I tell you.

  _Devereux._ In Inglestadt there was just such another--            125
  His whole skin was the same as steel; at last
  We were obliged to beat him down with gunstocks.

  _Macdonald._ Hear what I'll do.

  _Devereux._                     Well?

  _Macdonald._                          In the cloister here
  There's a Dominican, my countryman.
  I'll make him dip my sword and pike for me                         130
  In holy water, and say over them
  One of his strongest blessings. That's probatum!
  Nothing can stand 'gainst that.

  _Butler._                       So do, Macdonald!
  But now go and select from out the regiment
  Twenty or thirty able-bodied fellows,                              135
  And let them take the oaths to the Emperor.
  Then when it strikes eleven, when the first rounds
  Are passed, conduct them silently as may be
  To the house--I will myself be not far off.

  _Devereux._ But how do we get through Hartschier and Gordon,       140
  That stand on guard there in the inner chamber?

  _Butler._ I have made myself acquainted with the place.
  I lead you through a back-door that's defended
  By one man only. Me my rank and office
  Give access to the Duke at every hour.                             145
  I'll go before you--with one poniard-stroke
  Cut Hartschier's wind-pipe, and make way for you.

  _Devereux._ And when we are there, by what means shall we gain
  The Duke's bed-chamber, without his alarming
  The servants of the Court; for he has here                         150
  A numerous company of followers?

  _Butler._ The attendants fill the right wing; he hates bustle,
  And lodges in the left wing quite alone.

  _Devereux._ Were it well over--hey, Macdonald? I
  Feel queerly on the occasion, devil knows!                         155

  _Macdonald._ And I too. 'Tis too great a personage.
  People will hold us for a brace of villains.

  _Butler._ In plenty, honour, splendour--You may safely
  Laugh at the people's babble.

  _Devereux._                   If the business
  Squares with one's honour--if that be quite certain--              160

  _Butler._ Set your hearts quite at ease. Ye save for Ferdinand
  His Crown and Empire. The reward can be
  No small one.

  _Devereux._ And 'tis his purpose to dethrone the Emperor?

  _Butler._ Yes!--Yes!--to rob him of his crown and life.            165

  _Devereux._ And he must fall by the executioner's hands,
  Should we deliver him up to the Emperor
  Alive?

  _Butler._ It were his certain destiny.

  _Devereux._ Well! Well! Come then, Macdonald, he shall not
  Lie long in pain.                                                  170

         [_Exeunt BUTLER through one door, MACDONALD and DEVEREUX
              through the other._


LINENOTES:

[13] _thinking_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 16] _Butler (appeased)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[28] _words_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[42] _Both (starting back)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[45] thee, Macdonald] the Macdonald 1800.

[65] _Devereux (hesitates)._ The Pestalutz-- 1800, 1828, 1829.

[69] _must_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[70] _will_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 72] _Devereux (after some reflection)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[120] _him_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[121] _Butler (starting up)._ What? 1800, 1828, 1829.

[122] flash] slash 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE III

SCENE--_A Gothic Apartment at the DUCHESS FRIEDLAND'S. THEKLA on a seat,
pale, her eyes closed. The DUCHESS and LADY NEUBRUNN busied about her.
WALLENSTEIN and the COUNTESS in conversation._

  _Wallenstein._ How knew she it so soon?

  _Countess._                             She seems to have
  Foreboded some misfortune. The report
  Of an engagement, in the which had fallen
  A colonel of the Imperial army, frighten'd her.
  I saw it instantly. She flew to meet                                 5
  The Swedish Courier, and with sudden questioning,
  Soon wrested from him the disastrous secret.
  Too late we missed her, hastened after her,
  We found her lying in his arms, all pale
  And in a swoon.

  _Wallenstein._  A heavy, heavy blow!                                10
  And she so unprepared! Poor child! How is it?

                                       [_Turning to the DUCHESS._

  Is she coming to herself?

  _Duchess._                Her eyes are opening.

  _Countess._ She lives.

  _Thekla (looking around her)._ Where am I?

  _Wallenstein (steps to her, raising her up in his arms)._ Come,
      cheerly, Thekla! be my own brave girl!
  See, there's thy loving mother. Thou art in                         15
  Thy father's arms.

  _Thekla (standing up)._ Where is he? Is he gone?

  _Duchess._ Who gone, my daughter?

  _Thekla._                         He--the man who uttered
  That word of misery.

  _Duchess._           O! think not of it,
  My Thekla!

  _Wallenstein._ Give her sorrow leave to talk!
  Let her complain--mingle your tears with hers,                      20
  For she hath suffered a deep anguish; but
  She'll rise superior to it, for my Thekla
  Hath all her father's unsubdued heart.

  _Thekla._ I am not ill. See, I have power to stand.
  Why does my mother weep? Have I alarmed her?                        25
  It is gone by--I recollect myself--

       [_She casts her eyes round the room, as seeking some one._

  Where is he? Please you, do not hide him from me.
  You see I have strength enough: now I will hear him.

  _Duchess._ No, never shall this messenger of evil
  Enter again into thy presence, Thekla!                              30

  _Thekla._ My father--

  _Wallenstein._        Dearest daughter!

  _Thekla._                               I'm not weak--
  Shortly I shall be quite myself again.
  You'll grant me one request?

  _Wallenstein._               Name it, my daughter.

  _Thekla._ Permit the stranger to be called to me,
  And grant me leave, that by myself I may                            35
  Hear his report and question him.

  _Duchess._                        No, never!

  _Countess._ 'Tis not advisable--assent not to it.

  _Wallenstein._ Hush! Wherefore would'st thou speak with him, my
      daughter?

  _Thekla._ Knowing the whole, I shall be more collected;
  I will not be deceived. My mother wishes                            40
  Only to spare me. I will not be spared.
  The worst is said already: I can hear
  Nothing of deeper anguish!

  _Countess and Duchess._    Do it not.

  _Thekla._ The horror overpowered me by surprise.
  My heart betrayed me in the stranger's presence;                    45
  He was a witness of my weakness, yea,
  I sank into his arms; and that has shamed me.
  I must replace myself in his esteem,
  And I must speak with him, perforce, that he,
  The stranger, may not think ungently of me.                         50

  _Wallenstein._ I see she is in the right, and am inclined
  To grant her this request of hers. Go, call him.

                               [_LADY NEUBRUNN goes to call him._

  _Duchess._ But I, thy mother, will be present--

  _Thekla._                                       'Twere
  More pleasing to me, if alone I saw him:
  Trust me, I shall behave myself the more                            55
  Collectedly.

  _Wallenstein._ Permit her her own will.
  Leave her alone with him: for there are sorrows,
  Where of necessity the soul must be
  Its own support. A strong heart will rely
  On its own strength alone. In her own bosom,                        60
  Not in her mother's arms, must she collect
  The strength to rise superior to this blow.
  It is mine own brave girl. I'll have her treated
  Not as the woman, but the heroine.                    [_Going._

  _Countess (detaining him)._ Where art thou going? I heard Tertsky
      say                                                             65
  That 'tis thy purpose to depart from hence
  To-morrow early, but to leave us here.

  _Wallenstein._ Yes, ye stay here, placed under the protection
  Of gallant men.

  _Countess._     O take us with you, brother.
  Leave us not in this gloomy solitude                                70
  To brood o'er anxious thoughts. The mists of doubt
  Magnify evils to a shape of horror.

  _Wallenstein._ Who speaks of evil? I entreat you, sister,
  Use words of better omen.

  _Countess._               Then take us with you.
  O leave us not behind you in a place                                75
  That forces us to such sad omens. Heavy
  And sick within me is my heart----
  These walls breathe on me, like a church-yard vault.
  I cannot tell you, brother, how this place
  Doth go against my nature. Take us with you.                        80
  Come, sister, join you your entreaty!--Niece,
  Yours too. We all entreat you, take us with you!

  _Wallenstein._ The place's evil omens will I change,
  Making it that which shields and shelters for me
  My best beloved.

  _Lady Neubrunn (returning)._ The Swedish officer.                   85

  _Wallenstein._ Leave her alone with him.               [_Exit._

  _Duchess (to Thekla who starts and shivers)._ There--pale as
      death!--Child, 'tis impossible
  That thou should'st speak with him. Follow thy mother.

  _Thekla._ The Lady Neubrunn then may stay with me.

                                  [_Exeunt DUCHESS and COUNTESS._


LINENOTES:

SCENE--_A Gothic and gloomy, &c._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[66] _thy_ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE IV

_THEKLA, the_ Swedish Captain, _LADY NEUBRUNN._

  _Captain._ Princess--I must entreat your gentle pardon--
  My inconsiderate rash speech--How could I--

  _Thekla._ You did behold me in my agony.
  A most distressful accident occasioned
  You from a stranger to become at once                                5
  My confidant.

  _Captain._    I fear you hate my presence,
  For my tongue spake a melancholy word.

  _Thekla._ The fault is mine. Myself did wrest it from you.
  The horror which came o'er me interrupted
  Your tale at its commencement. May it please you,                   10
  Continue it to the end.

  _Captain._              Princess, 'twill
  Renew your anguish.

  _Thekla._           I am firm.----
  I will be firm. Well--how began the engagement?

  _Captain._ We lay, expecting no attack, at Neustadt,
  Entrenched but insecurely in our camp,                              15
  When towards evening rose a cloud of dust
  From the wood thitherward; our vanguard fled
  Into the camp, and sounded the alarm.
  Scarce had we mounted, ere the Pappenheimers,
  Their horses at full speed, broke through the lines,                20
  And leapt the trenches; but their heedless courage
  Had borne them onward far before the others--
  The infantry were still at distance, only
  The Pappenheimers followed daringly
  Their daring leader----

          [_THEKLA betrays agitation in her gestures. The officer
               pauses till she makes a sign to him to proceed._

  _Captain._            Both in van and flanks                        25
  With our whole cavalry we now received them;
  Back to the trenches drove them, where the foot
  Stretched out a solid ridge of pikes to meet them.
  They neither could advance, nor yet retreat;
  And as they stood on every side wedged in,                          30
  The Rhinegrave to their leader called aloud,
  Inviting a surrender; but their leader,
  Young Piccolomini----      [_THEKLA, as giddy, grasps a chair._
                        Known by his plume,
  And his long hair, gave signal for the trenches;
  Himself leapt first, the regiment all plunged after.                35
  His charger, by a halbert gored, reared up,
  Flung him with violence off, and over him
  The horses, now no longer to be curbed,----

           [_THEKLA, who has accompanied the last speech with all
                the marks of increasing agony, trembles through
                her whole frame, and is falling. The LADY
                NEUBRUNN runs to her, and receives her in her
                arms._

  _Neubrunn._ My dearest lady----

  _Captain._                      I retire.

  _Thekla._                                 'Tis over.
  Proceed to the conclusion.

  _Captain._                 Wild despair                             40
  Inspired the troops with frenzy when they saw
  Their leader perish; every thought of rescue
  Was spurn'd; they fought like wounded tigers; their
  Frantic resistance rous'd our soldiery;
  A murderous fight took place, nor was the contest                   45
  Finish'd before their last man fell.

  _Thekla._                            And where----
  Where is--You have not told me all.

  _Captain (after a pause)._          This morning
  We buried him. Twelve youths of noblest birth
  Did bear him to interment; the whole army
  Followed the bier. A laurel decked his coffin;                      50
  The sword of the deceased was placed upon it,
  In mark of honour, by the Rhinegrave's self.
  Nor tears were wanting; for there are among us
  Many, who had themselves experienced
  The greatness of his mind, and gentle manners;                      55
  All were affected at his fate. The Rhinegrave
  Would willingly have saved him; but himself
  Made vain the attempt--'tis said he wished to die.

  _Neubrunn (to Thekla who has hidden her countenance)._ Look up, my
      dearest lady----

  _Thekla._            Where is his grave?

  _Captain._ At Neustadt, lady; in a cloister church                  60
  Are his remains deposited, until
  We can receive directions from his father.

  _Thekla._ What is the cloister's name?

  _Captain._                             Saint Catharine's.

  _Thekla._ And how far is it thither?

  _Captain._                           Near twelve leagues.

  _Thekla._ And which the way?

  _Captain._                   You go by Tirschenreit                 65
  And Falkenberg, through our advanced posts.

  _Thekla._                                   Who
  Is their commander?

  _Captain._          Colonel Seckendorf.

             [_THEKLA steps to the table, and takes a ring from a
                  casket._

  _Thekla._ You have beheld me in my agony,
  And shewn a feeling heart. Please you, accept

                                          [_Giving him the ring._

  A small memorial of this hour. Now go!                              70

  _Captain._ Princess----

            [_THEKLA silently makes signs to him to go, and turns
                 from him. The Captain lingers, and is about to
                 speak. LADY NEUBRUNN repeats the signal, and he
                 retires._


LINENOTES:

[Before 1] _Captain (respectfully approaching her)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 3] _Thekla (with dignity)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[3] did behold] have beheld 1800, 1828, 1829.

[13] _will_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[46] _Thekla (faltering)._ And where-- 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 71] _Captain (confused)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE V

_THEKLA, LADY NEUBRUNN._

  _Thekla (falls on Lady Neubrunn's neck)._ Now, gentle Neubrunn, shew
      me the affection
  Which thou hast ever promised--prove thyself
  My own true friend and faithful fellow-pilgrim.
  This night we must away!

  _Neubrunn._              Away! and whither?

  _Thekla._ Whither! There is but one place in the world.              5
  Thither where he lies buried! To his coffin!

  _Neubrunn._ What would you do there?

  _Thekla._                            What do there?
  That would'st thou not have asked, hadst thou e'er loved.
  There, there is all that still remains of him.
  That single spot is the whole earth to me.                          10

  _Neubrunn._ That place of death----

  _Thekla._                           Is now the only place,
  Where life yet dwells for me: detain me not!
  Come and make preparations: let us think
  Of means to fly from hence.

  _Neubrunn._                 Your father's rage----

  _Thekla._ That time is past----                                     15
  And now I fear no human being's rage.

  _Neubrunn._ The sentence of the world! The tongue of calumny!

  _Thekla._ Whom am I seeking? Him who is no more.
  Am I then hastening to the arms----O God!
  I haste but to the grave of the beloved.                            20

  _Neubrunn._ And we alone, two helpless feeble women?

  _Thekla._ We will take weapons: my arms shall protect thee.

  _Neubrunn._ In the dark night-time?

  _Thekla._                           Darkness will conceal us.

  _Neubrunn._ This rough tempestuous night----

  _Thekla._                                    Had he a soft bed
  Under the hoofs of his war-horses?

  _Neubrunn._                        Heaven!                          25
  And then the many posts of the enemy!--

  _Thekla._ They are human beings. Misery travels free
  Through the whole earth.

  _Neubrunn._              The journey's weary length--

  _Thekla._ The pilgrim, travelling to a distant shrine
  Of hope and healing, doth not count the leagues.                    30

  _Neubrunn._ How can we pass the gates?

  _Thekla._                              Gold opens them.
  Go, do but go.

  _Neubrunn._    Should we be recognized--

  _Thekla._ In a despairing woman, a poor fugitive,
  Will no one seek the daughter of Duke Friedland.

  _Neubrunn._ And where procure we horses for our flight?             35

  _Thekla._ My equerry procures them. Go and fetch him.

  _Neubrunn._ Dares he, without the knowledge of his lord?

  _Thekla._ He will. Go, only go. Delay no longer.

  _Neubrunn._ Dear lady! and your mother?

  _Thekla._                               Oh! my mother!

  _Neubrunn._ So much as she has suffered too already;                40
  Your tender mother--Ah! how ill prepared
  For this last anguish!

  _Thekla._              Woe is me! my mother!         [_Pauses._
  Go instantly.

  _Neubrunn._   But think what you are doing!

  _Thekla._ What can be thought, already has been thought.

  _Neubrunn._ And being there, what purpose you to do?                45

  _Thekla._ There a divinity will prompt my soul.

  _Neubrunn._ Your heart, dear lady, is disquieted!
  And this is not the way that leads to quiet.

  _Thekla._ To a deep quiet, such as he has found.
  It draws me on, I know not what to name it,                         50
  Resistless does it draw me to his grave.
  There will my heart be eased, my tears will flow.
  O hasten, make no further questioning!
  There is no rest for me till I have left
  These walls--they fall in on me--A dim power                        55
  Drives me from hence--Oh mercy! What a feeling!
  What pale and hollow forms are those! They fill,
  They crowd the place! I have no longer room here!
  Mercy! Still more! More still! The hideous swarm!
  They press on me; they chase me from these walls--                  60
  Those hollow, bodiless forms of living men!

  _Neubrunn._ You frighten me so, lady, that no longer
  I dare stay here myself. I go and call
  Rosenberg instantly.                     [_Exit LADY NEUBRUNN._


LINENOTES:

[22] arms] arm 1800, 1828, 1829.

[44] _can_ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE VI

  _Thekla._ His spirit 'tis that calls me: 'tis the troop
  Of his true followers, who offered up
  Themselves to avenge his death: and they accuse me
  Of an ignoble loitering--they would not
  Forsake their leader even in his death--they died for him!           5
  And shall I live?----
  For me too was that laurel-garland twined
  That decks his bier. Life is an empty casket:
  I throw it from me. O! my only hope;--
  To die beneath the hoofs of trampling steeds--                      10
  That is the lot of heroes upon earth!    [_Exit THEKLA._[793:1]

(_The curtain drops._)


FOOTNOTES:

[793:1] The soliloquy of Thekla consists in the original of
six-and-twenty lines, twenty of which are in rhymes of irregular
recurrence. I thought it prudent to abridge it. Indeed the whole scene
between Thekla and Lady Neubrunn might, perhaps, have been omitted
without injury to the play. _1800_, _1828_, _1829_.


LINENOTES:

[4] _they_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[5] _they_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[6] _I_ 1800, 1828, 1829.




ACT V


SCENE I

SCENE--_A Saloon, terminated by a gallery which extends far into the
back-ground. WALLENSTEIN sitting at a table. The_ Swedish Captain
_standing before him._

  _Wallenstein._ Commend me to your lord. I sympathize
  In his good fortune; and if you have seen me
  Deficient in the expressions of that joy
  Which such a victory might well demand,
  Attribute it to no lack of good will,                                5
  For henceforth are our fortunes one. Farewell,
  And for your trouble take my thanks. To-morrow
  The citadel shall be surrendered to you
  On your arrival.

           [_The_ Swedish Captain _retires. WALLENSTEIN sits lost
                in thought, his eyes fixed vacantly, and his head
                sustained by his hand. The COUNTESS TERTSKY
                enters, stands before him awhile, unobserved by
                him; at length he starts, sees her, and
                recollects himself._

  _Wallenstein._ Com'st thou from her? Is she restored? How is she?   10

  _Countess._ My sister tells me, she was more collected
  After her conversation with the Swede.
  She has now retired to rest.

  _Wallenstein._               The pang will soften,
  She will shed tears.

  _Countess._          I find thee altered too,
  My brother! After such a victory                                    15
  I had expected to have found in thee
  A cheerful spirit. O remain thou firm!
  Sustain, uphold us! For our light thou art,
  Our sun.

  _Wallenstein._ Be quiet. I ail nothing. Where's
  Thy husband?

  _Countess._  At a banquet--he and Illo.                             20

  _Wallenstein (rises)._ The night's far spent. Betake thee to thy
      chamber.

  _Countess._ Bid me not go, O let me stay with thee!

  _Wallenstein (moves to the window)._ There is a busy motion in the
      Heaven,
  The wind doth chase the flag upon the tower,
  Fast sweep the clouds, the sickle[794:1] of the moon,               25
  Struggling, darts snatches of uncertain light.
  No form of star is visible! That one
  White stain of light, that single glimmering yonder,
  Is from Cassiopeia, and therein
  Is Jupiter. (_A pause._) But now                                    30
  The blackness of the troubled element hides him!

          [_He sinks into profound melancholy, and looks vacantly
               into the distance._

  _Countess (looks on him mournfully, then grasps his hand)._ What
      art thou brooding on?

  _Wallenstein._            Methinks,
  If I but saw him, 'twould be well with me.
  He, is the star of my nativity,
  And often marvellously hath his aspect                              35
  Shot strength into my heart.

  _Countess._                  Thou'lt see him again.

  _Wallenstein._ See him again? O never, never again.

  _Countess._ How?

  _Wallenstein._   He is gone--is dust.

  _Countess._                           Whom meanest thou then?

  _Wallenstein._ He, the more fortunate! yea, he hath finished!
  For him there is no longer any future,                              40
  His life is bright--bright without spot it was,
  And cannot cease to be. No ominous hour
  Knocks at his door with tidings of mishap.
  Far off is he, above desire and fear;
  No more submitted to the change and chance                          45
  Of the unsteady planets. O 'tis well
  With him! but who knows what the coming hour
  Veil'd in thick darkness brings for us!

  _Countess._                             Thou speakest
  Of Piccolomini. What was his death?
  The courier had just left thee as I came.                           50

         [_WALLENSTEIN by a motion of his hand makes signs to her
              to be silent._

  Turn not thine eyes upon the backward view,
  Let us look forward into sunny days,
  Welcome with joyous heart the victory,
  Forget what it has cost thee. Not to-day,
  For the first time, thy friend was to thee dead;                    55
  To thee he died, when first he parted from thee.

  _Wallenstein._ I shall grieve down this blow, of that I'm conscious.
  What does not man grieve down? From the highest,
  As from the vilest thing of every day
  He learns to wean himself: for the strong hours                     60
  Conquer him. Yet I feel what I have lost
  In him. The bloom is vanished from my life.
  For O! he stood beside me, like my youth,
  Transformed for me the real to a dream,
  Clothing the palpable and familiar                                  65
  With golden exhalations of the dawn.
  Whatever fortunes wait my future toils,
  The beautiful is vanished--and returns not.

  _Countess._ O be not treacherous to thy own power.
  Thy heart is rich enough to vivify                                  70
  Itself. Thou lov'st and prizest virtues in him,
  The which thyself did'st plant, thyself unfold.

  _Wallenstein (stepping to the door)._ Who interrupts us now at this
      late hour?
  It is the Governor. He brings the keys
  Of the Citadel. 'Tis midnight. Leave me, sister!                    75

  _Countess._ O 'tis so hard to me this night to leave thee--
  A boding fear possesses me!

  _Wallenstein._              Fear? Wherefore?

  _Countess._ Should'st thou depart this night, and we at waking
  Never more find thee!

  _Wallenstein._        Fancies!

  _Countess._                    O my soul
  Has long been weighed down by these dark forebodings.               80
  And if I combat and repel them waking,
  They still rush down upon my heart in dreams,
  I saw thee yesternight with thy first wife
  Sit at a banquet gorgeously attired.

  _Wallenstein._ This was a dream of favourable omen,                 85
  That marriage being the founder of my fortunes.

  _Countess._ To-day I dreamt that I was seeking thee
  In thy own chamber. As I entered, lo!
  It was no more a chamber; the Chartreuse
  At Gitschin 'twas, which thou thyself hast founded,                 90
  And where it is thy will that thou should'st be
  Interred.

  _Wallenstein._ Thy soul is busy with these thoughts.

  _Countess._ What dost thou not believe that oft in dreams
  A voice of warning speaks prophetic to us?

  _Wallenstein._ There is no doubt that there exist such voices.      95
  Yet I would not call them
  Voices of warning that announce to us
  Only the inevitable. As the sun,
  Ere it is risen, sometimes paints its image
  In the atmosphere, so often do the spirits                         100
  Of great events stride on before the events,
  And in to-day already walks to-morrow.
  That which we read of the fourth Henry's death
  Did ever vex and haunt me like a tale
  Of my own future destiny. The King                                 105
  Felt in his breast the phantom of the knife,
  Long ere Ravaillac arm'd himself therewith.
  His quiet mind forsook him: the phantasma
  Started him in his Louvre, chased him forth
  Into the open air: like funeral knells                             110
  Sounded that coronation festival;
  And still with boding sense he heard the tread
  Of those feet that ev'n then were seeking him
  Throughout the streets of Paris.

  _Countess._                      And to thee
  The voice within thy soul bodes nothing?

  _Wallenstein._                           Nothing.                  115
  Be wholly tranquil.

  _Countess._         And another time
  I hastened after thee, and thou ran'st from me
  Through a long suite, through many a spacious hall,
  There seemed no end of it: doors creaked and clapped;
  I followed panting, but could not o'ertake thee;                   120
  When on a sudden did I feel myself
  Grasped from behind--the hand was cold that grasped me--
  'Twas thou, and thou did'st kiss me, and there seemed
  A crimson covering to envelop us.

  _Wallenstein._ That is the crimson tapestry of my chamber.         125

  _Countess (gazing on him)._ If it should come to that--if I should
      see thee,
  Who standest now before me in the fulness
  Of life--                 [_She falls on his breast and weeps._

  _Wallenstein._ The Emperor's proclamation weighs upon thee--
  Alphabets wound not--and he finds no hands.                        130

  _Countess._ If he should find them, my resolve is taken--
  I bear about me my support and refuge.        [_Exit COUNTESS._


FOOTNOTES:

[794:1] These four lines are expressed in the original with exquisite
felicity.

  'Am Himmel ist geschäftige Bewegung,
   Des Thurmes Fahne jagt der Wind, schnell geht
   Der Wolken Zug, _die Mondessichel wankt_,
   Und durch die Nacht zeucht ungewisse Helle.'

The word 'moon-sickle' reminds me of a passage in Harris, as quoted by
Johnson, under the word 'falcated'. 'The enlightened part of the moon
appears in the form of a sickle or reaping-hook, which is while she is
moving from the conjunction to the opposition, or from the new moon to
the full: but from full to a new again, the enlightened part appears
gibbous, and the dark _falcated_.'

The words 'wanken' and 'schweben' are not easily translated. The English
words, by which we attempt to render them, are either vulgar or
pedantic, or not of sufficiently general application. So 'der Wolken
Zug'--The Draft, the Procession of Clouds.--The Masses of the Clouds
sweep onward in swift _stream_.


LINENOTES:

[17] _thou_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 21] _Wallenstein (rises and strides across the saloon)._ 1800,
1828, 1829.

[25] sweep] fly _1800_: sail MS. R.

[Before 37] _Wallenstein (remains for a while with absent mind, then
assumes a livelier manner, and turns suddenly to the Countess)._ 1800,
1828, 1829.

[41] _was_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[47] _him_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[57, 58]

  This anguish will be wearied down, I know;
  What pang is permanent with man?

A very inadequate translation of the original.

  'Verschmerzen werd' ich diesen Schlag, das weiss ich,
   Denn was verschmerzte nicht der Mensch!'

_Literally_--

  I shall _grieve down_ this blow, of that I'm conscious:
  What does not man grieve down?

1800, 1828, 1829.

NOTE. In 1834 the _literal_ translation of ll. 57, 58 was substituted
for the text of the variant and the footnote was omitted.

[65] Clothing the palpable and the familiar 1800, 1828, 1829.

[68] _beautiful_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[96] _them_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[114] _thee_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[131] _should_ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE II

_WALLENSTEIN, GORDON._

  _Wallenstein._ All quiet in the town?

  _Gordon._                             The town is quiet.

  _Wallenstein._ I hear a boisterous music! and the Castle
  Is lighted up. Who are the revellers?

  _Gordon._ There is a banquet given at the Castle
  To the Count Tertsky, and Field Marshal Illo.                        5

  _Wallenstein._ In honour of the victory.--This tribe
  Can shew their joy in nothing else but feasting.

                     [_Rings. The_ Groom of the Chamber _enters._

  Unrobe me. I will lay me down to sleep.

                       [_WALLENSTEIN takes the keys from GORDON._

  So we are guarded from all enemies,
  And shut in with sure friends.                                      10
  For all must cheat me, or a face like this

                                     [_Fixing his eye on GORDON._

  Was ne'er a hypocrite's mask.

        [_The_ Groom of the Chamber _takes off his mantle, collar
             and scarf._

  _Wallenstein._                Take care--what is that?

  _Groom of the Chamber._ The golden chain is snapped in two.

  _Wallenstein._ Well, it has lasted long enough. Here--give it.

                              [_He takes and looks at the chain._

  'Twas the first present of the Emperor.                             15
  He hung it round me in the war of Friule,
  He being then Archduke; and I have worn it
  Till now from habit----
  From superstition if you will. Belike,
  It was to be a talisman to me,                                      20
  And while I wore it on my neck in faith,
  It was to chain to me all my life long
  The volatile fortune whose first pledge it was.
  Well, be it so! Henceforward a new fortune
  Must spring up for me; for the potency                              25
  Of this charm is dissolved.

               [Groom of the Chamber _retires with the vestments.
                    WALLENSTEIN rises, takes a stride across the
                    room, and stands at last before GORDON in a
                    posture of meditation._

  How the old time returns upon me! I
  Behold myself once more at Burgau, where
  We two were pages of the Court together.
  We oftentimes disputed: thy intention                               30
  Was ever good; but thou wert wont to play
  The moralist and preacher, and would'st rail at me
  That I strove after things too high for me,
  Giving my faith to bold unlawful dreams,
  And still extol to me the golden mean.                              35
  --Thy wisdom hath been proved a thriftless friend
  To thy own self. See, it has made thee early
  A superannuated man, and (but
  That my munificent stars will intervene)
  Would let thee in some miserable corner                             40
  Go out like an untended lamp.

  _Gordon._                     My Prince!
  With light heart the poor fisher moors his boat,
  And watches from the shore the lofty ship
  Stranded amid the storm.

  _Wallenstein._           Art thou already
  In harbour then, old man? Well! I am not.                           45
  The unconquered spirit drives me o'er life's billows;
  My planks still firm, my canvas swelling proudly.
  Hope is my goddess still, and youth my inmate;
  And while we stand thus front to front almost,
  I might presume to say, that the swift years                        50
  Have passed by powerless o'er my unblanched hair.

              [_He moves with long strides across the saloon, and
                   remains on the opposite side over against
                   GORDON._

  Who now persists in calling Fortune false?
  To me she has proved faithful, with fond love
  Took me from out the common ranks of men,
  And like a mother goddess, with strong arm                          55
  Carried me swiftly up the steps of life.
  Nothing is common in my destiny,
  Nor in the furrows of my hand. Who dares
  Interpret then my life for me as 'twere
  One of the undistinguishable many?                                  60
  True in this present moment I appear
  Fallen low indeed; but I shall rise again.
  The high flood will soon follow on this ebb;
  The fountain of my fortune, which now stops
  Repressed and bound by some malicious star,                         65
  Will soon in joy play forth from all its pipes.

  _Gordon._ And yet remember I the good old proverb,
  'Let the night come before we praise the day.'
  I would be slow from long-continued fortune
  To gather hope: for hope is the companion                           70
  Given to the unfortunate by pitying Heaven.
  Fear hovers round the head of prosperous men,
  For still unsteady are the scales of fate.

  _Wallenstein (smiling)._ I hear the very Gordon that of old
  Was wont to preach to me, now once more preaching;                  75
  I know well, that all sublunary things
  Are still the vassals of vicissitude.
  The unpropitious gods demand their tribute.
  This long ago the ancient Pagans knew:
  And therefore of their own accord they offered                      80
  To themselves injuries, so to atone
  The jealousy of their divinities:
  And human sacrifices bled to Typhon.

         [_After a pause, serious, and in a more subdued manner._

  I too have sacrific'd to him--For me
  There fell the dearest friend, and through my fault                 85
  He fell! No joy from favourable fortune
  Can overweigh the anguish of this stroke.
  The envy of my destiny is glutted:
  Life pays for life. On his pure head the lightning
  Was drawn off which would else have shattered me.                   90


SCENE III

_To these enter SENI._

  _Wallenstein._ Is not that Seni? and beside himself,
  If one may trust his looks! What brings thee hither
  At this late hour, Baptista?

  _Seni._                      Terror, Duke!
  On thy account.

  _Wallenstein._  What now?

  _Seni._                   Flee ere the day-break!
  Trust not thy person to the Swedes!

  _Wallenstein._                      What now                         5
  Is in thy thoughts?

  _Seni (with louder voice)._ Trust not thy person to these Swedes.

  _Wallenstein._                                   What is it then?

  _Seni (still more urgently)._ O wait not the arrival of these
      Swedes!
  An evil near at hand is threatening thee
  From false friends. All the signs stand full of horror!             10
  Near, near at hand the net-work of perdition--
  Yea, even now 'tis being cast around thee!

  _Wallenstein._ Baptista, thou art dreaming!--Fear befools thee.

  _Seni._ Believe not that an empty fear deludes me.
  Come, read it in the planetary aspects;                             15
  Read it thyself, that ruin threatens thee
  From false friends!

  _Wallenstein._      From the falseness of my friends
  Has risen the whole of my unprosperous fortunes.
  The warning should have come before! At present
  I need no revelation from the stars                                 20
  To know that.

  _Seni._       Come and see! trust thine own eyes!
  A fearful sign stands in the house of life;
  An enemy, a fiend lurks close behind
  The radiance of thy planet--O be warned!
  Deliver not thyself up to these heathens                            25
  To wage a war against our holy church.

  _Wallenstein (laughing gently)._ The oracle rails that way! Yes,
      yes! Now
  I recollect. This junction with the Swedes
  Did never please thee--lay thyself to sleep,
  Baptista! Signs like these I do not fear.                           30

  _Gordon (who during the whole of this dialogue has shewn marks of
      extreme agitation, and now turns to Wallenstein)._ My Duke and
      General! May I dare presume?

  _Wallenstein._ Speak freely.

  _Gordon._                    What if 'twere no mere creation
  Of fear, if God's high providence vouchsaf'd
  To interpose its aid for your deliverance,
  And made that mouth its organ.

  _Wallenstein_.                 Ye're both feverish!                 35
  How can mishap come to me from the Swedes?
  They sought this junction with me--'tis their interest.

  _Gordon (with difficulty suppressing his emotion)._ But what if the
      arrival of these Swedes--
  What if this were the very thing that winged
  The ruin that is flying to your temples?                            40

                                   [_Flings himself at his feet._

  There is yet time, my Prince.

  _Seni._                       O hear him! hear him!

  _Gordon (rises)._ The Rhinegrave's still far off. Give but the
      orders,
  This citadel shall close its gates upon him.
  If then he will besiege us, let him try it.
  But this I say; he'll find his own destruction                      45
  With his whole force before these ramparts, sooner
  Than weary down the valour of our spirit.
  He shall experience what a band of heroes,
  Inspirited by an heroic leader,
  Is able to perform. And if indeed                                   50
  It be thy serious wish to make amends
  For that which thou hast done amiss,--this, this
  Will touch and reconcile the Emperor,
  Who gladly turns his heart to thoughts of mercy,
  And Friedland, who returns repentant to him,                        55
  Will stand yet higher in his Emperor's favour,
  Than e'er he stood when he had never fallen.

  _Wallenstein (contemplates him with surprise, remains silent
      awhile, betraying strong emotion)._ Gordon--your zeal and
      fervour lead you far.
  Well, well--an old friend has a privilege.
  Blood, Gordon, has been flowing. Never, never                       60
  Can the Emperor pardon me: and if he could,
  Yet I--I ne'er could let myself be pardoned.
  Had I foreknown what now has taken place,
  That he, my dearest friend, would fall for me,
  My first death-offering: and had the heart                          65
  Spoken to me, as now it has done--Gordon,
  It may be, I might have bethought myself.
  It may be too, I might not. Might or might not,
  Is now an idle question. All too seriously
  Has it begun to end in nothing, Gordon!                             70
  Let it then have its course.         [_Stepping to the window._
  All dark and silent--at the castle too
  All is now hushed--Light me, Chamberlain!

         [_The_ Groom of the Chamber, _who had entered during the
              last dialogue, and had been standing at a distance
              and listening to it with visible expressions of the
              deepest interest, advances in extreme agitation,
              and throws himself at the DUKE'S feet._

  And thou too! But I know why thou dost wish
  My reconcilement with the Emperor.                                  75
  Poor man! he hath a small estate in Cärnthen,
  And fears it will be forfeited because
  He's in my service. Am I then so poor,
  That I no longer can indemnify
  My servants? Well! To no one I employ                               80
  Means of compulsion. If 'tis thy belief
  That fortune has fled from me, go! Forsake me.
  This night for the last time mayst thou unrobe me,
  And then go over to thy Emperor.
  Gordon, good night! I think to make a long                          85
  Sleep of it: for the struggle and the turmoil
  Of this last day or two were great. May't please you!
  Take care that they awake me not too early.

          [_Exit WALLENSTEIN, the_ Groom of the Chamber _lighting
               him. SENI follows. GORDON remains on the darkened
               stage, following the DUKE with his eye, till he
               disappears at the farther end of the gallery: then
               by his gestures the old man expresses the depth of
               his anguish, and stands leaning against a pillar._


LINENOTES:

[51] amends] amend 1800, 1828, 1829.

[87] were] was 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE IV

_GORDON, BUTLER (at first behind the scenes)._

  _Butler (not yet come into view of the stage)._ Here stand in silence
      till I give the signal.

  _Gordon (starts up)._ 'Tis he, he has already brought the murderers.

  _Butler._ The lights are out. All lies in profound sleep.

  _Gordon._ What shall I do, shall I attempt to save him?
  Shall I call up the house? Alarm the guards?                         5

  _Butler (appears, but scarcely on the stage)._ A light gleams hither
      from the corridor.
  It leads directly to the Duke's bedchamber.

  _Gordon._ But then I break my oath to the Emperor;
  If he escape and strengthen the enemy,
  Do I not hereby call down on my head                                10
  All the dread consequences?

  _Butler (stepping forward)._ Hark! Who speaks there?

  _Gordon._ 'Tis better, I resign it to the hands
  Of providence. For what am I, that I
  Should take upon myself so great a deed?
  I have not murdered him, if he be murdered:                         15
  But all his rescue were my act and deed;
  Mine--and whatever be the consequences,
  I must sustain them.

  _Butler (advances)._ I should know that voice.

  _Gordon._ Butler!

  _Butler._         'Tis Gordon. What do you want here?
  Was it so late then, when the Duke dismissed you?                   20

  _Gordon._ Your hand bound up and in a scarf?

  _Butler._                                    'Tis wounded.
  That Illo fought as he was frantic, till
  At last we threw him on the ground.

  _Gordon._                           Both dead?

  _Butler._ Is he in bed?

  _Gordon._               Ah, Butler!

  _Butler._                           Is he? speak.

  _Gordon._ He shall not perish! Not through you! The Heaven          25
  Refuses your arm. See--'tis wounded!--

  _Butler._ There is no need of my arm.

  _Gordon._                             The most guilty
  Have perished, and enough is given to justice.

           [_The_ Groom of the Chamber _advances from the gallery
                with his finger on his mouth, commanding
                silence._

  _Gordon._ He sleeps! O murder not the holy sleep!

  _Butler._ No! he shall die awake.                  [_Is going._

  _Gordon._                         His heart still cleaves           30
  To earthly things: he's not prepared to step
  Into the presence of his God!

  _Butler (going)._             God's merciful!

  _Gordon (holds him)._ Grant him but this night's respite.

  _Butler (hurrying off)._                        The next moment
  May ruin all.

  _Gordon (holds him still)._ One hour!----

  _Butler._                                 Unhold me! What
  Can that short respite profit him?

  _Gordon._                          O--Time                          35
  Works miracles. In one hour many thousands
  Of grains of sand run out; and quick as they,
  Thought follows thought within the human soul.
  Only one hour! Your heart may change its purpose,
  His heart may change its purpose--some new tidings                  40
  May come; some fortunate event, decisive,
  May fall from Heaven and rescue him. O what
  May not one hour achieve!

  _Butler._                 You but remind me,
  How precious every minute is!

(_He stamps on the floor._)


LINENOTES:

[13] that _I_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[15] _I_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[16] _my_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[17] _Mine_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[19] _you_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[23] _Gordon (shuddering)._ Both dead? 1800, 1828, 1829.

[25] _not_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[26] _your_ 1800, 1828.

[27] _my_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[39] _Your_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[40] _His_ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE V

_To these enter MACDONALD and DEVEREUX, with the_ Halberdiers.

  _Gordon (throwing himself between him and them)._ No, monster!
  First over my dead body thou shalt tread.
  I will not live to see the accursed deed!

  _Butler (forcing him out of the way)._    Weak-hearted dotard!

                           [_Trumpets are heard in the distance._

  _Devereux and Macdonald._ Hark! The Swedish trumpets!
  The Swedes before the ramparts! Let us hasten!                       5

  _Gordon (rushes out)._ O, God of Mercy!

  _Butler (calling after him)._           Governor, to your post!

  _Groom of the Chamber (hurries in)._ Who dares make larum here? Hush!
      The Duke sleeps.

  _Devereux (with loud harsh voice)._ Friend, it is time now to make
      larum.

  _Groom of the Chamber._ Help!
  Murder!

  _Butler._ Down with him!

  _Groom of the Chamber (run through the body by Devereux, falls at
      the entrance of the gallery)._ Jesus Maria!

  _Butler._ Burst the doors open!                                     10

        [_They rush over the body into the gallery--two doors are
             heard to crash one after the other--Voices deadened
             by the distance--Clash of arms--then all at once a
             profound silence._


SCENE VI

  _Countess Tertsky (with a light)._ Her bed-chamber is empty; she
      herself
  Is no where to be found! The Neubrunn too,
  Who watched by her, is missing. If she should
  Be flown--But whither flown? We must call up
  Every soul in the house. How will the Duke                           5
  Bear up against these worst bad tidings? O
  If that my husband now were but returned
  Home from the banquet: Hark! I wonder whether
  The Duke is still awake! I thought I heard
  Voices and tread of feet here! I will go                            10
  And listen at the door. Hark! What is that?
  'Tis hastening up the steps!


SCENE VII

_COUNTESS, GORDON._

  _Gordon (rushes in out of breath)._ 'Tis a mistake,
  'Tis not the Swedes--Ye must proceed no further--
  Butler! O God! Where is he?     [_Then observing the COUNTESS._
                              Countess! Say----

  _Countess._ You are come then from the castle? Where's my husband?

  _Gordon._ Your husband!--Ask not!--To the Duke----                   5

  _Countess._                                        Not till
  You have discovered to me----

  _Gordon._                     On this moment
  Does the world hang. For God's sake! to the Duke.
  While we are speaking----                    [_Calling loudly._
                            Butler! Butler! God!

  _Countess._ Why, he is at the castle with my husband.

                                [_BUTLER comes from the gallery._

  _Gordon._ 'Twas a mistake--'Tis not the Swedes--it is               10
  The Imperialist's Lieutenant-General
  Has sent me hither, will be here himself
  Instantly.--You must not proceed.

  _Butler._                         He comes
  Too late.            [_GORDON dashes himself against the wall._

  _Gordon._ O God of mercy!

  _Countess._               What too late?
  Who will be here himself? Octavio                                   15
  In Egra? Treason! Treason! Where's the Duke?

                                    [_She rushes to the gallery._


LINENOTES:

[Before 5] _Gordon (in an agony of affright)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE VIII

Servants _run across the stage full of terror. The whole Scene must be
spoken entirely without pauses._

  _Seni (from the gallery)._ O bloody frightful deed!

  _Countess._                                         What is it, Seni?

  _Page (from the gallery)._ O piteous sight!

                      [_Other_ Servants _hasten in with torches._

  _Countess._ What is it? For God's sake!

  _Seni._                                 And do you ask?
  Within the Duke lies murder'd--and your husband
  Assassinated at the Castle.

                               [_The COUNTESS stands motionless._

  _Female Servant (rushing across the stage)._ Help! Help! the
       Duchess!                                                        5

  _Burgomaster (enters)._ What mean these confused
  Loud cries, that wake the sleepers of this house?

  _Gordon._ Your house is cursed to all eternity.
  In your house doth the Duke lie murdered!

  _Burgomaster (rushing out)._              Heaven forbid!

  _First Servant._ Fly! fly! they murder us all!

  _Second Servant (carrying silver plate)._ That way! The lower       10
  Passages are blocked up.

  _Voice (from behind the Scene)._ Make room for the Lieutenant-General!

            [_At these words the COUNTESS starts from her stupor,
                 collects herself, and retires suddenly._

  _Voice (from behind the Scene)._ Keep back the people! Guard the door.


LINENOTES:

[3] _you_ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE IX

_To these enters OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI with all his train. At the same
time DEVEREUX and MACDONALD enter from out the Corridor with the_
Halberdiers. _WALLENSTEIN'S dead body is carried over the back part of
the stage, wrapped in a piece of crimson tapestry._

  _Octavio (entering abruptly)._ It must not be! It is not possible!
  Butler! Gordon!
  I'll not believe it. Say no!

           [_GORDON without answering points with his hand to the
                body of WALLENSTEIN as it is carried over the
                back of the stage. OCTAVIO looks that way, and
                stands overpowered with horror._

  _Devereux (to Butler)._ Here is the golden fleece--the Duke's sword--

  _Macdonald._ Is it your order--

  _Butler (pointing to Octavio)._ Here stands he who now               5
  Hath the sole power to issue orders.

         [_DEVEREUX and MACDONALD retire with marks of obeisance.
              One drops away after the other, till only BUTLER,
              OCTAVIO, and GORDON remain on the stage._

  _Octavio (turning to Butler)._ Was that my purpose, Butler, when we
      parted?
  O God of Justice!
  To thee I lift my hand! I am not guilty
  Of this foul deed.

  _Butler._          Your hand is pure. You have                      10
  Availed yourself of mine.

  _Octavio._                Merciless man!
  Thus to abuse the orders of thy Lord--
  And stain thy Emperor's holy name with murder,
  With bloody, most accursed assassination!

  _Butler._ I've but fulfilled the Emperor's own sentence.            15

  _Octavio._ O curse of Kings,
  Infusing a dread life into their words,
  And linking to the sudden transient thought
  The unchangeable irrevocable deed.
  Was there necessity for such an eager                               20
  Despatch? Could'st thou not grant the merciful
  A time for mercy? Time is man's good Angel.
  To leave no interval between the sentence,
  And the fulfilment of it, doth beseem
  God only, the immutable!

  _Butler._                For what                                   25
  Rail you against me? What is my offence?
  The Empire from a fearful enemy
  Have I delivered, and expect reward.
  The single difference betwixt you and me
  Is this: you placed the arrow in the bow;                           30
  I pulled the string. You sowed blood, and yet stand
  Astonished that blood is come up. I always
  Knew what I did, and therefore no result
  Hath power to frighten or surprise my spirit.
  Have you aught else to order?--for this instant                     35
  I make my best speed to Vienna; place
  My bleeding sword before my Emperor's throne,
  And hope to gain the applause which undelaying
  And punctual obedience may demand
  From a just judge.                              [_Exit BUTLER._     40


LINENOTES:

[10] _hand_ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[Before 15] _Butler (calmly)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.


SCENE X

_To these enter the COUNTESS TERTSKY, pale and disordered. Her utterance
is slow and feeble, and unimpassioned._

  _Octavio (meeting her)._ O Countess Tertsky! These are the results
  Of luckless unblest deeds.

  _Countess._                They are the fruits
  Of your contrivances. The Duke is dead,
  My husband too is dead, the Duchess struggles
  In the pangs of death, my niece has disappeared.                     5
  This house of splendour, and of princely glory,
  Doth now stand desolated: the affrighted servants
  Rush forth through all its doors. I am the last
  Therein; I shut it up, and here deliver
  The keys.

  _Octavio._ O Countess! my house too is desolate.                    10

  _Countess._ Who next is to be murdered? Who is next
  To be maltreated? Lo! The Duke is dead.
  The Emperor's vengeance may be pacified!
  Spare the old servants; let not their fidelity
  Be imputed to the faithful as a crime--                             15
  The evil destiny surprised my brother
  Too suddenly; he could not think on them.

  _Octavio._ Speak not of vengeance! Speak not of maltreatment!
  The Emperor is appeased; the heavy fault
  Hath heavily been expiated--nothing                                 20
  Descended from the father to the daughter,
  Except his glory and his services.
  The Empress honours your adversity,
  Takes part in your afflictions, opens to you
  Her motherly arms! Therefore no farther fears!                      25
  Yield yourself up in hope and confidence
  To the Imperial Grace!

  _Countess._ To the grace and mercy of a greater Master
  Do I yield up myself. Where shall the body
  Of the Duke have its place of final rest?                           30
  In the Chartreuse, which he himself did found,
  At Gitschin rests the Countess Wallenstein;
  And by her side, to whom he was indebted
  For his first fortunes, gratefully he wished
  He might sometime repose in death! O let him                        35
  Be buried there. And likewise, for my husband's
  Remains, I ask the like grace. The Emperor
  Is now proprietor of all our castles.
  This sure may well be granted us--one sepulchre
  Beside the sepulchres of our forefathers!                           40

  _Octavio._ Countess, you tremble, you turn pale!

  _Countess._                                      You think
  More worthily of me, than to believe
  I would survive the downfall of my house.
  We did not hold ourselves too mean to grasp
  After a monarch's crown--the crown did fate                         45
  Deny, but not the feeling and the spirit
  That to the crown belong! We deem a
  Courageous death more worthy of our free station
  Than a dishonoured life.--I have taken poison.

  _Octavio._ Help! Help! Support her!

  _Countess._                         Nay, it is too late.            50
  In a few moments is my fate accomplished.     [_Exit COUNTESS._

  _Gordon._ O house of death and horrors!

          [_An officer enters, and brings a letter with the great
               seal._

  _Gordon (steps forward and meets him)._ What is this?
  It is the Imperial Seal.

       [_He reads the Address, and delivers the letter to OCTAVIO
            with a look of reproach, and with an emphasis on the
            word._

  To the Prince Piccolomini.

             [_OCTAVIO, with his whole frame expressive of sudden
                  anguish, raises his eyes to heaven._

(_The curtain drops._)


LINENOTES:

[10] _Octavio (with a deep anguish)._ O Countess! 1800, 1828, 1829.

[27] _Countess (with her eye raised to heaven)._ 1800, 1828, 1829.

[41] _Countess (reassembles all her powers, and speaks with energy and
dignity)._ You think 1800, 1828, 1829.

[54] _Prince_ 1800, 1828, 1829.




The following mistranslations, which were noted in the _Westminster
Review_, Art. 3, July 1850, are recorded in the Notes affixed to _The
Dramatic Works_ of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, 1852, pp. 426-7.


THE PICCOLOMINI.

Act I, Scene 2, line 106. 'Der Posten' is rendered 'travelling-bills'
instead of an 'item' or 'article in an account'.

Act I, Scene 4, line 27. 'Geschmeidig' is rendered 'hammered out'
instead of 'pliant'.

Act I, Scene 8, line 28. 'Das holde Kind' is rendered 'The voice of my
child' instead of 'The charming child'.

Act I, Scene 9, line 13. 'Jagdzug' is rendered 'hunting dress' instead
of 'hunting stud'.

Act II, Scene 7, line 9. 'Was denn?' is rendered 'What then?' instead of
'What?'

Act II, Scene 12, lines 94, 95. 'Ist unser Glaub' eine Kanzel und Altar'
is rendered 'Our faith hangs upon the pulpit and altar' instead of 'is
without pulpit and altar'.

Act II, Scene 12, line 104. 'Taboriten' is rendered 'minstrels' instead
of 'a branch of the Hussites'. [Pointed out by Ferd. Freiligrath,
_Athenaeum_, Aug. 31, 1861.]

Act IV, Scene 7, line 103. 'Losung' is rendered 'redemption' instead of
'watchword'.


THE DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN.

Act II, Scene 6, _Note._ 'Verstecktesten' is rendered 'most spotted'
instead of 'most secret'.




REMORSE[812:1]




PREFACE


This Tragedy was written in the summer and autumn of the year 1797; at
Nether Stowey, in the county of Somerset. By whose recommendation, and
of the manner in which both the Play and the Author were treated by the
Recommender, let me be permitted to relate: that I knew of its having
been received only by a third person; that I could procure neither
answer nor the manuscript; and that but for an accident I should have
had no copy of the Work itself. That such treatment would damp a young
man's exertions may be easily conceived: there was no need of
after-misrepresentation and calumny, as an additional sedative.

[812:2][As an amusing anecdote, and in the wish to prepare future
Authors, as young as I then was and as ignorant of the world, of[812:3]
the treatment they may meet with, I will add, that the Person[812:4] who
by a twice conveyed recommendation (in the year 1797) had urged me to
write a Tragedy[812:5]: who on my own objection that I was utterly
ignorant of all Stage-tactics had promised that _he_ would himself make
the necessary alterations, if the Piece should be at all representable;
who together with the copy of the Play (hastened by his means so as to
prevent the full developement[812:6] of the characters) received a
letter from the Author to this purport, '_that conscious of his
inexperience, he had cherished no expectations, and should therefore
feel no disappointment from the rejection of the Play; but that if
beyond his hopes Mr. ---- found in it any capability of being adapted to
the Stage, it was delivered to him as if it had been his own Manuscript,
to add, omit, or alter, as he saw occasion; and that (if it were
rejected) the Author would deem himself amply remunerated by the
addition to his Experience, which he should receive, if Mr. ----would
point out[812:7] to him the nature of its unfitness for public
Representation_';--that this very Person returned[813:1] me no answer,
and[813:2], spite of repeated applications, retained my Manuscript when
I was not conscious of any other Copy being in existence (my duplicate
having been destroyed by an accident); that he[813:3] suffered this
Manuscript to wander about the Town from his house, so that but ten days
ago I saw[813:4] the song in the third Act _printed_ and set to music,
without my name, by Mr. Carnaby, in the year 1802; likewise that the
same person asserted[813:5] (as I have been assured) that the Play was
rejected, because I would not submit to the alteration of one ludicrous
line; and finally[813:6] in the year 1806 amused and delighted (as who
was ever in his company, if I may trust the universal report, without
being amused and delighted?) a large company at the house of a highly
respectable Member of Parliament, with the ridicule of the[813:7]
Tragedy, as 'a _fair specimen_', of the _whole_ of which he adduced a
line:

  '_Drip! drip! drip! there's nothing here but dripping._'

In the original copy of the Play, in the first Scene of the fourth Act,
Isidore _had_ commenced his Soliloquy in the Cavern with the words:

  'Drip! drip! a ceaseless sound of water-drops,'[813:8],[813:9]

as far as I can at present recollect: for on the possible ludicrous
association being pointed out to me, I instantly and thankfully struck
out the line. And as to my obstinate _tenacity_, not only my old
acquaintance, but (I dare boldly aver) both the Managers of Drury Lane
Theatre, and every Actor and Actress, whom I have recently met in the
Green Room, will repel the accusation: perhaps not without surprise.]

I thought it right to record these circumstances;[814:1] but I turn
gladly and with sincere gratitude to the converse. In the close of last
year I was advised to present the Tragedy once more to the Theatre.
Accordingly having altered the names, I ventured to address a letter to
Mr. Whitbread, requesting information as to whom I was to present my
Tragedy. My Letter was instantly and most kindly answered, and I have
now nothing to tell but a Tale of Thanks. I should scarce know where to
begin, if the goodness of the Manager, Mr. ARNOLD, had not called for my
first acknowledgements. Not merely as an _acting Play_, but as a
dramatic _Poem_, the 'REMORSE' has been importantly and manifoldly
benefited by his suggestions. I can with severest truth say, that every
hint he gave me was the ground of some improvement. In the next place it
is my duty to mention Mr. RAYMOND, the Stage Manager. Had the 'REMORSE'
been his own Play--nay, that is saying too little--had I been his
brother, or his dearest friend, he could not have felt or exerted
himself more zealously.

As the Piece is now acting, it may be thought presumptuous in me to
speak of the Actors; yet how can I abstain, feeling, as I do, Mrs.
GLOVER'S[814:2] powerful assistance, and knowing the
circumstances[814:3] under which she consented to act Alhadra? A time
will come, when without painfully oppressing her feelings, I may speak
of this more fully. To Miss SMITH I have an equal, though different
acknowledgement to make, namely, for her acceptance of a character not
fully developed, and quite inadequate to her extraordinary powers. She
enlivened and supported many passages, which (though not perhaps wholly
uninteresting in the closet) would but for her have hung heavy on the
ears of a Theatrical Audience. And in speaking the Epilogue, a
composition which (I fear) my hurry will hardly excuse, and which, as
unworthy of her name, is here [1828, 1829, 1834] omitted, she made a
sacrifice, which only her established character with all judges of
Tragic action, could have rendered compatible with her duty to herself.
To Mr. DE CAMP'S judgement and full conception of Isidore; to Mr. POPE'S
accurate representation of the partial, yet honourable Father; to Mr.
ELLISTON'S energy in the character of ALVAR, and who in more than one
instance _gave_ it beauties and striking points, which not only
delighted but surprised me; and to Mr. RAE[815:1], to whose zeal, and
unwearied study of his part, I am not less indebted as a _Man_, than to
his impassioned realization of ORDONIO, as an _Author_;----to these, and
to all concerned with the bringing out of the Play, I can address but
one word--THANKS!--but that word is uttered sincerely! and to persons
constantly before the eye of the Public, a public acknowledgement
becomes appropriate, and a duty.

I defer all answers to the different criticisms on the Piece to an
Essay, which I am about to publish immediately, on Dramatic Poetry,
relatively to the present State of the Metropolitan Theatres.

From the necessity of hastening the Publication I was obliged to send
the Manuscript intended for the Stage: which is the sole cause of the
number of directions printed in italics.

                                                 S. T. COLERIDGE.


FOOTNOTES:

[812:1] Preface, Prologue, and Epilogue do not appear in the 1834
edition.

[812:2] The long passage here placed within square brackets [] appeared
in the first edition only.

[812:3] of for _MS. R_. (For _MS. R_ see p. 819.)]

[812:4] Richard Brinsley Sheridan.

[812:5] Tragedy for his theatre _MS. R_.

[812:6] I need not say to Authors, that as to the _essentials_ of a
Poem, little can be superinduced without dissonance, after the first
warmth of conception and composition. [Note by _S. T. C._, first
edition.]

[812:7] would condescend to point out _MS. R_.

[813:1] not only returned _MS. R_.

[813:2] and not only _MS. R_.

[813:3] that he not only _MS. R_.

[813:4] I for the first time saw _MS. R_.

[813:5] likewise . . . assured not only asserted _MS. R_.

[813:6] but finally (and it is this last fact alone, which was malice
for which no excuse of indolence self-made is adduced which determined
me to refer to what I had already forgiven and almost forgotten) in the
year 1806 _MS. R_.

[813:7] the this _MS. R_.

[813:8] (Private.) Had the Piece been really silly (and I have
proof positive that Sheridan did not think it so) yet 10 years
afterwards to have committed a breach of confidence in order to injure
the otherwise . . . that on the ground of an indiscretion into which he
had himself seduced the writer, and the writer, too, a man whose
reputation was his Bread--a man who had devoted the firstlings of his
talents to the celebration of Sheridan's genius--and who after he met
treatment not only never spoke unkindly or resentfully of it, but
actually was zealous and frequent in defending and praising his public
principles of conduct in the _Morning Post_--and all this in the
presence of men of Rank previously disposed to think highly . . . I am
sure you will not be surprised that _this_ did provoke me, and that it
justifies to my heart the detail here printed.

                                                 S. T. COLERIDGE.

P.S.--I never spoke severely of R. B. S. but once and then I confess, I
_did_ say that Sheridan was Sheridan. _MS. R_.

[813:9] The fourth act of the play in its original shape, and,
presumably, as sent to Sheridan, opened with the following lines:--

  'Drip! drip! drip! drip!--in such a place as this
   It has nothing else to do but drip! drip! drip!
   I wish it had not dripp'd upon my torch.'

In _MS. III_ the opening lines are erased and the fourth Act opens
thus:--

  This ceaseless dreary sound of { [*water-drops*]
                                 { dropping water
  I would they had not fallen upon my Torch!

After the lapse of sixteen years Coleridge may have confused the
corrected version with the original. There is no MS. authority for the
line as quoted in the Preface.

[814:1] 'This circumstance.' Second edition.

[814:2] The caste was as follows:--_Marquis Valdez_, Mr. Pope; _Don
Alvar_, Mr. Elliston; _Don Ordonio_, Mr. Rae; _Monviedro_, Mr. Powell;
_Zulimez_, Mr. Crooke; _Isidore_, Mr. De Camp; _Naomi_, Mr. Wallack;
_Donna Teresa_, Miss Smith; _Alhadra_, Mrs. Glover.

[814:3] Mrs. G.'s eldest child was buried on the Thursday--two others
were ill, and one, with croup given over (tho' it has since recovered)
and spite of her's, the physician's and my most passionate
remonstrances, she was forced to act Alhadra on the Saturday!!!

Mrs. Glover (I do not much like her, in some respects) was duped into a
marriage with a worthless Sharper, who passed himself off on her as a
man of rank and fortune and who now lives and feeds himself and his
vices on her salary--and hence all her affections flow in the channel of
her maternal feelings. She is a passionately fond mother, and to act
Alhadra on the Saturday after the Thursday's Burial! _MS. H_. (For _MS.
H_ _see_ p. 819.)

[815:1] Poor Rae! a good man as Friend, Husband, Father. He did his
best! but his person is so insignificant, tho' a handsome man off the
stage--and, worse than that, the thinness and an insufficiency of his
voice--yet Ordonio has done him service. _MS. H_.




PROLOGUE

BY C. LAMB[816:1]

_Spoken by_ Mr. _CARR_


  There are, I am told, who sharply criticise
  Our modern theatres' unwieldy size.
  We players shall scarce plead guilty to that charge,
  Who think a house can never be too large:
  Griev'd when a rant, that's worth a nation's ear,                    5
  Shakes some prescrib'd Lyceum's petty sphere;
  And pleased to mark the grin from space to space
  Spread epidemic o'er a town's broad face.--
  O might old Betterton or Booth return
  To view our structures from their silent urn,                       10
  Could Quin come stalking from Elysian glades,
  Or Garrick get a day-rule from the shades--
  Where now, perhaps, in mirth which Spirits approve,
  He imitates the ways of men above,
  And apes the actions of our upper coast,                            15
  As in his days of flesh he play'd the ghost:--
  How might they bless our ampler scope to please,
  And hate their own old shrunk up audiences.--
  Their houses yet were palaces to those,
  Which Ben and Fletcher for their triumphs chose,                    20
  Shakspeare, who wish'd a kingdom for a stage,
  Like giant pent in disproportion'd cage,
  Mourn'd his contracted strengths and crippled rage.
  He who could tame his vast ambition down
  To please some scatter'd gleanings of a town,                       25
  And, if some hundred auditors supplied
  Their meagre meed of claps, was satisfied,
  How had he felt, when that dread curse of Lear's
  Had burst tremendous on a thousand ears,
  While deep-struck wonder from applauding bands                      30
  Return'd the tribute of as many hands!
  Rude were his guests; he never made his bow
  To such an audience as salutes us now.
  He lack'd the balm of labour, female praise.
  Few Ladies in his time frequented plays,                            35
  Or came to see a youth with awkward art
  And shrill sharp pipe burlesque the woman's part.
  The very use, since so essential grown,
  Of painted scenes, was to his stage unknown.
  The air-blest castle, round whose wholesome crest,                  40
  The martlet, guest of summer, chose her nest--
  The forest walks of Arden's fair domain,
  Where Jaques fed his solitary vein--
  No pencil's aid as yet had dared supply,
  Seen only by the intellectual eye.                                  45
  Those scenic helps, denied to Shakspeare's page,
  Our Author owes to a more liberal age.
  Nor pomp nor circumstance are wanting here;
  'Tis for himself alone that he must fear.
  Yet shall remembrance cherish the just pride,                       50
  That (be the laurel granted or denied)
  He first essay'd in this distinguished fane,
  Severer muses and a tragic strain.


FOOTNOTES:

[816:1] A rejected address--which poor Charles was restless to have
used. I fitted him with an Epilogue of the same calibre with his
Prologue, but I thought it would be going a little too far to publish
mine. _MS. H_.




EPILOGUE

_Written by the Author, and spoken by_ Miss _SMITH in the character of
TERESA._

[As printed in _The Morning Chronicle_, Jan. 28, 1813.]


  Oh! the procrastinating idle rogue,
  The Poet has just sent his Epilogue;
  Ay, 'tis just like him!--and the _hand_!

                                   [_Poring over the manuscript._

                                           The stick!
  I could as soon decipher Arabic!
  But, hark! my wizard's own poetic elf                                5
  Bids me take courage, and make one myself!
    An heiress, and with sighing swains in plenty
  From blooming nineteen to full-blown five-and-twenty,
  Life beating high, and youth upon the wing,
  'A six years' absence was a heavy thing!'                           10
  Heavy!--nay, let's describe things as they are,
  With sense and nature 'twas at open war--
  Mere affectation to be singular.
  Yet ere you overflow in condemnation,
  Think first of poor Teresa's education;                             15
  'Mid mountains wild, near billow-beaten rocks,
  Where sea-gales play'd with her dishevel'd locks,
  Bred in the spot where first to light she sprung,
  With no Academies for ladies young--
  Academies--(sweet phrase!) that well may claim                      20
  From Plato's sacred grove th' appropriate name!
  No morning visits, no sweet waltzing dances--
  And then for reading--what but huge romances,
  With as stiff morals, leaving earth behind 'em,
  As the brass-clasp'd, brass-corner'd boards that bind 'em.          25
  Knights, chaste as brave, who strange adventures seek,
  And faithful loves of ladies, fair as meek;
  Or saintly hermits' wonder-raising acts,
  Instead of--novels founded upon facts!
  Which, decently immoral, have the art                               30
  To spare the blush, and undersap the heart!
  Oh, think of these, and hundreds worse than these,
  Dire disimproving disadvantages,
  And grounds for pity, not for blame, you'll see,
  E'en in Teresa's six years' constancy.                              35

                                    [_Looking at the manuscript._

  But stop! what's this?--Our Poet bids me say,
  That he has woo'd your feelings in this Play
  By no too real woes, that make you groan,
  Recalling kindred griefs, perhaps your own,
  Yet with no image compensate the mind,                              40
  Nor leave one joy for memory behind.
  He'd wish no loud laugh, from the sly, shrewd sneer,
  To unsettle from your eyes the quiet tear
  That Pity had brought, and Wisdom would leave there.
  Now calm he waits your judgment! (win or miss),                     45
  By no loud plaudits saved, damn'd by no factious hiss.

                                                       [S. T. C.]




REMORSE[819:1]

A TRAGEDY IN FIVE ACTS[819:2]


DRAMATIS PERSONAE

1797. 1813-1834.

  _VELEZ                = MARQUIS VALDEZ, Father to the two brothers,
                              and Doña Teresa's Guardian._
  _ALBERT               = DON ALVAR, the eldest son._
  _OSORIO               = DON ORDONIO, the youngest son._
  _FRANCESCO            = MONVIEDRO, a Dominican and Inquisitor._
  _MAURICE              = ZULIMEZ, the faithful attendant on Alvar._
  _FERDINAND            = ISIDORE, a Moresco Chieftain, ostensibly a
                              Christian._
                          _Familiars of the Inquisition._
  _NAOMI                = NAOMI._
                          _Moors, Servants, &c._
  _MARIA                = DOÑA TERESA, an Orphan Heiress._
  _ALHADRA, wife      } = _ALHADRA, Wife of Isidore._
      of FERDINAND_,  }
  _FAMILIARS OF THE INQUISITION._
  _MOORS, SERVANTS_, &c.

_Time. The reign of Philip II., just at the close of the civil wars
against the Moors, and during the heat of the persecution which raged
against them, shortly after the edict which forbade the wearing of
Moresco apparel under pain of death._


FOOTNOTES:

[819:1] _Remorse_, a recast of _Osorio_, was first played at Drury Lane
Theatre, January 23, 1813, and had a run of twenty nights. It was first
published as a pamphlet of seventy-two pages in 1813, and ran through
three editions. The Second Edition, which numbered seventy-eight pages,
was enlarged by an Appendix consisting of a passage which formed part of
Act IV, Scene 2 of _Osorio_, and had been published in the _Lyrical
Ballads_ (1798, 1800, 1802, and 1805) as a separate poem entitled 'The
Foster-Mother's Tale' (_vide ante_, pp. 182-4, 571-4), and of a second
passage numbering twenty-eight lines, which was afterwards printed as a
footnote to _Remorse_, Act II, Scene 2, line 42 (_vide post_, p. 842)
'You are a painter, &c.' The Third Edition was a reissue of the Second.
In the _Athenæum_, April 1, 1896, J. D. Campbell points out that there
were three issues of the First Edition, of which he had only seen the
first; viz. (1) the normal text [Edition I]; (2) a second issue [Edition
I (_b_)] quoted by the Editor (R. H. Shepherd) of _Osorio_, 1877, as a
variant of Act V, line 252; (3) a third issue quoted by the same writer
in his edition of _P. W._, 1877-80, iii. 154, 155 [Edition I (_c_)].
There is a copy of Edition I (_b_) in the British Museum: save in
respect of Act V, line 252, it does not vary from Edition I. I have not
seen a copy of Edition I (_c_). Two copies of _Remorse_ annotated by S.
T. Coleridge have passed through my hands, (1) a copy of the First
Edition presented to the Manager of the Theatre, J. G. Raymond (_MS.
R._), and (2) a copy of the Second Edition presented to Miss Sarah
Hutchinson (_MS. H._). _Remorse_ is included in 1828, 1829, and 1834.

[819:2] This Tragedy has a particular advantage--it has the _first_
scene, in which Prologue plays Dialogue with Dumby. (_MS. H._)




ACT I


SCENE I

_The Sea Shore on the Coast of Granada._

_DON ALVAR, wrapt in a Boat cloak, and ZULIMEZ (a Moresco), both as just
landed._

  _Zulimez._ No sound, no face of joy to welcome us!

  _Alvar._ My faithful Zulimez, for one brief moment
  Let me forget my anguish and their crimes.
  If aught on earth demand an unmix'd feeling,
  'Tis surely this--after long years of exile,                         5
  To step forth on firm land, and gazing round us,
  To hail at once our country, and our birth-place.
  Hail, Spain! Granada, hail! once more I press
  Thy sands with filial awe, land of my fathers!

  _Zulimez._ Then claim your rights in it! O, revered Don Alvar,      10
  Yet, yet give up your all too gentle purpose.
  It is too hazardous! reveal yourself,
  And let the guilty meet the doom of guilt!

  _Alvar._ Remember, Zulimez! I am his brother,
  Injured indeed! O deeply injured! yet                               15
  Ordonio's brother.

  _Zulimez._         Nobly-minded Alvar!
  This sure but gives his guilt a blacker dye.

  _Alvar._ The more behoves it I should rouse within him
  Remorse! that I should save him from himself.

  _Zulimez._ Remorse is as the heart in which it grows:               20
  If that be gentle, it drops balmy dews
  Of true repentance; but if proud and gloomy,
  It is a poison-tree, that pierced to the inmost
  Weeps only tears of poison!

  _Alvar._                    And of a brother,
  Dare I hold this, unproved? nor make one effort                     25
  To save him?--Hear me, friend! I have yet to tell thee,
  That this same life, which he conspired to take,
  Himself once rescued from the angry flood,
  And at the imminent hazard of his own.
  Add too my oath--

  _Zulimez._        You have thrice told already                      30
  The years of absence and of secrecy,
  To which a forced oath bound you; if in truth
  A suborned murderer have the power to dictate
  A binding oath--

  _Alvar._         My long captivity
  Left me no choice: the very wish too languished                     35
  With the fond hope that nursed it; the sick babe
  Drooped at the bosom of its famished mother.
  But (more than all) Teresa's perfidy;
  The assassin's strong assurance, when no interest,
  No motive could have tempted him to falsehood:                      40
  In the first pangs of his awaken'd conscience,
  When with abhorrence of his own black purpose
  The murderous weapon, pointed at my breast,
  Fell from his palsied hand--

  _Zulimez._                   Heavy presumption!

  _Alvar._ It weighed not with me--Hark! I will tell thee all;        45
  As we passed by, I bade thee mark the base
  Of yonder cliff--

  _Zulimez._        That rocky seat you mean,
  Shaped by the billows?--

  _Alvar._                 There Teresa met me
  The morning of the day of my departure.
  We were alone: the purple hue of dawn                               50
  Fell from the kindling east aslant upon us,
  And blending with the blushes on her cheek,
  Suffused the tear-drops there with rosy light.
  There seemed a glory round us, and Teresa
  The angel of the vision![821:1]

                           Had'st thou seen                           55
  How in each motion her most innocent soul
  Beamed forth and brightened, thou thyself would'st tell me,
  Guilt is a thing impossible in her!
  She must be innocent!

  _Zulimez._            Proceed, my lord!

  _Alvar._ A portrait which she had procured by stealth,              60
  (For even then it seems her heart foreboded
  Or knew Ordonio's moody rivalry)
  A portrait of herself with thrilling hand
  She tied around my neck, conjuring me,
  With earnest prayers, that I would keep it sacred                   65
  To my own knowledge: nor did she desist,
  Till she had won a solemn promise from me,
  That (save my own) no eye should e'er behold it
  Till my return. Yet this the assassin knew,
  Knew that which none but she could have disclosed.                  70

  _Zulimez._ A damning proof!

  _Alvar._                    My own life wearied me!
  And but for the imperative voice within,
  With mine own hand I had thrown off the burthen.
  That voice, which quelled me, calmed me: and I sought
  The Belgic states: there joined the better cause;                   75
  And there too fought as one that courted death!
  Wounded, I fell among the dead and dying,
  In death-like trance: a long imprisonment followed.
  The fulness of my anguish by degrees
  Waned to a meditative melancholy;                                   80
  And still the more I mused, my soul became
  More doubtful, more perplexed; and still Teresa,
  Night after night, she visited my sleep,
  Now as a saintly sufferer, wan and tearful,
  Now as a saint in glory beckoning to me!                            85
  Yes, still as in contempt of proof and reason,
  I cherish the fond faith that she is guiltless!
  Hear then my fix'd resolve: I'll linger here
  In the disguise of a Moresco chieftain.--
  The Moorish robes?--

  _Zulimez._           All, all are in the sea-cave,                  90
  Some furlong hence. I bade our mariners
  Secrete the boat there.

  _Alvar._                Above all, the picture
  Of the assassination--

  _Zulimez._             Be assured
  That it remains uninjured.

  _Alvar._                   Thus disguised
  I will first seek to meet Ordonio's--wife!                          95
  If possible, alone too. This was her wonted walk,
  And this the hour; her words, her very looks
  Will acquit her or convict.

  _Zulimez._ Will they not know you?

  _Alvar._ With your aid, friend, I shall unfearingly                100
  Trust the disguise; and as to my complexion,
  My long imprisonment, the scanty food,
  This scar--and toil beneath a burning sun,
  Have done already half the business for us.
  Add too my youth, since last we saw each other.                    105
  Manhood has swoln my chest, and taught my voice
  A hoarser note--Besides, they think me dead:
  And what the mind believes impossible,
  The bodily sense is slow to recognize.

  _Zulimez._ 'Tis yours, sir, to command, mine to obey.              110
  Now to the cave beneath the vaulted rock,
  Where having shaped you to a Moorish chieftain,
  I'll seek our mariners; and in the dusk
  Transport whate'er we need to the small dell
  In the Alpujarras--there where Zagri lived.                        115

  _Alvar._ I know it well: it is the obscurest haunt
  Of all the mountains--[823:1]          [_Both stand listening._
                         Voices at a distance!
  Let us away!                                         [_Exeunt._


FOOTNOTES:

[821:1] May not a man, without breach of the 8th Commandment, take out
of his left pocket and put into his right? _MS. H._ (_Vide ante_, p.
406, _To William Wordsworth_, l. 43.)

[823:1] Till the Play was printed off, I never remembered or, rather,
never recollected that this phrase was taken from Mr. Wordsworth's
Poems. Thank God it was not from his MSS. Poems; and at the 2nd Edition
I was afraid to point it out lest it should appear a trick to introduce
his name. _MS. H._ [Coleridge is thinking of a line in _The Brothers_,
'It is the loneliest place in all these hills.']


LINENOTES:

[19] Remorse] REMORSE Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[20] Remorse] REMORSE Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[31] years] year Editions 1, 2, 3.

[35] wish] _Wish_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[36] hope] _Hope_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[55] _After_ vision! [_Then with agitation_ Editions 1, 2, 3.

[56-9] Compare _Destiny of Nations_, ll. 174-6, p. 137.

[59] _After_ _Zulimez (with a sigh)_, Editions 1, 2, 3 1829.

[86] Yes] And Edition 1.

[95] wife] _wife_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[105] since] when Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[113] I'll] I will Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[115] Alpujarras] Alpuxarras Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.


SCENE II

_Enter TERESA and VALDEZ._

  _Teresa._ I hold Ordonio dear; he is your son
  And Alvar's brother.

  _Valdez._            Love him for himself,
  Nor make the living wretched for the dead.

  _Teresa._ I mourn that you should plead in vain, Lord Valdez,
  But heaven hath heard my vow, and I remain                           5
  Faithful to Alvar, be he dead or living.

  _Valdez._ Heaven knows with what delight I saw your loves,
  And could my heart's blood give him back to thee
  I would die smiling. But these are idle thoughts!
  Thy dying father comes upon my soul                                 10
  With that same look, with which he gave thee to me;
  I held thee in my arms a powerless babe,
  While thy poor mother with a mute entreaty
  Fixed her faint eyes on mine. Ah not for this,
  That I should let thee feed thy soul with gloom,                    15
  And with slow anguish wear away thy life,
  The victim of a useless constancy.
  I must not see thee wretched.

  _Teresa._                     There are woes
  Ill bartered for the garishness of joy!
  If it be wretched with an untired eye                               20
  To watch those skiey tints, and this green ocean;
  Or in the sultry hour beneath some rock,
  My hair dishevelled by the pleasant sea breeze,
  To shape sweet visions, and live o'er again
  All past hours of delight! If it be wretched                        25
  To watch some bark, and fancy Alvar there,
  To go through each minutest circumstance
  Of the blest meeting, and to frame adventures
  Most terrible and strange, and hear him tell them;[824:1]
  (As once I knew a crazy Moorish maid                                30
  Who drest her in her buried lover's clothes,
  And o'er the smooth spring in the mountain cleft
  Hung with her lute, and played the selfsame tune
  He used to play, and listened to the shadow
  Herself had made)--if this be wretchedness,                         35
  And if indeed it be a wretched thing
  To trick out mine own death-bed, and imagine
  That I had died, died just ere his return!
  Then see him listening to my constancy,
  Or hover round, as he at midnight oft                               40
  Sits on my grave and gazes at the moon;
  Or haply in some more fantastic mood,
  To be in Paradise, and with choice flowers
  Build up a bower where he and I might dwell,
  And there to wait his coming! O my sire!                            45
  My Alvar's sire! if this be wretchedness
  That eats away the life, what were it, think you,
  If in a most assured reality
  He should return, and see a brother's infant
  Smile at him from my arms?                                          50
  Oh what a thought!

  _Valdez._ A thought? even so! mere thought! an empty thought.
  The very week he promised his return----

  _Teresa._ Was it not then a busy joy? to see him,
  After those three years' travels! we had no fears--                 55
  The frequent tidings, the ne'er failing letter.
  Almost endeared his absence! Yet the gladness,
  The tumult of our joy! What then if now----

  _Valdez._ O power of youth to feed on pleasant thoughts,
  Spite of conviction! I am old and heartless!                        60
  Yes, I am old--I have no pleasant fancies--
  Hectic and unrefreshed with rest--

  _Teresa._                          My father!

  _Valdez._ The sober truth is all too much for me!
  I see no sail which brings not to my mind
  The home-bound bark in which my son was captured                    65
  By the Algerine--to perish with his captors!

  _Teresa._ Oh no! he did not!

  _Valdez_.                    Captured in sight of land!
  From yon hill point, nay, from our castle watch-tower
  We might have seen----

  _Teresa._              His capture, not his death.

  _Valdez._ Alas! how aptly thou forget'st a tale                     70
  Thou ne'er didst wish to learn! my brave Ordonio
  Saw both the pirate and his prize go down,
  In the same storm that baffled his own valour,
  And thus twice snatched a brother from his hopes:
  Gallant Ordonio! O beloved Teresa,                                  75
  Would'st thou best prove thy faith to generous Alvar,
  And most delight his spirit, go, make thou
  His brother happy, make his aged father
  Sink to the grave in joy.

  _Teresa._                 For mercy's sake
  Press me no more! I have no power to love him.                      80
  His proud forbidding eye, and his dark brow,
  Chill me like dew-damps of the unwholesome night:
  My love, a timorous and tender flower,
  Closes beneath his touch.

  _Valdez._                 You wrong him, maiden!
  You wrong him, by my soul! Nor was it well                          85
  To character by such unkindly phrases
  The stir and workings of that love for you
  Which he has toiled to smother. 'Twas not well,
  Nor is it grateful in you to forget
  His wounds and perilous voyages, and how                            90
  With an heroic fearlessness of danger
  He roam'd the coast of Afric for your Alvar.
  It was not well--You have moved me even to tears.

  _Teresa._ Oh pardon me, Lord Valdez! pardon me!
  It was a foolish and ungrateful speech,                             95
  A most ungrateful speech! But I am hurried
  Beyond myself, if I but hear of one
  Who aims to rival Alvar. Were we not
  Born in one day, like twins of the same parent?
  Nursed in one cradle? Pardon me, my father!                        100
  A six years' absence is a heavy thing,
  Yet still the hope survives----

  _Valdez (looking forward)._ Hush! 'tis Monviedro.

  _Teresa._ The Inquisitor! on what new scent of blood?

_Enter MONVIEDRO with ALHADRA._

  _Monviedro._ Peace and the truth be with you! Good my Lord,        105
  My present need is with your son.
  We have hit the time. Here comes he! Yes, 'tis he.

                     [_Enter from the opposite side DON ORDONIO._

  My Lord Ordonio, this Moresco woman
  (Alhadra is her name) asks audience of you.

  _Ordonio._ Hail, reverend father! what may be the business?        110

  _Monviedro._ My lord, on strong suspicion of relapse
  To his false creed, so recently abjured,
  The secret servants of the Inquisition
  Have seized her husband, and at my command
  To the supreme tribunal would have led him,                        115
  But that he made appeal to you, my lord,
  As surety for his soundness in the faith.
  Though lessoned by experience what small trust
  The asseverations of these Moors deserve,
  Yet still the deference to Ordonio's name,                         120
  Nor less the wish to prove, with what high honour
  The Holy Church regards her faithful soldiers,
  Thus far prevailed with me that----

  _Ordonio._                          Reverend father,
  I am much beholden to your high opinion,
  Which so o'erprizes my light services.      [_Then to ALHADRA._    125
  I would that I could serve you; but in truth
  Your face is new to me.

  _Monviedro._            My mind foretold me
  That such would be the event. In truth, Lord Valdez,
  'Twas little probable, that Don Ordonio,
  That your illustrious son, who fought so bravely                   130
  Some four years since to quell these rebel Moors,
  Should prove the patron of this infidel!
  The warranter of a Moresco's faith!
  Now I return.

  _Alhadra._ My Lord, my husband's name                              135
  Is Isidore. (_ORDONIO starts._) You may remember it:
  Three years ago, three years this very week,
  You left him at Almeria.

  _Monviedro._             Palpably false!
  This very week, three years ago, my lord,
  (You needs must recollect it by your wound)                        140
  You were at sea, and there engaged the pirates,
  The murderers doubtless of your brother Alvar!
  What, is he ill, my Lord? how strange he looks!

  _Valdez._ You pressed upon him too abruptly, father!
  The fate of one, on whom, you know, he doted.                      145

  _Ordonio._ O Heavens! I?--I doted?
  Yes! I doted on him.

        [_ORDONIO walks to the end of the stage, VALDEZ follows._

  _Teresa._ I do not, can not, love him. Is my heart hard?
  Is my heart hard? that even now the thought
  Should force itself upon me?--Yet I feel it!                       150

  _Monviedro._ The drops did start and stand upon his forehead!
  I will return. In very truth, I grieve
  To have been the occasion. Ho! attend me, woman!

  _Alhadra (to Teresa)._ O gentle lady! make the father stay,
  Until my lord recover. I am sure,                                  155
  That he will say he is my husband's friend.

  _Teresa._ Stay, father! stay! my lord will soon recover.

  _Ordonio (as they return, to Valdez)._ Strange, that this Monviedro
  Should have the power so to distemper me!

  _Valdez._ Nay, 'twas an amiable weakness, son!                     160

  _Monviedro._ My lord, I truly grieve----

  _Ordonio._                               Tut! name it not.
  A sudden seizure, father! think not of it.
  As to this woman's husband, I do know him.
  I know him well, and that he is a Christian.

  _Monviedro._ I hope, my lord, your merely human pity               165
  Doth not prevail----

  _Ordonio._ 'Tis certain that he was a catholic;
  What changes may have happened in three years,
  I can not say; but grant me this, good father:
  Myself I'll sift him: if I find him sound,                         170
  You'll grant me your authority and name
  To liberate his house.

  _Monviedro._           Your zeal, my lord,
  And your late merits in this holy warfare
  Would authorize an ampler trust--you have it.

  _Ordonio._ I will attend you home within an hour.                  175

  _Valdez._ Meantime return with us and take refreshment.

  _Alhadra_. Not till my husband's free! I may not do it.
  I will stay here.

  _Teresa (aside)._ Who is this Isidore?

  _Valdez._                              Daughter!

  _Teresa._ With your permission, my dear lord,                      180
  I'll loiter yet awhile t' enjoy the sea breeze.

                         [_Exeunt VALDEZ, MONVIEDRO and ORDONIO._

  _Alhadra._ Hah! there he goes! a bitter curse go with him,
  A scathing curse!
  You hate him, don't you, lady?

  _Teresa._ Oh fear not me! my heart is sad for you.                 185

  _Alhadra._ These fell inquisitors! these sons of blood!
  As I came on, his face so maddened me,
  That ever and anon I clutched my dagger
  And half unsheathed it----

  _Teresa._                  Be more calm, I pray you.

  _Alhadra._ And as he walked along the narrow path                  190
  Close by the mountain's edge, my soul grew eager;
  'Twas with hard toil I made myself remember
  That his Familiars held my babes and husband.
  To have leapt upon him with a tiger's plunge,
  And hurl'd him down the rugged precipice,                          195
  O, it had been most sweet!

  _Teresa._                  Hush! hush for shame!
  Where is your woman's heart?

  _Alhadra._                 O gentle lady!
  You have no skill to guess my many wrongs,
  Many and strange! Besides, I am a Christian,
  And Christians never pardon--'tis their faith!                     200

  _Teresa._ Shame fall on those who so have shewn it to thee!

  _Alhadra._ I know that man; 'tis well he knows not me.
  Five years ago (and he was the prime agent),
  Five years ago the holy brethren seized me.

  _Teresa._ What might your crime be?

  _Alhadra._                          I was a Moresco!               205
  They cast me, then a young and nursing mother,
  Into a dungeon of their prison house,
  Where was no bed, no fire, no ray of light,
  No touch, no sound of comfort! The black air,
  It was a toil to breathe it! when the door,                        210
  Slow opening at the appointed hour, disclosed
  One human countenance, the lamp's red flame
  Cowered as it entered, and at once sank down.
  Oh miserable! by that lamp to see
  My infant quarrelling with the coarse hard bread                   215
  Brought daily; for the little wretch was sickly--
  My rage had dried away its natural food.[830:1]
  In darkness I remained--the dull bell counting,
  Which haply told me, that the all-cheering sun
  Was rising on our garden. When I dozed,                            220
  My infant's moanings mingled with my slumbers
  And waked me.--If you were a mother, lady,
  I should scarce dare to tell you, that its noises
  And peevish cries so fretted on my brain
  That I have struck the innocent babe in anger.                     225

  _Teresa._ O Heaven! it is too horrible to hear.

  _Alhadra._ What was it then to suffer? 'Tis most right
  That such as you should hear it.--Know you not,
  What nature makes you mourn, she bids you heal?[830:2]
  Great evils ask great passions to redress them,                    230
  And whirlwinds fitliest scatter pestilence.

  _Teresa._ You were at length released?

  _Alhadra._                             Yes, at length
  I saw the blessed arch of the whole heaven!
  'Twas the first time my infant smiled. No more--
  For if I dwell upon that moment, Lady,                             235
  A trance comes on which makes me o'er again
  All I then was--my knees hang loose and drag,
  And my lip falls with such an idiot laugh,
  That you would start and shudder!

  _Teresa._                         But your husband--

  _Alhadra._ A month's imprisonment would kill him, Lady.            240

  _Teresa._ Alas, poor man!

  _Alhadra._                He hath a lion's courage,
  Fearless in act, but feeble in endurance;
  Unfit for boisterous times, with gentle heart
  He worships nature in the hill and valley,
  Not knowing what he loves, but loves it all--                      245

_Enter ALVAR disguised as a Moresco, and in Moorish garments._

  _Teresa._ Know you that stately Moor?

  _Alhadra._                            I know him not:
  But doubt not he is some Moresco chieftain,
  Who hides himself among the Alpujarras.

  _Teresa._ The Alpujarras? Does he know his danger,
  So near this seat?

  _Alhadra._         He wears the Moorish robes too,                 250
  As in defiance of the royal edict.

          [_ALHADRA advances to ALVAR, who has walked to the back
               of the stage, near the rocks. TERESA drops her
               veil._

  _Alhadra._ Gallant Moresco! An inquisitor,
  Monviedro, of known hatred to our race----

  _Alvar._ You have mistaken me. I am a Christian.

  _Alhadra._ He deems, that we are plotting to ensnare him:          255
  Speak to him, Lady--none can hear you speak,
  And not believe you innocent of guile.

  _Teresa._ If aught enforce you to concealment, Sir--

  _Alhadra._ He trembles strangely.

              [_ALVAR sinks down and hides his face in his robe._

  _Teresa._                         See, we have disturbed him.

                                     [_Approaches nearer to him._

  I pray you, think us friends--uncowl your face,                    260
  For you seem faint, and the night-breeze blows healing.
  I pray you, think us friends!

  _Alvar (raising his head)._ Calm, very calm!
  'Tis all too tranquil for reality!
  And she spoke to me with her innocent voice,                       265
  That voice, that innocent voice! She is no traitress!

  _Teresa._ Let us retire (_haughtily to Alhadra_).

  _Alhadra._ He is indeed a Christian.

  _Alvar (aside)._ She deems me dead, yet wears no mourning garment!
  Why should my brother's--wife--wear mourning garments?             270

                                                    [_To TERESA._

  Your pardon, noble dame! that I disturbed you:
  I had just started from a frightful dream.

  _Teresa._ Dreams tell but of the past, and yet, 'tis said,
  They prophesy--

  _Alvar._        The Past lives o'er again
  In its effects, and to the guilty spirit                           275
  The ever-frowning Present is its image.

  _Teresa._ Traitress!                            (_Then aside._)
                       What sudden spell o'ermasters me?
  Why seeks he me, shunning the Moorish woman?

  _Alvar._ I dreamt I had a friend, on whom I leant
  With blindest trust, and a betrothéd maid,                         280
  Whom I was wont to call not mine, but me:
  For mine own self seem'd nothing, lacking her.
  This maid so idolized, that trusted friend
  Dishonoured in my absence, soul and body!
  Fear, following guilt, tempted to blacker guilt,                   285
  And murderers were suborned against my life.
  But by my looks, and most impassioned words,
  I roused the virtues that are dead in no man,
  Even in the assassins' hearts! they made their terms,
  And thanked me for redeeming them from murder.                     290

  _Alhadra._ You are lost in thought: hear him no more, sweet Lady!

  _Teresa._ From morn to night I am myself a dreamer,
  And slight things bring on me the idle mood!
  Well sir, what happened then?

  _Alvar._                      On a rude rock,
  A rock, methought, fast by a grove of firs,                        295
  Whose thready leaves to the low-breathing gale
  Made a soft sound most like the distant ocean,
  I stayed, as though the hour of death were passed,
  And I were sitting in the world of spirits--
  For all things seemed unreal! There I sate--                       300
  The dews fell clammy, and the night descended,
  Black, sultry, close! and ere the midnight hour
  A storm came on, mingling all sounds of fear,
  That woods, and sky, and mountains, seemed one havock.
  The second flash of lightning shewed a tree                        305
  Hard by me, newly scathed. I rose tumultuous:
  My soul worked high, I bared my head to the storm,
  And with loud voice and clamorous agony,
  Kneeling I prayed to the great Spirit that made me,
  Prayed, that Remorse might fasten on their hearts,                 310
  And cling with poisonous tooth, inextricable
  As the gored lion's bite!

  _Teresa._                 A fearful curse!

  _Alhadra._ But dreamt you not that you returned and killed them?
  Dreamt you of no revenge?

  _Alvar._                  She would have died
  Died in her guilt--perchance by her own hands!                     315
  And bending o'er her self-inflicted wounds,
  I might have met the evil glance of frenzy,
  And leapt myself into an unblest grave!
  I prayed for the punishment that cleanses hearts:
  For still I loved her!

  _Alhadra._             And you dreamt all this?                    320

  _Teresa._ My soul is full of visions all as wild!

  _Alhadra._ There is no room in this heart for puling love-tales.

  _Teresa (lifts up her veil, and advances to Alvar)._ Stranger,
      farewell! I guess not who you are,
  Nor why you so addressed your tale to me.
  Your mien is noble, and, I own, perplexed me,                      325
  With obscure memory of something past,
  Which still escaped my efforts, or presented
  Tricks of a fancy pampered with long wishing.
  If, as it sometimes happens, our rude startling,
  Whilst your full heart was shaping out its dream,                  330
  Drove you to this, your not ungentle, wildness--
  You have my sympathy, and so farewell!
  But if some undiscovered wrongs oppress you,
  And you need strength to drag them into light,
  The generous Valdez, and my Lord Ordonio,                          335
  Have arm and will to aid a noble sufferer,
  Nor shall you want my favourable pleading.[833:1]

                                    [_Exeunt TERESA and ALHADRA._

  _Alvar (alone)._ 'Tis strange! It cannot be! my Lord Ordonio!
  Her Lord Ordonio! Nay, I will not do it!
  I cursed him once--and one curse is enough!                        340
  How sad she looked, and pale! but not like guilt--
  And her calm tones--sweet as a song of mercy!
  If the bad spirit retain'd his angel's voice,
  Hell scarce were Hell. And why not innocent?
  Who meant to murder me, might well cheat her?                      345
  But ere she married him, he had stained her honour;
  Ah! there I am hampered. What if this were a lie
  Framed by the assassin? Who should tell it him,
  If it were truth? Ordonio would not tell him.
  Yet why one lie? all else, I know, was truth.                      350
  No start, no jealousy of stirring conscience!
  And she referred to me--fondly, methought!
  Could she walk here if she had been a traitress?
  Here where we played together in our childhood?
  Here where we plighted vows? where her cold cheek                  355
  Received my last kiss, when with suppressed feelings
  She had fainted in my arms? It cannot be!
  'Tis not in nature! I will die believing,
  That I shall meet her where no evil is,
  No treachery, no cup dashed from the lips.                         360
  I'll haunt this scene no more! live she in peace!
  Her husband--aye her husband! May this angel
  New mould his canker'd heart! Assist me, heaven,
  That I may pray for my poor guilty brother!            [_Exit._


FOOTNOTES:

[824:1] [Here Valdez bends back, and smiles at her wildness, which
Teresa noticing, checks her enthusiasm, and in a soothing half-playful
tone and manner, apologizes for her fancy, by the little tale in the
parenthesis.] _Editions 2, 3, 1829._

Here Valdez bends back, with a smile of _wonder_ at the witness of the
Fancy, which Teresa noting, she checks her enthusiasm, and in a
persuasive half-pleading tone and action exemplifies her meaning in the
little Tale included in the Parenthesis. _MS. Note to First Edition._

[830:1] 218-20. Compare Fragment.

[830:2] 229. Compare line 13 of the lines 'Addressed to a Young Man of
Fortune', p. 157.

[833:1] (_then an half-pause and dropping the voice as hinted by the
relaxation of the metre_--'Nor shall you,' &c.).--I mention this because
it is one of the lines for which Mr. Gifford (whose §§ in the _Quarterly
Rev._ drove M. L. _mad_ with a severer fit than she had ever had before)
declared me at Murray's shop fit to be whipt as an idle Schoolboy--and,
alas, I had conceited it to be a little beauty! _MS. H_.


LINENOTES:

[29] him] _him_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[50] my] _my_ Editions 2, 3, 1829.

[51] _After_

  thought                                      [_Clasping her forehead._

Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[54] _Teresa (abruptly)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[61] fancies] dreams Edition 1.

[62] _Teresa (with great tenderness)._ My, &c. Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[75] Gallant Ordonio! (_Pauses, then tenderly._) Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[77] And most delight his spirit, go, thou make Edition 1.

[94] Lord Valdez] my father Edition 1.

[103] _forward_] _forwards_ Editions 1, 2, 3.

[104] what] some Edition 1.

[105] _Monviedro (having first made his obeisance to Valdez and
Teresa)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[After 106] [_Looking forward_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[112] his] their Edition 1.

[118] lessoned] lessened Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829, 1834.

[133] warranter] guarantee Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[136] Stage-direction om. Edition 1.

[142] murderers] _murderers_ Editions 2, 3, 1829.

[After 142] [_TERESA looks at MONVIEDRO with disgust and horror.
ORDONIO'S appearance to be collected from what follows._

[143] _Mon. (to VALDEZ, and pointing at ORDONIO)._ What, is he ill, &c.
Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[144] _Valdez (angrily)._ You, &c. Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829. pressed upon]
started on Edition 1.

[146] _Ordonio (starting as in sudden agitation)._ Editions 1, 2, 3,
1829. I?--I] _I?_--_I_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[After 146: [_Then recovering himself._ Editions 1, 2, 3.

[147] doted] _doted_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[After 147] _. . . follows soothing him._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[148] _Teresa (her eye following Ordonio)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[163] do] _do_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[164] is] _is_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[167] was] _was_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[183]

  A scathing curse!         [_Then, as if recollecting herself, and with
                                 a timid look._

Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[After 184] _Teresa (perceiving that Alhadra is conscious she has spoken
imprudently)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[185] my] _my_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[188] my] _my_ Editions 2, 3, 1829.

[199] Many and strange! Besides, (_ironically_) I, &c. Editions 1, 2, 3,
1829.

[218-20]

  In darkness I remained--counting the bell
  Which haply told me, that the blessed Sun
  Was rising on my garden.

Edition 1.

[248] Alpujarras] Alpuxarras Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[249] Alpujarras] Alpuxarras Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[254] _Alvar (interrupting her)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[256] you] _you_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[After 267] [_They advance to the front of the Stage._ Editions 1, 2, 3,
1829.

[268] _Alhadra (with scorn)._ He is, &c. Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[After 278] [_TERESA looks round uneasily, but gradually becomes
attentive as ALVAR proceeds in the next speech._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[310] Remorse] REMORSE Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[312]

  As the gored lion's _bite_!

  _Teresa (shuddering)._      A fearful curse!

Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[313] _Alhadra (fiercely)._ But dreamt, &c. Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[314] _Alvar (his voice trembling, and in tones of deep distress)._ She
would, &c. Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[331] wildness] kindness Editions 1, 2, 3.

[338] my] _my_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[339] Her] _Her_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[348] him] _him_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[350] know] _know_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[352] me] _me_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[362] husband] _husband_ Editions 2, 3, 1829.

[After 364] End of the Act First. Editions 1, 2, 3.




ACT II


SCENE I

_A wild and mountainous country. ORDONIO and ISIDORE are discovered,
supposed at a little distance from ISIDORE'S house._

  _Ordonio._ Here we may stop: your house distinct in view,
  Yet we secured from listeners.

  _Isidore._                     Now indeed
  My house! and it looks cheerful as the clusters
  Basking in sunshine on yon vine-clad rock,
  That over-brows it! Patron! Friend! Preserver!                       5
  Thrice have you saved my life. Once in the battle
  You gave it me: next rescued me from suicide
  When for my follies I was made to wander,
  With mouths to feed, and not a morsel for them:
  Now but for you, a dungeon's slimy stones                           10
  Had been my bed and pillow.

  _Ordonio._                  Good Isidore!
  Why this to me? It is enough, you know it.

  _Isidore._ A common trick of gratitude, my lord,
  Seeking to ease her own full heart----

  _Ordonio._                             Enough!
  A debt repaid ceases to be a debt.                                  15
  You have it in your power to serve me greatly.

  _Isidore._ And how, my lord? I pray you to name the thing.
  I would climb up an ice-glazed precipice
  To pluck a weed you fancied!

  _Ordonio._                   Why--that--Lady--

  _Isidore._ 'Tis now three years, my lord, since last I saw you:     20
  Have you a son, my lord?

  _Ordonio._               O miserable--                [_Aside._
  Isidore! you are a man, and know mankind.
  I told you what I wished--now for the truth--
  She loved the man you kill'd.

  _Isidore._                    You jest, my lord?

  _Ordonio._ And till his death is proved she will not wed me.        25

  _Isidore._ You sport with me, my lord?

  _Ordonio._                             Come, come! this foolery
  Lives only in thy looks, thy heart disowns it!

  _Isidore._ I can bear this, and any thing more grievous
  From you, my lord--but how can I serve you here?

  _Ordonio._ Why, you can utter with a solemn gesture                 30
  Oracular sentences of deep no-meaning,
  Wear a quaint garment, make mysterious antics--

  _Isidore._ I am dull, my lord! I do not comprehend you.

  _Ordonio._ In blunt terms, you can play the sorcerer.
  She hath no faith in Holy Church, 'tis true:                        35
  Her lover schooled her in some newer nonsense!
  Yet still a tale of spirits works upon her.
  She is a lone enthusiast, sensitive,
  Shivers, and can not keep the tears in her eye:
  And such do love the marvellous too well                            40
  Not to believe it. We will wind up her fancy
  With a strange music, that she knows not of--
  With fumes of frankincense, and mummery,
  Then leave, as one sure token of his death,
  That portrait, which from off the dead man's neck                   45
  I bade thee take, the trophy of thy conquest.

  _Isidore._ Will that be a sure sign?

  _Ordonio._                           Beyond suspicion.
  Fondly caressing him, her favour'd lover,
  (By some base spell he had bewitched her senses)
  She whispered such dark fears of me forsooth,                       50
  As made this heart pour gall into my veins.
  And as she coyly bound it round his neck
  She made him promise silence; and now holds
  The secret of the existence of this portrait
  Known only to her lover and herself.                                55
  But I had traced her, stolen unnotic'd on them,
  And unsuspected saw and heard the whole.

  _Isidore._ But now I should have cursed the man who told me
  You could ask aught, my lord, and I refuse--
  But this I can not do.

  _Ordonio._             Where lies your scruple?                     60

  _Isidore._ Why--why, my lord!
  You know you told me that the lady lov'd you,
  Had loved you with incautious tenderness;
  That if the young man, her betrothéd husband,
  Returned, yourself, and she, and the honour of both                 65
  Must perish. Now though with no tenderer scruples
  Than those which being native to the heart,
  Than those, my lord, which merely being a man--

  _Ordonio._ This fellow is a Man--he killed for hire
  One whom he knew not, yet has tender scruples!                      70

                                      [_Then turning to ISIDORE._

  These doubts, these fears, thy whine, thy stammering--
  Pish, fool! thou blunder'st through the book of guilt,
  Spelling thy villainy.

  _Isidore._             My lord--my lord,
  I can bear much--yes, very much from you!
  But there's a point where sufferance is meanness:                   75
  I am no villain--never kill'd for hire--
  My gratitude----

  _Ordonio._       O aye--your gratitude!
  'Twas a well-sounding word--what have you done with it?

  _Isidore._ Who proffers his past favours for my virtue--

  _Ordonio._                                               Virtue----

  _Isidore._ Tries to o'erreach me--is a very sharper,                80
  And should not speak of gratitude, my lord.
  I knew not 'twas your brother!

  _Ordonio._                     And who told you?

  _Isidore._ He himself told me.

  _Ordonio._                     Ha! you talk'd with him!
  And those, the two Morescoes who were with you?

  _Isidore._ Both fell in a night brawl at Malaga.                    85

  _Ordonio (in a low voice)._ My brother--

  _Isidore._                               Yes, my lord, I could not
      tell you!
  I thrust away the thought--it drove me wild.
  But listen to me now--I pray you listen----

  _Ordonio._ Villain! no more. I'll hear no more of it.

  _Isidore._ My lord, it much imports your future safety              90
  That you should hear it.

  _Ordonio (turning off from Isidore)._ Am not I a man!
  'Tis as it should be! tut--the deed itself
  Was idle, and these after-pangs still idler!

  _Isidore._ We met him in the very place you mentioned.
  Hard by a grove of firs--

  _Ordonio._                Enough--enough--                          95

  _Isidore._ He fought us valiantly, and wounded all;
  In fine, compelled a parley.

  _Ordonio._                   Alvar! brother!

  _Isidore._ He offered me his purse--

  _Ordonio._                           Yes?

  _Isidore._                                Yes--I spurned it.--
  He promised us I know not what--in vain!
  Then with a look and voice that overawed me,                       100
  He said, What mean you, friends? My life is dear:
  I have a brother and a promised wife,
  Who make life dear to me--and if I fall,
  That brother will roam earth and hell for vengeance.
  There was a likeness in his face to yours;                         105
  I asked his brother's name: he said--Ordonio,
  Son of Lord Valdez! I had well nigh fainted.
  At length I said (if that indeed I said it,
  And that no Spirit made my tongue its organ,)
  That woman is dishonoured by that brother,                         110
  And he the man who sent us to destroy you.
  He drove a thrust at me in rage. I told him
  He wore her portrait round his neck. He look'd
  As he had been made of the rock that propt his back--
  Aye, just as you look now--only less ghastly!                      115
  At length recovering from his trance, he threw
  His sword away, and bade us take his life,
  It was not worth his keeping.

  _Ordonio._                    And you kill'd him?
  Oh blood hounds! may eternal wrath flame round you!
  He was his Maker's Image undefac'd!                                120
  It seizes me--by Hell I will go on!
  What--would'st thou stop, man? thy pale looks won't save thee!
  Oh cold--cold--cold! shot through with icy cold!

  _Isidore (aside)._ Were he alive he had returned ere now.
  The consequence the same--dead through his plotting!               125

  _Ordonio._ O this unutterable dying away--here--
  This sickness of the heart!
                              What if I went
  And liv'd in a hollow tomb, and fed on weeds?
  Aye! that's the road to heaven! O fool! fool! fool!
  What have I done but that which nature destined,                   130
  Or the blind elements stirred up within me?
  If good were meant, why were we made these beings?
  And if not meant--

  _Isidore._         You are disturbed, my lord!

  _Ordonio (starts)._ A gust of the soul! i'faith it overset me.
  O 'twas all folly--all! idle as laughter!                          135
  Now, Isidore! I swear that thou shalt aid me.

  _Isidore (in a low voice)._ I'll perish first!

  _Ordonio._                                     What dost thou
      mutter of?

  _Isidore._ Some of your servants know me, I am certain.

  _Ordonio._ There's some sense in that scruple; but we'll mask you.

  _Isidore._ They'll know my gait: but stay! last night I watched    140
  A stranger near the ruin in the wood,
  Who as it seemed was gathering herbs and wild flowers.
  I had followed him at distance, seen him scale
  Its western wall, and by an easier entrance
  Stole after him unnoticed. There I marked,                         145
  That mid the chequer work of light and shade
  With curious choice he plucked no other flowers,
  But those on which the moonlight fell: and once
  I heard him muttering o'er the plant. A wizard--
  Some gaunt slave prowling here for dark employment.                150

  _Ordonio._ Doubtless you question'd him?

  _Isidore._                               'Twas my intention,
  Having first traced him homeward to his haunt.
  But lo! the stern Dominican, whose spies
  Lurk every where, already (as it seemed)
  Had given commission to his apt familiar                           155
  To seek and sound the Moor; who now returning,
  Was by this trusty agent stopped midway.
  I, dreading fresh suspicion if found near him
  In that lone place, again concealed myself:
  Yet within hearing. So the Moor was question'd,                    160
  And in your name, as lord of this domain,
  Proudly he answered, 'Say to the Lord Ordonio,
  He that can bring the dead to life again!'

  _Ordonio._ A strange reply!

  _Isidore._                  Aye, all of him is strange.
  He called himself a Christian, yet he wears                        165
  The Moorish robes, as if he courted death.

  _Ordonio._ Where does this wizard live?

  _Isidore (pointing to the distance)._ You see that brooklet?
  Trace its course backward: through a narrow opening
  It leads you to the place.

  _Ordonio._                 How shall I know it?

  _Isidore._ You cannot err. It is a small green dell                170
  Built all around with high off-sloping hills,
  And from its shape our peasants aptly call it
  The Giant's Cradle. There's a lake in the midst,
  And round its banks tall wood that branches over,
  And makes a kind of faery forest grow                              175
  Down in the water. At the further end
  A puny cataract falls on the lake;
  And there, a curious sight! you see its shadow
  For ever curling, like a wreath of smoke,
  Up through the foliage of those faery trees.                       180
  His cot stands opposite. You cannot miss it.

  _Ordonio (in retiring stops suddenly at the edge of the scene, and
      then turning round to Isidore)._ Ha!--Who lurks there! Have we
      been overheard?
  There where the smooth high wall of slate-rock glitters----

  _Isidore._ 'Neath those tall stones, which propping each the other,
  Form a mock portal with their pointed arch?                        185
  Pardon my smiles! 'Tis a poor idiot boy,
  Who sits in the sun, and twirls a bough about,
  His weak eyes seeth'd in most unmeaning tears.
  And so he sits, swaying his cone-like head,
  And staring at his bough from morn to sun-set,                     190
  See-saws his voice in inarticulate noises.

  _Ordonio._ 'Tis well, and now for this same wizard's lair.

  _Isidore._ Some three strides up the hill, a mountain ash
  Stretches its lower boughs and scarlet clusters
  O'er the old thatch.

  _Ordonio._           I shall not fail to find it.                  195

                                   [_Exeunt ORDONIO and ISIDORE._


LINENOTES:

[3] My] _My_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[17] And how, my lord? I pray you name the thing. Editions 1, 2, 3.

[19] _Ordonio (with embarrassment and hesitation)._ Editions 1, 2, 3,
1829.

[23] truth] _truth_ Editions 2, 3, 1829.

[24] _Isidore (looking as suddenly alarmed)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[37] upon] on _Edition 1_.]

[61] _Isidore (with stammering)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[63] incautious] _incautious_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[67] native] _native_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[69] _Ordonio (aloud, though to express his contempt he speaks in the
third person)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[79] _Ordonio (with bitter scorn)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[83] _Ordonio (alarmed)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[84] those] these Edition 1.

[91] Am I not a _man_? Edition 1. I] _I_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[97] _Ordonio (sighing as if lost in thought)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[98] _Ordonio (with eager suspicion)._ Editions 2, 3, 1829.

[98] _Isidore (indignantly)._ Editions 2, 3, 1829.

[108] I] _I_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[109] its] his Edition 1.

[120] He was the image of the Deity. Edition 1.

[After 120] [_A pause._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[After 122] [_A pause._ _Editions 2, 3, 1829_.

[127]

  This sickness of the heart                                 [_A pause._

Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829, &c.

[After 129] [_A pause._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[Before 134] _Ordonio (starts, looking at him wildly; then, after a
pause, during which his features are forced into a smile)._ Editions 1,
2, 3, 1829.

[145] Stole] Stoln Editions 1, 2, 3.

[161] your] _your_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[After 181]

  Some three yards up the hill a mountain ash
  Stretches its lower boughs and scarlet clusters
  O'er the old thatch.

  _Ord._ I shall not fail to find it.       [_Exit ORDONIO. ISIDORE goes
                                                 into his Cottage._

Edition 1.

[182-95] om. Edition 1.


SCENE II

_The inside of a Cottage, around which flowers and plants of various
kinds are seen. Discovers ALVAR, ZULIMEZ and ALHADRA, as on the point of
leaving._

  _Alhadra (addressing Alvar)._ Farewell then! and though many thoughts
      perplex me,
  Aught evil or ignoble never can I
  Suspect of thee! If what thou seem'st thou art,
  The oppressed brethren of thy blood have need
  Of such a leader.

  _Alvar._          Nobly-minded woman!                                5
  Long time against oppression have I fought,
  And for the native liberty of faith
  Have bled and suffered bonds. Of this be certain:
  Time, as he courses onward, still unrolls
  The volume of concealment. In the future,                           10
  As in the optician's glassy cylinder,
  The indistinguishable blots and colours
  Of the dim past collect and shape themselves,
  Upstarting in their own completed image
  To scare or to reward.
                         I sought the guilty,                         15
  And what I sought I found: but ere the spear
  Flew from my hand, there rose an angel form
  Betwixt me and my aim. With baffled purpose
  To the Avenger I leave vengeance, and depart!

  Whate'er betide, if aught my arm may aid,                           20
  Or power protect, my word is pledged to thee:
  For many are thy wrongs, and thy soul noble.
  Once more, farewell.                           [_Exit ALHADRA._
                       Yes, to the Belgic states
  We will return. These robes, this stained complexion,
  Akin to falsehood, weigh upon my spirit.                            25
  Whate'er befall us, the heroic Maurice
  Will grant us an asylum, in remembrance
  Of our past services.

  _Zulimez._ And all the wealth, power, influence which is yours,
  You let a murderer hold?

  _Alvar._                 O faithful Zulimez!                        30
  That my return involved Ordonio's death,
  I trust, would give me an unmingled pang,
  Yet bearable: but when I see my father
  Strewing his scant grey hairs, e'en on the ground,
  Which soon must be his grave, and my Teresa--                       35
  Her husband proved a murderer, and her infants
  His infants--poor Teresa!--all would perish,
  All perish--all! and I (nay bear with me)
  Could not survive the complicated ruin!

  _Zulimez._ Nay now! I have distress'd you--you well know,           40
  I ne'er will quit your fortunes. True,'tis tiresome!
  You are a painter,[842:1] one of many fancies!
  You can call up past deeds, and make them live
  On the blank canvas! and each little herb,
  That grows on mountain bleak, or tangled forest,                    45
  You have learnt to name----
                              Hark! heard you not some footsteps?

  _Alvar._ What if it were my brother coming onwards?
  I sent a most mysterious message to him.

_Enter ORDONIO_

  _Alvar._ It is he!

  _Ordonio (to himself as he enters)._ If I distinguish'd right her
      gait and stature,                                               50
  It was the Moorish woman, Isidore's wife,
  That passed me as I entered. A lit taper,
  In the night air, doth not more naturally
  Attract the night-flies round it, than a conjuror
  Draws round him the whole female neighbourhood.                     55

                                             [_Addressing ALVAR._

  You know my name, I guess, if not my person.
  I am Ordonio, son of the Lord Valdez.

  _Alvar._ The Son of Valdez!

              [_ORDONIO walks leisurely round the room, and looks
                   attentively at the plants._

  _Zulimez (to Alvar)._       Why, what ails you now?
  How your hand trembles! Alvar, speak! what wish you?

  _Alvar._ To fall upon his neck and weep forgiveness!                60

  _Ordonio (returning, and aloud)._ Plucked in the moonlight from a
      ruined abbey--
  Those only, which the pale rays visited!
  O the unintelligible power of weeds,
  When a few odd prayers have been muttered o'er them:
  Then they work miracles! I warrant you,                             65
  There's not a leaf, but underneath it lurks
  Some serviceable imp.
                        There's one of you
  Hath sent me a strange message.

  _Alvar._                        I am he.

  _Ordonio._ With you, then, I am to speak:

                         [_Haughtily waving his hand to ZULIMEZ._

  And mark you, alone.                           [_Exit ZULIMEZ._     70
  'He that can bring the dead to life again!'--
  Such was your message, Sir! You are no dullard,
  But one that strips the outward rind of things!

  _Alvar._ 'Tis fabled there are fruits with tempting rinds,
  That are all dust and rottenness within.                            75
  Would'st thou I should strip such?

  _Ordonio._                         Thou quibbling fool,
  What dost thou mean? Think'st thou I journeyed hither
  To sport with thee?

  _Alvar._            O no, my lord! to sport
  Best suits the gaiety of innocence.

  _Ordonio (aside)._ O what a thing is man! the wisest heart          80
  A fool! a fool that laughs at its own folly,
  Yet still a fool!                   [_Looks round the cottage._
                    You are poor!

  _Alvar._ What follows thence?

  _Ordonio._                    That you would fain be richer.
  The inquisition, too--You comprehend me?
  You are poor, in peril. I have wealth and power,                    85
  Can quench the flames, and cure your poverty:
  And for the boon I ask of you but this,
  That you should serve me--once--for a few hours.

  _Alvar._ Thou art the son of Valdez! would to Heaven
  That I could truly and for ever serve thee.                         90

  _Ordonio._ The slave begins to soften.                [_Aside._
                                         You are my friend,
  'He that can bring the dead to life again,'
  Nay, no defence to me! The holy brethren
  Believe these calumnies--I know thee better.
  Thou art a man, and as a man I'll trust thee!                       95

  _Alvar (aside)._ Alas! this hollow mirth--Declare your business.

  _Ordonio._ I love a lady, and she would love me
  But for an idle and fantastic scruple.
  Have you no servants here, no listeners?

                                    [_ORDONIO steps to the door._

  _Alvar._ What, faithless too? False to his angel wife?             100
  To such a wife? Well might'st thou look so wan,
  Ill-starr'd Teresa!----Wretch! my softer soul
  Is pass'd away, and I will probe his conscience!

  _Ordonio._ In truth this lady lov'd another man,
  But he has perish'd.

  _Alvar._             What! you kill'd him? hey?                    105

  _Ordonio._ I'll dash thee to the earth, if thou but think'st it!
  Insolent slave! how dar'dst thou--

               [_Turns abruptly from ALVAR, and then to himself._

                                     Why! what's this?
  'Twas idiotcy! I'll tie myself to an aspen,
  And wear a fool's cap--

  _Alvar._                Fare thee well--[845:1]
  I pity thee, Ordonio, even to anguish.    [_ALVAR is retiring._

  _Ordonio._ Ho!                             [_Calling to ALVAR._    110

  _Alvar._       Be brief, what wish you?

  _Ordonio._ You are deep at bartering--You charge yourself
  At a round sum. Come, come, I spake unwisely.

  _Alvar._ I listen to you.

  _Ordonio._                In a sudden tempest
  Did Alvar perish--he, I mean--the lover--                          115
  The fellow----

  _Alvar._       Nay, speak out! 'twill ease your heart
  To call him villain!--Why stand'st thou aghast?
  Men think it natural to hate their rivals.

  _Ordonio._ Now, till she knows him dead, she will not wed me.

  _Alvar._ Are you not wedded, then? Merciful Heaven!                120
  Not wedded to Teresa?

  _Ordonio._            Why, what ails thee?
  What, art thou mad? why look'st thou upward so?
  Dost pray to Lucifer, Prince of the Air?

  _Alvar._ Proceed. I shall be silent.

  _Ordonio._                           To Teresa?
  Politic wizard! ere you sent that message,                         125
  You had conn'd your lesson, made yourself proficient
  In all my fortunes. Hah! you prophesied
  A golden crop! Well, you have not mistaken--
  Be faithful to me and I'll pay thee nobly.

  _Alvar._ Well! and this lady!                                      130

  _Ordonio._ If we could make her certain of his death,
  She needs must wed me. Ere her lover left her,
  She tied a little portrait round his neck,
  Entreating him to wear it.

  _Alvar._                   Yes! he did so!

  _Ordonio._ Why no: he was afraid of accidents,                     135
  Of robberies, and shipwrecks, and the like.
  In secrecy he gave it me to keep,
  Till his return.

  _Alvar._ What! he was your friend then?

  _Ordonio._ I was his friend.--
                                 Now that he gave it me,             140
  This lady knows not. You are a mighty wizard--
  Can call the dead man up--he will not come.--
  He is in heaven then--there you have no influence.
  Still there are tokens--and your imps may bring you
  Something he wore about him when he died.                          145
  And when the smoke of the incense on the altar
  Is pass'd, your spirits will have left this picture.
  What say you now?

  _Alvar._          Ordonio, I will do it.

  _Ordonio._ We'll hazard no delay. Be it to-night,
  In the early evening. Ask for the Lord Valdez.                     150
  I will prepare him. Music too, and incense,
  (For I have arranged it--music, altar, incense)
  All shall be ready. Here is this same picture,
  And here, what you will value more, a purse.
  Come early for your magic ceremonies.                              155

  _Alvar._ I will not fail to meet you.

  _Ordonio._ Till next we meet, farewell!        [_Exit ORDONIO._

  _Alvar (alone, indignantly flings the purse away and gazes
      passionately at the portrait)._     And I did curse thee!
  At midnight! on my knees! and I believed
  Thee perjur'd, thee a traitress! thee dishonour'd!
  O blind and credulous fool! O guilt of folly!                      160
  Should not thy inarticulate fondnesses,
  Thy infant loves--should not thy maiden vows
  Have come upon my heart? And this sweet Image
  Tied round my neck with many a chaste endearment,
  And thrilling hands, that made me weep and tremble--               165
  Ah, coward dupe! to yield it to the miscreant,
  Who spake pollution of thee! barter for life
  This farewell pledge, which with impassioned vow
  I had sworn that I would grasp--ev'n in my Death-pang!

  I am unworthy of thy love, Teresa,                                 170
  Of that unearthly smile upon those lips,
  Which ever smiled on me! Yet do not scorn me--
  I lisp'd thy name, ere I had learnt my mother's.

  Dear portrait! rescued from a traitor's keeping,
  I will not now profane thee, holy image,                           175
  To a dark trick. That worst bad man shall find
  A picture, which will wake the hell within him,
  And rouse a fiery whirlwind in his conscience.


FOOTNOTES:

[842:1] The following lines I have preserved in this place, not so much
as explanatory of the picture of the assassination, as (if I may say so
without disrespect to the Public) to gratify my own feelings, the
passage being no mere _fancy_ portrait; but a slight, yet not
unfaithful, profile of one[842:A], who still lives, nobilitate felix,
arte clarior, vitâ colendissimus.

  _Zulimez (speaking of Alvar in the third person)._ Such was the noble
      Spaniard's own relation.
  He told me, too, how in his early youth,
  And his first travels, 'twas his choice or chance
  To make long sojourn in sea-wedded Venice;
  There won the love of that divine old man,
  Courted by mightiest kings, the famous Titian!
  Who, like a second and more lovely Nature,
  By the sweet mystery of lines and colours
  Changed the blank canvas to a magic mirror,
  That made the absent present; and to shadows
  Gave light, depth, substance, bloom, yea, thought and motion.
  He loved the old man, and revered his art:
  And though of noblest birth and ample fortune,
  The young enthusiast thought it no scorn
  But this inalienable ornament,
  To be his pupil, and with filial zeal
  By practice to appropriate the sage lessons,
  Which the gay, smiling old man gladly gave.
  The art, he honoured thus, requited him:
  And in the following and calamitous years
  Beguiled the hours of his captivity.

  _Alhadra._ And then he framed this picture? and unaided
  By arts unlawful, spell, or talisman!

  _Alvar._ A potent spell, a mighty talisman!
  The imperishable memory of the deed,
  Sustained by love, and grief, and indignation!
  So vivid were the forms within his brain,
  His very eyes, when shut, made pictures of them!

[Note in Appendix to the second and later editions of _Remorse_.]

     [842:A] Sir George Beaumont. [Written 1814.] _Editions 1828,
     1829_.

[845:1] The line should run thus:

  And wear a fool's cap.

  _Alvar._               Fare thee well!        (Oh! Brother!) (_aside_)
  _Then aloud_] I pity thee, Ordonio, even to anguish.

_MS. H_.


LINENOTES:

[9] Time] TIME Editions 2, 3, 1829.

[10] future] FUTURE Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[13] past] PAST Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[36] her] _her_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[37] His] _His_ Editions 2, 3, 1829.

[40] _Zulimez (much affected)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[49] _Alvar (starting)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[58] _Alvar (with deep emotion)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[66] lurks] works Edition 1.

[68] Hath] Who Edition 1.

[89] _Alvar (solemnly)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[After 94] [_Then with great bitterness._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[109] _Alvar (watching his agitation)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[After 110] [_Alvar retires to the back of the stage._ Edition 1.

[111] _Ordonio (having recovered himself)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[119] _Ordonio (hesitating)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[120] _Alvar (with eager vehemence)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[121] Teresa] TERESA Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[124] _Alvar (recollecting himself)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829. Teresa]
_Teresa_ Editions 2, 3, 1829.

[After 124] [_ALVAR sits, and leaning on the table, hides his face._
Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[130] _Alvar (lifting up his head)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[134] _Alvar (sighing)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[140] _Ordonio (wounded and embarrassed)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[147] will] can Edition 1.

[148] _Alvar (after a pause)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[159] _Thee_ perjur'd, _thee_ a traitress Edition 1. _Thee_ perjur'd,
_thee_ a traitress! _Thee_ dishonoured Editions 2, 3, 1829.

[161] inarticulate] _inarticulate_ Editions 2, 3, 1829.

[162] infant . . . maiden] _Infant . . . Maiden_ Editions 2, 3, 1829.

[167-9] barter . . . Death-pang om. Edition 1.

[168] which with] with which Editions 2, 3.

[174] portrait] Image Edition 1.

[After 178] End of the Second Act. Editions 1, 2, 3.




ACT III


SCENE I

_A Hall of Armory, with an Altar at the back of the Stage. Soft Music
from an instrument of Glass or Steel._

_VALDEZ, ORDONIO, and ALVAR in a Sorcerer's robe, are discovered._

  _Ordonio._ This was too melancholy, Father.

  _Valdez._                                   Nay,
  My Alvar lov'd sad music from a child.
  Once he was lost; and after weary search
  We found him in an open place in the wood.
  To which spot he had followed a blind boy,                           5
  Who breath'd into a pipe of sycamore
  Some strangely moving notes: and these, he said,
  Were taught him in a dream. Him we first saw
  Stretch'd on the broad top of a sunny heath-bank:
  And lower down poor Alvar, fast asleep,                             10
  His head upon the blind boy's dog. It pleas'd me
  To mark how he had fasten'd round the pipe
  A silver toy his grandam had late given him.
  Methinks I see him now as he then look'd--
  Even so!--He had outgrown his infant dress,                         15
  Yet still he wore it.

  _Alvar (aside)._      My tears must not flow!
  I must not clasp his knees, and cry, My father!

_Enter TERESA and_ Attendants.

  _Teresa._ Lord Valdez, you have asked my presence here,
  And I submit; but (Heaven bear witness for me)
  My heart approves it not! 'tis mockery.                             20

  _Ordonio._ Believe you then no preternatural influence:
  Believe you not that spirits throng around us?

  _Teresa._ Say rather that I have imagined it
  A possible thing: and it has sooth'd my soul
  As other fancies have; but ne'er seduced me                         25
  To traffic with the black and frenzied hope
  That the dead hear the voice of witch or wizard.   [_To ALVAR._
  Stranger, I mourn and blush to see you here,
  On such employment! With far other thoughts
  I left you.                                                         30

  _Ordonio (aside)._ Ha! he has been tampering with her?

  _Alvar._ O high-soul'd Maiden! and more dear to me
  Than suits the stranger's name!--
                                    I swear to thee
  I will uncover all concealéd guilt.
  Doubt, but decide not! Stand ye from the altar.                     35

        [_Here a strain of music is heard from behind the scene._

  _Alvar._ With no irreverent voice or uncouth charm
  I call up the departed!
                          Soul of Alvar!
  Hear our soft suit, and heed my milder spell:
  So may the gates of Paradise, unbarr'd,
  Cease thy swift toils! Since haply thou art one                     40
  Of that innumerable company
  Who in broad circle, lovelier than the rainbow,
  Girdle this round earth in a dizzy motion,
  With noise too vast and constant to be heard:
  Fitliest unheard! For oh, ye numberless,                            45
  And rapid travellers! what ear unstunn'd,
  What sense unmadden'd, might bear up against
  The rushing of your congregated wings?                [_Music._
  Even now your living wheel turns o'er my head!
  Ye, as ye pass, toss high the desart sands,                         50
  That roar and whiten, like a burst of waters,
  A sweet appearance, but a dread illusion
  To the parch'd caravan that roams by night!
  And ye upbuild on the becalmed waves
  That whirling pillar, which from earth to heaven                    55
  Stands vast, and moves in blackness! Ye too split
  The ice mount! and with fragments many and huge
  Tempest the new-thaw'd sea, whose sudden gulfs
  Suck in, perchance, some Lapland wizard's skiff!
  Then round and round the whirlpool's marge ye dance,                60
  Till from the blue swoln corse the soul toils out,
  And joins your mighty army.

          [_Here behind the scenes a voice sings the three words,
               'Hear, Sweet Spirit.'_

                              Soul of Alvar!
  Hear the mild spell, and tempt no blacker charm!
  By sighs unquiet, and the sickly pang
  Of a half-dead, yet still undying hope,                             65
  Pass visible before our mortal sense!
  So shall the Church's cleansing rites be thine,
  Her knells and masses that redeem the dead!

       SONG

       _Behind the Scenes, accompanied by the same Instrument as
           before._

       Hear, sweet spirit, hear the spell,
       Lest a blacker charm compel!                                   70
       So shall the midnight breezes swell
       With thy deep long-lingering knell.

       And at evening evermore,
       In a chapel on the shore,
       Shall the chaunter, sad and saintly,                           75
       Yellow tapers burning faintly,
       Doleful masses chaunt for thee,
       Miserere Domine!

       Hark! the cadence dies away
       On the quiet moonlight sea:                                    80
       The boatmen rest their oars and say,
       Miserere Domine!                          [_A long pause._

  _Ordonio._ The innocent obey nor charm nor spell!
  My brother is in heaven. Thou sainted spirit,
  Burst on our sight, a passing visitant!                             85
  Once more to hear thy voice, once more to see thee,
  O 'twere a joy to me!

  _Alvar._              A joy to thee!
  What if thou heard'st him now? What if his spirit
  Re-enter'd its cold corse, and came upon thee
  With many a stab from many a murderer's poniard?                    90
  What if (his stedfast eye still beaming pity
  And brother's love) he turn'd his head aside,
  Lest he should look at thee, and with one look
  Hurl thee beyond all power of penitence?

  _Valdez._ These are unholy fancies!

  _Ordonio._                          Yes, my father,                 95
  He is in Heaven!

  _Alvar (still to Ordonio)._ But what if he had a brother,
  Who had lived even so, that at his dying hour,
  The name of Heaven would have convulsed his face,
  More than the death-pang?

  _Valdez._                 Idly prating man!
  Thou hast guess'd ill: Don Alvar's only brother                    100
  Stands here before thee--a father's blessing on him!
  He is most virtuous.

  _Alvar (still to Ordonio)._ What, if his very virtues
  Had pampered his swoln heart and made him proud?
  And what if pride had duped him into guilt?
  Yet still he stalked a self-created god,                           105
  Not very bold, but exquisitely cunning;
  And one that at his mother's looking-glass
  Would force his features to a frowning sternness?
  Young Lord! I tell thee, that there are such beings--
  Yea, and it gives fierce merriment to the damn'd,                  110
  To see these most proud men, that loath mankind,
  At every stir and buzz of coward conscience,
  Trick, cant, and lie, most whining hypocrites!
  Away, away! Now let me hear more music.         [_Music again._

  _Teresa._ 'Tis strange, I tremble at my own conjectures!           115
  But whatsoe'er it mean, I dare no longer
  Be present at these lawless mysteries,
  This dark provoking of the hidden Powers!
  Already I affront--if not high Heaven--
  Yet Alvar's memory!--Hark! I make appeal                           120
  Against the unholy rite, and hasten hence
  To bend before a lawful shrine, and seek
  That voice which whispers, when the still heart listens,
  Comfort and faithful hope! Let us retire.

  _Alvar (to Teresa)._ O full of faith and guileless love, thy
      Spirit                                                         125
  Still prompts thee wisely. Let the pangs of guilt
  Surprise the guilty: thou art innocent!

               [_Exeunt TERESA and_ Attendant. _Music as before._

  The spell is mutter'd--Come, thou wandering shape,
  Who own'st no master in a human eye,
  Whate'er be this man's doom, fair be it, or foul,                  130
  If he be dead, O come! and bring with thee
  That which he grasp'd in death! But if he live,
  Some token of his obscure perilous life.

                         [_The whole Music dashes into a Chorus._

       CHORUS

       Wandering demons, hear the spell!
       Lest a blacker charm compel--                                 135

           [_The incense on the altar takes fire suddenly, and an
                illuminated picture of ALVAR'S assassination is
                discovered, and having remained a few seconds is
                then hidden by ascending flames._

  _Ordonio (starting)._ Duped! duped! duped!--the traitor Isidore!

           [_At this instant the doors are forced open, MONVIEDRO
                and the_ Familiars of the Inquisition, Servants,
                _&c., enter and fill the stage._

  _Monviedro._ First seize the sorcerer! suffer him not to speak!
  The holy judges of the Inquisition
  Shall hear his first words.--Look you pale, Lord Valdez?
  Plain evidence have we here of most foul sorcery.                  140
  There is a dungeon underneath this castle,
  And as you hope for mild interpretation,
  Surrender instantly the keys and charge of it.

  _Ordonio (recovering himself as from stupor, to Servants)._ Why
      haste you not? Off with him to the dungeon!

                                       [_All rush out in tumult._


LINENOTES:

[16] _Alvar (aside)._ Stage-direction om. Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[33] stranger's] _Stranger's_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[35] Doubt, but decide not! Stand from off the altar. Edition 1.

[After 49] [_Music expressive of the movements and images that follow._
Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[54] upbuild] build up Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[62] Stage-direction [_Here behind, &c._ om. Edition 1.

[75] chaunter] Chaunters Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[80] quiet] yellow Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[95] _Ordonio (struggling with his feelings)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[122] bend] kneel Edition 1.

[125] _Alvar (to Teresa anxiously)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[129] a human eye] an eye of flesh Edition 1.

[134] demons] demon Edition 1.

[136] _Ordonio (starting in great agitation)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[141] this] the Edition 1.


SCENE II

_Interior of a Chapel, with painted Windows._

_Enter TERESA._

  _Teresa._ When first I entered this pure spot, forebodings
  Press'd heavy on my heart: but as I knelt,
  Such calm unwonted bliss possess'd my spirit,
  A trance so cloudless, that those sounds, hard by,
  Of trampling uproar fell upon mine ear                               5
  As alien and unnoticed as the rain-storm
  Beats on the roof of some fair banquet-room,
  While sweetest melodies are warbling----

_Enter VALDEZ._

  _Valdez._ Ye pitying saints, forgive a father's blindness,
  And extricate us from this net of peril!                            10

  _Teresa._ Who wakes anew my fears, and speaks of peril?

  _Valdez._ O best Teresa, wisely wert thou prompted!
  This was no feat of mortal agency!
  That picture--Oh, that picture tells me all!
  With a flash of light it came, in flames it vanished,               15
  Self-kindled, self-consum'd: bright as thy life,
  Sudden and unexpected as thy fate,
  Alvar! My son! My son!--The Inquisitor--

  _Teresa._ Torture me not! But Alvar--Oh of Alvar?

  _Valdez._ How often would he plead for these Morescoes!             20
  The brood accurst! remorseless, coward murderers!

  _Teresa._ So? so?--I comprehend you--He is----

  _Valdez._                                      He is no more!

  _Teresa._ O sorrow! that a father's voice should say this,
  A Father's Heart believe it!

  _Valdez._                    A worse sorrow
  Are fancy's wild hopes to a heart despairing!                       25

  _Teresa._ These rays that slant in through those gorgeous windows,
  From yon bright orb--though  as they pass,
  Are they not light?--Even so that voice, Lord Valdez!
  Which whispers to my soul, though haply varied
  By many a fancy, many a wishful hope,                               30
  Speaks yet the truth: and Alvar lives for me!

  _Valdez._ Yes, for three wasting years, thus and no other,
  He has lived for thee--a spirit for thy spirit!
  My child, we must not give religious faith
  To every voice which makes the heart a listener                     35
  To its own wish.

  _Teresa._        I breath'd to the Unerring
  Permitted prayers. Must those remain unanswer'd,
  Yet impious sorcery, that holds no commune
  Save with the lying spirit, claim belief?

  _Valdez._ O not to-day, not now for the first time                  40
  Was Alvar lost to thee--
                           Accurst assassins!
  Disarmed, o'erpowered, despairing of defence,
  At his bared breast he seem'd to grasp some relique
  More dear than was his life----

  _Teresa._                       O Heavens! my portrait!
  And he did grasp it in his death pang!
                                         Off, false demon,            45
  That beat'st thy black wings close above my head![853:1]

             [_ORDONIO enters with the keys of the dungeon in his
                  hand._

  Hush! who comes here? The wizard Moor's employer!
  Moors were his murderers, you say? Saints shield us
  From wicked thoughts----

             [_VALDEZ moves towards the back of the stage to meet
                  ORDONIO, and during the concluding lines of
                  TERESA'S speech appears as eagerly conversing
                  with him._

                           Is Alvar dead? what then?
  The nuptial rites and funeral shall be one!                         50
  Here's no abiding-place for thee, Teresa.--
  Away! they see me not--Thou seest me, Alvar!
  To thee I bend my course.--But first one question,
  One question to Ordonio.--My limbs tremble--
  There I may sit unmark'd--a moment will restore me.                 55

                                         [_Retires out of sight._

  _Ordonio (as he advances with Valdez)._ These are the dungeon keys.
      Monviedro knew not,
  That I too had received the wizard's message,
  'He that can bring the dead to life again.'
  But now he is satisfied, I plann'd this scheme
  To work a full conviction on the culprit,                           60
  And he entrusts him wholly to my keeping.

  _Valdez._ 'Tis well, my son! But have you yet discovered
  (Where is Teresa?) what those speeches meant--
  Pride, and hypocrisy, and guilt, and cunning?
  Then when the wizard fix'd his eye on you,                          65
  And you, I know not why, look'd pale and trembled--
  Why--why, what ails you now?--

  _Ordonio._                     Me? what ails me?
  A pricking of the blood--It might have happen'd
  At any other time.--Why scan you me?

  _Valdez._ His speech about the corse, and stabs and murderers,      70
  Bore reference to the assassins----

  _Ordonio._                          Dup'd! dup'd! dup'd!
  The traitor, Isidore!                  [_A pause, then wildly._
                        I tell thee, my dear father!
  I am most glad of this.

  _Valdez._               True--sorcery
  Merits its doom; and this perchance may guide us
  To the discovery of the murderers.                                  75
  I have their statures and their several faces
  So present to me, that but once to meet them
  Would be to recognize.

  _Ordonio._             Yes! yes! we recognize them.
  I was benumb'd, and staggered up and down
  Through darkness without light--dark--dark--dark!                   80
  My flesh crept chill, my limbs felt manacled
  As had a snake coil'd round them!--Now 'tis sunshine,
  And the blood dances freely through its channels!

                                              [_Then to himself._

  This is my virtuous, grateful Isidore!

                    [_Then mimicking ISIDORE'S manner and voice._

  'A common trick of gratitude, my lord!'                             85
  Old Gratitude! a dagger would dissect
  His 'own full heart'--'twere good to see its colour.

  _Valdez._ These magic sights! O that I ne'er had yielded
  To your entreaties! Neither had I yielded,
  But that in spite of your own seeming faith                         90
  I held it for some innocent stratagem,
  Which love had prompted, to remove the doubts
  Of wild Teresa--by fancies quelling fancies!

  _Ordonio._ Love! love! and then we hate! and what? and wherefore?
  Hatred and love! fancies opposed by fancies!                        95
  What? if one reptile sting another reptile?
  Where is the crime? The goodly face of nature
  Hath one disfeaturing stain the less upon it.
  Are we not all predestined transiency,
  And cold dishonour? Grant it, that this hand                       100
  Had given a morsel to the hungry worms
  Somewhat too early--Where's the crime of this?
  That this must needs bring on the idiotcy
  Of moist-eyed penitence--'tis like a dream!

  _Valdez._ Wild talk, my son! But thy excess of feeling----         105
  Almost I fear it hath unhinged his brain.

  _Ordonio (Teresa reappears and advances slowly)._ Say, I had laid
       a body in the sun!
  Well! in a month there swarm forth from the corse
  A thousand, nay, ten thousand sentient beings
  In place of that one man.--Say, I had kill'd him!                  110

                                       [_TERESA stops listening._

  Yet who shall tell me, that each one and all
  Of these ten thousand lives is not as happy,
  As that one life, which being push'd aside,
  Made room for these unnumbered----

  _Valdez._                          O mere madness!

              [_TERESA moves hastily forwards, and places herself
                   directly before ORDONIO._

  _Ordonio._ Teresa? or the phantom of Teresa?                       115

  _Teresa._ Alas! the phantom only, if in truth
  The substance of her being, her life's life,
  Have ta'en its flight through Alvar's death-wound--

                                                      [_A pause._

                                                      Where--
  (Even coward murder grants the dead a grave)
  O tell me, Valdez!--answer me, Ordonio!                            120
  Where lies the corse of my betrothéd husband?

  _Ordonio._ There, where Ordonio likewise would fain lie!
  In the sleep-compelling earth, in unpierc'd darkness![856:1]
  For while we live--
  An inward day that never, never sets,                              125
  Glares round the soul, and mocks the closing eyelids!

  Over his rocky grave the fir-grove sighs
  A lulling ceaseless dirge! 'Tis well with him.

           [_Strides off towards the altar, but returns as VALDEZ
                is speaking._

  _Teresa._ The rock! the fir-grove!                [_To VALDEZ._
                                     Did'st thou hear him say it?
  Hush! I will ask him!

  _Valdez._             Urge him not--not now!                       130
  This we beheld. Nor he nor I know more,
  Than what the magic imagery revealed.
  The assassin, who pressed foremost of the three----

  _Ordonio._ A tender-hearted, scrupulous, grateful villain,
  Whom I will strangle!

  _Valdez._             While his two companions----                 135

  _Ordonio._ Dead! dead already! what care we for the dead?

  _Valdez (to Teresa)._ Pity him! soothe him! disenchant his spirit!
  These supernatural shews, this strange disclosure,
  And this too fond affection, which still broods
  O'er Alvar's fate, and still burns to avenge it--                  140
  These, struggling with his hopeless love for you,
  Distemper him, and give reality
  To the creatures of his fancy.

  _Ordonio._                     Is it so?
  Yes! yes! even like a child, that too abruptly
  Roused by a glare of light from deepest sleep                      145
  Starts up bewildered and talks idly.
                                       Father!
  What if the Moors that made my brother's grave,
  Even now were digging ours? What if the bolt,
  Though aim'd, I doubt not, at the son of Valdez,
  Yet miss'd its true aim when it fell on Alvar?                     150

  _Valdez._ Alvar ne'er fought against the Moors,--say rather,
  He was their advocate; but you had march'd
  With fire and desolation through their villages.--
  Yet he by chance was captured.

  _Ordonio._                     Unknown, perhaps,
  Captured, yet as the son of Valdez, murdered.                      155
  Leave all to me. Nay, whither, gentle lady?

  _Valdez._ What seek you now?

  _Teresa._                    A better, surer light
  To guide me----

  _Both Valdez and Ordonio._ Whither?

  _Teresa._                           To the only place
  Where life yet dwells for me, and ease of heart.
  These walls seem threatening to fall in upon me!                   160
  Detain me not! a dim power drives me hence,
  And that will be my guide.

  _Valdez._                  To find a lover!
  Suits that a high-born maiden's modesty?
  O folly and shame! Tempt not my rage, Teresa!

  _Teresa._ Hopeless, I fear no human being's rage.                  165
  And am I hastening to the arms----O Heaven!
  I haste but to the grave of my belov'd!

                             [_Exit, VALDEZ following after her._

  _Ordonio._ This, then, is my reward! and I must love her?
  Scorn'd! shudder'd at! yet love her still? yes! yes!
  By the deep feelings of revenge and hate                           170
  I will still love her--woo her--win her too!        [_A pause._
  Isidore safe and silent, and the portrait
  Found on the wizard--he, belike, self-poison'd
  To escape the crueller flames----My soul shouts triumph!
  The mine is undermined! blood! blood! blood!                       175
  They thirst for thy blood! thy blood, Ordonio!      [_A pause._
  The hunt is up! and in the midnight wood
  With lights to dazzle and with nets they seek
  A timid prey: and lo! the tiger's eye
  Glares in the red flame of his hunter's torch!                     180

  To Isidore I will dispatch a message,
  And lure him to the cavern! aye, that cavern!
  He cannot fail to find it. Thither I'll lure him,
  Whence he shall never, never more return!

                                [_Looks through the side window._

  A rim of the sun lies yet upon the sea,                            185
  And now 'tis gone! All shall be done to-night.         [_Exit._


FOOTNOTES:

[853:1] 45-6. Compare _The Death of Wallenstein_, Act I, Sc. IV, ll.
48-9. See note by J. D. Campbell, _P. W._, 1893, p. 650.

[856:1] It was pleasing to observe, during the Rehearsal all the Actors
and Actresses and even the Mechanics on the stage clustering round while
these lines were repeating just as if it had been a favourite strain of
Music. But from want of depth and volume of voice in Rae, they did not
produce an equal effect on the Public till after the Publication--and
_then_ they (I understand) were applauded. I have never seen the Piece
since the first Night. _S. T. C._


LINENOTES:

SCENE II] SCENE III. _Interior of a Chapel._ Edition 1.

[20] would he] wouldst thou Edition 1.

[22] _Teresa (wildly)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829. _Valdez (with averted
countenance)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[24] A worse sorrow] And how painful Edition 1.

[41]

  Was Alvar lost to thee--           [_Turning off, aloud, but yet as to
                                          himself._

Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[44] _Teresa (with faint shriek)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829. my] _my_
Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[45] He grasp'd it in his death-pang! Edition 1. did] _did_ Editions 2,
3, 1829.

[49] Is] _Is_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[52] Thou] _Thou_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[After 55] Stage-direction om. Edition 1.

[67] _Ordonio (confused)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[73] _Valdez (confused)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[After 83] [_Turns off abruptly; then to himself._ Editions 1, 2, 3,
1829.

[84] grateful] _grateful_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[94] _Ordonio (in a slow voice, as reasoning to himself)._ Editions 1,
2, 3, 1829.

[101] Had] _Had_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[After 105] [_Averting himself._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[107] _Ordonio (now in soliloquy, and now addressing his father; and
just after the speech has commenced, Teresa_, &c. Editions 1, 2, 3,
1829.

[110] kill'd] _kill'd_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[After 110] [_TERESA starts and stops listening._ Editions 1, 2, 3,
1829.

[Before 115] _Ordonio (checking the feeling of surprise, and forcing his
tones into an expression of playful courtesy)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[124] live] LIVE Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[128] him] HIM Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[After 128] [_Strides off in agitation towards the altar_, &c. Editions
1, 2, 3, 1829.

[129] _Teresa (recoiling with the expression appropriate to the
passion)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829. thou] _thou_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[131] beheld . . . he] _beheld . . . He_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[134] grateful] _grateful_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[135] _Valdez (looking with anxious disquiet at his Son, yet attempting
to proceed with his description)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[146]

  Starts up bewildered and talks idly.             [_Then mysteriously._

Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[158] _Both._ Whither Edition 1.

[168] must] _must_ Editions 1, 2, 3.

[171] win] _win_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[176] thy] _thy_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[After 186] end of the Third Act. Editions 1, 2, 3.




ACT IV


SCENE I

_A cavern, dark, except where a gleam of moonlight is seen on one side
at the further end of it; supposed to be cast on it from a crevice in a
part of the cavern out of sight. ISIDORE alone, an extinguished torch in
his hand._

  _Isidore._ Faith 'twas a moving letter--very moving!
  'His life in danger, no place safe but this!
  'Twas his turn now to talk of gratitude.'
  And yet--but no! there can't be such a villain.
  It can not be!
                 Thanks to that little crevice,                        5
  Which lets the moonlight in! I'll go and sit by it.
  To peep at a tree, or see a he-goat's beard,
  Or hear a cow or two breathe loud in their sleep--
  Any thing but this crash of water drops!
  These dull abortive sounds that fret the silence                    10
  With puny thwartings and mock opposition!
  So beats the death-watch to a sick man's ear.

                 [_He goes out of sight, opposite to the patch of
                      moonlight: and returns._

  A hellish pit! The very same I dreamt of!
  I was just in--and those damn'd fingers of ice
  Which clutch'd my hair up! Ha!--what's that--it mov'd.              15

                [_ISIDORE stands staring at another recess in the
                     cavern. In the mean time ORDONIO enters with
                     a torch, and halloes to ISIDORE._

  _Isidore._ I swear that I saw something moving there!
  The moonshine came and went like a flash of lightning----
  I swear, I saw it move.

  _Ordonio (goes into the recess, then returns)._
                          A jutting clay stone
  Drops on the long lank weed, that grows beneath:
  And the weed nods and drips.[859:1]

  _Isidore._                   A jest to laugh at!                    20
  It was not that which scar'd me, good my lord.

  _Ordonio._ What scar'd you, then?

  _Isidore._                        You see that little rift?
  But first permit me!

         [_Lights his torch at ORDONIO'S, and while lighting it._

                       (A lighted torch in the hand
  Is no unpleasant object here--one's breath
  Floats round the flame, and makes as many colours                   25
  As the thin clouds that travel near the moon.)
  You see that crevice there?
  My torch extinguished by these water-drops,
  And marking that the moonlight came from thence,
  I stept in to it, meaning to sit there;                             30
  But scarcely had I measured twenty paces--
  My body bending forward, yea, o'erbalanced
  Almost beyond recoil, on the dim brink
  Of a huge chasm I stept. The shadowy moonshine
  Filling the void so counterfeited substance,                        35
  That my foot hung aslant adown the edge.
  Was it my own fear?
                      Fear too hath its instincts![860:1]
  (And yet such dens as these are wildly told of,
  And there are beings that live, yet not for the eye)
  An arm of frost above and from behind me                            40
  Pluck'd up and snatched me backward. Merciful Heaven!
  You smile! alas, even smiles look ghastly here!
  My lord, I pray you, go yourself and view it.

  _Ordonio._ It must have shot some pleasant feelings through you.

  _Isidore._ If every atom of a dead man's flesh                      45
  Should creep, each one with a particular life,
  Yet all as cold as ever--'twas just so!
  Or had it drizzled needle-points of frost
  Upon a feverish head made suddenly bald--

  _Ordonio._                                Why, Isidore,
  I blush for thy cowardice. It might have startled,                  50
  I grant you, even a brave man for a moment--
  But such a panic--

  _Isidore._         When a boy, my lord!
  I could have sate whole hours beside that chasm,
  Push'd in huge stones and heard them strike and rattle
  Against its horrid sides: then hung my head                         55
  Low down, and listened till the heavy fragments
  Sank with faint crash in that still groaning well,
  Which never thirsty pilgrim blest, which never
  A living thing came near--unless, perchance,
  Some blind-worm battens on the ropy mould                           60
  Close at its edge.

  _Ordonio._         Art thou more coward now?

  _Isidore._ Call him, that fears his fellow-man, a coward!
  I fear not man--but this inhuman cavern,
  It were too bad a prison-house for goblins.
  Beside, (you'll smile, my lord) but true it is,                     65
  My last night's sleep was very sorely haunted
  By what had passed between us in the morning.
  O sleep of horrors! Now run down and stared at
  By forms so hideous that they mock remembrance--
  Now seeing nothing and imagining nothing,                           70
  But only being afraid--stifled with fear!
  While every goodly or familiar form
  Had a strange power of breathing terror round me![861:1]
  I saw you in a thousand fearful shapes;
  And, I entreat your lordship to believe me,                         75
  In my last dream----

  _Ordonio._           Well?

  _Isidore._                 I was in the act
  Of falling down that chasm, when Alhadra
  Wak'd me: she heard my heart beat.

  _Ordonio._                         Strange enough!
  Had you been here before?

  _Isidore._                Never, my lord!
  But mine eyes do not see it now more clearly,                       80
  Than in my dream I saw--that very chasm.

  _Ordonio (after a pause)._ I know not why it should be! yet it is--

  _Isidore._ What is, my lord?

  _Ordonio._                   Abhorrent from our nature
  To kill a man.--

  _Isidore._       Except in self-defence.

  _Ordonio._ Why that's my case; and yet the soul recoils from it--   85
  'Tis so with me at least. But you, perhaps,
  Have sterner feelings?

  _Isidore._             Something troubles you.
  How shall I serve you? By the life you gave me,
  By all that makes that life of value to me,
  My wife, my babes, my honour, I swear to you,                       90
  Name it, and I will toil to do the thing,
  If it be innocent! But this, my lord!
  Is not a place where you could perpetrate,
  No, nor propose a wicked thing. The darkness,
  When ten strides off we know 'tis cheerful moonlight,               95
  Collects the guilt, and crowds it round the heart.
  It must be innocent.

  _Ordonio._           Thyself be judge.
  One of our family knew this place well.

  _Isidore._ Who? when? my lord?

  _Ordonio._                     What boots it, who or when?
  Hang up thy torch--I'll tell his tale to thee.                     100

       [_They hang up their torches on some ridge in the cavern._

  He was a man different from other men,
  And he despised them, yet revered himself.

  _Isidore (aside)._ He? He despised? Thou'rt speaking of thyself!
  I am on my guard, however: no surprise.     [_Then to ORDONIO._
  What, he was mad?

  _Ordonio._        All men seemed mad to him!                       105
  Nature had made him for some other planet,
  And pressed his soul into a human shape
  By accident or malice. In this world
  He found no fit companion.

  _Isidore._ Of himself he speaks.                      [_Aside._
                                   Alas! poor wretch!                110
  Mad men are mostly proud.

  _Ordonio._                He walked alone,
  And phantom thoughts unsought-for troubled him.
  Something within would still be shadowing out
  All possibilities; and with these shadows
  His mind held dalliance. Once, as so it happened,                  115
  A fancy crossed him wilder than the rest:
  To this in moody murmur and low voice
  He yielded utterance, as some talk in sleep:
  The man who heard him.--
                           Why did'st thou look round?

  _Isidore._ I have a prattler three years old, my lord!             120
  In truth he is my darling. As I went
  From forth my door, he made a moan in sleep--
  But I am talking idly--pray proceed!
  And what did this man?

  _Ordonio._             With this human hand
  He gave a substance and reality                                    125
  To that wild fancy of a possible thing.--
  Well it was done!
                    Why babblest thou of guilt?
  The deed was done, and it passed fairly off.
  And he whose tale I tell thee--dost thou listen?

  _Isidore._ I would, my lord, you were by my fire-side,             130
  I'd listen to you with an eager eye,
  Though you began this cloudy tale at midnight,
  But I do listen--pray proceed, my lord.

  _Ordonio._ Where was I?

  _Isidore._              He of whom you tell the tale--

  _Ordonio._ Surveying all things with a quiet scorn,                135
  Tamed himself down to living purposes,
  The occupations and the semblances
  Of ordinary men--and such he seemed!
  But that same over ready agent--he--

  _Isidore._ Ah! what of him, my lord?

  _Ordonio._                           He proved a traitor,          140
  Betrayed the mystery to a brother-traitor,
  And they between them hatch'd a damnéd plot
  To hunt him down to infamy and death.
  What did the Valdez? I am proud of the name
  Since he dared do it.--

          [_ORDONIO grasps his sword, and turns off from ISIDORE,
               then after a pause returns._

                          Our links burn dimly.                      145

  _Isidore._ A dark tale darkly finished! Nay, my lord!
  Tell what he did.

  _Ordonio._ That which his wisdom prompted--
  He made the traitor meet him in this cavern,
  And here he kill'd the traitor.

  _Isidore._                      No! the fool!                      150
  He had not wit enough to be a traitor.
  Poor thick-eyed beetle! not to have foreseen
  That he who gulled thee with a whimpered lie
  To murder his own brother, would not scruple
  To murder thee, if e'er his guilt grew jealous,                    155
  And he could steal upon thee in the dark!

  _Ordonio._ Thou would'st not then have come, if--

  _Isidore._ Oh yes, my lord!
  I would have met him arm'd, and scar'd the coward.

          [_ISIDORE throws off his robe; shews himself armed, and
               draws his sword._

  _Ordonio._ Now this is excellent and warms the blood!              160
  My heart was drawing back, drawing me back
  With weak and womanish scruples. Now my vengeance
  Beckons me onwards with a warrior's mien,
  And claims that life, my pity robb'd her of--
  Now will I kill thee, thankless slave, and count it                165
  Among my comfortable thoughts hereafter.

  _Isidore._ And all my little ones fatherless--
                                                 Die thou first.

          [_They fight, ORDONIO disarms ISIDORE, and in disarming
               him throws his sword up that recess opposite to
               which they were standing. ISIDORE hurries into the
               recess with his torch, ORDONIO follows him; a loud
               cry of 'Traitor! Monster!' is heard from the
               cavern, and in a moment ORDONIO returns alone._

  _Ordonio._ I have hurl'd him down the chasm! treason for treason.
  He dreamt of it: henceforward let him sleep,
  A dreamless sleep, from which no wife can wake him.                170
  His dream too is made out--Now for his friend.

                                                 [_Exit ORDONIO._


FOOTNOTES:

[859:1] 18-20. Compare _This Lime-Tree Bower my Prison_, ll. 17-20, p.
179. See note by J. D. Campbell, _P. W._, 1893, p. 651.

[860:1] 38-9. These two lines uttered in an under-voice, and timidly, as
anticipating Ordonio's sneer, and yet not able to disguise his own
superstition. (_Marginal Note to First Edition._)

What trouble had I not, and at last almost fruitless, to teach De Camp
the hurried under-voice with which Isidore should utter these two lines,
as anticipating Ordonio's scorn, and yet unable to suppress his own
superstition--and yet De Camp, spite of voice, person, and inappropriate
protrusion of the chest, understood and realised his part better than
all the rest--to the man of sense, I mean. _MS. H_.

[861:1] 72-3. In the _Biographia Literaria_, 1817, ii. 73 Coleridge puts
these lines into another shape:--

  The simplest and the most familiar things
  Gain a strange power of spreading awe around them.

See note by J. D. Campbell, _P. W._, 1893, p. 651.


LINENOTES:

[After 12] [_He goes . . . moonlight: returns after a minute's elapse,
in an extasy of fear._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[13] pit] _pit_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[18] _Ordonio (goes . . . returns, and with great scorn)._ Editions 1,
2, 3, 1829.

[20] _Isidore (forcing a laugh faintly.)_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[47] ever] eve Edition 1.

[49] _Ordonio (interrupting him)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[51] brave] _brave_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[60] battens] fattens Edition 1.

[68-73] om. Edition 1.

[71] afraid] _afraid_ Editions 2, 3, 1829.

[82] _Ordonio (stands lost in thought, then after a pause)._ Editions 1,
2, 3, 1829. is] _is_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[97]

  It must be innocent.           [_ORDONIO darkly, and in the feeling of
                                      self-justification, tells what he
                                      conceives of his own character and
                                      actions, speaking of himself in
                                      the third person._

Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[103] He? He] He? _He_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[124] this] _his_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[127]

  Well it was done!                                 [_Then very wildly._

Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[140] him . . . He] _him . . . He_, Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[155] thee] _thee_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[After 167] [_They fight . . . standing._ (The rest of the
stage-direction is here omitted.)

  _Isid. (springing wildly towards Ordonio)._ Still I can strangle thee!

  _Ord._                                            Nay fool, stand off!
  I'll kill thee, but not so. Go fetch thy sword.

                       [_ISIDORE hurries into the recess with his torch,
                            ORDONIO follows him . . . returns alone._

Edition 1.

[169] dreamt] _dreamt_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[171] dream] _dream_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.


SCENE II

_The interior Court of a Saracenic or Gothic Castle, with the Iron Gate
of a Dungeon visible._

  _Teresa._ Heart-chilling superstition! thou canst glaze
  Ev'n pity's eye with her own frozen tear.
  In vain I urge the tortures that await him;
  Even Selma, reverend guardian of my childhood,
  My second mother, shuts her heart against me!                        5
  Well, I have won from her what most imports
  The present need, this secret of the dungeon
  Known only to herself.--A Moor! a Sorcerer!
  No, I have faith, that Nature ne'er permitted
  Baseness to wear a form so noble. True,                             10
  I doubt not that Ordonio had suborned him
  To act some part in some unholy fraud;
  As little doubt, that for some unknown purpose
  He hath baffled his suborner, terror-struck him,
  And that Ordonio meditates revenge!                                 15
  But my resolve is fixed! myself will rescue him,
  And learn if haply he knew aught of Alvar.

_Enter VALDEZ._

  _Valdez._ Still sad?--and gazing at the massive door
  Of that fell dungeon which thou ne'er had'st sight of,
  Save what, perchance, thy infant fancy shap'd it                    20
  When the nurse still'd thy cries with unmeant threats.
  Now by my faith, girl! this same wizard haunts thee!
  A stately man, and eloquent and tender--
  Who then need wonder if a lady sighs
  Even at the thought of what these stern Dominicans--                25

  _Teresa._ The horror of their ghastly punishments
  Doth so o'ertop the height of all compassion,
  That I should feel too little for mine enemy,
  If it were possible I could feel more,
  Even though the dearest inmates of our household                    30
  Were doom'd to suffer them. That such things are--

  _Valdez._ Hush, thoughtless woman!

  _Teresa._                          Nay, it wakes within me
  More than a woman's spirit.

  _Valdez._                   No more of this--
  What if Monviedro or his creatures hear us!
  I dare not listen to you.

  _Teresa._                 My honoured lord,                         35
  These were my Alvar's lessons, and whene'er
  I bend me o'er his portrait, I repeat them,
  As if to give a voice to the mute image.

  _Valdez._                ----We have mourned for Alvar.
  Of his sad fate there now remains no doubt.                         40
  Have I no other son?

  _Teresa._            Speak not of him!
  That low imposture! That mysterious picture!
  If this be madness, must I wed a madman?
  And if not madness, there is mystery,
  And guilt doth lurk behind it.

  _Valdez._                      Is this well?                        45

  _Teresa._ Yes, it is truth: saw you his countenance?
  How rage, remorse, and scorn, and stupid fear
  Displaced each other with swift interchanges?
  O that I had indeed the sorcerer's power.----
  I would call up before thine eyes the image                         50
  Of my betrothed Alvar, of thy first-born![866:1]
  His own fair countenance, his kingly forehead,
  His tender smiles, love's day-dawn on his lips!
  That spiritual and almost heavenly light
  In his commanding eye--his mien heroic,                             55
  Virtue's own native heraldry! to man
  Genial, and pleasant to his guardian angel.
  Whene'er he gladden'd, how the gladness spread
  Wide round him! and when oft with swelling tears,
  Flash'd through by indignation, he bewail'd                         60
  The wrongs of Belgium's martyr'd patriots,
  Oh, what a grief was there--for joy to envy,
  Or gaze upon enamour'd!
                          O my father!
  Recall that morning when we knelt together,
  And thou didst bless our loves! O even now,                         65
  Even now, my sire! to thy mind's eye present him,
  As at that moment he rose up before thee,
  Stately, with beaming look! Place, place beside him
  Ordonio's dark perturbéd countenance!
  Then bid me (Oh thou could'st not) bid me turn                      70
  From him, the joy, the triumph of our kind!
  To take in exchange that brooding man, who never
  Lifts up his eye from the earth, unless to scowl.

  _Valdez._ Ungrateful woman! I have tried to stifle
  An old man's passion! was it not enough,                            75
  That thou hast made my son a restless man,
  Banish'd his health, and half unhing'd his reason;
  But that thou wilt insult him with suspicion?
  And toil to blast his honour? I am old,
  A comfortless old man!

  _Teresa._              O grief! to hear                             80
  Hateful entreaties from a voice we love!

_Enter a_ Peasant _and presents a letter to VALDEZ._

  _Valdez (reading it)._ 'He dares not venture hither!' Why, what can
      this mean?
  'Lest the Familiars of the Inquisition,
  That watch around my gates, should intercept him;
  But he conjures me, that without delay                              85
  I hasten to him--for my own sake entreats me
  To guard from danger him I hold imprison'd--
  He will reveal a secret, the joy of which
  Will even outweigh the sorrow.'--Why what can this be?
  Perchance it is some Moorish stratagem,                             90
  To have in me a hostage for his safety.
  Nay, that they dare not! Ho! collect my servants!
  I will go thither--let them arm themselves.     [_Exit VALDEZ._

  _Teresa (alone)._ The moon is high in heaven, and all is hush'd.
  Yet anxious listener! I have seem'd to hear                         95
  A low dead thunder mutter thro' the night,
  As 'twere a giant angry in his sleep.
  O Alvar! Alvar! that they could return,
  Those blessed days that imitated heaven,
  When we two wont to walk at eventide;                              100
  When we saw nought but beauty; when we heard
  The voice of that Almighty One who loved us
  In every gale that breathed, and wave that murmur'd!
  O we have listen'd, even till high-wrought pleasure
  Hath half assumed the countenance of grief,                        105
  And the deep sigh seemed to heave up a weight
  Of bliss, that pressed too heavy on the heart.      [_A pause._
  And this majestic Moor, seems he not one
  Who oft and long communing with my Alvar
  Hath drunk in kindred lustre from his presence,                    110
  And guides me to him with reflected light?
  What if in yon dark dungeon coward treachery
  Be groping for him with envenomed poniard--
  Hence, womanish fears, traitors to love and duty--
  I'll free him.                                  [_Exit TERESA._


FOOTNOTES:

[866:1] 52-63. Compare Fragment No. 39, p. 1005.


LINENOTES:

[Before 1] stage-direction _om._ Scene II is headed '_The Sea-Coast_'
Edition 1. _The interior . . . of Dungeon visible._ Editions 2, 3, 1829.

[17] know] knew Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[18] _Valdez._ Still sad, Teresa! This same wizard haunts you Edition 1.

[19-22] om. Edition 1.

[After 23] [_With a sneer._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[26] _Teresa (with solemn indignation)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[33] woman's] woman Edition 1.

[62] _there_ Editions 2, 3, 1829.

[80, 81] _Teresa._ O Grief . . . we love! om. Edition 1.


SCENE III

_The mountains by moonlight. ALHADRA alone in a Moorish dress._

  _Alhadra._ Yon hanging woods, that touch'd by autumn seem
  As they were blossoming hues of fire and gold
  The flower-like woods, most lovely in decay,
  The many clouds, the sea, the rock, the sands.
  Lie in the silent moonshine: and the owl,                            5
  (Strange! very strange!) the screech-owl only wakes!
  Sole voice, sole eye of all this world of beauty!
  Unless, perhaps, she sing her screeching song
  To a herd of wolves, that skulk athirst for blood.
  Why such a thing am I?--Where are these men?                        10
  I need the sympathy of human faces,
  To beat away this deep contempt for all things,
  Which quenches my revenge. O! would to Alla,
  The raven, or the sea-mew, were appointed
  To bring me food! or rather that my soul                            15
  Could drink in life from the universal air!
  It were a lot divine in some small skiff
  Along some Ocean's boundless solitude,
  To float for ever with a careless course.
  And think myself the only being alive!                              20

  My children!--Isidore's children!--Son of Valdez,
  This hath new strung mine arm. Thou coward tyrant!
  To stupify a woman's heart with anguish
  Till she forgot--even that she was a mother!

         [_She fixes her eye on the earth. Then drop in one after
              another, from different parts of the stage, a
              considerable number of_ Morescoes, _all in Moorish
              garments and Moorish armour. They form a circle at
              a distance round ALHADRA, and remain silent till
              NAOMI enters_.

  _Naomi._ Woman! May Alla and the Prophet bless thee!                25
  We have obeyed thy call. Where is our chief?
  And why didst thou enjoin these Moorish garments?

  _Alhadra (raising her eyes, and looking round on the circle)._
      Warriors of Mahomet! faithful in the battle!
  My countrymen! Come ye prepared to work
  An honourable deed? And would ye work it                            30
  In the slave's garb? Curse on those Christian robes!
  They are spell-blasted: and whoever wears them,
  His arm shrinks wither'd, his heart melts away,
  And his bones soften.

  _Naomi._              Where is Isidore?

  _Alhadra._ This night I went from forth my house, and left          35
  His children all asleep: and he was living!
  And I return'd and found them still asleep,
  But he had perished----

  _All Morescoes._        Perished?

  _Alhadra._                        He had perished!
  Sleep on, poor babes! not one of you doth know
  That he is fatherless--a desolate orphan!                           40
  Why should we wake them? Can an infant's arm
  Revenge his murder?

  _One Moresco (to another)._ Did she say his murder?

  _Naomi._ Murder? Not murdered?

  _Alhadra._                     Murdered by a Christian!

                           [_They all at once draw their sabres._

  _Alhadra (to Naomi, who advances from the circle)._ Brother of
      Zagri! fling away thy sword;
  This is thy chieftain's!        [_He steps forward to take it._
                           Dost thou dare receive it?                 45
  For I have sworn by Alla and the Prophet,
  No tear shall dim these eyes, this woman's heart
  Shall heave no groan, till I have seen that sword
  Wet with the life-blood of the son of Valdez!       [_A pause._
  Ordonio was your chieftain's murderer!                              50

  _Naomi._ He dies, by Alla!

  _All (kneeling)._          By Alla!

  _Alhadra._ This night your chieftain armed himself,
  And hurried from me. But I followed him
  At distance, till I saw him enter--there!

  _Naomi._ The cavern?

  _Alhadra._           Yes, the mouth of yonder cavern                55
  After a while I saw the son of Valdez
  Rush by with flaring torch; he likewise entered.
  There was another and a longer pause;
  And once, methought I heard the clash of swords!
  And soon the son of Valdez re-appeared:                             60
  He flung his torch towards the moon in sport,
  And seemed as he were mirthful! I stood listening,
  Impatient for the footsteps of my husband!

  _Naomi._ Thou called'st him?

  _Alhadra._                   I crept into the cavern--
  'Twas dark and very silent.
                              What said'st thou?                      65
  No! no! I did not dare call, Isidore,
  Lest I should hear no answer! A brief while,
  Belike, I lost all thought and memory
  Of that for which I came! After that pause,
  O Heaven! I heard a groan, and followed it:                         70
  And yet another groan, which guided me
  Into a strange recess--and there was light,
  A hideous light! his torch lay on the ground;
  Its flame burnt dimly o'er a chasm's brink:
  I spake; and whilst I spake, a feeble groan                         75
  Came from that chasm! it was his last! his death-groan!

  _Naomi._ Comfort her, Alla!

  _Alhadra._                  I stood in unimaginable trance
  And agony that cannot be remembered,
  Listening with horrid hope to hear a groan!                         80
  But I had heard his last: my husband's death-groan!

  _Naomi._ Haste! let us onward.

  _Alhadra._                     I looked far down the pit--
  My sight was bounded by a jutting fragment:
  And it was stained with blood. Then first I shrieked,
  My eye-balls burnt, my brain grew hot as fire,                      85
  And all the hanging drops of the wet roof
  Turned into blood--I saw them turn to blood!
  And I was leaping wildly down the chasm,
  When on the farther brink I saw his sword,
  And it said, Vengeance!--Curses on my tongue!                       90
  The moon hath moved in Heaven, and I am here,
  And he hath not had vengeance! Isidore!
  Spirit of Isidore! thy murderer lives!
  Away! away!

  _All._      Away! away!

                            [_She rushes off, all following her._


LINENOTES:

[1-24] om. Edition 1.

[Before 25]

_The mountains by moonlight. ALHADRA alone in a Moorish dress; her eye
fixed on the earth. Then drop in one after another, from different parts
of the stage, a considerable number of Morescoes, all in Moorish
garments. They form a circle at a distance round ALHADRA._

_A Moresco, NAOMI, advances from out the circle._

  _Naomi._ Woman! may Alla, &c.

Edition 1.

Stage-direction after 24 [_She fixes . . . and remain silent till the
Second in Command, NAOMI, enters, distinguished by his dress and armour,
and by the silent obeisance paid to him on his entrance by the other_
Moors. Editions 2, 3, 1829.

[Before 28] _Alhadra (lifting up eyes, and looking, &c.)._ Edition 1.

[35] _Alhadra (in a deep low voice)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[54] _there_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[65]

  'Twas dark and very silent.                            [_Then wildly._

Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[72] _light_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[After 77] _All._ Haste, let us seek the murderer. Edition 1.




ACT V


SCENE I

_A Dungeon._

_ALVAR (alone) rises slowly from a bed of reeds._

  _Alvar._ And this place my forefathers made for man!
  This is the process of our love and wisdom
  To each poor brother who offends against us--
  Most innocent, perhaps--and what if guilty?
  Is this the only cure? Merciful God!                                 5
  Each pore and natural outlet shrivelled up
  By ignorance and parching poverty,
  His energies roll back upon his heart,
  And stagnate and corrupt, till, chang'd to poison,
  They break out on him, like a loathsome plague-spot!                10
  Then we call in our pampered mountebanks:
  And this is their best cure! uncomforted
  And friendless solitude, groaning and tears,
  And savage faces, at the clanking hour,
  Seen through the steam and vapours of his dungeon                   15
  By the lamp's dismal twilight! So he lies
  Circled with evil, till his very soul
  Unmoulds its essence, hopelessly deformed
  By sights of evermore deformity!
  With other ministrations thou, O Nature!                            20
  Healest thy wandering and distempered child:
  Thou pourest on him thy soft influences,
  Thy sunny hues, fair forms, and breathing sweets;
  Thy melodies of woods, and winds, and waters!
  Till he relent, and can no more endure                              25
  To be a jarring and a dissonant thing
  Amid this general dance and minstrelsy;
  But, bursting into tears, wins back his way,
  His angry spirit healed and harmonized
  By the benignant touch of love and beauty.                          30

  I am chill and weary! Yon rude bench of stone,
  In that dark angle, the sole resting-place!
  But the self-approving mind is its own light
  And life's best warmth still radiates from the heart
  Where love sits brooding, and an honest purpose.                    35

                                         [_Retires out of sight._

_Enter TERESA with a taper._

  _Teresa._ It has chilled my very life----my own voice scares me;
  Yet when I hear it not I seem to lose
  The substance of my being--my strongest grasp
  Sends inwards but weak witness that I am.
  I seek to cheat the echo.--How the half sounds                      40
  Blend with this strangled light! Is he not here--

                                                [_Looking round._

  O for one human face here--but to see
  One human face here to sustain me.--Courage!
  It is but my own fear! The life within me,
  It sinks and wavers like this cone of flame,                        45
  Beyond which I scarce dare look onward! Oh!
  If I faint? If this inhuman den should be
  At once my death-bed and my burial vault?

             [_Faintly screams as ALVAR emerges from the recess._

  _Alvar (rushes towards her, and catches her as she is falling)._
      O gracious heaven! it is, it is Teresa!
  Shall I reveal myself? The sudden shock                             50
  Of rapture will blow out this spark of life,
  And joy complete what terror has begun.
  O ye impetuous beatings here, be still!
  Teresa, best beloved! pale, pale, and cold!
  Her pulse doth flutter! Teresa! my Teresa!                          55

  _Teresa (recovering)._ I heard a voice; but often in my dreams
  I hear that voice! and wake and try--and try--
  To hear it waking! but I never could--
  And 'tis so now--even so! Well! he is dead--
  Murdered perhaps! and I am faint, and feel                          60
  As if it were no painful thing to die!

  _Alvar._ Believe it not, sweet maid! Believe it not,
  Belovéd woman! 'Twas a low imposture
  Framed by a guilty wretch.

  _Teresa._                  Ha! Who art thou?

  _Alvar._ Suborned by his brother--

  _Teresa_.                          Didst thou murder him?           65
  And dost thou now repent? Poor troubled man,
  I do forgive thee, and may Heaven forgive thee!

  _Alvar._ Ordonio--he--

  _Teresa._              If thou didst murder him--
  His spirit ever at the throne of God
  Asks mercy for thee: prays for mercy for thee,                      70
  With tears in Heaven!

  _Alvar._              Alvar was not murdered.
  Be calm! Be calm, sweet maid!

  _Teresa._ Nay, nay, but tell me!                    [_A pause._
                                   O 'tis lost again!
  This dull confuséd pain--                           [_A pause._
                            Mysterious man!
  Methinks I can not fear thee: for thine eye                         75
  Doth swim with love and pity--Well! Ordonio--
  Oh my foreboding heart! And he suborned thee,
  And thou didst spare his life? Blessings shower on thee,
  As many as the drops twice counted o'er
  In the fond faithful heart of his Teresa!                           80

  _Alvar._ I can endure no more. The Moorish sorcerer
  Exists but in the stain upon his face.
  That picture--

  _Teresa._      Ha! speak on!

  _Alvar._                     Beloved Teresa!
  It told but half the truth. O let this portrait
  Tell all--that Alvar lives--that he is here!                        85
  Thy much deceived but ever faithful Alvar.

           [_Takes her portrait from his neck, and gives it her._

  _Teresa (receiving the portrait)._ The same--it is the same! Ah!
      Who art thou?
  Nay, I will call thee, Alvar!         [_She falls on his neck._

  _Alvar._                      O joy unutterable!
  But hark! a sound as of removing bars
  At the dungeon's outer door. A brief, brief while                   90
  Conceal thyself, my love! It is Ordonio.
  For the honour of our race, for our dear father;
  O for himself too (he is still my brother)
  Let me recall him to his nobler nature,
  That he may wake as from a dream of murder!                         95
  O let me reconcile him to himself,
  Open the sacred source of penitent tears,
  And be once more his own beloved Alvar.

  _Teresa._ O my all virtuous love! I fear to leave thee
  With that obdurate man.

  _Alvar._                Thou dost not leave me!                    100
  But a brief while retire into the darkness:
  O that my joy could spread its sunshine round thee!

  _Teresa._ The sound of thy voice shall be my music!
  Alvar! my Alvar! am I sure I hold thee?
  Is it no dream? thee in my arms, my Alvar!             [_Exit._    105

             [_A noise at the Dungeon door. It opens, and ORDONIO
                  enters, with a goblet in his hand._

  _Ordonio._ Hail, potent wizard! in my gayer mood
  I poured forth a libation to old Pluto,
  And as I brimmed the bowl, I thought on thee.
  Thou hast conspired against my life and honour,
  Hast tricked me foully; yet I hate thee not.                       110
  Why should I hate thee? this same world of ours,
  'Tis but a pool amid a storm of rain,
  And we the air-bladders that course up and down,
  And joust and tilt in merry tournament;
  And when one bubble runs foul of another,                          115
  The weaker needs must break.

  _Alvar._                     I see thy heart!
  There is a frightful glitter in thine eye
  Which doth betray thee. Inly-tortured man,
  This is the revelry of a drunken anguish,
  Which fain would scoff away the pang of guilt,                     120
  And quell each human feeling.

  _Ordonio._                    Feeling! feeling!
  The death of a man--the breaking of a bubble--
  'Tis true I cannot sob for such misfortunes;
  But faintness, cold and hunger--curses on me
  If willingly I e'er inflicted them!                                125
  Come, take the beverage; this chill place demands it.

                                  [_ORDONIO proffers the goblet._

  _Alvar._ Yon insect on the wall,
  Which moves this way and that its hundred limbs,
  Were it a toy of mere mechanic craft,
  It were an infinitely curious thing!                               130
  But it has life, Ordonio! life, enjoyment!
  And by the power of its miraculous will
  Wields all the complex movements of its frame
  Unerringly to pleasurable ends!
  Saw I that insect on this goblet's brim                            135
  I would remove it with an anxious pity!

  _Ordonio._ What meanest thou?

  _Alvar._                      There's poison in the wine.

  _Ordonio._ Thou hast guessed right; there's poison in the wine.
  There's poison in't--which of us two shall drink it?
  For one of us must die!

  _Alvar._                Whom dost thou think me?                   140

  _Ordonio._ The accomplice and sworn friend of Isidore.

  _Alvar._ I know him not.
  And yet methinks, I have heard the name but lately.
  Means he the husband of the Moorish woman?
  Isidore? Isidore?                                                  145

  _Ordonio._ Good! good! that lie! by heaven it has restored me.
  Now I am thy master!--Villain! thou shalt drink it,
  Or die a bitterer death.

  _Alvar._                 What strange solution
  Hast thou found out to satisfy thy fears,
  And drug them to unnatural sleep?

          [_ALVAR takes the goblet, and throws it to the ground._

                                    My master!                       150

  _Ordonio._ Thou mountebank!

  _Alvar._                    Mountebank and villain!
  What then art thou? For shame, put up thy sword!
  What boots a weapon in a withered arm?
  I fix mine eye upon thee, and thou tremblest!
  I speak, and fear and wonder crush thy rage,                       155
  And turn it to a motionless distraction!
  Thou blind self-worshipper! thy pride, thy cunning,
  Thy faith in universal villainy,
  Thy shallow sophisms, thy pretended scorn
  For all thy human brethren--out upon them!                         160
  What have they done for thee? have they given thee peace?
  Cured thee of starting in thy sleep? or made
  The darkness pleasant when thou wak'st at midnight?
  Art happy when alone? Can'st walk by thyself
  With even step and quiet cheerfulness?                             165
  Yet, yet thou may'st be saved----

  _Ordonio._                        Saved? saved?

  _Alvar._                                        One pang!
  Could I call up one pang of true remorse!

  _Ordonio._ He told me of the babes that prattled to him.
  His fatherless little ones! remorse! remorse!
  Where got'st thou that fool's word? Curse on remorse!              170
  Can it give up the dead, or recompact
  A mangled body? mangled--dashed to atoms!
  Not all the blessings of a host of angels
  Can blow away a desolate widow's curse!
  And though thou spill thy heart's blood for atonement,             175
  It will not weigh against an orphan's tear!

  _Alvar._ But Alvar----

  _Ordonio._             Ha! it chokes thee in the throat,
  Even thee; and yet I pray thee speak it out.
  Still Alvar!--Alvar!--howl it in mine ear!
  Heap it like coals of fire upon my heart,                          180
  And shoot it hissing through my brain!

  _Alvar._                               Alas!
  That day when thou didst leap from off the rock
  Into the waves, and grasped thy sinking brother,
  And bore him to the strand; then, son of Valdez,
  How sweet and musical the name of Alvar!                           185
  Then, then, Ordonio, he was dear to thee,
  And thou wert dear to him: heaven only knows
  How very dear thou wert! Why did'st thou hate him!
  O heaven! how he would fall upon thy neck,
  And weep forgiveness!

  _Ordonio._            Spirit of the dead!                          190
  Methinks I know thee! ha! my brain turns wild
  At its own dreams!--off--off, fantastic shadow!

  _Alvar._ I fain would tell thee what I am, but dare not!

  _Ordonio._ Cheat! villain! traitor! whatsoever thou be--
  I fear thee, man!

  _Teresa (rushing out and falling on Alvar's neck)._ Ordonio! 'tis
      thy brother!                                                   195

          [_ORDONIO runs upon ALVAR with his sword. TERESA flings
               herself on ORDONIO and arrests his arm._

                   Stop, madman, stop!

  _Alvar._ Does then this thin disguise impenetrably
  Hide Alvar from thee? Toil and painful wounds
  And long imprisonment in unwholesome dungeons,
  Have marred perhaps all trait and lineament                        200
  Of what I was! But chiefly, chiefly, brother,
  My anguish for thy guilt!
                            Ordonio--Brother!
  Nay, nay, thou shalt embrace me.

  _Ordonio (drawing back, and gazing at Alvar)._ Touch me not!
  Touch not pollution, Alvar! I will die.

             [_He attempts to fall on his sword, ALVAR and TERESA
                  prevent him._

  _Alvar._ We will find means to save your honour. Live,             205
  Oh live, Ordonio! for our father's sake!
  Spare his grey hairs!

  _Teresa._             And you may yet be happy.

  _Ordonio._ O horror! not a thousand years in heaven
  Could recompose this miserable heart,
  Or make it capable of one brief joy!                               210
  Live! live! Why yes! 'Twere well to live with you:
  For is it fit a villain should be proud?
  My brother! I will kneel to you, my brother!       [_Kneeling._
  Forgive me, Alvar!----Curse me with forgiveness!

  _Alvar._ Call back thy soul, Ordonio, and look round thee!         215
  Now is the time for greatness! Think that heaven--

  _Teresa._ O mark his eye! he hears not what you say.

  _Ordonio._ Yes, mark his eye! there's fascination in it!
  Thou said'st thou did'st not know him--That is he!
  He comes upon me!

  _Alvar._          Heal, O heal him, heaven!                        220

  _Ordonio._ Nearer and nearer! and I can not stir!
  Will no one hear these stifled groans, and wake me?
  He would have died to save me, and I killed him--
  A husband and a father!--

  _Teresa._                 Some secret poison
  Drinks up his spirits!

  _Ordonio._             Let the eternal justice                     225
  Prepare my punishment in the obscure world--
  I will not bear to live--to live--O agony!
  And be myself alone my own sore torment!

          [_The doors of the dungeon are broken open, and in rush
               ALHADRA, and the band of_ Morescoes.

  _Alhadra._ Seize first that man!

                       [_ALVAR presses onward to defend ORDONIO._

  _Ordonio._ Off, ruffians! I have flung away my sword.              230
  Woman, my life is thine! to thee I give it!
  Off! he that touches me with his hand of flesh,
  I'll rend his limbs asunder! I have strength
  With this bare arm to scatter you like ashes.

  _Alhadra._ My husband--

  _Ordonio_.              Yes, I murdered him most foully.           235

  _Alvar and Teresa._ O horrible!

  _Alhadra._                      Why did'st thou leave his children?
  Demon, thou should'st have sent thy dogs of hell
  To lap their blood. Then, then I might have hardened
  My soul in misery, and have had comfort.
  I would have stood far off, quiet though dark,                     240
  And bade the race of men raise up a mourning
  For a deep horror of desolation,
  Too great to be one soul's particular lot!
  Brother of Zagri! let me lean upon thee.
  The time is not yet come for woman's anguish,                      245
  I have not seen his blood--Within an hour
  Those little ones will crowd around and ask me,
  Where is our father? I shall curse thee then!
  Wert thou in heaven, my curse would pluck thee thence!

  _Teresa._ He doth repent! See, see, I kneel to thee!               250
  O let him live! That agéd man, his father----

  _Alhadra._ Why had he such a son?

            [_Shouts from the distance of_ Rescue! Rescue! Alvar!
                 Alvar! _and the voice of VALDEZ heard._

  Rescue?--and Isidore's spirit unavenged?--
  The deed be mine!                    [_Suddenly stabs ORDONIO._
                    Now take my life!

  _Ordonio (staggering from the wound)._ Atonement!

  _Alvar (while with Teresa supporting Ordonio)._ Arm of avenging
      Heaven                                                         255
  Thou hast snatched from me my most cherished hope--
  But go! my word was pledged to thee.

  _Ordonio._                           Away!
  Brave not my Father's rage! I thank thee! Thou--

                     [_Then turning his eyes languidly to ALVAR._

  She hath avenged the blood of Isidore!
  I stood in silence like a slave before her                         260
  That I might taste the wormwood and the gall,
  And satiate this self-accusing heart
  With bitterer agonies than death can give.
  Forgive me, Alvar!
                     Oh!--could'st thou forget me!       [_Dies._

               [_ALVAR and TERESA bend over the body of ORDONIO._

  _Alhadra (to the Moors)._ I thank thee, Heaven! thou hast ordained
      it wisely,                                                     265
  That still extremes bring their own cure. That point
  In misery, which makes the oppressed Man
  Regardless of his own life, makes him too
  Lord of the Oppressor's--Knew I a hundred men
  Despairing, but not palsied by despair,                            270
  This arm should shake the kingdoms of the world;
  The deep foundations of iniquity
  Should sink away, earth groaning from beneath them;
  The strongholds of the cruel men should fall,
  Their temples and their mountainous towers should fall;            275
  Till desolation seemed a beautiful thing,
  And all that were and had the spirit of life,
  Sang a new song to her who had gone forth,
  Conquering and still to conquer!

          [_ALHADRA hurries off with the_ Moors; _the stage fills
               with armed_ Peasants, _and_ Servants, _ZULIMEZ and
               VALDEZ at their head. VALDEZ rushes into ALVAR'S
               arms._

  _Alvar._ Turn not thy face that way, my father! hide,              280
  Oh hide it from his eye! Oh let thy joy
  Flow in unmingled stream through thy first blessing.

                                         [_Both kneel to VALDEZ._

  _Valdez._ My Son! My Alvar! bless, Oh bless him, heaven!

  _Teresa._ Me too, my Father?

  _Valdez._                    Bless, Oh bless my children!

                                                    [_Both rise._

  _Alvar._ Delights so full, if unalloyed with grief,                285
  Were ominous. In these strange dread events
  Just Heaven instructs us with an awful voice,
  That Conscience rules us e'en against our choice.
  Our inward Monitress to guide or warn,
  If listened to; but if repelled with scorn,                        290
  At length as dire Remorse, she reappears,
  Works in our guilty hopes, and selfish fears!
  Still bids, Remember! and still cries, Too late!
  And while she scares us, goads us to our fate.


LINENOTES:

[30] touch] torch Edition 1.

[36] life] life-blood Edition 1.

[After 41] As in a dream I ask; if it be a dream Edition 1.

[46] Beyond which I scarce dare to look! (_shudders_) Edition 1.

[After 46] [_Shuddering._ Editions 2, 3, 1829.

[After 48] [_Faintly . . . recess, and moves hastily towards her._
Edition 1.

[After 55] _Teresa (recovering, looks round wildly)._ Editions 1, 2, 3,
1829.

[62] _Alvar (eagerly)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[64]

  _Teresa (retires from him, and feebly supports herself against a
      pillar of the dungeon)._ Ha! who art thou?

  _Alvar (exceedingly affected)._ Suborned, &c.

Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[65] _thou_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[72]

  _Teresa (wildly)._ Nay, nay, but tell me!

                                  [_A pause, then presses her forehead._

                                            O 'tis lost again!
  This dull confused pain.               [_A pause, she gazes at ALVAR._

Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[77] _he_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[83] _Teresa (advances towards him)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[98] own om. Edition 1.

[After 103] [_Retiring, she returns hastily and embracing ALVAR._
Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[Before 106] _Ordonio (with affected gravity)._ Edition 1 (c) (?).

[107] old Pluto] oblivion Edition 1.

[After 115] [_Waving his hand to ALVAR._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[150] [_ALVAR . . . and throws it to the ground with stern contempt._
Edition 1. [_ALVAR . . . and throwing it to the ground, &c._ Editions 2,
3, 1829.

[166] _Ordonio (vacantly repeating the words)._ Saved? Saved? Editions
1, 2, 3, 1829.

[177] _Alvar (almost overcome by his feelings)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[193] _Alvar (seizing his hand)._ Edition 1.

[After 195] [_ORDONIO with frantic wildness runs, &c._ Editions 1, 2, 3,
1829.

[203] _Ordonio (drawing back and gazing at Alvar with a countenance of
at once awe and terror)._ Touch me not! Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[207] And] Oh Edition 1.

[214] _Curse_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[218] _Ordonio (pointing at vacancy)._ Edition 1. (_pointing at the
vacancy_). Editions 2, 3, 1829.

[225] _Ordonio (fiercely recollecting himself)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[After 229] (_Alvar presses on as if to defend Ordonio._) Edition 1.

[243] one] one's 1829.

[After 244] [_Struggling to suppress her feelings._ Editions 1, 2, 3,
1829.

[246] _his_ Editions 2, 3, 1829.

[252] _Alhadra (sternly)._ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[254] _my_ Editions 1, 2, 3, 1829.

[254-9]

  The deed be mine! (_Suddenly stabs ORDONIO._) Now take _my_ life!

  _Alv. (while with TERESA supporting ORDONIO)._ Arm of avenging Heaven!
  Thou hast snatch'd from me my most cherish'd hope
  But go! my word was pledged to thee. Away!
  Brave not my Father's vengeance!       [_The Moors hurry off ALHADRA._

  _Ord._ She hath aveng'd the blood of Isidore.

Edition 1.

[255] _Ordonio (with great majesty)._ 'Tis well thou hast avenged
thyself, O Woman! Edition 1 (b).

[_Note._--In his collation of _Remorse_ with _Osorio_, the Editor of _P.
W._ 1877-1880, iv. 154 affixes to lines 289-303 of the Fifth Act of
_Osorio_ the following variant, said to be derived from the First
Edition of _Remorse_:--After the cry of 'No mercy' (_Osorio_, Act V, l.
300), '_NAOMI advances with the sword and ALHADRA snatches it from him
and suddenly stabs ORDONIO. ALVAR rushes through the Moors and catches
him in his arms._' After Ordonio's dying speech [ll. 304-307], there are
'_shouts of Alvar! Alvar! behind the scenes. A Moor rushes in_'--

  _Moor._ We are surprised! away! away! this instant!
  The country is in arms! Lord Valdez heads them,
  And still cries out, 'My son! my Alvar lives!'
  Haste to the shore! they come the opposite road.
  Your wives and children are already safe.
  The boat is on the shore--the vessel waits.

  _Alhadra._ Thou then art Alvar! to my aid and safety
  Thy word stands pledged.

  _Alvar._                 Arm of avenging Heaven!
  I had two cherish'd hopes--the one remains,
  The other thou hast snatch'd from me: but my word
  Is pledged to thee; nor shall it be retracted--

Edition 1 (c) (?).

[For MS. version of this variant see note on p. 597.]]

[257] But go!] Yet, yet MS. H.

[After 259] (_ORDONIO follows ALHADRA with his eye which then
raising languidly to ALVAR he compleats his meaning_, but substituting
'_the_' for '_Thee_'). Marginal stage-direction inserted in MS. R.]

Stage-direction preceding 265 and 265-79: om. Edition 1.

[Before 280] [_The stage fills with armed peasants . . . ALVAR'S arms._
Edition 1.




APPENDIX


The following Scene, as unfit for the stage, was taken from the tragedy,
in the year 1797, and published in the Lyrical Ballads. [1798, pp.
28-31: _vide ante_, pp. 182-4.]

_Enter Teresa and Selma._

  _Teresa._ 'Tis said, he spake of you familiarly,
  As mine and Alvar's common foster-mother.

  _Selma._ Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be
  That joined your names with mine! O my sweet Lady,
  As often as I think of those dear times,                             5
  When you two little ones would stand, at eve,
  On each side of my chair, and make me learn
  All you had learnt in the day; and how to talk
  In gentle phrase; then bid me sing to you----
  'Tis more like heaven to come, than what has been!                  10

  _Teresa._ But that entrance, Selma?

  _Selma._                            Can no one hear? It is a perilous
      tale!

  _Teresa._ No one.

  _Selma._          My husband's father told it me,
  Poor old Sesina--angels rest his soul;
  He was a woodman, and could fell and saw
  With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam                       15
  Which props the hanging wall of the old chapel?
  Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree,
  He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined
  With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool
  As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,                     20
  And reared him at the then Lord Valdez' cost.
  And so the babe grew up a pretty boy,
  A pretty boy, but most unteachable----
  And never learn'd a prayer, nor told a bead,
  But knew the names of birds, and mocked their notes,                25
  And whistled, as he were a bird himself.
  And all the autumn 'twas his only play
  To gather seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them
  With earth and water on the stumps of trees.
  A Friar, who gathered simples in the wood,                          30
  A grey-haired man, he loved this little boy:
  The boy loved him, and, when the friar taught him,
  He soon could write with the pen; and from that time
  Lived chiefly at the convent or the castle.
  So he became a rare and learned youth:                              35
  But O! poor wretch! he read, and read, and read,
  Till his brain turned; and ere his twentieth year
  He had unlawful thoughts of many things:
  And though he prayed, he never loved to pray
  With holy men, nor in a holy place.                                 40
  But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,
  The late Lord Valdez ne'er was wearied with him.
  And once, as by the north side of the chapel
  They stood together chained in deep discourse,
  The earth heaved under them with such a groan,                      45
  That the wall tottered, and had well nigh fallen
  Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frightened;
  A fever seized him, and he made confession
  Of all the heretical and lawless talk
  Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seized,               50
  And cast into that hole. My husband's father
  Sobbed like a child--it almost broke his heart:
  And once he was working near this dungeon,
  He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's,
  Who sung a doleful song about green fields,                         55
  How sweet it were on lake or wide savanna
  To hunt for food, and be a naked man,
  And wander up and down at liberty.
  He always doted on the youth, and now
  His love grew desperate; and defying death,                         60
  He made that cunning entrance I described,
  And the young man escaped.

  _Teresa._                  'Tis a sweet tale:
  Such as would lull a listening child to sleep,
  His rosy face besoiled with unwiped tears.
  And what became of him?

  _Selma._                He went on shipboard                        65
  With those bold voyagers who made discovery
  Of golden lands. Sesina's younger brother
  Went likewise, and when he returned to Spain,
  He told Sesina, that the poor mad youth,
  Soon after they arrived in that new world,                          70
  In spite of his dissuasion, seized a boat,
  And all alone set sail by silent moonlight
  Up a great river, great as any sea,
  And ne'er was heard of more: but 'tis supposed,
  He lived and died among the savage men.                             75




ZAPOLYA[883:1]

A CHRISTMAS TALE
IN TWO PARTS[883:2]

     Πὰρ πυρὶ χρὴ τοιαῦτα λέγειν χειμῶνος ἐν ὥρᾳ.
                                                  APUD ATHENAEUM.


ADVERTISEMENT

The form of the following dramatic poem is in humble imitation of the
_Winter's Tale_ of Shakspeare, except that I have called the first part
a Prelude instead of a first Act, as a somewhat nearer resemblance to
the plan of the ancients, of which one specimen is left us in the
Æschylean Trilogy of the _Agamemnon_, the _Orestes_, and the
_Eumenides_. Though a matter of form merely, yet two plays, on different
periods of the same tale, might seem less bold, than an interval of
twenty years between a first and second act. This is, however, in mere
obedience to custom. The effect does not, in reality, at all depend on
the Time of the interval; but on a very different principle. There are
cases in which an interval of twenty hours between the acts would have a
worse effect (_i. e._ render the imagination less disposed to take the
position required) than twenty years in other cases. For the rest, I
shall be well content if my readers will take it up, read and judge it,
as a Christmas tale.


FOOTNOTES:

[883:1] First published in 1817: included in 1828, 1829 and 1834.
_Zapolya_ was written at Calne, in Wiltshire, in 1815. It was offered to
the Committee of Management of Drury Lane Theatre, and rejected, in
March, 1816.

[883:2] Title Zapolya, &c. The Prelude entitled 'The Usurper's
Fortune'; and The Sequel entitled 'The Usurper's Fate'. By S. T.
Coleridge, Esq. _1817_.


LINENOTES:

_Orestes_] _Choephoroe_ MS. S. T. C.




PART I

THE PRELUDE, ENTITLED 'THE USURPER'S
FORTUNE'


CHARACTERS

  _EMERICK, Usurping King of Illyria._
  _RAAB KIUPRILI, an Illyrian Chieftain._
  _CASIMIR, Son of KIUPRILI._
  _CHEF RAGOZZI, a Military Commander._
  _ZAPOLYA, Queen of Illyria._


SCENE I

_Front of the Palace with a magnificent Colonnade. On one side a
military Guard-house. Sentries pacing backward and forward before the
Palace. CHEF RAGOZZI, at the door of the Guard-house, as looking
forwards at some object in the distance._

  _Chef Ragozzi._ My eyes deceive me not, it must be he.
  Who but our chief, my more than father, who
  But Raab Kiuprili moves with such a gait?
  Lo! e'en this eager and unwonted haste
  But agitates, not quells, its majesty.                               5
  My patron! my commander! yes, 'tis he!
  Call out the guards. The Lord Kiuprili comes.

                       [_Drums beat, &c., the_ Guard _turns out._

_Enter RAAB KIUPRILI._

  _Raab Kiuprili (making a signal to stop the drums, &c.)._ Silence!
      enough! This is no time, young friend,
  For ceremonious dues. The summoning drum,
  Th' air-shattering trumpet, and the horseman's clatter,             10
  Are insults to a dying sovereign's ear.
  Soldiers, 'tis well! Retire! your General greets you,
  His loyal fellow-warriors.                    [_Guards retire._

  _Chef Ragozzi._            Pardon my surprise.
  Thus sudden from the camp, and unattended!
  What may these wonders prophesy?

  _Raab Kiuprili._                 Tell me first,                     15
  How fares the king? His majesty still lives?

  _Chef Ragozzi._ We know no otherwise; but Emerick's friends
  (And none but they approach him) scoff at hope.

  _Raab Kiuprili._ Ragozzi! I have reared thee from a child,
  And as a child I have reared thee. Whence this air                  20
  Of mystery? That face was wont to open
  Clear as the morning to me, shewing all things.
  Hide nothing from me.

  _Chef Ragozzi._       O most loved, most honoured,
  The mystery that struggles in my looks
  Betrayed my whole tale to thee, if it told thee                     25
  That I am ignorant; but fear the worst.
  And mystery is contagious. All things here
  Are full of motion: and yet all is silent:
  And bad men's hopes infect the good with fears.

  _Raab Kiuprili._ I have trembling proof within how true thou
      speakest.                                                       30

  _Chef Ragozzi._ That the prince Emerick feasts the soldiery,
  Gives splendid arms, pays the commanders' debts,
  And (it is whispered) by sworn promises
  Makes himself debtor--hearing this, thou hast heard
  All----                                                             35
  But what my lord will learn too soon himself.

  _Raab Kiuprili._ Ha!--Well then, let it come! Worse scarce can come.
  This letter written by the trembling hand
  Of royal Andreas calls me from the camp
  To his immediate presence. It appoints me,                          40
  The Queen, and Emerick, guardians of the realm,
  And of the royal infant. Day by day,
  Robbed of Zapolya's soothing cares, the king
  Yearns only to behold one precious boon,
  And with his life breathe forth a father's blessing.                45

  _Chef Ragozzi._ Remember you, my lord! that Hebrew leech
  Whose face so much distempered you?

  _Raab Kiuprili._                    Barzoni?
  I held him for a spy; but the proof failing
  (More courteously, I own, than pleased myself),
  I sent him from the camp.

  _Chef Ragozzi._           To him, in chief,                         50
  Prince Emerick trusts his royal brother's health.

  _Raab Kiuprili._ Hide nothing, I conjure you! What of him?

  _Chef Ragozzi._ With pomp of words beyond a soldier's cunning,
  And shrugs and wrinkled brow, he smiles and whispers!
  Talks in dark words of women's fancies; hints                       55
  That 'twere a useless and a cruel zeal
  To rob a dying man of any hope,
  However vain, that soothes him: and, in fine,
  Denies all chance of offspring from the Queen.

  _Raab Kiuprili._ The venomous snake! My heel was on its head,       60
  And (fool!) I did not crush it!

  _Chef Ragozzi._                 Nay, he fears
  Zapolya will not long survive her husband.

  _Raab Kiuprili._ Manifest treason! Even this brief delay
  Half makes me an accomplice----(If he live,)

                                  [_Is moving toward the palace._

  If he but live and know me, all may----

  _Chef Ragozzi._                         Halt!     [_Stops him._     65
  On pain of death, my Lord! am I commanded
  To stop all ingress to the palace.

  _Raab Kiuprili._                   Thou!

  _Chef Ragozzi._ No place, no name, no rank excepted--

  _Raab Kiuprili._                                      Thou!

  _Chef Ragozzi._ This life of mine, O take it, Lord Kiuprili!
  I give it as a weapon to thy hands,                                 70
  Mine own no longer. Guardian of Illyria,
  Useless to thee, 'tis worthless to myself.
  Thou art the framer of my nobler being;
  Nor does there live one virtue in my soul,
  One honourable hope, but calls thee father.                         75
  Yet ere thou dost resolve, know that yon palace
  Is guarded from within, that each access
  Is thronged by armed conspirators, watched by ruffians
  Pampered with gifts, and hot upon the spoil
  Which that false promiser still trails before them.                 80
  I ask but this one boon--reserve my life
  Till I can lose it for the realm and thee!

  _Raab Kiuprili._ My heart is rent asunder. O my country,
  O fallen Illyria, stand I here spell-bound?
  Did my King love me? Did I earn his love?                           85
  Have we embraced as brothers would embrace?
  Was I his arm, his thunder-bolt? And now
  Must I, hag-ridden, pant as in a dream?
  Or, like an eagle, whose strong wings press up
  Against a coiling serpent's folds, can I                            90
  Strike but for mockery, and with restless beak
  Gore my own breast?--Ragozzi, thou art faithful?

  _Chef Ragozzi._ Here before Heaven I dedicate my faith
  To the royal line of Andreas.

  _Raab Kiuprili._              Hark, Ragozzi!
  Guilt is a timorous thing ere perpetration:                         95
  Despair alone makes wicked men be bold.
  Come thou with me! They have heard my voice in flight,
  Have faced round, terror-struck, and feared no longer
  The whistling javelins of their fell pursuers.
  Ha! what is this?

           [_Black flag displayed from the Tower of the Palace: a
                death-bell tolls, &c._

                    Vengeance of Heaven! He is dead.                 100

  _Chef Ragozzi._ At length then 'tis announced. Alas! I fear,
  That these black death-flags are but treason's signals.

  _Raab Kiuprili._ A prophecy too soon fulfilled! See yonder!
  O rank and ravenous wolves! the death-bell echoes
  Still in the doleful air--and see! they come.                      105

  _Chef Ragozzi._ Precise and faithful in their villainy
  Even to the moment, that the master traitor
  Had pre-ordained them.

  _Raab Kiuprili._       Was it over-haste,
  Or is it scorn, that in this race of treason
  Their guilt thus drops its mask, and blazons forth                 110
  Their infamous plot even to an idiot's sense?

  _Chef Ragozzi._ Doubtless they deem Heaven too usurp'd! Heaven's
      justice
  Bought like themselves!
                          Being equal all in crime,
  Do you press on, ye spotted parricides!
  For the one sole pre-eminence yet doubtful,                        115
  The prize of foremost impudence in guilt?

  _Raab Kiuprili._ The bad man's cunning still prepares the way
  For its own outwitting. I applaud, Ragozzi!
                                              Ragozzi! I applaud,
  In thee, the virtuous hope that dares look onward
  And keeps the life-spark warm of future action                     120
  Beneath the cloak of patient sufferance.
  Act and appear, as time and prudence prompt thee:
  I shall not misconceive the part thou playest.
  Mine is an easier part--to brave the usurper.

            [_Enter a procession of EMERICK'S Adherents_, Nobles,
                 Chieftains, _and_ Soldiers, _with Music. They
                 advance toward the front of the stage. KIUPRILI
                 makes the signal for them to stop.--The Music
                 ceases._

  _Leader of the Procession._ The Lord Kiuprili!--Welcome from the
      camp.                                                          125

  _Raab Kiuprili._ Grave magistrates and chieftains of Illyria,
  In good time come ye hither, if ye come
  As loyal men with honourable purpose
  To mourn what can alone be mourned; but chiefly
  To enforce the last commands of royal Andreas                      130
  And shield the Queen, Zapolya: haply making
  The mother's joy light up the widow's tears.

  _Leader._ Our purpose demands speed. Grace our procession;
  A warrior best will greet a warlike king.

  _Raab Kiuprili._ This patent written by your lawful king,          135
  (Lo! his own seal and signature attesting)
  Appoints as guardians of his realm and offspring,
  The Queen, and the Prince Emerick, and myself.

          [_Voices of_ Live KING EMERICK! an EMERICK! an EMERICK!

  What means this clamour? Are these madmen's voices?
  Or is some knot of riotous slanderers leagued                      140
  To infamize the name of the king's brother
  With a lie black as Hell? unmanly cruelty,
  Ingratitude, and most unnatural treason?            [_Murmurs._
  What mean these murmurs? Dare then any here
  Proclaim Prince Emerick a spotted traitor?                         145
  One that has taken from you your sworn faith,
  And given you in return a Judas' bribe,
  Infamy now, oppression in reversion,
  And Heaven's inevitable curse hereafter?

             [_Loud murmurs, followed by cries_--EMERICK! No Baby
                  Prince! No Changelings!

  Yet bear with me awhile! Have I for this                           150
  Bled for your safety, conquered for your honour?
  Was it for this, Illyrians! that I forded
  Your thaw-swoln torrents, when the shouldering ice
  Fought with the foe, and stained its jagged points
  With gore from wounds I felt not? Did the blast                    155
  Beat on this body, frost-and-famine-numbed,
  Till my hard flesh distinguished not itself
  From the insensate mail, its fellow warrior?
  And have I brought home with me Victory,
  And with her, hand in hand, firm-footed Peace,                     160
  Her countenance twice lighted up with glory,
  As if I had charmed a goddess down from Heaven?
  But these will flee abhorrent from the throne
  Of usurpation!

                [_Murmurs increase--and cries of_ Onward! Onward!

                 Have you then thrown off shame,
  And shall not a dear friend, a loyal subject,                      165
  Throw off all fear? I tell ye, the fair trophies
  Valiantly wrested from a valiant foe,
  Love's natural offerings to a rightful king,
  Will hang as ill on this usurping traitor,
  This brother-blight, this Emerick, as robes                        170
  Of gold plucked from the images of gods
  Upon a sacrilegious robber's back.       [_Enter LORD CASIMIR._

  _Casimir._ Who is this factious insolent, that dares brand
  The elected King, our chosen Emerick?
  My father!

  _Raab Kiuprili._ Casimir! He, he a traitor!                        175
  Too soon indeed, Ragozzi! have I learnt it.           [_Aside._

  _Casimir._ My father and my lord!

  _Raab Kiuprili._                  I know thee not!

  _Leader._ Yet the remembrancing did sound right filial.

  _Raab Kiuprili._ A holy name and words of natural duty
  Are blasted by a thankless traitor's utterance.                    180

  _Casimir._ O hear me, Sire! not lightly have I sworn
  Homage to Emerick. Illyria's sceptre
  Demands a manly hand, a warrior's grasp.
  The queen Zapolya's self-expected offspring
  At least is doubtful: and of all our nobles,                       185
  The king, inheriting his brother's heart,
  Hath honoured us the most. Your rank, my lord!
  Already eminent, is--all it can be--
  Confirmed: and me the king's grace hath appointed
  Chief of his council and the lord high steward.                    190

  _Raab Kiuprili._ (Bought by a bribe!) I know thee now still less.

  _Casimir._ So much of Raab Kiuprili's blood flows here,
  That no power, save that holy name of father,
  Could shield the man who so dishonoured me.

  _Raab Kiuprili._ The son of Raab Kiuprili a bought bond-slave,     195
  Guilt's pander, treason's mouth-piece, a gay parrot,
  School'd to shrill forth his feeder's usurp'd titles.
  And scream, Long live King Emerick!

  _Leaders._                          Aye, King Emerick!
  Stand back, my lord! Lead us, or let us pass.

  _Soldier._ Nay, let the general speak!

  _Soldiers._                            Hear him! hear him!

  _Raab Kiuprili._                                           Hear
      me,                                                            200
  Assembled lords and warriors of Illyria,
  Hear, and avenge me! Twice ten years have I
  Stood in your presence, honoured by the king:
  Beloved and trusted. Is there one among you
  Accuses Raab Kiuprili of a bribe?                                  205
  Or one false whisper in his sovereign's ear?
  Who here dares charge me with an orphan's rights
  Outfaced, or widow's plea left undefended?
  And shall I now be branded by a traitor,
  A bought, bribed wretch, who, being called my son,                 210
  Doth libel a chaste matron's name, and plant
  Hensbane and aconite on a mother's grave?
  The underling accomplice of a robber,
  That from a widow and a widow's offspring
  Would steal their heritage? To God a rebel,                        215
  And to the common father of his country
  A recreant ingrate!

  _Casimir._          Sire! your words grow dangerous.
  High-flown romantic fancies ill-beseem
  Your age and wisdom. 'Tis a statesman's virtue,
  To guard his country's safety by what means                        220
  It best may be protected--come what will
  Of these monk's morals!

  _Raab Kiuprili (aside)._ Ha! the elder Brutus
  Made his soul iron, though his sons repented.
  They boasted not their baseness.            [_Draws his sword._
                                   Infamous changeling!
  Recant this instant, and swear loyalty,                            225
  And strict obedience to thy sovereign's will;
  Or, by the spirit of departed Andreas,
  Thou diest----

              [Chiefs, _&c., rush to interpose; during the tumult
                   enter EMERICK, alarmed._

  _Emerick._ Call out the guard! Ragozzi! seize the assassin.----
  Kiuprili? Ha!----       [_Making signs to the guard to retire._
                    Pass on, friends! to the palace.                 230

             [_Music recommences.--The Procession passes into the
                  Palace._

  _Emerick._ What? Raab Kiuprili? What? a father's sword
  Against his own son's breast?

  _Raab Kiuprili._              'Twould best excuse him,
  Were he thy son, Prince Emerick. I abjure him.

  _Emerick._ This is my thanks, then, that I have commenced
  A reign to which the free voice of the nobles                      235
  Hath called me, and the people, by regards
  Of love and grace to Raab Kiuprili's house?

  _Raab Kiuprili._ What right hadst thou, Prince Emerick, to bestow
      them?

  _Emerick._ By what right dares Kiuprili question me?

  _Raab Kiuprili._ By a right common to all loyal subjects--         240
  To me a duty! As the realm's co-regent,
  Appointed by our sovereign's last free act,
  Writ by himself.--                      [_Grasping the Patent._

  _Emerick._         Aye!--Writ in a delirium!

  _Raab Kiuprili._ I likewise ask, by whose authority
  The access to the sovereign was refused me?                        245

  _Emerick._ By whose authority dared the general leave
  His camp and army, like a fugitive?

  _Raab Kiuprili._ A fugitive, who, with victory for his comrade,
  Ran, open-eyed, upon the face of death!
  A fugitive, with no other fear, than bodements                     250
  To be belated in a loyal purpose--
  At the command, Prince! of my king and thine,
  Hither I came; and now again require
  Audience of Queen Zapolya; and (the States
  Forthwith convened) that thou dost shew at large,                  255
  On what ground of defect thou'st dared annul
  This thy King's last and solemn act--hast dared
  Ascend the throne, of which the law had named,
  And conscience should have made thee, a protector.

  _Emerick._ A sovereign's ear ill brooks a subject's questioning!   260
  Yet for thy past well-doing--and because
  'Tis hard to erase at once the fond belief
  Long cherished, that Illyria had in thee
  No dreaming priest's slave, but a Roman lover
  Of her true weal and freedom--and for this, too,                   265
  That, hoping to call forth to the broad day-light
  And fostering breeze of glory all deservings,
  I still had placed thee foremost.

  _Raab Kiuprili._                  Prince! I listen.

  _Emerick._ Unwillingly I tell thee, that Zapolya,
  Maddened with grief, her erring hopes proved idle--                270

  _Casimir._ Sire! speak the whole truth! Say, her fraud detected!

  _Emerick._ According to the sworn attests in council
  Of her physician----

  _Raab Kiuprili (aside)._ Yes! the Jew, Barzoni!

  _Emerick._ Under the imminent risk of death she lies,
  Or irrecoverable loss of reason,                                   275
  If known friend's face or voice renew the frenzy.

  _Casimir (to Kiuprili)._ Trust me, my lord! a woman's trick has
      duped you--
  Us too--but most of all, the sainted Andreas.
  Even for his own fair fame, his grace prays hourly
  For her recovery, that (the States convened)                       280
  She may take counsel of her friends.

  _Emerick._                           Right, Casimir!
  Receive my pledge, lord general. It shall stand
  In her own will to appear and voice her claims;
  Or (which in truth I hold the wiser course)
  With all the past passed by, as family quarrels,                   285
  Let the Queen Dowager, with unblenched honours,
  Resume her state, our first Illyrian matron.

  _Raab Kiuprili._ Prince Emerick! you speak fairly, and your pledge
      too
  Is such, as well would suit an honest meaning.

  _Casimir._ My lord! you scarce know half his grace's goodness.     290
  The wealthy heiress, high-born fair Sarolta,
  Bred in the convent of our noble ladies,
  Her relative, the venerable abbess,
  Hath, at his grace's urgence, wooed and won for me.

  _Emerick._ Long may the race, and long may that name flourish,     295
  Which your heroic deeds, brave chief, have rendered
  Dear and illustrious to all true Illyrians.

  _Raab Kiuprili._ The longest line that ever tracing herald
  Or found or feigned, placed by a beggar's soul
  Hath but a mushroom's date in the comparison:                      300
  And with the soul, the conscience is coeval,
  Yea, the soul's essence.

  _Emerick._               Conscience, good my lord,
  Is but the pulse of reason. Is it conscience,
  That a free nation should be handed down,
  Like the dull clods beneath our feet, by chance                    305
  And the blind law of lineage? That whether infant,
  Or man matured, a wise man or an idiot,
  Hero or natural coward, shall have guidance
  Of a free people's destiny, should fall out
  In the mere lottery of a reckless nature,                          310
  Where few the prizes and the blanks are countless?
  Or haply that a nation's fate should hang
  On the bald accident of a midwife's handling
  The unclosed sutures of an infant's skull?

  _Casimir._ What better claim can sovereign wish or need            315
  Than the free voice of men who love their country?
  Those chiefly who have fought for't? Who by right,
  Claim for their monarch one, who having obeyed,
  So hath best learnt to govern; who, having suffered,
  Can feel for each brave sufferer and reward him?                   320
  Whence sprang the name of Emperor? Was it not
  By Nature's fiat? In the storm of triumph,
  'Mid warriors' shouts, did her oracular voice
  Make itself heard: Let the commanding spirit
  Possess the station of command!

  _Raab Kiuprili._                Prince Emerick,                    325
  Your cause will prosper best in your own pleading.

  _Emerick (aside to Casimir)._ Ragozzi was thy school-mate--a bold
      spirit!
  Bind him to us!--Thy father thaws apace!         [_Then aloud._
  Leave us awhile, my lord!--Your friend, Ragozzi,
  Whom you have not yet seen since his return,                       330
  Commands the guard to-day.

           [_CASIMIR retires to the Guard-house; and after a time
                appears before it with CHEF RAGOZZI._

                             We are alone.
  What further pledge or proof desires Kiuprili?
  Then, with your assent----

  _Raab Kiuprili._           Mistake not for assent
  The unquiet silence of a stern resolve
  Throttling the impatient voice. I have heard thee, Prince!         335
  And I have watched thee, too; but have small faith in
  A plausible tale told with a flitting eye.

                 [_EMERICK turns as about to call for the Guard._

  In the next moment I am in thy power,
  In this thou art in mine. Stir but a step,
  Or make one sign--I swear by this good sword,                      340
  Thou diest that instant.

  _Emerick._ Ha, ha!--Well, Sir!--Conclude your homily.

  _Raab Kiuprili._ A tale which, whether true or false, comes guarded
  Against all means of proof, detects itself.
  The Queen mew'd up--this too from anxious care                     345
  And love brought forth of a sudden, a twin birth
  With thy discovery of her plot to rob thee
  Of a rightful throne!--Mark how the scorpion, falsehood,
  Coils round in its own perplexity, and fixes
  Its sting in its own head!

  _Emerick._                 Aye! to the mark!                       350

  _Raab Kiuprili._ Had'st thou believed thine own tale, had'st thou
      fancied
  Thyself the rightful successor of Andreas,
  Would'st thou have pilfered from our school-boys' themes
  These shallow sophisms of a popular choice?
  What people? How convened? or, if convened,                        355
  Must not the magic power that charms together
  Millions of men in council, needs have power
  To win or wield them? Better, O far better
  Shout forth thy titles to yon circling mountains,
  And with a thousand-fold reverberation                             360
  Make the rocks flatter thee, and the volleying air,
  Unbribed, shout back to thee, King Emerick!
  By wholesome laws to embank the sovereign power,
  To deepen by restraint, and by prevention
  Of lawless will to amass and guide the flood                       365
  In its majestic channel, is man's task
  And the true patriot's glory! In all else
  Men safelier trust to Heaven, than to themselves
  When least themselves in the mad whirl of crowds
  Where folly is contagious, and too oft                             370
  Even wise men leave their better sense at home
  To chide and wonder at them when returned.

  _Emerick (aloud)._ Is't thus thou scoff'st the people? most of all,
  The soldiers, the defenders of the people?

  _Raab Kiuprili._ O most of all, most miserable nation,             375
  For whom the imperial power, enormous bubble!
  Is blown and kept aloft, or burst and shattered
  By the bribed breath of a lewd soldiery!
  Chiefly of such, as from the frontiers far,
  (Which is the noblest station of true warriors)                    380
  In rank licentious idleness beleaguer
  City and Court, a venomed thorn i'the side
  Of virtuous kings, the tyrant's slave and tyrant,
  Still ravening for fresh largess! But with such
  What title claim'st thou, save thy birth? What merits              385
  Which many a liegeman may not plead as well,
  Brave though I grant thee? If a life outlaboured
  Head, heart, and fortunate arm, in watch and war,
  For the land's fame and weal; if large acquests,
  Made honest by the aggression of the foe,                          390
  And whose best praise is, that they bring us safety;
  If victory, doubly-wreathed, whose under-garland
  Of laurel-leaves looks greener and more sparkling
  Thro' the grey olive-branch; if these, Prince Emerick!
  Give the true title to the throne, not thou--                      395
  No! (let Illyria, let the infidel enemy
  Be judge and arbiter between us!) I,
  I were the rightful sovereign!

  _Emerick._                     I have faith
  That thou both think'st and hop'st it. Fair Zapolya,
  A provident lady--

  _Raab Kiuprili._   Wretch beneath all answer!                      400

  _Emerick._ Offers at once the royal bed and throne!

  _Raab Kiuprili._ To be a kingdom's bulwark, a king's glory,
  Yet loved by both, and trusted, and trust-worthy,
  Is more than to be king; but see! thy rage
  Fights with thy fear. I will relieve thee!
      Ho!                                        [_To the_ Guard.    405


  _Emerick._ Not for thy sword, but to entrap thee, ruffian!
  Thus long I have listened--Guard--ho! from the Palace.

        [_The_ Guard _post from the Guard-house with CHEF RAGOZZI
             at their head, and then a number from the
             Palace--CHEF RAGOZZI demands KIUPRILI'S sword, and
             apprehends him._

  _Casimir._ O agony!                              [_To EMERICK._
                      Sire, hear me!

                              [_To KIUPRILI, who turns from him._

                                     Hear me, father!

  _Emerick._ Take in arrest that traitor and assassin!
  Who pleads for his life, strikes at mine, his sovereign's.         410

  _Raab Kiuprili._ As the Co-regent of the Realm, I stand
  Amenable to none save to the States
  Met in due course of law. But ye are bond-slaves,
  Yet witness ye that before God and man
  I here impeach Lord Emerick of foul treason,                       415
  And on strong grounds attaint him with suspicion
  Of murder--

  _Emerick._  Hence with the madman!

  _Raab Kiuprili._                   Your Queen's murder,
  The royal orphan's murder: and to the death
  Defy him, as a tyrant and usurper.

                         [_Hurried off by RAGOZZI and the_ Guard.

  _Emerick._ Ere twice the sun hath risen, by my sceptre             420
  This insolence shall be avenged.

  _Casimir._                       O banish him!
  This infamy will crush me. O for my sake,
  Banish him, my liege lord!

  _Emerick._                 What? to the army?
  Be calm, young friend! Nought shall be done in anger.
  The child o'erpowers the man. In this emergence                    425
  I must take counsel for us both. Retire.       [_Exit CASIMIR._

  _Emerick (alone, looks at a Calendar)._ The changeful planet, now
      in her decay,
  Dips down at midnight, to be seen no more.
  With her shall sink the enemies of Emerick,
  Cursed by the last look of the waning moon:                        430
  And my bright destiny, with sharpened horns,
  Shall greet me fearless in the new-born crescent.      [_Exit._


_Scene changes to the back of the Palace--a Wooded Park, and Mountains.
Enter ZAPOLYA, with an infant in arms._

  _Zapolya._ Hush, dear one! hush! My trembling arm disturbs thee!
  Thou, the protector of the helpless! Thou,
  The widow's husband and the orphan's father,                       435
  Direct my steps! Ah whither? O send down
  Thy angel to a houseless babe and mother,
  Driven forth into the cruel wilderness!
  Hush, sweet one! Thou art no Hagar's offspring: thou art
  The rightful heir of an anointed king!                             440
  What sounds are those? It is the vesper chaunt
  Of labouring men returning to their home!
  Their queen has no home! Hear me, heavenly Father!
  And let this darkness----
  Be as the shadow of thy outspread wings                            445
  To hide and shield us! Start'st thou in thy slumbers?
  Thou canst not dream of savage Emerick. Hush!
  Betray not thy poor mother! For if they seize thee
  I shall grow mad indeed, and they'll believe
  Thy wicked uncle's lie. Ha! what? A soldier?                       450

                                           [_Enter CHEF RAGOZZI._

  _Chef Ragozzi._ Sure Heaven befriends us. Well! he hath escaped!
  O rare tune of a tyrant's promises
  That can enchant the serpent treachery
  From forth its lurking hole in the heart. 'Ragozzi!
  O brave Ragozzi! Count! Commander! What not?'                      455
  And all this too for nothing! a poor nothing!
  Merely to play the underling in the murder
  Of my best friend Kiuprili! His own son--monstrous!
  Tyrant! I owe thee thanks, and in good hour
  Will I repay thee, for that thou thought'st me too                 460
  A serviceable villain. Could I now
  But gain some sure intelligence of the queen:
  Heaven bless and guard her!

  _Zapolya (coming forward)._ Art thou not Ragozzi?

  _Chef Ragozzi._ The Queen! Now then the miracle is full!           465
  I see heaven's wisdom is an over-match
  For the devil's cunning. This way, madam, haste!

  _Zapolya._ Stay! Oh, no! Forgive me if I wrong thee!
  This is thy sovereign's child: Oh, pity us,
  And be not treacherous!                            [_Kneeling._

  _Chef Ragozzi (raising her)._ Madam! For mercy's sake!             470

  _Zapolya._ But tyrants have a hundred eyes and arms!

  _Chef Ragozzi._ Take courage, madam! 'Twere too horrible,
  (I can not do't) to swear I'm not a monster!--
  Scarce had I barr'd the door on Raab Kiuprili--

  _Zapolya._ Kiuprili! How?

  _Chef Ragozzi._           There is not time to tell it,--          475
  The tyrant called me to him, praised my zeal--
  (And be assured I overtopt his cunning
  And seemed right zealous.) But time wastes: In fine,
  Bids me dispatch my trustiest friends, as couriers
  With letters to the army. The thought at once                      480
  Flashed on me. I disguised my prisoner--

  _Zapolya._ What, Raab Kiuprili?

  _Chef Ragozzi._                 Yes! my noble general!
  I sent him off, with Emerick's own pacquet,
  Haste, and post haste--Prepared to follow him----

  _Zapolya._ Ah, how? Is it joy or fear? My limbs seem sinking!--    485

  _Chef Ragozzi (supporting her)._ Heaven still befriends us. I have
      left my charger,
  A gentle beast and fleet, and my boy's mule,
  One that can shoot a precipice like a bird,
  Just where the wood begins to climb the mountains.
  The course we'll thread will mock the tyrant's guesses,            490
  Or scare the followers. Ere we reach the main road
  The Lord Kiuprili will have sent a troop
  To escort me. Oh, thrice happy when he finds
  The treasure which I convoy!

  _Zapolya._                   One brief moment,
  That praying for strength I may have strength. This babe,          495
  Heaven's eye is on it, and its innocence
  Is, as a prophet's prayer, strong and prevailing!
  Through thee, dear babe, the inspiring thought possessed me,
  When the loud clamor rose, and all the palace
  Emptied itself--(They sought my life, Ragozzi!)                    500
  Like a swift shadow gliding, I made way
  To the deserted chamber of my lord.--    [_Then to the infant._
  And thou didst kiss thy father's lifeless lips,
  And in thy helpless hand, sweet slumberer!
  Still clasp'st the signet of thy royalty.                          505
  As I removed the seal, the heavy arm
  Dropt from the couch aslant, and the stiff finger
  Seemed pointing at my feet. Provident Heaven!
  Lo, I was standing on the secret door,
  Which, through a long descent where all sound perishes,            510
  Led out beyond the palace. Well I knew it----
  But Andreas framed it not! He was no tyrant!

  _Chef Ragozzi._ Haste, madam! Let me take this precious burden!

                              [_He kneels as he takes the child._

  _Zapolya._ Take him! And if we be pursued, I charge thee,
  Flee thou and leave me! Flee and save thy king!                    515

              [_Then as going off, she looks back on the palace._

  Thou tyrant's den, be called no more a palace!
  The orphan's angel at the throne of heaven
  Stands up against thee, and there hover o'er thee
  A Queen's, a Mother's, and a Widow's curse.
  Henceforth a dragon's haunt, fear and suspicion                    520
  Stand sentry at thy portals! Faith and honour,
  Driven from the throne, shall leave the attainted nation:
  And, for the iniquity that houses in thee,
  False glory, thirst of blood, and lust of rapine,
  (Fateful conjunction of malignant planets)                         525
  Shall shoot their blastments on the land. The fathers
  Henceforth shall have no joy in their young men,
  And when they cry: Lo! a male child is born!
  The mother shall make answer with a groan.
  For bloody usurpation, like a vulture,                             530
  Shall clog its beak within Illyria's heart.
  Remorseless slaves of a remorseless tyrant,
  They shall be mocked with sounds of liberty,
  And liberty shall be proclaimed alone
  To thee, O Fire! O Pestilence! O Sword!                            535
  Till Vengeance hath her fill.--And thou, snatched hence,
  Poor friendless fugitive! with mother's wailing,
  Offspring of Royal Andreas, shalt return,
  With trump and timbrel-clang, and popular shout,
  In triumph to the palace of thy fathers!             [_Exeunt._


LINENOTES:

[3] _such_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[20] And _as_ a child have reared thee _1817_. And _as_ a child I, &c.
1828, 1829.

[22] to] on 1817.

[Before 30] _Raab Kiuprili (his hand to his heart)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[32] commanders'] commander's 1817, 1828, 1829.

[35]

  All----                      [_Then, in a subdued and saddened voice._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[39] ANDREAS 1817, 1828, 1829.

[43] ZAPOLYA 1817, 1828, 1829.

[70] _thy_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 103] _Raab Kiuprili (looking forwards anxiously)._ 1817, 1828,
1829.

[113]

  Bought like themselves!     [_During this conversation music is heard,
                                   first solemn and funereal, and then
                                   changing to spirited and triumphal._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[118]

  . . . I applaud, Ragozzi!                 [_Musing to himself--then--_

1817, 1828, 1829.

[135] _lawful_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[159] VICTORY 1817, 1828, 1829.

[160] PEACE 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 172] [_During the last four lines, enter LORD CASIMIR, with
expressions of anger and alarm._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 174] [_Starts--then approaching with timid respect._ 1817, 1828,
1829.

[175] My father! _Raab Kiuprili (turning away)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 177] _Casimir (with reverence)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[187] _Your_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 192] _Casimir (struggling with his passion)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[210] _my_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[223] _his_ 1817.

[224]

  _They BOASTED_ not _their baseness._   [_Starts, and draws his sword._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[230.]

  Kiuprili? Ha!----      [_With lowered voice, at the same time with one
                              hand making, &c._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 230] [_Music . . . Palace.--During which time EMERICK and
KIUPRILI regard each other stedfastly._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[233] _thy--I_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[234] thanks] thank 1817.

[240] _me_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[243] _Emerick (with a contemptuous sneer)._ Aye!--Writ, &c. 1817, 1828,
1829.

[252] _my_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[268] _thee_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[271] fraud] _frauds_ 1817: fraud's 1828, 1829.

[288] _speak_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 298] _Raab Kiuprili (sternly)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 343] _Raab Kiuprili (in a somewhat suppressed voice)._ 1817,
1828, 1829.

[349] Coils round its perplexity 1817.

[Before 351] _Raab Kiuprili (aloud: he and Emerick standing at
equi-distance from the Palace and the Guard-house)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[351] _fancied_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[354] _popular choice_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 375] _Raab Kiuprili (aloud)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[395] _thou_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[410] _his_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[423] _Emerick (scornfully)._ What? &c. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 426] [_Exit CASIMIR in agitation._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 433] _Scene changes to another view, namely the back, &c._ 1817,
1828, 1829.

[447] _Thou_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 451] [_She starts back--and enter, &c._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[454-5] 'Ragozzi . . . What not?'] _Ragozzi . . . What not?_ 1817, 1828,
1829.

[460] _me_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 464] _Zapolya (coming fearfully forward)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[483] _him_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[495] _have_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[512] _Andreas_: _He_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[524] rapine] ravine 1817.

[528] _Lo! . . . borne!_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[533] _sounds_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 536] [_Again to the infant._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 540] END OF THE PRELUDE. 1817.




PART II

THE SEQUEL, ENTITLED 'THE USURPER'S FATE'


ADDITIONAL CHARACTERS

  _OLD BATHORY, a Mountaineer._
  _BETHLEN BATHORY, the young Prince Andreas, supposed son of Old
      BATHORY._
  _LORD RUDOLPH, a Courtier, but friend to the Queen's party._
  _LASKA, Steward to CASIMIR, betrothed to GLYCINE._
  _PESTALUTZ, an Assassin, in EMERICK'S employ._
  _LADY SAROLTA, Wife of LORD CASIMIR._
  _GLYCINE, Orphan Daughter of CHEF RAGOZZI._

_Between the flight of the Queen, and the civil war which immediately
followed, and in which EMERICK remained the victor, a space of twenty
years is supposed to have elapsed._




USURPATION ENDED; OR, SHE COMES AGAIN




ACT I


SCENE I

_A Mountainous Country. BATHORY'S Dwelling at the end of the Stage.
Enter LADY SAROLTA and GLYCINE._

  _Glycine._ Well then! our round of charity is finished.
  Rest, Madam! You breathe quick.

  _Sarolta._                      What, tired, Glycine?
  No delicate court-dame, but a mountaineer
  By choice no less than birth, I gladly use
  The good strength Nature gave me.

  _Glycine._                        That last cottage                  5
  Is built as if an eagle or a raven
  Had chosen it for her nest.

  _Sarolta._                  So many are
  The sufferings which no human aid can reach,
  It needs must be a duty doubly sweet
  To heal the few we can. Well! let us rest.                          10

  _Glycine._ There?            [_Pointing to BATHORY'S dwelling._

  _Sarolta._        Here! For on this spot Lord Casimir
  Took his last leave. On yonder mountain-ridge
  I lost the misty image which so long
  Lingered, or seemed at least to linger on it.

  _Glycine._ And what if even now, on that same ridge,                15
  A speck should rise, and still enlarging, lengthening,
  As it clomb downwards, shape itself at last
  To a numerous cavalcade, and spurring foremost,
  Who but Sarolta's own dear lord returned
  From his high embassy?

  _Sarolta._             Thou hast hit my thought!                    20
  All the long day, from yester-morn to evening,
  The restless hope fluttered about my heart.
  Oh we are querulous creatures! Little less
  Than all things can suffice to make us happy;
  And little more than nothing is enough                              25
  To discontent us.--Were he come, then should I
  Repine he had not arrived just one day earlier
  To keep his birth-day here, in his own birth-place.

  _Glycine._ But our best sports belike, and gay processions
  Would to my lord have seemed but work-day sights                    30
  Compared with those the royal court affords.

  _Sarolta._ I have small wish to see them. A spring morning
  With its wild gladsome minstrelsy of birds
  And its bright jewelry of flowers and dew-drops
  (Each orbéd drop an orb of glory in it)                             35
  Would put them all in eclipse. This sweet retirement
  Lord Casimir's wish alone would have made sacred:
  But, in good truth, his loving jealousy
  Did but command, what I had else entreated.

  _Glycine._ And yet had I been born Lady Sarolta,                    40
  Been wedded to the noblest of the realm,
  So beautiful besides, and yet so stately----

  _Sarolta._ Hush! Innocent flatterer!

  _Glycine._                           Nay! to my poor fancy
  The royal court would seem an earthly heaven,
  Made for such stars to shine in, and be gracious.                   45

  _Sarolta._ So doth the ignorant distance still delude us!
  Thy fancied heaven, dear girl, like that above thee,
  In its mere self cold, drear, colourless void,
  Seen from below and in the large, becomes
  The bright blue ether, and the seat of gods!                        50
  Well! but this broil that scared you from the dance?
  And was not Laska there: he, your betrothed?

  _Glycine._ Yes, madam! he was there. So was the maypole,
  For we danced round it.

  _Sarolta._              Ah, Glycine! why,
  Why did you then betroth yourself?

  _Glycine._                         Because                          55
  My own dear lady wished it! 'twas you asked me!

  _Sarolta._ Yes, at my lord's request, but never wished,
  My poor affectionate girl, to see thee wretched.
  Thou knowest not yet the duties of a wife.

  _Glycine._ Oh, yes! It is a wife's chief duty, madam!               60
  To stand in awe of her husband, and obey him,
  And, I am sure, I never shall see Laska
  But I shall tremble.

  _Sarolta._           Not with fear, I think,
  For you still mock him. Bring a seat from the cottage.

           [_Exit GLYCINE into the cottage, SAROLTA continues her
                speech looking after her._

  Something above thy rank there hangs about thee,                    65
  And in thy countenance, thy voice, and motion,
  Yea, e'en in thy simplicity, Glycine,
  A fine and feminine grace, that makes me feel
  More as a mother than a mistress to thee!
  Thou art a soldier's orphan! that--the courage,                     70
  Which rising in thine eye, seems oft to give
  A new soul to its gentleness, doth prove thee!
  Thou art sprung too of no ignoble blood,
  Or there's no faith in instinct!

                              [_Angry voices and clamour within._

_Re-enter GLYCINE._

  _Glycine._ Oh, madam! there's a party of your servants,             75
  And my lord's steward, Laska, at their head,
  Have come to search for old Bathory's son,
  Bethlen, that brave young man! 'twas he, my lady,
  That took our parts, and beat off the intruders,
  And in mere spite and malice, now they charge him                   80
  With bad words of Lord Casimir and the king.
  Pray don't believe them, madam! This way! This way!
  Lady Sarolta's here.--                      [_Calling without._

  _Sarolta._             Be calm, Glycine.

_Enter LASKA and_ Servants _with OLD BATHORY._

  _Laska (to Bathory)._ We have no concern with you! What needs your
      presence?

  _Old Bathory._ What! Do you think I'll suffer my brave boy          85
  To be slandered by a set of coward-ruffians,
  And leave it to their malice,--yes, mere malice!--
  To tell its own tale?

                     [_LASKA and_ Servants _bow to Lady SAROLTA._

  _Sarolta._            Laska! What may this mean?

  _Laska._ Madam! and may it please your ladyship!
  This old man's son, by name Bethlen Bathory,                        90
  Stands charged, on weighty evidence, that he,
  On yester-eve, being his lordship's birth-day,
  Did traitorously defame Lord Casimir:
  The lord high steward of the realm, moreover----

  _Sarolta._ Be brief! We know his titles!

  _Laska._                                 And moreover               95
  Raved like a traitor at our liege King Emerick.
  And furthermore, said witnesses make oath,
  Led on the assault upon his lordship's servants;
  Yea, insolently tore, from this, your huntsman,
  His badge of livery of your noble house,                           100
  And trampled it in scorn.

  _Sarolta (to the Servants who offer to speak)._ You have had your
      spokesman!
  Where is the young man thus accused?

  _Old Bathory._                       I know not:
  But if no ill betide him on the mountains,
  He will not long be absent!

  _Sarolta._                  Thou art his father?                   105

  _Old Bathory._ None ever with more reason prized a son;
  Yet I hate falsehood more than I love him.
  But more than one, now in my lady's presence,
  Witnessed the affray, besides these men of malice;
  And if I swerve from truth----

  _Glycine._                     Yes! good old man!                  110
  My lady! pray believe him!

  _Sarolta._                 Hush, Glycine
  Be silent, I command you.                   [_Then to BATHORY._
                            Speak! we hear you!

  _Old Bathory._ My tale is brief. During our festive dance,
  Your servants, the accusers of my son,
  Offered gross insults, in unmanly sort,                            115
  To our village maidens. He (could he do less?)
  Rose in defence of outraged modesty,
  And so persuasive did his cudgel prove,
  (Your hectoring sparks so over-brave to women
  Are always cowards) that they soon took flight,                    120
  And now in mere revenge, like baffled boasters,
  Have framed this tale, out of some hasty words
  Which their own threats provoked.

  _Sarolta._                        Old man! you talk
  Too bluntly! Did your son owe no respect
  To the livery of our house?

  _Old Bathory._              Even such respect                      125
  As the sheep's skin should gain for the hot wolf
  That hath begun to worry the poor lambs!

  _Laska._ Old insolent ruffian!

  _Glycine._                     Pardon! pardon, madam!
  I saw the whole affray. The good old man
  Means no offence, sweet lady!--You, yourself,                      130
  Laska! know well, that these men were the ruffians!
  Shame on you!

  _Sarolta._    What! Glycine? Go, retire!       [_Exit GLYCINE._
  Be it then that these men faulted. Yet yourself,
  Or better still belike the maidens' parents,
  Might have complained to us. Was ever access                       135
  Denied you? Or free audience? Or are we
  Weak and unfit to punish our own servants?

  _Old Bathory._ So then! So then! Heaven grant an old man patience!
  And must the gardener leave his seedling plants,
  Leave his young roses to the rooting swine                         140
  While he goes ask their master, if perchance
  His leisure serve to scourge them from their ravage?

  _Laska._ Ho! Take the rude clown from your lady's presence!
  I will report her further will!

  _Sarolta._                      Wait then,
  Till thou hast learnt it! Fervent good old man!                    145
  Forgive me that, to try thee, I put on
  A face of sternness, alien to my meaning!

                                  [_Then speaks to the_ Servants.

  Hence! leave my presence! and you, Laska! mark me!
  Those rioters are no longer of my household!
  If we but shake a dewdrop from a rose                              150
  In vain would we replace it, and as vainly
  Restore the tear of wounded modesty
  To a maiden's eye familiarized to licence.--
  But these men, Laska--

  _Laska (aside)._       Yes, now 'tis coming.

  _Sarolta._ Brutal aggressors first, then baffled dastards,         155
  That they have sought to piece out their revenge
  With a tale of words lured from the lips of anger
  Stamps them most dangerous; and till I want
  Fit means for wicked ends, we shall not need
  Their services. Discharge them! You, Bathory!                      160
  Are henceforth of my household! I shall place you
  Near my own person. When your son returns,
  Present him to us!

  _Old Bathory._     Ha! what strangers here!
  [906:1]What business have they in an old man's eye?
  Your goodness, lady--and it came so sudden--                       165
  I can not--must not--let you be deceived.
  I have yet another tale, but--        [_Then to SAROLTA aside._
                                 not for all ears!

  _Sarolta._ I oft have passed your cottage, and still praised
  Its beauty, and that trim orchard-plot, whose blossoms
  The gusts of April showered aslant its thatch.                     170
  Come, you shall show it me! And, while you bid it
  Farewell, be not ashamed that I should witness
  The oil of gladness glittering on the water
  Of an ebbing grief.      [_BATHORY shows her into his cottage._

  _Laska (alone)._    Vexation! baffled! school'd!
  Ho! Laska! wake! why? what can all this mean?                      175
  She sent away that cockatrice in anger!
  Oh the false witch! It is too plain, she loves him.
  And now, the old man near my lady's person,
  She'll see this Bethlen hourly!

         [_LASKA flings himself into the seat. GLYCINE peeps in._

  _Glycine._                      Laska! Laska!
  Is my lady gone?

  _Laska._         Gone.

  _Glycine._             Have you yet seen him?                      180
  Is he returned?                             [_LASKA starts up._
  Has the seat stung you, Laska?

  _Laska._ No, serpent! no; 'tis you that sting me; you!
  What! you would cling to him again?

  _Glycine._                          Whom?

  _Laska._                                  Bethlen! Bethlen!
  Yes; gaze as if your very eyes embraced him!                       185
  Ha! you forget the scene of yesterday!
  Mute ere he came, but then--Out on your screams,
  And your pretended fears!

  _Glycine._                Your fears, at least,
  Were real, Laska! or your trembling limbs
  And white cheeks played the hypocrites most vilely!                190

  _Laska._ I fear! whom? what?

  _Glycine._                   I know what I should fear,
  Were I in Laska's place.

  _Laska._                 What?

  _Glycine._                     My own conscience,
  For having fed my jealousy and envy
  With a plot, made out of other men's revenges,
  Against a brave and innocent young man's life!                     195
  Yet, yet, pray tell me!

  _Laska._                You will know too soon.

  _Glycine._ Would I could find my lady! though she chid me--
  Yet this suspense--                                   [_Going._

  _Laska._            Stop! stop! one question only--
  I am quite calm--

  _Glycine._        Ay, as the old song says,
  Calm as a tiger, valiant as a dove.                                200
  Nay now, I have marred the verse: well! this one question--

  _Laska._ Are you not bound to me by your own promise?
  And is it not as plain--

  _Glycine._               Halt! that's two questions.

  _Laska._ Pshaw! Is it not as plain as impudence,
  That you're in love with this young swaggering beggar,             205
  Bethlen Bathory? When he was accused,
  Why pressed you forward? Why did you defend him?

  _Glycine._ Question meet question: that's a woman's privilege,
  Why, Laska, did you urge Lord Casimir
  To make my lady force that promise from me?                        210

  _Laska._ So then, you say, Lady Sarolta, forced you?

  _Glycine._ Could I look up to her dear countenance,
  And say her nay? As far back as I wot of
  All her commands were gracious, sweet requests.
  How could it be then, but that her requests                        215
  Must needs have sounded to me as commands?
  And as for love, had I a score of loves,
  I'd keep them all for my dear, kind, good mistress.

  _Laska._ Not one for Bethlen?

  _Glycine._                    Oh! that's a different thing.
  To be sure he's brave, and handsome, and so pious                  220
  To his good old father. But for loving him--
  Nay, there, indeed you are mistaken, Laska!
  Poor youth! I rather think I grieve for him;
  For I sigh so deeply when I think of him!
  And if I see him, the tears come in my eyes,                       225
  And my heart beats; and all because I dreamt
  That the war-wolf[908:1] had gored him as he hunted
  In the haunted forest!

  _Laska._               You dare own all this?
  Your lady will not warrant promise-breach.
  Mine, pampered Miss! you shall be; and I'll make you               230
  Grieve for him with a vengeance. Odd's, my fingers
  Tingle already!                     [_Makes threatening signs._

  _Glycine (aside)._ Ha! Bethlen coming this way!

                                       [_GLYCINE then cries out._

  Oh, save me! save me! Pray don't kill me, Laska!

_Enter BETHLEN in a Hunting Dress._

  _Bethlen._ What, beat a woman!

  _Laska (to Glycine)._          O you cockatrice!

  _Bethlen._ Unmanly dastard, hold!

  _Laska._                          Do you chance to know            235
  Who--I--am, Sir?--('Sdeath! how black he looks!)

  _Bethlen._ I have started many strange beasts in my time,
  But none less like a man, than this before me
  That lifts his hand against a timid female.

  _Laska._ Bold youth! she's mine.

  _Glycine._                       No, not my master yet,            240
  But only is to be; and all, because
  Two years ago my lady asked me, and
  I promised her, not him; and if she'll let me,
  I'll hate you, my lord's steward.

  _Bethlen._                        Hush, Glycine!

  _Glycine._ Yes, I do, Bethlen; for he just now brought             245
  False witnesses to swear away your life:
  Your life, and old Bathory's too.

  _Bethlen._                        Bathory's!
  Where is my father? Answer, or----Ha! gone!

                [_LASKA during this time retires from the Stage._

  _Glycine._ Oh, heed not him! I saw you pressing onward,
  And did but feign alarm. Dear gallant youth,                       250
  It is your life they seek!

  _Bethlen._                 My life?

  _Glycine._                          Alas,
  Lady Sarolta even--

  _Bethlen._          She does not know me!

  _Glycine._ Oh that she did! she could not then have spoken
  With such stern countenance. But though she spurn me,
  I will kneel, Bethlen--

  _Bethlen._              Not for me, Glycine!                       255
  What have I done? or whom have I offended?

  _Glycine._ Rash words, 'tis said, and treasonous of the king.

                                   [_BETHLEN mutters to himself._

  _Glycine (aside)._ So looks the statue, in our hall, o' the god,
  The shaft just flown that killed the serpent!

  _Bethlen._                                    King!

  _Glycine._ Ah, often have I wished you were a king.                260
  You would protect the helpless every where,
  As you did us. And I, too, should not then
  Grieve for you, Bethlen, as I do; nor have
  The tears come in my eyes; nor dream bad dreams
  That you were killed in the forest; and then Laska                 265
  Would have no right to rail at me, nor say
  (Yes, the base man, he says,) that I--I love you.

  _Bethlen._ Pretty Glycine! wert thou not betrothed--
  But in good truth I know not what I speak.
  This luckless morning I have been so haunted                       270
  With my own fancies, starting up like omens,
  That I feel like one, who waking from a dream
  Both asks and answers wildly.--But Bathory?

  _Glycine._ Hist! 'tis my lady's step! She must not see you!

                                              [_BETHLEN retires._

_Enter from the Cottage SAROLTA and BATHORY._

  _Sarolta._ Go, seek your son! I need not add, be speedy--          275
  You here, Glycine?                             [_Exit BATHORY._

  _Glycine._         Pardon, pardon, Madam!
  If you but saw the old man's son, you would not,
  You could not have him harmed.

  _Sarolta._                     Be calm, Glycine!

  _Glycine._ No, I shall break my heart.

  _Sarolta._                             Ha! is it so?
  O strange and hidden power of sympathy,                            280
  That of--like fates, though all unknown to each,
  Dost make blind instincts, orphan's heart to orphan's
  Drawing by dim disquiet!

  _Glycine._               Old Bathory--

  _Sarolta._ Seeks his brave son. Come, wipe away thy tears.
  Yes, in good truth, Glycine, this same Bethlen                     285
  Seems a most noble and deserving youth.

  _Glycine._ My lady does not mock me?

  _Sarolta._                           Where is Laska?
  Has he not told thee?

  _Glycine._            Nothing. In his fear--
  Anger, I mean--stole off--I am so fluttered--
  Left me abruptly--

  _Sarolta._         His shame excuses him!                          290
  He is somewhat hardly tasked; and in discharging
  His own tools, cons a lesson for himself.
  Bathory and the youth henceforward live
  Safe in my lord's protection.

  _Glycine._                    The saints bless you!
  Shame on my graceless heart! How dared I fear,                     295
  Lady Sarolta could be cruel?

  _Sarolta._                   Come,
  Be yourself, girl!

  _Glycine._         O, 'tis so full here!
  And now it can not harm him if I tell you,
  That the old man's son--

  _Sarolta._               Is not that old man's son!
  A destiny, not unlike thine own, is his.                           300
  For all I know of thee is, that thou art
  A soldier's orphan: left when rage intestine[911:1]
  Shook and engulphed the pillars of Illyria.
  This other fragment, thrown back by that same earthquake,
  This, so mysteriously inscribed by nature,                         305
  Perchance may piece out and interpret thine.
  Command thyself! Be secret! His true father----
  Hear'st thou?

  _Glycine._    O tell--

  _Bethlen (rushing out)._ Yes, tell me, Shape from heaven!
  Who is my father?

  _Sarolta (gazing with surprise)._ Thine? Thy father? Rise!

  _Glycine._ Alas! He hath alarmed you, my dear lady!                310

  _Sarolta._ His countenance, not his act!

  _Glycine._                               Rise, Bethlen! Rise!

  _Bethlen._ No; kneel thou too! and with thy orphan's tongue
  Plead for me! I am rooted to the earth
  And have no power to rise! Give me a father!
  There is a prayer in those uplifted eyes                           315
  That seeks high Heaven! But I will overtake it,
  And bring it back, and make it plead for me
  In thine own heart! Speak! Speak! Restore to me
  A name in the world!

  _Sarolta._           By that blest Heaven I gazed at,
  I know not who thou art. And if I knew,                            320
  Dared I--But rise!

  _Bethlen._         Blest spirits of my parents,
  Ye hover o'er me now! Ye shine upon me!
  And like a flower that coils forth from a ruin,
  I feel and seek the light I can not see!

  _Sarolta._ Thou see'st yon dim spot on the mountain's ridge,       325
  But what it is thou know'st not. Even such
  Is all I know of thee--haply, brave youth,
  Is all Fate makes it safe for thee to know!

  _Bethlen._ Safe? Safe? O let me then inherit danger,
  And it shall be my birth-right!

  _Sarolta (aside)._              That look again!--                 330
  The wood which first incloses, and then skirts
  The highest track that leads across the mountains--
  Thou know'st it, Bethlen?

  _Bethlen._                Lady, 'twas my wont
  To roam there in my childhood oft alone
  And mutter to myself the name of father.                           335
  For still Bathory (why, till now I guessed not)
  Would never hear it from my lips, but sighing
  Gazed upward. Yet of late an idle terror----

  _Glycine._ Madam, that wood is haunted by the war-wolves,
  Vampires, and monstrous----

  _Sarolta._                  Moon-calves, credulous girl!           340
  Haply some o'ergrown savage of the forest
  Hath his lair there, and fear hath framed the rest.
  After that last great battle, (O young man!
  Thou wakest anew my life's sole anguish) that
  Which fixed Lord Emerick on his throne, Bathory                    345
  Led by a cry, far inward from the track,
  In the hollow of an oak, as in a nest,
  Did find thee, Bethlen, then a helpless babe.
  The robe that wrapt thee was a widow's mantle.

  _Bethlen._ An infant's weakness doth relax my frame.               350
  O say--I fear to ask----

  _Sarolta._               And I to tell thee.

  _Bethlen._ Strike! O strike quickly! See, I do not shrink.
  I am stone, cold stone.

  _Sarolta._              Hid in a brake hard by,
  Scarce by both palms supported from the earth,
  A wounded lady lay, whose life fast waning                         355
  Seemed to survive itself in her fixt eyes,
  That strained towards the babe. At length one arm
  Painfully from her own weight disengaging,
  She pointed first to heaven, then from her bosom
  Drew forth a golden casket. Thus entreated                         360
  Thy foster-father took thee in his arms,
  And kneeling spake: 'If aught of this world's comfort
  Can reach thy heart, receive a poor man's troth,
  That at my life's risk I will save thy child!'
  Her countenance worked, as one that seemed preparing               365
  A loud voice, but it died upon her lips
  In a faint whisper, 'Fly! Save him! Hide--hide all!'

  _Bethlen._ And did he leave her? What! had I a mother?
  And left her bleeding, dying? Bought I vile life
  With the desertion of a dying mother?                              370
  Oh agony!

  _Glycine._ Alas! thou art bewildered,
  And dost forget thou wert a helpless infant!

  _Bethlen._ What else can I remember, but a mother
  Mangled and left to perish?

  _Sarolta._                  Hush, Glycine!
  It is the ground-swell of a teeming instinct:                      375
  Let it but lift itself to air and sunshine,
  And it will find a mirror in the waters
  It now makes boil above it. Check him not!

  _Bethlen._ O that I were diffused among the waters
  That pierce into the secret depths of earth,                       380
  And find their way in darkness! Would that I
  Could spread myself upon the homeless winds!
  And I would seek her! for she is not dead!
  She can not die! O pardon, gracious lady!
  You were about to say, that he returned--                          385

  _Sarolta._ Deep Love, the godlike in us, still believes
  Its objects as immortal as itself!

  _Bethlen._ And found her still--

  _Sarolta._                       Alas! he did return,
  He left no spot unsearched in all the forest,
  But she (I trust me by some friendly hand)                         390
  Had been borne off.

  _Bethlen._          O whither?

  _Glycine._                     Dearest Bethlen!
  I would that you could weep like me! O do not
  Gaze so upon the air!

  _Sarolta._            While he was absent,
  A friendly troop, 'tis certain, scoured the wood,
  Hotly pursued indeed by Emerick.

  _Bethlen._                       Emerick.                          395
  Oh hell!

  _Glycine._ Bethlen!

  _Bethlen._          Hist! I'll curse him in a whisper!
  This gracious lady must hear blessings only.
  She hath not yet the glory round her head,
  Nor those strong eagle wings, which make swift way
  To that appointed place, which I must seek;                        400
  Or else she were my mother!

  _Sarolta._                  Noble youth!
  From me fear nothing! Long time have I owed
  Offerings of expiation for misdeeds
  Long past that weigh me down, though innocent!
  Thy foster-father hid the secret from thee,                        405
  For he perceived thy thoughts as they expanded,
  Proud, restless, and ill-sorting with thy state!
  Vain was his care! Thou'st made thyself suspected
  E'en where suspicion reigns, and asks no proof
  But its own fears! Great Nature hath endowed thee                  410
  With her best gifts! From me thou shalt receive
  All honourable aidance! But haste hence!
  Travel will ripen thee, and enterprise
  Beseems thy years! Be thou henceforth my soldier!
  And whatsoe'er betide thee, still believe                          415
  That in each noble deed, achieved or suffered,
  Thou solvest best the riddle of thy birth!
  And may the light that streams from thine own honour
  Guide thee to that thou seekest!

  _Glycine._                       Must he leave us?

  _Bethlen._ And for such goodness can I return nothing              420
  But some hot tears that sting mine eyes? Some sighs
  That if not breathed would swell my heart to stifling?
  May heaven and thine own virtues, high-born lady,
  Be as a shield of fire, far, far aloof
  To scare all evil from thee! Yet, if fate                          425
  Hath destined thee one doubtful hour of danger,
  From the uttermost region of the earth, methinks,
  Swift as a spirit invoked, I should be with thee!
  And then, perchance, I might have power to unbosom
  These thanks that struggle here. Eyes fair as thine                430
  Have gazed on me with tears of love and anguish,
  Which these eyes saw not, or beheld unconscious;
  And tones of anxious fondness, passionate prayers,
  Have been talked to me! But this tongue ne'er soothed
  A mother's ear, lisping a mother's name!                           435
  O, at how dear a price have I been loved
  And no love could return! One boon then, lady!
  Where'er thou bidd'st, I go thy faithful soldier,
  But first must trace the spot, where she lay bleeding
  Who gave me life. No more shall beast of ravine                    440
  Affront with baser spoil that sacred forest!
  Or if avengers more than human haunt there,
  Take they what shape they list, savage or heavenly,
  They shall make answer to me, though my heart's blood
  Should be the spell to bind them. Blood calls for blood!           445

                                                 [_Exit Bethlen._

  _Sarolta._ Ah! it was this I feared. To ward off this
  Did I withhold from him that old Bathory
  Returning hid beneath the self-same oak,
  Where the babe lay, the mantle, and some jewel
  Bound on his infant arm.

  _Glycine._               Oh, let me fly                            450
  And stop him! Mangled limbs do there lie scattered
  Till the lured eagle bears them to her nest.
  And voices have been heard! And there the plant grows
  That being eaten gives the inhuman wizard
  Power to put on the fell hyæna's shape.                            455

  _Sarolta._ What idle tongue hath bewitched thee, Glycine?
  I hoped that thou had'st learnt a nobler faith.

  _Glycine._ O chide me not, dear lady; question Laska,
  Or the old man.

  _Sarolta._      Forgive me, I spake harshly.
  It is indeed a mighty sorcery                                      460
  That doth enthral thy young heart, my poor girl,
  And what hath Laska told thee?

  _Glycine._                     Three days past
  A courier from the king did cross that wood;
  A wilful man, that armed himself on purpose:
  And never hath been heard of from that time!                       465

                                       [_Sound of horns without._

  _Sarolta._ Hark! dost thou hear it!

  _Glycine._                          'Tis the sound of horns!
  Our huntsmen are not out!

  _Sarolta._                Lord Casimir
  Would not come thus!                            [_Horns again._

  _Glycine._           Still louder!

  _Sarolta._                         Haste we hence!
  For I believe in part thy tale of terror!
  But, trust me, 'tis the inner man transformed:                     470
  Beasts in the shape of men are worse than war-wolves.

        [_SAROLTA and GLYCINE exeunt. Trumpets, &c. louder. Enter
             EMERICK, LORD RUDOLPH, LASKA, and_ Huntsmen _and_
             Attendants.

  _Rudolph._ A gallant chase, sire.

  _Emerick._                        Aye, but this new quarry
  That we last started seems worth all the rest.

                                                [_then to Laska._

  And you--excuse me--what's your name?

  _Laska._                              Whatever
  Your majesty may please.

  _Emerick._               Nay, that's too late, man.                475
  Say, what thy mother and thy godfather
  Were pleased to call thee.

  _Laska._                   Laska, my liege sovereign.

  _Emerick._ Well, my liege subject, Laska! And you are
  Lord Casimir's steward?

  _Laska._                And your majesty's creature.

  _Emerick._ Two gentle dames made off at our approach.              480
  Which was your lady?

  _Laska_              My liege lord, the taller.
  The other, please your grace, is her poor handmaid,
  Long since betrothed to me. But the maid's froward--
  Yet would your grace but speak--

  _Emerick._                       Hum, master steward!
  I am honoured with this sudden confidence.                         485
  Lead on.                          [_to Laska, then to Rudolph._
           Lord Rudolph, you'll announce our coming.
  Greet fair Sarolta from me, and entreat her
  To be our gentle hostess. Mark, you add
  How much we grieve, that business of the state
  Hath forced us to delay her lord's return.                         490

  _Lord Rudolph (aside)._ Lewd, ingrate tyrant! Yes, I will announce
      thee.

  _Emerick._ Now onward all.                [_Exeunt attendants._
                             A fair one, by my faith!
  If her face rival but her gait and stature,
  My good friend Casimir had his reasons too.
  'Her tender health, her vow of strict retirement,                  495
  Made early in the convent--His word pledged--'
  All fictions, all! fictions of jealousy.
  Well! If the mountain move not to the prophet,
  The prophet must to the mountain! In this Laska
  There's somewhat of the knave mixed up with dolt.                  500
  Through the transparence of the fool, methought,
  I saw (as I could lay my finger on it)
  The crocodile's eye, that peered up from the bottom.
  This knave may do us service. Hot ambition
  Won me the husband. Now let vanity                                 505
  And the resentment for a forced seclusion
  Decoy the wife! Let him be deemed the aggressor
  Whose cunning and distrust began the game!             [_Exit._


FOOTNOTES:

[906:1] This line was borrowed unconsciously from the Excursion. ['Why
should a tear be in an old man's eye?' _Excursion_, Bk. I, l. 598
(1814).]

Refers (i. e. 'strangers' in l. 163) to the tears which he feels
starting in his eye. The following line was borrowed from Mr.
Wordsworth's Excursion. _1817_, _1828_, _1829_.

[908:1] For the best account of the War-wolf or Lycanthropus, see
Drayton's _Moon-calf_, Chalmers' English Poets, vol. iv, p. 133.

[911:1]

In the English dramatic Iambic pentameter, a ¯ and hypera-catalectic,
[_sic_] the arsis strengthened by the emphasis (in which our blank verse
differs from the Greek Prosody, which acknowledges no influence from
emphasis) and assisted by the following caesura, permits the licence of
an amphimacer ¯ ˘ ¯ for a spondee ¯ ¯: the intermediate ˘ being sucked
up. Thus,

    ¯  ˘    ¯
   orphan: left:--

and still more easily an amphibrach for a spondee.

  This oth | er fragment | thrown back, &c.
    ˘   ¯  | ˘    ¯  ˘   |    ˘    ¯

[MS. note by S. T. C. in copy of first Edition to lines 302 and 304. In
the text 'órphan' and 'frágment' are marked with an accent.]


LINENOTES:

[11] [_Pointing to BATHORY'S dwelling. SAROLTA answering, points to
where she then stands._

[56] _you_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 74] [_Angry voices and clamour without._ 1817.

[Before 89] _Laska (pompously, as commencing a set speech)._ 1817, 1828,
1829.

[132] _Sarolta (speaks with affected anger)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 132] [_Exit GLYCINE, mournfully._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[135] _us_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[174]

  Of an ebbing grief.                      [_BATHORY bowing, shows, &c._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[179]

  She'll see . . . hourly.              [_LASKA . . . peeps in timidly._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[180] _Laska (surlily)._ Gone. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[181]

  Is he returned?                      [_LASKA starts up from his seat._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[188] _Your_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[191] I should] _I_ should 1817, 1828, 1829.

[196] _Laska (malignantly)._ You, &c. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[207] _you_: _you_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[209] _you_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[211] _forced_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[221] _loving_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[222] _there_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[223] _grieve_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 233] [_GLYCINE then cries out as if afraid of being beaten._
1817, 1828, 1829.

[235] _Laska (pompously)._ Do you, &c. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[241] _is_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[243] _her_: _him_: _she'll_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 248] [_LASKA during this time slinks off the Stage, using
threatening gestures to GLYCINE._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[249] _him_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[251] _your_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 257] [_BETHLEN mutters to himself indignantly._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 259] _Bethlen (muttering aside)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[279]

  _Glycine._ No . . . heart.                                 [_Sobbing._

  _Sarolta (taking her hand)._ Ha! &c.

1817, 1828, 1829.

[297]

  O, 'tis so full _here_.                               [_At her heart._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[299] _not_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[301] _thee_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[308]

  _Glycine (eagerly)._ O tell--

  _Bethlen (who had overheard the last few words, now rushes out)._ Yes,
      &c.

1817, 1828, 1829.

[309] _Thy_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[340] _Sarolta (with a smile)._ Moon-calves, &c. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 342] [_Then speaking again to BETHLEN._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 352] [_Striking his breast._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[384] _can not_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[393] _Sarolta (continuing the story)._ While, &c. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[396] _Glycine (to silence him)._ Bethlen! 1817, 1828, 1829.

[401] _she_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[414] _my_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[456] _thee_ 1817, 1828, 1847.

[467] _Our_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[480] _Two_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[492] _Emerick (solus)._ A fair, &c. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[494] _his_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[495-6] '_Her tender . . . pledged_--' 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 508] END OF ACT I 1817.




ACT II


SCENE I

_A savage wood. At one side a cavern, overhung with ivy. ZAPOLYA and
RAAB KIUPRILI discovered: both, but especially the latter, in rude and
savage garments._

  _Raab Kiuprili._ Heard you then aught while I was slumbering?

  _Zapolya._                                                    Nothing.
  Only your face became convulsed. We miserable!
  Is heaven's last mercy fled? Is sleep grown treacherous?

  _Raab Kiuprili._ O for a sleep, for sleep itself to rest in!
  I dream'd I had met with food beneath a tree,                        5
  And I was seeking you, when all at once
  My feet became entangled in a net:
  Still more entangled as in rage I tore it.
  At length I freed myself, had sight of you,
  But as I hastened eagerly, again                                    10
  I found my frame encumbered: a huge serpent
  Twined round my chest, but tightest round my throat.

  _Zapolya._ Alas! 'twas lack of food: for hunger chokes!

  _Raab Kiuprili._ And now I saw you by a shrivelled child
  Strangely pursued. You did not fly, yet neither                     15
  Touched you the ground, methought, but close above it
  Did seem to shoot yourself along the air,
  And as you passed me, turned your face and shrieked.

  _Zapolya._ I did in truth send forth a feeble shriek,
  Scarce knowing why. Perhaps the mock'd sense craved                 20
  To hear the scream, which you but seemed to utter.
  For your whole face looked like a mask of torture!
  Yet a child's image doth indeed pursue me
  Shrivelled with toil and penury!

  _Raab Kiuprili._                 Nay! what ails you?

  _Zapolya._ A wondrous faintness there comes stealing o'er me.       25
  Is it Death's lengthening shadow, who comes onward,
  Life's setting sun behind him?

  _Raab Kiuprili._               Cheerly! The dusk
  Will quickly shroud us. Ere the moon be up,
  Trust me I'll bring thee food!

  _Zapolya._                     Hunger's tooth has
  Gnawn itself blunt. O, I could queen it well                        30
  O'er my own sorrows as my rightful subjects.
  But wherefore, O revered Kiuprili! wherefore
  Did my importunate prayers, my hopes and fancies,
  Force thee from thy secure though sad retreat?
  Would that my tongue had then cloven to my mouth!                   35
  But Heaven is just! With tears I conquered thee,
  And not a tear is left me to repent with!
  Had'st thou not done already--had'st thou not
  Suffered--oh, more than e'er man feigned of friendship?

  _Raab Kiuprili._ Yet be thou comforted! What! had'st thou faith     40
  When I turned back incredulous? 'Twas thy light
  That kindled mine. And shall it now go out,
  And leave thy soul in darkness? Yet look up,
  And think thou see'st thy sainted lord commissioned
  And on his way to aid us! Whence those late dreams,                 45
  Which after such long interval of hopeless
  And silent resignation all at once
  Night after night commanded thy return
  Hither? and still presented in clear vision
  This wood as in a scene? this very cavern?                          50
  Thou darest not doubt that Heaven's especial hand
  Worked in those signs. The hour of thy deliverance
  Is on the stroke:--for misery can not add
  Grief to thy griefs, or patience to thy sufferance!

  _Zapolya._ Can not! Oh, what if thou wert taken from me?            55
  Nay, thou said'st well: for that and death were one.
  Life's grief is at its height indeed; the hard
  Necessity of this inhuman state
  Hath made our deeds inhuman as our vestments.
  Housed in this wild wood, with wild usages,                         60
  Danger our guest, and famine at our portal--
  Wolf-like to prowl in the shepherd's fold by night!
  At once for food and safety to affrighten
  The traveller from his road--

                             [_GLYCINE is heard singing without._

  _Raab Kiuprili._              Hark! heard you not
  A distant chaunt?                                                   65


       SONG

       _By GLYCINE_

       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 sank, he rose, he twinkled, he trolled                      70
         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.                               75
       The blossoms, they make no delay:
       The sparkling dew-drops will not stay.
           Sweet month of May,
             We must away;
               Far, far away!                                         80
                 To-day! to-day!'

  _Zapolya._ Sure 'tis some blest spirit!
  For since thou slew'st the usurper's emissary
  That plunged upon us, a more than mortal fear
  Is as a wall, that wards off the beleaguerer                        85
  And starves the poor besieged.                   [_Song again._

  _Raab Kiuprili._ It is a maiden's voice! quick to the cave!

  _Zapolya._ Hark! her voice falters!            [_Exit ZAPOLYA._

  _Raab Kiuprili._                    She must not enter
  The cavern, else I will remain unseen!

             [_KIUPRILI retires to one side of the stage. GLYCINE
                  enters singing._

  _Glycine._ A savage place! saints shield me! Bethlen! Bethlen!      90
  Not here?--There's no one here! I'll sing again!

                                                  [_Sings again._

  If I do not hear my own voice, I shall fancy
  Voices in all chance sounds!                         [_Starts._
                               'Twas some dry branch
  Dropt of itself! Oh, he went forth so rashly,
  Took no food with him--only his arms and boar-spear!                95
  What if I leave these cakes, this cruse of wine,
  Here by this cave, and seek him with the rest?

  _Raab Kiuprili (unseen)._ Leave them and flee!

  _Glycine (shrieks, then recovering.)_          Where are you?

  _Raab Kiuprili (still unseen.)_ Leave them!

  _Glycine._                                  'Tis Glycine!
  Speak to me, Bethlen! speak in your own voice!                     100
  All silent!--If this were the war-wolf's den!
  'Twas not his voice!--

        [_GLYCINE leaves the provisions, and exit. KIUPRILI comes
             forward, seizes them and carries them into the
             cavern. GLYCINE returns._

  _Glycine._             Shame! Nothing hurt me!
  If some fierce beast have gored him, he must needs
  Speak with a strange voice. Wounds cause thirst and hoarseness!
  Speak, Bethlen! or but moan. St--St----No--Bethlen!                105
  If I turn back and he should be found dead here,

                   [_She creeps nearer and nearer to the cavern._

  I should go mad!--Again!--'Twas my own heart!
  Hush, coward heart! better beat loud with fear,
  Than break with shame and anguish!

          [_As she approaches to enter the cavern, KIUPRILI stops
               her. GLYCINE shrieks._

                                     Saints protect me!

  _Raab Kiuprili._ Swear then by all thy hopes, by all thy fears--   110

  _Glycine._ Save me!

  _Raab Kiuprili._    Swear secrecy and silence!

  _Glycine._                                     I swear!

  _Raab Kiuprili._ Tell what thou art, and what thou seekest?

  _Glycine._                                                  Only
  A harmless orphan youth, to bring him food--

  _Raab Kiuprili._ Wherefore in this wood?

  _Glycine._                               Alas! it was his purpose--

  _Raab Kiuprili._ With what intention came he? Would'st thou save
      him,                                                           115
  Hide nothing!

  _Glycine._    Save him! O forgive his rashness!
  He is good, and did not know that thou wert human!

  _Raab Kiuprili._ Human?
                          With what design?

  _Glycine._                                To kill thee, or
  If that thou wert a spirit, to compel thee
  By prayers, and with the shedding of his blood,                    120
  To make disclosure of his parentage.
  But most of all--

  _Zapolya (rushing out from the cavern)._ Heaven's blessing on thee!
      Speak!

  _Glycine._ Whether his mother live, or perished here!

  _Zapolya._ Angel of mercy, I was perishing
  And thou did'st bring me food: and now thou bring'st               125
  The sweet, sweet food of hope and consolation
  To a mother's famished heart! His name, sweet maiden!

  _Glycine._ E'en till this morning we were wont to name him
  Bethlen Bathory!

  _Zapolya._       Even till this morning?
  This morning? when my weak faith failed me wholly!                 130
  Pardon, O thou that portion'st out our sufferance,
  And fill'st again the widow's empty cruse!
  Say on!

  _Glycine._ The false ones charged the valiant youth
  With treasonous words of Emerick--

  _Zapolya._                         Ha! my son!

  _Glycine._ And of Lord Casimir--

  _Raab Kiuprili (aside)._         O agony! my son!                  135

  _Glycine._ But my dear lady--

  _Zapolya and Raab Kiuprili._  Who?

  _Glycine._                         Lady Sarolta
  Frowned and discharged these bad men.

  _Raab Kiuprili (to himself)._         Righteous Heaven
  Sent me a daughter once, and I repined
  That it was not a son. A son was given me.
  My daughter died, and I scarce shed a tear:                        140
  And lo! that son became my curse and infamy.

  _Zapolya (embraces Glycine)._ Sweet innocent! and you came here to
      seek him,
  And bring him food. Alas! thou fear'st?

  _Glycine._                              Not much!
  My own dear lady, when I was a child,
  Embraced me oft, but her heart never beat so.                      145
  For I too am an orphan, motherless!

  _Raab Kiuprili (to Zapolya)._ O yet beware, lest hope's brief flash
      but deepen
  The after gloom, and make the darkness stormy!
  In that last conflict, following our escape,
  The usurper's cruelty had clogged our flight                       150
  With many a babe and many a childing mother.
  This maid herself is one of numberless
  Planks from the same vast wreck.      [_Then to GLYCINE again._
                                   Well! Casimir's wife--

  _Glycine._ She is always gracious, and so praised the old man
  That his heart o'erflowed, and made discovery                      155
  That in this wood--

  _Zapolya._          O speak!

  _Glycine._                   A wounded lady--

                        [_ZAPOLYA faints--they both support her._

  _Glycine._ Is this his mother?

  _Raab Kiuprili._               She would fain believe it,
  Weak though the proofs be. Hope draws towards itself
  The flame with which it kindles.         [_Horn heard without._
                                   To the cavern!
  Quick! quick!

  _Glycine._    Perchance some huntsmen of the king's.               160

  _Raab Kiuprili._ Emerick?

  _Glycine._                He came this morning--

         [_They retire to the cavern, bearing ZAPOLYA. Then enter
              BETHLEN, armed with a boar-spear._

  _Bethlen._                                       I had a glimpse
  Of some fierce shape; and but that Fancy often
  Is Nature's intermeddler, and cries halves
  With the outward sight, I should believe I saw it
  Bear off some human prey. O my preserver!                          165
  Bathory! Father! Yes, thou deserv'st that name!
  Thou did'st not mock me! These are blessed findings!
  The secret cypher of my destiny       [_Looking at his signet._
  Stands here inscribed: it is the seal of fate!
  Ha!--Had ever monster fitting lair, 'tis yonder!                   170
  Thou yawning den, I well remember thee!
  Mine eyes deceived me not. Heaven leads me on!
  Now for a blast, loud as a king's defiance,
  To rouse the monster couchant o'er his ravine!

                                 [_Blows the horn--then a pause._

  Another blast! and with another swell                              175
  To you, ye charméd watchers of this wood!
  If haply I have come, the rightful heir
  Of vengeance: if in me survive the spirits
  Of those, whose guiltless blood flowed streaming here!

                                           [_Blows again louder._

  Still silent? Is the monster gorged? Heaven shield me!             180
  Thou, faithful spear! be both my torch and guide.

         [_As BETHLEN is about to enter, KIUPRILI speaks from the
              cavern unseen._

  _Raab Kiuprili_. Withdraw thy foot! Retract thine idle spear,
  And wait obedient!

  _Bethlen._         Ha! What art thou? speak!

  _Raab Kiuprili (still unseen)._ Avengers!

  _Bethlen._                                By a dying mother's pangs
  E'en such am I. Receive me!

  _Raab Kiuprili (still unseen)._ Wait! Beware!                      185
  At thy first step, thou treadest upon the light,
  Thenceforth must darkling flow, and sink in darkness!

  _Bethlen._ Ha! see my boar-spear trembles like a reed!--
  Oh, fool! mine eyes are duped by my own shuddering.--
  Those piléd thoughts, built up in solitude,                        190
  Year following year, that pressed upon my heart
  As on the altar of some unknown God,
  Then, as if touched by fire from heaven descending.
  Blazed up within me at a father's name--
  Do they desert me now?--at my last trial?                          195
  Voice of command! and thou, O hidden Light!
  I have obeyed! Declare ye by what name
  I dare invoke you! Tell what sacrifice
  Will make you gracious.

  _Raab Kiuprili (still unseen)._ Patience! Truth! Obedience!
  Be thy whole soul transparent! so the Light,                       200
  Thou seekest, may enshrine itself within thee!
  Thy name?

  _Bethlen._ Ask rather the poor roaming savage,
  Whose infancy no holy rite had blest,
  To him, perchance, rude spoil or ghastly trophy,
  In chase or battle won, have given a name.                         205
  I have none--but like a dog have answered
  To the chance sound which he that fed me, called me.

  _Raab Kiuprili (still unseen)._ Thy birth-place?

  _Bethlen._                                       Deluding spirits!
      Do ye mock me?
  Question the Night! Bid Darkness tell its birth-place?
  Yet hear! Within yon old oak's hollow trunk,                       210
  Where the bats cling, have I surveyed my cradle!
  The mother-falcon hath her nest above it,
  And in it the wolf litters!----I invoke you,
  Tell me, ye secret ones! if ye beheld me
  As I stood there, like one who having delved                       215
  For hidden gold hath found a talisman,
  O tell! what rights, what offices of duty
  This signet doth command? What rebel spirits
  Owe homage to its Lord?

  _Raab Kiuprili (still unseen)._ More, guiltier, mightier,
  Than thou mayest summon! Wait the destined hour!                   220

  _Bethlen._ O yet again, and with more clamorous prayer,
  I importune ye! Mock me no more with shadows!
  This sable mantle--tell, dread voice! did this
  Enwrap one fatherless!

  _Zapolya (unseen)._    One fatherless!

  _Bethlen._ A sweeter voice!--A voice of love and pity!             225
  Was it the softened echo of mine own?
  Sad echo! but the hope it kill'd was sickly,
  And ere it died it had been mourned as dead!
  One other hope yet lives within my soul:
  Quick let me ask!--while yet this stifling fear,                   230
  This stop of the heart, leaves utterance!--Are--are these
  The sole remains of her that gave me life?
  Have I a mother?          [_ZAPOLYA rushes out to embrace him._
                   Ha!

  _Zapolya._           My son! my son!
  A wretched--Oh no, no! a blest--a happy mother!

        [_They embrace. KIUPRILI and GLYCINE come forward and the
             curtain drops._


LINENOTES:

[21] _hear_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[57] _Life's_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[59] _Hath_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[70] sank] _sank_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[75-6] om. 1817.

[Before 90] _Glycine (fearfully)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[102] [_GLYCINE leaves the provisions, and exit fearfully. . . . GLYCINE
returns, having recovered herself._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 118] _Raab Kiuprili (repeats the word)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[118]

  Human?                                                [_Then sternly._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[135] _my_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

  _Glycine._ And of Lord Casimir--

  _Raab Kiuprili (aside)._         O agony! _my_ son.

Erased [? by S. T. C. in copy of 1817.]

[137] _Raab Kiuprili (turning off and to himself)._ 1817, 1828, 1839.

[137-41] _Raab Kiuprili_ (_turning off_, &c.) . . . infamy. Erased [? by
S. T. C. in copy of 1817].

[156] _Zapolya (in agitation)._ O speak. 1817, 1838, 1829.

[170] Ha!-- (_observing the cave_). 1817, 1828, 1829.

[183] _Bethlen (in amazement)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[196] VOICE: LIGHT 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 225] _Bethlen (starting)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[233]

                                                   [_ZAPOLYA . . . him._

  _BETHLEN starts._ Ha!

  _Zapolya (embracing him)._ My son, &c.

1817, 1828, 1829.

After 234 and stage directions. END OF ACT II. 1817.




ACT III


SCENE I

_A stately room in LORD CASIMIR'S castle. Enter EMERICK and LASKA._

  _Emerick._ I do perceive thou hast a tender conscience,
  Laska, in all things that concern thine own
  Interest or safety.

  _Laska._            In this sovereign presence
  I can fear nothing, but your dread displeasure.

  _Emerick._ Perchance, thou think'st it strange, that I of all men    5
  Should covet thus the love of fair Sarolta,
  Dishonouring Casimir?

  _Laska._              Far be it from me!
  Your Majesty's love and choice bring honour with them.

  _Emerick._ Perchance, thou hast heard that Casimir is my friend,
  Fought for me, yea, for my sake, set at nought                      10
  A parent's blessing; braved a father's curse?

  _Laska (aside)._ Would I but knew now, what his Majesty meant!
  Oh yes, Sire! 'tis our common talk, how Lord
  Kiuprili, my Lord's father--

  _Emerick._                   'Tis your talk,
  Is it, good statesman Laska?

  _Laska._                     No, not mine,                          15
  Not mine, an please your Majesty! There are
  Some insolent malcontents indeed that talk thus--
  Nay worse, mere treason. As Bathory's son,
  The fool that ran into the monster's jaws.

  _Emerick._ Well, 'tis a loyal monster if he rids us                 20
  Of traitors! But art sure the youth's devoured?

  _Laska._ Not a limb left, an please your Majesty!
  And that unhappy girl--

  _Emerick._              Thou followed'st her
  Into the wood?                            [_LASKA bows assent._
                 Henceforth then I'll believe
  That jealousy can make a hare a lion.                               25

  _Laska._ Scarce had I got the first glimpse of her veil,
  When, with a horrid roar that made the leaves
  Of the wood shake--

  _Emerick._          Made thee shake like a leaf!

  _Laska._ The war-wolf leapt; at the first plunge he seized her;
  Forward I rushed!

  _Emerick._        Most marvellous!

  _Laska._                           Hurled my javelin;               30
  Which from his dragon-scales recoiling--

  _Emerick._                               Enough!
  And take, friend, this advice. When next thou tonguest it,
  Hold constant to thy exploit with this monster,
  And leave untouched your common talk aforesaid,
  What your Lord did, or should have done.

  _Laska._                                 My talk?                   35
  The saints forbid! I always said, for my part,
  'Was not the king Lord Casimir's dearest friend?
  Was not that friend a king? Whate'er he did
  'Twas all from pure love to his Majesty.'

  _Emerick._ And this then was thy talk? While knave and coward,      40
  Both strong within thee, wrestle for the uppermost,
  In slips the fool and takes the place of both.
  Babbler! Lord Casimir did, as thou and all men.
  He loved himself, loved honours, wealth, dominion.
  All these were set upon a father's head:                            45
  Good truth! a most unlucky accident!
  For he but wished to hit the prize; not graze
  The head that bore it: so with steady eye
  Off flew the parricidal arrow.--Even
  As Casimir loved Emerick, Emerick                                   50
  Loves Casimir, intends him no dishonour.
  He winked not then, for love of me forsooth!
  For love of me now let him wink! Or if
  The dame prove half as wise as she is fair,
  He may still pass his hand, and find all smooth.                    55

                             [_Passing his hand across his brow._

  _Laska._ Your Majesty's reasoning has convinced me.

  _Emerick._                                          Thee!
  'Tis well! and more than meant. For by my faith
  I had half forgotten thee.--Thou hast the key?   [_LASKA bows._
  And in your lady's chamber there's full space?

  _Laska._ Between the wall and arras to conceal you.                 60

  _Emerick._ Here! This purse is but an earnest of thy fortune,
  If thou prov'st faithful. But if thou betrayest me,
  Hark you!--the wolf that shall drag thee to his den
  Shall be no fiction.

        [_Exit EMERICK. LASKA manet with a key in one hand, and a
             purse in the other._

  _Laska._             Well then! here I stand,
  Like Hercules, on either side a goddess.                            65
  Call this (_looking at the purse_)
            Preferment; this (_holding up the key_) Fidelity!
  And first my golden goddess: what bids she?
  Only:--'This way, your Majesty! hush! The household
  Are all safe lodged.'--Then, put Fidelity
  Within her proper wards, just turn her round--                      70
  So--the door opens--and for all the rest,
  'Tis the king's deed, not Laska's. Do but this
  And--'I'm the mere earnest of your future fortunes.'
  But what says the other?--Whisper on! I hear you!

                                   [_Putting the key to his ear._

  All very true!--but, good Fidelity!                                 75
  If I refuse King Emerick, will you promise,
  And swear now, to unlock the dungeon door,
  And save me from the hangman? Aye! you're silent!
  What, not a word in answer? A clear nonsuit!
  Now for one look to see that all are lodged                         80
  At the due distance--then--yonder lies the road
  For Laska and his royal friend, King Emerick!

                   [_Exit LASKA. Then enter BATHORY and BETHLEN._

  _Bethlen._ He looked as if he were some God disguised
  In an old warrior's venerable shape
  To guard and guide my mother. Is there not                          85
  Chapel or oratory in this mansion?

  _Old Bathory._ Even so.

  _Bethlen._              From that place then am I to take
  A helm and breast-plate, both inlaid with gold,
  And the good sword that once was Raab Kiuprili's.

  _Old Bathory._ Those very arms this day Sarolta show'd me--         90
  With wistful look. I'm lost in wild conjectures!

  _Bethlen._ O tempt me not, e'en with a wandering guess,
  To break the first command a mother's will
  Imposed, a mother's voice made known to me!
  'Ask not, my son,' said she, 'our names or thine.                   95
  The shadow of the eclipse is passing off
  The full orb of thy destiny! Already
  The victor Crescent glitters forth and sheds
  O'er the yet lingering haze a phantom light.
  Thou canst not hasten it! Leave then to Heaven                     100
  The work of Heaven: and with a silent spirit
  Sympathize with the powers that work in silence!'
  Thus spake she, and she looked as she were then
  Fresh from some heavenly vision!

                          [_Re-enter LASKA, not perceiving them._

  _Laska._                         All asleep!

             [_Then observing BETHLEN, stands in idiot-affright._

  I must speak to it first--Put--put the question!                   105
  I'll confess all!                      [_Stammering with fear._

  _Old Bathory._ Laska! what ails thee, man?

  _Laska (pointing to Bethlen)._ There!

  _Old Bathory._                        I see nothing! where?

  _Laska._                                                    He does
      not see it!
  Bethlen, torment me not!

  _Bethlen._               Soft! Rouse him gently!
  He hath outwatched his hour, and half asleep,
  With eyes half open, mingles sight with dreams.                    110

  _Old Bathory._ Ho! Laska! Don't you know us! 'tis Bathory
  And Bethlen!

  _Laska._     Good now! Ha! ha! An excellent trick.
  Afraid? Nay, no offence! But I must laugh.
  But are you sure now, that 'tis you, yourself?

  _Bethlen._ Would'st be convinced?

  _Laska._                          No nearer, pray! consider!       115
  If it should prove his ghost, the touch would freeze me
  To a tombstone. No nearer!

  _Bethlen._                 The fool is drunk!

  _Laska._ Well now! I love a brave man to my heart.
  I myself braved the monster, and would fain
  Have saved the false one from the fate she tempted.                120

  _Old Bathory._ You, Laska?

  _Bethlen (to Bathory)._    Mark! Heaven grant it may be so!
  Glycine?

  _Laska._ She! I traced her by the voice.
  You'll scarce believe me, when I say I heard
  The close of a song: the poor wretch had been singing:
  As if she wished to compliment the war-wolf                        125
  At once with music and a meal!

  _Bethlen (to Bathory)._        Mark that!

  _Laska._ At the next moment I beheld her running,
  Wringing her hands with, 'Bethlen! O poor Bethlen!'
  I almost fear, the sudden noise I made,
  Rushing impetuous through the brake, alarmed her.                  130
  She stopt, then mad with fear, turned round and ran
  Into the monster's gripe. One piteous scream
  I heard. There was no second--I--

  _Bethlen._                        Stop there!
  We'll spare your modesty! Who dares not honour
  Laska's brave tongue, and high heroic fancy?                       135

  _Laska._ You too, Sir Knight, have come back safe and sound!
  You played the hero at a cautious distance!
  Or was it that you sent the poor girl forward
  To stay the monster's stomach? Dainties quickly
  Pall on the taste and cloy the appetite!                           140

  _Old Bathory._ Laska, beware! Forget not what thou art!
  Should'st thou but dream thou'rt valiant, cross thyself!
  And ache all over at the dangerous fancy!

  _Laska._ What then! you swell upon my lady's favour,
  High Lords and perilous of one day's growth!                       145
  But other judges now sit on the bench!
  And haply, Laska hath found audience there,
  Where to defend the treason of a son
  Might end in lifting up both son and father
  Still higher; to a height from which indeed                        150
  You both may drop, but, spite of fate and fortune,
  Will be secured from falling to the ground.
  'Tis possible too, young man! that royal Emerick,
  At Laska's rightful suit, may make inquiry
  By whom seduced, the maid so strangely missing--                   155

  _Bethlen._ Soft! my good Laska! might it not suffice,
  If to yourself, being Lord Casimir's steward,
  I should make record of Glycine's fate?

  _Laska._ 'Tis well! it shall content me! though your fear
  Has all the credit of these lowered tones.                         160
  First we demand the manner of her death?

  _Bethlen._ Nay! that's superfluous! Have you not just told us,
  That you yourself, led by impetuous valour,
  Witnessed the whole? My tale's of later date.
  After the fate, from which your valour strove                      165
  In vain to rescue the rash maid, I saw her!

  _Laska._ Glycine?

  _Bethlen._        Nay! Dare I accuse wise Laska,
  Whose words find access to a monarch's ear,
  Of a base, braggart lie? It must have been
  Her spirit that appeared to me. But haply                          170
  I come too late? It has itself delivered
  Its own commission to you?

  _Old Bathory._             'Tis most likely!
  And the ghost doubtless vanished, when we entered
  And found brave Laska staring wide--at nothing!

  _Laska._ 'Tis well! You've ready wits! I shall report them,        175
  With all due honour, to his Majesty!
  Treasure them up, I pray! A certain person,
  Whom the king flatters with his confidence,
  Tells you, his royal friend asks startling questions!
  'Tis but a hint! And now what says the ghost!                      180

  _Bethlen._ Listen! for thus it spake: 'Say thou to Laska,
  Glycine, knowing all thy thoughts engrossed
  In thy new office of king's fool and knave,
  Foreseeing thou'lt forget with thine own hand
  To make due penance for the wrongs thou'st caused her,             185
  For thy soul's safety, doth consent to take it
  From Bethlen's cudgel'--thus.                 [_Beats him off._
                                Off! scoundrel! off!

                                              [_LASKA runs away._

  _Old Bathory._ The sudden swelling of this shallow dastard
  Tells of a recent storm: the first disruption
  Of the black cloud that hangs and threatens o'er us.               190

  _Bethlen._ E'en this reproves my loitering. Say where lies
  The oratory?

  _Old Bathory._ Ascend yon flight of stairs!
  Midway the corridor a silver lamp
  Hangs o'er the entrance of Sarolta's chamber,
  And facing it, the low arched oratory!                             195
  Me thou'lt find watching at the outward gate:
  For a petard might burst the bars, unheard
  By the drenched porter, and Sarolta hourly
  Expects Lord Casimir, spite of Emerick's message!

  _Bethlen._ There I will meet you! And till then good-night!        200
  Dear good old man, good-night!

  _Old Bathory._                 O yet one moment!
  What I repelled, when it did seem my own,
  I cling to, now 'tis parting--call me father!
  It can not now mislead thee. O my son,
  Ere yet our tongues have learnt another name,                      205
  Bethlen!--say 'Father' to me!

  _Bethlen._                    Now, and for ever
  My father! other sire than thou, on earth
  I never had, a dearer could not have!
  From the base earth you raised me to your arms,
  And I would leap from off a throne, and kneeling,                  210
  Ask Heaven's blessing from thy lips. My father!

  _Bathory._ Go! Go!                             [_Exit BETHLEN._
                     May every star now shining over us,
  Be as an angel's eye, to watch and guard him!  [_Exit BATHORY._


_Scene changes to a splendid Bed-chamber, hung with tapestry._

_SAROLTA and an_ Attendant.

  _Attendant._ We all did love her, madam!

  _Sarolta._                               She deserved it!
  Luckless Glycine! rash, unhappy girl!                              215
  'Twas the first time she e'er deceived me.

  _Attendant._ She was in love, and had she not died thus,
  With grief for Bethlen's loss, and fear of Laska,
  She would have pined herself to death at home.

  _Sarolta._ Has the youth's father come back from his search?       220

  _Attendant._ He never will, I fear me. O dear lady!
  That Laska did so triumph o'er the old man--
  It was quite cruel--'You'll be sure,' said he,
  'To meet with part at least of your son Bethlen,
  Or the war-wolf must have a quick digestion!                       225
  Go! Search the wood by all means! Go! I pray you!'

  _Sarolta._ Inhuman wretch!

  _Attendant._               And old Bathory answered
  With a sad smile, 'It is a witch's prayer,
  And may Heaven read it backwards.' Though she was rash,
  'Twas a small fault for such a punishment!                         230

  _Sarolta._ Nay! 'twas my grief, and not my anger spoke.
  Small fault indeed! but leave me, my poor girl!
  I feel a weight that only prayer can lighten.

                                               [_Exit_ Attendant.

  O they were innocent, and yet have perished
  In their May of life; and Vice grows old in triumph.               235
  Is it Mercy's hand, that for the bad man holds
  Life's closing gate?----
  Still passing thence petitionary Hours
  To woo the obdurate spirit to repentance?
  Or would this dullness tell me, that there is                      240
  Guilt too enormous to be duly punished,
  Save by increase of guilt? The Powers of Evil
  Are jealous claimants. Guilt too hath its ordeal,
  And Hell its own probation!--Merciful Heaven,
  Rather than this, pour down upon thy suppliant                     245
  Disease, and agony, and comfortless want!
  O send us forth to wander on, unsheltered!
  Make our food bitter with despiséd tears!
  Let viperous scorn hiss at us as we pass!
  Yea, let us sink down at our enemy's gate,                         250
  And beg forgiveness and a morsel of bread!
  With all the heaviest worldly visitations
  Let the dire father's curse that hovers o'er us
  Work out its dread fulfilment, and the spirit
  Of wronged Kiuprili be appeased. But only,                         255
  Only, O merciful in vengeance! let not
  That plague turn inward on my Casimir's soul!
  Scare thence the fiend Ambition, and restore him
  To his own heart! O save him! Save my husband!

            [_During the latter part of this speech EMERICK comes
                 forward from his hiding-place. SAROLTA seeing
                 him, without recognising him._

  In such a shape a father's curse should come.                      260

  _Emerick (advancing)._ Fear not.

  _Sarolta._                       Who art thou? Robber? Traitor?

  _Emerick._                                              Friend!
  Who in good hour hath startled these dark fancies,
  Rapacious traitors, that would fain depose
  Joy, love, and beauty, from their natural thrones:
  Those lips, those angel eyes, that regal forehead.                 265

  _Sarolta_. Strengthen me, Heaven! I must not seem afraid!

                                                        [_Aside._

  The king to-night then deigns to play the masker.
  What seeks your Majesty?

  _Emerick._               Sarolta's love;
  And Emerick's power lies prostrate at her feet.

  _Sarolta._ Heaven guard the sovereign's power from such
      debasement!                                                    270
  Far rather, Sire, let it descend in vengeance
  On the base villain, on the faithless slave
  Who dared unbar the doors of these retirements!
  For whom? Has Casimir deserved this insult?
  O my misgiving heart! If--if--from Heaven                          275
  Yet not from you, Lord Emerick!

  _Emerick._                      Chiefly from me.
  Has he not like an ingrate robbed my court
  Of Beauty's star, and kept my heart in darkness?
  First then on him I will administer justice--
  If not in mercy, yet in love and rapture.                          280

                                                   [_Seizes her._

  _Sarolta._ Help! Treason! Help!

  _Emerick._                      Call louder! Scream again!
  Here's none can hear you!

  _Sarolta._                Hear me, hear me, Heaven!

  _Emerick._ Nay, why this rage? Who best deserves you? Casimir,
  Emerick's bought implement, the jealous slave
  That mews you up with bolts and bars? or Emerick                   285
  Who proffers you a throne? Nay, mine you shall be.
  Hence with this fond resistance! Yield; then live
  This month a widow, and the next a queen!

  _Sarolta._ Yet, yet for one brief moment         [_Struggling._
  Unhand me, I conjure you.

               [_She throws him off, and rushes towards a toilet.
                    EMERICK follows, and as she takes a dagger,
                    he grasps it in her hand._

  _Emerick._                Ha! Ha! a dagger;                        290
  A seemly ornament for a lady's casket!
  'Tis held, devotion is akin to love,
  But yours is tragic! Love in war! It charms me,
  And makes your beauty worth a king's embraces!

                      [_During this speech BETHLEN enters armed._

  _Bethlen._ Ruffian, forbear! Turn, turn and front my sword!        295

  _Emerick._ Pish! who is this?

  _Sarolta._                    O sleepless eye of Heaven!
  A blest, a blessed spirit! Whence camest thou?
  May I still call thee Bethlen?

  _Bethlen._                     Ever, lady,
  Your faithful soldier!

  _Emerick._             Insolent slave! Depart
  Know'st thou not me?

  _Bethlen._           I know thou art a villain                     300
  And coward! That thy devilish purpose marks thee!
  What else, this lady must instruct my sword!

  _Sarolta._ Monster, retire! O touch him not, thou blest one!
  This is the hour that fiends and damnéd spirits
  Do walk the earth, and take what form they list!                   305
  Yon devil hath assumed a king's!

  _Bethlen._                       Usurped it!

  _Emerick._ The king will play the devil with thee indeed!
  But that I mean to hear thee howl on the rack,
  I would debase this sword, and lay thee prostrate
  At this thy paramour's feet; then drag her forth                   310
  Stained with adulterous blood, and--
                                       --mark you, traitress!
  Strumpeted first, then turned adrift to beggary!
  Thou prayed'st for't too.

  _Sarolta._                Thou art so fiendish wicked,
  That in thy blasphemies I scarce hear thy threats!

  _Bethlen._ Lady, be calm! fear not this king of the buskin!        315
  A king? Oh laughter! A king Bajazet!
  That from some vagrant actor's tiring-room,
  Hath stolen at once his speech and crown!

  _Emerick._                                Ah! treason!
  Thou hast been lessoned and tricked up for this!
  As surely as the wax on thy death-warrant                          320
  Shall take the impression of this royal signet,
  So plain thy face hath ta'en the mask of rebel!

         [_BETHLEN seizes EMERICK'S hand and eagerly observes the
              signet._

  _Bethlen._ It must be so! 'Tis e'en the counterpart!
  But with a foul usurping cypher on it!
  The light hath flashed from Heaven, and I must follow it!          325
  O curst usurper! O thou brother-murderer!
  That mad'st a star-bright queen a fugitive widow!
  Who fill'st the land with curses, being thyself
  All curses in one tyrant! see and tremble!
  This is Kiuprili's sword that now hangs o'er thee!                 330
  Kiuprili's blasting curse, that from its point
  Shoots lightnings at thee. Hark! in Andreas' name,
  Heir of his vengeance, hell-hound! I defy thee.

           [_They fight, and just as EMERICK is disarmed, in rush
                CASIMIR, OLD BATHORY, and_ Attendants. _CASIMIR
                runs in between the combatants, and parts them;
                in the struggle BETHLEN'S sword is thrown down._

  _Casimir._ The king! disarmed too by a stranger! Speak!
  What may this mean?

  _Emerick._          Deceived, dishonored lord!                     335
  Ask thou yon fair adultress! She will tell thee
  A tale, which would'st thou be both dupe and traitor,
  Thou wilt believe against thy friend and sovereign!
  Thou art present now, and a friend's duty ceases:
  To thine own justice leave I thine own wrongs.                     340
  Of half thy vengeance I perforce must rob thee,
  For that the sovereign claims. To thy allegiance
  I now commit this traitor and assassin.

                                       [_Then to the_ Attendants.

  Hence with him to the dungeon! and to-morrow,
  Ere the sun rises,--Hark! your heads or his!                       345

  _Bethlen._ Can Hell work miracles to mock Heaven's justice?

  _Emerick._ Who speaks to him dies! The traitor that has menaced
  His king, must not pollute the breathing air,
  Even with a word!

  _Casimir (to Bathory)._ Hence with him to the dungeon!

          [_Exit BETHLEN, hurried off by BATHORY and_ Attendants.

  _Emerick._ We hunt to-morrow in your upland forest:                350
  Thou (_to Casimir_) wilt attend us: and wilt then explain
  This sudden and most fortunate arrival.

                     [_Exit EMERICK; Manent CASIMIR and SAROLTA._

  _Sarolta._ My lord! my husband! look whose sword lies yonder!
  It is Kiuprili's, Casimir; 'tis thy father's!
  And wielded by a stripling's arm, it baffled,                      355
  Yea, fell like Heaven's own lightnings on that Tarquin.

  _Casimir._ Hush! hush!
  I had detected ere I left the city
  The tyrant's curst intent. Lewd, damnéd ingrate!
  For him did I bring down a father's curse!                         360
  Swift, swift must be our means! To-morrow's sun
  Sets on his fate or mine! O blest Sarolta!
  No other prayer, late penitent, dare I offer,
  But that thy spotless virtues may prevail
  O'er Casimir's crimes, and dread Kiuprili's curse!                 365

                                                       [_Exeunt._


LINENOTES:

[5] _I_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[34] _common-talk_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[35] _My_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[37-9] '_Was not the . . . Majesty._' 1817, 1828, 1829.

[40] _thy_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[51] _him_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[52] _me_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[56] _Emerick (with a slight start, as one who had been talking aloud to
himself: then with scorn)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[63] _thee_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[68-9] '_This way . . . safe lodged._' 1817, 1828, 1829.

[73] '_I'm . . . fortunes._' 1817, 1828, 1829.

[95-102] '_Ask not my son_,' said she, '_our . . . in silence!_' 1817,
1828, 1829.

[112] _Laska (recovering himself)._ Good now. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 115] _Bethlen (holding up his hand as if to strike him)._ 1817,
1828, 1829.

[116] _should_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 118] _Laska (still more recovering)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[121] _You_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[128] '_Bethlen! O poor Bethlen!_' 1817, 1828, 1829.

[151] _may_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 161] [_Then very pompously._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[174] _brave_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[181-7] '_Say thou . . . cudgel_' 1817, 1828, 1829.

[212]

  _Bathory._ Go! Go!        [_BETHLEN breaks off and exit. BATHORY looks
                                 affectionately after him._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 213]

_Scene changes . . . tapestry._

_SAROLTA in an elegant Night Dress, and an_ Attendant.

1817, 1828, 1829.

[223-6] '_You'll be sure_,' said he, '_To meet with PART . . . pray
you!_' 1817, 1828, 1829.

[228-9] '_It is . . . backwards._' 1817, 1828, 1829.

[234] _they_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[257] _soul_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[272] villain] ingrate 1817, 1828, 1829.

[300] _me_ 1817.

[311]
  Stained with adulterous blood, and--               [_Then to Sarolta._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 322] [_EMERICK points his hand haughtily towards BETHLEN, who
catching a sight of the signet, seizes his hand and eagerly observes the
signet, then flings the hand back with indignant joy._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[339] _now_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[341] _half_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[342] _that_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 353] [_Pointing to the sword which BETHLEN had been disarmed of
by the_ Attendants. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[357]

  _Casimir._ Hush! Hush!                           [_In an under voice._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 362] [_Embracing her._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 365] [_Exeunt consulting._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

END OF ACT III. 1817.




ACT IV


SCENE I

_A glade in a wood. Enter CASIMIR looking anxiously around._

  _Casimir._ This needs must be the spot! O, here he comes!

_Enter LORD RUDOLPH._

  Well met, Lord Rudolph!----
  Your whisper was not lost upon my ear,
  And I dare trust--

  _Lord Rudolph._    Enough! the time is precious!
  You left Temeswar late on yester-eve?                                5
  And sojourned there some hours?

  _Casimir._                      I did so!

  _Lord Rudolph._                           Heard you
  Aught of a hunt preparing?

  _Casimir._                 Yes; and met
  The assembled huntsmen!

  _Lord Rudolph._         Was there no word given?

  _Casimir._ The word for me was this:--The royal Leopard
  Chases thy milk-white dedicated Hind.                               10

  _Lord Rudolph._ Your answer?

  _Casimir._                   As the word proves false or true
  Will Casimir cross the hunt, or join the huntsmen!

  _Lord Rudolph._ The event redeemed their pledge?

  _Casimir._                                       It did, and
      therefore
  Have I sent back both pledge and invitation.
  The spotless Hind hath fled to them for shelter,                    15
  And bears with her my seal of fellowship!   [_They take hands._

  _Lord Rudolph._ But Emerick! how when you reported to him
  Sarolta's disappearance, and the flight
  Of Bethlen with his guards?

  _Casimir._                  O he received it
  As evidence of their mutual guilt. In fine,                         20
  With cozening warmth condoled with, and dismissed me.

  _Lord Rudolph._ I entered as the door was closing on you:
  His eye was fixed, yet seemed to follow you,--
  With such a look of hate, and scorn and triumph,
  As if he had you in the toils already,                              25
  And were then choosing where to stab you first.
  But hush! draw back!

  _Casimir._           This nook is at the furthest
  From any beaten track.

  _Lord Rudolph._        There! mark them!

          [_Points to where LASKA and PESTALUTZ cross the Stage._

  _Casimir._                               Laska!

  _Lord Rudolph._ One of the two I recognized this morning;
  His name is Pestalutz: a trusty ruffian                             30
  Whose face is prologue still to some dark murder.
  Beware no stratagem, no trick of message,
  Dispart you from your servants.

  _Casimir (aside)._              I deserve it.
  The comrade of that ruffian is my servant:
  The one I trusted most and most preferred.                          35
  But we must part. What makes the king so late?
  It was his wont to be an early stirrer.

  _Lord Rudolph._                         And his main policy.
  To enthral the sluggard nature in ourselves
  Is, in good truth, the better half of the secret
  To enthral the world: for the will governs all.                     40
  See, the sky lowers! the cross-winds waywardly
  Chase the fantastic masses of the clouds
  With a wild mockery of the coming hunt!

  _Casimir._ Mark yonder mass! I make it wear the shape
  Of a huge ram that butts with head depressed.                       45

  _Lord Rudolph (smiling)._ Belike, some stray sheep of the oozy
      flock,
  Which, if bards lie not, the Sea-shepherds tend,
  Glaucus or Proteus. But my fancy shapes it
  A monster couchant on a rocky shelf.

  _Casimir._ Mark too the edges of the lurid mass--                   50
  Restless, as if some idly-vexing Sprite,
  On swift wing coasting by, with tetchy hand
  Pluck'd at the ringlets of the vaporous Fleece.
  These are sure signs of conflict nigh at hand,
  And elemental war!

                      [_A single trumpet heard at some distance._

  _Lord Rudolph._    That single blast                                55
  Announces that the tyrant's pawing courser
  Neighs at the gate.                                [_Trumpets._
                      Hark! now the king comes forth!
  For ever 'midst this crash of horns and clarions
  He mounts his steed, which proudly rears an-end
  While he looks round at ease, and scans the crowd,                  60
  Vain of his stately form and horsemanship!
  I must away! my absence may be noticed.

  _Casimir._ Oft as thou canst, essay to lead the hunt
  Hard by the forest-skirts; and ere high noon
  Expect our sworn confederates from Temeswar.                        65
  I trust, ere yet this clouded sun <DW72>s westward,
  That Emerick's death, or Casimir's, will appease
  The manes of Zapolya and Kiuprili!             [_Exit RUDOLPH._
  The traitor, Laska!----
  And yet Sarolta, simple, inexperienced,                             70
  Could see him as he was, and often warned me.
  Whence learned she this?--O she was innocent!
  And to be innocent is Nature's wisdom!
  The fledge-dove knows the prowlers of the air,
  Feared soon as seen, and flutters back to shelter.                  75
  And the young steed recoils upon his haunches,
  The never-yet-seen adder's hiss first heard.
  O surer than Suspicion's hundred eyes
  Is that fine sense, which to the pure in heart,
  By mere oppugnancy of their own goodness,                           80
  Reveals the approach of evil. Casimir!
  O fool! O parricide! through yon wood did'st thou,
  With fire and sword, pursue a patriot father,
  A widow and an orphan. Dar'st thou then
  (Curse-laden wretch) put forth these hands to raise                 85
  The ark, all sacred, of thy country's cause?
  Look down in pity on thy son, Kiuprili!
  And let this deep abhorrence of his crime,
  Unstained with selfish fears, be his atonement!
  O strengthen him to nobler compensation                             90
  In the deliverance of his bleeding country!    [_Exit CASIMIR._


_Scene changes to the mouth of a Cavern, as in Act II. ZAPOLYA and
GLYCINE discovered._

  _Zapolya._ Our friend is gone to seek some safer cave:
  Do not then leave me long alone, Glycine!
  Having enjoyed thy commune, loneliness,
  That but oppressed me hitherto, now scares.                         95

  _Glycine._ I shall know Bethlen at the furthest distance,
  And the same moment I descry him, lady,
  I will return to you.                          [_Exit GLYCINE._

                     [_Enter OLD BATHORY, speaking as he enters._

  _Old Bathory._        Who hears? A friend!
  A messenger from him who bears the signet!

  _Zapolya._ He hath the watch-word!--Art thou not Bathory?          100

  _Old Bathory._ O noble lady! greetings from your son!

                                               [_BATHORY kneels._

  _Zapolya._ Rise! rise! Or shall I rather kneel beside thee,
  And call down blessings from the wealth of Heaven
  Upon thy honoured head? When thou last saw'st me
  I would full fain have knelt to thee, and could not,               105
  Thou dear old man! How oft since then in dreams
  Have I done worship to thee, as an angel
  Bearing my helpless babe upon thy wings!

  _Old Bathory._ O he was born to honour! Gallant deeds
  And perilous hath he wrought since yester-eve.                     110
  Now from Temeswar (for to him was trusted
  A life, save thine, the dearest) he hastes hither--

  _Zapolya._ Lady Sarolta mean'st thou?

  _Old Bathory._                        She is safe.
  The royal brute hath overleapt his prey,
  And when he turned, a sworded Virtue faced him.                    115
  My own brave boy--O pardon, noble lady!
  Your son----

  _Zapolya._   Hark! Is it he?

  _Old Bathory._               I hear a voice
  Too hoarse for Bethlen's! 'Twas his scheme and hope,
  Long ere the hunters could approach the forest,
  To have led you hence.--Retire.

  _Zapolya._                      O life of terrors!                 120

  _Old Bathory._ In the cave's mouth we have such 'vantage ground
  That even this old arm--

                     [_Exeunt ZAPOLYA and BATHORY into the cave._

_Enter LASKA and PESTALUTZ._

  _Laska._                 Not a step further!

  _Pestalutz._ Dastard! was this your promise to the king?

  _Laska._ I have fulfilled his orders. Have walked with you
  As with a friend: have pointed out Lord Casimir:                   125
  And now I leave you to take care of him.
  For the king's purposes are doubtless friendly.

  _Pestalutz._ Be on your guard, man!

  _Laska._                            Ha! what now?

  _Pestalutz._                                      Behind you!
  'Twas one of Satan's imps, that grinned and threatened you
  For your most impudent hope to cheat his master!                   130

  _Laska._ Pshaw! What! you think 'tis fear that makes me leave you?

  _Pestalutz._ Is't not enough to play the knave to others,
  But thou must lie to thine own heart?

  _Laska._ Friend! Laska will be found at his own post,
  Watching elsewhere for the king's interest.                        135
  There's a rank plot that Laska must hunt down,
  'Twixt Bethlen and Glycine!

  _Pestalutz._                What! the girl
  Whom Laska saw the war-wolf tear in pieces?

  _Laska._ Well! Take my arms! Hark! should your javelin fail you,
  These points are tipt with venom.    [_Seeing GLYCINE without._
                                    By Heaven! Glycine!              140
  Now as you love the king, help me to seize her!

             [_They run out after GLYCINE. Enter BATHORY from the
                  cavern._

  _Old Bathory._ Rest, lady, rest! I feel in every sinew
  A young man's strength returning! Which way went they?
  The shriek came thence.                       [_Enter GLYCINE._

  _Glycine._ Ha! weapons here? Then, Bethlen, thy Glycine            145
  Will die with thee or save thee!

             [_She seizes them and rushes out. BATHORY following.
                  Music, and_ Peasants _with hunting spears cross
                  the stage, singing chorally._

       CHORAL SONG

       Up, up! ye dames, ye lasses gay!
       To the meadows trip away.
       'Tis you must tend the flocks this morn,
       And scare the small birds from the corn.                      150
       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                          155
       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                                   160
         With lance and bow
       To hunt the wolf in the woods to-day.

                                              [_Exeunt_ Huntsmen.

_Re-enter BATHORY, BETHLEN, and GLYCINE._

  _Glycine._ And now once more a woman----

  _Bethlen._                               Was it then
  That timid eye, was it those maiden hands
  That sped the shaft, which saved me and avenged me?                165

  _Old Bathory._ 'Twas as a vision blazoned on a cloud
  By lightning, shaped into a passionate scheme
  Of life and death! I saw the traitor, Laska,
  Stoop and snatch up the javelin of his comrade;
  The point was at your back, when her shaft reached him.            170
  The coward turned, and at the self-same instant
  The braver villain fell beneath your sword.

                                                [_Enter ZAPOLYA._

  _Zapolya._ Bethlen! my child! and safe too!

  _Bethlen._                                  Mother! Queen.
  Royal Zapolya! name me Andreas!
  Nor blame thy son, if being a king, he yet                         175
  Hath made his own arm minister of his justice.
  So do the gods who launch the thunderbolt!

  _Zapolya._ O Raab Kiuprili! Friend! Protector! Guide!
  In vain we trenched the altar round with waters,
  A flash from Heaven hath touched the hidden incense--              180

  _Bethlen._ And that majestic form that stood beside thee
  Was Raab Kiuprili!

  _Zapolya._         It was Raab Kiuprili;
  As sure as thou art Andreas, and the king.

  _Old Bathory._ Hail Andreas! hail my king!

  _Andreas._                                 Stop, thou revered one,
  Lest we offend the jealous destinies                               185
  By shouts ere victory. Deem it then thy duty
  To pay this homage, when 'tis mine to claim it.

  _Glycine._ Accept thine hand-maid's service!       [_Kneeling._

  _Zapolya._                                   Raise her, son!
  O raise her to thine arms! she saved thy life,
  And through her love for thee, she saved thy mother's!             190
  Hereafter thou shalt know, that this dear maid
  Hath other and hereditary claims
  Upon thy heart, and with Heaven guarded instinct
  But carried on the work her sire began!

  _Andreas._ Dear maid! more dear thou canst not be! the rest        195
  Shall make my love religion. Haste we hence:
  For as I reached the skirts of this high forest,
  I heard the noise and uproar of the chase,
  Doubling its echoes from the mountain foot.

  _Glycine._ Hark! sure the hunt approaches.

                 [_Horn without, and afterwards distant thunder._

  _Zapolya._                                 O Kiuprili!             200

  _Old Bathory._ The demon-hunters of the middle air
  Are in full cry, and scare with arrowy fire
  The guilty! Hark! now here, now there, a horn
  Swells singly with irregular blast! the tempest
  Has scattered them!                     [_Horns at a distance._

  _Zapolya._          O Heavens! where stays Kiuprili?               205

  _Old Bathory._ The wood will be surrounded! leave me here.

  _Andreas._ My mother! let me see thee once in safety.
  I too will hasten back, with lightning's speed,
  To seek the hero!

  _Old Bathory._    Haste! my life upon it
  I'll guide him safe.

  _Andreas (thunder)._ Ha! what a crash was there!                   210
  Heaven seems to claim a mightier criminal
  Than yon vile subaltern.

  _Zapolya._               Your behest, High powers,
  Lo, I obey! To the appointed spirit,
  That hath so long kept watch round this drear cavern,
  In fervent faith, Kiuprili, I entrust thee!                        215

                         [_Exeunt ZAPOLYA, ANDREAS, and GLYCINE._

  _Old Bathory._ Yon bleeding corse may work us mischief still:
  Once seen, 'twill rouse alarm and crowd the hunt
  From all parts towards this spot. Stript of its armour,
  I'll drag it hither.

               [_Exit BATHORY. Several_ Hunters _cross the Stage.
                    Enter KIUPRILI._

  _Raab Kiuprili (throwing off his disguise)._ Since Heaven alone
     can save me, Heaven alone                                       220
  Shall be my trust.
                     Haste! haste! Zapolya, flee!
  Gone! Seized perhaps? Oh no, let me not perish
  Despairing of Heaven's justice! Faint, disarmed,
  Each sinew powerless; senseless rock, sustain me!
  Thou art parcel of my native land!
                                     A sword!                        225
  Ha! and my sword! Zapolya hath escaped,
  The murderers are baffled, and there lives
  An Andreas to avenge Kiuprili's fall!--
  There was a time, when this dear sword did flash
  As dreadful as the storm-fire from mine arm--                      230
  I can scarce raise it now--yet come, fell tyrant!
  And bring with thee my shame and bitter anguish,
  To end his work and thine! Kiuprili now
  Can take the death-blow as a soldier should.

            [_Re-enter BATHORY, with the dead body of PESTALUTZ._

  _Old Bathory._ Poor tool and victim of another's guilt!            235
  Thou follow'st heavily: a reluctant weight!
  Good truth, it is an undeservéd honour
  That in Zapolya and Kiuprili's cave
  A wretch like thee should find a burial-place.
  'Tis he!--In Andreas' and Zapolya's name                           240
  Follow me, reverend form! Thou need'st not speak,
  For thou canst be no other than Kiuprili.

  _Kiuprili._ And are they safe?                [_Noise without._

  _Old Bathory._                 Conceal yourself, my lord!
  I will mislead them!

  _Kiuprili._          Is Zapolya safe?

  _Old Bathory._ I doubt it not; but haste, haste, I conjure
      you!                                      [_Enter CASIMIR._    245

  _Casimir._ Monster!
  Thou shalt not now escape me!

  _Old Bathory._                Stop, lord Casimir!
  It is no monster.

  _Casimir._        Art thou too a traitor?
  Is this the place where Emerick's murderers lurk?
  Say where is he that, tricked in this disguise,                    250
  First lured me on, then scared my dastard followers?
  Thou must have seen him. Say where is th' assassin?

  _Old Bathory._ There lies the assassin! slain by that same sword
  That was descending on his curst employer,
  When entering thou beheld'st Sarolta rescued!                      255

  _Casimir._ Strange providence! what then was he who fled me?
  Thy looks speak fearful things! Whither, old man!
  Would thy hand point me?

  _Old Bathory._           Casimir, to thy father.

  _Casimir._ The curse! the curse! Open and swallow me,
  Unsteady earth! Fall, dizzy rocks! and hide me!                    260

  _Old Bathory._ Speak, speak, my lord!

  _Kiuprili._                           Bid him fulfil his work!

  _Casimir._ Thou art Heaven's immediate minister, dread spirit!
  O for sweet mercy, take some other form,
  And save me from perdition and despair!

  _Old Bathory._ He lives!

  _Casimir._               Lives! A father's curse can never die!    265

  _Kiuprili._ O Casimir! Casimir!

  _Old Bathory._                  Look! he doth forgive you!
  Hark! 'tis the tyrant's voice.      [_EMERICK'S voice without._

  _Casimir._                     I kneel, I kneel!
  Retract thy curse! O, by my mother's ashes,
  Have pity on thy self-abhorring child!
  If not for me, yet for my innocent wife,                           270
  Yet for my country's sake, give my arm strength,
  Permitting me again to call thee father!

  _Kiuprili._ Son, I forgive thee! Take thy father's sword;
  When thou shalt lift it in thy country's cause,
  In that same instant doth thy father bless thee!                   275

                                                [_Enter EMERICK._

  _Emerick._ Fools! Cowards! follow--or by Hell I'll make you
  Find reason to fear Emerick, more than all
  The mummer-fiends that ever masqueraded
  As gods or wood-nymphs!--
                            Ha! 'tis done then!
  Our necessary villain hath proved faithful,                        280
  And there lies Casimir, and our last fears!
  Well!--Aye, well!----
  And is it not well? For though grafted on us,
  And filled too with our sap, the deadly power
  Of the parent poison-tree lurked in its fibres:                    285
  There was too much of Raab Kiuprili in him:
  The old enemy looked at me in his face,
  E'en when his words did flatter me with duty.

_Enter CASIMIR and BATHORY._

  _Old Bathory (aside)._ This way they come!

  _Casimir (aside)._                         Hold them in check
      awhile,
  The path is narrow! Rudolph will assist thee.                      290

  _Emerick (aside)._ And ere I ring the alarum of my sorrow,
  I'll scan that face once more, and murmur--Here
  Lies Casimir, the last of the Kiuprilis!
  Hell! 'tis Pestalutz!

  _Casimir (coming forward)._ Yes, thou ingrate Emerick!
  'Tis Pestalutz! 'tis thy trusty murderer!                          295
  To quell thee more, see Raab Kiuprili's sword!

  _Emerick._ Curses on it and thee! Think'st thou that petty omen
  Dare whisper fear to Emerick's destiny?
  Ho! Treason! Treason!

  _Casimir._            Then have at thee, tyrant!

                                    [_They fight. EMERICK falls._

  _Emerick._ Betrayed and baffled                                    300
  By mine own tool!----Oh!                               [_Dies._

  _Casimir._               Hear, hear, my Father!
  Thou should'st have witnessed thine own deed. O Father,
  Wake from that envious swoon! The tyrant's fallen!
  Thy sword hath conquered! As I lifted it
  Thy blessing did indeed descend upon me;                           305
  Dislodging the dread curse. It flew forth from me
  And lighted on the tyrant!

_Enter RUDOLPH, BATHORY, and_ Attendants.

  _Rudolph and Bathory._ Friends! friends to Casimir!

  _Casimir._ Rejoice, Illyrians! the usurper's fallen.

  _Rudolph._ So perish tyrants! so end usurpation!                   310

  _Casimir._ Bear hence the body, and move slowly on!
  One moment----
  Devoted to a joy, that bears no witness,
  I follow you, and we will greet our countrymen
  With the two best and fullest gifts of heaven--                    315
  A tyrant fallen, a patriot chief restored!

                                    [_CASIMIR enters the Cavern._


SCENE.--_Chamber in CASIMIR'S Castle._ Confederates _discovered._

  _First Confederate._ It cannot but succeed, friends. From this palace
  E'en to the wood, our messengers are posted
  With such short interspace, that fast as sound
  Can travel to us, we shall learn the event!                        320

_Enter another Confederate._

  What tidings from Temeswar?

  _Second Confederate._       With one voice
  Th' assembled chieftains have deposed the tyrant:
  He is proclaimed the public enemy,
  And the protection of the law withdrawn.

  _First Confederate._ Just doom for him, who governs without law!   325
  Is it known on whom the sov'reignty will fall?

  _Second Confederate._ Nothing is yet decided: but report
  Points to Lord Casimir. The grateful memory
  Of his renownéd father----

_Enter SAROLTA._

                             Hail to Sarolta!

  _Sarolta._ Confederate friends! I bring to you a joy               330
  Worthy your noble cause! Kiuprili lives,
  And from his obscure exile, hath returned
  To bless our country. More and greater tidings
  Might I disclose; but that a woman's voice
  Would mar the wondrous tale. Wait we for him,                      335
  The partner of the glory--Raab Kiuprili;
  For he alone is worthy to announce it.

           [_Shouts of_ 'Kiuprili, Kiuprili,' _and_ 'The Tyrant's
                fallen,' _without. Enter KIUPRILI, CASIMIR,
                RUDOLPH, BATHORY, and_ Attendants.

  _Raab Kiuprili._ Spare yet your joy, my friends! A higher waits you:
  Behold, your Queen!

                [_Enter ZAPOLYA and ANDREAS royally attired, with
                     GLYCINE._

  _Confederate._      Comes she from heaven to bless us?

  _Other Confederates._ It is! it is!

  _Zapolya._                          Heaven's work of grace is
      full!                                                          340
  Kiuprili, thou art safe!

  _Raab Kiuprili._         Royal Zapolya!
  To the heavenly powers, pay we our duty first;
  Who not alone preserved thee, but for thee
  And for our country, the one precious branch
  Of Andreas' royal house. O countrymen,                             345
  Behold your King! And thank our country's genius,
  That the same means which have preserved our sovereign,
  Have likewise reared him worthier of the throne
  By virtue than by birth. The undoubted proofs
  Pledged by his royal mother, and this old man,                     350
  (Whose name henceforth be dear to all Illyrians)
  We haste to lay before the assembled council.

  _All._ Hail, Andreas! Hail, Illyria's rightful king!

  _Andreas._ Supported thus, O friends! 'twere cowardice
  Unworthy of a royal birth, to shrink                               355
  From the appointed charge. Yet, while we wait
  The awful sanction of convened Illyria,
  In this brief while, O let me feel myself
  The child, the friend, the debtor!--Heroic mother!--
  But what can breath add to that sacred name?                       360
  Kiuprili! gift of Providence, to teach us
  That loyalty is but the public form
  Of the sublimest friendship, let my youth
  Climb round thee, as the vine around its elm:
  Thou my support and I thy faithful fruitage.                       365
  My heart is full, and these poor words express not,
  They are but an art to check its over-swelling.
  Bathory! shrink not from my filial arms!
  Now, and from henceforth thou shalt not forbid me
  To call thee father! And dare I forget                             370
  The powerful intercession of thy virtue,
  Lady Sarolta? Still acknowledge me
  Thy faithful soldier!--But what invocation
  Shall my full soul address to thee, Glycine?
  Thou sword that leap'dst forth from a bed of roses:                375
  Thou falcon-hearted dove?

  _Zapolya._                Hear that from me, son!
  For ere she lived, her father saved thy life,
  Thine, and thy fugitive mother's!

  _Casimir._                        Chef Ragozzi!
  O shame upon my head! I would have given her
  To a base slave!

  _Zapolya._       Heaven overruled thy purpose,                     380
  And sent an angel to thy house to guard her!
  Thou precious bark! freighted with all our treasures!
  The sports of tempests, and yet ne'er the victim,
  How many may claim salvage in thee! Take her, son!
  A queen that brings with her a richer dowry                        385
  Than orient kings can give!

  _Sarolta._                  A banquet waits!--
  On this auspicious day, for some few hours
  I claim to be your hostess. Scenes so awful
  With flashing light, force wisdom on us all!
  E'en women at the distaff hence may see,                           390
  That bad men may rebel, but ne'er be free;
  May whisper, when the waves of faction foam,
  None love their country, but who love their home:
  For freedom can with those alone abide,
  Who wear the golden chain, with honest pride,                      395
  Of love and duty, at their own fire-side:
  While mad ambition ever doth caress
  Its own sure fate, in its own restlessness!

END OF ZAPOLYA.


LINENOTES:

[After 16] [_They take hands, &c._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[37] _Lord Rudolph._ And his main policy too. 1817.

[44-55]

  _Casimir._ Mark too, the edges of yon lurid mass!
  Restless and vext, as if some angering hand,
  With fitful, tetchy snatch, unrolled and pluck'd
  The jetting ringlets of the vaporous fleece!
  These are sure signs of conflict nigh at hand,
  And elemental war!

1817-1851.

[Note.--The text of 1829, 1831 is inscribed in Notebook 20 (1808-1825).]

[47] Which, as Poets tell us, the Sea-Shepherds tend, Notebook 20.

[48] _my_ 1828, 1829.

[57]

  Neighs at the gate.                           [_A volley of Trumpets._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 68: [_Exit RUDOLPH and manet CASIMIR._

[95-6]

  That but oppressed me hitherto, now scares me.
  You will ken Bethlen?

  _Glycine._            O at farthest distance,
  Yea, oft where Light's own courier-beam exhausted
  Drops at the threshold, and forgets its message,
  A something round me of a wider reach
  Feels his approach, and trembles back to tell me.

MS. correction (in the margin of Zapolya 1817) inserted in text of P.
and D. W. 1877, iv. pp. 270-71.

[After 99] [_ZAPOLYA, who had been gazing affectionately after GLYCINE,
starts at BATHORY'S voice._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 128] _Pestalutz (affecting to start)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[128] _Laska (in affright)._ Ha, &c. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 134] _Laska (pompously)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[137] _Pestalutz (with a sneer)._ What! &c. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 139] _Laska (throwing down a bow and arrows)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[139] Take] there's 1817, 1828, 1829.

[140]

  These points are tipt with venom.

                                     [_Starts and sees GLYCINE without._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 141] [_They run . . . GLYCINE, and she shrieks without: then
enter, &c._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[144]

  The shriek came thence.   [_Clash of swords, and BETHLEN'S voice heard
                                 from behind the scenes; GLYCINE enters
                                 alarmed; then, as seeing LASKA'S bow
                                 and arrows._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 146] [_She seizes . . . following her. Lively and irregular
music, and_ Peasants _with hunting spears, &c._ 1817, 1828, 1829.]

[After 162] _Re-enter, as the_ Huntsmen _pass off, BATHORY, &c._ 1817,
1828, 1829.

[Before 163] _Glycine (leaning on Bethlen)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 166] _Bathory (to Bethlen exultingly)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Linenote _Before_ 181: _Bethlen (hastily)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[184]

  _Bathory._ Hail . . . my king!                        [_Triumphantly._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[205]

  Has scattered them!        [_Horns heard as from different places at a
                                  distance._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[207] _thee_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 209] [_Thunder again._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 211] [_Pointing without to the body of PESTALUTZ._ 1817, 1828,
1829.

[213] Lo] Low _1828_, _1829_.]

[After 215] [_Exeunt . . . GLYCINE, ANDREAS, having in haste dropt his
sword. Manet BATHORY._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[216] Yon bleeding corse (_pointing to Pestalutz's body_) 1817, 1828,
1829.

[219]

  I'll drag it hither.     [_Exit BATHORY. After awhile several_ Hunters
                                _cross the stage as scattered. Some time
                                after, enter KIUPRILI in his disguise,
                                fainting with fatigue, and as pursued._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[221]

  Shall be my trust.       [_Then speaking as to ZAPOLYA in the Cavern._
                     Haste! . . . flee!

                     [_He enters the Cavern, and then returns in alarm._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[225]

  _Thou_ art parcel of my native land.      [_Then observing the sword._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[226] _my_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[230] arm] arms 1817, 1828, 1829.

[232] bitter] bitterer 1817.

[233] _his_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 239] [_Then observing KIUPRILI._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 245] [_As he retires, in rushes CASIMIR._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[246] _Casimir (entering)._ Monster! 1817, 1828, 1829.

[253] _Bathory._ There (_pointing to the body of PESTALUTZ_) 1817, 1828,
1829.

[After 256] [_BATHORY points to the Cavern, whence KIUPRILI advances._
1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 259] _Casimir (discovering Kiuprili)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before_ 261] _Bathory (to Kiuprili)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[261] _Kiuprili (holds out the sword to Bathory)._ Bid him, &c. 1817,
1828, 1829.

[Before 266] _Kiuprili (in a tone of pity)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 275] [_KIUPRILI and CASIMIR embrace; they all retire to the
Cavern supporting KIUPRILI. CASIMIR as by accident drops his robe, and
BATHORY throws it over the body of PESTALUTZ._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 276] _Emerick (entering)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[279]

  As gods or wood-nymphs!--           [_Then sees the body of PESTALUTZ,
                                           covered by CASIMIR'S cloak._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[281] _last_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[283] _not_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 288] [_As EMERICK moves towards the body, enter from the Cavern
CASIMIR and BATHORY._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 289] _Bathory (pointing to where the noise is, and aside to
Casimir)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[289] _Casimir (aside to Bathory)._ Hold, &c. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 291] _Emerick (aside, not perceiving Casimir and Bathory, and
looking at the dead body)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 293] [_Uncovers the face, and starts._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[301] _Casimir (triumphantly)._ Hear, &c. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 308] _Rudolph and Bathory (entering)._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 316] [_Exeunt CASIMIR into the Cavern. The rest on the opposite
side._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[Before 317] _Scene changes to a splendid Chamber, &c._ 1817, 1828,
1829.

[After 337] [_Shouts . . . without. Then enter KIUPRILI . . ._
Attendants, _after the clamour has subsided._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[339]

  Behold, your Queen!          [_Enter from opposite side, ZAPOLYA, &c._

1817, 1828, 1829.

[365] _my . . . I_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[377] _thy_ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[381] And sent an angel (_pointing to SAROLTA_) to thy, &c. 1817, 1828,
1829.

[After 382] [_To ANDREAS._ 1817, 1828, 1829.

[384] How many may claim salvage in thee! (_Pointing to GLYCINE._) Take,
&c. 1817, 1828, 1829.

[After 398] FINIS. 1817.




EPIGRAMS[951:1]


1

EPIGRAM

AN APOLOGY FOR SPENCERS

  Said William to Edmund I can't guess the reason
  Why Spencers abound in this bleak wintry season.
  Quoth Edmund to William, I perceive you're no Solon--
  Men may purchase a half-coat when they cannot a whole-one.
                                                   BRISTOLIENSIS.

March 21, 1796. First published in _The Watchman_, No. IV. March 25,
1796. First collected _Poems_, 1907.


2

EPIGRAM

ON A LATE MARRIAGE BETWEEN AN OLD MAID AND FRENCH PETIT MAÎTRE

  Tho' Miss ----'s match is a subject of mirth,
    She considered the matter full well,
  And wisely preferred leading one ape on earth
    To perhaps a whole dozen in hell.

First published in _The Watchman_, No. V, April 2, 1796. Included in
_Literary Remains_, 1836, i. 45. First collected _P. and D. W._, 1877,
ii. 368.


3

EPIGRAM

ON AN AMOROUS DOCTOR

  From Rufa's eye sly Cupid shot his dart
  And left it sticking in Sangrado's heart.
  No quiet from that moment has he known,
  And peaceful sleep has from his eyelids flown.
  And opium's force, and what is more, alack!
  His own orations cannot bring it back.
  In short, unless she pities his afflictions,
  Despair will make him take his _own prescriptions_.

First published in _The Watchman_, No. V, April 2, 1796. Included in
_Lit. Rem._, i. 45. First collected _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii. 368.


4

EPIGRAM

  Of smart pretty Fellows in Bristol are numbers, some
  Who so modish are grown, that they think plain sense cumbersome;
  And lest they should seem to be queer or ridiculous,
  They affect to believe neither God or _old Nicholas_!

First published in article 'To Caius Gracchus' (signed S. T. Coleridge)
in _The Watchman_, No. V, p. 159. Reprinted in _Essays on His Own
Times_, 1850, i. 164. First collected _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii. 368.


5

ON DEPUTY ----

  By many a booby's vengeance bit
  I leave your haunts, ye sons of wit!
  And swear, by Heaven's blessed light,
  That Epigrams no more I'll write.
  Now hang that ***** for an ass,
  Thus to thrust in his idiot face,
  Which spite of oaths, if e'er I spy,
  I'll write an Epigram--or die.
                                         LABERIUS.

First published in _Morning Post_, Jan. 2, 1798. First collected, _P.
and D. W._, 1877, ii. 369.


6

[EPIGRAM]

  To be ruled like a Frenchman the Briton is loth,
  Yet in truth a _direct-tory_ governs them both.

1798. First collected _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii. 166.


7

ON MR. ROSS, USUALLY COGNOMINATED _NOSY_[953:1]

  I fancy whenever I spy Nosy
                          Ross,
  More great than a Lion is Rhy nose
                          ros.

1799. Now first published from an MS.


8

[EPIGRAM]

  Bob now resolves on marriage schemes to trample,
  And now he'll have a wife all in a trice.
  Must I advise--Pursue thy dad's example
  And marry not.--There, heed now my advice.

Imitated from Lessing's 'Bald willst du, Trill, und bald willst du dich
nicht beweiben.' _Sinngedicht_ No. 93. Now first published from an MS.


9

[EPIGRAM]

  Say what you will, Ingenious Youth!
    You'll find me neither Dupe nor Dunce:
  Once you deceived me--only once,
    'Twas then when you told me the Truth.

1799. First published from an MS. in 1893. Adapted from Lessing's
_Sinngedicht_ No. 45. _An einen Lügner._ 'Du magst so oft, so fein, als
dir nur möglich, lügen.'


10

[ANOTHER VERSION]

  If the guilt of all lying consists in deceit,
    Lie on--'tis your duty, sweet youth!
  For believe me, then only we find you a cheat
    When you cunningly tell us the truth.

1800. First published in _Annual Anthology_, 1800. First collected _P.
and D. W._, 1877, ii. 163.


11

ON AN INSIGNIFICANT[954:1]

  No doleful faces here, no sighing--
  Here rots a thing that _won_ by dying:
  'Tis Cypher lies beneath this crust--
  Whom Death _created_ into dust.

1799. First published from an MS. in 1893. The two last lines were
printed for the first time in 1834. Adapted from Lessing's _Sinngedicht_
No. 52. _Grabschrift des Nitulus._

  'Hier modert Nitulus, jungfräuliches Gesichts,
  Der durch den Tod gewann: er wurde Staub aus Nichts.'


12

[EPIGRAM]

  There comes from old Avaro's grave
  A deadly stench--why, sure they have
  Immured his _soul_ within his grave?

1799. First published in _Keepsake_, 1829, p. 122. Included in _Lit.
Rem._, i. 46. Adapted from Lessing's _Sinngedicht_ No. 27. _Auf Lukrins
Grab._ 'Welch tötender Gestank hier, wo Lukrin begraben.'


13

ON A SLANDERER

  From yonder tomb of recent date,
  There comes a strange mephitic blast.
  Here lies--Ha! Backbite, you at last--
  'Tis he indeed: and sure as fate,
  They buried him in overhaste--
  Into the earth he has been cast,
  And in this grave,
  Before the man had breathed his last.

1799. First published from an MS. in 1893. An expansion of [Epigram] No.
12.


14

LINES IN A GERMAN STUDENT'S ALBUM

  We both attended the same College,
    Where sheets of paper we did blur many,
  And now we're going to sport our knowledge,
    In England I, and you in Germany.

First published in Carlyon's _Early Years, &c._, 1856, i. 68. First
collected _P. and D. W._, ii. 374.


15

[HIPPONA]

  Hippona lets no silly flush
  Disturb her cheek, nought makes her blush.
  Whate'er obscenities you say,
  She nods and titters frank and gay.
  Oh Shame, awake one honest flush
  For this,--that nothing makes her blush.

First published in _Morning Post_, (?) Aug. 29, 1799. Included in _An.
Anth._, 1800, and in _Essays, &c._, iii. 971. First collected _P. and D.
W._, ii. 164. Adapted from Lessing's _Sinngedicht_ No. 10. _Auf
Lucinden._ 'Sie hat viel Welt, die muntere Lucinde.'


16

ON A READER OF HIS OWN VERSES

  Hoarse Mævius reads his hobbling verse
    To all and at all times,
  And deems them both divinely smooth,
    His voice as well as rhymes.

  But folks say, Mævius is no ass!
    But Mævius makes it clear
  That he's a monster of an ass,
    An ass without an ear.

First published in _Morning Post_, Sept. 7, 1799. Included in _An.
Anth._, 1800; _Keepsake_, 1829, p. 122; _Lit. Rem._, i. 49. First
collected _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii. 162. Adapted from Wernicke's
_Epigrams_, Bk. IX, No. 42. _An einen gewissen Pritschmeister._ 'Umsonst
dass jedermann, dieweil du manches Blatt.'


17

ON A REPORT OF A MINISTER'S DEATH WRITTEN IN GERMANY

  Last Monday all the Papers said
  That Mr. ---- was dead;
    Why, then, what said the City?
  The tenth part sadly shook their head,
  And shaking sigh'd and sighing said,
    'Pity, indeed, 'tis pity!'

  But when the said report was found
  A rumour wholly without ground,
    Why, then, what said the city?
  The other _nine_ parts shook their head,
  Repeating what the tenth had said,
    'Pity, indeed, 'tis pity!'

First published in _Morning Post_, Sept. 18, 1799. Included in
_Keepsake_, 1829, p. 122; _Lit. Rem._, i. 46. First collected _P. and D.
W._, 1877, ii. 166. Adapted from Lessing's _Sinngedicht_ No. 29. _Auf
den falschen Ruf von Nigrins Tode._ 'Es sagte, sonder alle Gnade, die
ganze Stadt Nigrinen tot.'


LINENOTES:

[2] That Mr. ---- was surely dead M. P.

[3] Why] Ah M. P.

[4] their] the M. P.

[9] Why] Ah M. P.

[10] their] the M. P.


18

[DEAR BROTHER JEM]

  Jem writes his verses with more speed
  Than the printer's boy can set 'em;
  Quite as fast as we can read,
  And only not so fast as we forget 'em.

First published in _Morning Post_, Sept. 23, 1799. Included in _An.
Anth._, 1800; _Essays, &c._, 1850, iii. 974. First collected _P. and D.
W._, 1877, ii. 164.


19

JOB'S LUCK


    Sly Beelzebub took all occasions
    To try Job's constancy and patience;
    He took his honours, took his health,
    He took his children, took his wealth,
    His camels, horses, asses, cows--
  And the _sly_ Devil did not take his spouse.

    But Heaven that brings out good from evil,
    And loves to disappoint the Devil,
    Had predetermined to restore
    _Twofold_ all Job had before,
    His children, camels, horses, cows,--
  _Short-sighted_ Devil, not to take his _spouse_!

1799. First published in _Morning Post_, Sept. 26, 1801. Included in
_Annual Register_, 1827, and _Keepsake_, 1829. First collected 1834.

The first stanza of 'Job's Luck' is adapted from Fr. v. Logan's
_Sinngedicht_, _Hiob's Weib_. Lessing's edition, Bk. III, No. 90:--

  'Als der Satan ging von Hiob, ist sein Anwalt dennoch blieben,
  Hiobs Weib; er hätte nimmer einen bessern aufgetrieben.'

The second stanza is adapted from Fr. v. Logan's _Sinngedicht_, _Auf den
Hornutus_, _ibid._ Bk. I, No. 68:--

  'Hornutus las, was Gott Job habe weggenommen,
  Sei doppelt ihm hernach zu Hause wiederkommen:
  Wie gut, sprach er, war dies, dass Gott sein Weib nicht nahm,
  Auf dass Job ihrer zwei für eine nicht bekam!'

The original source is a Latin epigram by John Owen (_Audoenus
Oxoniensis_), Bk. III, No. 198. See _N. and Q._, 1st Series, ii. 516.


LINENOTES:

Title] The Devil Outwitted M. P.

[3] honours] honour M. P.


20

ON THE SICKNESS OF A GREAT MINISTER

  Pluto commanded death to take away
  Billy--Death made pretences to obey,
  And only made pretences, for he shot
  A headless dart that struck nor wounded not.
  The ghaunt Economist who (tho' my grandam
  Thinks otherwise) ne'er shoots his darts at random
  Mutter'd, 'What? put my Billy in arrest?
  Upon my life that were a pretty jest!
  So flat a thing of Death shall ne'er be said or sung--
  No! Ministers and Quacks, them take I not so young.'

First, published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 1, 1799. Now reprinted for the
first time. Adapted from Lessing's _Sinngedicht_ No. 119. _Auf die
Genesung einer Buhlerin._ 'Dem Tode wurde jüngst von Pluto anbefohlen.'


21

[TO A VIRTUOUS OECONOMIST]

WERNICKE

  You're careful o'er your wealth 'tis true:
    Yet so that of your plenteous store
  The needy takes and blesses you,
    For you hate Poverty, but not the Poor.

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 28, 1799. Now reprinted for the
first time. Adapted from Wernicke's _Epigrams_ (Bk. I, No. 49). _An den
sparsamen Celidon._

  'Du liebst zwar Geld und Gut, doch so dass dein Erbarmen
  Der Arme fühlt.'


22

[L'ENFANT PRODIGUE]

  Jack drinks fine wines, wears modish clothing,
  But prithee where lies Jack's estate?
  In Algebra for there I found of late
  A quantity call'd less than nothing.

First published in _Morning Post_, Nov. 16, 1799. Included in An. Anth.,
1800. First collected _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii. 163.


23

ON SIR RUBICUND NASO

A COURT ALDERMAN AND WHISPERER OF SECRETS

  Speak out, Sir! you're safe, for so ruddy your nose
  That, talk where you will, 'tis all _under the Rose_.

First published in _Morning Post_, Dec. 7, 1799. Included in _Essays,
&c._, iii. 975. First collected _Poems_, 1907. Compare Lessing's
_Sinngedicht_ No. 35. _Auf eine lange Nase._


24

TO MR. PYE

On his _Carmen Seculare_ (a title which has by various persons who have
heard it, been thus translated, 'A Poem _an age long_').

  Your poem must _eternal_ be,
    _Eternal!_ it can't fail,
  For 'tis _incomprehensible_,
    And without head or tail!

First published in _Morning Post_, Jan. 24, 1800. Included in
_Keepsake_, 1829, p. 277. First collected _P. and D. W._, ii. 161.


25

[NINETY-EIGHT]

  O would the Baptist come again
  And preach aloud with might and main
  Repentance to our viperous race!
  But should this miracle take place,
  I hope, ere Irish ground he treads,
  He'll lay in a good stock of heads!

First published in _An. Anth._, 1800. First collected _P. and D. W._,
1877, ii. 162. Adapted from Friedrich von Logau's _Sinngedicht_,
_Johannes der Täufer_, Lessing's edition, Bk. I, No. 30:--

  'Nicht recht! nicht recht! würd' immer schrein
  Johannes, sollt' er wieder sein.
  Doch käm er, riet' ich, dass er dächte,
  Wie viel er Köpf' in Vorrat brächte.'


26

OCCASIONED BY THE FORMER

  I hold of all our viperous race
  The greedy creeping things in place
  Most vile, most venomous; and then
  The United Irishmen!
  To come on earth should John determine,
  Imprimis, we'll excuse his sermon.
  Without a word the good old Dervis
  Might work incalculable service,
  At once from tyranny and riot
  Save laws, lives, liberties and moneys,
  If sticking to his ancient diet
  He'd but eat up our locusts and _wild honeys_!

First published in _An. Anth._, 1800. First collected _P. and D. W._,
1877, ii. 162.


LINENOTES:

[After 4] Now by miraculous deeds to stir them MS.


27

[A LIAR BY PROFESSION]

  As Dick and I at Charing Cross were walking,
    Whom should we see on t'other side pass by
  But Informator with a stranger talking,
    So I exclaim'd, 'Lord, what a lie!'
  Quoth Dick--'What, can you hear him?'
    'Hear him! stuff!
  I saw him open his mouth--an't that enough?'

First published in _An. Anth._, 1800. First collected _P. and D. W._,
ii. 163. Adapted from Lessing's _Sinngedicht_ No. 142. _Auf den Ley._
'Der gute Mann, den Ley beiseite dort gezogen!'


28

TO A PROUD PARENT

  Thy babes ne'er greet thee with the father's name;
    'My Lud!' they lisp. Now whence can this arise?
  Perhaps their mother feels an honest shame
    And will not teach her infant to tell lies.

First published in _An. Anth._, 1800, included in _Essays, &c._, ii.
997. First collected _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii. 164. Adapted from
Lessing's _Sinngedicht_ No. 17. _An den Doktor Sp * *._ 'Dein Söhnchen
lässt dich nie den Namen Vater hören.'


29

RUFA

  Thy lap-dog, Rufa, is a dainty beast,
  It don't surprise me in the least
  To see thee lick so dainty clean a beast.
  But that so dainty clean a beast licks thee,
  Yes--that surprises me.

First published in _An. Anth._, 1800. First collected _P. and D. W._,
1877, ii. 164. Adapted from Lessing's _Sinngedicht_ No. 66. _An die
Dorilis._ 'Dein Hündchen, Dorilis, ist zärtlich, tändelnd, rein.'


30

ON A VOLUNTEER SINGER

  Swans sing before they die--'twere no bad thing
  Should certain persons die before they sing.

First published in _An. Anth._, 1800. Included in _Keepsake_, 1829, p.
277; _Essays, &c._, 1850, ii. 988. First collected in 1834.


31

OCCASIONED BY THE LAST

  A JOKE (cries Jack) without a sting--
  _Post obitum_ can no man sing.
  And true, if Jack don't mend his manners
  And quit the atheistic banners,
  _Post obitum_ will Jack run foul
  Of such _folks_ as can only _howl_.

First published in _An. Anth._, 1800. Included in _Essays, &c._, iii.
988. First collected _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii, 165.


LINENOTES:

[1] joke] jest Essays, &c.

[5] _folks_] sparks Essays, &c.


32

EPITAPH ON MAJOR DIEMAN

  Know thou who walks't by, Man! that wrapp'd up in lead, man,
  What once was a Dieman, now lies here a dead man.
  Alive a proud MAJOR! but ah me! of our poor all,
  The soul having gone, he is now merely Corporal.

? 1800. Now first published from MS.


33

ON THE ABOVE

  As long as ere the life-blood's running,
  Say, what can stop a Punster's punning?
  He dares bepun even thee, O Death!
  To _pun_ish him, Stop thou his breath.

? 1800. Now first published from MS.


34

EPITAPH

ON A BAD MAN

  Of him that in this gorgeous tomb doth lie,
    This sad brief tale is all that Truth can give--
  He lived like one who never thought to die,
    He died like one who dared not hope to live![961:1]

First published in _Morning Post_, Sept. 22, 1801. First collected _P.
and D. W._, 1877, ii. 168.


ANOTHER VERSION

  Under this stone does Walter Harcourt lie,
    Who valued nought that God or man could give;
  He lived as if he never thought to die;
    He died as if he dared not hope to live![962:1]

[The name Walter Harcourt has been supplied by the editor.--S. C.]


_OBIIT_ SATURDAY, SEPT. 10, 1830.

W. H. _EHEU_!

  Beneath this stone does William Hazlitt lie,
    Thankless of all that God or man could give.
  He lived like one who never thought to die,
    He died like one who dared not hope to live.


35

TO A CERTAIN MODERN NARCISSUS

  Do call, dear Jess, whene'er my way you come;
  My looking-glass will always be at home.

First published in _Morning Post_, Dec. 16, 1801. Included in _Essays,
&c._, iii. 978. First collected in 1893.


36

TO A CRITIC

WHO EXTRACTED A PASSAGE FROM A POEM WITHOUT ADDING A WORD RESPECTING THE
CONTEXT, AND THEN DERIDED IT AS UNINTELLIGIBLE.

  Most candid critic, what if I,
  By way of joke, pull out your eye,
  And holding up the fragment, cry,
  'Ha! ha! that men such fools should be!
  Behold this shapeless Dab!--and he
  Who own'd it, fancied it could _see_!'
  The joke were mighty analytic,
  But should you like it, candid critic?

First published in _Morning Post_, Dec. 16, 1801: included in
_Keepsake_, 1829, and in _Essays, &c._, iii. 977-8. First collected in
_P. and D. W._, 1877, ii. 167.


37

ALWAYS AUDIBLE

  Pass under Jack's window at twelve at night
    You'll hear him still--he's roaring!
  Pass under Jack's window at twelve at noon,
    You'll hear him still--he's snoring!

First published in _Morning Post_, Dec. 19, 1801. First collected 1893.


38

PONDERE NON NUMERO

  Friends should be _weigh'd_, not _told_; who boasts to have won
  A _multitude_ of friends, he ne'er had _one_.

First published in _Morning Post_, Dec. 26, 1801. Included in _Essays,
&c._, iii. 978. First collected in 1893. Adapted from Friedrich von
Logan's _Sinngedicht_ (Lessing's edition, Bk. II, No. 65).

  'Freunde muss man sich erwählen
  Nur nach Wägen, nicht nach Zählen.'

Cf. also Logan, Book II, No. 30.


39

THE COMPLIMENT QUALIFIED

  To wed a fool, I really cannot see
  Why thou, Eliza, art so very loth;
  Still on a par with other pairs you'd be,
  Since thou hast wit and sense enough for both.

First published in _Morning Post_, Dec. 26, 1801. First collected 1893.
The title referred to an epigram published in _M. P._ Dec. 24, 1801.


40

[The twenty-one 'Original Epigrams' following were printed in the
_Morning Post_, in September and October, 1802, over the signature
'ΕΣΤΗΣΕ'. They were included in _Essays, &c._, iii. 978-86, and were
first collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii. 171-8.]

  What is an Epigram? a dwarfish whole,
  Its body brevity, and wit its soul.

First published in _Morning Post_, Sept. 23, 1802. Included in _Poetical
Register_, 1802 (1803), ii. 253; and in _The Friend_, No. 12, Nov. 9,
1809. Cf. Wernicke's _Beschaffenheit der Überschriften_ (i. e. The
Nature of the epigram), Bk. I, No. 1.

  'Dann lässt die Überschrift kein Leser aus der Acht,
  _Wenn in der Kürz' ihr Leib, die Seel' in Witz bestehet_.'


41

  Charles, grave or merry, at no lie would stick,
  And taught at length his memory the same trick.
    Believing thus what he so oft repeats,
  He's brought the thing to such a pass, poor youth,
    That now himself and no one else he cheats,
  Save when unluckily he tells the truth.

First published in _Morning Post_, Sept. 23, 1802. Included in _P. R._
1802, ii. 317, and _The Friend_, No. 12, Nov. 9, 1809.


42

  An evil spirit's on thee, friend! of late!
  Ev'n from the hour thou cam'st to thy Estate.
  Thy mirth all gone, thy kindness, thy discretion,
  Th' estate hath prov'd to thee a most complete _possession_.
  Shame, shame, old friend! would'st thou be truly best,
  Be thy wealth's Lord, not slave! _possessor_ not _possess'd_.

First published in _Morning Post_, Sept. 23, 1802. Included in _P. R._
1802, ii. 317, and _The Friend_, No. 12, Nov. 9, 1809.


43

  Here lies the Devil--ask no other name.
  Well--but you mean Lord----? Hush! we mean the same.

First published in _Morning Post_, Sept. 23, 1802. Included in _P. R._
1802, ii. 363, and _The Friend_, No. 12, Nov. 9, 1809.


44

  TO ONE WHO PUBLISHED[964:1] IN PRINT
  WHAT HAD BEEN ENTRUSTED TO HIM BY MY FIRESIDE

  Two things hast thou made known to half the nation,
  My secrets and my want of penetration:
  For O! far more than all which thou hast penn'd
  It shames me to have call'd a wretch, like thee, my friend!

First published in _Morning Post_, Sept. 23, 1802. Adapted from
Wernicke's _Epigrams_ (Bk. I, No. 12), _An einen falschen Freund._ 'Weil
ich mich dir vertraut, eh' ich dich recht gekennet.'


45

'_Obscuri sub luce maligna._'--VIRG.

  Scarce any scandal, but has a handle;
    In truth most falsehoods have their rise;
  Truth first unlocks Pandora's box,
    And out there fly a host of lies.
  Malignant light, by cloudy night,
    To precipices it decoys one!
  One nectar-drop from Jove's own shop
    Will flavour a whole cup of poison.

First published in _Morning Post_, Sept. 23, 1802.


46

  Old Harpy jeers at castles in the air,
    And thanks his stars, whenever Edmund speaks,
  That such a dupe as that is not his heir--
    But know, old Harpy! that these fancy freaks,
  Though vain and light, as floating gossamer,
  Always amuse, and sometimes mend the heart:
    A young man's idlest hopes are still his pleasures,
  And fetch a higher price in Wisdom's mart
    Than all the unenjoying Miser's treasures.

First published in _Morning Post_, Sept. 23, 1802. Included in _P. R._,
1802, ii. 868. Adapted from Wernicke, Bk. VII, No. 40, _An einen
Geizhals_.

  'Steht's einem Geizhals an auf Aelius zu schmähn
  Weil er vergebens hofft auf was nicht kann geschehn?'


47

TO A VAIN YOUNG LADY

  Didst thou think less of thy dear self
    Far more would others think of thee!
  Sweet Anne! the knowledge of thy wealth
    Reduces thee to poverty.
  Boon Nature gave wit, beauty, health,
    On thee as on her darling pitching;
  Couldst thou forget thou'rt thus enrich'd
    That moment would'st thou become rich in!
  And wert thou not so self-bewitch'd,
    Sweet Anne! thou wert, indeed, bewitching.

First published in _Morning Post_, Sept. 23 1802. Included in _The
Friend_, No. 12, Nov. 9, 1809.


48

A HINT TO PREMIERS AND FIRST CONSULS

FROM AN OLD TRAGEDY, VIZ. AGATHA TO KING ARCHELAUS

  Three truths should make thee often think and pause;
    The first is, that thou govern'st over men;
  The second, that thy power is from the laws;
    And this the third, that thou must die!--and then?--

First published in _Morning Post_, Sept. 27, 1802. Included in _Essays,
&c._, iii. 992. First collected _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii. 162.


49

  From me, Aurelia! you desired
    Your proper praise to know;
  Well! you're the FAIR by all admired--
    Some twenty years ago.

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 2, 1802.


50

FOR A HOUSE-DOG'S COLLAR

  When thieves come, I bark: when gallants, I am still--
  So perform both my Master's and Mistress's will.

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 2, 1802. Included in _The
Friend_ (title, 'For a French House-Dog's Collar'), No. 12, Nov. 9,
1809.


51

  In vain I praise thee, Zoilus!
    In vain thou rail'st at me!
  Me no one credits, Zoilus!
    And no one credits thee!

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 2, 1802. Adapted from a Latin
Epigram 'In Zoilum,' by George Buchanan:

  'Frustra ego te laudo, frustra
    Me, Zoile, laedis;
  Nemo mihi credit,
    Zoile, nemo, tibi.'


52

EPITAPH ON A MERCENARY MISER

  A poor benighted Pedlar knock'd
    One night at SELL-ALL'S door,
  The same who saved old SELL-ALL'S life--
    'Twas but the year before!
  And Sell-all rose and let him in,
    Not utterly unwilling,
  But first he bargain'd with the man,
    And took his only shilling!
  That night he dreamt he'd given away his pelf,
  Walk'd in his sleep, and sleeping hung himself!
  And now his soul and body rest below;
    And here they say his punishment and fate is
  To lie awake and every hour to know
    How many people read his tombstone GRATIS.

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 9, 1802.


53

A DIALOGUE BETWEEN AN AUTHOR
AND HIS FRIEND

  _Author._ Come; your opinion of my manuscript!

  _Friend._ Dear Joe! I would almost as soon be whipt.

  _Author._ But I _will_ have it!

  _Friend._ If it must be had--(_hesitating_)
  You write so ill, I scarce could read the hand--

  _Author._ A mere evasion!

  _Friend._ And you spell so bad,
  That what I read I could not understand.

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 11, 1802.


54

Μωροσοφία OR WISDOM IN FOLLY

  Tom Slothful talks, as slothful Tom beseems,
    What he shall shortly gain and what be doing,
  Then drops asleep, and so prolongs his dreams
    And thus _enjoys_ at once what half the world are _wooing_.

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 11, 1802.


55

  Each Bond-street buck conceits, unhappy elf!
  He shews his _clothes_! Alas! he shews _himself_.
  O that they knew, these overdrest self-lovers,
  What hides the body oft the mind discovers.

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 11, 1802.


56

FROM AN OLD GERMAN POET

  That France has put us oft to rout
  With _powder_, which ourselves found out;
  And laughs at us for fools in _print_,
  Of which our genius was the Mint;
  All this I easily admit,
  For we have genius, France has wit.
  But 'tis too bad, that blind and mad
  To Frenchmen's wives each travelling German goes,
    Expands his manly vigour by _their_ sides,
  Becomes the father of his country's foes
    And turns _their warriors_ oft to parricides.

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 11, 1802. Adapted from
Wernicke's _Epigrams_ (Bk. VIII, No. 4), _Auf die Buhlerey der Deutschen
in Frankreich_.

  'Dass Frankreich uns pflegt zu verwunden
  Durch Pulver, welches wir erfunden.'


57

ON THE CURIOUS CIRCUMSTANCE,

THAT IN THE GERMAN LANGUAGE THE SUN IS FEMININE, AND
THE MOON IS MASCULINE

  Our English poets, bad and good, agree
  To make the Sun a male, the Moon a she.
  He drives HIS dazzling diligence on high,
  In verse, as constantly as in the sky;
  And cheap as blackberries our sonnets shew
  The Moon, Heaven's huntress, with HER silver bow;
  By which they'd teach us, if I guess aright,
  Man rules the day, and woman rules the night.
  In Germany, they just reverse the thing;
  The Sun becomes a queen, the Moon a king.
  Now, that the Sun should represent the women,
  The Moon the men, to me seem'd mighty humming;
  And when I first read German, made me stare.
  Surely it is not that the wives are there
  As _common_ as the Sun, to lord and loon,
  And all their husbands _hornéd_ as the Moon.

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 11, 1802. Adapted from
Wernicke's _Epigrams_ (Bk. VII, No. 15), _Die Sonne und der Mond_.

  'Die Sonn' heisst die, der Mond heisst der
  In unsrer Sprach', und kommt daher,
  Weil meist die Fraun wie die _gemein_,
  Wie der _gehörnt_ wir Männer sein.'


58

SPOTS IN THE SUN

  My father confessor is strict and holy,
  _Mi Fili_, still he cries, _peccare noli_.
  And yet how oft I find the pious man
  At Annette's door, the lovely courtesan!
  Her soul's deformity the good man wins
  And not her charms! he comes to hear her sins!
  Good father! I would fain not do thee wrong;
  But ah! I fear that they who oft and long
  Stand gazing at the sun, to count each spot,
  _Must_ sometimes find the sun itself too hot.

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 11, 1802.


59

  When Surface talks of other people's worth
  He has the weakest memory on earth!
    And when his own good deeds he deigns to mention,
  His _memory_ still is no whit better grown;
  But then he makes up for it, all will own,
    By a prodigious talent of _invention_.

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 11, 1802.


60

TO MY CANDLE

THE FAREWELL EPIGRAM

  Good Candle, thou that with thy brother, Fire,
    Art my best friend and comforter at night,
  Just snuff'd, thou look'st as if thou didst desire
    That I on thee an epigram should write.

  Dear Candle, burnt down to a finger-joint,
    Thy own flame is an epigram of sight;
    'Tis _short_, and _pointed_, and _all over_ light,
  Yet gives _most_ light and burns the keenest at the point.
                                            _Valete et Plaudite._

First published in _Morning Post_, Oct. 11, 1802.


61

EPITAPH

ON HIMSELF

  Here sleeps at length poor Col., and without screaming--
  Who died as he had always lived, a-dreaming:
  Shot dead, while sleeping, by the Gout within--
  Alone, and all unknown, at E'nbro' in an Inn.

'Composed in my sleep for myself while dreaming that I was dying' . . .
at the Black Bull, Edinburgh, Tuesday, Sept. 13, 1803. Sent in a letter
to Thomas Wedgwood, Sept. 16, 1803. First published Cottle's
_Reminiscences_, 1848, p. 467. First collected in 1893.


62

THE TASTE OF THE TIMES

  Some whim or fancy pleases every eye;
  For talents premature 'tis now the rage:
  In Music how great Handel would have smil'd
  T' have seen what crowds are raptur'd with a child!
  A Garrick we have had in little Betty--
  And now we're told we have a Pitt in Petty!
  All must allow, since thus it is decreed,
  He is a very _petty_ Pitt indeed!

? 1806.

First printed (from an autograph MS.) by Mr. Bertram Dobell in the
_Athenæum_, Jan. 9, 1904. Now collected for the first time.


63

ON PITT AND FOX

  Britannia's boast, her glory and her pride,
  Pitt in his Country's service lived and died:
  At length resolv'd, like Pitt had done, to do,
  For once to serve his Country, Fox died too!

First published by Mr. B. Dobell in the _Athenæum_, Jan. 6, 1904. This
epigram belongs to the same MS. source as the preceding, 'On the Taste
of the Times,' and may have been the composition of S. T. C.

In _Fugitive Pieces_ (1806) (see _P. W._, 1898, i. 34) Byron published a
reply 'for insertion in the _Morning Chronicle_ to the following
illiberal impromptu on the death of Mr. Fox, which appeared in the
_Morning Post_ [Sept. 26, 1806]:--

  "Our Nation's Foes lament on Fox's death,
  But bless the hour when Pitt resigned his breath:
  These feelings wide let Sense and Truth unclue,
  We give the palm where Justice points its due."'

I have little doubt that this 'illiberal impromptu' was published by S.
T. C., who had just returned from Italy and was once more writing for
the press. It is possible that he veiled his initials in the line, 'Let
Sense and Truth unClue.'


64

  An excellent adage commands that we should
  Relate of the dead that alone which is good;
  But of the great Lord who here lies in lead
  We know nothing good but that he is dead.

First published in _The Friend_, No. 12, Nov. 9, 1809. Included in
_Essays, &c._, iii. 986. First collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii.
178.


65

COMPARATIVE BREVITY OF GREEK AND ENGLISH

  χρυσὸν ἀνὴρ εὑρὼν ἔλιπε βρόχον, αὐτὰρ ὁ χρυσὸν
    ὅν λίπεν οὐχ εὑρὼν ἧψεν ὅν εὗρε βρόχον.

  Jack finding gold left a rope on the ground:
  Bill missing his gold used the rope which he found.

First published in _Omniana_, 1812, ii. 123. First collected in _P. and
D. W._ 1877, ii. 374.


66

EPIGRAM ON THE SECRECY OF A CERTAIN LADY

  'She's secret as the grave, allow!'
    'I do; I cannot doubt it.
  But 'tis a grave with tombstone on,
    That tells you all about it.'

First published in _The Courier_, Jan. 3, 1814. Included in _Essays,
&c._, iii. 986. Now collected for the first time.


67

MOTTO

FOR A TRANSPARENCY DESIGNED BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON AND EXHIBITED AT
BRISTOL ON 'PROCLAMATION DAY'--_June 29, 1814._

  We've fought for Peace, and conquer'd it at last,
  The rav'ning vulture's leg seems fetter'd fast!
  Britons, rejoice! and yet be wary too:
  The chain may break, the clipt wing sprout anew.

First published in Cottle's _Early Recollections_, 1836, ii. 145. First
collected 1890.


ANOTHER VERSION

  We've conquered us a Peace, like lads true metalled:
  And Bankrupt _Nap's_ accounts seem all now settled.

_Ibid._ ii. 145. First collected 1893.


68

  Money, I've heard a wise man say,
  Makes herself wings and flies away--
  Ah! would she take it in her head
  To make a pair for me instead.

First published (from an MS.) in 1893.


69

MODERN CRITICS


  No private grudge they need, no personal spite,
  The _viva sectio_ is its own delight!
  All enmity, all envy, they disclaim,
  Disinterested thieves of our good name--
  Cool, sober murderers of their neighbours' fame!

First published in _Biog. Lit._, 1817, ii. 118. First collected in _P.
W._, 1885, ii. 363.


70

WRITTEN IN AN ALBUM


  Parry seeks the Polar ridge,
  Rhymes seeks S. T. Coleridge,
  Author of Works, whereof--tho' not in Dutch--
  The public little knows--the publisher too much.

First published in 1834.


71

TO A LADY WHO REQUESTED ME TO WRITE
A POEM UPON NOTHING

  On nothing, Fanny, shall I write?
  Shall I not one charm of thee indite?
    The Muse is most unruly,
  And vows to sing of what's more free,
  More soft, more beautiful than thee;--
    And that is _Nothing_, truly!

First published in the _Gazette of Fashion_, Feb. 22, 1822. Reprinted
(by Mr. Bertram Dobell) in _N. and Q._, 10th Series, vol. vi, p. 145.
Now collected for the first time.


72

SENTIMENTAL

  The rose that blushes like the morn,
    Bedecks the valleys low;
  And so dost thou, sweet infant corn,
    My Angelina's toe.

  But on the rose there grows a thorn
    That breeds disastrous woe;
  And so dost thou, remorseless corn,
    On Angelina's toe.

First published in _Lit. Rem._, i. 59. First collected _P. and D. W._,
1877, ii. 366.


73

  So Mr. Baker heart did pluck--
    And did a-courting go!
  And Mr. Baker is a buck;
    For why? he _needs_ the _doe_.

First published in _Letters, Conversations, &c._, 1836, ii. 21. First
collected in _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii. 373.


74

AUTHORS AND PUBLISHERS

  'A heavy wit shall hang at every lord,'
  So sung Dan Pope; but 'pon my word,
              He was a story-teller,
  Or else the times have altered quite;
  For wits, or heavy, now, or light
              Hang each by a bookseller.
                                          S. T. C.

First published in _News of Literature_, Dec. 10, 1825. See _Arch.
Constable and his Literary Correspondents_, 1873, iii. 482. First
collected in 1893.


75

THE ALTERNATIVE

  This way or that, ye Powers above me!
    I of my grief were rid--
  Did Enna either really love me,
    Or cease to think she did.

First published in _Lit. Rem._, i. 59. Included in _Essays, &c._, iii.
987. First collected in _P. W._, 1885, ii. 364.


76

  In Spain, that land of Monks and Apes,
  The thing called Wine doth come from grapes,
  But on the noble River Rhine,
  The thing called Gripes doth come from Wine!

First published in _Memoirs of C. M. Young_, 1871, p. 221. First
collected in 1893.


77

INSCRIPTION FOR A TIME-PIECE

  Now! It is gone--Our brief hours travel post,
    Each with its thought or deed, its Why or How:--
  But know, each parting hour gives up a ghost
    To dwell within thee--an eternal Now!

First published in _Lit. Rem._, i. 60. First collected in 1844.


78

ON THE MOST VERACIOUS ANECDOTIST, AND
SMALL-TALK MAN, THOMAS HILL, ESQ.[974:1]

  Tom Hill, who laughs at Cares and Woes,
    As nauci--nili--pili--
  What is _he_ like, as I suppose?
    Why, to be sure, a Rose--a Rose.
  At least, no soul that Tom Hill knows
    Could e'er recall a _Li-ly_.

Now first published from an MS.


79

  Nothing speaks our mind so well
  As to speak Nothing. Come then, tell
  Thy Mind in Tears, whoe'er thou be
  That ow'st a name to Misery:
  None can _fluency_ deny
  To Tears, the Language of the Eye.

Now first published from an MS. in the British Museum.


80

EPITAPH OF THE PRESENT YEAR ON THE
MONUMENT OF THOMAS FULLER

  A Lutheran stout, I hold for Goose-and-Gaundry
  Both the Pope's Limbo and his fiery Laundry:
  No wit e'er saw I in Original Sin,
  And no Sin find I in Original Wit;
  But if I'm all in the wrong, and, Grin for Grin,
  Scorch'd Souls must pay for each too lucky hit,--
  Oh, Fuller! much I fear, so vast thy debt,
  Thou art not out of Purgatory yet;
  Tho' one, eight, three and three this year is reckon'd,
  And thou, I think, didst die _sub_ Charles the Second.

Nov. 28, 1833.

Now first published from an MS.


FOOTNOTES:

[951:1] A great, perhaps the greater, number of Coleridge's Epigrams are
adaptations from the German of Wernicke, Lessing, and other less known
epigrammatists. They were sent to the _Morning Post_ and other
periodicals to supply the needs of the moment, and with the rarest
exceptions they were deliberately excluded from the collected editions
of his poetical works which received his own sanction, and were
published in his lifetime. Collected for the first time by Mrs. H. N.
Coleridge and reprinted in the third volume of _Essays on His Own Times_
(1850), they have been included, with additions and omissions, in _P.
and D. W._, 1877-1880, _P. W._, 1885, _P. W._, 1890, and the Illustrated
Edition of Coleridge's _Poems_, issued in 1907. The adaptations from the
German were written and first published between 1799 and 1802. Of the
earlier and later epigrams the greater number are original. Four
epigrams were published anonymously in _The Watchman_, in April, 1796.
Seventeen epigrams, of which twelve are by Coleridge, two by Southey,
and three by Tobin, were published anonymously in the _Annual Anthology_
of 1800. Between January 2, 1798, and October 11, 1802 Coleridge
contributed at least thirty-eight epigrams to the _Morning Post_. Most
of these epigrams appeared under the well-known signature ΕΣΤΗΣΕ. Six
epigrams, of which five had been published in the _Morning Post_, were
included in _The Friend_ (No. 11, Oct. 26, 1809). Finally, Coleridge
contributed six epigrams to the _Keepsake_, of which four had been
published in the _Morning Post_, and one in the _Annual Anthology_.
Epigrams were altogether excluded from _Sibylline Leaves_ and from the
three-volume editions of 1828 and 1829; but in 1834 the rule was relaxed
and six epigrams were allowed to appear. Two of these, _In An Album_
('Parry seeks the Polar Ridge') and _On an Insignificant_ (''Tis Cypher
lies beneath this Crust') were published for the first time.

For the discovery of the German originals of some twenty epigrams, now
for the first time noted and verified, I am indebted to the generous
assistance of Dr. Hermann Georg Fiedler, Taylorian Professor of the
German Language and Literature at Oxford, and of my friend Miss
Katharine Schlesinger.

[953:1] N.B. Bad in itself, and, as Bob Allen used to say of his puns,
looks damned ugly upon paper.

[954:1] Lines 3, 4, with the heading 'On an Insignificant,' were written
by S. T. C. in Southey's copy of the _Omniana_ of 1812 [see nos. 9, 11].
See _P. W._, 1885, ii. 402, _Note_.

[961:1] The antithesis was, perhaps, borrowed from an Epigram entitled
'Posthumous Fame', included in _Elegant Extracts_, ii. 260.

  If on his spacious marble we rely,
  Pity a worth like his should ever die!
  If credit to his real life we give,
  Pity a wretch like him should ever live.

[962:1] The first and second versions are included in _Essays, &c._,
1850, iii. 976: the third version was first published in 1893.

In 1830 Coleridge re-wrote (he did not publish) the second version as an
Epitaph on Hazlitt. The following apologetic note was affixed:--

'With a sadness at heart, and an earnest hope grounded on his
misanthropic sadness, when I first knew him in his twentieth or
twenty-first year, that a something existed in his bodily organism that
in the sight of the All-Merciful lessened his responsibility, and the
moral imputation of his acts and feelings.' _MS._

[964:1] The 'One who published' was, perhaps, Charles Lloyd, in his
novel, _Edmund Oliver_, 2 vols. 1798. Compare the following Epigram of
Prior's:--

  To John I ow'd great obligation,
    But John unhappily thought fit
  To publish it to all the nation:
    Sure John and I are more than quit.

[974:1] Extempore, in reply to a question of Mr. Theodore Hook's--'Look
at him, and say what you think: Is not he like a Rose?'




JEUX D'ESPRIT


1

MY GODMOTHER'S BEARD[976:1]

  So great the charms of Mrs. Mundy,
    That men grew rude, a kiss to gain:
  This so provok'd the dame that one day
    To Pallas chaste she did complain:

  Nor vainly she address'd her prayer,
    Nor vainly to that power applied;
  The goddess bade a length of hair
    In deep recess her muzzle hide:

  Still persevere! to love be callous!
    For I have your petition heard!
  To snatch a kiss were vain (cried Pallas)
    Unless you first should shave your beard.

? 1791

First published in _Table Talk and Omniana_, 1888, p. 392. The lines
were inscribed by Coleridge in Gillman's copy of the _Omniana_ of 1812.
An apologetic note is attached. J. P. Collier (_Old Man's Diary_, 1871,
March 5, 1832, Part I, p. 34) says that Coleridge 'recited the following
not very good epigram by him on his godmother's beard; the consequence
of which was that he was struck out of her will'. Most probably the
lines, as inscribed on the margin of _Omniana_, were written about 1830
or 1831. First collected in _Coleridge's Poems_, 1907.


LINENOTES:

[4] Pallas chaste] Wisdom's Power S. T. C.


2

LINES TO THOMAS POOLE

     [Quoted in a letter from Coleridge to John Thelwall, dated
     Dec. 17, 1796.]

. . . . Joking apart, I would to God we could sit by a fire-side and
joke _vivâ voce_, face to face--Stella [Mrs. Thelwall] and Sara [Mrs. S.
T. Coleridge], Jack Thelwall and I!--as I once wrote to my dear _friend_
T. Poole,--

                                        Repeating
  Such verse as Bowles, heart honour'd Poet sang,
  That wakes the Tear, yet steals away the Pang,
  Then, or with Berkeley, or with Hobbes romance it,
  Dissecting Truth with metaphysic lancet.
  Or, drawn from up these dark unfathom'd wells,
  In wiser folly chink the Cap and Bells.
  How many tales we told! what jokes we made,
  Conundrum, Crambo, Rebus, or Charade;
  Ænigmas that had driven the Theban mad,
  And Puns, these best when exquisitely bad;
  And I, if aught of archer vein I hit,
  With my own laughter stifled my own wit.

1796. First published in 1893.


3

TO A WELL-KNOWN MUSICAL CRITIC, REMARKABLE
FOR HIS EARS STICKING THROUGH HIS HAIR.

  O ----! O ----! of you we complain
  For exposing those ears to the wind and the rain.
  Thy face, a huge whitlow just come to a head,
  Ill agrees with those ears so raw and so red.

  A Musical Critic of old fell a-pouting
  When he saw how his asinine honours were sprouting;
  But he hid 'em quite snug, in a full friz of hair,
  And the Barber alone smoked his donkeys [so] rare.

  Thy judgment much worse, and thy _perkers_ as ample,
  O give heed to King Midas, and take his example.
  Thus to _publish_ your fate is as useless as wrong--
  You but prove by your ears, what we guessed from your tongue.
                                                        LABERIUS.

First published in the _Morning Post_, January 4, 1798. First collected
_P. and D. W._, 1877-80, ii. 370.


4

TO T. POOLE

AN INVITATION

  Plucking flowers from the Galaxy
  On the pinions of Abstraction,
  I did quite forget to ax 'e,
  Whether you have an objaction,
  With us to swill 'e and to swell 'e
  And make a pig-stie of your belly.
  A lovely limb most dainty
  Of a _ci-devant_ Mud-raker,
  I makes bold to acquaint 'e
  We've trusted to the Baker:
  And underneath it satis
  Of the subterrene apple
  By the erudite 'clep'd _taties_--
  With which, if you'ld wish to grapple,
  As sure as I'm a sloven,
  The clock will not strike twice one,
  When the said dish will be out of the oven,
  And the dinner will be a nice one.

P.S.

  Besides we've got some cabbage.
  You Jew-dog, if you linger,
  May the Itch in pomp of scabbage
  Pop out between each finger.

January, 1797.

First published (_minus_ the postscript) in _Thomas Poole and His
Friends_, 1888, i. 211.


5

SONG

TO BE SUNG BY THE LOVERS OF ALL THE NOBLE LIQUORS COMPRISED
UNDER THE NAME OF ALE.


  A.

  Ye drinkers of Stingo and Nappy so free,
  Are the Gods on Olympus so happy as we?


  B.

  They cannot be so happy!
  For why? they drink no Nappy.


  A.

  But what if Nectar, in their lingo,
  Is but another name for Stingo?


  B.

  Why, then we and the Gods are equally blest,
  And Olympus an Ale-house as good as the best!

First published in _Morning Post_, September 18, 1801. Included in
_Essays, &c._, iii. 995-6. First collected _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii.
167.


6

DRINKING _VERSUS_ THINKING

OR, A SONG AGAINST THE NEW PHILOSOPHY

  My Merry men all, that drink with glee
  This fanciful Philosophy,
      Pray tell me what good is it?
  If _antient Nick_ should come and take,
  The same across the Stygian Lake,
      I guess we ne'er should miss it.

  Away, each pale, self-brooding spark
  That goes truth-hunting in the dark,
      Away from our carousing!
  To Pallas we resign such fowls--
  Grave birds of wisdom! ye're but owls,
      And all your trade but _mousing_!

  My merry men all, here's punch and wine,
  And spicy bishop, drink divine!
      Let's live while we are able.
  While Mirth and Sense sit, hand in glove,
  This Don Philosophy we'll shove
      Dead drunk beneath the table!

First published in _Morning Post_, September 25, 1801. Included in
_Essays, &c._, iii. 966-7. First collected _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii.
168.


7

THE WILLS OF THE WISP

A SAPPHIC

_Vix ea nostra voco_

  Lunatic Witch-fires! Ghosts of Light and Motion!
  Fearless I see you weave your wanton dances
  Near me, far off me; you, that tempt the traveller
                          Onward and onward.

  Wooing, retreating, till the swamp beneath him
  Groans--and 'tis dark!--This woman's wile--I know it!
  Learnt it from _thee_, from _thy_ perfidious glances!
                          Black-ey'd Rebecca!

First published in _Morning Post_, December 1, 1801. First collected _P.
and D. W._, 1877, ii. 169.


8

TO CAPTAIN FINDLAY

  When the squalls were flitting and fleering
  And the vessel was tacking and veering;
  Bravo! Captain Findlay,
  Who foretold a fair wind
    Of a constant mind;
  For he knew which way the wind lay,
    Bravo! Captain Findlay.

  A Health to Captain Findlay,
  Bravo! Captain Findlay!
  When we made but ill speed with the Speedwell,
  Neither poets nor sheep could feed well:
      Now grief rotted the Liver,
  Yet Malta, dear Malta, as far off as ever!

  Bravo! Captain Findlay,
  Foretold a fair wind,
    Of a constant mind,
  For he knew which way the wind lay!

May 4, 1804.

Now first published from a Notebook. The rhymes are inserted between the
following entries:--'Thursday night--Wind chopped about and about, once
fairly to the west, for a minute or two--but now, 1/2 past 9, the
Captain comes down and promises a fair wind for to-morrow. We shall
see.' 'Well, and we have got a wind the right way at last!'


9

ON DONNE'S POEM 'TO A FLEA'

  Be proud as Spaniards! Leap for pride ye Fleas!
  Henceforth in Nature's mimic World grandees.
  In Phœbus' archives registered are ye,
  And this your patent of Nobility.
  No skip-Jacks now, nor civiller skip-Johns,
  Dread Anthropophagi! specks of living bronze,
  I hail you one and all, sans Pros or Cons,
  Descendants from a noble race of Dons.
  What tho' that great ancestral Flea be gone,
  Immortal with immortalising Donne,
  His earthly spots bleached off a <DW7>'s gloze,
  In purgatory fire on Bardolph's nose.

1811.

Now first published from an MS.


10

[EX LIBRIS S. T. C.][981:1]

  This, Hannah Scollock! may have been the case;
  Your writing therefore I will not erase.
  But now this Book, once yours, belongs to me,
  The _Morning Post's_ and _Courier's_ S. T. C.;--
  Elsewhere in College, knowledge, wit and scholarage
  To Friends and Public known as S. T. Coleridge.
  Witness hereto my hand, on Ashley Green,
  One thousand, twice four hundred, and fourteen
  Year of our Lord--and of the month November
  The fifteenth day, if right I do remember.

15th Nov. 1814. Ashley, Box, Bath.

First published in _Lit. Rem._, iii. 57. First collected _P. and D. W._,
1877, ii. 387.


11

ΕΓΩΕΝΚΑΙΠΑΝ

The following burlesque on the Fichtean Egoismus may, perhaps, be
amusing to the few who have studied the system, and to those who are
unacquainted with it, may convey as tolerable a likeness of Fichte's
idealism as can be expected from an avowed caricature. [S. T. C.]

The Categorical Imperative, or the annunciation of the New Teutonic God,
ΕΓΩΕΝΚΑΙΠΑΝ: a dithyrambic Ode, by QUERKOPF VON KLUBSTICK, Grammarian,
and Subrector in Gymnasio. . . .

  _Eu! Dei vices gerens, ipse Divus_,
  (Speak English, Friend!) the God Imperativus,
  Here on this market-cross aloud I cry:
  'I, I, I! I itself I!
  The form and the substance, the what and the why,
  The when and the where, and the low and the high,
  The inside and outside, the earth and the sky,
  I, you, and he, and he, you and I,
  All souls and all bodies are I itself I!
        All I itself I!
        (Fools! a truce with this starting!)
        All my I! all my I!
  He's a heretic dog who but adds Betty Martin!'
     Thus cried the God with high imperial tone:
  In robe of stiffest state, that scoff'd at beauty,
  A pronoun-verb imperative he shone--
  Then substantive and plural-singular grown,
  He thus spake on:--'Behold in I alone
  (For Ethics boast a syntax of their own)
  Or if in ye, yet as I doth depute ye,
  In O! I, you, the vocative of duty!
  I of the world's whole Lexicon the root!
  Of the whole universe of touch, sound, sight,
  The genitive and ablative to boot:
  The accusative of wrong, the nom'native of right,
  And in all cases the case absolute!
  Self-construed, I all other moods decline:
  Imperative, from nothing we derive us;
  Yet as a super-postulate of mine,
  Unconstrued antecedence I assign,
  To X Y Z, the God Infinitivus!'

1815.

First published in _Biographia Literaria_, 1817, i. 148_n._ First
collected _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii. 370.


12

THE BRIDGE STREET COMMITTEE

  Jack Snipe
  Eats Tripe:
  It is therefore credible
  That tripe is edible.
  And therefore, perforce,
  It follows, of course,
  That the Devil will gripe
  All who do not eat Tripe.

  And as Nic is too slow
  To fetch 'em below:
  And Gifford, the attorney,
  Won't quicken their journey;
  The Bridge-Street Committee
  That colleague without pity,
  To imprison and hang
  Carlile and his gang,
  Is the pride of the City,
  And 'tis Association
  That, alone, saves the Nation
  From Death and Damnation.

First published in _Letters and Conversations, &c._, 1836, i. 90, 91.
These lines, which were inscribed in one of Coleridge's notebooks, refer
to a 'Constitutional association' which promoted the prosecution of
Richard Carlile, the publisher of Paine's _Age of Reason_, for
blasphemy. See _Diary_ of H. C. Robinson, 1869, ii. 134, 135. First
collected _P. W._, 1885, ii. 405.


13

NONSENSE SAPPHICS[983:1]

  Here's Jem's first copy of nonsense verses,
  All in the antique style of Mistress Sappho,
  Latin just like Horace the tuneful Roman,
                Sapph's imitator:

  But we Bards, we classical Lyric Poets,
  Know a thing or two in a scurvy Planet:
  Don't we, now? Eh? Brother Horatius Flaccus,
                Tip us your paw, Lad:--

  Here's to Mæcenas and the other worthies;
  Rich men of England! would ye be immortal?
  Patronise Genius, giving Cash and Praise to
                Gillman Jacobus;

  Gillman Jacobus, he of Merchant Taylors',
  Minor ætate, ingenio at stupendus,
  Sapphic, Heroic, Elegiac,--what a
                Versificator!

First published in _Essays, &c._, 1850, iii. 987. First collected 1893.


14

TO SUSAN STEELE ON RECEIVING THE PURSE

EXTRUMPERY LINES

      My dearest Dawtie!
      That's never naughty--
    When the Mare was stolen, and not before,
    The wise man got a stable-door:
    And he and I are brother Ninnies,
    One Beast _he_ lost and I two guineas;
  And as sure as it's wet when it above rains,
  The man's brains and mine both alike had thick coverings,
  For if he lost one mare, poor I lost two sovereigns!
  A cash-pouch I have got, but no cash to put in it,
  Tho' there's gold in the world and Sir Walter can win it:
  For your sake I'll keep it for better or worse,
  So here is a dear loving kiss for your purse.
                                                 S. T. COLERIDGE.

1829. Now first published from an MS.


15

ASSOCIATION OF IDEAS[984:1]

  I.--_By Likeness_

  Fond, peevish, wedded pair! why all this rant?
    O guard your tempers! hedge your tongues about
  This empty head should warn you on that point--
    The teeth were quarrelsome, and so fell out.
                                          S. T. C.


  II.--_Association by Contrast_

  Phidias changed marble into feet and legs.
  Disease! vile anti-Phidias! thou, i' fegs!
  Hast turned my live limbs into marble pegs.


  III.--_Association by Time_

  SIMPLICIUS SNIPKIN _loquitur_

  I touch this scar upon my skull behind,
  And instantly there rises in my mind
  Napoleon's mighty hosts from Moscow lost,
  Driven forth to perish in the fangs of Frost.
  For in that self-same month, and self-same day,
  Down Skinner Street I took my hasty way--
  Mischief and Frost had set the boys at play;
  I stept upon a slide--oh! treacherous tread!--
  Fell smash with bottom bruised, and brake my head!
  Thus Time's co-presence links the great and small,
  Napoleon's overthrow, and Snipkin's fall.

? 1830. First published in _Fraser's Magazine_, Jan. 1835, Art.
'Coleridgeiana'. First collected 1893.


16

VERSES TRIVOCULAR

  Of one scrap of science I've evidence ocular.
  A heart of one chamber they call unilocular,
  And in a sharp frost, or when snow-flakes fall floccular,
  Your wise man of old wrapp'd himself in a Roquelaure,
  Which was called a Wrap-rascal when folks would be jocular.
  And shell-fish, the small, Periwinkle and Cockle are,
  So with them will I finish these verses trivocular.

Now first published from an MS.


17

CHOLERA CURED BEFORE-HAND

Or a premonition promulgated gratis for the use of the Useful Classes,
specially those resident in St. Giles's, Saffron Hill, Bethnal Green,
etc.; and likewise, inasmuch as the good man is merciful even to the
beasts, for the benefit of the Bulls and Bears of the Stock Exchange.

          Pains ventral, subventral,
          In stomach or entrail,
          Think no longer mere prefaces
          For grins, groans, and wry faces;
  But off to the doctor, fast as ye can crawl!                         5
  Yet far better 'twould be not to have them at all.

          Now to 'scape inward aches,
          Eat no plums nor plum-cakes;
          Cry avaunt! new potato--
          And don't drink, like old Cato.                             10
          Ah! beware of Dispipsy,
          And don't ye get tipsy!
          For tho' gin and whiskey
          May make you feel frisky,
          They're but crimps to Dispipsy;                             15
          And nose to tail, with this gipsy
          Comes, black as a porpus,
          The diabolus ipse,
          Call'd Cholery Morpus;
  Who with horns, hoofs, and tail, croaks for carrion to feed him,    20
  Tho' being a Devil, no one never has seed him!

          Ah! then my dear honies,
          There's no cure for you
          For loves nor for monies:--
          You'll find it too true.                                    25
          Och! the hallabaloo!
          Och! och! how you'll wail,
          When the offal-fed vagrant
          Shall turn you as blue
          As the gas-light unfragrant,                                30
  That gushes in jets from beneath his own tail;--
          'Till swift as the mail,
          He at last brings the cramps on,
          That will twist you like Samson.
          So without further blethring,                               35
          Dear mudlarks! my brethren!
          Of all scents and degrees,
          (Yourselves and your shes)
          Forswear all cabal, lads,
          Wakes, unions, and rows,                                    40
          Hot dreams and cold salads,
  And don't pig in styes that would suffocate sows!
  Quit Cobbett's, O'Connell's and Beelzebub's banners,
  And whitewash at once bowels, rooms, hands, and manners!

July 26, 1832. First published in _P. W._ 1834. These lines were
enclosed in a letter to J. H. Green, dated July 26, 1832, with the
following introduction: 'Address premonitory to the Sovereign People, or
the Cholera cured before-hand, promulgated _gratis_ for the use of the
useful classes, specially of those resident in St. Giles, Bethnal Green,
Saffron Hill, etc., by their Majesties', i. e. the People's, loyal
subject--Demophilus Mudlarkiades.'


LINENOTES:

[1-6] om. Letter 1832.

[7-8] To escape Belly ache Eat no plums nor plum cake Letter 1832.

[12] And therefore don't get tipsy Letter 1832.

[16] with this gipsy] of Dys Pipsy Letter 1832.

[22] And oh! och my dear Honies Letter 1832.

[28] offal-fed] horn-and-hoof'd Letter 1832.

[41] dreams] drams Letter 1832.

[44] And whitewash at once your Guts, Rooms and Manners Letter 1832.

[After 44]

  Vivat Rex Popellio!
  Vivat Regina Plebs!
  Hurra! 3 times 3 thrice
  repeated Hurra!

Letter, 1832.


18

TO BABY BATES

  You come from o'er the waters,
    From famed Columbia's land,
  And you have sons and daughters,
    And money at command.

  But I live in an island,
    Great Britain is its name,
  With money none to buy land,
    The more it is the shame.

  But we are all the children
    Of one great God of Love,
  Whose mercy like a mill-drain
    Runs over from above.

      Lullaby, lullaby,
        Sugar-plums and cates,
      Close your little peeping eye,
        Bonny Baby B----s.

First collected 1893. 'Baby Bates' was the daughter of Joshua Bates, one
of the donors of the Boston Library. Her father and mother passed a year
(1828-1829) at Highgate, 'close to the house of Dr. and Mrs. Gillman.'
See a letter to Mrs. Bates from S. T. C. dated Jan. 23, 1829. _N. and
Q._ 4th Series, i. 469.


19

TO A CHILD[987:1]

    Little Miss Fanny,
    So cubic and canny,
    With blue eyes and blue shoes--
    The Queen of the Blues!
  As darling a girl as there is in the world--
    If she'll laugh, skip and jump,
    And not be _Miss Glump_!

1834. First published in _Athenæum_, Jan. 28, 1888. First collected
1893.


FOOTNOTES:

[976:1] 'There is a female saint (St. Vuilgefortis), whom the Jesuit
Sautel, in his _Annus Sacer Poeticus_, has celebrated for her beard--a
mark of divine favour bestowed upon her for her prayers.' _Omniana_,
1812, ii. 54. 'Pereant qui ante nos nostra dixere! What! can nothing be
one's own? This is the more vexatious, for at the age of eighteen I lost
a legacy of fifty pounds for the following epigram on my godmother's
beard, which she had the _barbarity_ to revenge by striking me out of
her will.' _S. T. C._

[981:1] These lines are written on a fly-leaf of a copy of _Five Bookes
of the Church_ by Richard Field (folio 1635), under the inscription:
'Hannah Scollock, her book, February 10, 1787.' The volume was
bequeathed to the poet's younger son, Derwent Coleridge, and is now in
the possession of the Editor.

[983:1] Written for James Gillman Junr. as a School Exercise, for
_Merchant Taylors'_, c. 1822-3.

[984:1] Written in pencil on the blank leaf of a book of lectures
delivered at the London University, in which the Hartleyan doctrine of
association was assumed as a true basis.

[987:1] To Miss Fanny Boyce, afterwards Lady Wilmot Horton.




FRAGMENTS FROM A NOTEBOOK[988:1]

_Circa_ 1796-98


1

  Light cargoes waft of modulated Sound
  From viewless Hybla brought, when Melodies
  Like Birds of Paradise on wings, that aye
  Disport in wild variety of hues,
  Murmur around the honey-dropping flower.

First published in 1893. Compare _The Eolian Harp_ (Aug. 1795), lines
20-5 (_ante_ p. 101).


2

  Broad-breasted rock--hanging cliff that glasses
  His rugged forehead in the calmy sea.[988:2]

First published in 1893. Compare _Destiny of Nations_ (1796), lines 342,
343 (_ante_ p. 143).


3

  Where Cam his stealthy flowings most dissembles
  And scarce the Willow's watery shadow trembles.

First published in 1893. Compare line 1 of _A Fragment Found in a
Lecture-Room_, 'Where deep in mud Cam rolls his slumbrous stream'
(_ante_, p. 35).


4

  With secret hand heal the conjectur'd wound,

  [or]

  Guess at the wound, and heal with secret hand.

First published in 1893. The alternative line was first published in
_Lit. Rem._, i. 279.


5

  Outmalic'd Calumny's imposthum'd Tongue.

First published in 1893. A line from _Verses to Horne Tooke_, July 4,
1796, line 20 (_ante_, p. 151).


6

                   And write Impromptus
  Spurring their Pegasus to tortoise gallop.

First published in 1893.


7

  Due to the Staggerers, that made drunk by Power
  Forget thirst's eager promise, and presume,
  Dark Dreamers! that the world forgets it too.

First published in _Lit. Rem._, 1836, i. 27.


LINENOTES:

[1] Due] These L. R.


8

                    Perish warmth
  Unfaithful to its seeming!

First published in _Lit. Rem._, i. 279.


9

  Old age, 'the shape and messenger of Death,'
  'His wither'd Fist still knocking at Death's door.'

First published in _Lit. Rem._, i. 279. Quoted from Sackville's
_Induction to a Mirrour for Magistrates_, stanza 48:

  'His wither'd fist stil knocking at deathes dore,
  Tumbling and driveling as he drawes his breth;
  For briefe, the shape and messenger of death.'


10

                   God no distance knows,
  All of the whole possessing!

First published in _Lit. Rem._, i. 279. Compare _Religious Musings_, ll.
156-7.


11

     Wherefore art thou come? doth not the Creator of all things
     know all things? And if thou art come to seek him, know that
     where thou wast, there he was.

First published in 1893. Compare the _Wanderings of Cain_.


12

  And cauldrons the scoop'd earth, a boiling sea.

First published in 1893.


13

  Rush on my ear, a cataract of sound.

First published in 1893.


14

  The guilty pomp, consuming while it flares.

First published in 1893.


15

  My heart seraglios a whole host of Joys.

First published in 1893.


16

  And Pity's sigh shall answer thy tale of Anguish
  Like the faint echo of a distant valley.

First published in _Notizbuch_, 1896, p. 350.


17

A DUNGEON

  In darkness I remain'd--the neighb'ring clock
  Told me that now the rising sun shone lovely
  On my garden.

First published in _Lit. Rem._, i. 279. Compare _Osorio_, Act I, lines
219-21 (_ante_, p. 528), and _Remorse_, Act I, Scene II, lines 218-20
(_ante_, p. 830).


LINENOTES:

[2] sun at dawn L. R.


18

  The Sun (for now his orb 'gan slowly sink)
  Shot half his rays aslant the heath whose flowers
  Purpled the mountain's broad and level top;
  Rich was his bed of clouds, and wide beneath
  Expecting Ocean smiled with dimpled face.

First published in _Lit. Rem._, i. 278. Compare _This Lime-Tree Bower_
(1797), lines 32-7 (_ante_, pp. 179, 180).


19

  Leanness, disquietude, and secret Pangs.

First published in _Notizbuch_, p. 351.


20

  Smooth, shining, and deceitful as thin Ice.

First published in _Notizbuch_, p. 355.


21

  Wisdom, Mother of retired Thought.

First published in 1893.


22

        Nature wrote Rascal on his face,
  By chalcographic art!

First published in 1893.


23

  In this world we dwell among the tombs
  And touch the pollutions of the Dead.

First published in 1893. Compare _Destiny of Nations_, ll. 177-8
(_ante_, p. 137).


24

  The mild despairing of a Heart resigned.

First published in _Lit. Rem._, i. 278.


25

  Such fierce vivacity as fires the eye
  Of Genius fancy-craz'd.

First published in _Lit. Rem._, i. 278. Compare _Destiny of Nations_,
ll. 257, 258 (_ante_, p. 139).


26

                         ----like a mighty Giantess
  Seiz'd in sore travail and prodigious birth
  Sick Nature struggled: long and strange her pangs;
  Her groans were horrible, but O! most fair
  The Twins she bore--EQUALITY and PEACE!

First published in _Lit. Rem._, i. 278. Compare concluding lines of the
second strophe of _Ode to the Departing Year_, 4{o}, 1796.


27

                        Discontent
  Mild as an infant low-plaining in its sleep.

First published in 1893.


28

                      ----terrible and loud,
  As the strong Voice that from the Thunder-cloud
  Speaks to the startled Midnight.

First published in _Lit. Rem._, i. 278.


29

                      The swallows
  Interweaving there, mid the pair'd sea-mews
  At distance wildly-wailing!

First published in 1893.


30

  The Brook runs over sea-weeds.
  Sabbath day--from the Miller's merry wheel
  The water-drops dripp'd leisurely.

First published in 1893. It is possible the Fragments were some of the
'studies' for _The Brook_. See _Biog. Lit._, Cap. X, ed. 1907, i. 129.


31

              On the broad mountain-top
  The neighing wild-colt races with the wind
  O'er fern and heath-flowers.

First published in _Lit. Rem._, i. 278.


32

                                    A long deep lane
  So overshadow'd, it might seem one bower--
  The damp clay-banks were furr'd with mouldy moss.

First published in 1893.


33

  Broad-breasted Pollards, with broad-branching heads.

First published in 1893.


34

  'Twas sweet to know it only possible--
  Some _wishes_ cross'd my mind and dimly cheer'd it--
  And one or two poor melancholy Pleasures--
  In these, the pale unwarming light of Hope
  Silv'ring their flimsy wing, flew silent by,
  Moths in the Moonlight.

First published in _Lit. Rem._, i. 277, 278.


LINENOTES:

[4] In these] Each in L. R.

[5] their] its L. R.


35

                         Behind the thin
  Grey cloud that cover'd but not hid the sky
  The round full moon look'd small.

First published in _Lit. Rem._, i. 277. Compare _Christabel_, ll. 16, 17
(_ante_, p. 216).


36

                      The subtle snow
  In every breeze rose curling from the Grove
  Like pillars of cottage smoke.

First published in _Lit. Rem._, i. 278.


LINENOTES:

  The Subtle snow in every passing breeze
  Rose curling from the grove like shafts of smoke.

L. R.


37

  The sunshine lies on the cottage-wall,
  A-shining thro' the snow.

First published in 1893.


38

     A MANIAC in the woods--She crosses heedlessly the woodman's
     path--scourg'd by rebounding boughs.

First published in 1893.

Compare this with discarded stanza in 'Introduction to the Tale of the
Dark Ladié' as printed in the _Morning Post_, Dec. 21, 1799 (vide
_ante_, p. 333).

  And how he cross'd the woodman's paths,
  Thro' briars and swampy mosses beat;
  How boughs rebounding scourg'd his limbs,
    And low stubs gor'd his feet.

  Note by J. D. Campbell, _P. W._, 1893, p. 456.


39

HYMNS--MOON

     In a cave in the mountains of Cashmeer, an image of ice, which
     makes its appearance thus: Two days before the new moon there
     appears a bubble of ice, which increases in size every day
     till the fifteenth day, at which it is an ell or more in
     height;--then, as the moon decreases the Image does also till
     it vanishes. _Mem._ Read the whole 107th page of Maurice's
     _Indostan_.

First published in 1893. 'Hymns to the Sun, the Moon, and the Elements'
are included in a list of projected works enumerated in the Gutch
Notebook. The 'caves of ice' in _Kubla Khan_ may have been a
reminiscence of the 107th page of Maurice's _Hindostan_.


40

  The tongue can't speak when the mouth is cramm'd with earth--
  A little mould fills up most eloquent mouths,
  And a square stone with a few pious texts
  Cut neatly on it, keeps the mould down tight.

First published in 1893. Compare _Osorio_, Act III, lines 259-62
(_ante_, p. 560).


41

  And with my whole heart sing the stately song,
  Loving the God that made me.

First published in 1893. Compare _Fears in Solitude_, ll. 196-7 (_ante_,
p. 263).


42

  God's Image, Sister of the Cherubim!

First published in 1893. Compare the last line of _The Ode to the
Departing Year_ (_ante_, p. 168).


43

  And re-implace God's Image in the Soul.

First published in 1893.


44

  And arrows steeled with wrath.

First published in 1893.


45

  Lov'd the same Love, and hated the same hate,
  Breath'd in his soul! etc. etc.

First published in 1893.


46

  O man! thou half-dead Angel!

First published in 1893.


47

  Thy stern and sullen eye, and thy dark brow
  Chill me, like dew-damps of th' unwholesome Night.
  My Love, a timorous and tender flower,
  Closes beneath thy Touch, unkindly man!
  Breath'd on by gentle gales of Courtesy
  And cheer'd by sunshine of impassion'd look--
  Then opes its petals of no vulgar hues.

First published in 1893. See _Remorse_, Act I, Sc. II, ll. 81-4 (_ante_,
p. 826). Compare _Osorio_, Act. I, ll. 80-3 (_ante_, p. 522).


48

  With skill that never Alchemist yet told,
  Made drossy Lead as ductile as pure Gold.

First published in 1893.


49

  Grant me a Patron, gracious Heaven! whene'er
  My unwash'd follies call for Penance drear:
  But when more hideous guilt this heart infests
    Instead of fiery coals upon my Pate,
    O let a _titled_ Patron be my Fate;--
  That fierce Compendium of Ægyptian Pests!
  Right reverend Dean, right honourable Squire,
  Lord, Marquis, Earl, Duke, Prince,--or if aught higher,
  However proudly nicknamed, he shall be
  Anathema Maránatha to me!

First published, _Lit. Rem._, i. 281.


FOOTNOTES:

[988:1] One of the earliest of Coleridge's Notebooks, which fell into
the hands of his old schoolfellow, John Mathew Gutch, the printer and
proprietor of _Felix Farley's Bristol Journal_, was purchased by the
Trustees of the British Museum in 1868, and is now included in _Add.
MSS._ as No. 27901. The fragments of verse contained in the notebook are
included in _P. W._ 1893, pp. 453-8. The notebook as a whole was
published by Professor A. Brandl in 1896 (_S. T. Coleridge's Notizbuch
aus den Jahren 1795-1798_). Nineteen entries are included by H. N.
Coleridge in _Poems and Poetical Fragments_ published in _Literary
Remains_, 1836, i. 277-80.

[988:2] An incorrect version of the lines was published in _Lit. Rem._,
ii. 280.




FRAGMENTS[996:1]


1

  O'er the raised earth the gales of evening sigh;
  And, see, a daisy peeps upon its <DW72>!
  I wipe the dimming waters from mine eye;
  Even on the cold grave lights the Cherub Hope.[996:2]

? 1787. First published in _Poems_, 1852 (p. 379, Note 1). First
collected 1893.


2

  Sea-ward, white gleaming thro' the busy scud
  With arching Wings, the sea-mew o'er my head
  Posts on, as bent on speed, now passaging
  Edges the stiffer Breeze, now, yielding, drifts,
  Now floats upon the air, and sends from far
  A wildly-wailing Note.

Now first published from an MS. Compare Fragment No. 29 of Fragments
from a Notebook.


3

OVER MY COTTAGE

  The Pleasures sport beneath the thatch;
  But Prudence sits upon the watch;
  Nor Dun nor Doctor lifts the latch!

1799. First published from an MS. in 1893. Suggested by Lessing's
_Sinngedicht_ No. 104.


4

In the lame and limping metre of a barbarous Latin poet--

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

  'Tis mine and it is likewise yours;
    But and if this will not do,
  Let it be mine, because that I
    Am the poorer of the Two!

Nov. 1, 1801. First published in the Preface to _Christabel_, 1816.
First collected 1893.


5

  Names do not always meet with LOVE,
  And LOVE wants courage without a _name_.[997:1]

Dec. 1801. Now first published from an MS.


6

  The Moon, how definite its orb!
  Yet gaze again, and with a steady gaze--
  'Tis there indeed,--but where is it not?--
  It is suffused o'er all the sapphire Heaven,
  Trees, herbage, snake-like stream, unwrinkled Lake,
  Whose very murmur does of it partake!

     And low and close the broad smooth mountain is more a thing
     of Heaven than when distinct by one dim shade, and yet
     undivided from the universal cloud in which it towers infinite
     in height.

? 1801. First published from an MS. in 1893.


7

  Such love as mourning Husbands have
  To her whose Spirit has been newly given
  To her guardian Saint in Heaven--
  Whose Beauty lieth in the grave--

(Unconquered, as if the Soul could find no purer Tabernacle, nor place
of sojourn than the virgin Body it had before dwelt in, and wished to
stay there till the Resurrection)--

  Far liker to a Flower now than when alive,
  Cold to the Touch and blooming to the eye.

Sept. 1803. Now first published from an MS.


8

[THE NIGHT-MARE DEATH IN LIFE]

  I know 'tis but a dream, yet feel more anguish
  Than if 'twere truth. It has been often so:
  Must I die under it? Is no one near?
  Will no one hear these stifled groans and wake me?

? 1803. Now first published from an MS.


9

  Bright clouds of reverence, sufferably bright,
  That intercept the dazzle, not the Light;
  That veil the finite form, the boundless power reveal,
  Itself an earthly sun of pure intensest white.

1803. First published from an MS. in 1893.


10

A BECK IN WINTER[998:1]

  Over the broad, the shallow, rapid stream,
  The Alder, a vast hollow Trunk, and ribb'd--
  All mossy green with mosses manifold,
  And ferns still waving in the river-breeze
  Sent out, like fingers, five projecting trunks--
  The shortest twice 6 (?) of a tall man's strides.--
  One curving upward in its middle growth
  Rose straight with grove of twigs--a pollard tree:--
  The rest more backward, gradual in descent--
  One in the brook and one befoamed its waters:
  One ran along the bank in the elk-like head
  And pomp of antlers--

Jan. 1804. Now first published from an MS. (pencil).


11

  I from the influence of thy Looks receive,
  Access in every virtue, in thy Sight
  More wise, more wakeful, stronger, if need were
  Of outward strength.--

1804. Now first published from an MS.


12

  What never is, but only is to be
  This is not Life:--
  O hopeless Hope, and Death's Hypocrisy!
  And with perpetual promise breaks its promises.

1804-5. Now first published from an MS.


13

  The silence of a City, how awful at Midnight!
  Mute as the battlements and crags and towers
  That Fancy makes in the clouds, yea, as mute
  As the moonlight that sleeps on the steady vanes.

(or)

  The cell of a departed anchoret,
  His skeleton and flitting ghost are there,
  Sole tenants--
  And all the City silent as the Moon
  That steeps in quiet light the steady vanes
  Of her huge temples.

1804-5. Now first published from an MS.


14

  O beauty in a beauteous body dight!
  Body that veiling brightness, beamest bright;
  Fair cloud which less we see, than by thee see the light.

1805. First published from an MS. in 1893.


15

  O th' Oppressive, irksome weight
  Felt in an uncertain state:
  Comfort, peace, and rest adieu
  Should I prove at last untrue!
  Self-confiding wretch, I thought
  I could love thee as I ought,
  Win thee and deserve to feel
  All the Love thou canst reveal,
  And still I chuse thee, follow still.

1805. First published from an MS. in 1893.


16

  'Twas not a mist, nor was it quite a cloud,
  But it pass'd smoothly on towards the sea--
  Smoothly and lightly between Earth and Heaven:
                           So, thin a cloud,
  It scarce bedimm'd the star that shone behind it:
                           And Hesper now
  Paus'd on the welkin blue, and cloudless brink,
  A golden circlet! while the Star of Jove--
  That other lovely star--high o'er my head
  Shone whitely in the centre of his Haze
                       . . . one black-blue cloud
  Stretch'd, like the heaven, o'er all the cope of Heaven.

Dec. 1797. First published from an MS. in 1893.


17

[NOT A CRITIC--BUT A JUDGE]

  Whom should I choose for my Judge? the earnest, impersonal reader,
    Who, in the work, forgets me and the world and himself!
  You who have eyes to detect, and Gall to Chastise the imperfect,
    Have you the heart, too, that loves,--feels and rewards the
        Compleat?

1805. Now first published from an MS.


18

  A sumptuous and magnificent Revenge.

March 1806. First published from an MS. in 1893.


19

[DE PROFUNDIS CLAMAVI]

  Come, come thou bleak December wind,
    And blow the dry leaves from the tree!
  Flash, like a love-thought, thro' me, Death!
    And take a life that wearies me.

Leghorn, June 7, 1806. First published in _Letters of S. T. C._, 1875,
ii. 499, n. 1. Now collected for the first time. Adapted from Percy's
version of 'Waly, Waly, Love be bonny', st. 3.

  Marti'mas wind when wilt thou blaw,
    And shake the green leaves aff the tree?
  O gentle death, when wilt thou cum?
    For of my life I am wearie.


20

  As some vast Tropic tree, itself a wood,
  That crests its head with clouds, beneath the flood
  Feeds its deep roots, and with the bulging flank
  Of its wide base controls the fronting bank--
  (By the slant current's pressure scoop'd away
  The fronting bank becomes a foam-piled bay)
  High in the Fork the uncouth Idol knits
  His channel'd brow; low murmurs stir by fits
  And dark below the horrid Faquir sits--
  An Horror from its broad Head's branching wreath
  Broods o'er the rude Idolatry beneath--

1806-7. Now first published from an MS.


21

  Let Eagle bid the Tortoise sunward soar--
  As vainly Strength speaks to a broken Mind.[1001:1]

1807. First published in _Thomas Poole and His Friends_, 1888, ii. 195.


22

                    The body,
  Eternal Shadow of the finite Soul,
  The Soul's self-symbol, its image of itself.
  Its own yet not itself.

Now first published from an MS.


23

  Or Wren or Linnet,
  In Bush and Bushet;
  No tree, but in it
  A cooing Cushat.

May 1807. Now first published from an MS.


24

  The reed roof'd village still bepatch'd with snow
  Smok'd in the sun-thaw.

1798. Now first published from an MS. Compare _Frost at Midnight_, ll.
69-70, _ante_, p. 242.


25

    And in Life's noisiest hour
  There whispers still the ceaseless love of thee,
  The heart's self-solace } and soliloquy.
                  commune }

1807. Now first published from an MS.


26

    You mould my Hopes you fashion me within:
    And to the leading love-throb in the heart,
    Through all my being, through my pulses beat;
    You lie in all my many thoughts like Light,
    Like the fair light of Dawn, or summer Eve,
    On rippling stream, or cloud-reflecting lake;
  And looking to the Heaven that bends above you,
  How oft! I bless the lot that made me love you.

1807. Now first published from an MS.


27

  And my heart mantles in its own delight.

Now first published from an MS.


28

  The spruce and limber yellow-hammer
  In the dawn of spring and sultry summer,
  In hedge or tree the hours beguiling
  With notes as of one who brass is filing.

1807. Now first published from an MS.


29

FRAGMENT OF AN ODE ON NAPOLEON

  O'erhung with yew, midway the Muses mount
    From thy sweet murmurs far, O Hippocrene!
  Turbid and black upboils an angry fount
    Tossing its shatter'd foam in vengeful spleen--
  Phlegethon's rage Cocytus' wailings hoarse
  Alternate now, now mixt, made known its headlong course:
    Thither with terror stricken and surprise,
  (For sure such haunts were ne'er to Muse's choice)
    Euterpe led me. Mute with asking eyes
  I stood expectant of her heavenly voice.
  Her voice entranc'd my terror and made flow
  In a rude understrain the maniac fount below.
  'Whene'er (the Goddess said) abhorr'd of Jove
  Usurping Power his hands in blood imbrues--

? 1808. Now first published from an MS.


30

  The singing Kettle and the purring Cat,
  The gentle breathing of the cradled Babe,
  The silence of the Mother's love-bright eye,
  And tender smile answering its smile of Sleep.

1803. First published from an MS. in 1893.


31

  Two wedded hearts, if ere were such,
  Imprison'd in adjoining cells,
  Across whose thin partition-wall
  The builder left one narrow rent,
  And where, most content in discontent,
  A joy with itself at strife--
  Die into an intenser life.

1808. First published from an MS. in 1893.


ANOTHER VERSION

  The builder left one narrow rent,
    Two wedded hearts, if ere were such,
  Contented most in discontent,
    Still there cling, and try in vain to touch!
  O Joy! with thy own joy at strife,
    That yearning for the Realm above
  Wouldst die into intenser Life,
    And Union absolute of Love!

1808. First published from an MS. in 1893.


32

  Sole Maid, associate sole, to me beyond
  Compare all living creatures dear--
  Thoughts, which have found their harbour in thy heart
  Dearest! _me_ thought of _him_ to thee so dear!

1809. First published from an MS. in 1893.


33

EPIGRAM ON KEPLER

FROM THE GERMAN

  No mortal spirit yet had clomb so high
  As Kepler--yet his Country saw him die
  For very want! the _Minds_ alone he fed,
  And so the _Bodies_ left him without bread.

1799. First published in _The Friend_, Nov. 30, 1809 (1818, ii. 95;
1850, ii. 69). First collected _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii. 374.


LINENOTES:

[1] spirit] Genius MS.

[2] yet] and MS.

[3] _Minds_] _Souls_ MS. erased.


34

  When Hope but made Tranquillity be felt:
  A flight of Hope for ever on the wing
  But made Tranquillity a conscious thing;
  And wheeling round and round in sportive coil,
  Fann'd the calm air upon the brow of Toil.

1810. First published from an MS. in 1893.


35

                             I have experienced
  The worst the world can wreak on me--the worst
  That can make Life indifferent, yet disturb
  With whisper'd discontent the dying prayer--
  I have beheld the whole of all, wherein
  _My_ heart had any interest in this life
  To be disrent and torn from off my Hopes
  That nothing now is left. Why then live on?
  That hostage that the world had in its keeping
  Given by me as a pledge that I would live--
  That hope of Her, say rather that pure Faith
  In her fix'd Love, which held me to keep truce
  With the tyranny of Life--is gone, ah! whither?
  What boots it to reply? 'tis gone! and now
  Well may I break this Pact, this league of Blood
  That ties me to myself--and break I shall.

1810. First published from an MS. in 1893.


36

  As when the new or full Moon urges
  The high, large, long, unbreaking surges
  Of the Pacific main.

1811. First published from an MS. in 1893.


37

  O mercy, O me, miserable man!
  Slowly my wisdom, and how slowly comes
  My Virtue! and how rapidly pass off
  My Joys! _my Hopes_! my Friendships, and my Love!

1811. Now first published from an MS.


38

  A low dead Thunder mutter'd thro' the night,
  As 'twere a giant angry in his sleep--
  Nature! sweet nurse, O take me in thy lap
  And tell me of my Father yet unseen,
  Sweet tales, and true, that lull me into sleep
  And leave me dreaming.

1811. First published from an MS. in 1893.


39

  His own fair countenance, his kingly forehead,
  His tender smiles, Love's day-dawn on his lips,
  Put on such heavenly, spiritual light,
  At the same moment in his steadfast eye
  Were Virtue's native crest, th' innocent soul's
  Unconscious meek self-heraldry,--to man
  Genial, and pleasant to his guardian angel.
  He suffer'd nor complain'd;--though oft with tears
  He mourn'd th' oppression of his helpless brethren,--
  And sometimes with a deeper holier grief
  Mourn'd for the oppressor--but this in sabbath hours--
  A solemn grief, that like a cloud at sunset,
  Was but the veil of inward meditation
  Pierced thro' and saturate with the intellectual rays
  It soften'd.

1812. First published (with many alterations of the MS.) in _Lit. Rem._,
i. 277. First collected _P. and D. W._, 1887, ii. 364. Compare Teresa's
speech to Valdez, _Remorse_, Act IV, Scene II, lines 52-63 (_ante_, p.
866).


40

[ARS POETICA]

In the two following lines, for instance, there is nothing
objectionable, nothing which would preclude them from forming, in their
proper place, part of a descriptive poem:--

  'Behold yon row of pines, that shorn and bow'd
  Bend from the sea-blast, seen at twilight eve.'

But with a small alteration of rhythm, the same words would be equally
in their place in a book of topography, or in a descriptive tour. The
same image will rise into a semblance of poetry if thus conveyed:--

  'Yon row of bleak and visionary pines,
  By twilight-glimpse discerned, mark! how they flee
  From the fierce sea-blast, all their tresses wild
  Streaming before them.'

1815. First published in _Biog. Lit._, 1817, ii. 18; 1847, ii. 20. First
collected 1893.


41

TRANSLATION OF THE FIRST STROPHE OF
PINDAR'S SECOND OLYMPIC

'_As nearly as possible word for word._'

  Ye harp-controlling hymns!

(or)

  Ye hymns the sovereigns of harps!
  What God? what Hero?
  What Man shall we celebrate?
  Truly Pisa indeed is of Jove,
  But the Olympiad (or, the Olympic games) did Hercules establish,
  The first-fruits of the spoils of war.
  But Theron for the four-horsed car
  That bore victory to him,
  It behoves us now to voice aloud:
  The Just, the Hospitable,
  The Bulwark of Agrigentum,
  Of renowned fathers
  The Flower, even him
  Who preserves his native city erect and safe.

1815. First published in _Biog. Lit._, 1817, ii. 90; 1847, ii. 93. First
collected 1893.


42

  O! Superstition is the giant shadow
  Which the solicitude of weak mortality,
  Its back toward Religion's rising sun,
  Casts on the thin mist of th' uncertain future.

1816. First published from an MS. in 1893.


43

TRANSLATION OF A FRAGMENT OF HERACLITUS[1007:1]

                         Not hers
  To win the sense by words of rhetoric,
  Lip-blossoms breathing perishable sweets;
  But by the power of the informing Word
  Roll sounding onward through a thousand years
  Her deep prophetic bodements.

1816. First published in _Lit. Rem._, iii. 418, 419. First collected _P.
and D. W._, 1877, ii. 367.


44

  Truth I pursued, as Fancy sketch'd the way,
  And wiser men than I went worse astray.

First published as Motto to Essay II, _The Friend_, 1818, ii. 37; 1850,
ii. 27. First collected 1893.


45

IMITATED FROM ARISTOPHANES

(_Nubes_ 315, 317.)

                           μεγάλαι θεαὶ ἀνδράσιν ἀργοῖς,
  αἵπερ γνώμην καὶ διάλεξιν καὶ νοῦν ἡμῖν παρέχουσι
  καὶ τερατείαν καὶ περίλεξιν καὶ κροῦσιν καὶ καταληψιν.

For the ancients . . . had their glittering VAPORS, which (as the comic
poet tells us) fed a host of sophists.

  Great goddesses are they to lazy folks,
  Who pour down on us gifts of fluent speech,
  Sense most sententious, wonderful fine _effect_,
  And how to talk about it and about it,
  Thoughts brisk as bees, and pathos soft and thawy.

1817. First published in _The Friend_, 1818, iii. 179; 1850, iii. 138.
First collected 1893.


46

  Let clumps of earth, however glorified,
  Roll round and round and still renew their cycle--
  Man rushes like a winged Cherub through
  The infinite space, and that which has been
  Can therefore never be again----

1820. First published from an MS. in 1893.


47

TO EDWARD IRVING

But _you_, honored IRVING, are as little disposed as myself to favor
_such_ doctrine! [as that of Mant and D'Oyly on Infant Baptism].

  Friend pure of heart and fervent! we have learnt
  A different lore! We may not thus profane
  The Idea and Name of Him whose Absolute Will
  _Is_ Reason--Truth Supreme!--Essential Order!

1824. First published in _Aids to Reflection_, 1825, p. 373. First
collected 1893.


48

[LUTHER--DE DÆMONIBUS]

_The devils are in woods, in waters, in wildernesses, and in dark pooly
places, ready to hurt and prejudice people, etc._--_Doctoris Martini
Lutheri Colloquia Mensalia_--(Translated by Captain Henry Bell. London,
1652, p. 370).

  'The angel's like a flea,
  The devil is a bore;--'
  No matter for that! quoth S. T. C.,
  I love him the better therefore.

  Yes! heroic Swan, I love thee even when thou gabblest like
  a goose; for thy geese helped to save the Capitol.

1826. First published in _Lit. Rem._, 1839, iv. 52. First collected _P.
and D. W._, 1877, ii. 367.


49

THE NETHERLANDS

  Water and windmills, greenness, Islets green;--
  Willows whose Trunks beside the shadows stood
  Of their own higher half, and willowy swamp:--
  Farmhouses that at anchor seem'd--in the inland sky
  The fog-transfixing Spires--
  Water, wide water, greenness and green banks,
  And water seen--

June 1828. Now first published from an MS.


50

ELISA[1009:1]

TRANSLATED FROM CLAUDIAN

  Dulce dona mihi tu mittis semper Elisa!
    Et quicquid mittis Thura putare decet.

The above adapted from an Epigram of Claudian [No. lxxxii, Ad Maximum
Qui mel misit], by substituting _Thura_ for _Mella_: the original
Distich being in return for a present of Honey.

_Imitation_

  Sweet Gift! and always doth Elisa send
  Sweet Gifts and full of fragrance to her Friend
  Enough for Him to know they come from HER:
  Whate'er she sends is Frankincense and Myrrh.


ANOTHER ON THE SAME SUBJECT BY S. T. C. HIMSELF

  Semper Elisa! mihi tu suaveolentia donas:
    Nam quicquid donas, te redolere puto.

_Translation_

  Whate'er thou giv'st, it still is sweet to me,
    For _still_ I find it redolent of thee.

1833, 4. Now first published from an MS.


51

PROFUSE KINDNESS

  Νήπιοι οὐδὲ ἴσασιν ὅσῳ πλέον πλέον ἥμισυ πάντος.
                               HESIOD. [_Works and Days_, l. 40.]

  What a spring-tide of Love to dear friends in a shoal!
  Half of it to one were worth double the whole!

Undated. First published in _P. W._, 1834.


52

  I stand alone, nor tho' my heart should break,
  Have I, to whom I may complain or speak.
  Here I stand, a hopeless man and sad,
  Who hoped to have seen my Love, my Life.
  And strange it were indeed, could I be glad
  Remembering her, my soul's betrothéd wife.
  For in this world no creature that has life
  Was e'er to me so gracious and so good.
  Her loss is to my Heart, like the Heart's blood.

? S. T. C. Undated. First published from an MS. in 1893. These lines are
inscribed on a fly-leaf of Tom. II of Benedetto Menzini's _Poesie_,
1782.


53

NAPOLEON

  The Sun with gentle beams his rage disguises,
  And, like aspiring Tyrants, temporises--
  Never to be endured but when he falls or rises.

? S. T. C. Undated. Now first published from an MS.


54

  Thicker than rain-drops on November thorn.

Undated. Now first published from an MS.


55

  His native accents to her stranger's ear,
  Skill'd in the tongues of France and Italy--
  Or while she warbles with bright eyes upraised,
  Her fingers shoot like streams of silver light
  Amid the golden haze of thrilling strings.

Undated. First published from an MS. in 1893.


56

  Each crime that once estranges from the virtues
  Doth make the memory of their features daily
  More dim and vague, till each coarse counterfeit
  Can have the passport to our confidence
  Sign'd by ourselves. And fitly are they punish'd
  Who prize and seek the honest man but as
  A safer lock to guard dishonest treasures.

? S. T. C. Undated. First published in _Lit. Rem._, i. 281. First
collected _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii. 365.


57

  Where'er I find the Good, the True, the Fair,
  I ask no names--God's spirit dwelleth there!
  The unconfounded, undivided Three,
  Each for itself, and all in each, to see
  In man and Nature, is Philosophy.

Undated. First published from an MS. in 1893.


58

  A wind that with Aurora hath abiding
  Among the Arabian and the Persian Hills.

Undated. First published from an MS. in 1893.


59

I [S. T. C.] find the following lines among my papers, in my own
writing, but whether an unfinished fragment, or a contribution to some
friend's production, I know not:--

  What boots to tell how o'er his grave
  She wept, that would have died to save;
  Little they know the heart, who deem
  Her sorrow but an infant's dream
    Of transient love begotten;
  A passing gale, that as it blows
  Just shakes the ripe drop from the rose--
    That dies and is forgotten.
  O Woman! nurse of hopes and fears,
  All lovely in thy spring of years,
    Thy soul in blameless mirth possessing,
  Most lovely in affliction's tears,
    More lovely still than tears suppressing.

Undated. First published in Allsop's _Letters, Conversations_, &c. First
collected _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii. 373.


60

THE THREE SORTS OF FRIENDS

  Though friendships differ endless _in degree_,
  The _sorts_, methinks, may be reduced to three.
  _Ac_quaintance many, and _Con_quaintance few;
  But for _In_quaintance I know only two--
  The friend I've mourned with, and the maid I woo!

MY DEAR GILLMAN--The ground and _matériel_ of this division of one's
friends into _ac_, _con_ and _in_quaintance, was given by Hartley
Coleridge when he was scarcely five years old [1801]. On some one asking
him if Anny Sealy (a little girl he went to school with) was an
acquaintance of his, he replied, very fervently pressing his right hand
on his heart, 'No, she is an _in_quaintance!' 'Well! 'tis a father's
tale'; and the recollection soothes your old friend and _in_quaintance,

                                                 S. T. COLERIDGE.

Undated. First published in _Fraser's Magazine_ for Jan. 1835, Art.
_Coleridgeiana_, p. 54. First collected 1893.


61

                          If fair by Nature
  She honours the fair Boon with fair adorning,
  And graces that bespeak a gracious breeding,
  Can gracious Nature lessen Nature's Graces?
  If taught by both she betters both and honours
  Fair gifts with fair adorning, know you not
  There is a beauty that resides within;--
  A fine and delicate spirit of womanhood
  Of inward birth?--

Now first published from an MS.


62

BO-PEEP AND I SPY--

  In the corner _one_--
    I spy Love!
  In the corner _None_,
    I spy Love.

1826. Now first published from an MS.


63

A SIMILE

  As the shy hind, the soft-eyed gentle Brute
  Now moves, now stops, approaches by degrees--
  At length emerges from the shelt'ring Trees,
  Lur'd by her Hunter with the Shepherd's flute,
  Whose music travelling on the twilight breeze,
    When all besides was mute--
  She oft had heard, and ever lov'd to hear;
  She fearful Beast! but that no sound of Fear----

Undated. Now first published from an MS.


64

BARON GUELPH OF ADELSTAN. A FRAGMENT

  For ever in the world of Fame
  We live and yet abide the same:
  Clouds may intercept our rays,
  Or desert Lands reflect our blaze.

  The beauteous Month of May began,
    And all was Mirth and Sport,
  When Baron Guelph of Adelstan
    Took leave and left the Court.

  From Fête and Rout and Opera far
    The full town he forsook,
  And changed his wand and golden star
    For Shepherd's Crown and Crook.

  The knotted net of light and shade
    Beneath the budding tree,
  A sweeter day-bed for him made
    Than Couch and Canopy.

  In copse or lane, as Choice or Chance
    Might lead him was he seen;
  And join'd at eve the village dance
    Upon the village green.

  Nor endless--

Undated. Now first published from an MS.


FOOTNOTES:

[996:1] The following 'Fragments', numbered 1-63, consist of a few
translations and versicles inserted by Coleridge in his various prose
works, and a larger number of fragments, properly so called, which were
published from MS. sources in 1893, or are now published for the first
time. These fragments are taken exclusively from Coleridge's Notebooks
(the source of _Anima Poetæ_, 1895), and were collected, transcribed,
and dated by the present Editor for publication in 1893. The fragments
now published for the first time were either not used by J. D. Campbell
in 1893, or had not been discovered or transcribed. The very slight
emendations of the text are due to the fact that Mr. Campbell printed
from copies, and that the collection as a whole has now for the second
time been collated with the original MSS. Fragments numbered 64, 96, 98,
111, 113, in _P. W._, 1893, are quotations from the plays and poems of
William Cartwright (1611-1643). They are not included in the present
issue. Fragments 56, 58, 59, 61, 63, 67, 80, 81, 83, 88, 91, 93, 94,
117-120, are inserted in the text or among 'Jeux d'Esprit', or under
other headings. The chronological order is for the most part
conjectural, and differs from that suggested in 1893. It must be borne
in mind that the entries in Coleridge's Notebooks are not continuous,
and that the additional matter in prose or verse was inserted from time
to time, wherever a page or half a page was not filled up. It follows
that the context is an uncertain guide to the date of any given entry.
Pains have been taken to exclude quotations from older writers, which
Coleridge neither claimed nor intended to claim for his own, but it is
possible that two or three of these fragments of verse are not original.

[996:2] This quatrain, described as 'The concluding stanza of an Elegy
on a Lady who died in Early Youth', is from part of a memorandum in S.
T. C.'s handwriting headed 'Relics of my School-boy Muse; i. e.
fragments of poems composed before my fifteenth year'. It follows _First
Advent of Love_, 'O fair is Love's first hope,' &c. (vide _ante_, p.
443), and is compared with Age--a stanza written forty years later than
the preceding--'Dewdrops are the gems of morning,' &c. (p. 440).

ANOTHER VERSION.

  O'er her piled grave the gale of evening sighs,
  And flowers will grow upon its grassy <DW72>,
  I wipe the dimming waters from mine eye
  Even on the cold grave dwells the Cherub Hope.

_Unpublished Letter to Thomas Poole_, Feb. 1. 1801, on the death of Mrs.
Robinson ('Perdita').

[997:1] These two lines, slightly altered, were afterwards included in
_Alice du Clos_ (ll. 111, 112), _ante_, p. 473.

[998:1] The lines are an attempt to reduce to blank verse one of many
minute descriptions of natural objects and scenic effects. The
concluding lines are illegible.

[1001:1] These lines, 'slip torn from some old letter,' are endorsed by
Poole, 'Reply of Coleridge on my urging him to exert himself.' First
collected in 1893.

[1007:1] The translation is embodied in a marginal note on the
following quotation from _The Select Discourses_ by John Smith, 1660:--

'_So the Sibyl was noted by Heraclitus as μαινομένῳ στόματι γελαστὰ καὶ
ἀκαλλώπιστα φθεγγομένη, as one speaking ridiculous and unseemly speeches
with her furious mouth._' The fragment is misquoted and misunderstood:
for γελαστά, etc. should be ἀμύριστα unperfumed, inornate lays, not
redolent of art.--Render it thus:

                                        Not her's, etc.
  Στόματι μαινομένῳ is 'with ecstatic mouth'.

J. D. Campbell in a note to this Fragment (_P. W._, 1893, pp. 464-5)
quotes the 'following prose translation of the same passage', from
Coleridge's _Statesman's Manual_ (1816, p. 132); 'Multiscience (or a
variety and quantity of acquired knowledge) does not test intelligence.
But the Sibyll with wild enthusiastic mirth shrilling forth unmirthful,
inornate and unperfumed truths, reaches to a thousand years with her
voice through the power of God.'

The prose translation is an amalgam of two fragments. The first sentence
is quoted by Diogenes Laertius, ix. 1: the second by Plutarch, de Pyth.
orac. 6, p. 377.

[1009:1] These rhymes were addressed to a Miss Eliza Nixon, who supplied
S. T. C. with books from a lending library.




METRICAL EXPERIMENTS[1014:1]


1

AN EXPERIMENT FOR A METRE

  I heard a voice pealing loud triumph to-day:
  The voice of the Triumph, O Freedom, was thine!
  Sumptuous Tyranny challeng'd the fray,[1014:2]
  'Drunk with Idolatry, drunk with wine.'
  Whose could the Triumph be Freedom but thine?
    Stars of the Heaven shine to feed thee;
    Hush'd are the Whirl-blasts and heed thee;--
  By her depth, by her height, Nature swears thou art mine!


1. Amphibrach tetrameter catalectic ˘ ¯ ˘ | ˘ ¯ ˘ | ˘ ¯ ˘ | ˘ ¯

2. Ditto.

3. Three pseudo amphimacers, and one long syllable.

4. Two dactyls, and one perfect Amphimacer.

5. = 1 and 2.

6. ¯ ˘ ¯ | ¯ ˘ ¯ ˘ |

7. ¯ ˘ ¯ | ¯ ˘ ¯ ˘ |

8. ¯ ˘ ¯ | ¯ ˘ ¯, ¯ ˘ ¯, ¯ ˘ ¯

1801. Now first published from an MS.


2

TROCHAICS

  Thus she said, and, all around,
  Her diviner spirit, gan to borrow;
  Earthly Hearings hear unearthly sound,
  Hearts heroic faint, and sink aswound.
  Welcome, welcome, spite of pain and sorrow,
    Love to-day, and Thought to-morrow.

1801. Now first published from an MS.


3

THE PROPER UNMODIFIED DOCHMIUS

(_i. e._ antispastic Catalectic)

  Bĕnīgn shōōtĭng stārs, ĕcstātīc dĕlīght.

_or_

  The Lord's throne in Heaven ămīd āngĕl troops
  Amid troops of Angels God throned on high.

1801. Now first published from an MS.


4

IAMBICS

  No cold shall thee benumb,
  Nor darkness stain thy sight;
  To thee new Heat, new Light
  Shall from this object come,
  Whose Praises if thou now wilt sound aright,
  My Pen shall give thee leave hereafter to be dumb.

1801. Now first published from an MS.


5

NONSENSE

  Sing impassionate Soul! of Mohammed the complicate story:
    Sing, unfearful of Man, groaning and ending in care.
  Short the Command and the Toil, but endlessly mighty the Glory!
    Standing aloof if it chance, vainly our enemy's scare:
  What tho' we wretchedly fare, wearily drawing the Breath--,
    Malice in wonder may stare; merrily move we to Death.

Now first published from an MS.


6

A PLAINTIVE MOVEMENT

[11´ 4` 11´ 4` | 10´ 6` 4´ 10`]

  Go little Pipe! for ever I must leave thee,
                  Ah, vainly true!
  Never, ah never! must I more receive thee?
                  Adieu! adieu!
  Well, thou art gone! and what remains behind,
                  Soothing the soul to Hope?
                    The moaning Wind--
  Hide with sere leaves my Grave's undaisied <DW72>.

(?) October. 1814.

[It would be better to alter this metre--

10´ 6` 6´ 10` | 11´ 4` 11´ 4`: and still more plaintive if the 1st and
4th were 11´ 11´ as well as the 5th and 7th.]

Now first published from an MS.


7

AN EXPERIMENT FOR A METRE

    ˘ ˘ ¯, ˘ ˘ ¯
    ˘ ˘ ¯, ˘ ˘ ¯
    ˘ ¯ }
  ¯ ˘ ¯ } ˘ ˘ ¯; ˘ ˘ ¯, ˘ ˘ ¯,
    ˘ ¯  }
  ¯ ˘ ¯  } ˘ ˘ ¯, ˘ ˘ ¯, ˘ ˘ ¯
    ˘ ¯ }
  ˘ ˘ ¯ } ˘ ˘ ¯, ˘ ˘ ¯

  When thy Beauty appears,
    In its graces and airs,
  All bright as an Angel new dight from the Sky,
  At distance I gaze, and am awed by my fears,
    So strangely you dazzle my Eye.

Now first published from an MS.


8

NONSENSE VERSES

[AN EXPERIMENT FOR A METRE]

  Ye fowls of ill presage,
    Go vanish into Night!
  Let all things sweet and fair
  Yield homage to the pair:
    From Infancy to Age
  Each Brow be smooth and bright,
  As Lake in evening light.
  To-day be Joy! and Sorrow
    Devoid of Blame
    (The widow'd Dame)
  Shall welcome be to-morrow.
  Thou, too, dull Night! may'st come unchid:
  This wall of Flame the Dark hath hid
  With turrets each a Pyramid;--
  For the Tears that we shed, are Gladness,
    A mockery of Sadness!

Now first published from an MS.


9

NONSENSE

[AN EXPERIMENT FOR A METRE]

    I wish on earth to sing
    Of Jove the bounteous store,
    That all the Earth may ring
    With Tale of Wrong no more.
    I fear no foe in field or tent,
    Tho' weak our cause yet strong his Grace:
    As Polar roamers clad in Fur,
    Unweeting whither we were bent
    We found as 'twere a native place,
      Where not a Blast could stir:
  { For Jove had his Almighty Presence lent:
  { Each eye beheld, in each transfigured Face,
  { The radiant light of Joy, and Hope's forgotten Trace.

_or_

  { O then I sing Jove's bounteous store--
  { On rushing wing while sea-mews roar,
  { And raking Tides roll Thunder on the shore.

Now first published from an MS.


10

EXPERIMENTS IN METRE

  There in some darksome shade
      Methinks I'd weep
      Myself asleep,
  And there forgotten fade.

First published from an MS. in 1893.


11

  Once again, sweet Willow, wave thee!
              Why stays my Love?
  Bend, and in yon streamlet--lave thee!
              Why stays my Love?
  Oft have I at evening straying,
  Stood, thy branches long surveying,
    Graceful in the light breeze playing,--
              Why stays my Love?

1. Four Trochees /.

2. One spondee, Iambic \.

3. Four Trochees 1.

4. Repeated from 2.

5, 6, 7. A triplet of 4 Trochees--8 repeated.

First published from an MS. in 1893.


12

  ¯ ˘, ¯ ˘ ˘, ¯ ˘ ˘, ¯ ˘ ˘
  ¯ ˘, ¯ ˘ ˘, ¯ ˘ ˘,
  ¯ ˘, ¯ ˘ ˘, ¯ ˘ ˘, ¯ ˘ ˘
  ˘ ¯ ˘, ¯ ˘ ˘, ¯ ˘ ˘, ¯
      ¯ ˘ ˘, ¯ ˘
    ˘ ¯ ˘ ˘, ¯ ˘ etc.

  Songs of Shepherds and rustical Roundelays,
  Forms of Fancies and whistled on Reeds,
  Songs to solace young Nymphs upon Holidays
  Are too unworthy for wonderful deeds--
        Round about, hornéd
        Lucinda they swarméd,
        And her they informéd,
        How minded they were,
        Each God and Goddess,
        To take human Bodies
  As Lords and Ladies to follow the Hare.

Now first published from an MS.

13

A METRICAL ACCIDENT

Curious instance of casual metre and rhyme in a prose narrative (_The
Life of Jerome of Prague_). The metre is Amphibrach dimeter Catalectic
˘ ¯ ˘ | ˘ ¯, and the rhymes antistrophic.

  Then Jerome did call                _a_
  From his flame-pointed Fence;       _b_
  Which under he trod,                _c_
  As upward to mount                  _d_
  From the fiery flood,--             _e_

  'I summon you all,                  _a_
  A hundred years hence,              _b_
  To appear before God,               _c_
  To give an account                  _d_
  Of my innocent blood!'              _e_

July 7, 1826. Now first published from an MS.


NOTES BY PROFESSOR SAINTSBURY

1. I think most ears would take these as anapaestic throughout. But the
introduction of Milton's

  Drunk with Idolatry, drunk with wine

as a _leit-motiv_ is of the first interest.

Description of it, l. 4, very curious. I should have thought no one
could have run 'drunk with wine' together as one foot.

2. Admirable! I hardly know better trochaics.

3. Very interesting: but the terminology odd. The dochmius, a
five-syllabled foot, is (in _one_ form--there are about thirty!) an
antispast ˘ ¯ ¯ ˘ _plus_ a syllable. Catalectic means (_properly_)
_minus_ a syllable. But the verses as quantified are really dochmiac,
and the only attempts I have seen. Shall I own I can't get any
_English_ Rhythm on them?

4. More ordinary: but a good arrangement and wonderful for the date.

5. Not nonsense at all: but, metrically, really his usual elegiac.

6. This, _if early_, is almost priceless. It is not only lovely in
itself, but an obvious attempt to recover the zig-zag outline and varied
cadence of seventeenth century born--the things that Shelley to some
extent, Beddoes and Darley more, and Tennyson and Browning most were to
master. I subscribe (most humbly) to his suggestions, especially his
second.

7. Very like some late seventeenth-century (Dryden time) motives and a
_leetle_ 'Moorish'.

8. Like 6, and charming.

9. A sort of recurrence to _Pindaric_--again pioneer, as the soul of S.
T. C. _had_ to be always.

10 and 11. Ditto.

13. Again, _I_ should say, anapaestic--but this anapaest and amphibrach
quarrel is ἄσπονδος.


FOOTNOTES:

[1014:1] 'He attributed in part, his writing so little, to the extreme
care and labour which he applied in elaborating his metres. He said that
when he was intent on a new experiment in metre, the time and labour he
bestowed were inconceivable; that he was quite an epicure in
sound.'--Wordsworth on Coleridge (as reported by Mr. Justice Coleridge),
_Memoirs of W. Wordsworth_, 1851, ii. 306.

In a letter to Poole dated March 16, 1801, Coleridge writes: 'I shall .
. . immediately publish my _Christabel_, with the Essays on the
"Preternatural", and on Metre' (_Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 349).
Something had been done towards the collection of materials for the
first 'Essay', a great deal for the second. In a notebook (No. 22) which
contains dated entries of 1805, 1815, &c., but of which the greater
portion, as the context and various handwritings indicate, belongs to a
much earlier date, there are some forty-eight numbered specimens of
various metres derived from German and Italian sources. To some of these
stanzas or strophes a metrical scheme with original variants is
attached, whilst other schemes are exemplified by metrical experiments
in English, headed 'Nonsense Verses'. Two specimens of these
experiments, headed 'A Sunset' and 'What is Life', are included in the
text of _P. W._, 1893 (pp. 172, 178), and in that of the present issue,
pp. 393, 394. They are dated 1805 in accordance with the dates of
Coleridge's own comments or afterthoughts, but it is almost certain that
both sets of verses were composed in 1801. The stanza entitled 'An Angel
Visitant' belongs to the same period. Ten other sets of 'Nonsense
Verses' of uncertain but early date are now printed for the first time.

[1014:2] Sumptuous Tyranny floating this way. [MS.] On p. 17 of Notebook
22 Coleridge writes:--

  ¯ ˘ ˘, ¯ ˘ ˘, ¯ ˘, ¯
  Drunk  with   I--dolatry--drunk with, Wine.

A noble metre if I can find a metre to precede or follow.

  Sūmptŭŏus Dālĭlă flōatĭng thŭs wāy
  Drunk with Idolatry, drunk with wine.

Both lines are from Milton's _Samson Agonistes_.




APPENDIX I

FIRST DRAFTS, EARLY VERSIONS, ETC.




A

[Vide _ante_, p. 100]


EFFUSION 35

Clevedon, August 20th, 1795.[1021:1]

(First Draft)

  My pensive SARA! thy soft Cheek reclin'd
  Thus on my arm, how soothing sweet it is
  Beside our Cot to sit, our Cot o'ergrown
  With white-flowr'd Jasmine and the blossom'd myrtle,
  (Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!)                           5
  And watch the Clouds, that late were rich with light,
  Slow-sad'ning round, and mark the star of eve
  Serenely brilliant, like thy polish'd Sense,
  Shine opposite! What snatches of perfume
  The noiseless gale from yonder bean-field wafts!                    10
  The stilly murmur of the far-off Sea
  Tells us of Silence! and behold, my love!
  In the half-closed window we will place the Harp,
  Which by the desultory Breeze caress'd,
  Like some coy maid half willing to be woo'd,                        15
  Utters such sweet upbraidings as, perforce,
  Tempt to repeat the wrong!

[_M. R._]


EFFUSION, p. 96. (1797.)

(Second Draft)

  My pensive SARA! thy soft Cheek reclin'd
  Thus on my arm, most soothing sweet it is
  To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o'ergrown
  With white-flower'd Jasmin, and the broad-leav'd Myrtle
  (Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!)                           5
  And watch the Clouds that, late were rich with light,
  Slow-sadd'ning round, and mark the Star of eve
  Serenely brilliant (such should WISDOM be!)
  Shine opposite. How exquisite the Scents
  Snatch'd from yon Bean-field! And the world _so_ hush'd!            10
  The stilly murmur of the far-off Sea
  Tells us of Silence! And that simplest Lute
  Plac'd lengthways in the clasping casement, hark!
  How by the desultory Breeze caress'd
  (Like some coy Maid half-yielding to her Lover)                     15
  It pours such sweet Upbraidings, as must needs
  Tempt to repeat the wrong. And now it's strings
  Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes
  Over delicious Surges sink and rise
  In aëry voyage, Music such as erst                                  20
  Round rosy bowers (so Legendaries tell)
  To sleeping Maids came floating witchingly
  By wand'ring West winds stoln from Faery land;
  Where on some magic Hybla MELODIES
  Round many a newborn honey-dropping Flower                          25
  Footless and wild, like Birds of Paradise,
  Nor pause nor perch, warbling on untir'd wing.

  And thus, my Love! as on the midway <DW72>
  Of yonder Hill I stretch my limbs at noon
  And tranquil muse upon Tranquillity.                                30
  Full many a Thought uncall'd and undetain'd
  And many idle flitting Phantasies
  Traverse my indolent and passive Mind
  As wild, as various, as the random Gales
  That swell or flutter on this subject Lute.                         35
  And what if All of animated Life
  Be but as Instruments diversly fram'd
  That tremble into thought, while thro' them breathes
  One infinite and intellectual Breeze,
  And all in diff'rent Heights so aptly hung,                         40
  That Murmurs indistinct and Bursts sublime,
  Shrill Discords and most soothing Melodies,
  Harmonious from Creation's vast concent--
  Thus _God_ would be the universal Soul,
  Mechaniz'd matter as th' organic harps                              45
  And each one's Tunes be that, which each calls I.

  But thy more serious Look a mild Reproof
  Darts, O beloved Woman, and thy words
  Pious and calm check these unhallow'd Thoughts,
  These Shapings of the unregen'rate Soul,                            50
  Bubbles, that glitter as they rise and break
  On vain Philosophy's aye-babbling Spring:
  Thou biddest me walk humbly with my God!
  Meek Daughter in the family of Christ.
  Wisely thou sayest, and holy are thy words!                         55
  Nor may I unblam'd or speak or think of Him,
  Th' INCOMPREHENSIBLE! save when with Awe
  I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels,
  Who with his saving Mercies healèd me,
  A sinful and most miserable man                                     60
  Wilder'd and dark, and gave me to possess
  PEACE and this COT, and THEE, my best-belov'd!

[_MS. R._]


FOOTNOTES:

[1021:1] Now first published from Cottle's MSS. preserved in the Library
of Rugby School.


LINENOTES:

[40-43]

  In diff'rent heights, so aptly hung, that all
  In half-heard murmurs and loud bursts sublime,
  Shrill discords and most soothing melodies,
  Raises one great concent--one concent formed,
  Thus God, the only universal Soul--

Alternative version, MS. R.




B

RECOLLECTION[1023:1]

[Vide _ante_, pp. 53, 48]


  As the tir'd savage, who his drowsy frame
  Had bask'd beneath the sun's unclouded flame,
  Awakes amid the troubles of the air,
  The skiey deluge and white lightning's glare,
  Aghast he scours before the tempest's sweep,                         5
  And sad recalls the sunny hour of sleep!
  So tost by storms along life's wild'ring way
  Mine eye reverted views that cloudless day,
  When by my native brook I wont to rove,
  While HOPE with kisses nurs'd the infant LOVE!                      10

    Dear native brook! like peace so placidly
  Smoothing thro' fertile fields thy current meek--
  Dear native brook! where first young POESY
  Star'd wildly eager in her noon-tide dream;
  Where blameless Pleasures dimpled Quiet's cheek,                    15
  As water-lilies _ripple_ thy slow stream!
  How many various-fated years have past,
  What blissful and what anguish'd hours, since last
  I skimm'd the smooth thin stone along thy breast
  Numb'ring its light leaps! Yet so deep imprest                      20
  Sink the sweet scenes of childhood, that mine eyes
  I never shut amid the sunny blaze,
  But strait, with all their tints, thy waters rise,
  The crossing plank, and margin's willowy maze,
  And bedded sand, that, vein'd with various dyes,                    25
  Gleam'd thro' thy bright transparence to the gaze--
  Ah! fair tho' faint those forms of memory seem
  Like Heaven's bright bow on thy smooth evening stream.


FOOTNOTES:

[1023:1] First published in _The Watchman_, No. V, April 2, 1796:
reprinted in Note 39 (p. 566) of _P. W._, 1892. The Editor (J. D.
Campbell) points out that this poem as printed in _The Watchman_ is made
up of lines 71-86 of _Lines on an Autumnal Evening_ (vide _ante_, p.
53), of lines 2-11 of _Sonnet to the River Otter_, and of lines 13, 14
of _The Gentle Look_, and _Anna and Harland_.




C

THE DESTINY OF NATIONS

[Add. (_MSS._) 34,225. f. 5. Vide _ante_, p. 131.]


[DRAFT I]

  Auspicious Reverence! Hush all meaner song,
  Till we the deep prelusive strain have pour'd
  To the Great Father, only Rightful King,
  Eternal Father! king omnipotent;
  Beneath whose shadowing banners wide-unfurl'd                        5
  Justice leads forth her tyrant-quelling Hosts.
  Such Symphony demands best Instrument.

  Seize, then, my Soul, from Freedom's trophied dome
  The harp which hanging high between the shields
  Of Brutus and Leonidas, oft gives                                   10
  A fitful music, when with breeze-like Touch
  Great Spirits passing thrill its wings: the Bard
  Listens and knows, thy will to work by Fame.
  For what is Freedom, but the unfetter'd use
  Of all the powers which God for use had given?                      15
  But chiefly this, him first to view, him last,
  Thro' shapes, and sounds, and all the world of sense,
  The change of empires, and the deeds of Man
  Translucent, as thro' clouds that veil the Light.
  But most, O Man! in thine in wasted Sense                           20
  And the still growth of Immortality
  Image of God, and his Eternity.
  But some there are who deem themselves most wise
  When they within this gross and visible sphere
  Chain down the winged thought, scoffing ascent                      25
  Proud in their meanness--and themselves they mock
  With noisy emptiness of learned phrase
  Their subtle fluids, impacts, essences,
  Self-working tools, uncaused effects, and all
  Those blind Omniscients, those Almighty Slaves,                     30
  Untenanting Creation of its God!

  But properties are God: the Naked Mass
  (If Mass there be, at best a guess obscure,)
  Acts only by its inactivity.
  Here we pause humbly. Others boldlier dream,                        35
  That as one body is the Aggregate
  Of Atoms numberless, each organiz'd,
  So by a strange and dim similitude
  Infinite myriads of self-conscious minds
  Form one all-conscious Spirit, who controlls                        40
  With absolute ubiquity of Thought
  All his component Monads: linked Minds,
  Each in his own sphere evermore evolving
  Its own entrusted powers--Howe'er this be,
  Whether a dream presumptious, caught from earth                     45
  And earthly form, or vision veiling Truth,
  Yet the Omnific Father of all Worlds
  God in God immanent, the eternal Word,
  That gives forth, yet remains--Sun, that at once
  Dawns, rises, sets and crowns the Height of Heaven,                 50
  Great general Agent in all finite souls,
  Doth in that action put on finiteness,
  For all his Thoughts are acts, and every act
  A Being of Substance; God impersonal,
  Yet in all worlds impersonate in all,                               55
  Absolute Infinite, whose dazzling robe
  Flows in rich folds, and darts in shooting Hues
  Of infinite Finiteness! he rolls each orb
  Matures each planet, and Tree, and spread thro' all
  Wields all the Universe of Life and Thought,                        60
  [Yet leaves to all the Creatures meanest, highest,
  Angelic Right, self-conscious Agency--]

[_Note._ The last two lines of Draft I are erased.]


[DRAFT II]

  Auspicious Reverence! Hush all meaner song,
  Ere we the deep prelusive strain have pour'd
  To the Great Father, only Rightful king
  All-gracious Father, king Omnipotent!
  Mind! co-eternal Word! forth-breathing Sound!                        5
  Aye unconfounded: undivided Trine--
  Birth and Procession; ever re-incircling Act!
  God in God immanent, distinct yet one!
  Omnific, Omniform. The Immoveable,
  That goes forth and remains, eke----and at once                     10
  Dawns, rises, and sets and crowns the height of Heaven!
                      [Cf. _Anima Poetæ_, 1895, p. 162.]

  Such Symphony demands best Instrument.
  Seize then, my soul! from Freedom's trophied dome.
  The harp which hanging high between the shields
  Of Brutus and Leonidas, gives oft                                   15
  A fateful Music, when with breeze-like Touch
  Pure spirits thrill its strings: the Poet's heart
  Listens, and smiling knows that Poets demand
  Once more to live for Man and work by Fame:
  For what is Freedom, but th' unfetter'd use                         20
  Of all the Powers, which God for use had given!
  Thro' the sweet Influence of harmonious Word----

         *       *       *       *       *

  The zephyr-travell'd Harp, that flashes forth
  Jets and low wooings of wild melody
  That sally forth and seek the meeting Ear,                          25
  Then start away, half-wanton, half-afraid
  Like the red-breast forced by wintry snows,
  In the first visits by the genial Hearth,
  From the fair Hand, that tempts it to--
  Or like a course of flame, from the deep sigh                       30
  Of the idly-musing Lover dreaming of his Love
  With thoughts and hopes and fears, {sinking, snatching,
                                     {as warily, upward
  Bending, recoiling, fluttering as itself

         *       *       *       *       *

  And cheats us with false prophecies of sound


LINENOTES:

[9] i. e. jure suo, by any inherent Right.


[DRAFT III]

  Auspicious Reverence! Hush all meaner song,
  Till we the deep prelusive strain have pour'd
  To the Great Father, only Rightful king,
  All Gracious Father, king Omnipotent!
  To Him, the inseparate, unconfounded TRINE,                          5
  MIND! Co-eternal WORD! Forth-breathing SOUND!
  Birth! and PROCESSION! Ever-circling ACT!
  GOD in GOD immanent, distinct yet one!
  Sole Rest, true Substance of all finite Being!
  Omnific! Omniform! The Immoveable,                                  10
  That goes forth and remaineth: and at once
  Dawns, rises, sets and crowns the height of Heaven!

         *       *       *       *       *

  Such Symphony demands best Instrument.
  Seize then, my Soul! from Freedom's trophied dome
  The Harp, that hanging high between the Shields                     15
  Of Brutus and Leonidas, flashes forth
  Starts of shrill-music, when with breeze-like Touch
  Departed Patriots thrill the----




D

PASSAGES IN SOUTHEY'S _Joan of Arc_ (FIRST EDITION, 1796)
CONTRIBUTED BY S. T. COLERIDGE[1027:1].

[Vide _ante_, p. 131]


BOOK I, ll. 33-51.

            _"O France," he cried, "my country"!_
  When soft as breeze that curls the summer clouds
  At close of day, stole on his ear a voice                           35
  Seraphic.
            "Son of Orleans! grieve no more.
  His eye not slept, tho' long the All-just endured
  The woes of France; at length his bar'd right arm
  Volleys red thunder. From his veiling clouds
  Rushes the storm, Ruin and Fear and Death.                          40
  Take Son of Orleans the relief of Heaven:
  Nor thou the wintry hours of adverse fate
  Dream useless: tho' unhous'd thou roam awhile,
  The keen and icy wind that shivers _thee_
  Shall brace thine arm, and with stern discipline                    45
  Firm thy strong heart for fearless enterprise
  As who, through many a summer night serene
  Had hover'd round the fold with coward wish;
  Horrid with brumal ice, the fiercer wolf
  From his bleak mountain and his den of snows                        50
  Leaps terrible and mocks the shepherd's spears."


ll. 57-59.

         _nor those ingredients dire
  Erictho mingled on Pharsalia's field_,
  Making the soul retenant its cold corse.


ll. 220-222.

                     the groves of Paradise
  Gave their mild echoes to the choral songs
  Of new-born beings.--


ll. 267-280.

  _And oft the tear from his averted eye
  He dried; mindful of fertile fields laid waste_,
  Dispeopled hamlets, the lorn widow's groan,
  And the pale orphan's feeble cry for bread.                        270
  But when he told of those fierce sons of guilt
  That o'er this earth which God had fram'd so fair--
  Spread desolation, and its wood-crown'd hills
  Make echo to the merciless war-dog's howl;
  And how himself from such foul savagery                            275
  Had scarce escap'd with life, then his stretch'd arm
  Seem'd, as it wielded the resistless sword
  Of Vengeance: in his eager eye the soul
  Was eloquent; warm glow'd his manly cheek;
  And beat against his side the indignant heart.                     280


ll. 454-460.

                             _then methought_
  From a dark lowering cloud, the womb of tempests,                  455
  A giant arm burst forth and dropt a sword
  That pierc'd like lightning thro' the midnight air.
  Then was there heard a voice, which in mine ear
  Shall echo, at that hour of dreadful joy
  When the pale foe shall wither in my rage.                         460


ll. 484-496[1029:1]

  Last evening lone in thought I wandered forth.
  Down in the dingle's depth there is a brook                        485
  That makes its way between the craggy stones,
  Murmuring hoarse murmurs. On an aged oak
  Whose root uptorn by tempests overhangs
  The stream, I sat, and mark'd the deep red clouds
  Gather before the wind, while the rude dash                        490
  Of waters rock'd my senses, and the mists
  Rose round: there as I gazed, a form dim-seen
  Descended, like the dark and moving clouds
  That in the moonbeam change their shadowy shapes.
  His voice was on the breeze; he bade me hail                       495
  The missioned Maid! for lo! the hour was come.


BOOK III, ll. 73-82.

                  _Martyr'd patriots--spirits pure
  Wept by the good ye fell! Yet still survives_
  Sow'd by your toil and by your blood manur'd                        75
  Th' imperishable seed, soon to become
  The Tree, beneath whose vast and mighty shade
  The sons of men shall pitch their tents in peace,
  And in the unity of truth preserve
  The bond of love. For by the eye of God                             80
  Hath Virtue sworn, that never one good act
  Was work'd in vain.


BOOK IV, ll. 328-336.

                             _The murmuring tide
  Lull'd her, and many a pensive pleasing dream_
  Rose in sad shadowy trains at Memory's call.                       330
  She thought of Arc, and of the dingled brook,
  Whose waves oft leaping on their craggy course
  Made dance the low-hung willow's dripping twigs;
  And where it spread into a glassy lake,
  _Of the old oak which on the smooth expanse,                       335
  Imag'd its hoary mossy-mantled boughs_.


FOOTNOTES:

[1027:1] Over and above the contributions to the Second Book of the
_Joan of Arc_, which Southey acknowledged, and which were afterwards
embodied in the _Destiny of Nations_, Coleridge claimed a number of
passages in Books I, III, and IV. The passages are marked by S. T. C. in
an annotated copy of the First Edition 4{o}, at one time the property of
Coleridge's friend W. Hood of Bristol, and afterwards of John Taylor
Brown. See _North British Review_, January, 1864.

[1029:1] Suggested and in part written by S. T. C.


LINENOTES:

[37] not slept] slept not MS. corr. by Southey.

[39] red] S. T. C. notes this word as Southey's.

[46] Firm] S. T. C. writes against this word _Not English_.




E

[Vide _ante_, p. 186.]

THE RIME OF THE ANCYENT MARINERE,[1030:1] IN SEVEN PARTS.


ARGUMENT

How a Ship having passed the Line was driven by Storms to the cold
Country towards the South Pole; and how from thence she made her course
to the Tropical Latitude of the Great Pacific Ocean; and of the strange
things that befell; and in what manner the Ancyent Marinere came back to
his own Country.


I.

  It is an ancyent Marinere,
    And he stoppeth one of three:
  "By thy long grey beard and thy glittering eye
    "Now wherefore stoppest me?

  "The Bridegroom's doors are open'd wide,                             5
    "And I am next of kin;
  "The Guests are met, the Feast is set,--
    "May'st hear the merry din.

  But still he holds the wedding-guest--
    There was a Ship, quoth he--                                      10
  "Nay, if thou'st got a laughsome tale,
    "Marinere! come with me."

  He holds him with his skinny hand,
    Quoth he, there was a Ship--
  "Now get thee hence, thou grey-beard Loon!                          15
    "Or my Staff shall make thee skip.

  He holds him with his glittering eye--
    The wedding guest stood still
  And listens like a three year's child;
    The Marinere hath his will.                                       20

  The wedding-guest sate on a stone,
    He cannot chuse but hear:
  And thus spake on that ancyent man,
    The bright-eyed Marinere.

  The Ship was cheer'd, the Harbour clear'd--                         25
    Merrily did we drop
  Below the Kirk, below the Hill,
    Below the Light-house top.

  The Sun came up upon the left,
    Out of the Sea came he:                                           30
  And he shone bright, and on the right
    Went down into the Sea.

  Higher and higher every day,
    Till over the mast at noon--
  The wedding-guest here beat his breast,                             35
    For he heard the loud bassoon.

  The Bride hath pac'd into the Hall,
    Red as a rose is she;
  Nodding their heads before her goes
    The merry Minstralsy.                                             40

  The wedding-guest he beat his breast,
    Yet he cannot chuse but hear:
  And thus spake on that ancyent Man,
    The bright-eyed Marinere.

  Listen, Stranger! Storm and Wind,                                   45
    A Wind and Tempest strong!
  For days and weeks it play'd us freaks--
    Like Chaff we drove along.

  Listen, Stranger! Mist and Snow,
    And it grew wond'rous cauld:                                      50
  And Ice mast-high came floating by
    As green as Emerauld.

  And thro' the drifts the snowy clifts
    Did send a dismal sheen;
  Ne shapes of men ne beasts we ken--                                 55
    The Ice was all between.

  The Ice was here, the Ice was there,
    The Ice was all around:
  It crack'd and growl'd, and roar'd and howl'd--
    Like noises of a swound.                                          60

  At length did cross an Albatross,
    Thorough the Fog it came;
  And an it were a Christian Soul,
    We hail'd it in God's name.

  The Marineres gave it biscuit-worms,                                65
    And round and round it flew:
  The Ice did split with a Thunder-fit,
    The Helmsman steer'd us thro'.

  And a good south wind sprung up behind.
    The Albatross did follow;                                         70
  And every day for food or play
    Came to the Marinere's hollo!

  In mist or cloud on mast or shroud,
    It perch'd for vespers nine,
  Whiles all the night thro' fog smoke-white,                         75
    Glimmer'd the white moon-shine.

  "God save thee, ancyent Marinere!
    "From the fiends that plague thee thus--
  "Why look'st thou so?"--with my cross bow
    I shot the Albatross.                                             80


II.

  The Sun came up upon the right,
    Out of the Sea came he;
  And broad as a weft upon the left
    Went down into the Sea.

  And the good south wind still blew behind,                          85
    But no sweet Bird did follow
  Ne any day for food or play
    Came to the Marinere's hollo!

  And I had done an hellish thing
    And it would work 'em woe:                                        90
  For all averr'd, I had kill'd the Bird
    That made the Breeze to blow.

  Ne dim ne red, like God's own head,
    The glorious Sun uprist:
  Then all averr'd, I had kill'd the Bird                             95
    That brought the fog and mist.
  'Twas right, said they, such birds to slay
    That bring the fog and mist.

  The breezes blew, the white foam flew,
    The furrow follow'd free:                                        100
  We were the first that ever burst
    Into that silent Sea.

  Down dropt the breeze, the Sails dropt down,
    'Twas sad as sad could be
  And we did speak only to break                                     105
    The silence of the Sea.

  All in a hot and copper sky
    The bloody sun at noon,
  Right up above the mast did stand,
    No bigger than the moon.                                         110

  Day after day, day after day,
    We stuck, ne breath ne motion.
  As idle as a painted Ship
    Upon a painted Ocean.

  Water, water, every where,                                         115
    And all the boards did shrink:
  Water, water, everywhere,
    Ne any drop to drink.

  The very deeps did rot: O Christ!
    That ever this should be!                                        120
  Yea, slimy things did crawl with legs
    Upon the slimy Sea.

  About, about, in reel and rout,
    The Death-fires danc'd at night;
  The water, like a witch's oils,                                    125
    burnt green and blue and white.

  And some in dreams assured were
    Of the Spirit that plagued us so:
  Nine fathom deep he had follow'd us
    From the Land of Mist and Snow.                                  130

  And every tongue thro' utter drouth
    Was wither'd at the root;
  We could not speak no more than if
    We had been choked with soot.

  Ah wel-a-day! what evil looks                                      135
    Had I from old and young;
  Instead of the Cross the Albatross
    About my neck was hung.


III.

  I saw a something in the Sky
    No bigger than my fist;                                          140
  At first it seem'd a little speck
    And then it seem'd a mist:
  It mov'd and mov'd, and took at last
    A certain shape, I wist.

  A speck, a mist, a shape, I wist!                                  145
    And still it ner'd and ner'd;
  And, an it dodg'd a water-sprite,
    It plung'd and tack'd and veer'd.

  With throat unslack'd, with black lips bak'd
    Ne could we laugh, ne wail:                                      150
  Then while thro' drouth all dumb they stood
  I bit my arm and suck'd the blood
    And cry'd, A sail! a sail!

  With throat unslack'd, with black lips bak'd
    Agape they hear'd me call:                                       155
  Gramercy! they for joy did grin
  And all at once their breath drew in
    As they were drinking all.

  She doth not tack from side to side--
    Hither to work us weal                                           160
  Withouten wind, withouten tide
    She steddies with upright keel.

  The western wave was all a flame,
    The day was well nigh done!
  Almost upon the western wave                                       165
    Rested the broad bright Sun;
  When that strange shape drove suddenly
    Betwixt us and the Sun.

  And strait the Sun was fleck'd with bars
    (Heaven's mother send us grace)                                  170
  As if thro' a dungeon grate he peer'd
    With broad and burning face.

  Alas! (thought I, and my heart beat loud)
    How fast she neres and neres!
  Are those _her_ Sails that glance in the Sun                       175
    Like restless gossameres?

  Are those _her_ naked ribs, which fleck'd
    The sun that did behind them peer?
  And are those two all, all the crew,
    That woman and her fleshless Pheere?                             180

  _His_ bones were black with many a crack,
    All black and bare, I ween;
  Jet-black and bare, save where with rust
  Of mouldy damps and charnel crust
    They're patch'd with purple and green.                           185

  _Her_ lips are red, _her_ looks are free,
    _Her_ locks are yellow as gold:
  Her skin is as white as leprosy,
  And she is far liker Death than he;
    Her flesh makes the still air cold.                              190

  The naked Hulk alongside came
    And the Twain were playing dice;
  "The Game is done! I've won, I've won!"
    Quoth she, and whistled thrice.

  A gust of wind sterte up behind                                    195
    And whistled thro' his bones;
  Thro' the holes of his eyes and the hole of his mouth
    Half-whistles and half-groans.

  With never a whisper in the Sea
    Off darts the Spectre-ship;                                      200
  While clombe above the Eastern bar
  The horned Moon, with one bright Star
    Almost atween the tips.

  One after one by the horned Moon
    (Listen, O Stranger! to me)                                      205
  Each turn'd his face with a ghastly pang
    And curs'd me with his ee.

  Four times fifty living men,
    With never a sigh or groan,
  With heavy thump, a lifeless lump                                  210
    They dropp'd down one by one.

  Their souls did from their bodies fly,--
    They fled to bliss or woe;
  And every soul it pass'd me by,
    Like the whiz of my Cross-bow.                                   215


IV.

  "I fear thee, ancyent Marinere!
    "I fear thy skinny hand;
  "And thou art long, and lank, and brown,
    "As is the ribb'd Sea-sand.

  "I fear thee and thy glittering eye                                220
    "And thy skinny hand so brown--
  Fear not, fear not, thou wedding guest!
    This body dropt not down.

  Alone, alone, all all alone
    Alone on the wide wide Sea;                                      225
  And Christ would take no pity on
    My soul in agony.

  The many men so beautiful,
    And they all dead did lie!
  And a million million slimy things                                 230
    Liv'd on--and so did I.

  I look'd upon the rotting Sea,
    And drew my eyes away;
  I look'd upon the eldritch deck,
    And there the dead men lay.                                      235

  I look'd to Heav'n, and try'd to pray;
    But or ever a prayer had gusht,
  A wicked whisper came and made
    My heart as dry as dust.

  I clos'd my lids and kept them close,                              240
    Till the balls like pulses beat;
  For the sky and the sea, and the sea and the sky
  Lay like a load on my weary eye,
    And the dead were at my feet.

  The cold sweat melted from their limbs,                            245
    Ne rot, ne reek did they;
  The look with which they look'd on me,
    Had never pass'd away.

  An orphan's curse would drag to Hell
    A spirit from on high:                                           250
  But O! more horrible than that
    Is the curse in a dead man's eye!
  Seven days, seven nights I saw that curse,
    And yet I could not die.

  The moving Moon went up the sky,                                   255
    And no where did abide:
  Softly she was going up
    And a star or two beside--

  Her beams bemock'd the sultry main
    Like morning frosts yspread;                                     260
  But where the ship's huge shadow lay,
  The charmed water burnt alway
    A still and awful red.

  Beyond the shadow of the ship
    I watch'd the water-snakes:                                      265
  They mov'd in tracks of shining white;
  And when they rear'd, the elfish light
    Fell off in hoary flakes.

  Within the shadow of the ship
    I watch'd their rich attire:                                     270
  Blue, glossy green, and velvet black
  They coil'd and swam; and every track
    Was a flash of golden fire.

  O happy living things! no tongue
    Their beauty might declare:                                      275
  A spring of love gusht from my heart,
    And I bless'd them unaware!
  Sure my kind saint took pity on me,
    And I bless'd them unaware.

  The self-same moment I could pray;                                 280
    And from my neck so free
  The Albatross fell off, and sank
    Like lead into the sea.


V.

  O sleep, it is a gentle thing,
    Belov'd from pole to pole!                                       285
  To Mary-queen the praise be yeven
  She sent the gentle sleep from heaven
    That slid into my soul.

  The silly buckets on the deck
    That had so long remain'd,                                       290
  I dreamt that they were fill'd with dew
    And when I awoke it rain'd.

  My lips were wet, my throat was cold,
    My garments all were dank;
  Sure I had drunken in my dreams                                    295
    And still my body drank.

  I mov'd and could not feel my limbs,
    I was so light, almost
  I thought that I had died in sleep,
    And was a blessed Ghost.                                         300

  The roaring wind! it roar'd far off,
    It did not come anear;
  But with its sound it shook the sails
    That were so thin and sere.

  The upper air bursts into life,                                    305
    And a hundred fire-flags sheen
  To and fro they are hurried about;
  And to and fro, and in and out
    The stars dance on between.

  The coming wind doth roar more loud;                               310
    The sails do sigh, like sedge:
  The rain pours down from one black cloud
    And the Moon is at its edge.

  Hark! hark! the thick black cloud is cleft,
    And the Moon is at its side:                                     315
  Like waters shot from some high crag,
  The lightning falls with never a jag
    A river steep and wide.

  The strong wind reach'd the ship: it roar'd
    And dropp'd down, like a stone!                                  320
  Beneath the lightning and the moon
    The dead men gave a groan.

  They groan'd, they stirr'd, they all uprose,
    Ne spake, ne mov'd their eyes:
  It had been strange, even in a dream                               325
    To have seen those dead men rise.

  The helmsman steer'd, the ship mov'd on;
    Yet never a breeze up-blew;
  The Marineres all 'gan work the ropes,
    Where they were wont to do:                                      330
  They rais'd their limbs like lifeless tools--
    We were a ghastly crew.

  The body of my brother's son
    Stood by me knee to knee:
  The body and I pull'd at one rope,                                 335
    But he said nought to me--
  And I quak'd to think of my own voice
    How frightful it would be!

  The day-light dawn'd--they dropp'd their arms,
    And cluster'd round the mast:                                    340
  Sweet sounds rose slowly thro' their mouths
    And from their bodies pass'd.

  Around, around, flew each sweet sound,
    Then darted to the sun:
  Slowly the sounds came back again                                  345
    Now mix'd, now one by one.

  Sometimes a dropping from the sky
    I heard the Lavrock sing;
  Sometimes all little birds that are
  How they seem'd to fill the sea and air                            350
    With their sweet jargoning.

  And now 'twas like all instruments,
    Now like a lonely flute;
  And now it is an angel's song
    That makes the heavens be mute.                                  355

  It ceas'd: yet still the sails made on
    A pleasant noise till noon,
  A noise like of a hidden brook
    In the leafy month of June,
  That to the sleeping woods all night                               360
    Singeth a quiet tune.

  Listen, O listen, thou Wedding-guest!
    "Marinere! thou hast thy will:
  "For that, which comes out of thine eye, doth make
    "My body and soul to be still."                                  365

  Never sadder tale was told
    To a man of woman born:
  Sadder and wiser thou wedding-guest!
    Thou'lt rise to-morrow morn.

  Never sadder tale was heard                                        370
    By a man of woman born:
  The Marineres all return'd to work
    As silent as beforne.

  The Marineres all 'gan pull the ropes,
    But look at me they n'old:                                       375
  Thought I, I am as thin as air--
    They cannot me behold.

  Till noon we silently sail'd on
    Yet never a breeze did breathe:
  Slowly and smoothly went the ship                                  380
    Mov'd onward from beneath.

  Under the keel nine fathom deep
    From the land of mist and snow
  The spirit slid: and it was He
    That made the Ship to go.                                        385
  The sails at noon left off their tune
    And the Ship stood still also.

  The sun right up above the mast
    Had fix'd her to the ocean:
  But in a minute she 'gan stir                                      390
    With a short uneasy motion--
  Backwards and forwards half her length
    With a short uneasy motion.

  Then, like a pawing horse let go,
    She made a sudden bound:                                         395
  It flung the blood into my head,
    And I fell into a swound.

  How long in that same fit I lay,
    I have not to declare;
  But ere my living life return'd,                                   400
  I heard and in my soul discern'd
    Two voices in the air,

  "Is it he?" quoth one, "Is this the man?
    "By him who died on cross,
  "With his cruel bow he lay'd full low                              405
    "The harmless Albatross.

  "The spirit who 'bideth by himself
    "In the land of mist and snow,
  "He lov'd the bird that lov'd the man
    "Who shot him with his bow.                                      410

  The other was a softer voice,
    As soft as honey-dew:
  Quoth he the man hath penance done,
    And penance more will do.


VI.


  FIRST VOICE.

  "But tell me, tell me! speak again,                                415
    "Thy soft response renewing--
  "What makes that ship drive on so fast?
    "What is the Ocean doing?


  SECOND VOICE.

  "Still as a Slave before his Lord,
    "The Ocean hath no blast:                                        420
  "His great bright eye most silently
    "Up to the moon is cast--

  "If he may know which way to go,
    "For she guides him smooth or grim.
  "See, brother, see! how graciously                                 425
    "She looketh down on him.


  FIRST VOICE.

  "But why drives on that ship so fast
    "Withouten wave or wind?


  SECOND VOICE.

  "The air is cut away before,
    "And closes from behind.                                         430

  "Fly, brother, fly! more high, more high,
    "Or we shall be belated:
  "For slow and slow that ship will go,
    "When the Marinere's trance is abated."

  I woke, and we were sailing on                                     435
    As in a gentle weather:
  'Twas night, calm night, the moon was high;
    The dead men stood together.

  All stood together on the deck,
    For a charnel-dungeon fitter:                                    440
  All fix'd on me their stony eyes
    That in the moon did glitter.

  The pang, the curse, with which they died,
    Had never pass'd away:
  I could not draw my een from theirs                                445
    Ne turn them up to pray.

  And in its time the spell was snapt,
    And I could move my een:
  I look'd far-forth, but little saw
    Of what might else be seen.                                      450

  Like one, that on a lonely road
    Doth walk in fear and dread,
  And having once turn'd round, walks on
    And turns no more his head:
  Because he knows, a frightful fiend                                455
    Doth close behind him tread.

  But soon there breath'd a wind on me,
    Ne sound ne motion made:
  Its path was not upon the sea
    In ripple or in shade.                                           460

  It rais'd my hair, it fann'd my cheek,
    Like a meadow-gale of spring--
  It mingled strangely with my fears,
    Yet it felt like a welcoming.

  Swiftly, swiftly flew the ship,                                    465
    Yet she sail'd softly too:
  Sweetly, sweetly blew the breeze--
    On me alone it blew.

  O dream of joy! is this indeed
    The light-house top I see?                                       470
  Is this the Hill? Is this the Kirk?
    Is this mine own countrée?

  We drifted o'er the Harbour-bar,
    And I with sobs did pray--
  "O let me be awake, my God!                                        475
    "Or let me sleep alway!"

  The harbour-bay was clear as glass,
    So smoothly it was strewn!
  And on the bay the moon light lay,
    And the shadow of the moon.                                      480

  The moonlight bay was white all o'er,
    Till rising from the same,
  Full many shapes, that shadows were,
    Like as of torches came.

  A little distance from the prow                                    485
    Those dark-red shadows were;
  But soon I saw that my own flesh
    Was red as in a glare.

  I turn'd my head in fear and dread,
    And by the holy rood,                                            490
  The bodies had advanc'd, and now
    Before the mast they stood.

  They lifted up their stiff right arms,
    They held them strait and tight;
  And each right-arm burnt like a torch,                             495
    A torch that's borne upright.
  Their stony eye-balls glitter'd on
    In the red and smoky light.

  I pray'd and turn'd my head away
    Forth looking as before.                                         500
  There was no breeze upon the bay,
    No wave against the shore.

  The rock shone bright, the kirk no less
    That stands above the rock:
  The moonlight steep'd in silentness                                505
    The steady weathercock.

  And the bay was white with silent light,
    Till rising from the same
  Full many shapes, that shadows were,
    In crimson colours came.                                         510

  A little distance from the prow
    Those crimson shadows were:
  I turn'd my eyes upon the deck--
    O Christ! what saw I there?

  Each corse lay flat, lifeless and flat;                            515
    And by the Holy rood
  A man all light, a seraph-man,
    On every corse there stood.

  This seraph-band, each wav'd his hand:
    It was a heavenly sight:                                         520
  They stood as signals to the land,
    Each one a lovely light:

  This seraph-band, each wav'd his hand,
    No voice did they impart--
  No voice; but O! the silence sank,                                 525
    Like music on my heart.

  Eftsones I heard the dash of oars,
    I heard the pilot's cheer:
  My head was turn'd perforce away
    And I saw a boat appear.                                         530

  Then vanish'd all the lovely lights;
    The bodies rose anew:
  With silent pace, each to his place,
    Came back the ghastly crew.
  The wind, that shade nor motion made,                              535
    On me alone it blew.

  The pilot, and the pilot's boy
    I heard them coming fast:
  Dear Lord in Heaven! it was a joy,
    The dead men could not blast.                                    540

  I saw a third--I heard his voice:
    It is the Hermit good!
  He singeth loud his godly hymns
    That he makes in the wood.
  He'll shrieve my soul, he'll wash away                             545
    The Albatross's blood.


VII.

  This Hermit good lives in that wood
    Which <DW72>s down to the Sea.
  How loudly his sweet voice he rears!
  He loves to talk with Marineres                                    550
    That come from a far Contrée.

  He kneels at morn and noon and eve--
    He hath a cushion plump:
  It is the moss, that wholly hides
    The rotted old Oak-stump.                                        555

  The Skiff-boat ne'rd: I heard them talk,
    "Why, this is strange, I trow!
  "Where are those lights so many and fair
    "That signal made but now?

  "Strange, by my faith! the Hermit said--                           560
    "And they answer'd not our cheer.
  "The planks look warp'd, and see those sails
    "How thin they are and sere!
  "I never saw aught like to them
    "Unless perchance it were                                        565

  "The skeletons of leaves that lag
    "My forest-brook along:
  "When the Ivy-tod is heavy with snow,
  "And the Owlet whoops to the wolf below
    "That eats the she-wolfs young.                                  570

  "Dear Lord! it has a fiendish look--
    (The Pilot made reply)
  "I am afear'd--"Push on, push on!
    "Said the Hermit cheerily.

  The Boat came closer to the Ship,                                  575
    But I ne spake ne stirr'd!
  The Boat came close beneath the Ship,
    And strait a sound was heard!

  Under the water it rumbled on,
    Still louder and more dread:                                     580
  It reach'd the Ship, it split the bay;
    The Ship went down like lead.

  Stunn'd by that loud and dreadful sound,
    Which sky and ocean smote:
  Like one that had been seven days drown'd                          585
    My body lay afloat:
  But, swift as dreams, myself I found
    Within the Pilot's boat.

  Upon the whirl, where sank the Ship,
    The boat spun round and round:                                   590
  And all was still, save that the hill
    Was telling of the sound.

  I mov'd my lips: the Pilot shriek'd
    And fell down in a fit.
  The Holy Hermit rais'd his eyes                                    595
    And pray'd where he did sit.

  I took the oars: the Pilot's boy,
    Who now doth crazy go,
  Laugh'd loud and long, and all the while
    His eyes went to and fro,                                        600
  "Ha! ha!" quoth he--"full plain I see,
    "The devil knows how to row."

  And now all in mine own Countrée
    I stood on the firm land!
  The Hermit stepp'd forth from the boat,                            605
    And scarcely he could stand.

  "O shrieve me, shrieve me, holy Man!
    The Hermit cross'd his brow--
  "Say quick," quoth he, "I bid thee say
    "What manner man art thou?"                                      610

  Forthwith this frame of mine was wrench'd
    With a woeful agony,
  Which forc'd me to begin my tale
    And then it left me free.

  Since then at an uncertain hour,                                   615
    Now oftimes and now fewer,
  That anguish comes and makes me tell
    My ghastly aventure.

  I pass, like night, from land to land;
    I have strange power of speech;                                  620
  The moment that his face I see
  I know the man that must hear me;
    To him my tale I teach.

  What loud uproar bursts from that door!
    The Wedding-guests are there;                                    625
  But in the Garden-bower the Bride
    And Bride-maids singing are:
  And hark the little Vesper-bell
    Which biddeth me to prayer.

  O Wedding-guest! this soul hath been                               630
    Alone on a wide wide sea:
  So lonely 'twas, that God himself
    Scarce seemed there to be.

  O sweeter than the Marriage-feast,
    'Tis sweeter far to me                                           635
  To walk together to the Kirk
    With a goodly company.

  To walk together to the Kirk
    And all together pray,
  While each to his great Father bends,                              640
  Old men, and babes, and loving friends,
    And Youths, and Maidens gay.

  Farewell, farewell! but this I tell
    To thee, thou wedding-guest!
  He prayeth well who loveth well,                                   645
    Both man and bird and beast.

  He prayeth best who loveth best,
    All things both great and small:
  For the dear God, who loveth us,
    He made and loveth all.                                          650

  The Marinere, whose eye is bright,
    Whose beard with age is hoar,
  Is gone; and now the wedding-guest
    Turn'd from the bridegroom's door.

  He went, like one that hath been stunn'd                           655
    And is of sense forlorn:
  A sadder and a wiser man
    He rose the morrow morn.


FOOTNOTES:

[1030:1] First published in _Lyrical Ballads_, 1798, pp. [1]-27;
republished in _Lyrical Ballads_, 1800, vol. i; _Lyrical Ballads_, 1802,
vol. i; _Lyrical Ballads_, 1805, vol. i; reprinted in _The Poems of
Samuel Taylor Coleridge_, Appendix, pp. 404-29, London: E. Moxon, Son,
and Company, [1870]; reprinted in _Lyrical Ballads_ edition of 1798,
edited by Edward Dowden, LL D., 1890, in _P. W._, 1893, Appendix E, pp.
512-20, and in _Lyrical Ballads_ . . . 1798, edited by Thomas
Hutchinson, 1898. The text of the present issue has been collated with
that of an early copy of _Lyrical Ballads_, 1798 (containing _Lewti_,
pp. 63-7), presented by Coleridge to his sister-in-law, Miss Martha
Fricker. The lines were not numbered in _L. B._, 1798.


LINENOTES:

[63] And an] As if MS. corr. by S. T. C.

[75] Corrected in the Errata to fog-smoke white.

[83] [*weft*] [S. T. C.]

[179] For "those" read "these" Errata, p. [221], L. B. 1798.

[After 338] * * * * * * MS., L. B. 1798.



F

THE RAVEN

[As printed in the _Morning Post_, March 10, 1798.]

[Vide _ante_, p. 169.]

  Under the arms of a goodly oak-tree,
  There was of Swine a large company.
  They were making a rude repast,
  Grunting as they crunch'd the mast.
  Then they trotted away: for the wind blew high--                     5
  One acorn they left, ne more mote you spy.
  Next came a Raven, who lik'd not such folly;
  He belong'd, I believe, to the witch MELANCHOLY!
  Blacker was he than the blackest jet;
  Flew low in the rain; his feathers were wet.                        10
  He pick'd up the acorn and buried it strait,
  By the side of a river both deep and great.
    Where then did the Raven go?
    He went high and low--
  O'er hill, o'er dale did the black Raven go!                        15
    Many Autumns, many Springs;
    Travell'd he with wand'ring wings;
    Many Summers, many Winters--
    I can't tell half his adventures.
  At length he return'd, and with him a she;                          20
  And the acorn was grown a large oak-tree.
  They built them a nest in the topmost bough,
  And young ones they had, and were jolly enow.
  But soon came a Woodman in leathern guise:
  His brow like a pent-house hung over his eyes.                      25
  He'd an axe in his hand, and he nothing spoke,
  But with many a hem! and a sturdy stroke,
  At last he brought down the poor Raven's own oak.
  His young ones were kill'd, for they could not depart,
  And his wife she did die of a broken heart!                         30
  The branches from off it the Woodman did sever!
  And they floated it down on the course of the River:
  They saw'd it to planks, and it's rind they did strip,
  And with this tree and others they built up a ship.
  The ship, it was launch'd; but in sight of the land,                35
  A tempest arose which no ship could withstand.
  It bulg'd on a rock, and the waves rush'd in fast--
  The auld Raven flew round and round, and caw'd to the blast.
  He heard the sea-shriek of their perishing souls--
  They be sunk! O'er the top-mast the mad water rolls.                40
  The Raven was glad that such fate they did meet,
  They had taken his all, and REVENGE WAS SWEET!




G

LEWTI; OR THE CIRCASSIAN'S LOVE-CHANT[1049:1]

[Vide _ante_, p. 253.]


(1)

[Add. MSS. 27,902.]

  High o'er the silver rocks I roved
  To forget the form I loved
  In hopes fond fancy would be kind
  And steal my Mary from my mind
    T'was twilight and the lunar beam                                  5
  Sailed slowly o'er Tamaha's stream
  As down its sides the water strayed
  Bright on a rock the moonbeam playe[d]
  It shone, half-sheltered from the view
  By pendent boughs of tressy yew                                     10
  True, true to love but false to rest,
  So fancy whispered to my breast,
  So shines her forehead smooth and fair
  Gleaming through her sable hair
  I turned to heaven--but viewed on high                              15
  The languid lustre of her eye
  The moons mild radiant edge I saw
  Peeping a black-arched cloud below
  Nor yet its faint and paly beam
  Could tinge its skirt with yellow gleam                             20
    I saw the white waves o'er and o'er
  Break against a curved shore
  Now disappearing from the sight
  Now twinkling regular and white
  Her mouth, her smiling mouth can shew                               25
  As white and regular a row
  Haste Haste, some God indulgent prove
  And bear me, bear me to my love
  Then might--for yet the sultry hour
  Glows from the sun's oppressive power                               30
  Then might her bosom soft and white
  Heave upon my swimming sight
  As yon two swans together heave
  Upon the gently-swelling wave
  Haste--haste some God indulgent prove                               35
  And bear--oh bear me to my love.


(2)

[Add. MSS. 35,343.]

  THE CIRCASSIAN'S LOVE-CHAUNT
    [*Wild Indians*]

  High o'er the rocks at night I rov'd
              [*silver*]
  To forget the form I lov'd.
  Image of LEWTI! from my mind
         [*Cora*]
  Depart! for LEWTI is not kind!
            [*Cora*]
  Bright was the Moon: the Moon's bright beam                          5
  Speckled with many a moving shade,
  Danc'd upon Tamaha's stream;
  But brightlier on the Rock it play'd,
  The Rock, half-shelter'd from my view
  By pendent boughs of tressy Yew!                                    10
  True to Love, but false to Rest,
  My fancy whisper'd in my breast--
  So shines my Lewti's forehead fair
  Gleaming thro' her sable hair,
  Image of LEWTI! from my mind                                        15
         [*Cora*]
  Depart! for LEWTI is not kind.
            [*Cora*]

  I saw a cloud of whitest hue;
  Onward to the Moon it pass'd!
  Still brighter and more bright it grew
  With floating colours not a few,                                    20
  Till it reach'd the Moon at last.


LEWTI; OR THE CIRCASSIAN'S LOVE-CHANT

(3)

[Add. MSS. 35,343, f. 3 recto.]

  High o'er the rocks at night I rov'd
  To forget the form I lov'd.
  Image of LEWTI! from my mind
  Depart: for LEWTI is not kind.                                      25

  Bright was the Moon: the Moon's bright bea[m]
  Speckled with many a moving shade,
  Danc'd upon TAMAHA'S stream;
  But brightlier on the Rock it play'd,
  The Rock, half-shelter'd from my view                               30
  By pendent boughs of tressy Yew!
  True to Love, but false to Rest,
  My fancy whisper'd in my breast--
  So shines my LEWTI'S forehead fair
  Gleaming thro' her sable hair!                                      35
  Image of LEWTI! from my mind
  Depart--for LEWTI is not kind.

  I saw a Cloud of whitest hue--
  Onward to the Moon it pass'd.
  Still brighter and more bright it grew                              40
  With floating colours not a few,
  Till it reach'd the Moon at last:
  Then the Cloud was wholly bright
  With a rich and amber light!
       [*deep*]
  And so with many a hope I seek,                                     45
  And so with joy I find my LEWTI:
  And even so my pale wan cheek
  Drinks in as deep a flush of Beauty
  Image of LEWTI! leave my mind
  If Lewti never will be kind!                                        50

  Away the little Cloud, away.
  Away it goes--away so soon
              [*alone*]
  Alas! it has no power to stay:
  It's hues are dim, it's hues are grey
  Away it passes from the Moon.                                       55
  And now tis whiter than before--
  As white as my poor cheek will be,
  When, LEWTI! on my couch I lie
  A dying Man for Love of thee!
  [*Thou living Image*]
  Image of LEWTI in my mind,                                          60
  Methinks thou lookest not [*kin*] unkind!


FOOTNOTES:

[1049:1] The first ten lines of MS. version (1) were first published in
_Note 44_ of _P. W._, 1893, p. 518, and the MS. as a whole is included
in _Coleridge's Poems_, A Facsimile Reproduction of The Proofs and MSS.,
&c., 1899, pp. 132-4. MSS. (2) and (3) are now printed for the first
time.




H

INTRODUCTION TO THE TALE OF THE DARK LADIE[1052:1]

[Vide _ante_, p. 330.]


TO THE EDITOR OF THE MORNING POST.

SIR,

The following Poem is the Introduction to a somewhat longer one, for
which I shall solicit insertion on your next open day. The use of the
Old Ballad word, _Ladie_, for Lady, is the only piece of obsoleteness in
it; and as it is professedly a tale of ancient times, I trust, that 'the
affectionate lovers of venerable antiquity' (as Camden says) will grant
me their pardon, and perhaps may be induced to admit a force and
propriety in it. A heavier objection may be adduced against the Author,
that in these times of fear and expectation, when novelties _explode_
around us in all directions, he should presume to offer to the public a
silly tale of old fashioned love; and, five years ago, I own, I should
have allowed and felt the force of this objection. But, alas! explosion
has succeeded explosion so rapidly, that novelty itself ceases to appear
new; and it is possible that now, even a simple story, wholly unspired
[? inspired] with politics or personality, may find some attention amid
the hubbub of Revolutions, as to those who have resided a long time by
the falls of Niagara, the lowest whispering becomes distinctly audible.

                                                 S. T. COLERIDGE.


1

  O leave the Lily on its stem;
    O leave the Rose upon the spray;
  O leave the Elder-bloom, fair Maids!
    And listen to my lay.

2

  A Cypress and a Myrtle bough,                                        5
    This morn around my harp you twin'd,
  Because it fashion'd mournfully
    Its murmurs in the wind.

3

  And now a Tale of Love and Woe,
    A woeful Tale of Love I sing:                                     10
  Hark, gentle Maidens, hark! it sighs
    And trembles on the string.

4

  But most, my own dear Genevieve!
    It sighs and trembles most for thee!
  O come and hear the cruel wrongs                                    15
    Befel the dark Ladie!

5

  Few sorrows hath she of her own,
    My hope, my joy, my Genevieve!
  She loves me best whene'er I sing
    The songs that make her grieve.                                   20

6

  All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
    Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
  All are but ministers of Love,
    And feed his sacred flame.

7

  O ever in my waking dreams,                                         25
    I dwell upon that happy hour,
  When midway on the Mount I sate
    Beside the ruin'd Tow'r.

8

  The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
    Had blended with the lights of eve,                               30
  And she was there, my hope! my joy!
    My own dear Genevieve!

9

  She lean'd against the armed Man
    The statue of the armed Knight--
  She stood and listen'd to my harp,                                  35
    Amid the ling'ring light.

10

  I play'd a sad and doleful air,
    I sang an old and moving story,
  An old rude song, that fitted well
    The ruin wild and hoary.                                          40

11

  She listen'd with a flitting blush,
    With downcast eyes and modest grace:
  For well she knew, I could not choose
    But gaze upon her face.

12

  I told her of the Knight that wore                                  45
    Upon his shield a burning brand.
  And how for ten long years he woo'd
    The Ladie of the Land:

13

  I told her, how he pin'd, and ah!
    The deep, the low, the pleading tone,                             50
  With which I sang another's love,
    Interpreted my own!

14

  She listen'd with a flitting blush,
    With downcast eyes and modest grace.
  And she forgave me, that I gaz'd                                    55
    Too fondly on her face!

15

  But when I told the cruel scorn,
    That craz'd this bold and lovely Knight;
  And how he roam'd the mountain woods,
    Nor rested day or night;                                          60

16

  And how he cross'd the Woodman's paths,
    Thro' briars and swampy mosses beat;
  How boughs rebounding scourg'd his limbs,
    And low stubs gor'd his feet.

17

  How sometimes from the savage den,                                  65
    And sometimes from the darksome shade,
  And sometimes starting up at once,
    In green and sunny glade;

18

  There came and look'd him in the face
    An Angel beautiful and bright,                                    70
  And how he knew it was a Fiend,
    This mis'rable Knight!

19

  And how, unknowing what he did,
    He leapt amid a lawless band,
  And sav'd from outrage worse than death                             75
    The Ladie of the Land.

20

  And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees,
    And how she tended him in vain,
  And meekly strove to expiate
    The scorn that craz'd his brain;                                  80

21

  And how she nurs'd him in a cave;
    And how his madness went away,
  When on the yellow forest leaves
    A dying man he lay;

22

  His dying words--but when I reach'd                                 85
    That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
  My fault'ring voice and pausing harp
    Disturb'd her soul with pity.

23

  All impulses of soul and sense
    Had thrill'd my guiltless Genevieve--                             90
  The music and the doleful tale,
    The rich and balmy eve;

24

  And hopes and fears that kindle hope,
    An undistinguishable throng;
  And gentle wishes long subdu'd,                                     95
    Subdu'd and cherish'd long.

25

  She wept with pity and delight--
    She blush'd with love and maiden shame,
  And like the murmurs of a dream,
    I heard her breathe my name.                                     100

26

  I saw her bosom heave and swell,
    Heave and swell with inward sighs--
  I could not choose but love to see
    Her gentle bosom rise.

27

  Her wet cheek glow'd; she stept aside,                             105
    As conscious of my look she stept;
  Then suddenly, with tim'rous eye,
    She flew to me, and wept;

28

  She half-inclos'd me with her arms--
    She press'd me with a meek embrace;                              110
  And, bending back her head, look'd up,
    And gaz'd upon my face.

29

  'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
    And partly 'twas a bashful art,
  That I might rather feel than see,                                 115
    The swelling of her heart.

30

  I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
    And told her love with virgin pride;
  And so I won my Genevieve,
    My bright and beaut'ous bride.                                   120

31

  And now once more a tale of woe,
    A woeful tale of love, I sing:
  For thee, my Genevieve! it sighs,
    And trembles on the string.

32

  When last I sang the cruel scorn                                   125
    That craz'd this bold and lonely Knight,
  And how he roam'd the mountain woods,
    Nor rested day or night;

33

  I promis'd thee a sister tale
    Of Man's perfidious cruelty:                                     130
  Come, then, and hear what cruel wrong
    Befel the Dark Ladie.

_End of the Introduction._


FOOTNOTES:

[1052:1] Published in the _Morning Post_, Dec. 21, 1799. Collated with
two MSS.--_MS. (1)_; _MS. (2)_--in the British Museum [Add. MSS.
27,902]. See _Coleridge's Poems_, A Facsimile of the Proofs, &c., edited
by the late James <DW18>s Campbell, 1899. _MS. 1_ consists of thirty-two
stanzas (unnumbered), written on nine pages: _MS. 2_ (which begins with
stanza 6, and ends with stanza 30) of fourteen stanzas (unnumbered)
written on four pages.


LINENOTES:

_Title_--The Dark Ladiè. MS. B. M. (1).

[2] Rose upon] Rose-bud on MS. B. M. (1).

[3] fair] dear erased MS. (1).

[7] mournfully] sad and sweet MS. (1).

[8] in] to MS. (1).

[16] Ladie] Ladié MS. (2).

[20] The song that makes her grieve. MS. (1).

[21-4]

  Each thought, each feeling of the Soul,
  All lovely sights, each tender, name,
  All, all are ministers of Love,
    That stir our mortal frame.

MS. (1).

[22] All, all that stirs this mortal frame MS. B. M. (2).

[24] feed] fan MS. (2).

[25]

  O ever in my lonely walk

erased MS. (1).

  In lonely walk and noontide dreams

MS. (1).

  O ever when I walk alone

erased MS. (1).

[26]

  I feed upon that blissful hour

MS. (1).

  I feed upon that hour of Bliss

erased MS. (1).

  That ruddy eve that blissful hour

erased MS. (1).

[26] dwell] feed MS. (2).

[27]

                          we [*sate*]
  When midway on the mount I stood

MS. (1).

  When we too stood upon the Hill

erased MS. (1).

[29]

  The Moonshine stole upon the ground

erased MS. (1).

  The Moon [*be blended on*] the ground

MS. (1).

[30] Had] And erased MS. (1).

[31] was there] stood near (was there _erased_) MS. (1).

[33-6]

  Against a grey stone rudely carv'd,
  The statue of an armed Knight,
               in
  She lean'd [*the*] melancholy mood,
  [*And*] To watch'd the lingering Light

MS. (1).

[33-4]

  [*She lean'd against*] a [*chissold stone*]
                             [*tall*]
  [*The statue of a*]

MS. (1).

[34] the] an MS. (1) [Stanza 10, revised.]

[37] sad] soft MSS. (1, 2). doleful] mournful erased MS. (1).

[39] An] And MS. (2).

rude] wild erased MS. (1).

[41-4]

  With flitting Blush and downcast eyes,
  In modest melancholy grace
  The Maiden stood: perchance I gaz'd
    Too fondly on her face.

Erased MS. (1).

[45-8] om. MS. (1).

[49] [*I gaz'd and when*] I sang of love MS. (1).

[53-6]

  With flitting Blush and downcast eyes
                      and
  With downcast eyes _in_ modest grace
                  for
  [*She listen'd; and perchance I gaz'd*]
    Too fondly on her face.

MS. (1).

[55] And] Yet MS. (1).

[57] told] sang MS. (1).

[59] roam'd] cross'd MS. (1).

[60] or] nor MS. (1).

[61-4] om. MS. (1).]

[65] How sometimes from the hollow Trees MS. (1).

[69-72]

                   look'd
  There came and [*star'd*] him in the face
  An[d] Angel beautiful and bright,
  And how he knew it was a fiend
    And yell'd with strange affright.

MS. (1).

[74] lawless] murderous MS. (1).

[77] clasp'd] kiss'd MS. (1).

[79] meekly] how she MS. (1).

[87] fault'ring] trembling MS. (1) erased.

[90] guiltless] guileless MS. (1).

[Between 96 and 97]

  And while                  midnight
  [*While*] Fancy like the [*nuptial*] Torch
  That bends and rises in the wind
  Lit up with wild and broken lights
      The Tumult of her mind.

MS. (1) erased.

[99]

  And like the murmur of a dream

MSS. (1, 2).

  _And_ [*in a*] murmur [*faint and sweet*]

MS. (1) erased.

[100]

  [*She half pronounced my name.*]
   She breathed her Lover's name.

MS. (1) erased.

[101-4]

  I saw her gentle Bosom heave
  Th' inaudible and frequent sigh;
                modest
  And ah! the [*bashful*] Maiden mark'd
    The wanderings of my eye[s]

MS. (1) erased.

[105-8] om. MS. (1).

[105] cheek] cheeks MS. (2).

[108] flew] fled MS. (2).

[109-16]

                      side
  And closely to my [*heart*] she press'd
  And ask'd me with her swimming eyes
           might
  That I [*would*] rather feel than see
    Her gentle Bosom rise.--

_Or_

                       side
  And closely to my [*heart*] she press'd
  And closer still with bashful art--
  That I might rather feel than see
    The swelling of her Heart.

MS. (1) erased.

[111] And] Then MS. (2) erased.

[117]

  And now serene, serene and chaste
  But soon in calm and solemn tone

MS. (1) erased.

[118] And] She MS. (1) erased. virgin] maiden MSS. (1, 2).

[120] bright] dear MS. (1) erased. beaut'ous] lovely MS. (1) erased.

[125-8]

  When last I sang of Him whose heart
  Was broken by a woman's scorn--
  And how he cross'd the mountain woods
    All frantic and forlorn

MS. (1).

[129] sister] moving MS. (1).

[131] wrong] wrongs MS. (1).

[132] Ladie] Ladié MS. (2).

[After 132] _The Dark Ladiè._ MS. (1).




I

THE TRIUMPH OF LOYALTY.[1060:1]

[Vide _ante_, p. 421.]

AN HISTORIC DRAMA

IN

FIVE ACTS.

FIRST PERFORMED WITH UNIVERSAL APPLAUSE AT THE
THEATRE ROYAL, DRURY LANE, ON SATURDAY,
FEBRUARY THE 7TH, 1801.


  APOECIDES.
      Quis hoc scit factum?

  EPIDICUS.
    Ego ita esse factum dico.

  PERIPHANES.
        Scin' tu istuc?

  EPIDICUS.
        Scio.

  PERIPHANES.
            Qui tu scis?

  EPIDICUS.
          Quia ego vidi.

  PERIPHANES.
  [Ipse vidistine [Tragediam?]] Nimis factum bene!

  EPIDICUS.
  Sed vestita, aurata, ornata, ut lepide! ut concinne! ut nove! [Proh
  Dii immortales! tempestatem (plausuum Populus) nobis nocte hac
  misit!][1060:2]

(Plaut. _Epidicus_. Act 2. Scen. 2, ll. 22 sqq.)


LONDON.

PRINTED FOR T. N. LONGMAN AND REES,
PATERNOSTER-ROW.

1801.


FOOTNOTES:

[1060:1] Now first published from an MS. in the British Museum (Add.
MSS. 34,225). The _Triumph of Loyalty_, 'a sort of dramatic romance'
(see _Letter to Poole_, December 5, 1800; _Letters of S. T. C._, 1895,
i. 343), was begun and left unfinished in the late autumn of 1800. An
excerpt (ll. 277-358) was revised and published as 'A Night Scene. A
Dramatic Fragment,' in _Sibylline Leaves_ (1817), vide _ante_, pp.
421-3. The revision of the excerpt (ll. 263-349) with respect to the
order and arrangement of its component parts is indicated by asterisks,
which appear to be contemporary with the MS. I have, therefore, in
printing the MS., followed the revised and not the original order of
these lines. Again, in the hitherto unpublished portion of the MS. (ll.
1-263) I have omitted rough drafts of passages which were rewritten,
either on the same page or on the reverse of the leaf.

[1060:2] The words enclosed in brackets are not to be found in the text.
They were either invented or adapted by Coleridge _ad hoc_. The text of
the passage as a whole has been reconstructed by modern editors.


DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  Earl Henry                                  MR. KEMBLE

  Don Curio                                   MR. C. KEMBLE

  Sandoval                                    MR. BARRYMORE

  Alva, the Chancellor                        MR. AICKIN

  Barnard, Earl Henry's Groom of the Chamber  MR. SUETT

  Don Fernandez                               MR. BANNISTER, JUN.

  The Governor of the State Prison            MR. DAVIS

  Herreras (Oropeza's Uncle) and three Conspirators
      MESSRS. PACKER, WENTWORTH, MATHEW, and GIBBON

  Officers and Soldiers of Earl Henry's Regiment.


  The Queen of Navarre                        MRS. SIDDONS

  Donna Oropeza                               MRS. POWELL

  Mira, her attendant                         MISS DECAMP

  Aspasia, a singer                           MRS. CROUCH


Scene, partly at the Country seat of Donna Oropeza, and partly in
Pampilona [_sic_], the Capital of Navarre.




THE TRIUMPH OF LOYALTY

ACT I


SCENE I. _A cultivated Plain, skirted on the Left by a Wood. The
Pyrenees are visible in the distance. Small knots of Soldiers all in the
military Dress of the middle Ages are seen passing across the Stage.
Then_

_Enter EARL HENRY and SANDOVAL, both armed._

  _Sandoval._ A delightful plain this, and doubly pleasant
  after so long and wearisome a descent from the Pyranees
  [_sic_]. Did you not observe how our poor over wearied horses
  mended their pace as soon as they reached it?

  _Earl Henry._ I must entreat your forgiveness, gallant               5
  Castilian! I ought ere this to have bade you welcome to my
  native Navarre.

  _Sandoval._ Cheerily, General! Navarre has indeed but ill
  repaid your services, in thus recalling you from the head of
  an army which you yourself had collected and disciplined.           10
  But the wrongs and insults which you have suffered----

  _Earl Henry._ Deserve my thanks, Friend! In the sunshine
  of Court-favor I could only _believe_ that I loved my Queen and
  my Country: now I _know_ it. But why name I my Country or
  my Sovereign? I owe all my Wrongs to the private enmity of          15
  the Chancellor.

  _Sandoval._ Heaven be praised, you have atchieved [_sic_]
  a delicious revenge upon him!--that the same Courier who
  brought the orders for your recall carried back with him the
  first tidings of your Victory--it was exquisite good fortune!       20

  _Earl Henry._ Sandoval! my gallant Friend! Let me not
  deceive you. To you I have vowed an undisguised openness.
  The gloom which overcast me, was occasioned by causes of less
  public import.

  _Sandoval._ Connected, I presume, with that Mansion, the            25
  spacious pleasure grounds of which we noticed as we were
  descending from the mountain. Lawn and Grove, River and
  Hillock--it looked within these high walls, like a World of
  itself.

  _Earl Henry._ This Wood scarcely conceals these high walls          30
  from us. Alas! I know the place too well. . . . Nay, why too
  well?--But wherefore spake you, Sandoval, of this Mansion?
  What know you?

  _Sandoval._ Nothing. Therefore I spake of it. On our descent
  from the mountain I pointed it out to you and asked to whom         35
  it belonged--you became suddenly absent, and answered me
  only by looks of Disturbance and Anxiety.

  _Earl Henry._ That Mansion once belonged to Manric [_sic_],
  Lord of Valdez.

  _Sandoval._ Alas, poor Man! the same, who had dangerous             40
  claims to the Throne of Navarre.

  _Earl Henry._ Claims?--Say rather, pretensions--plausible
  only to the unreasoning Multitude.

  _Sandoval._ Pretensions then (_with bitterness_).

  _Earl Henry._ Bad as these were, the means he employed to           45
  give effect to them were still worse. He trafficked with France
  against the independence of his Country. He was a traitor,
  my Friend! and died a traitor's death. His two sons suffered
  with him, and many, (I fear, too many) of his adherents.

  _Sandoval._ Earl Henry! (_a pause_) If the sentence were just,      50
  why was not the execution of it public. . . . It is reported, that
  they were--but no! I will not believe it--the honest soul of
  my friend would not justify so foul a deed.

  _Earl Henry._ Speak plainly--what is reported?

  _Sandoval._ That they were all assassinated by order of the         55
  new Queen.

  _Earl Henry._ Accursed be the hearts that framed and
  the tongues that scattered the Calumny!--The Queen was
  scarcely seated on her throne; the Chancellor, who had been
  her Guardian, exerted a pernicious influence over her               60
  judgement--she was taught to fear dangerous commotions in the
  Capital, she was intreated to prevent the bloodshed of the
  deluded citizens, and thus overawed she reluctantly consented
  to permit the reinforcement of an obsolete law, and----

  _Sandoval._ They were not assassinated then?----                    65

  _Earl Henry._ Why these bitter tones to me, Sandoval? Can
  a law assassinate? Don Manrique [_sic_] and his accomplices
  drank the sleepy poison adjudged by that law in the State
  Prison at Pampilona. At that time I was with the army on
  the frontiers of France.                                            70

  _Sandoval._ Had you been in the Capital----

  _Earl Henry._ I would have pledged my life on the safety of
  a public Trial and a public Punishment.

  _Sandoval._ Poisoned! The Father and his Sons!--And this,
  Earl Henry, was the first act of that Queen, whom you idolize!      75

  _Earl Henry._ No, Sandoval, No! This was not _her_ act. She
  roused herself from the stupor of alarm, she suspended _in
  opposition to the advice of her council_, all proceedings against
  the inferior partisans of the Conspiracy; she facilitated the
  escape of Don Manrique's brother, and to Donna Oropeza, his         80
  daughter and only surviving child, she restored all her father's
  possessions, nay became herself her Protectress and Friend.
  These were the acts, these the first acts of my royal Mistress.

  _Sandoval._ And how did Donna Oropeza receive these favors?

  _Earl Henry._ Why ask you that? Did they not fall on her,           85
  like heavenly dews?

  _Sandoval._ And will they not rise again, like an earthly mist?
  What is Gratitude opposed to Ambition, filial revenge, and
  Woman's rivalry--what is it but a cruel Curb in the mouth of
  a fiery Horse, maddening the fierce animal whom it cannot           90
  restrain? Forgive me, Earl Henry! I meant not to move
  you so deeply.

  _Earl Henry._ Sandoval, you have uttered that in a waking
  hour which having once dreamt, I feared the return of sleep
  lest I should dream it over again. My Friend (_his Voice            95
  trembling_) I woo'd the daughter of Don Manrique, _but_ we are
  interrupted.

  _Sandoval._ It is Fernandez.

  _Earl Henry (struggling with his emotions)._ A true-hearted old
  fellow----                                                         100

  _Sandoval._ As splenetic as he is brave.

_Enter_ FERNANDEZ.

  _Earl Henry._ Well, my ancient! how did you like our tour
  through the mountains. (_EARL HENRY sits down on the seat by
  the woodside._)

  _Fernandez._ But little, General! and my faithful charger          105
  Liked it still less.
  The field of battle in the level plain
  By Fontarabia was more to our taste.

  _Earl Henry._ Where is my brother, Don Curio! Have you
  Seen him of late?

  _Fernandez._      Scarcely, dear General!                          110
  For by my troth I have been laughing at him
  Even till the merry tears so filled my eyes
  That I lost sight of him.

  _Sandoval._               But wherefore, Captain.

  _Fernandez._ He hath been studying speeches with fierce gestures;
  Speeches brimfull of wrath and indignation,                        115
  The which he hopes to vent in open council:
  And, in the heat and fury of this fancy
  He grasp'd your groom of the Chamber by the throat
  Who squeaking piteously, Ey! quoth your brother,
  I cry you Mercy, Fool! Hadst been indeed                           120
  The Chancellor, I should have strangled thee.

  _Sandoval._ Ha, ha! poor Barnard!

  _Fernandez._                      What you know my Gentleman,
  My Groom of the Chamber, my Sieur Barnard, hey?

  _Sandoval._ I know him for a barren-pated coxcomb.

  _Fernandez._ But very weedy, Sir! in worthless phrases,            125
  A sedulous eschewer of the popular
  And the colloquial--one who seeketh dignity
  I' th' paths of circumlocution! It would have
  Surpris'd you tho', to hear how nat'rally
  He squeak'd when Curio had him by the throat.                      130

  _Sandoval._ I know him too for an habitual scorner
  Of Truth.

  _Fernandez._ And one that lies more dully than
  Old Women dream, without pretence of fancy,
  Humour or mirth, a most disinterested,
  Gratuitous Liar.

  _Earl Henry._    Ho! enough, enough!                               135
  Spare him, I pray you, were't but from respect
  To the presence of his Lord.

  _Sandoval._                  I stand reprov'd.

  _Fernandez._ I too, but that I know our noble General
  Maintains him near his person, only that
  If he should ever go in jeopardy                                   140
  Of being damn'd (as he's now persecuted)
  For his virtue and fair sense, he may be sav'd
  By the supererogation of this Fellow's
  Folly and Worthlessness.----

  _Earl Henry._                Hold, hold, good Ancient!
  Do you not know that this Barnard saved my life?                   145
  Well, but my brother----

  _Fernandez._             He will soon be here.
  I swear by this, my sword, dear General.
  I swear he has a Hero's soul--I only
  Wish I could communicate to him
  My gift of governing the spleen.--Then he                          150
  Has had his colors, the drums too of the Regiment
  All put in cases--O, that stirs the Soldiery.

  _Earl Henry._ Impetuous Boy!

  _Fernandez._                 Nay, Fear not for them, General.
  The Chancellor, no doubt, will take good care
  To let their blood grow cool on garrison duty.                     155

  _Sandoval._ Earl Henry! Frown not thus upon Fernandez;
  'Tis said, and all the Soldiery believe it,
  That the five Regiments who return with you
  Will be dispers'd in garrisons and castles,
  And other Jails of honourable name.                                160
  So great a crime it is to have been present
  In duty and devotion to a Hero!

  _Fernandez._ What now? What now? The politic Chancellor is
  The Soldier's friend, and rather than not give
  Snug pensions to brave Men, he'll overlook                         165
  All small disqualifying circumstances
  Of youth and health, keen eye and muscular limb,
  He'll count our scars, and set them down for maims.
  And gain us thus all privileges and profits
  Of Invalids and superannuate veterans.                             170

  _Earl Henry._ 'Tis but an idle rumour--See! they come.

_Enter_ BARNARD _and a number of_ Soldiers, _their Colours wound up, and
the Drums in Cases, and after them_ DON CURIO. _All pay the military
Honors to the General. During this time_ FERNANDEZ _has hurried up in
front of the Stage_.

_Enter DON CURIO._

  _Don Curio (advancing to EARL HENRY)._ Has Barnard told you?
  Insult on insult! by mine honor, Brother!
  (_BARNARD goes beside CURIO._) And by our Father's soul they mean
      to saint you,
  Having first prov'd your Patience more than mortal.                175

  _Earl Henry._ Take heed, Don Curio! lest with greater right
  They scoff my Brother for a choleric boy.
  What insult then?

  _Don Curio._      Our Friend, the Chancellor,
  Welcomes you home, and shares the common joy
  In the most happy tidings of your Victory:                         180
  But as to your demand of instant audience
  From the Queen's Royal Person,--'tis rejected!

  _Sandoval._ Rejected?

  _Barnard (making a deep obeisance)._ May it please the Earl!

  _Earl Henry._                                                Speak,
      Barnard.

  _Barnard._ The noble Youth, your very valiant brother,
  And wise as valiant (_bowing to DON CURIO who puffs at him_)
      rightly doth insinuate                                         185
  Fortune deals nothing singly--whether Honors
  Or Insults, whether it be Joys or Sorrows,
  They crowd together on us, or at best
  Drop in in quick succession.

  _Fernandez (mocking him)._ 'Ne'er rains it, but it pours,' or, at
      the best,                                                      190
  'More sacks upon the mill.' This fellow's a
  Perpetual plagiarist from his Grandmother, and
  How slily in the parcel wraps [he] up
  The stolen goods!

  _Earl Henry._     Be somewhat briefer, Barnard.

  _Barnard._ But could I dare insinuate to your Brother              195
  A fearless Truth, Earl Henry--it were this:
  Even Lucifer, Prince of the Air, hath claims
  Upon our justice.

  _Fernandez._      Give the Devil his Due!
  Why, thou base Lacquerer of worm-eaten proverbs,
  [And] wherefore dost thou not tell us at once                      200
  What the Chancellor said to thee?

  _Barnard_ (_looking round superciliously at_ FERNANDEZ).
  The Queen hath left the Capital affecting
  Rural retirement, but 'I will hasten'
  (Thus said the Chancellor) 'I myself will hasten
  And lay before her Majesty the Tidings                             205
  Both of Earl Henry's Victory and return.
  She will vouchsafe, I doubt not, to re-enter
  Her Capital, without delay, and grant
  The wish'd for Audience with all public honour.'

  _Don Curio._ A mere Device, I say, to pass a slight on us.         210

  _Fernandez (to himself)._ To think on't. Pshaw! A fellow, that must
      needs
  Have been decreed an Ass by acclamation,
  Had he not looked so very like an Owl.
  And he to---- (_turns suddenly round, and faces BARNARD who had
      even then come close beside him_).
  Boo!----Ah! is it you, Sieur Barnard!

  _Barnard._ No other, Sir!

  _Fernandez._              And is it not reported,                  215
  That you once sav'd the General's life?

  _Barnard._                              'Tis certain!

  _Fernandez._ Was he asleep? And were the hunters coming
  And did you bite him on the nose?

  _Barnard._                        What mean you?

  _Fernandez._ That was the way in which the Flea i' th' Fable
  Once sav'd the Lion's life.

  _Earl Henry._               'Tis well.                             220
  The Sun hath almost finish'd his Day's Travels;
  We too will finish ours. Go, gallant Comrades,
  And at the neighbouring Mansion, for us all,
  Claim entertainment in your General's name.

_Exeunt_ Soldiers, &c. _As they are leaving the Stage._

  _Fernandez_ (_to_ BARNARD). A word with you! You act the
      Chancellor                                                     225
  Incomparably well.

  _Barnard._         Most valiant Captain,
  Vouchsafe a manual union.

  _Fernandez_ (_griping_ [sic] _his hand with affected fervor_). 'Tis
      no wonder,
  Don Curio should mistook [_sic_] you for him.

  _Barnard._                                    Truly,
  The Chancellor, and I, it hath been notic'd
  Are of one stature.

  _Fernandez._        And Don Curio's _Gripe_ too                    230
  Had lent a guttural Music to your voice,
  A sort of bagpipe Buz, that suited well
  Your dignity of utterance.

  _Barnard (simpering courteously)._ Don Fernandez,
  Few are the storms that bring unmingled evil.

  _Fernandez (mocking him)._ 'Tis an ill wind, that blows no good,
      Sieur Barnard!                                   [_Exeunt._    235

_DON CURIO lingering behind._

  _Don Curio._ I have offended you, my brother.

  _Earl H._                                     Yes!
  For you've not learnt the noblest part of valour,
  To suffer and obey. Drums put in cases,
  Colours wound up--what means this Mummery?
  We are sunk low indeed, if wrongs like our's                       240
  Must seek redress in impotent Freaks of Anger.
  (This way, Don Sandoval) of boyish anger----

(_Walks with SANDOVAL to the back of the Stage._)

  _Don Curio (to himself)._ Freaks! freaks! But what if they have
      sav'd from bursting
  The swelling heart of one, whose Cup of Hope
  Was savagely dash'd down--even from his lips?--                    245
  Permitted just to see the face of War,
  Then like a truant boy, scourgd home again
  One Field my whole Campaign! One glorious Battle
  To madden one with Hope!--Did he not pause
  Twice in the fight, and press me to his breastplate,               250
  And cry, that all might hear him, Well done, brother!
  No blessed Soul, just naturalized in Heaven,
  Pac'd ever by the side of an Immortal
  More proudly, Henry! than I fought by thine--
  Shame on these tears!--this, too, is boyish anger!     [_Exit._    255

_EARL HENRY and SANDOVAL return to the front of the stage._

  _Earl Henry._ I spake more harshly to him, than need was.

  _Sandoval._ Observ'd you how he pull'd his beaver down--
  Doubtless to hide the tears, he could not check.

  _Earl Henry._ Go, sooth [_sic_] him, Friend!--And having reach'd
      the Castle
  Gain Oropeza's private ear, and tell her                           260
  Where you have left me.

(_As SANDOVAL is going_)

                          Nay, stay awhile with me.
  I am too full of dreams to meet her now.

  _Sandoval._ You lov'd the daughter of Don Manrique?

  _Earl Henry._                                       Loved?

  _Sandoval._ Did you not say, you woo'd her?

  _Earl Henry._                               Once I lov'd
  Her whom I dar'd not woo!----

  _Sandoval._                   And woo'd perchance                  265
  One whom you lov'd not!

  _Earl Henry._           O I were most base
  Not loving Oropeza. True, I woo'd her
  Hoping to heal a deeper wound: but she
  Met my advances with an empassion'd Pride
  That kindled Love with Love. And when her Sire                     270
  Who in his dream of Hope already grasp'd
  The golden circlet in his hand, rejected
  My suit, with Insult, and in memory
  Of ancient Feuds, pour'd Curses on my head,
  Her Blessings overtook and baffled them.                           275
  But thou art stern, and with unkindling Countenance
  Art inly reasoning whilst thou listenest to me.

  _Sandoval._ Anxiously, Henry! reasoning anxiously.
  But Oropeza--

  _Earl Henry._ Blessings gather round her!
  Within this wood there winds a secret passage,                     280
  Beneath the walls, which open out at length
  Into the gloomiest covert of the Garden.--
  The night ere my departure to the Army,
  She, nothing trembling, led me through that gloom,
  And to the covert by a silent stream,                              285
  Which, with one star reflected near its marge,
  Was the sole object visible around me.
  The night so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us!
  No leaflet stirr'd;--yet pleasure hung upon us,
  The gloom and stillness of the balmy night-air.                    290
  A little further on an arbor stood,
  Fragrant with flowering Trees--I well remember
  What an uncertain glimmer in the Darkness
  Their snow-white Blossoms made--thither she led me,
  To that sweet bower! Then Oropeza trembled--                       295
  I heard her heart beat--if 'twere not my own.

  _Sandoval._ A rude and searing note, my friend!

  _Earl Henry._                                   Oh! no!
  I have small memory of aught but pleasure.
  The inquietudes of fear, like lesser Streams
  Still flowing, still were lost in those of Love:                   300
  So Love grew mightier from the Pear, and Nature,
  Fleeing from Pain, shelter'd herself in Joy.
  The stars above our heads were dim and steady,
  Like eyes suffus'd with rapture. Life was in us:
  We were all life, each atom of our Frames                          305
  A living soul--I vow'd to die for her:
  With the faint voice of one who, having spoken,
  Relapses into blessedness, I vow'd it:
  That solemn Vow, a whisper scarcely heard,
  A murmur breath'd against a lady's Cheek.                          310
  Oh! there is Joy above the name of Pleasure,
  Deep self-possession, an intense Repose.
  No other than as Eastern Sages feign,
  The God, who floats upon a Lotos Leaf,
  Dreams for a thousand ages; then awaking,                          315
  Creates a world, and smiling at the bubble,
  Relapses into bliss. Ah! was that bliss
  Fear'd as an alien, and too vast for man?
  For suddenly, intolerant of its silence,
  Did Oropeza, starting, grasp my forehead.                          320
  I caught her arms; the veins were swelling on them.
  Thro' the dark Bower she sent a hollow voice;--
  'Oh! what if all betray me? what if thou?'
  I swore, and with an inward thought that seemed
  The unity and substance of my Being,                               325
  I swore to her, that were she red with guilt,
  I would exchange my unblench'd state with hers.--
  Friend! by that winding passage, to the Bower
  I now will go--all objects there will teach me
  Unwavering Love, and singleness of Heart.                          330
  Go, Sandoval! I am prepar'd to meet her--
  Say nothing of me--I myself will seek her--
  Nay, leave me, friend! I cannot bear the torment
  And Inquisition of that scanning eye.--

                             [_Earl Henry retires into the wood._

  _Sandoval (alone)._ O Henry! always striv'st thou to be great      335
  By thine own act--yet art thou never great
  But by the Inspiration of great Passion.
  The Whirl-blast comes, the desert-sands rise up
  And shape themselves; from Heaven to Earth they stand,
  As though they were the Pillars of a Temple,                       340
  Built by Omnipotence in its own honour!
  But the Blast pauses, and their shaping spirit
  Is fled: the mighty Columns were but sand,
  And lazy Snakes trail o'er the level ruins!
  I know, he loves the Queen. I know she is                          345
  His Soul's first love, and this is ever his nature--
  To his first purpose, his soul toiling back
  Like the poor storm-wreck'd [sailor] to his Boat,
  Still swept away, still struggling to regain it.       [_Exit._

         *       *       *       *       *

  _Herreras._ He dies, that stirs! Follow me this instant.           350

(First Conspirator _takes his arrow, snaps it, and throws it on the
ground. The two others do the same._)

  _Herreras._ Accursed cowards! I'll go myself, and make sure work
      (_drawing his Dagger_).

(HERRERAS _strides towards the arbor, before he reaches it, stops and
listens and then returns hastily to the front of the stage, as he turns
his Back to the Arbor_, EARL HENRY _appears, watching the_ Conspirators,
_and enters the Arbor unseen_.)

  _First Conspirator._ Has she _seen_ us think you?

  _The Mask._ No! she has not _seen_ us; but she heard us
  distinctly.

  _Herreras._ There was a rustling in the wood--go, all of           355
  you, stand on the watch--towards the passage.

  _A Voice from the Arbor._ Mercy! Mercy! Tell me, why
  you murder me.

  _Herreras._ I'll do it first.      (_Strides towards the Arbor, EARL
  HENRY rushes out of it._)                                          360

  _The Mask._ Jesu Maria.      (_They all three fly, EARL HENRY
  attempts to seize HERRERAS, who defending himself retreats
  into the Covert follow'd by the EARL. THE QUEEN comes
  from out the arbor, veiled--stands listening a moment, then
  lifts up her veil, with folded hands assumes the attitude of
  Prayer, and after a momentary silence breaks into audible
  soliloquy._)

  _The Queen._ I pray'd to thee, All-wonderful! And thou
  Didst make my very Prayer the Instrument,
  By which thy Providence sav'd me. Th' armed Murderer
  Who with suspended breath stood listening to me,
  Groan'd as I spake thy name. In that same moment,                  365
  O God! thy Mercy shot the swift Remorse
  That pierc'd his Heart. And like an Elephant
  Gor'd as he rushes to the first assault,
  He turn'd at once and trampled his Employers.
  But hark! (_drops her veil_)--O God in Heaven! they come again.    370

(_EARL HENRY returns with the Dagger in his hand._)

  _Earl Henry (as he is entering)._ The violent pull with which I
      seiz'd his Dagger
  Unpois'd me and I fell.

[END OF THE FRAGMENT.]


LINENOTES:

[After 88] in which all her wrongs will appear twofold--(or) in a mist
of which her Wrongs will wander, magnified into giant shapes. MS.
erased.

[110] After General! And yet I have not stirred from his side. That is
to say-- MS. erased.

[Before 211]

  Fortune! Plague take her for a blind old Baggage!
  That such a patch as Barnard should have had
  The Honour to have sav'd our General's life.
  That Barnard! that mock-man! that clumsy forgery
  Of Heaven's Image. Any other heart
  But mine own would have turn'd splenetic to think of it.

MS. erased.

[269] an empassion'd S. L.: empassioned 1834.

[276] unkindling] unkindly S. L., 1834.

[281] open] opens S. L.

[285] the] that. a] that S. L. (corr. in Errata, p. [xi]) S. L.

[288] o'er] near S. L. (corr. in Errata, p. [xi]) S. L.

[289-290]

  No leaflet stirr'd; the air was almost sultry;
  So deep, so dark, so close, the umbrage o'er us!
  No leaflet stirr'd, yet pleasure hung upon

S. L.

[310] Cheek] Ear S. L.

[After 312]

                        Deep repose of bliss we lay
  No other than as Eastern Sages gloss,
  The God who floats upon a Lotos leaf
  Dreams for a thousand ages, then awaking
  Creates a World, then loathing the dull task
  Relapses into blessedness, when an omen
  Screamed from the Watch-tower--'twas the Watchman's cry,
  And Oropeza starting.

MS. (alternative reading).

[313] feign] paint S. L.

[Before 314] Sandoval (_with a sarcastic smile_) S. L.

[314-16] Compare Letter to Thelwall, Oct. 16, 1797, Letters of S. T. C.,
1895, i. 229.]

[317]

  bliss.--

  _Earl Henry._ Ah! was that bliss

S. L.

[319] intolerant] impatient S. L.

[325] unity and] purpose and the S. L.

[After 327]

  Even as a Herdsboy mutely plighting troth
  Gives his true Love a Lily for a Rose.

MS. erased.

[334] Inquisition] keen inquiry S. L.

[Before 335]

  Earl Henry thou art dear to me--perchance
  For these follies; since the Health of Reason,
  Our would-be Sages teach, engenders not
  The Whelks and Tumours of particular Friendship.

MS. erased.

[339] Heaven to Earth] Earth to Heaven S. L.




J

CHAMOUNY; THE HOUR BEFORE SUNRISE

A HYMN

[Vide _ante_, p. 376.]

[As published in _The Morning Post_, Sept. 11, 1802]


  Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star
  In his steep course--so long he seems to pause
  On thy bald awful head, O Chamouny!
  The Arvè and Arveiron at thy base
  Eave ceaselessly; but thou, dread mountain form,                     5
  Resist from forth thy silent sea of pines
  How silently! Around thee, and above,
  Deep is the sky, and black: transpicuous, deep,
  An ebon mass! Methinks thou piercest it
  As with a wedge! But when I look again,                             10
  It seems thy own calm home, thy crystal shrine,
  Thy habitation from eternity.
  O dread and silent form! I gaz'd upon thee,
  Till thou, still present to my bodily eye,
  Did'st vanish from my thought. Entranc'd in pray'r,                 15
  I worshipp'd the INVISIBLE alone.
  Yet thou, meantime, wast working on my soul,
  E'en like some deep enchanting melody,
  So sweet, we know not, we are list'ning to it.
  But I awoke, and with a busier mind,                                20
  And active will self-conscious, offer now
  Not, as before, involuntary pray'r
  And passive adoration!--
                           Hand and voice,
  Awake, awake! and thou, my heart, awake!
  Awake ye rocks! Ye forest pines, awake!                             25
  Green fields, and icy cliffs! All join my hymn!
  And thou, O silent mountain, sole and bare,
  O blacker, than the darkness, all the night,
  And visited, all night, by troops of stars,
  Or when they climb the sky, or when they sink--                     30
  Companion of the morning star at dawn,
  Thyself Earth's rosy star, and of the dawn
  Co-herald! Wake, O wake, and utter praise!
  Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth?
  Who fill'd thy countenance with rosy light?                         35
  Who made thee father of perpetual streams?
  And you, ye five wild torrents, fiercely glad,
  Who call'd you forth from Night and utter Death?
  From darkness let you loose, and icy dens,
  Down those precipitous, black, jagged rocks                         40
  For ever shatter'd, and the same for ever!
  Who gave you your invulnerable life,
  Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy,
  Unceasing thunder, and eternal foam!
  And who commanded, and the silence came--                           45
  'Here shall the billows stiffen, and have rest?'

  Ye ice-falls! ye that from yon dizzy heights
  Adown enormous ravines steeply <DW72>,
  Torrents, methinks, that heard a mighty voice,
  And stopp'd at once amid their maddest plunge!                      50
  Motionless torrents! silent cataracts!
  Who made you glorious, as the gates of Heav'n,
  Beneath the keen full moon? Who bade the sun
  Clothe you with rainbows? Who with lovely flow'rs
  Of living blue spread garlands at your feet?                        55
  GOD! GOD! The torrents like a shout of nations,
  Utter! The ice-plain bursts, and answers GOD!
  GOD, sing the meadow-streams with gladsome voice,
  And pine groves with their soft, and soul-like sound,
  The silent snow-mass, loos'ning, thunders GOD!                      60
  Ye dreadless flow'rs! that fringe th' eternal frost!
  Ye wild goats, bounding by the eagle's nest!
  Ye eagles, playmates of the mountain blast!
  Ye lightnings, the dread arrows of the clouds!
  Ye signs and wonders of the element,                                65
  Utter forth, GOD! and fill the hills with praise!

  And thou, O silent Form, alone and bare,
  Whom, as I lift again my head bow'd low
  In adoration, I again behold,
  And to thy summit upward from thy base                              70
  Sweep slowly with dim eyes suffus'd by tears,
  Awake, thou mountain form! rise, like a cloud!
  Rise, like a cloud of incense, from the earth!
  Thou kingly spirit thron'd among the hills,
  Thou dread ambassador from Earth to Heav'n--                        75
  Great hierarch, tell thou the silent sky,
  And tell the stars, and tell the rising sun,
  Earth with her thousand voices calls on God!
                                         ΕΣΤΗΣΕ.




K

DEJECTION: AN ODE[1076:1]

[Vide _ante_, p. 362.]

[As first printed in the _Morning Post_, October 4, 1802.]


  "Late, late yestreen I saw the new Moon
  With the Old Moon in her arms;
  And I fear, I fear, my Master dear,
  We shall have a deadly storm."[1076:2]
                     BALLAD OF SIR PATRICK SPENCE.


LINENOTES:

Motto_--2 Moon] one Letter to S.

[4] There will be, &c. Letter to S.


DEJECTION:

AN ODE, WRITTEN APRIL 4, 1802.


I

  Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made
    The grand Old ballad of SIR PATRICK SPENCE,
    This night; so tranquil now, will not go hence
  Unrous'd by winds, that ply a busier trade
  Than those, which mould yon cloud, in lazy flakes,                   5
  Or the dull sobbing draft, that drones and rakes
  Upon the strings of this Œolian lute,
  Which better far were mute.
  For lo! the New Moon, winter-bright!
  And overspread with phantom light,                                  10
  (With swimming phantom light o'erspread,
  But rimm'd and circled by a silver thread)
  I see the Old Moon in her lap, foretelling
    The coming on of rain and squally blast:
  And O! that even now the gust were swelling,                        15
    And the slant night-show'r driving loud and fast!
  Those sounds which oft have rais'd me, while they aw'd,
  And sent my soul abroad,
  Might now perhaps their wonted impulse give,
  Might startle this dull pain, and make it move and live!            20


II

  A grief without a pang, void, dark, and drear,
    A stifled, drowsy, unimpassion'd grief,
    Which finds no nat'ral outlet, no relief,
  In word, or sigh, or tear--
  O EDMUND! in this wan and heartless mood,                           25
  To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,
  All this long eve, so balmy and serene,
    Have I been gazing on the Western sky,
  And its peculiar tint of yellow-green:
    And still I gaze--and with how blank an eye!                      30
  And those thin clouds above, in flakes and bars,
  That give away their motion to the stars;
  Those stars, that glide behind them, or between,
  Now sparkling, now bedimm'd, but always seen;
  Yon crescent moon, as fix'd as if it grew,                          35
  In its own cloudless, starless lake of blue,
  A boat becalm'd! a lovely sky-canoe!
  I see them all so excellently fair--
  I _see_, not _feel_ how beautiful they are!


III

     My genial spirits fail;                                          40
     And what can these avail,
  To lift the smoth'ring weight from off my breast?
     It were a vain endeavour,
     Though I should gaze for ever
  On that green light that lingers in the west:                       45
  I may not hope from outward forms to win
  The passion and the life, whose fountains are within.


IV

  O EDMUND! we receive but what we give,
  And in _our_ life alone does Nature live:
  Ours is her wedding-garment, ours her shroud!                       50
  And would we aught behold, of higher worth,
  Than that inanimate cold world, _allow'd_
  To the poor loveless ever-anxious crowd,
  Ah! from the soul itself must issue forth,
  A light, a glory, a fair luminous cloud                             55
  Enveloping the earth--
  And from the soul itself must there be sent
  A sweet and potent voice, of its own birth,
  Of all sweet sounds the life and element!
  O pure of heart! Thou need'st not ask of me                         60
  What this strong music in the soul may be?
  What, and wherein it doth exist,
  This light, this glory, this fair luminous mist,
  This beautiful and beauty-making pow'r?
    Joy, virtuous EDMUND! joy that ne'er was given,                   65
  Save to the pure, and in their purest hour,
  Joy, EDMUND! is the spirit and the pow'r,
  Which wedding Nature to us gives in dow'r,
    A new Earth and new Heaven,
  Undream'd of by the sensual and the proud--                         70
  JOY is the sweet voice, JOY the luminous cloud--
      We, we ourselves rejoice!
  And thence flows all that charms or ear or sight,
  All melodies the echoes of that voice,
  All colours a suffusion from that light.                            75

                        Yes, dearest EDMUND, yes!
  There was a time that, tho' my path was rough,
    This joy within me dallied with distress,
  And all misfortunes were but as the stuff
    Whence fancy made me dreams of happiness:                         80
  For hope grew round me, like the twining vine,
  And fruits, and foliage, not my own, seem'd mine.
  But now afflictions bow me down to earth:
  Nor care I, that they rob me of my mirth,
      But oh! each visitation                                         85
  Suspends what nature gave me at my birth,
    My shaping spirit of imagination.

[The Sixth and Seventh Stanzas omitted.]

  *        *        *        *        *        *
  *        *        *        *        *        *
  *        *        *        *        *        *


VIII

  O wherefore did I let it haunt my mind
    This dark distressful dream?
  I turn from it, and listen to the wind                              90
    Which long has rav'd unnotic'd. What a scream
  Of agony, by torture, lengthen'd out,
  That lute sent forth! O wind, that rav'st without,
  Bare crag, or mountain-tairn[1079:1], or blasted tree,
  Or pine-grove, whither woodman never clomb,                         95
  Or lonely house, long held the witches' home,
    Methinks were fitter instruments for thee,
  Mad Lutanist! who, in this month of show'rs,
  Of dark-brown gardens, and of peeping flow'rs,
  Mak'st devil's yule, with worse than wintry song,                  100
  The blossoms, buds, and tim'rous leaves among.
    Thou Actor, perfect in all tragic sounds!
  Thou mighty Poet, ev'n to frenzy bold!
      What tell'st thou now about?
      'Tis of the rushing of a host in rout,                         105
    With many groans of men, with smarting wounds--
  At once they groan with pain, and shudder with the cold!
  But hush! there is a pause of deepest silence!
    And all that noise, as of a rushing crowd,
  With groans, and tremulous shudderings--all is over!               110
    It tells another tale, with sounds less deep and loud--
      A tale of less affright.
      And temper'd with delight,
  As EDMUND'S self had fram'd the tender lay--
        'Tis of a little child,                                      115
        Upon a lonesome wild
  Not far from home; but she hath lost her way--
  And now moans low, in utter grief and fear;
  And now screams loud, and hopes to make her mother _hear_!


IX

  'Tis midnight, and small thoughts have I of sleep;                 120
  Full seldom may my friend such vigils keep!
  Visit him, gentle Sleep, with wings of healing,
    And may this storm be but a mountain-birth,
  May all the stars hang bright above his dwelling,
    Silent, as though they _watch'd_ the sleeping Earth!             125
        With light heart may he rise,
        Gay fancy, cheerful eyes,
  And sing his lofty song, and teach me to rejoice!
  O EDMUND, friend of my devoutest choice,
  O rais'd from anxious dread and busy care,                         130
  By the immenseness of the good and fair
  Which thou see'st everywhere,
  Joy lifts thy spirit, joy attunes thy voice,
  To thee do all things live from pole to pole,
  Their life the eddying of thy living soul!                         135
  O simple spirit, guided from above,
  O lofty Poet, full of life and love,
  Brother and friend of my devoutest choice,
  Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice!
                                         ΕΣΤΗΣΕ.


FOOTNOTES:

[1076:1] Collated with the text of the poem as sent to W. Sotheby in a
letter dated July 19, 1802 (_Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i. 379-84).

[1076:2] In the letter of July 19, 1802, the Ode is broken up and quoted
in parts or fragments, illustrative of the mind and feelings of the
writer. 'Sickness,' he explains, 'first forced me into _downright
metaphysics_. For I believe that by nature I have more of the poet in
me. In a poem written during that dejection, to Wordsworth, I thus
expressed the thought in language more forcible than harmonious.' Then
follow lines 76-87 of the text, followed by lines 87-98 of the text
first published in _Sibylline Leaves_ ('For not to think of what I needs
must feel,' &c.). He then reverts to the 'introduction of the
poem':--'The first lines allude to a stanza in the Ballad of Sir Patrick
Spence: "Late, late yestreen I saw the new moon with the old one in her
arms: and I fear, I fear, my master dear, there will be a deadly
Storm."' This serves as a motto to lines 1-75 and 129-39 of the first
draft of the text. Finally he 'annexes as a _fragment_ a few lines (ll.
88-119) on the "Œolian Lute", it having been introduced in its dronings
in the first stanzas.'

[1079:1] Tairn, a small lake, generally, if not always, applied to the
lakes up in the mountains, and which are the feeders of those in the
vallies. This address to the wind will not appear extravagant to those
who have heard it at night, in a mountainous country. [Note in _M. P._]


LINENOTES:

[2] grand] dear Letter to S.

[5] those] that Letter to S. cloud] clouds Letter to S.

[12] by] with Letter to S.

[17-20] om. Letter to S.

[22] stifled] stifling Letter to S.

[Between 24 and 25]

  This William, well thou knowest,
  Is that sore evil which I dread the most,
  And oftnest suffer. In this heartless mood,
  To other thoughts by yonder throstle woo'd,
  That pipes within the larch-tree, not unseen,
  The larch, that pushes out in tassels green
  Its bundled leafits, woo'd to mild delights,
  By all the tender sounds and gentle sights,
  Of this sweet primrose-month, and vainly woo'd
  O dearest Poet, in this heartless mood.

Letter to S.

[37] a lovely sky-canoe] thy own sweet sky-canoe Letter to S. [_Note._
The reference is to the Prologue to 'Peter Bell'.]

[48] Edmund] Wordsworth Letter to S.

[58] potent] powerful Letter to S.

[65] virtuous Edmund] blameless poet Letter to S.

[67] Edmund] William Letter to S.

[71] om. Letter to S.

[74] the echoes] an echo Letter to S.

[76] Edmund] poet Letter to S.

[77] that] when Letter to S.

[78] This] The Letter to S.

[82] fruits] fruit Letter to S.

After 87 six lines 'For not to think', &c., are inserted after a row of
asterisks. The direction as to the omission of the Sixth and Seventh
Stanzas is only found in the M. P.

[88] O] Nay Letter to S.

[93] That lute sent out! O thou wild storm without Letter to S.

[98] who] that Letter to S.

[106] of] from Letter to S.

[109] Again! but all that noise Letter to S.

[111] And it has other sounds, less fearful and less loud Letter to S.

[114] Edmund's self] thou thyself Letter to S.

[120-8] om. Letter to S.

[129-39]

  Calm steadfast spirit, guided from above,
  O Wordsworth! friend of my devoutest choice,
  Great son of genius! full of light and love,
  Thus, thus, dost thou rejoice.
  To thee do all things live, from pole to pole,
  Their life the eddying of thy living Soul!
  Brother and friend of my devoutest choice,
  Thus may'st thou ever, evermore rejoice!

Letter to S.

[_Note._ In the letter these lines follow line 75 of the text of the _M.
P._]




L

TO W. WORDSWORTH[1081:1]

(_Vide ante_, p. 403.)

LINES COMPOSED, FOR THE GREATER PART ON THE NIGHT,
ON WHICH HE FINISHED THE RECITATION OF HIS POEM
(IN THIRTEEN BOOKS) CONCERNING THE GROWTH
AND HISTORY OF HIS OWN MIND

JAN{RY}, 1807. COLE-ORTON, NEAR ASHBY DE LA ZOUCH.


  O friend! O Teacher! God's great Gift to me!
  Into my heart have I receiv'd that Lay,
  More than historic, that prophetic Lay,
  Wherein (high theme by Thee first sung aright)
  Of the Foundations and the Building-up                               5
  Of thy own Spirit, thou hast lov'd to tell
  What may be told, to th' understanding mind
  Revealable; and what within the mind
  May rise enkindled. Theme as hard as high!
  Of Smiles spontaneous, and mysterious Feard;                        10
  (The First-born they of Reason, and Twin-birth)
  Of Tides obedient to external Force,
  And _currents_ self-determin'd, as might seem,
  Or by interior Power: of Moments aweful,
  Now in thy hidden Life; and now abroad,                             15
  Mid festive Crowds, _thy_ Brows too garlanded,
  A Brother of the Feast: of _Fancies_ fair,
  Hyblæan Murmurs of poetic Thought,
  Industrious in its Joy, by lilied Streams
  Native or outland, Lakes and famous Hills!                          20
  Of more than Fancy, of the Hope of Man
  Amid the tremor of a Realm aglow--
  Where France in all her Towns lay vibrating,
  Ev'n as a Bark becalm'd on sultry seas
  Beneath the voice from Heaven, the bursting Crash                   25
  Of Heaven's immediate thunder! when no Cloud
  Is visible, or Shadow on the Main!
  Ah! soon night roll'd on night, and every Cloud
  Open'd its eye of Fire: and Hope aloft
  Now flutter'd, and now toss'd upon the Storm                        30
  Floating! Of Hope afflicted, and struck down,
  Thence summon'd homeward--homeward to thy Heart,
  Oft from the Watch-tower of Man's absolute Self,
  With Light unwaning on her eyes, to look
  Far on--herself a Glory to behold,                                  35
  The Angel of the Vision! Then (last strain!)
  Of _Duty_, chosen Laws controlling choice,
  Virtue and Love! An Orphic Tale indeed,
  A Tale divine of high and passionate Thoughts
  To their own music chaunted!

                               Ah great Bard!                         40
  Ere yet that last Swell dying aw'd the Air,
  With stedfast ken I view'd thee in the Choir
  Of ever-enduring Men. The truly Great
  Have all one Age, and from one visible space
  Shed influence: for they, both power and act,                       45
  Are permanent, and Time is not with them,
  Save as it worketh for them, they in it.
  Nor less a sacred Roll, than those of old,
  And to be plac'd, as they, with gradual fame
  Among the Archives of mankind, thy Work                             50
  Makes audible a linked Song of Truth,
  Of Truth profound a sweet continuous Song
  Not learnt, but native, her own natural Notes!
  Dear shall it be to every human Heart.
  To me how more than dearest! Me, on whom                            55
  Comfort from Thee and utterance of thy Love
  Came with such heights and depths of Harmony
  Such sense of Wings uplifting, that the Storm
  Scatter'd and whirl'd me, till my Thoughts became
  A bodily Tumult! and thy faithful Hopes,                            60
  Thy Hopes of me, dear Friend! by me unfelt
  Were troublous to me, almost as a Voice
  Familiar once and more than musical
  To one cast forth, whose hope had seem'd to die,
  A Wanderer with a worn-out heart, [_sic_]                           65
  Mid Strangers pining with untended Wounds!

  O Friend! too well thou know'st, of what sad years
  The long suppression had benumb'd my soul,
  That even as Life returns upon the Drown'd,
  Th' unusual Joy awoke a throng of Pains--                           70
  Keen Pangs of LOVE, awakening, as a Babe,
  Turbulent, with an outcry in the Heart:
  And Fears self-will'd, that shunn'd the eye of Hope,
  And Hope, that would not know itself from Fear:
  Sense of pass'd Youth, and Manhood come in vain;                    75
  And Genius given, and knowledge won in vain;
  And all, which I had cull'd in Wood-walks wild,
  And all, which patient Toil had rear'd, and all,
  Commune with Thee had open'd out, but Flowers
  Strew'd on my Corse, and borne upon my Bier,                        80
  In the same Coffin, for the self-same Grave!

    That way no more! and ill beseems it me,
  Who came a Welcomer in Herald's guise
  Singing of Glory and Futurity,
  To wander back on such unhealthful Road                             85
  Plucking the Poisons of Self-harm! and ill
  Such Intertwine beseems triumphal wreaths
  Strew'd before thy Advancing! Thou too, Friend!
  O injure not the memory of that Hour
  Of thy communion with my nobler mind                                90
  By pity or grief, already felt too long!
  Nor let my words import more blame than needs.
  The Tumult rose and ceas'd: for Peace is nigh
  Where Wisdom's Voice has found a list'ning Heart.
  Amid the howl of more than wintry Storms                            95
  The Halcyon hears the voice of vernal Hours,
  Already on the wing!
                       Eve following eve,
  Dear tranquil Time, when the sweet sense of Home
  Becomes most sweet! hours for their own sake hail'd,
  And more desir'd, more precious, for thy song!                     100
  In silence list'ning, like a devout Child,
  My soul lay passive; by thy various strain
  Driven as in surges now, beneath the stars,
  With momentary Stars of my own Birth,
  Fair constellated Foam still darting off                           105
  Into the darkness! now a tranquil Sea
  Outspread and bright, yet swelling to the Moon!

  And when O Friend! my Comforter! my Guide!
  Strong in thyself and powerful to give strength!
  Thy long sustained Lay finally clos'd,                             110
  And thy deep Voice had ceas'd (yet thou thyself
  Wert still before mine eyes, and round us both
  That happy Vision of beloved Faces!
  All, whom I deepliest love, in one room all!),
  Scarce conscious and yet conscious of it's Close,                  115
  I sate, my Being blended in one Thought,
  (Thought was it? or aspiration? or Resolve?)
  Absorb'd, yet hanging still upon the sound:
  And when I rose, I found myself in Prayer!
                                  S. T. COLERIDGE.


FOOTNOTES:

[1081:1] Now first printed from an original MS. in the possession of Mr.
Gordon Wordsworth.


LINENOTES:

[37] controlling] ? impelling, ? directing.




M

YOUTH AND AGE

[Vide _ante_, p. 439.]

_MS. I_

10 SEPT. 1823. WEDNESDAY MORNING, 10 O'CLOCK


  On the Tenth Day of September,
  Eighteen hundred Twenty Three,
  Wednesday morn, and I remember
  Ten on the Clock the Hour to be
  [_The Watch and Clock do both agree_]                                5

  An _Air_ that whizzed διὰ ἐγκεφάλου (right across the diameter
  of my Brain) exactly like a Hummel Bee, _alias_ Dumbeldore,
  the gentleman with Rappee Spenser (_sic_), with bands of Red, and
  Orange Plush Breeches, close by my ear, at once sharp and
  burry, right over the summit of Quantock [item of Skiddaw           10
  (_erased_)] at earliest Dawn just between the Nightingale that
  I stopt to hear in the Copse at the Foot of Quantock, and the
  first Sky-Lark that was a Song-Fountain, dashing up and
  sparkling to the Ear's eye, in full column, or ornamented Shaft of
  sound in the order of Gothic Extravaganza, out of Sight, over       15
  the Cornfields on the Descent of the Mountain on the other
  side--out of sight, tho' twice I beheld its _mute_ shoot downward in
  the sunshine like a falling star of silver:--


ARIA SPONTANEA

  Flowers are lovely, Love is flower-like,
  Friendship is a shelt'ring tree--                                   20
  O the Joys, that came down shower-like,
  Of Beauty, Truth, and Liberty,
  When I was young, ere I was old!
  [_O Youth that wert so glad, so bold,
  What quaint disguise hast thou put on?                              25
  Would'st make-believe that thou art gone?
  O Youth! thy Vesper Bell_] has not yet toll'd.

  Thou always were a Masker bold--
  What quaint Disguise hast now put on?
  To make believe that thou art gone!                                 30

  O Youth, so true, so fair, so free,
  Thy Vesper-bell hath not yet toll'd,
  Thou always, &c.

         *       *       *       *       *

  Ah! was it not enough, that Thou
  In Thy eternal Glory should outgo me?                               35
  Would'st thou not Grief's sad Victory allow

         *       *       *       *       *

  Hope's a Breeze that robs the Blossoms
  Fancy feeds, and murmurs the Bee----

         *       *       *       *       *


_MS. II_


1

  Verse, that Breeze mid blossoms straying
  Where Hope clings 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 House of Life, not built with hands
  Where now I sigh, where once I sung.

  _Or_ [This snail-like House, not built with hands,
            This Body that does me grievous wrong.]

  O'er Hill and dale and sounding Sands.
  How lightly then it flash'd along--
  Like those trim Boats, 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.
  Pencil { Nought car'd this Body for wind or weather,
         { When youth and I liv'd in't together.


2

  Flowers are lovely, Love is flower-like;
  Friendship is a sheltering Tree;
  O the joys that came down shower-like
  Of Beauty, Truth and Liberty
      When I was young                                                 5
  _When_ I was young, [*ah woeful when*]
  [*Ah for the change twixt now and then*]
  In Heat or Frost we car'd not whether
  Night and day we lodged together
                          woeful when
  When I was young--ah [*words of agony*]                             10
  Ah for the change 'twixt now and then
  [*O youth my Home-Mate dear so long, so long:*]
  I thought that thou and I were one
  I scarce believe that thou art gone
  Thou always wert a Masker bold
  I [*mark that change,*] in garb and size                            15
      heave the Breath
  Those grisled Locks I well behold
  But still thy Heart is in thine eyes
  What strange disguise hast now put on
  To make believe that thou art gone

  _Or_ [O youth for years so many so sweet                            20
            It seem'd that Thou and I were one
            That still I nurse the fond deceit
            And scarce believe that thou art gone]

      When I was young--ere I was old
      Ah! happy ere, ah! woeful When                                  25
  When I was young, ah woeful when
  Which says that Youth and I are twain!
  O Youth! for years so many and sweet
  'Tis known that Thou and I were one
  I'll think it but a false conceit                                   30
  [*Tis but a gloomy*]
     It cannot be,
  [*I'll not believe*] that thou art gone
  Thy Vesper Bell has not yet toll'd
              always
  [*And*] thou wert [*still*] a masker bold
    What                       hast
  [*Some*] strange disguise [*thou'st*] now put on
  To make believe that thou art gone?                                 35
  I see these Locks in silvery slips,
  This dragging gait, this alter'd size
  But spring-tide blossoms on thy Lips
  And [*the young Heart*] is in thy eyes
      tears take sunshine from
  Life is but Thought so think I will                                 40
  That Youth and I are Housemates still.

      Ere I was old
  Ere I was old! ah woeful ere
  Which tells me youth's no longer here!
  O Youth, &c.                                                        45
  Dewdrops are the Gems of Morning,
  But the Tears of mournful Eve:
  Where no Hope is Life's a Warning
                             me
  That only serves to make [*us*] grieve,
      Now I am old.                                                   50




N

LOVE'S APPARITION AND EVANISHMENT[1087:1]

[Vide _ante_, p. 488.]


[FIRST DRAFT]

  In vain I supplicate the Powers above;
  There is no Resurrection for the Love
  That, nursed with tenderest care, yet fades away
  In the chilled heart by inward self-decay.
  Like a lorn Arab old and blind                                       5
  Some caravan had left behind
  That sits beside a ruined Well,
  And hangs his wistful head aslant,
    Some sound he fain would catch--
  Suspended there, as it befell,                                      10
    O'er my own vacancy,
    And while I seemed to watch
  The sickly calm, as were of heart
    A place where Hope lay dead,
  The spirit of departed Love                                         15
    Stood close beside my bed.
  She bent methought to kiss my lips
    As she was wont to do.
  Alas! 'twas with a chilling breath
  That awoke just enough of life in death                             20
    To make it die anew.


FOOTNOTES:

[1087:1] Now first published from an MS.




O

TWO VERSIONS OF THE EPITAPH[1088:1]

INSCRIBED IN A COPY OF GREW'S _Cosmologia Sacra_ (1701)

[Vide _ante_, p. 491.]


1

  Epitaph
  in Hornsey Church yard
  Hic Jacet S. T. C.

  Stop, Christian Passer-by! Stop, Child of God!
  And read with gentle heart. Beneath this sod
  There lies a Poet: or what once was He.
  [_Up_] O lift thy soul in prayer for S. T. C.
  That He who many a year with toil of breath                          5
  Found death in life, may here find life in death.
  Mercy for praise, to be forgiven for fame
  He ask'd, and hoped thro' Christ. Do thou the same.


2

  ETESI'S [for Estesi's] Epitaph.

  Stop, Christian Visitor! Stop, Child of God,
  Here lies a Poet: or what once was He!
  [_O_] Pause, Traveller, pause and pray for S. T. C.
  That He who many a year with toil of Breath
  Found Death in Life, may here find Life in Death.                    5

  And read with gentle heart! Beneath this sod
  There lies a Poet, etc.

'Inscription on the Tomb-stone of one not unknown; yet more commonly
known by the Initials of his Name than by the Name itself.'


ESTEESE'S αυτοεπιταφιον[1089:1]

(From a copy of the _Todten-Tanz_ which belonged to Thomas Poole.)

  Here lies a Poet; or what once was he:
  Pray, gentle Reader, pray for S. T. C.
  That he who threescore years, with toilsome breath,
  Found Death in Life, may now find Life in Death.


FOOTNOTES:

[1088:1] First published in _The Athenaeum_, April 7, 1888: included in
the _Notes_ to 1893 (p. 645).

[1089:1] First published in the _Notes_ to 1893 (p. 646).




P

[HABENT SUA FATA--POETAE][1089:2]


  The Fox, and Statesman subtile wiles ensure,
  The Cit, and Polecat stink and are secure;
  Toads with their venom, doctors with their drug,
  The Priest, and Hedgehog, in their robes are snug!
  Oh, Nature! cruel step-mother, and hard,                             5
  To thy poor, naked, fenceless child the Bard!
  No Horns but those by luckless Hymen worn,
  And those (alas! alas!) not Plenty's Horn!
  With naked feelings, and with aching pride,
  He hears th' unbroken blast on every side!                          10
  Vampire Booksellers drain him to the heart,
  And Scorpion Critics cureless venom dart!


FOOTNOTES:

[1089:2] First published in Cottle's _Early Recollections_, 1839, i.
172. Now collected for the first time. These lines, according to Cottle,
were included in a letter written from Lichfield in January, 1796. They
illustrate the following sentence: 'The present hour I seem in a
quickset hedge of embarrassments! For shame! I ought not to mistrust
God! but, indeed, to hope is far more difficult than to fear. Bulls have
horns, Lions have talons.'--They are signed 'S. T. C.' and are
presumably his composition.




Q

TO JOHN THELWALL[1090:1]


  Some, Thelwall! to the Patriot's meed aspire,
  Who, in safe rage, without or rent or scar,
  Bound pictur'd strongholds sketching mimic war
  Closet their valour--Thou mid thickest fire
  Leapst on the wall: therefore shall Freedom choose                   5
  Ungaudy flowers that chastest odours breathe,
  And weave for thy young locks a Mural wreath;
  Nor there my song of grateful praise refuse.
  My ill-adventur'd youth by Cam's slow stream
  Pin'd for a woman's love in slothful ease:                          10
  First by thy fair example [taught] to glow
  With patriot zeal; from Passion's feverish dream
  Starting I tore disdainful from my brow
  A Myrtle Crown inwove with Cyprian bough--
  Blest if to me in manhood's years belong                            15
  Thy stern simplicity and vigorous Song.


FOOTNOTES:

[1090:1] Now first published from Cottle's MSS. in the Library of Rugby
School.




R[1090:2]

'Relative to a Friend remarkable for Georgoepiscopal Meanderings, and
the combination of the _utile dulci_ during his walks to and from any
given place, composed, together with a book and a half of an Epic Poem,
during one of the _Halts_:--


  'Lest after this life it should prove my sad story
  That my soul must needs go to the Pope's Purgatory,
  Many prayers have I sighed, May T. P. * * * * be my guide,
  For so often he'll halt, and so lead me about,
  That e'er we get there, thro' earth, sea, or air,
  The last Day will have come, and the Fires have burnt out.

                                      'JOB JUNIOR.
                             '_circumbendiborum patientissimus_.'


FOOTNOTES:

[1090:2] Endorsed by T. P.: 'On my Walks. Written by Coleridge,
September, 1807.' First published _Thomas Poole and His Friends_, by
Mrs. Henry Sandford, 1888, ii. 196.




APPENDIX II

ALLEGORIC VISION[1091:1]


  A feeling of sadness, a peculiar melancholy, is wont to take
  possession of me alike in Spring and in Autumn. But in Spring
  it is the melancholy of Hope: in Autumn it is the melancholy
  of Resignation. As I was journeying on foot through the
  Appennine, I fell in with a pilgrim in whom the Spring and           5
  the Autumn and the Melancholy of both seemed to have
  combined. In his discourse there were the freshness and the
  colours of April:

       Qual ramicel a ramo,
       Tal da pensier pensiero                                        10
       In lui germogliava.

  But as I gazed on his whole form and figure, I bethought me
  of the not unlovely decays, both of age and of the late season,
  in the stately elm, after the clusters have been plucked from
  its entwining vines, and the vines are as bands of dried withies    15
  around its trunk and branches. Even so there was a memory
  on his smooth and ample forehead, which blended with the
  dedication of his steady eyes, that still looked--I know not,
  whether upward, or far onward, or rather to the line of meeting
  where the sky rests upon the distance. But how may I express        20
  that dimness of abstraction which lay on the lustre of the
  pilgrim's eyes like the flitting tarnish from the breath of a sigh
  on a silver mirror! and which accorded with their slow and
  reluctant movement, whenever he turned them to any object
  on the right hand or on the left? It seemed, methought, as          25
  if there lay upon the brightness a shadowy presence of
  disappointments now unfelt, but never forgotten. It was at once
  the melancholy of hope and of resignation.

  We had not long been fellow-travellers, ere a sudden tempest
  of wind and rain forced us to seek protection in the vaulted        30
  door-way of a lone chapelry; and we sate face to face each on
  the stone bench alongside the low, weather-stained wall, and
  as close as possible to the massy door.

  After a pause of silence: even thus, said he, like two strangers
  that have fled to the same shelter from the same storm, not         35
  seldom do Despair and Hope meet for the first time in the
  porch of Death! All extremes meet, I answered; but yours
  was a strange and visionary thought. The better then doth it
  beseem both the place and me, he replied. From a Visionary
  wilt thou hear a Vision? Mark that vivid flash through this         40
  torrent of rain! Fire and water. Even here thy adage holds
  true, and its truth is the moral of my Vision. I entreated him
  to proceed. Sloping his face toward the arch and yet averting
  his eye from it, he seemed to seek and prepare his words: till
  listening to the wind that echoed within the hollow edifice,        45
  and to the rain without,

       Which stole on his thoughts with its two-fold sound,
       The clash hard by and the murmur all round,[1092:1]

  he gradually sank away, alike from me and from his own purpose,
  and amid the gloom of the storm and in the duskiness of that        50
  place, he sate like an emblem on a rich man's sepulchre, or like a
  mourner on the sodded grave of an only one--an aged mourner,
  who is watching the waned moon and sorroweth not. Starting
  at length from his brief trance of abstraction, with courtesy and
  an atoning smile he renewed his discourse, and commenced his        55
  parable.

  During one of those short furloughs from the service of the
  body, which the soul may sometimes obtain even in this its
  militant state, I found myself in a vast plain, which I
  immediately knew to be the Valley of Life. It possessed an          60
  astonishing diversity of soils: here was a sunny spot, and
  there a dark one, forming just such a mixture of sunshine and
  shade, as we may have observed on the mountains' side in an
  April day, when the thin broken clouds are scattered over
  heaven. Almost in the very entrance of the valley stood             65
  a large and gloomy pile, into which I seemed constrained to
  enter. Every part of the building was crowded with tawdry
  ornaments and fantastic deformity. On every window was
  portrayed, in glaring and inelegant colours, some horrible tale,
  or preternatural incident, so that not a ray of light could enter,  70
  untinged by the medium through which it passed. The body
  of the building was full of people, some of them dancing, in and
  out, in unintelligible figures, with strange ceremonies and antic
  merriment, while others seemed convulsed with horror, or
  pining in mad melancholy. Intermingled with these, I observed       75
  a number of men, clothed in ceremonial robes, who appeared
  now to marshal the various groups, and to direct their
  movements; and now with menacing countenances, to drag some
  reluctant victim to a vast idol, framed of iron bars intercrossed,
  which formed at the same time an immense cage, and the shape        80
  of a human Colossus.

  I stood for a while lost in wonder what these things might
  mean; when lo! one of the directors came up to me, and with
  a stern and reproachful look bade me uncover my head, for
  that the place into which I had entered was the temple of           85
  the only true Religion, in the holier recesses of which the
  great Goddess personally resided. Himself too he bade me
  reverence, as the consecrated minister of her rites. Awestruck
  by the name of Religion, I bowed before the priest, and humbly
  and earnestly intreated him to conduct me into her presence.        90
  He assented. Offerings he took from me, with mystic
  sprinklings of water and with salt he purified, and with strange
  sufflations he exorcised me; and then led me through many
  a dark and winding alley, the dew-damps of which chilled my
  flesh, and the hollow echoes under my feet, mingled, methought,     95
  with moanings, affrighted me. At length we entered a large
  hall, without window, or spiracle, or lamp. The asylum and
  dormitory it seemed of perennial night--only that the walls were
  brought to the eye by a number of self-luminous inscriptions in
  letters of a pale sepulchral light, which held strange neutrality  100
  with the darkness, on the verge of which it kept its rayless vigil.
  I could read them, methought; but though each of the words
  taken separately I seemed to understand, yet when I took them
  in sentences, they were riddles and incomprehensible. As I
  stood meditating on these hard sayings, my guide thus addressed    105
  me--'Read and believe: these are mysteries!'--At the
  extremity of the vast hall the Goddess was placed. Her features,
  blended with darkness, rose out to my view, terrible, yet vacant.
  I prostrated myself before her, and then retired with my guide,
  soul-withered, and wondering, and dissatisfied.                    110

  As I re-entered the body of the temple I heard a deep buzz
  as of discontent. A few whose eyes were bright, and either
  piercing or steady, and whose ample foreheads, with the weighty
  bar, ridge-like, above the eyebrows, bespoke observation followed
  by meditative thought; and a much larger number, who were          115
  enraged by the severity and insolence of the priests in exacting
  their offerings, had collected in one tumultuous group, and with
  a confused outcry of 'This is the Temple of Superstition!' after
  much contumely, and turmoil, and cruel maltreatment on all
  sides, rushed out of the pile: and I, methought, joined them.      120

  We speeded from the Temple with hasty steps, and had now
  nearly gone round half the valley, when we were addressed by
  a woman, tall beyond the stature of mortals, and with a
  something more than human in her countenance and mien, which
  yet could by mortals be only felt, not conveyed by words or        125
  intelligibly distinguished. Deep reflection, animated by ardent
  feelings, was displayed in them: and hope, without its
  uncertainty, and a something more than all these, which I understood
  not, but which yet seemed to blend all these into a divine unity
  of expression. Her garments were white and matronly, and of        130
  the simplest texture. We inquired her name. 'My name,'
  she replied, 'is Religion.'

  The more numerous part of our company, affrighted by the
  very sound, and sore from recent impostures or sorceries,
  hurried onwards and examined no farther. A few of us, struck       135
  by the manifest opposition of her form and manners to those
  of the living Idol, whom we had so recently abjured, agreed to
  follow her, though with cautious circumspection. She led us to
  an eminence in the midst of the valley, from the top of which
  we could command the whole plain, and observe the relation of      140
  the different parts to each other, and of each to the whole, and
  of all to each. She then gave us an optic glass which assisted
  without contradicting our natural vision, and enabled us to see
  far beyond the limits of the Valley of Life; though our eye
  even thus assisted permitted us only to behold a light and         145
  a glory, but what we could not descry, save only that it was,
  and that it was most glorious.

  And now with the rapid transition of a dream, I had overtaken
  and rejoined the more numerous party, who had abruptly
  left us, indignant at the very name of religion. They journied     150
  on, goading each other with remembrances of past oppressions,
  and never looking back, till in the eagerness to recede from the
  Temple of Superstition they had rounded the whole circle of the
  valley. And lo! there faced us the mouth of a vast cavern, at
  the base of a lofty and almost perpendicular rock, the interior    155
  side of which, unknown to them and unsuspected, formed the
  extreme and backward wall of the Temple. An impatient
  crowd, we entered the vast and dusky cave, which was the only
  perforation of the precipice. At the mouth of the cave sate
  two figures; the first, by her dress and gestures, I knew to be    160
  Sensuality; the second form, from the fierceness of his demeanour,
  and the brutal scornfulness of his looks, declared himself
  to be the monster Blasphemy. He uttered big words, and yet
  ever and anon I observed that he turned pale at his own
  courage. We entered. Some remained in the opening of the           165
  cave, with the one or the other of its guardians. The rest, and
  I among them, pressed on, till we reached an ample chamber,
  that seemed the centre of the rock. The climate of the place
  was unnaturally cold.

  In the furthest distance of the chamber sate an old dim-eyed       170
  man, poring with a microscope over the torso of a statue
  which had neither basis, nor feet, nor head; but on its breast
  was carved Nature! To this he continually applied his glass,
  and seemed enraptured with the various inequalities which it
  rendered visible on the seemingly polished surface of the          175
  marble.--Yet evermore was this delight and triumph followed
  by expressions of hatred, and vehement railing against a Being,
  who yet, he assured us, had no existence. This mystery
  suddenly recalled to me what I had read in the holiest recess
  of the temple of Superstition. The old man spake in divers         180
  tongues, and continued to utter other and most strange
  mysteries. Among the rest he talked much and vehemently
  concerning an infinite series of causes and effects, which he
  explained to be a string of blind men, the last of whom
  caught hold of the skirt of the one before him, he of the next,    185
  and so on till they were all out of sight; and that they all
  walked infallibly straight, without making one false step
  though all were alike blind. Methought I borrowed courage
  from surprise, and asked him--Who then is at the head to
  guide them? He looked at me with ineffable contempt, not           190
  unmixed with an angry suspicion, and then replied, 'No one.'
  The string of blind men went on for ever without any beginning;
  for although one blind man could not move without stumbling,
  yet infinite blindness supplied the want of sight. I burst into
  laughter, which instantly turned to terror--for as he started      195
  forward in rage, I caught a glimpse of him from behind; and
  lo! I beheld a monster bi-form and Janus-headed, in the hinder
  face and shape of which I instantly recognised the dread
  countenance of Superstition--and in the terror I awoke.


FOOTNOTES:

[1091:1] First published in _The Courier_, Saturday, August 31, 1811:
included in 1829, 1834-5, &c. (3 vols.), and in 1844 (1 vol.). Lines
1-56 were first published as part of the 'Introduction' to _A Lay
Sermon, &c._, 1817, pp. xix-xxxi.

The 'Allegoric Vision' dates from August, 1795. It served as a kind of
preface or prologue to Coleridge's first Theological Lecture on 'The
Origin of Evil. The Necessity of Revelation deduced from the Nature of
Man. An Examination and Defence of the Mosaic Dispensation' (see
Cottle's _Early Recollections_, 1837, i. 27). The purport of these
Lectures was to uphold the golden mean of Unitarian orthodoxy as opposed
to the Church on the one hand, and infidelity or materialism on the
other. 'Superstition' stood for and symbolized the Church of England.
Sixteen years later this opening portion of an unpublished Lecture was
rewritten and printed in _The Courier_ (Aug. 31, 1811), with the heading
'An Allegoric Vision: Superstition, Religion, Atheism'. The attack was
now diverted from the Church of England to the Church of Rome. 'Men clad
in black robes,' intent on gathering in their Tenths, become 'men
clothed in ceremonial robes, who with menacing countenances drag some
reluctant victim to a vast idol, framed of iron bars intercrossed which
formed at the same time an immense cage, and yet represented the form of
a human Colossus. At the base of the Statue I saw engraved the words "To
Dominic holy and merciful, the preventer and avenger of soul-murder".'
The vision was turned into a political _jeu d'esprit_ levelled at the
aiders and abettors of Catholic Emancipation, a measure to which
Coleridge was more or less opposed as long as he lived. See
_Constitution of Church and State_, 1830, _passim_. A third adaptation
of the 'Allegorical Vision' was affixed to the Introduction to _A Lay
Sermon: Addressed to the Higher and Middle Classes_, which was published
in 1817. The first fifty-six lines, which contain a description of
Italian mountain scenery, were entirely new, but the rest of the
'Vision' is an amended and softened reproduction of the preface to the
Lecture of 1795. The moral he desires to point is the 'falsehood of
extremes'. As Religion is the golden mean between Superstition and
Atheism, so the righteous government of a righteous people is the mean
between a selfish and oppressive aristocracy, and seditious and
unbridled mob-rule. A probable 'Source' of the first draft of the
'Vision' is John Aikin's _Hill of Science, A Vision_, which was included
in _Elegant Extracts_, 1794, ii. 801. In the present issue the text of
1834 has been collated with that of 1817 and 1829, but not
(exhaustively) with the MS. (1795), or at all with the _Courier_ version
of 1811.

[1092:1] From the _Ode to the Rain_, 1802, ll. 15-16:--

  O Rain! with your dull two-fold sound,
  The clash hard by, and the murmur all round!


LINENOTES:

[21-3] --the breathed tarnish, shall I name it?--on the lustre of the
pilgrim's eyes? Yet had it not a sort of strange accordance with 1817.

[37] Compare:

       like strangers shelt'ring from a storm,
  Hope and Despair meet in the porch of Death!

_Constancy to an Ideal Object_, p. 456.

[39] VISIONARY 1817, 1829.

[40] VISION 1817, 1829.

[49] sank] sunk 1817.

[51-2] _or like_ an aged mourner on the sodden grave of an only one--a
mourner, _who_ 1817.

[57-9] It was towards morning when the Brain begins to reassume its
waking state, and our dreams approach to the regular trains of Reality,
that I found MS. 1795.

[60] VALLEY OF LIFE 1817, 1829.

[61] and here was 1817, 1829.

[63] mountains' side] Hills MS. 1795.

[75-86] intermingled with all these I observed a great number of men in
Black Robes who appeared now marshalling the various Groups and now
collecting with scrupulous care the Tenths of everything that grew
within their reach. I stood wondering a while what these Things might be
when one of these men approached me and with a reproachful Look bade me
uncover my Head for the Place into which I had entered was the Temple of
_Religion_. MS. 1795.

[80] shape] form 1817.

[92-3] of water he purified me, and then led MS. 1795.

[94-9] chilled and its hollow echoes beneath my feet affrighted me, till
at last we entered a large Hall where not even a Lamp glimmered. Around
its walls I observed a number of phosphoric Inscriptions MS. 1795.

[96-102] _large hall_ where not even a single lamp glimmered. It was
made half visible by the wan phosphoric rays which proceeded from
inscriptions on the walls, in letters of the same pale and sepulchral
light. I could read them, methought; but though each one of the _words_
1817.

[106] _me_. The fallible becomes infallible, and the infallible remains
fallible. Read and believe: these are MYSTERIES! In the middle of _the
vast_ 1817.

[106] MYSTERIES 1829.

[108] _vacant_. No definite thought, no distinct image was afforded me:
all was uneasy and obscure feeling. I _prostrated_ 1817.

[118] SUPERSTITION 1817.

[132] RELIGION 1817, 1829.

[141] _parts_ of each to the other, _and of_ 1817, 1829.

[146] _was_ 1817, 1829.

[161] SENSUALITY 1817, 1829.

[163] BLASPHEMY 1817, 1829.

[173] NATURE 1817, 1829.

[180] _Superstition_ 1817, 1829. spake] spoke 1817, 1829.

[196] glimpse] glance 1817, 1829.

[199] SUPERSTITION 1817, 1829.




APPENDIX III

[Vide _ante_ p. 237.]


APOLOGETIC PREFACE TO 'FIRE, FAMINE, AND SLAUGHTER'[1097:1]

  At the house of a gentleman[1097:2] who by the principles and
  corresponding virtues of a sincere Christian consecrates a
  cultivated genius and the favourable accidents of birth, opulence,
  and splendid connexions, it was my good fortune to meet, in
  a dinner-party, with more men of celebrity in science or polite         5
  literature than are commonly found collected round the same
  table. In the course of conversation, one of the party reminded
  an illustrious poet [Scott], then present, of some verses which
  he had recited that morning, and which had appeared in
  a newspaper under the name of a War-Eclogue, in which Fire,            10
  Famine, and Slaughter were introduced as the speakers. The
  gentleman so addressed replied, that he was rather surprised
  that none of us should have noticed or heard of the poem, as it
  had been, at the time, a good deal talked of in Scotland. It
  may be easily supposed that my feelings were at this moment            15
  not of the most comfortable kind. Of all present, one only [Sir
  H. Davy] knew, or suspected me to be the author; a man who
  would have established himself in the first rank of England's
  living poets[1097:3], if the Genius of our country had not decreed that
  he should rather be the first in the first rank of its philosophers    20
  and scientific benefactors. It appeared the general wish to
  hear the lines. As my friend chose to remain silent, I chose
  to follow his example, and Mr. . . . . [Scott] recited the poem.
  This he could do with the better grace, being known to have
  ever been not only a firm and active Anti-Jacobin and                  25
  Anti-Gallican, but likewise a zealous admirer of Mr. Pitt, both as
  a good man and a great statesman. As a poet exclusively, he
  had been amused with the Eclogue; as a poet he recited it;
  and in a spirit which made it evident that he would have read
  and repeated it with the same pleasure had his own name been           30
  attached to the imaginary object or agent.

  After the recitation our amiable host observed that in his
  opinion Mr. . . . . had over-rated the merits of the poetry;
  but had they been tenfold greater, they could not have
  compensated for that malignity of heart which could alone have         35
  prompted sentiments so atrocious. I perceived that my
  illustrious friend became greatly distressed on my account; but
  fortunately I was able to preserve fortitude and presence of
  mind enough to take up the subject without exciting even
  a suspicion how nearly and painfully it interested me.                 40

  What follows is the substance of what I then replied, but
  dilated and in language less colloquial. It was not my intention,
  I said, to justify the publication, whatever its author's feelings
  might have been at the time of composing it. That they are
  calculated to call forth so severe a reprobation from a good man,      45
  is not the worst feature of such poems. Their moral deformity
  is aggravated in proportion to the pleasure which they are
  capable of affording to vindictive, turbulent, and unprincipled
  readers. Could it be supposed, though for a moment, that the
  author seriously wished what he had thus wildly imagined,              50
  even the attempt to palliate an inhumanity so monstrous would
  be an insult to the hearers. But it seemed to me worthy of
  consideration, whether the mood of mind and the general state
  of sensations in which a poet produces such vivid and fantastic
  images, is likely to co-exist, or is even compatible with, that        55
  gloomy and deliberate ferocity which a serious wish to realize
  them would pre-suppose. It had been often observed, and all
  my experience tended to confirm the observation, that prospects
  of pain and evil to others, and in general all deep feelings of
  revenge, are commonly expressed in a few words, ironically tame,       60
  and mild. The mind under so direful and fiend-like an influence
  seems to take a morbid pleasure in contrasting the intensity of
  its wishes and feelings with the slightness or levity of the
  expressions by which they are hinted; and indeed feelings
  so intense and solitary, if they were not precluded (as in almost      65
  all cases they would be) by a constitutional activity of fancy
  and association, and by the specific joyousness combined with it,
  would assuredly themselves preclude such activity. Passion, in
  its own quality, is the antagonist of action; though in an
  ordinary and natural degree the former alternates with the latter,     70
  and thereby revives and strengthens it. But the more intense
  and insane the passion is, the fewer and the more fixed are the
  correspondent forms and notions. A rooted hatred, an inveterate
  thirst of revenge, is a sort of madness, and still eddies round its
  favourite object, and exercises as it were a perpetual tautology       75
  of mind in thoughts and words which admit of no adequate
  substitutes. Like a fish in a globe of glass, it moves restlessly
  round and round the scanty circumference, which it cannot
  leave without losing its vital element.

  There is a second character of such imaginary representations          80
  as spring from a real and earnest desire of evil to another,
  which we often see in real life, and might even anticipate from
  the nature of the mind. The images, I mean, that a vindictive
  man places before his imagination, will most often be taken
  from the realities of life: they will be images of pain and            85
  suffering which he has himself seen inflicted on other men, and
  which he can fancy himself as inflicting on the object of his
  hatred. I will suppose that we had heard at different times
  two common sailors, each speaking of some one who had
  wronged or offended him: that the first with apparent violence         90
  had devoted every part of his adversary's body and soul to all
  the horrid phantoms and fantastic places that ever Quevedo
  dreamt of, and this in a rapid flow of those outrageous and wildly
  combined execrations, which too often with our lower classes
  serve for escape-valves to carry off the excess of their passions,     95
  as so much superfluous steam that would endanger the vessel if
  it were retained. The other, on the contrary, with that sort of
  calmness of tone which is to the ear what the paleness of anger
  is to the eye, shall simply say, 'If I chance to be made
  boatswain, as I hope I soon shall, and can but once get that          100
  fellow under my hand (and I shall be upon the watch for him),
  I'll tickle his pretty skin! I won't hurt him! oh no! I'll only
  cut the -- -- to the liver!' I dare appeal to all present, which
  of the two they would regard as the least deceptive symptom
  of deliberate malignity? nay, whether it would surprise them          105
  to see the first fellow, an hour or two afterwards, cordially
  shaking hands with the very man the fractional parts of whose
  body and soul he had been so charitably disposing of; or even
  perhaps risking his life for him? What language Shakespeare
  considered characteristic of malignant disposition we see in the      110
  speech of the good-natured Gratiano, who spoke 'an infinite
  deal of nothing more than any man in all Venice';

       ----Too wild, too rude and bold of voice!

  the skipping spirit, whose thoughts and words reciprocally ran
  away with each other;                                                 115

         ----O be them damn'd, inexorable dog!
       And for thy life let justice be accused!

  and the wild fancies that follow, contrasted with Shylock's
  tranquil 'I stand here for Law'.

  Or, to take a case more analogous to the present subject,             120
  should we hold it either fair or charitable to believe it to have
  been Dante's serious wish that all the persons mentioned by
  him (many recently departed, and some even alive at the time,)
  should actually suffer the fantastic and horrible punishments to
  which he has sentenced them in his Hell and Purgatory?                125
  Or what shall we say of the passages in which Bishop Jeremy
  Taylor anticipates the state of those who, vicious themselves,
  have been the cause of vice and misery to their fellow-creatures?
  Could we endure for a moment to think that a spirit, like
  Bishop Taylor's, burning with Christian love; that a man              130
  constitutionally overflowing with pleasurable kindliness; who
  scarcely even in a casual illustration introduces the image of
  woman, child, or bird, but he embalms the thought with so
  rich a tenderness, as makes the very words seem beauties and
  fragments of poetry from Euripides or Simonides;--can we              135
  endure to think, that a man so natured and so disciplined, did
  at the time of composing this horrible picture, attach a sober
  feeling of reality to the phrases? or that he would have
  described in the same tone of justification, in the same luxuriant
  flow of phrases, the tortures about to be inflicted on a living       140
  individual by a verdict of the Star-Chamber? or the still more
  atrocious sentences executed on the Scotch anti-prelatists and
  schismatics, at the command, and in some instances under the
  very eye of the Duke of Lauderdale, and of that wretched bigot
  who afterwards dishonoured and forfeited the throne of Great          145
  Britain? Or do we not rather feel and understand, that these
  violent words were mere bubbles, flashes and electrical
  apparitions, from the magic cauldron of a fervid and ebullient fancy,
  constantly fuelled by an unexampled opulence of language?

  Were I now to have read by myself for the first time the poem         150
  in question, my conclusion, I fully believe, would be, that the
  writer must have been some man of warm feelings and active
  fancy; that he had painted to himself the circumstances that
  accompany war in so many vivid and yet fantastic forms, as
  proved that neither the images nor the feelings were the result       155
  of observation, or in any way derived from realities. I should
  judge that they were the product of his own seething imagination,
  and therefore impregnated with that pleasurable exultation
  which is experienced in all energetic exertion of intellectual
  power; that in the same mood he had generalized the causes of         160
  the war, and then personified the abstract and christened it by
  the name which he had been accustomed to hear most often
  associated with its management and measures. I should guess
  that the minister was in the author's mind at the moment of
  composition as completely ἀπαθὴς, ἀναιμόσαρκος, as Anacreon's     165
  grasshopper, and that he had as little notion of a real person of
  flesh and blood,

       Distinguishable in member, joint, or limb,
                                       [_Paradise Lost_, II. 668.]


  as Milton had in the grim and terrible phantom (half person,
  half allegory) which he has placed at the gates of Hell. I            170
  concluded by observing, that the poem was not calculated to excite
  passion in any mind, or to make any impression except on
  poetic readers; and that from the culpable levity betrayed
  at the close of the eclogue by the grotesque union of epigrammatic
  wit with allegoric personification, in the allusion to the            175
  most fearful of thoughts, I should conjecture that the 'rantin'
  Bardie', instead of really believing, much less wishing, the fate
  spoken of in the last line, in application to any human individual,
  would shrink from passing the verdict even on the Devil himself,
  and exclaim with poor Burns,                                          180

       But fare ye weel, auld Nickie-ben!
       Oh! wad ye tak a thought an' men!
       Ye aiblins might--I dinna ken--
                     Still hae a stake--
       I'm wae to think upon yon den,                                   185
                     Ev'n for your sake!

  I need not say that these thoughts, which are here dilated,
  were in such a company only rapidly suggested. Our kind
  host smiled, and with a courteous compliment observed, that
  the defence was too good for the cause. My voice faltered             190
  a little, for I was somewhat agitated; though not so much on
  my own account as for the uneasiness that so kind and friendly
  a man would feel from the thought that he had been the
  occasion of distressing me. At length I brought out these words:
  'I must now confess, sir! that I am author of that poem. It           195
  was written some years ago. I do not attempt to justify my
  past self, young as I then was; but as little as I would now
  write a similar poem, so far was I even then from imagining
  that the lines would be taken as more or less than a sport
  of fancy. At all events, if I know my own heart, there was            200
  never a moment in my existence in which I should have been
  more ready, had Mr. Pitt's person been in hazard, to interpose
  my own body, and defend his life at the risk of my own.'

  I have prefaced the poem with this anecdote, because to have
  printed it without any remark might well have been understood         205
  as implying an unconditional approbation on my part, and this
  after many years' consideration. But if it be asked why I
  republished it at all, I answer, that the poem had been attributed
  at different times to different other persons; and what I had
  dared beget, I thought it neither manly nor honourable not to         210
  dare father. From the same motives I should have published
  perfect copies of two poems, the one entitled The Devil's
  Thoughts, and the other, The Two Round Spaces on the
  Tombstone, but that the three first stanzas of the former, which
  were worth all the rest of the poem, and the best stanza of the       215
  remainder, were written by a friend [Southey] of deserved
  celebrity; and because there are passages in both which might
  have given offence to the religious feelings of certain readers.
  I myself indeed see no reason why vulgar superstitions and
  absurd conceptions that deform the pure faith of a Christian          220
  should possess a greater immunity from ridicule than stories of
  witches, or the fables of Greece and Rome. But there are those
  who deem it profaneness and irreverence to call an ape an ape,
  if it but wear a monk's cowl on its head; and I would rather
  reason with this weakness than offend it.                             225

  The passage from Jeremy Taylor to which I referred is found
  in his second Sermon on Christ's Advent to Judgment; which
  is likewise the second in his year's course of sermons. Among
  many remarkable passages of the same character in those
  discourses, I have selected this as the most so. 'But when this       230
  Lion of the tribe of Judah shall appear, then Justice shall strike,
  and Mercy shall not hold her hands; she shall strike sore strokes,
  and Pity shall not break the blow. As there are treasures of
  good things, so hath God a treasure of wrath and fury, and
  scourges and scorpions; and then shall be produced the shame          235
  of Lust and the malice of Envy, and the groans of the oppressed
  and the persecutions of the saints, and the cares of Covetousness
  and the troubles of Ambition, and the insolencies of traitors and
  the violences of rebels, and the rage of anger and the uneasiness
  of impatience, and the restlessness of unlawful desires; and by       240
  this time the monsters and diseases will be numerous and
  intolerable, when God's heavy hand shall press the sanies and
  the intolerableness, the obliquity and the unreasonableness, the
  amazement and the disorder, the smart and the sorrow, the
  guilt and the punishment, out from all our sins, and pour them        245
  into one chalice, and mingle them with an infinite wrath, and
  make the wicked drink off all the vengeance, and force it down
  their unwilling throats with the violence of devils and accursed
  spirits.'

  That this Tartarean drench displays the imagination rather            250
  than the discretion of the compounder; that, in short, this passage
  and others of the same kind are in a bad taste, few will deny
  at the present day. It would, doubtless, have more behoved
  the good bishop not to be wise beyond what is written on
  a subject in which Eternity is opposed to Time, and a Death           255
  threatened, not the negative, but the positive Opposite of Life;
  a subject, therefore, which must of necessity be indescribable
  to the human understanding in our present state. But I can
  neither find nor believe that it ever occurred to any reader to
  ground on such passages a charge against Bishop Taylor's              260
  humanity, or goodness of heart. I was not a little surprised
  therefore to find, in the Pursuits of Literature and other works,
  so horrible a sentence passed on Milton's moral character, for
  a passage in his prose writings, as nearly parallel to this of
  Taylor's as two passages can well be conceived to be. All his         265
  merits, as a poet, forsooth--all the glory of having written the
  Paradise Lost, are light in the scale, nay, kick the beam,
  compared with the atrocious malignity of heart, expressed in the
  offensive paragraph. I remembered, in general, that Milton had
  concluded one of his works on Reformation, written in the             270
  fervour of his youthful imagination, in a high poetic strain, that
  wanted metre only to become a lyrical poem. I remembered
  that in the former part he had formed to himself a perfect ideal
  of human virtue, a character of heroic, disinterested zeal and
  devotion for Truth, Religion, and public Liberty, in act and in       275
  suffering, in the day of triumph and in the hour of martyrdom.
  Such spirits, as more excellent than others, he describes as
  having a more excellent reward, and as distinguished by a
  transcendant glory: and this reward and this glory he displays and
  particularizes with an energy and brilliance that announced the       280
  Paradise Lost as plainly, as ever the bright purple clouds in the
  east announced the coming of the Sun. Milton then passes to
  the gloomy contrast, to such men as from motives of selfish
  ambition and the lust of personal aggrandizement should, against
  their own light, persecute truth and the true religion, and           285
  wilfully abuse the powers and gifts entrusted to them, to bring
  vice, blindness, misery and slavery, on their native country, on
  the very country that had trusted, enriched and honoured them.
  Such beings, after that speedy and appropriate removal from
  their sphere of mischief which all good and humane men must           290
  of course desire, will, he takes for granted by parity of reason,
  meet with a punishment, an ignominy, and a retaliation, as
  much severer than other wicked men, as their guilt and its
  consequences were more enormous. His description of this
  imaginary punishment presents more distinct pictures to the           295
  fancy than the extract from Jeremy Taylor; but the thoughts
  in the latter are incomparably more exaggerated and horrific.
  All this I knew; but I neither remembered, nor by reference
  and careful re-perusal could discover, any other meaning, either
  in Milton or Taylor, but that good men will be rewarded, and          300
  the impenitent wicked, punished, in proportion to their
  dispositions and intentional acts in this life; and that if the
  punishment of the least wicked be fearful beyond conception, all words
  and descriptions must be so far true, that they must fall short
  of the punishment that awaits the transcendantly wicked. Had          305
  Milton stated either his ideal of virtue, or of depravity, as an
  individual or individuals actually existing? Certainly not!
  Is this representation worded historically, or only
  hypothetically? Assuredly the latter! Does he express it as his own
  wish that after death they should suffer these tortures? or as        310
  a general consequence, deduced from reason and revelation, that
  such will be their fate? Again, the latter only! His wish is
  expressly confined to a speedy stop being put by Providence to
  their power of inflicting misery on others! But did he name
  or refer to any persons living or dead? No! But the                   315
  calumniators of Milton daresay (for what will calumny not dare say?)
  that he had Laud and Strafford in his mind, while writing of
  remorseless persecution, and the enslavement of a free country
  from motives of selfish ambition. Now what if a stern anti-prelatist
  should daresay, that in speaking of the insolencies of                320
  traitors and the violences of rebels, Bishop Taylor must have
  individualised in his mind Hampden, Hollis, Pym, Fairfax,
  Ireton, and Milton? And what if he should take the liberty of
  concluding, that, in the after-description, the Bishop was feeding
  and feasting his party-hatred, and with those individuals before      325
  the eyes of his imagination enjoying, trait by trait, horror after
  horror, the picture of their intolerable agonies? Yet this
  bigot would have an equal right thus to criminate the one good
  and great man, as these men have to criminate the other.
  Milton has said, and I doubt not but that Taylor with equal           330
  truth could have said it, 'that in his whole life he never spake
  against a man even that his skin should be grazed.' He asserted
  this when one of his opponents (either Bishop Hall or his
  nephew) had called upon the women and children in the streets
  to take up stones and stone him (Milton). It is known that            335
  Milton repeatedly used his interest to protect the royalists;
  but even at a time when all lies would have been meritorious
  against him, no charge was made, no story pretended, that he
  had ever directly or indirectly engaged or assisted in their
  persecution. Oh! methinks there are other and far better feelings     340
  which should be acquired by the perusal of our great elder
  writers. When I have before me, on the same table, the works
  of Hammond and Baxter; when I reflect with what joy and
  dearness their blessed spirits are now loving each other; it
  seems a mournful thing that their names should be perverted to        345
  an occasion of bitterness among us, who are enjoying that happy
  mean which the human too-much on both sides was perhaps
  necessary to produce. 'The tangle of delusions which stifled
  and distorted the growing tree of our well-being has been torn
  away; the parasite-weeds that fed on its very roots have been         350
  plucked up with a salutary violence. To us there remain only
  quiet duties, the constant care, the gradual improvement, the
  cautious unhazardous labours of the industrious though
  contented gardener--to prune, to strengthen, to engraft, and one
  by one to remove from its leaves and fresh shoots the slug and        355
  the caterpillar. But far be it from us to undervalue with light
  and senseless detraction the conscientious hardihood of our
  predecessors, or even to condemn in them that vehemence, to
  which the blessings it won for us leave us now neither
  temptation nor pretext. We antedate the feelings, in order to         360
  criminate the authors, of our present liberty, light and
  toleration.' (_The Friend_, No. IV. Sept. 7, 1809.) [1818, i. 105.]

  If ever two great men might seem, during their whole lives,
  to have moved in direct opposition, though neither of them has
  at any time introduced the name of the other, Milton and              365
  Jeremy Taylor were they. The former commenced his career
  by attacking the Church-Liturgy and all set forms of prayer.
  The latter, but far more successfully, by defending both.
  Milton's next work was against the Prelacy and the then
  existing Church-Government--Taylor's in vindication and               370
  support of them. Milton became more and more a stern republican,
  or rather an advocate for that religious and moral aristocracy
  which, in his day, was called republicanism, and which, even more
  than royalism itself, is the direct antipode of modern jacobinism.
  Taylor, as more and more sceptical concerning the fitness of          375
  men in general for power, became more and more attached to
  the prerogatives of monarchy. From Calvinism, with a still
  decreasing respect for Fathers, Councils, and for Church-antiquity
  in general, Milton seems to have ended in an indifference,
  if not a dislike, to all forms of ecclesiastic government, and to     380
  have retreated wholly into the inward and spiritual church-communion
  of his own spirit with the Light that lighteth every
  man that cometh into the world. Taylor, with a growing
  reverence for authority, an increasing sense of the insufficiency of
  the Scriptures without the aids of tradition and the consent of       385
  authorized interpreters, advanced as far in his approaches (not
  indeed to Popery, but) to Roman-Catholicism, as a conscientious
  minister of the English Church could well venture. Milton
  would be and would utter the same to all on all occasions: he
  would tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the            390
  truth. Taylor would become all things to all men, if by any
  means he might benefit any; hence he availed himself, in his
  popular writings, of opinions and representations which stand
  often in striking contrast with the doubts and convictions
  expressed in his more philosophical works. He appears, indeed,        395
  not too severely to have blamed that management of truth
  (istam falsitatem dispensativam) authorized and exemplified by
  almost all the fathers: Integrum omnino doctoribus et coetus
  Christiani antistitibus esse, ut dolos versent, falsa veris
  intermisceant et imprimis religionis hostes fallant, dummodo          400
  veritatis commodis et utilitati inserviant.

  The same antithesis might be carried on with the elements
  of their several intellectual powers. Milton, austere, condensed,
  imaginative, supporting his truth by direct enunciation of lofty
  moral sentiment and by distinct visual representations, and in        405
  the same spirit overwhelming what he deemed falsehood by
  moral denunciation and a succession of pictures appalling or
  repulsive. In his prose, so many metaphors, so many allegorical
  miniatures. Taylor, eminently discursive, accumulative,
  and (to use one of his own words) agglomerative; still more           410
  rich in images than Milton himself, but images of fancy, and
  presented to the common and passive eye, rather than to the
  eye of the imagination. Whether supporting or assailing, he
  makes his way either by argument or by appeals to the
  affections, unsurpassed even by the schoolmen in subtlety,            415
  agility, and logic wit, and unrivalled by the most rhetorical of
  the fathers in the copiousness and vividness of his expressions
  and illustrations. Here words that convey feelings, and words
  that flash images, and words of abstract notion, flow together,
  and whirl and rush onward like a stream, at once rapid and full       420
  of eddies; and yet still interfused here and there we see a tongue
  or islet of smooth water, with some picture in it of earth or sky,
  landscape or living group of quiet beauty.

  Differing then so widely and almost contrariantly, wherein
  did these great men agree? wherein did they resemble each             425
  other? In genius, in learning, in unfeigned piety, in blameless
  purity of life, and in benevolent aspirations and purposes for
  the moral and temporal improvement of their fellow-creatures!
  Both of them wrote a Latin Accidence, to render education
  more easy and less painful to children; both of them composed         430
  hymns and psalms proportioned to the capacity of common
  congregations; both, nearly at the same time, set the glorious
  example of publicly recommending and supporting general
  toleration, and the liberty both of the Pulpit and the press!
  In the writings of neither shall we find a single sentence, like      435
  those meek deliverances to God's mercy, with which Laud
  accompanied his votes for the mutilations and loathsome
  dungeoning of Leighton and others!--nowhere such a pious prayer
  as we find in Bishop Hall's memoranda of his own life, concerning
  the subtle and witty atheist that so grievously perplexed             440
  and gravelled him at Sir Robert Drury's till he prayed to the
  Lord to remove him, and behold! his prayers were heard: for
  shortly afterward this Philistine-combatant went to London,
  and there perished of the plague in great misery! In short,
  nowhere shall we find the least approach, in the lives and            445
  writings of John Milton or Jeremy Taylor, to that guarded
  gentleness, to that sighing reluctance, with which the holy
  brethren of the Inquisition deliver over a condemned heretic
  to the civil magistrate, recommending him to mercy, and
  hoping that the magistrate will treat the erring brother with         450
  all possible mildness!--the magistrate who too well knows what
  would be his own fate if he dared offend them by acting on their
  recommendation.

  The opportunity of diverting the reader from myself to
  characters more worthy of his attention, has led me far beyond my     455
  first intention; but it is not unimportant to expose the false
  zeal which has occasioned these attacks on our elder patriots.
  It has been too much the fashion first to personify the Church
  of England, and then to speak of different individuals, who in
  different ages have been rulers in that church, as if in some         460
  strange way they constituted its personal identity. Why should
  a clergyman of the present day feel interested in the defence
  of Laud or Sheldon? Surely it is sufficient for the warmest
  partisan of our establishment that he can assert with
  truth,--when our Church persecuted, it was on mistaken principles     465
  held in common by all Christendom; and at all events, far less
  culpable was this intolerance in the Bishops, who were
  maintaining the existing laws, than the persecuting spirit afterwards
  shewn by their successful opponents, who had no such excuse,
  and who should have been taught mercy by their own sufferings,        470
  and wisdom by the utter failure of the experiment in their own
  case. We can say that our Church, apostolical in its faith,
  primitive in its ceremonies, unequalled in its liturgical forms; that
  our Church, which has kindled and displayed more bright and
  burning lights of genius and learning than all other protestant       475
  churches since the reformation, was (with the single exception
  of the times of Laud and Sheldon) least intolerant, when all
  Christians unhappily deemed a species of intolerance their
  religious duty; that Bishops of our church were among the first
  that contended against this error; and finally, that since the        480
  reformation, when tolerance became a fashion, the Church of
  England in a tolerating age, has shewn herself eminently
  tolerant, and far more so, both in spirit and in fact, than
  many of her most bitter opponents, who profess to deem
  toleration itself an insult on the rights of mankind! As to           485
  myself, who not only know the Church-Establishment to be
  tolerant, but who see in it the greatest, if not the sole safe
  bulwark of toleration. I feel no necessity of defending or
  palliating oppressions under the two Charleses, in order to
  exclaim with a full and fervent heart, Esto perpetua!                 490


FOOTNOTES:

[1097:1] First published in _Sibylline Leaves_ in 1817: included in
1828, 1829, and 1834. The 'Apologetic Preface' must have been put
together in 1815, with a view to publication in the volume afterwards
named _Sibylline Leaves_, but the incident on which it turns most
probably took place in the spring of 1803, when both Scott and Coleridge
were in London. Davy writing to Poole, May 1, 1803, says that he
generally met Coleridge during his stay in town, 'in the midst of large
companies, where he was the image of power and activity,' and Davy, as
we know, was one of Sotheby's guests. In a letter to Mrs. Fletcher dated
Dec. 18, 1830 (?), Scott tells the story in his own words, but throws no
light on date or period. The implied date (1809) in Morritt's report of
Dr. Howley's conversation (Lockhart's _Life of Scott_, 1837, ii. 245) is
out of the question, as Coleridge did not leave the Lake Country between
Sept. 1808 and October 1810. Coleridge set great store by 'his own
stately account of this lion-show' (ibid.). In a note in a MS. copy of
_Sibylline Leaves_ presented to his son Derwent he writes:--'With the
exception of this slovenly sentence (ll. 109-19) I hold this preface to
be my happiest effort in prose composition.'

[1097:2] William Sotheby (1756-1838), translator of Wieland's _Oberon_
and the _Georgics_ of Virgil. Coleridge met him for the first time at
Keswick in July, 1802.

[1097:3] 'The compliment I can witness to be as just as it is handsomely
recorded,' Sir W. Scott to Mrs. Fletcher, _Fragmentary Remains of Sir H.
Davy_, 1858, p. 113.


LINENOTES:

[24] _he_ 1817, 1829.

[41] What follows is substantially the same as _I then_ 1817, 1829.

[56] _realize_ 1817, 1829.

[93] outrageous] outrè, 1817, 1829.

[95] _escape-valves_ 1817, 1829. _liver_ 1817, 1829.

[106] afterwards] afterward 1817, 1829.

[119] '_I . . . Law_' 1817, 1829.

[125] _Hell and Purgatory_ 1817, 1829.

[135] a Euripides _1817_: an Euripides 1829.

[136] _so_ natured 1817, 1829.

[172] _passion . . . any_ 1817, 1829.

[173] _poetic_ 1817, 1829. For _betrayed in_ r. _betrayed by_, Errata,
1817, p. [xi].]

[174] in the grotesque 1817.

[195] am author] am the author 1817.

[203] my body MS. corr. 1817.

[212-3] _The . . . Thoughts_ 1817, 1829.

[213-4] _The . . . Tombstone_ 1817, 1829.

[238] insolencies] _indolence_ 1829.

[238-9] _and the . . . rebels_ 1817, 1829.

[252] _in . . . taste_ 1817, 1829.

[256] _positive_ 1817, 1829. Opposite] Oppositive 1829, 1893.

[264] _his_ 1817, 1829.

[267] PARADISE LOST 1817, 1829.

[273] former] preceding MS. corr. 1817.

[278] and as] as MS. corr. 1817.

[295] _pictures_ 1817, 1829.

[296] _thoughts_ 1817, 1829.

[310] _wish . . . should_ 1817, 1829.

[312] _will be_ 1817, 1829.

[316] _daresay_ 1817, 1829.

[320] _daresay_ 1817, 1829.

[320-1] _insolencies . . . rebels_ 1817, 1829.

[335] _him_ 1817, 1829.

[346] _us_ 1817, 1829.

[347] _human_ TOO-MUCH 1817, 1829.

[349] has] have 1817.

[360] _feelings_ 1817, 1829.

[361] _authors_ 1817, 1829.

[373] _called_ 1817, 1829.

[380] _all_ 1817, 1829.

[387] Roman-Catholicism] Catholicism 1817, 1829.

[393] _popular_ 1817, 1829.

[396] _too severely . . . management_ 1817, 1829.

[397] _istam . . . dispensativam_ 1817, 1829.

[410] _agglomerative_ 1817, 1829.

[416] logic] logical 1817, 1829.

[420] and at once whirl 1817, 1829.

[422] islet] isle 1829. Carlyle in the _Life of John Sterling_, cap.
viii, quotes the last two words of the Preface. Was it from the same
source that he caught up the words 'Balmy sunny islets, islets of the
blest and the intelligible' which he uses to illustrate the lucid
intervals in Coleridge's monologue?

[436] _meek . . . mercy_ 1817, 1829.

[441] _he . . . him_ 1817, 1829.

[450] _hoping_ 1817, 1829.

[461] _they_ 1817, 1829.

[467] culpable were the Bishops 1817, 1829.

[481] reformation] Revolution in 1688 MS. corr. 1817.

[488] _bulwark_ 1817, 1829.

[490] ESTO PERPETUA 1817, 1829.

[After 490] Braving the cry. O the Vanity and self-dotage of Authors! I,
yet, after a reperusal of the preceding Apol. Preface, now some 20 years
since its first publication, dare deliver it as my own judgement that
both in style and thought it is a work creditable to the head and heart
of the Author, tho' he happens to have been the same person, only a few
stone lighter and with chesnut instead of silver hair, with his Critic
and Eulogist.

                                                 S. T. Coleridge,
                                                        May, 1829.

[_MS. Note in a copy of the edition of 1829, vol. i, p. 353._]




APPENDIX IV

PROSE VERSIONS OF POEMS, ETC.




A

QUESTIONS AND ANSWERS IN THE COURT
OF LOVE

[Vide _ante_, p. 409.]


Why is my Love like the Sun?

1. The Dawn = the presentiment of my Love.

  No voice as yet had made the air
  Be music with thy name: yet why
  That obscure [over _aching_] Hope: that yearning Sigh?
  That sense of Promise everywhere?
      Beloved! flew thy spirit by?

2. The Sunrise = the suddenness, the all-at-once of Love--and the first
silence--the beams of Light fall first on the distance, the interspace
still dark.

3. The Cheerful Morning--the established Day-light universal.

4. The Sunset--who can behold it, and think of the Sun-rise? It takes
all the thought to itself. The Moon-reflected Light--soft, melancholy,
warmthless--the absolute purity (nay, it is always _pure_, but), the
incorporeity of Love in absence--Love _per se_ is a Potassium--it can
subsist by itself, tho' in presence it has a natural and necessary
combination with the comburent principle. All other Lights (the fixed
Stars) not borrowed from the absent Sun--Lights for other worlds, not
for me. I see them and admire, but they irradiate nothing.




B

PROSE VERSION OF GLYCINE'S SONG IN
ZAPOLYA

[Vide _ante_, pp. 426, 919, 920.]


1

  On the sky with liquid openings of Blue,
  The slanting pillar of sun mist,
  Field-inward flew a little Bird.
  Pois'd himself on the column,
  Sang with a sweet and marvellous voice,                              5
          Adieu! adieu!
  I must away, Far, far away,
          Set off to-day.

2

  Listened--listened--gaz'd--
  Sight of a Bird, sound of a voice--                                 10
  It was so well with me, and yet so strange.
          Heart! Heart!
  Swell'st thou with joy or smart?
  But the Bird went away--
          Adieu! adieu!                                               15

3

  All cloudy the heavens falling and falling--
  Then said I--Ah! summer again--
  The swallow, the summer-bird is going,
  And so will my Beauty fall like the leaves
  From my pining for his absence,                                     20
  And so will his Love fly away.
          Away! away!
  Like the summer-bird,
          Swift as the Day.

4

  But lo! again came the slanting sun-shaft,                          25
  Close by me pois'd on its wing,
  The sweet Bird sang again,
  And looking on my tearful Face
          Did it not say,
          'Love has arisen,                                           30
  True Love makes its summer,
          In the Heart'?

1845




C

_Notebook No. 29, p. 168._


21 Feb. 1825.

MY DEAR FRIEND

I have often amused myself with the thought of a self-conscious
Looking-glass, and the various metaphorical applications of such a
fancy--and this morning it struck across the Eolian Harp of my Brain
that there was something pleasing and emblematic (of what I did not
distinctly make out) in two such Looking-glasses fronting, each seeing
the other in itself, and itself in the other. Have you ever noticed the
Vault or snug little Apartment which the Spider spins and weaves for
itself, by spiral threads round and round, and sometimes with strait
lines, so that its lurking parlour or withdrawing-room is an oblong
square? This too connected itself in my mind with the melancholy truth,
that as we grow older, the World (alas! how often it happens that the
less we love it, the more we care for it, the less reason we have to
value its Shews, the more anxious are we about them--alas! how often do
we become more and more loveless, as Love which can outlive all change
save a change with regard to itself, and all loss save the loss of its
_Reflex_, is more needed to sooth us and alone is able so to do!) What
was I saying? O, I was adverting to the fact that as we advance in
years, the World, that spidery Witch, spins its threads narrower and
narrower, still closing on us, till at last it shuts us up within four
walls, walls of flues and films, windowless--and well if there be
sky-lights, and a small opening left for the Light from above. I do not
know that I have anything to add, except to remind you, that _pheer_ or
_phere_ for _Mate_, _Companion_, _Counterpart_, is a word frequently
used by Spencer (_sic_) and Herbert, and the Poets generally, who wrote
before the Restoration (1660), before I say that this premature warm and
sunny day, antedating Spring, called forth the following.

       *       *       *       *       *

Strain in the manner of G. HERBERT, which might be entitled THE ALONE
MOST DEAR: a Complaint of Jacob to Rachel as in the tenth year of her
service he saw in her or _fancied_ that he saw symptoms of Alienation.
[*N.B. The Thoughts and Images being modernized and turned into
English.*]

(_It was fancy_) [Pencil note by Mrs. Gillman.]

  All Nature seems at work. [*Snails*] Slugs leave their lair;
  The Bees are stirring; Birds are on the wing;
  And WINTER slumb'ring in the open air
  Wears on his smiling face a dream of Spring.
    And
  [*But*] I the while, the sole unbusy thing.
  Nor honey make, nor pair, nor build, nor sing.
  Yet well I ken the banks where[1111:1]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!
            ? _Lip unbrighten'd, wreathless B._
  With unmoist Lip and 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.

  I speak in figures, inward thoughts and woes
  Interpreting by Shapes and outward shews:
  { Where daily nearer me with magic Ties,
  { What time and where, (wove close with magic Ties
  Line over line, and thickning as they rise)
  The World her spidery threads on all sides spin
  Side answ'ring side with narrow interspace,
  My Faith (say I; I and my Faith are one)
  Hung, as a Mirror, there! And face to face
  (For nothing else there was between or near)
  One Sister Mirror hid the dreary Wall,
                                     { bright compeer
  But _that_ is broke! And with that { only pheere[1111:2]
  I lost my object and my inmost All----
  Faith _in_ the Faith of THE ALONE MOST DEAR!
                                  JACOB HODIERNUS.

Ah! me!!

  Call the World spider: and at fancy's touch
  Thought becomes image and I see it such.
  With viscous masonry of films and threads
  Tough as the nets in Indian Forests found
  It blends the Waller's and the Weaver's trades
  And soon the tent-like Hangings touch the ground
  A dusky chamber that excludes the day
  But cease the prelude and resume the lay


FOOTNOTES:

[1111:1] _Literally_ rendered is Flower Fadeless, or never-fading, from
the Greek a NOT and marainō to wither.

[1111:2] Mate, Counterpart.




D

_Note to Line 34 of the_ Joan of Arc _Book II. 1796, pp. 41, 42_.


Line 34. Sir Isaac Newton at the end of the last edition of his Optics
supposes that a very subtile and elastic fluid, which he calls aether,
is diffused thro' the pores of gross bodies, as well as thro' the open
spaces that are void of gross matter: he supposes it to pierce all
bodies, and to touch their least particles, acting on them with a force
proportional to their number or to the matter of the body on which it
acts. He supposes likewise, that it is rarer in the pores of bodies than
in open spaces, and even rarer in small pores and dense bodies, than in
large pores and rare bodies; and also that its density increases in
receding from gross matter; so for instance as to be greater at the
1/100 of an inch from the surface of any body, than at its surface; and
so on. To the action of this aether he ascribes the attractions of
gravitation and cohœsion, the attraction and repulsion of electrical
bodies, the mutual influences of bodies and light upon each other, the
effects and communication of heat, and the performance of animal
sensation and motion. David Hartley, from whom this account of aether is
chiefly borrowed, makes it the instrument of propagating those
vibrations or configurative motions which are ideas. It appears to me,
no hypothesis ever involved so many contradictions; for how can the same
fluid be both dense and rare in the same body at one time? Yet in the
Earth as gravitating to the Moon, it must be very rare; and in the Earth
as gravitating to the Sun, it must be very dense. For as Andrew Baxter
well observes, it doth not appear sufficient to account how the fluid
may act with a force proportional to the body to which another is
impelled, to assert that it is rarer in great bodies than in small ones;
it must be further asserted that this fluid is rarer or denser in the
same body, whether small or great, according as the body to which that
is impelled is itself small or great. But whatever may be the solidity
of this objection, the following seems unanswerable:

If every particle thro' the whole solidity of a heavy body receive its
impulse from the particles of this fluid, it should seem that the fluid
itself must be as dense as the very densest heavy body, gold for
instance; there being as many impinging particles in the one, as there
are gravitating particles in the other which receive their gravitation
by being impinged upon: so that, throwing gold or any heavy body upward,
against the impulse of this fluid, would be like throwing gold _thro'_
gold; and as this aether must be equally diffused over the whole sphere
of its activity, it must be as dense when it impels cork as when it
impels gold, so that to throw a piece of cork upward, would be as if we
endeavoured to make cork penetrate a medium as dense as gold; and tho'
we were to adopt the extravagant opinions which have been advanced
concerning the progression of pores, yet however porous we suppose a
body, if it be not all pore, the argument holds equally, the fluid must
be as dense as the body in order to give every particle its impulse.

It has been asserted that Sir Isaac Newton's philosophy leads in its
consequences to Atheism: perhaps not without reason. For if matter, by
any powers or properties _given_ to it, can produce the order of the
visible world and even generate thought; why may it not have possessed
such properties by _inherent_ right? and where is the necessity of a
God? matter is according to the mechanic philosophy capable of acting
most wisely and most beneficently without Wisdom or Benevolence; and
what more does the Atheist assert? if matter possess those properties,
why might it not have possessed them from all eternity? Sir Isaac
Newton's Deity seems to be alternately operose and indolent; to have
delegated so much power as to make it inconceivable what he can have
reserved. He is dethroned by Vice-regent second causes.

We seem placed here to acquire a knowledge of _effects_. Whenever we
would pierce into the _Adyta_ of Causation, we bewilder ourselves; and
all that laborious Conjecture can do, is to fill up the gaps of
imagination. We are restless, because _invisible_ things are not the
objects of vision--and philosophical systems, for the most part, are
received not for their Truth, but in proportion as they attribute to
Causes a susceptibility of being _seen_, whenever our visual organs
shall have become sufficiently powerful.




E

DEDICATION[1113:1]

Ode on the Departing Year, 1796, pp. [3]-4.

[Vide _ante_, p. 160.]


TO THOMAS POOLE, OF STOWEY.

MY DEAR FRIEND--

Soon after the commencement of this month, the Editor of the Cambridge
Intelligencer (a newspaper conducted with so much ability, and such
unmixed and fearless zeal for the interests of Piety and Freedom, that I
cannot but think my poetry honoured by being permitted to appear in it)
requested me, by Letter, to furnish him with some Lines for the last day
of this Year. I promised him that I would make the attempt; but almost
immediately after, a rheumatic complaint seized on my head, and
continued to prevent the possibility of poetic composition till within
the last three days. So in the course of the last three days the
following Ode was produced. In general, when an Author informs the
Public that his production was struck off in a great hurry, he offers an
insult, not an excuse. But I trust that the present case is an
exception, and that the peculiar circumstances which obliged me to write
with such unusual rapidity give a propriety to my professions of it:
_nec nunc eam apud te jacto, sed et ceteris indico; ne quis asperiore
limâ carmen examinet, et a confuso scriptum et quod frigidum erat ni
statim traderem_.[1113:2] (I avail myself of the words of Statius, and
hope that I shall likewise be able to say of any weightier publication,
what _he_ has declared of his Thebaid, that it had been tortured[1113:3]
with a laborious Polish.)

For me to discuss the _literary_ merits of this hasty composition were
idle and presumptuous. If it be found to possess that impetuosity of
Transition, and that Precipitation of Fancy and Feeling, which are the
_essential_ excellencies of the sublimer Ode, its deficiency in less
important respects will be easily pardoned by those from whom alone
praise could give me pleasure: and whose minuter criticisms will be
disarmed by the reflection, that these Lines were conceived 'not in the
soft obscurities of Retirement, or under the Shelter of Academic Groves,
but amidst inconvenience and distraction, in sickness and in
sorrow'.[1114:1] I am more anxious lest the _moral_ spirit of the Ode
should be mistaken. You, I am sure, will not fail to recollect that
among the Ancients, the Bard and the Prophet were one and the same
character; and you _know_, that although I prophesy curses, I pray
fervently for blessings. Farewell, Brother of my Soul!

      ----O ever found the same,
  And trusted and belov'd![1114:2]

Never without an emotion of honest pride do I subscribe myself
                    Your grateful and affectionate friend,
                                                 S. T. COLERIDGE.

  BRISTOL, _December 26, 1796_.


FOOTNOTES:

[1113:1] Published 4to, 1796: reprinted in _P. and D. W._, 1877, i.
165-8.

[1113:2] The quotation is from an apology addressed 'Meliori suo',
prefixed to the Second Book of the _Silvae_:--'nec nunc eam (_sc._
celeritatem) apud te jacto qui nosti: sed et caeteris indico, ne quis
asperiore limâ carmen examinet et a confuso scriptum, et dolenti datum
cum paene sint supervacua sint tarda solatia.' Coleridge has 'adapted'
the words of Statius to point his own moral.

[1113:3] _Multâ cruciata limâ_ [S. T. C.] [SILV. lib. iv. 7, 26.]

[1114:1] From Dr. Johnson's Preface to the _Dictionary of the English
Language_. _Works_, 1806, ii. 59.

[1114:2] Akenside's _Pleasures of the Imagination_ (Second Version), Bk.
I.




F

Preface to the MS. of _Osorio_.

[Vide _ante_, p. 519.]


In this sketch of a tragedy, all is imperfect, and much obscure. Among
other equally great defects (millstones round the slender neck of its
merits) it presupposes a long story; and this long story, which yet is
necessary to the complete understanding of the play, is not half told.
Albert had sent a letter informing his family that he should arrive
about such a time by ship; he was shipwrecked; and wrote a private
letter to Osorio, informing him alone of this accident, that he might
not shock Maria. Osorio destroyed the letter, and sent assassins to meet
Albert. . . Worse than all, the growth of Osorio's character is nowhere
explained--and yet I had most clear and psychologically accurate ideas
of the whole of it. . . A man, who from constitutional calmness of
appetites, is seduced into pride and the love of power, by these into
misanthropism, or rather a contempt of mankind, and from thence, by the
co-operation of envy, and a curiously modified love for a beautiful
female (which is nowhere developed in the play), into a most atrocious
guilt. A man who is in truth a weak man, yet always duping himself into
the belief that he has a soul of iron. Such were some of my leading
ideas.

In short the thing is but an embryo, and whilst it remains in
manuscript, which it is destined to do, the critic would judge unjustly
who should call it a miscarriage. It furnished me with a most important
lesson, namely, that to have conceived strongly, does not always imply
the power of successful execution. S. T. C.

[From _Early Years and Late Reflections_, by Clement Carlyon, M.D.,
1856, i. 143-4.]




APPENDIX V

ADAPTATIONS


For a critical study of Coleridge's alterations in the text of the
quotations from seventeenth-century poets, which were inserted in the
_Biographia Literaria_ (2 vols., 1817), or were prefixed as mottoes to
Chapters in the rifacimento of _The Friend_ (3 vols., 1818), see an
article by J. D Campbell entitled 'Coleridge's Quotations,' which was
published in the _Athenæum_, August 20, 1892, and 'Adaptations', _P.
W._, 1893, pp. 471-4. Most of these textual alterations or garblings
were noted by H. N. Coleridge in an edition of _The Friend_ published in
1837; Mr. Campbell was the first to collect and include the mottoes and
quotations in a sub-section of Coleridge's Poetical Works. Three poems,
(1) 'An Elegy Imitated from Akenside', (2) 'Farewell to Love ', (3)
'Mutual Passion altered and modernized from an Old Poet', may be
reckoned as 'Adaptations'. The first and third of these composite
productions lay no claim to originality, whilst the second, 'Farewell to
Love', which he published anonymously in _The Courier_, September 27,
1806, was not included by Coleridge in _Sibylline Leaves_, or in 1828,
1829, 1834. For (1) vide _ante_, p. 69, and _post_, _Read_:--p. 1123;
for (2) _ante_, p. 402; and for (3) vide _post_, p. 1118.


1

FULKE GREVILLE. LORD BROOKE

  God and the World they worship still together,
  Draw not their lawes to him, but his to theirs,
  Untrue to both, so prosperous in neither,
  Amid their owne desires still raising feares;
    'Unwise, as all distracted powers be;                              5
    Strangers to God, fooles in humanitie.'

  Too good for great things, and too great for good;
  Their Princes serve their Priest, &c.
                             _A Treatie of Warres_, st. lxvi-vii.


MOTTO TO 'A LAY SERMON', 1817

  God and the World _we_ worship still together,
  Draw not _our_ Laws to Him, but _His_ to ours;
  Untrue to both, so prosperous in neither,
  _The imperfect Will brings forth but barren Flowers_!
  Unwise as all distracted _Interests_ be,                             5
  Strangers to God, fools in Humanity:
  Too good for great things and too great for good,
  _While still_ 'I dare not' waits upon 'I wou'd'!
                                                         S. T. C.

The same quotation from Lord Brooke is used to illustrate Aphorism xvii,
'Inconsistency,' _Aids to Reflection_, 1825, p. 93 (with the word
'both', substituted for 'still' in line 1). Line 8 is from _Macbeth_,
Act I, Sc. VII, 'Letting I dare not,' &c. The reference to Lord Brooke
was first given in _N. and Q._, Series VIII, Vol. ii, p. 18.


2

[Vide _ante_, p. 403]

SONNET XCIV [Coelica]

  The _Augurs_ we of all the world admir'd
    Flatter'd by Consulls, honour'd by the State,
    Because the event of all that was desir'd
  They seem'd to know, and keepe the books of Fate:
    Yet though abroad they thus did boast their wit,                   5
    Alone among themselves they scornèd it.

    Mankind that with his wit doth gild his heart
    Strong in his Passions, but in Goodnesse weake,
    Making great vices o're the lesse an Art,
    Breeds wonder, and mouves Ignorance to speake,                    10
      Yet when his fame is to the highest borne,
      We know enough to laugh his praise to scorne.

Lines on a King and Emperor-Making-King altered from the 93rd Sonnet of
Fulke Greville, the friend of Sir Philip Sydney.

ll. 1-4 The augurs, &c.

l. 5 _Abroad they thus did boast each other's_ wit.

l. 7 _Behold yon Corsican with dropsied heart_

l. 9 _He wonder breeds, makes_ ignorance to speak

l. 12 TALLEYRAND WILL _laugh his Creature's_ praise to scorn.

First published in the _Courier_, Sept. 12, 1806. See Editor's note,
_Athenæum_, April 25, 1903, p. 531.


3

OF HUMANE LEARNING

STANZA CLX

  For onely that man understands indeed,
  And well remembers, which he well can doe,
  The Laws live, onely where the Law doth breed
  Obedience to the workes it bindes us to:
    And as the life of Wisedome hath exprest,
    If this ye know, then doe it, and be blest.
                                      LORD BROOKE.

Motto to _Notes on a Barrister's Hints on Evangelical Preaching, 1810_,
in _Lit. Rem._, 1839, iv. 320.

ll. 2, 3

  _Who_ well remembers _what_ he well can do;
  The _Faith_ lives only where the _faith_ doth breed.


4

SIR JOHN DAVIES

ON THE IMMORTALITY OF THE SOUL

(Sect. iv. Stanzas 12-14.)

  Doubtless, this could not be, but that she turns
    Bodies to spirits, by sublimation strange;
  As fire converts to fire the things it burns;
    As we our meats into our nature change.

  From their gross matter she abstracts the forms,                     5
    And draws a kind of quintessence from things;
  Which to her proper nature she transforms,
    To bear them light, on her celestial wings.

  This doth she, when, from things particular,
    She doth abstract the universal kinds,                            10
  Which bodiless and immaterial are,
    And can be only lodg'd within our minds.

  Stanza 12 Doubtless, &c.
      l. 2  Bodies to _spirit_, &c.
      l. 4. As we our _food_, &c.

  Stanza 13, l. 1 From their gross matter she abstracts _their_ forms.

  Stanza 14

      _Thus doth she, when from individual states_
      She doth abstract the universal kinds;
      _Which then re-clothed in divers names and_ fates
      _Steal access through our senses to our_ minds.

_Biog. Lit._, Cap. xiv, 1817, II, 12; 1847, II, Cap. i, pp. 14-15. The
alteration was first noted in 1847.


5

DONNE

ECLOGUE. 'ON UNWORTHY WISDOM'

  So reclused Hermits oftentimes do know
  More of Heaven's glory than a worldly can:
  As Man is of the World, the Heart of Man
  Is an Epitome of God's great Book
  Of Creatures, and Men need no further look.

These lines are quoted by Coleridge in _The Friend_, 1818, i. 192; 1850,
i. 147. The first two lines run thus:

  _The_ recluse _Hermit oft'_ times _more doth_ know
  _Of the world's inmost wheels_, than worldlings can, &c.

The alteration was first pointed out in an edition of _The Friend_
issued by H. N. Coleridge in 1837.


6

LETTER TO SIR HENRY GOODYERE

Stanzas II, III, IV, and a few words from Stanza V, are prefixed as the
motto to Essay XV of _The Friend_, 1818, i. 179; 1850, i. 136.

For Stanza II, line 3--

  But he which dwells there is not so; for he
  _With him_ who dwells there 'tis not so; for he

For Stanza III--

  So had your body her morning, hath her noon,
    And shall not better, her next change is night:
  But her fair larger guest, t'whom sun and moon
    Are sparks, and short liv'd, claims another right.--

The motto reads:

  _Our bodies had their_ morning, have their noon,
  And shall not better--the next change is night,
  But _their_ fair larger guest, t'whom sun and moon
  Are sparks and short liv'd, claims another right.

The alteration was first noted in 1837. In 1850 line 3 of Stanza III
'fair' is misprinted 'far'.


7

BEN JONSON

A NYMPH'S PASSION

  I love, and he loves me again,
    Yet dare I not tell who;
  For if the nymphs should know my swain,
    I fear they'd love him too;
    Yet if it be not known,                                            5
    The pleasure is as good as none,
  For that's a narrow joy is but our own.

  I'll tell, that if they be not glad,
    They yet may envy me;
  But then if I grow jealous mad,                                     10
    And of them pitied be,
    It were a plague 'bove scorn,
    And yet it cannot be forborne,
  Unless my heart would, as my thought, be torn.

  He is, if they can find him, fair,                                  15
    And fresh and fragrant too,
  As summer's sky or purged air,
    And looks as lilies do
    That are this morning blown;
    Yet, yet I doubt he is not known,                                 20
  And fear much more, that more of him be shown.

  But he hath eyes so round and bright,
    As make away my doubt,
  Where Love may all his torches light
    Though hate had put them out;                                     25
    But then, t'increase my fears,
    What nymph soe'er his voice but hears,
  Will be my rival, though she have but ears.

  I'll tell no more, and yet I love,
    And he loves me; yet no                                           30
  One unbecoming thought doth move
    From either heart, I know;
    But so exempt from blame,
    As it would be to each a fame,
  If love or fear would let me tell his name.                         35

_Underwoods_ No. V.


MUTUAL PASSION

ALTERED AND MODERNIZED FROM AN OLD POET

  I love, and he loves me again,
    Yet dare I not tell who:
  For if the nymphs should know my swain,
    I fear they'd love him too.
    _Yet while my joy's unknown,                                       5
    Its rosy buds are but half-blown:
  What no one with me shares, seems scarce my own._

  I'll tell, that if they be not glad,
    They yet may envy me:
  But then if I grow jealous mad,                                     10
    And of them pitied be,
    _'Twould vex me worse than_ scorn!
    And yet it cannot be forborn,
  Unless my heart would _like_ my _thoughts_ be torn.

  He is, if they can find him, fair                                   15
    And fresh, and fragrant too;
  _As after rain the summer air_,
    And looks as lilies do,
    That are this morning blown!
    Yet, yet I doubt, he is not known,                                20
  _Yet, yet I fear to have him fully shewn_.

  But he hath eyes so _large_, and bright.
    _Which none can see, and_ doubt
  _That_ Love _might thence_ his torches light
    Tho' Hate had put them out!                                       25
    But then to _raise_ my fears,
    _His voice--what maid so ever_ hears
  Will be my rival, tho' she have but ears.

  I'll tell no more! _yet I love him_,
    And ho loves me; _yet so,                                         30
  That never one low wish did dim
    Our love's pure light, I know--
    In each so free from_ blame,
    _That both of us would gain new_ fame,
  If love's _strong fears_ would let me tell his name!                35

First published in _The Courier_, September 21, 1811; included in the
supplementary sheet to _Sibylline Leaves_; reprinted in _Essays on His
Own Times_, iii. 995, 996, and in the Appendix to _P. W._, 1863. It was
first pointed out by W. E. Henley that 'Mutual Passion' is an adaptation
of 'A Nymph's Passion', No. V of Ben Jonson's _Underwoods_.


8

UNDERWOODS

No. VI. THE HOUR-GLASS.

  Consider this small dust, here in the glass
    By atoms moved:
  Could you believe that this the body was
    Of one that loved;
  And in his mistress' flame playing like a fly,                       5
  Was turned to cinders by her eye:
  Yes; and in death, as life unblest,
    To have 't exprest,
  Even ashes of lovers find no rest.


THE HOUR-GLASS

  O think, fair maid! these sands that pass
  In slender threads adown this glass,
  Were once the body of some swain,
  Who lov'd too well and lov'd in vain,
  And let one soft sigh heave thy breast,                              5
  That not in life alone unblest
  E'en lovers' ashes find no rest.

First published in _The Courier_, August 30, 1811; included in _Essays
on His Own Times_, iii. 994. Now collected for the first time.

The original is a translation of a Latin Epigram, 'Horologium Pulvereum,
Tumulus Alcippi,' by Girolamo Amaltei.


9

THE POETASTER. Act I, Scene 1.

                    O my Tibullus,
  Let us not blame him; for against such chances
  The heartiest strife of virtue is not proof.
  We may read constancy and fortitude
  To other souls; but had ourselves been struck                        5
  With the like planet, had our loves, like his,
  Been ravished from us by injurious death,
  And in the height and heat of our best days,
  It would have cracked our sinews, shrunk our veins,
  And made our very heart-strings jar like his.                       10

         *       *       *       *       *

  Let us not blame him: for against such chances
  The heartiest strife of _manhood_ is _scarce_ proof.
  We may read constancy and fortitude
  To other souls--but had ourselves been struck
  _Even_ in the height and heat of our _keen wishing_,
  _It might have made_ our heart-strings jar, like his.

First published as a quotation in the _Historie and Gestes of Maxilian_
contributed to _Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine_, January, 1822.
Reprinted as Fragment No. 59, _P. W._, 1893, p. 460.


10

SAMUEL DANIEL

EPISTLE TO SIR THOMAS EGERTON, KNIGHT

Stanza 5

  Must there be still some discord mix'd among,
  The harmony of men; whose mood accords
  Best with contention, tun'd t' a note of wrong?
  That when war fails, peace must make war with words,
  And b' armed unto destruction ev'n as strong                         5
  As were in ages past our civil swords:
  Making as deep, although unbleeding wounds;
  That when as fury fails, wisdom confounds.

Stanza 14

  Seeing ev'n injustice may be regular;
  And no proportion can there be betwixt                              10
  Our actions, which in endless motion are,
  And th' ordinances, which are always fix'd:
  Ten thousand laws more cannot reach so far
  But malice goes beyond, or lives immix'd
  So close with goodness, as it ever will                             15
  Corrupt, disguise, or counterfeit it still.

Stanza 15

  And therefore did those glorious monarchs (who
  Divide with God the style of majesty, &c.


Stanza 5

  Must there be still some discord mix'd among
  The harmony of men; whose mood accords
  Best with contention tun'd _to notes_ of wrong?
  That when War fails, Peace must make war with words,
  _With words_ unto destruction _arm'd more_ strong                    5
  _Than ever were our foreign Foeman's swords_;
  Making as deep, _tho' not yet bleeding_ wounds?
  _What War left scarless, Calumny_ confounds.

Stanza 14

  _Truth lies entrapp'd where Cunning finds no bar_:
  _Since_ no proportion can there be betwixt                          10
  Our actions, which in endless motion are,
  And ordinances, which are always fixt.
  Ten thousand Laws more cannot reach so far
  But Malice goes beyond, or lives _commixt_
  So close with Goodness, _that_, it ever will                        15
  Corrupt, disguise, or counterfeit it still.

Stanza 15

  And therefore _would our glorious Alfred, who
  Join'd with the King's the good man's Majesty,
  Not leave Law's labyrinth without a clue--
  Gave to deep skill its just authority_,--                           20

         *       *       *       *       *

  _But the last Judgement (this his Jury's plan)--
  Left to the natural sense of Work-day Man_

_Adapted from an elder Poet._

Motto to _The Friend_, Essay xiii, 1818, i. 149; 1850, i. 113.
Coleridge's alteration of, and addition to the text of Daniel's poem
were first pointed out in an edition of _The Friend_, issued by H. N.
Coleridge in 1837.


11

MUSOPHILUS

STANZA CXLVII.

  Who will not grant, and therefore this observe,
  No state stands sure, but on the grounds of right,
  Of virtue, knowledge, judgment to preserve,
  And all the powers of learning requisite?
  Though other shifts a present turn may serve,
  Yet in the trial they will weigh too light.

         *       *       *       *       *

  _Blind is that soul which from this truth can swerve_
  No state stands sure, &c.

Motto to Essay xvi of _The Friend_, 1818, i. 190; 1850, i. 145. The
alteration was first noted in 1837.


12

STANZAS XXVII, XXIX, XXX.

  Although the stronger constitution shall
  Wear out th' infection of distemper'd days,
  And come with glory to out-live this fall,
  Recov'ring of another spring of praise, &c.

  For these lines are the veins and arteries
  And undecaying life-strings of those hearts,
  That still shall pant, and still shall exercise
  The motion, spir't and nature both imparts,
  And shall with those alive so sympathize,
  As nourish'd with stern powers, enjoy their parts.

  O blessed letters! that combine in one
  All ages past, and make one live with all:
  By you we do confer with who are gone,
  And the dead-living unto council call:
  By you the unborn shall have communion
  Of what we feel, and what does us befall.

         *       *       *       *       *

  O blessed letters, &c.

  Since Writings are the Veins, the Arteries,
  And undecaying Life-strings of those Hearts,
  They still shall pant and still shall exercise
  Their mightiest powers when Nature none imparts:
  And the strong constitution of their Praise
  Wear out the infection of distemper'd days

_Motto_ to 'The Landing-Place', Essay i, _The Friend_, 1818, i. 215;
1850, 165. The piecing together of the lines in the second stanza of the
motto was first noted by J. D. Campbell, in _The Athenæum_, art.
'Coleridge's Quotations,' Aug. 20, 1892.


13

CHRISTOPHER HARVEY

THE SYNAGOGUE

THE NATIVITY OR CHRISTMAS DAY.

  Unfold thy face, unmask thy ray,
  Shine forth, bright sun, double the day;
  Let no malignant misty fume
  Nor foggy vapour, once presume
  To interpose thy perfect sights,                                     5
  This day which makes us use thy lights
  For ever better that we could
  That blessed object once behold,
  Which is both the circumference
  And centre of all excellence, &c.                                   10

Substitute the following for the fifth to the eighth line.

  To sheath or blunt one happy ray,
  That wins new splendour from the day,--
  This day that gives thee power to rise,
  And shine on hearts as well as eyes:
  This birth-day of all souls, when first
  On eyes of flesh and blood did burst
  That primal great lucific light,
  That rays to thee, to us gave sight.
                                        [S. T. C.]


First published in 'Notes on Harvey's Synagogue', _Notes and Lectures_,
&c., 1849, ii. 263. Now first collected.

Coleridge's notes to _The Synagogue_, including these original lines,
were reprinted in the notes to _The Complete Poems_ of Christopher
Harvey, 1874, p. 47.


14

MARK AKENSIDE

BLANK VERSE INSCRIPTIONS

No. III.

[For Elegy Imitated from one of Akenside's 'Blank Verse Inscriptions',
vide _ante_, p. 69.]

  Whoe'er thou art whose path in Summer lies
  Through yonder village, turn thee where the Grove
  Of branching oaks a rural palace old
  Embosoms--there dwells Albert, generous lord
  Of all the harvest round. And onward thence                          5
  A low plain chapel fronts the morning light
  Fast by a silent rivulet. Humbly walk,
  O stranger, o'er the consecrated ground;
  And on that verdant Hillock, which thou seest
  Beset with osiers, let thy pious hand                               10
  Sprinkle fresh water from the brook, and strew
  Sweet-smelling flowers--for there doth Edmund rest,
  The learned shepherd; for each rural art
  Famed, and for songs harmonious, and the woes
  Of ill-requited love. The faithless pride                           15
  Of fair Matilda sank him to the grave
  In manhood's prime. But soon did righteous Heaven
  With tears, with sharp remorse, and pining care
  Avenge her falsehood. Nor could all the gold
  And nuptial pomp, which lured her plighted faith                    20
  From Edmund to a loftier husband's home,
  Relieve her breaking heart, or turn aside
  The strokes of death. Go, traveller, relate
  The mournful story. Haply some fair maid
  May hold it in remembrance, and be taught                           25
  That riches cannot pay for truth or love.


15

W. L. BOWLES

                         ----I yet remain
  To mourn the hours of youth (yet mourn in vain)
  That fled neglected: wisely thou hast trod
  The better path--and that high meed which God
  Assign'd to virtue, tow'ring from the dust,                          5
  Shall wait thy rising, Spirit pure and just!

  O God! how sweet it were to think, that all
  Who silent mourn around this gloomy ball
  Might hear the voice of joy;--but 'tis the will
  Of man's great Author, that thro' good and ill                      10
  Calm he should hold his course, and so sustain
  His varied lot of pleasure, toil and pain!

1793

['These lines,' which 'were found in Mr. Coleridge's handwriting in one
of the Prayer Books in the Chapel of Jesus College, Cambridge,' were
first published in _Lit. Rem._, 1836, i. 34. They were first collected
in _P. W._, 1885, i. 127. The first six lines are (see _P. W._, 1893, p.
474) taken from Bowles's elegy 'On the Death of Henry Headley'. J. D.
Campbell surmised that the last six lines 'practically belonged to the
same poem', but of this there is no evidence. The note of the elegy is a
lament for the 'untimely sorrow' which had befallen an innocent
sufferer, and the additional lines, which Coleridge composed or quoted,
moralized the theme.

_Note._ Bowles wrote, I, alas, remain (l. 1), and 'Ordain'd for virtue'
(l. 5).]


16

NAPOLEON

         Then we may thank ourselves,
  Who spell-bound by the magic name of Peace
  Dream golden dreams. Go, warlike Britain, go,
  For the grey olive-branch change thy green laurels:
  Hang up thy rusty helmet, that the bee                               5
  May have a hive, or spider find a loom!
  Instead of doubling drum and thrilling fife
  Be lull'd in lady's lap with amorous flutes:
  But for Napoleon, know, he'll scorn this calm:
  The ruddy planet at _his_ birth bore sway,                          10
  Sanguine adust his humour, and wild fire
  His ruling element. Rage, revenge, and cunning
  Make up the temper of this Captain's valour.

_Adapted from an old Play._

First published in _The Friend_, 1818, ii. 115. In later editions the
word 'Adapted' was omitted. First collected in 1893.

J. D. Campbell (_P. W._, 1893, p. 473) suggests that the 'calm' was,
probably, the 'Peace of Amiens'.




APPENDIX VI

ORIGINALS OF TRANSLATIONS


A

[Vide _ante_, p. 307]

MILESISCHES MÄHRCHEN

  Ein milesisches Mährchen, Adonide:
  Unter heiligen Lorbeerwipfeln glänzte
  Hoch auf rauschendem Vorgebirg ein Tempel.
  Aus den Fluthen erhub, von Pan gesegnet,
  In Gedüfte der Ferne sich ein Eiland.                                5
  Oft, in mondlicher Dämmrung, schwebt' ein Nachen
  Vom Gestade des heerdenreichen Eilands,
  Zur umwaldeten Bucht, wo sich ein Steinpfad
  Zwischen Mirten zum Tempelhain emporwand.
  Dort im Rosengebüsch, der Huldgöttinnen                             10
  Marmorgruppe geheiligt, fleht' oft einsam
  Eine Priesterin, reizend wie Apelles
  Seine Grazien malt, zum Sohn Cytherens,
  Ihren Kallias freundlich zu umschweben
  Und durch Wogen und Dunkel ihn zu leiten,                           15
  Bis der nächtliche Schiffer, wonneschauernd,
  An den Busen ihr sank.

The German original of the translation was published in _Poems_, 1852,
Notes, pp. 387-9.


B

[Vide _ante_, p. 307]

SCHILLER

DER EPISCHE HEXAMETER

  Schwindelnd trägt er dich fort auf rastlos strömenden Wogen;
    Hinter dir siehst du, du siehst vor dir nur Himmel und Meer.


DAS DISTICHON

  Im Hexameter steigt des Springquells flüssige Säule;
    Im Pentameter drauf fällt sie melodisch herab.

See _Poems_, 1844, p. 372.


C

[Vide _ante_, p. 308]

STOLBERG

ON A CATARACT

  Unsterblicher Jüngling!
  Du strömest hervor
  Aus der Felsenkluft.
  Kein Sterblicher sah
  Die Wiege des Starken;                                               5
  Es hörte kein Ohr
  Das Lallen des Edlen im sprudelnden Quell.

  Dich kleidet die Sonne
  In Strahlen des Ruhmes!
  Sie malet mit Farben des himmlischen Bogens                         10
  Die schwebenden Wolken der stäubenden Fluth.

See _Poems_, 1844, pp. 371-2.


D

[Vide _ante_, p. 309]

STOLBERG

BEI WILHELM TELLS GEBURTSSTÄTTE IM KANTON URI

  Seht diese heilige Kapell!
  Hier ward geboren Wilhelm Tell,
  Hier wo der Altar Gottes steht
  Stand seiner Eltern Ehebett!

  Mit Mutterfreuden freute sich                                        5
  Die liebe Mutter inniglich,
  Die gedachte nicht an ihren Schmerz
  Und hielt das Knäblein an ihr Herz.

  Sie flehte Gott: er sei dein Knecht,
  Sei stark und muthig und gerecht.                                   10
  Gott aber dachte: ich thu' mehr
  Durch ihn als durch ein ganzes Heer.

  Er gab dem Knaben warmes Blut,
  Des Rosses Kraft, des Adlers Muth,
  Im Felsennacken freien Sinn,                                        15
  Des Falken Aug' und Feuer drin!

  Dem Worte sein' und der Natur
  Vertraute Gott das Knäblein nur;
  Wo sich der Felsenstrom ergeusst
  Erhub sich früh des Helden Geist.                                   20

  Das Ruder und die Gemsenjagd
  Hatt' seine Glieder stark gemacht;
  Er scherzte früh mit der Gefahr
  Und wusste nicht wie gross er war.

  Er wusste nicht dass seine Hand,                                    25
  Durch Gott gestärkt, sein Vaterland
  Erretten würde von der Schmach
  Der Knechtschaft, deren Joch er brach.

  FRIEDRICH LEOPOLD
  GRAF ZU STOLBERG,
  1775

The German original is supplied in the Notes to _P. W._, 1893, pp. 618,
619.


E

[Vide _ante_, p. 310]

SCHILLER

DITHYRAMBE

  Nimmer, das glaubt mir,
  Erscheinen die Götter,
  Nimmer allein.
  Kaum dass ich Bacchus, den Lustigen, habe,
  Kommt auch schon Amor, der lächelnde Knabe,                          5
  Phöbus, der Herrliche, findet sich ein!
      Sie nahen, sie kommen--
      Die Himmlischen alle,
      Mit Göttern erfüllt sich
      Die irdische Halle.                                             10

  Sagt, wie bewirth' ich,
  Der Erdegeborne,
  Himmlischen Chor?
  Schenket mir euer unsterbliches Leben,
  Götter! Was kann euch der Sterbliche geben?                         15
  Hebet zu eurem Olymp mich empor.
      Die Freude, sie wohnt nur
      In Jupiters Saale;
      O füllet mit Nektar,
      O reicht mir die Schale!                                        20

  Reich' ihm die Schale!
  Schenke dem Dichter,
  Hebe, nur ein!
  Netz' ihm die Augen mit himmlischem Thaue,
  Dass er den Styx, den verhassten, nicht schaue,                     25
  Einer der Unsern sich dünke zu seyn.
      Sie rauschet, sie perlet,
      Die himmlische Quelle:
      Der Busen wird ruhig,
      Das Auge wird helle.                                            30

The German original is printed in the Notes to _P. W._, 1893, p. 619.


F

[Vide _ante_, p. 311]

GOETHE

_Wilhelm Meister_, Bk. III, Cap. 1.--_Sämmtliche Werke_, 1860, iii, p.
194.

  Kennst du das Land, wo die Citronen blühn,
  Im dunkeln Laub die Goldorangen glühn,
  Ein sanfter Wind vom blauen Himmel weht,
  Die Myrte still und hoch der Lorbeer steht
      Dahin! Dahin                                                     5
  Möcht' ich mit dir, o mein Geliebter, ziehn.


G

[Vide _ante_, p. 311]

FRANÇOIS-ANTOINE-EUGÈNE DE PLANARD

'BATELIER, DIT LISETTE'

_Marie, opéra-comique en trois actes_, 1826, p. 9.


  SUSETTE, _assise dans la barque_.

  Batelier, dit Lisette,
  Je voudrais passer l'eau,
  Mais je suis bien pauvrette
  Pour payer le bateau:
  --Venez, venez, toujours . . .                                       5
  Et vogue la nacelle
  Qui porte mes amours!

(_Ils abordent. Lubin reste sur la rive à attacher sa barque._)


  SUSETTE, _s'avancant en scène_.

  Je m'en vais chez mon père,
  Dit Lisette à Colin.
  --Eh bien! Crois-tu, ma chère,                                      10
  Qu'il m'accorde ta main?
  --Ah! répondit la belle,
  Osez, osez toujours.
  --Et vogue la nacelle
  Qui porte mes amours!                                               15


  LUBIN et SUSETTE

  Après le mariage,
  Toujours dans son bateau
  Colin fut le plus sage
  Des maris du hameau.
  A sa chanson fidèle,                                                20
  Il répète toujours:
  Et vogue la nacelle
  Qui porte mes amours!


H

[Vide _ante_, p. 313]

DES KNABEN WUNDERHORN

  Wenn ich ein Vöglein wär
  Und auch zwei Flüglein hätt',
  Flög' ich zu dir;
  Weil's aber nicht kann sein,
  Weil's aber nicht kann sein,                                         5
  Bleib' ich allhier.

  Bin ich gleich weit von dir,
  Bin ich doch im Schlaf bei dir
  Und red' mit dir;
  Wenn ich erwachen thu',                                             10
  Wenn ich erwachen thu',
  Bin ich allein.

  Es vergeht keine Stund' in der Nacht
  Da mein Herz nicht erwacht
  Und an dich gedenkt.                                                15
  Wie du mir viel tausendmal,
  Wie du mir viel tausendmal,
  Dein Herz geschenkt.


I

STOLBERG

Lied eines deutschen Knaben.--_Gesammelte Werke_, Hamburg, 1827, i. 42.

  Mein Arm wird stark und gross mein Muth,
  Gieb, Vater, mir ein Schwert!
  Verachte nicht mein junges Blut;
  Ich bin der Väter werth!

  Ich finde fürder keine Ruh                                           5
  Im weichen Knabenstand!
  Ich stürb', O Vater, stolz, wie du,
  Den Tod für's Vaterland!

  Schon früh in meiner Kindheit war
  Mein täglich Spiel der Krieg!                                       10
  Im Bette träumt' ich nur Gefahr
  Und Wunden nur und Sieg.

  Mein Feldgeschrei erweckte mich
  Aus mancher Türkenschlacht;
  Noch jüngst ein Faustschlag, welchen ich                            15
  Dem Bassa zugedacht!

  Da neulich unsrer Krieger Schaar
  Auf dieser Strasse zog,
  Und, wie ein Vogel, der Husar
  Das Haus vorüberflog,                                               20

  Da gaffte starr und freute sich
  Der Knaben froher Schwarm:
  Ich aber, Vater, härmte mich,
  Und prüfte meinen Arm!

  Mein Arm ist stark und gross mein Muth,                             25
  Gieb, Vater, mir ein Schwert!
  Verachte nicht mein junges Blut;
  Ich bin der Väter werth!

The German original is printed in the Notes to _P. W._, 1893, pp. 617,
618.


J

[Vide _ante_, p. 318]

LESSING

_Sämmtliche Schriften_, vol. i, p. 50, ed. Lachmann-Maltzahn, Leipzig,
1853.

DIE NAMEN.

  Ich fragte meine Schöne:
  Wie soll mein Lied dich nennen?
  Soll dich als Dorimana,
  Als Galathee, als Chloris,
  Als Lesbia, als Doris,                                               5
  Die Welt der Enkel kennen?
  Ach! Namen sind nur Töne;
  Sprach meine holde Schöne,
  Wähl' selbst. Du kannst mich Doris,
  Und Galathee und Chloris                                            10
  Und ---- wie du willst mich nennen:
  Nur nenne mich die deine.

The German original is printed in the Notes to _P. W._, 1893, pp. 619,
620.


K

[Vide _ante_, p. 327]

STOLBERG

HYMNE AN DIE ERDE.

  Erde, du Mutter zahlloser Kinder, Mutter und Amme!
  Sei mir gegrüsst! Sei mir gesegnet im Feiergesange!
  Sieh, O Mutter, hier lieg' ich an deinen schwellenden Brüsten!
  Lieg', O Grüngelockte, von deinem wallenden Haupthaar
  Sanft umsäuselt und sanft geküsst von thauenden Lüften!              5
  Ach, du säuselst Wonne mir zu, und thauest mir Wehmuth
  In das Herz, dass Wehmuth und Wonn' aus schmelzender Seele
  Sich in Thränen und Dank und heiligen Liedern ergiessen!
  Erde, du Mutter zahlloser Kinder, Mutter und Amme!
  Schwester der allesfreuenden Sonne, des freundlichen Mondes         10
  Und der strahlenden Stern', und flammenbeschweiften Kometen,
  Eine der jüngsten Töchter der allgebärenden Schöpfung,
  Immer blühendes Weib des segenträufelnden Himmels!
  Sprich, O Erde, wie war dir als du am ersten der Tage
  Deinen heiligen Schooss dem buhlenden Himmel enthülltest?           15
  Dein Erröthen war die erste der Morgenröthen,
  Als er im blendenden Bette von weichen schwellenden Wolken
  Deine gürtende Binde mit siegender Stärke dir löste!
  Schauer durchbebten die stille Natur und tausend und tausend
  Leben keimten empor aus der mächtigen Liebesumarmung.               20
  Freudig begrüssten die Fluthen des Meeres neuer Bewohner
  Mannigfaltige Schaaren; es staunte der werdende Wallfisch
  Ueber die steigenden Ströme die seiner Nasen entbrausten;
  Junges Leben durchbrüllte die Auen, die Wälder, die Berge,
  Irrte blökend im Thal, und sang in blühenden Stauden.               25

The German original is printed in the Notes to _P. W._, 1893, p. 615.



L

[Vide _ante_, p. 376]

FRIEDERIKE BRUN

CHAMOUNY BEYM SONNENAUFGANGE

(Nach Klopstock.)

  'Aus tiefem Schatten des schweigenden Tannenhains
  Erblick' ich bebend dich, Scheitel der Ewigkeit,
  Blendenden Gipfel, von dessen Höhe
  Ahndend mein Geist ins Unendliche schwebet!

  'Wer senkte den Pfeiler tief in der Erde Schooss,                    5
  Der, seit Jahrtausenden, fest deine Masse stützt?
  Wer thürmte hoch in des Aethers Wölbung
  Mächtig und kühn dein umstrahltes Antlitz?

  'Wer goss Euch hoch aus des ewigen Winters Reich,
  O Zackenströme, mit Donnergetös' herab?                             10
  Und wer gebietet laut mit der Allmacht Stimme:
  "Hier sollen ruhen die starrenden Wogen"?

  'Wer zeichnet dort dem Morgensterne die Bahn?
  Wen kränzt mit Blüthen des ewigen Frostes Saum?
  Wem tönt in schrecklichen Harmonieen,                               15
  Wilder Arveiron, dein Wogengetümmel?

  'Jehovah! Jehovah! Kracht's im berstenden Eis:
  Lawinendonner rollen's die Kluft hinab:
  Jehovah Rauscht's in den hellen Wipfeln,
  Flüstert's an rieselnden Silberbächen.'                             20

See _Poems_, 1844, p. 572.


M

[Vide _ante_, p. 392]

_Opere del Cavalier Giambattista Marino_, with introduction by Giuseppe
Zirardini. Napoli, 1861, p. 550.

ALLA SUA AMICA

_Sonetto._

    Donna, siam rei di morte. Errasti, errai;
  Di perdon non son degni i nostri errori,
  Tu che avventasti in me sì fieri ardori
  Io che le fiamme a sì bel sol furai.

    Io che una fiera rigida adorai,                                    5
  Tu che fosti sord' aspra a' miei dolori;
  Tu nell' ire ostinata, io negli amori:
  Tu pur troppo sdegnasti, io troppo amai.

    Or la pena laggiù nel cieco Averno
  Pari al fallo n'aspetta. Arderà poi,                                10
  Chi visse in foco, in vivo foco eterno.

    Quivi: se Amor fia giusto, amboduo noi,
  All' incendio dannati, avrem l' inferno,
  Tu nel mio core, ed io negli occhi tuoi.

The Italian original is printed in the Notes to _P. W._, 1893, p. 632.


N

[Vide _ante_, p. 409]

  In diesem Wald, in diesen Gründen
  Herrscht nichts, als Freyheit, Lust und Ruh.
  Hier sagen wir der Liebe zu,
  Im dichtsten Schatten uns zu finden:
  Da find' ich dich, mich findest du.                                  5

The German original is translated from an MS. Notebook of ? 1801.


O

[Vide _ante_, p. 414]

THE MADMAN AND THE LETHARGIST

  Κοινῇ πὰρ κλισίῃ ληθαργικὸς ἠδὲ φρενοπλὴξ
    κείμενοι, ἀλλήλων νοῦσον ἀπεσκέδασαν.
  ἐξέθορε κλίνης γὰρ ὁ τολμήεις ὑπὸ λύσσης,
    καὶ τὸν ἀναίσθητον παντὸς ἔτυπτε μέλους.
  πληγαὶ δ' ἀμφοτέροις ἐγένοντ' ἄκος, αἷς ὁ μὲν αὐτῶν                                5
    ἔγρετο, τὸν δ' ὕπνῳ πουλὺς ἔριψε κόπος.

_Anthologia Græca_, Lib. 1, Cap. 45.

See Lessing's 'Zerstreute Anmerkungen über das Epigramm', _Sämmtliche
Werke_, 1824, ii. 22.


P

[Vide _ante_, p. 427]

MADRIGALI DEL SIGNOR CAVALIER GUARINI

DIALOGO

FEDE, SPERANZA, CARITÀ.


  FEDE.

  Canti terreni amori
    Chi terreno hà il pensier, terreno il zelo;
    Noi Celesti Virtù cantiam del Cielo.


  CARITÀ.

  Mà chi fia, che vi ascolti
    Fuggirà i nostri accenti orecchia piena                            5
    De le lusinghe di mortal Sirena?


  SPERANZA.

  Cantiam pur, che raccolti
    Saran ben in virtù di chi li move;
    E suoneran nel Ciel, se non altrove.


  FE. SP. CA.

  Spirane dunque, eterno Padre, il canto,                             10
    Che già festi al gran Cantor Ebreo,
    Che poi tant' alto feo
  Suonar la gloria del tuo nomine santo.


  CA. FE.

  Noi siam al Ciel rapite
    E pur lo star in terra è nostra cura,                             15
    A ricondur à Dio l' alme smarrite.


  FE. SP.

  Così facciamo, e 'n questa valle oscura
    L' una sia scorta al sol d' l' intelletto,
    L' altra sostegno al vacillante affetto.


  CA.

  E com' è senz' amor l' anima viva?                                  20


  SP. FE.

  Come stemprata cetra,
    Che suona sì, mà di concento priva.


  CA. SP.

  Amor' è quel, ch' ogni gran dono impetra.


  FE.

  Mà tempo è, che le genti
    Odan l' alta virtù de' nostri accenti.                            25


  FE. SP. CA.

  O mondo--eco la via;
    Chi vuol salir' al Ciel, creda, ami, e spetti.
    O félici pensieri
    Di chi, per far in Dio santa armonia
    E per ogn' altro suon l'anima hà sorda,                           30
    FEDE, SPERANZA, e CARITATE accenda.


  Il Pastor Fido

      Con le Rime
           del
    Signor Cavalier
    Battista Guarini
    In Amstelodami

Madrigali 138, 139. 1663 or 9.


Q

[Vide _ante_, p. 435]

STOLBERG

'_An das Meer._'

  Der blinde Sänger stand am Meer,
  Die Wogen rauschten um ihn her,
  Und Riesenthaten goldner Zeit
  Umrauschten ihn im Feierkleid.

  Es kam zu ihm auf Schwanenschwung                                    5
  Melodisch die Begeisterung,
  Und Iliad und Odyssee
  Entsteigen mit Gesang der See.

The German original is printed in the Notes to _P. W._, 1893, p. 639.
See, too, Prefatory Memoir to the Tauchnitz edition of Coleridge's
_Poems_, by P. Freiligrath (1852).




BIBLIOGRAPHY

OF THE

POETICAL WORKS OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE

1794-1834


I

The / FALL / of / ROBESPIERRE. / An / HISTORIC DRAMA. / By S. T.
COLERIDGE, / Of Jesus College, Cambridge. / [=Cambridge=]: / Printed by
Benjamin Flower, / For W. H. Lunn, and J. and J. Merrill; and Sold / By
J. March, Norwich. / 1794. / [Price One Shilling.]                [8{o}.

_Collation._--Title, one leaf, p. [i], [Dedication] To H. Martin,
_Esq._, Of Jesus College, Cambridge (dated, September 22. 1794), p. [3];
Text, pp. [5]-37.


II

POEMS / on / VARIOUS SUBJECTS, /By S. T. COLERIDGE, / Late of Jesus
College, Cambridge. / Felix curarum, cui non Heliconia cordi / Serta,
nec imbelles Parnassi e vertice laurus! / Sed viget ingenium, et magnos
accinctus in usus / Fert animus quascunque vices.--Nos tristia vitae /
Solamur cantu. / STAT. _Silv._ Lib. iv. 4.[1135:1] / LONDON: / Printed
for G. G. and J. Robinsons, and / J. Cottle, Bookseller, Bristol. /
1796. /                                                           [8{o}.

_Collation._--Half-title, Poems / on Various Subjects, / By / S. T.
Coleridge, / Late / Of Jesus College, Cambridge. /, one leaf, p. [i];
Title, one leaf, p. [iii]; Preface, pp. [v]-xi; Contents, pp.
[xiii]-xvi; Text, pp. [1]-168; Notes on _Religious Musings_, pp.
[169]-175; Notes, pp. [177]-188; Errata, p. [189].[1135:2]


_Contents._--


PREFACE

Poems on various subjects written at different times and prompted by
very different feelings; but which will be read at one time and under
the influence of one set of feelings--this is an heavy disadvantage: for
we love or admire a poet in proportion as he developes our own
sentiments and emotions, or reminds us of our own knowledge.

Compositions resembling those of the present volume are not unfrequently
condemned for their querulous egotism. But egotism is to be condemned
then only when it offends against time and place, as in an History or an
Epic Poem. To censure it in a Monody or Sonnet is almost as absurd as to
dislike a circle for being round. Why then write Sonnets or Monodies?
Because they give me pleasure when perhaps nothing else could. After the
more violent emotions of Sorrow, the mind demands solace and can find it
in employment alone; but full of its late sufferings it can endure no
employment not connected with those sufferings. Forcibly to turn away
our attention to other subjects is a painful and in general an
unavailing effort.

  "But O how grateful to a wounded heart
   The tale of misery to impart;
   From others' eyes bid artless sorrows flow
   And raise esteem upon the base of woe!"[1136:1]

The communicativeness of our nature leads us to describe our own
sorrows; in the endeavor to describe them intellectual activity is
exerted; and by a benevolent law of our nature from intellectual
activity a pleasure results which is gradually associated and mingles as
a corrective with the painful subject of the description. True! it may
be answered, but how are the PUBLIC interested in your sorrows or your
description? We are for ever attributing a personal unity to imaginary
aggregates. What is the PUBLIC but a term for a number of scattered
individuals of whom as many will be interested in these sorrows as have
experienced the same or similar?

                                 "Holy be the Lay,
  Which mourning soothes the mourner on his way!"

There is one species of egotism which is truly disgusting; not that
which leads us to communicate our feelings to others, but that which
would reduce the feelings of others to an identity with our own. The
Atheist, who exclaims "pshaw!" when he glances his eye on the praises of
Deity, is an Egotist; an old man, when he speaks contemptuously of
love-verses, is an Egotist; and your sleek favourites of Fortune are
Egotists, when they condemn all "melancholy discontented" verses.

Surely it would be candid not merely to ask whether the Poem pleases
ourselves, but to consider whether or no there may not be others to whom
it is well-calculated to give an innocent pleasure. With what anxiety
every fashionable author avoids the word _I_!--now he transforms himself
into a third person,--"the present writer"--now multiplies himself and
swells into "_we_"--and all this is the watchfulness of guilt. Conscious
that this said _I_ is perpetually intruding on his mind and that it
monopolizes his heart, he is prudishly solicitous that it may not escape
from his lips.

This disinterestedness of phrase is in general commensurate with
selfishness of feeling: men old and hackneyed in the ways of the world
are scrupulous avoiders of Egotism.

Of the following Poems a considerable number are styled "Effusions," in
defiance of Churchill's line

  "Effusion on Effusion _pour_ away."[1136:2]

I could recollect no title more descriptive of the manner and matter of
the Poems--I might indeed have called the majority of them Sonnets--but
they do not possess that _oneness_ of thought which I deem indispensible
(sic) in a Sonnet--and (not a very honorable motive perhaps) I was
fearful that the title "Sonnet" might have reminded my reader of the
Poems of the Rev. W. L. Bowles--a comparison with whom would have sunk
me below that mediocrity, on the surface of which I am at present
enabled to float.

Some of the verses allude to an intended emigration to America on the
scheme of an abandonment of individual property.

The Effusions signed C. L. were written by Mr. CHARLES LAMB, of the
India House--independently of the signature their superior merit would
have sufficiently distinguished them. For the rough sketch of Effusion
XVI, I am indebted to Mr. FAVELL. And the first half of Effusion XV was
written by the Author of "Joan of Arc", an Epic Poem.


NOTES ATTACHED TO A FIRST DRAFT OF THE PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION
[_MS. R_]

(i)

I cannot conclude the Preface without expressing my grateful
acknowledgments to Mr. Cottle, Bristol, for the liberality with which
(with little probability I know of remuneration from the sale) he
purchased the poems, and the typographical elegance by which he
endeavoured to recommend them, (or)--the liberal assistance which he
afforded me, by the purchase of the copyright with little probability of
remuneration from the sale of the Poems.

[This acknowledgement, which was omitted from the Preface to the First
Edition, was rewritten and included in the 'Advertisement' to the
'Supplement' to the Second Edition.]

(ii)

To EARL STANHOPE

  A man beloved of Science and of Freedom, these Poems are
                 respectfully inscribed by
                       The Author.

[In a letter to Miss Cruikshank (? 1807) (_Early Recollections_, 1837,
i. 201), Coleridge maintains that the 'Sonnet to Earl Stanhope', which
was published in _Poems_, 1796 (vide _ante_, pp. 89, 90), 'was inserted
by the fool of a publisher [Cottle prints 'inserted by Biggs, the fool
of a printer'] in order, forsooth, that he might send the book and a
letter to Earl Stanhope; who (to prove that he is not _mad_ in all
things) treated both book and letter with silent contempt.' In a note
Cottle denies this statement, and maintains that the 'book (handsomely
bound) and the letter were sent to Lord S. by Mr. C. himself'. It is
possible that before the book was published Coleridge had repented of
Sonnet, Dedication, and Letter, and that the 'handsomely bound' volume
was sent by Cottle and not by Coleridge, but the 'Dedication' is in his
own handwriting and proves that he was, in the first instance at least,
_particeps criminis_. See Note by J. D. Campbell, _P. W._, 1893, pp.
575, 576.]


CONTENTS

                                                                    PAGE
  Monody to Chatterton                                                 1
  To the Rev. W. J. H.                                                12
  Songs of the Pixies                                                 15
  Lines on the Man of Ross                                            26
  Lines to a beautiful Spring                                         28
  Epitaph on an Infant                                                31
  Lines on a Friend                                                   32
  To a Young Lady with a Poem                                         36
  Absence, a Farewell Ode                                             40
  Effusion 1, to Bowles                                               45
  Effusion 2, to Burke                                                46
  Effusion 3, to Mercy                                                47
  Effusion 4, to Priestley                                            48
  Effusion 5, to Erskine                                              49
  Effusion 6, to Sheridan                                             50
  Effusion 7, to Siddons [signed 'C. L.']                             51
  Effusion 8, to Kosciusco                                            52
  Effusion 9, to Fayette                                              53
  Effusion 10, to Earl Stanhope                                       54
  Effusion 11 ['Was it some sweet device'--'C. L.']                   55
  Effusion 12 ['Methinks how dainty sweet'--'C. L.']                  56
  Effusion 13, written at Midnight ['C. L.']                          57
  Effusion 14                                                         59
  Effusion 15                                                         60
  Effusion 16, to an Old Man                                          61
  Effusion 17, to Genevieve                                           62
  Effusion 18, to the Autumnal Moon                                   63
  Effusion 19, to my own heart                                        64
  Effusion 20, to Schiller                                            65
  Effusion 21, on Brockley Coomb                                      66
  [Effusion 22,] To a Friend with an unfinished Poem                  68
  Effusion 23, to the Nightingale                                     71
  Effusion 24, in the manner of Spencer                               73
  Effusion 25, to Domestic Peace                                      77
  Effusion 26, on a Kiss                                              78
  Effusion 27                                                         80
  Effusion 28                                                         82
  Effusion 29, Imitated from Ossian                                   84
  Effusion 30, Complaint of Ninathoma                                 86
  Effusion 31, from the Welsh                                         88
  Effusion 32, The Sigh                                               89
  Effusion 33, to a Young Ass                                         91
  Effusion 34, to an Infant                                           94
  Effusion 35, written at Clevedon                                    96
  Effusion 36, written in Early Youth                                101
  Epistle 1, written at Shurton Bars                                 111
  Epistle 2, to a Friend in answer to a Melancholy Letter            119
  Epistle 3, written after a Walk                                    122
  Epistle 4, to the Author of Poems published in Bristol             125
  Epistle 5, from a Young Lady                                       129
  Religious Musings                                                  139


III

[A SHEET OF SONNETS.]

_Collation._--No title; Introduction, pp. [1]-2; Text (of Sonnets Nos.
i-xxviii), pp. 3-16. Signatures A. B. B{2}. [1796.]               [8{o}.

[There is no imprint. In a letter to John Thelwall, dated December 17,
1796 (_Letters of S. T. C._, 1895, i, 206), Coleridge writes, 'I have
sent you . . . Item, a sheet of sonnets collected by me, for the use of
a few friends, who payed the printing.' The 'sheet' is bound up with a
copy of 'Sonnets and Other poems, by The Rev. W. L. Bowles A. M. Bath,
printed by R. Cruttwell: and sold by C. Dilly, Poultry, London,
MDCCXCVI. _Fourth Edition_,' which was presented to Mrs. Thelwall, Dec.
18, 1796. At the end of the 'Sonnets' a printed slip (probably a cutting
from a newspaper) is inserted, which contains the lines 'To a FRIEND who
had declared his intention of Writing no more Poetry' (vide _ante_, pp.
158, 159). This volume is now in the Dyce Collection, which forms part
of the Victoria and Albert Museum. See _P. and D. W._, 1877, ii, pp.
375-9, and _P. W._, 1893, p. 544.]


_Contents._--


[INTRODUCTION]

The composition of the Sonnet has been regulated by Boileau in his Art /
of Poetry, and since Boileau, by William Preston, in the elegant preface
/ to his Amatory Poems: the rules, which they would establish, are
founded / on the practice of Petrarch. I have never yet been able to
discover either / sense, nature, or poetic fancy in Petrarch's poems;
they appear to me all / one cold glitter of heavy conceits and
metaphysical abstractions. How/ever, Petrarch, although not the inventor
of the Sonnet, was the first / who made it popular; and _his_ countrymen
have taken his poems as the / model. Charlotte Smith and Bowles are they
who first made the Sonnet / popular among the present English: I am
justified therefore by analogy / in deducing its laws from _their_
compositions.

The Sonnet then is a small poem, in which some lonely feeling is
de/veloped. It is limited to a _particular_ number of lines, in order
that the / reader's mind having expected the close at the place in which
he finds it, / may rest satisfied; and that so the poem may acquire, as
it were, a _Totality_,/--in 15 plainer phrase, may become a _Whole_. It
is confined to fourteen lines, / because as some particular number is
necessary, and that particular / number must be a small one, it may as
well be fourteen as any other / number. When no reason can be adduced
against a thing, Custom is a / sufficient reason for it. Perhaps, if the
Sonnet were comprized in less / than fourteen lines, it would become a
serious Epigram; if it extended to / more, it would encroach on the
province of the Elegy. Poems, in which / no lonely feeling is developed,
are not Sonnets because the Author has / chosen to write them in
fourteen lines; they should rather be entitled / Odes, or Songs, or
Inscriptions. The greater part of Warton's Sonnets are / severe and
masterly likenesses of the style of the Greek επιγραμματα.

In a Sonnet then we require a developement of some lonely feeling, by /
whatever cause it may have been excited; but those Sonnets appear to me
/ the most exquisite, in which moral Sentiments, Affections, or
Feelings, / are deduced from, and associated with, the scenery of
Nature. Such / compositions generate a habit of thought highly
favourable to delicacy of / character. They create a sweet and
indissoluble union between the / intellectual and the material world.
Easily remembered from their briefness, / and interesting alike to the
eye and the affections, these are the poems / which we can "lay up in
our heart, and our soul," and repeat them "when / we walk by the way,
and when we lie down, and when we rise up". / Hence the Sonnets of
_Bowles_ derive their marked superiority over all / other Sonnets; hence
they domesticate with the heart, and become, as it / were, a part of our
identity.

Respecting the metre of a Sonnet, the Writer should consult his own /
convenience.--Rhymes, many or few, or no rhymes at all--whatever the /
chastity of his ear may prefer, whatever the rapid expression of his /
feelings will permit;--all these things are left at his own disposal. A
same/ness in the final sound of its words is the great and grievous
defect of the / Italian language. That rule, therefore, which the
Italians have estab/lished, of exactly _four_ different sounds in the
Sonnet, seems to have arisen / from their wish to have _as many_, not
from any dread of finding _more_. But / surely it is ridiculous to make
the _defect_ of a foreign language a reason for / our not availing
ourselves of one of the marked excellencies of our own. / "The Sonnet
(says Preston,) will ever be cultivated by those who write on / tender,
pathetic subjects. It is peculiarly adapted to the state of a man /
violently agitated by a real passion, and wanting composure and vigor of
/ mind to methodize his thought. It is fitted to express a momentary
burst / of Passion" etc. Now, if there be one species of composition
more difficult / and artificial than another, it is an English Sonnet on
the Italian Model. / Adapted to the agitations of a real passion!
Express momentary bursts / of feeling in it! I should sooner expect to
write pathetic _Axes_ or _pour / forth Extempore Eggs_ and
_Altars_![1140:1] But the best confutation of such idle rules / is to be
found in the Sonnets of those who have observed them, in their /
inverted sentences, their quaint phrases, and incongruous mixture of /
obsolete and Spenserian words: and when, at last, the thing is toiled
and / hammered into fit shape, it is in general racked and tortured
Prose rather / than any thing resembling Poetry. Miss Seward, who has
perhaps / succeeded the best in these laborious trifles and who most
dogmatically / insists on what she calls "the sonnet-claim," has written
a very in/genious although unintentional burlesque on her own system, in
the / following lines prefixed to the Poems of a Mr. Carey.

  "Prais'd be the Poet, who the sonnet-claim,
  Severest of the orders that belong
  Distinct and separate to the Delphic song                           70
  Shall reverence, nor its appropriate name
  Lawless assume: peculiar is its frame--
  From him derived, who spurn'd the city throng,
  And warbled sweet the rocks and woods among,
  Lonely Valclusa! and that heir of Fame,                             75
  Our greater Milton, hath in many a lay
  Woven on this arduous model, clearly shewn
  That English verse may happily display
  Those strict energic measures which alone
  Deserve the name of Sonnet, and convey                              80
  A spirit, force, and grandeur, all their own!
                                    "ANNE SEWARD."

  "_A spirit, force, and grandeur, all their own!!_"--EDITOR.[1140:2]


[SONNETS]

  SONNET

     I. TO A FRIEND

'Bereave me not of these delightful Dreams.'--W. L. BOWLES.[1141:1]

    II. 'With many a weary step at length I gain.'--R. SOUTHEY.

   III. TO SCOTLAND

'Scotland! when thinking on each heathy hill.'--C. LLOYD.

    IV. TO CRAIG-MILLAR CASTLE IN WHICH MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS WAS
        CONFINED.

'This hoary labyrinth, the wreck of Time.'--C. LLOYD.

     V. TO THE RIVER OTTER

'Dear native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West.'--S. T. COLERIDGE.

    VI. 'O Harmony! thou tenderest Nurse of Pain.'--W. L. BOWLES.

   VII. TO EVENING

'What numerous tribes beneath thy shadowy wing.'--BAMFIELD.

  VIII. ON BATHING

'When late the trees were stript by winter pale'.--T. WARTON.

    IX. 'When eddying Leaves begun in whirls to fly.'--HENRY BROOKS,
        (_the Author of the Fool of Quality_.)

     X. 'We were two pretty Babes, the younger she'.--CHARLES LAMB.

[_Note_]. Innocence which while we possess it is playful as a babe,
becomes AWFUL, when it departs from us. That is the sentiment of the
line, a fine sentiment, and nobly expressed.--THE EDITOR.

    XI. 'I knew a gentle maid I ne'er shall view.'--W. SOTHEBY.

   XII. 'Was it some sweet device of faery land.'--CHARLES LAMB.

  XIII. 'When last I rov'd these winding wood-walks green.'--CHARLES
        LAMB.

   XIV. ON A DISCOVERY MADE TOO LATE.

'Thou bleedest, my poor HEART! and thy distress.'--S. T. COLERIDGE.

    XV. 'Hard by the road, where on that little mound.'--ROBERT SOUTHEY.

   XVI. THE <DW64> SLAVE

'Oh he is worn with toil! the big drops run.'--ROBERT SOUTHEY.

  XVII. 'Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled.'--S. T. COLERIDGE.

 XVIII. 'Could then the babes from yon unshelter'd cot.'--THOMAS RUSSEL.

   XIX. 'Mild arch of promise on the evening sky.'--ROBERT SOUTHEY.

    XX. 'Oh! She was almost speechless nor could hold.'--CHARLES LLOYD.

   XXI. 'When from my dreary Home I first mov'd on'--CHARLES LLOYD.

  XXII. 'In this tumultuous sphere for thee unfit.'--CHARLOTTE SMITH.

 XXIII. 'I love the mournful sober-suited NIGHT.'--CHARLOTTE SMITH.

  XXIV. 'Lonely I sit upon the silent shore.'--THOMAS DERMODY.

   XXV. 'Oh! I could laugh to hear the midnight wind.'--CHARLES LAMB.

  XXVI. 'Thou whose stern spirit loves the awful storm.'--W. L. BOWLES.

 XXVII. 'INGRATITUDE, how deadly is thy smart.'--ANNA SEWARD.

XXVIII. TO THE AUTHOR OF THE "ROBBERS"

'That fearful voice, a famish'd Father's cry.'--S. T. COLERIDGE.

[At the foot of l. 14. S. T. C. writes--

     'I affirm, John Thelwall! that the six last lines of this
     Sonnet to Schiller are strong and fiery; and you are the only
     one who thinks otherwise.--There's! a _spurt_ of Author-like
     Vanity for you!']


IV

ODE / ON THE / DEPARTING YEAR. / BY S. T. COLERIDGE. / Ιου, ιου, ω ω κακα,
Υπ' αυ με δεινος ορθομαντειας πονος / Στροβει, ταρασσων φροιμιοις εφημιοις, / . . . . . / το
μελλον ηξει· και συ μην ταχει παρων / Αγαν γ' αληθομαντιν μ' ερεις. / ÆSCHYL. AGAMEM.
1225. / BRISTOL; Printed by N. Biggs, / and sold by J. Parsons,
Paternoster Row, London. / 1796. /                                [4{o}.

_Collation._--Title, one leaf, p. [1]; Dedication, To Thomas Poole of
Stowey, pp. [3]-4; Text, pp. [5]-15; LINES Addressed to a Young Man of
Fortune who abandoned himself to an indolent and causeless Melancholy
(signed) [=S. T. Coleridge=], p. 16. [Signatures--B (p. 5)--D (p. 13).]


V

POEMS, / By / S. T. COLERIDGE, / Second Edition. / To which are now
added / POEMS / _By_ CHARLES LAMB, / And / CHARLES LLOYD. / Duplex nobis
vinculum, et amicitiae et similium / junctarumque Camœnarum; quod
utinam neque mors / solvat, neque temporis longinquitas! / _Groscoll.
Epist. ad Car. Utenhov. et Ptol. Lux. Tast._ / Printed by N. Biggs, /
For J. Cottle, BRISTOL, and Messrs. / Robinsons, London. / 1797. /
                                                                  [8{o}.

_Collation._--Title-page, one leaf, p. [i]; Half-title, one leaf,
[=Poems=] / by / [=S. T. Coleridge=] / [followed by Motto as in No. II],
pp. [iii]-[iv]; Contents, pp. [v]-vi; DEDICATION, _To the Reverend_
GEORGE COLERIDGE of OTTERY St. MARY, / DEVON. Notus in frates animi
paterni. _Hor. Carm. Lib._ II. 2. /, pp. [vii]-xii; Preface to the First
Edition, pp. [xiii]-xvi; Preface to the Second Edition, pp. [xvii]-xx;
Half-title, [=Ode=] / _on the_ / [=Departing Year=] [with motto (5
lines) from Aeschy. Agamem. 1225], one leaf, pp. [1]-[2]; Argument, pp.
[3]-[4]; Text, pp. [5]-278; Errata (four lines) at the foot of p. 278.

[Carolus Utenhovius (Utenhove, or Uyttenhove) and Ptolomœus Luxius
Tasteus were scholar friends of the Scottish poet and historian George
Buchanan (1506-1582), who prefixes some Iambics 'Carolo Utenhovio F. S.'
to his Hexameters 'Franciscanus et Fratres'. In some Elegiacs addressed
to Tasteus and Tevius, in which he complains of his sufferings from gout
and kindred maladies, he tells them that Groscollius (Professor of
Medicine at the University of Paris) was doctoring him with herbs and by
suggestion:--'Et spe languentem consilioque juvat'. Hence the three
names. In another set of Iambics entitled 'Mutuus Amor' in which he
celebrates the alliance between Scotland and England he writes:--

  Non mortis hoc propinquitas
  Non temporis longinquitas
  Solvet, fides quod nexuit
  Intaminata vinculum.

Hence the wording of the motto. Groscollius is, of course, a _mot à
double entente_. It is a name and a nickname. The interpretation of the
names and the reference to Buchanan's Hexameters were first pointed out
by Mr. T. Hutchinson in the _Athenaeum_, Dec. 10, 1898.]


CONTENTS

[Titles of poems not in 1796 are printed in italics.]


POEMS by S. T. COLERIDGE.

                                                                    PAGE
  _Dedication_                                                       vii
  Preface to the First Edition                                      xiii
  Preface to the Second Edition                                     xvii
  _Ode to the New Year_                                                1
  Monody on Chatterton                                                17
  Songs of the Pixies                                                 29
  The Rose                                                            41
  The Kiss                                                            43
  To a young Ass                                                      45
  Domestic Peace                                                      48
  The Sigh                                                            49
  Epitaph on an Infant                                                51
  Lines on the Man of Ross                                            52
  ---- to a beautiful Spring                                          54
  ---- on the Death of a Friend                                       57
  To a Young Lady                                                     61
  To a Friend, with an unfinished Poem                                65


SONNETS.

  [_Introduction to the Sonnets_                                  71-74]
  To W. L. Bowles                                                     75
  On a Discovery made too late                                        76
  On Hope                                                             77
  _To the River Otter_                                                78
  On Brockly Comb                                                     79
  To an old Man                                                       81
  Sonnet                                                              82
  To Schiller                                                         83
  _On the Birth of a Son_                                             85
  _On first seeing my Infant_                                         87
  Ode to Sara                                                         88
  Composed at Clevedon                                                96
  _On leaving a Place of Residence_                                  100
  _On an unfortunate Woman_                                          105
  _On observing a Blossom_                                           107
  _The Hour when we shall meet again_                                109
  _Lines to C. Lloyd_                                                110
  Religious Musings                                                  117

    [=Poems=] by CHARLES LLOYD. pp. [151]-189. Second Edition.
    [=Poems=] _on The Death_ of PRISCILLA FARMER, By her GRANDSON
        CHARLES LLOYD, pp. [191]-213.
    Sonnet ['The piteous sobs that choak the Virgin's breath', signed S.
        T. Coleridge], p. 193.
    [=Poems=] by CHARLES LAMB _of the India-House_. pp. [215]-240.


SUPPLEMENT.

  _Advertisement_                                                    243
  Lines to Joseph Cottle, by S. T. Coleridge                         246
  On an Autumnal Evening, by ditto,                                  249
  In the manner of Spencer (_sic_), by ditto,                        256
  The Composition of a Kiss, by ditto,                               260
  To an Infant, by Ditto                                             264
  _On the Christening of a Friend's Child_, by ditto,                264
  To the Genius of Shakespeare, by Charles Lloyd,                    267
  Written after a Journey into North Wales, by ditto,                270
  A Vision of Repentance, by Charles Lamb,                           273


PREFACE TO THE FIRST EDITION

[Pp. [xiii]-xvi.]

Compositions resembling those of the present volume are not
unfre/quently condemned for their querulous Egotism. But Egotism is to
be / condemned then only when it offends against Time and Place, as in
an / History or an Epic Poem. To censure it in a Monody or Sonnet is
almost / as absurd as to dislike a circle for being round. Why then
write Sonnets / or Monodies? Because they give me pleasure when perhaps
nothing else / could. After the more violent emotions of Sorrow, the
mind demands / amusement, and can find it in employment alone; but full
of its late / sufferings, it can endure no employment not in some
measure connected / with them. Forcibly to turn away our attention to
general subjects is / a painful and most often an unavailing effort:

  But O! how grateful to a wounded heart
  The tale of Misery to impart--
  From others' eyes bid artless sorrows flow,
  And raise esteem upon the base of woe!                              15
                                             SHAW.

The communicativeness of our Nature leads us to describe our own /
sorrows; in the endeavour to describe them, intellectual activity is
exerted; / and from intellectual activity there results a pleasure,
which is gradually / associated, and mingles as a corrective, with the
painful subject of the / description. "True!" (it may be answered) "but
how are the PUBLIC / interested in your Sorrows or your Description?" We
are for ever / attributing personal Unities to imaginary
Aggregates.--What is the PUBLIC, / but a term for a number of scattered
Individuals? Of whom as many / will be interested in these sorrows, as
have experienced the same or / similar.

                               "Holy be the lay,
  Which mourning soothes the mourner on his way."

If I could judge of others by myself, I should not hesitate to affirm,
that / the most interesting passages in our most interesting Poems are
those, in / which the Author developes his own feelings. The sweet voice
of Cona[1144:1] / never sounds so sweetly as when it speaks of itself;
and I should almost / suspect that man of an unkindly heart, who could
read the opening of the / third book of the Paradise Lost without
peculiar emotion. By a law of / our Nature, he, who labours under a
strong feeling, is impelled to seek for / sympathy; but a Poet's
feelings are all strong. Quicquid amet valde amat. / Akenside therefore
speaks with philosophical accuracy, when he classes / Love and Poetry,
as producing the same effects:

  "Love and the wish of Poets when their tongue
  Would teach to others' bosoms, what so charms                       40
  Their own."--PLEASURES OF IMAGINATION.

There is one species of Egotism which is truly disgusting; not that /
which leads us to communicate our feelings to others, but that which /
would reduce the feelings of others to an identity with our own. The /
Atheist, who exclaims, "pshaw!" when he glances his eye on the praises /
of Deity, is an Egotist: an old man, when he speaks contemptuously of /
Love-verses is an Egotist: and the sleek Favorites of Fortune are /
Egotists, when they condemn all "melancholy, discontented" verses. /
Surely, it would be candid not merely to ask whether the poem pleases /
ourselves but to consider whether or no there may not be others to whom
/ it is well-calculated to give an innocent pleasure.

I shall only add that each of my readers will, I hope, remember that /
these Poems on various subjects, which he reads at one time and under /
the influence of one set of feelings, were written at different times
and / prompted by very different feelings; and therefore that the
supposed / inferiority of one Poem to another may sometimes be owing to
the temper / of mind, in which he happens to peruse it.


[Pp. [xvii]-xx.]

PREFACE TO THE SECOND EDITION

I return my acknowledgments to the different Reviewers for the /
assistance, which they have afforded me, in detecting my poetic
deficien/cies. I have endeavoured to avail myself of their remarks: one
third of / the former Volume I have omitted, and the imperfections of
the republished / part must be considered as errors of taste, not faults
of carelessness. My / poems have been rightly charged with a profusion
of double-epithets, and / a general turgidness. I have pruned the
double-epithets with no sparing / hand; and used my best efforts to tame
the swell and glitter both of / thought and diction. This latter fault
however had insinuated itself / into my Religious Musings with such
intricacy of union, that sometimes / I have omitted to disentangle the
weed from the fear of snapping the / flower. A third and heavier
accusation has been brought against me, that / of obscurity; but not, I
think, with equal justice. An Author is obscure / when his conceptions
are dim and imperfect, and his language incorrect, / or unappropriate,
or involved. A poem that abounds in allusions, / like the Bard of Gray,
or one that impersonates high and abstract / truths, like Collins's Ode
on the poetical character, claims not to be / popular--but should be
acquitted of obscurity. The deficiency is in the / Reader. But this is a
charge which every poet, whose imagination is / warm and rapid, must
expect from his _contemporaries_. Milton did not / escape it; and it was
adduced with virulence against Gray and Collins. / We now hear no more
of it; not that their poems are better understood / at present, than
they were at their first publication; but their fame is / established;
and a critic would accuse himself of frigidity or inattention, / who
should profess not to understand them. But a living writer is yet / sub
judice; and if we cannot follow his conceptions or enter into his /
feelings, it is more consoling to our pride to consider him as lost
beneath, / than as soaring above, us. If any man expect from my poems
the same / easiness of style which he admires in a drinking-song, for
him I have not / written. Intelligibilia, non intellectum adfero.

I expect neither profit nor general fame by my writings; and I consider
/ myself as having been amply repayed without either. Poetry has been to
/ me its own[1146:1] "exceeding great reward": it has soothed my
afflictions: it / has multiplied and refined my enjoyments; it has
endeared solitude; / and it has given me the habit of wishing to
discover the Good and the / Beautiful in all that meets and surrounds
me.

There were inserted in my former Edition, a few Sonnets of my Friend /
and old School-fellow, CHARLES LAMB. He has now communicated to me / a
complete Collection of all his Poems; quae qui non prorsus amet, illum /
omnes et Virtutes et Veneres odere. My friend CHARLES LLOYD has /
likewise joined me; and has contributed every poem of his, which he /
deemed worthy of preservation. With respect to my own share of the /
Volume, I have omitted a third of the former Edition, and added almost /
an equal number. The Poems thus added are marked in the Contents by /
Italics.                                  S. T. C.
  STOWEY,
    _May_, 1797.

MS. Notes attached to proof sheets of the second Edition.

(_a_) As neither of us three were present to correct the Press, and as
my handwriting is not eminently distinguished for neatness or
legibility, the Printer has made a few mistakes. The Reader will consult
equally his own convenience, and our credit if before he peruses the
volume he will scan the Table of Errata and make the desired
alterations.
                                  S. T. Coleridge.
  Stowey,
    May 1797.

(_b_) Table of Contents. (N.B. of my Poems)--and let it be printed in
the same manner as Southey's Table of Contents--take care to mark _the
new poems_ of the Edition by Italics.

  _Dedication._

Preface to the first Edition.
  _Refer to the_ Second Edition.
  _Ode on the departing Year._
  Monody on the death of Chatterton, etc., etc.--

[_MS. R._]


P. [69].

[Half-title] [=Sonnets=], / _Attempted in the Manner_ / Of The / Rev. W.
L. Bowles. / Non ita certandi cupidus, quam propter amorem / Quod te
IMITARI aveo. / LUCRET.


[Pp. 71-74.]

INTRODUCTION TO THE SONNETS

For lines 1-63 vide _ante_, No. III, The Introduction to the 'Sheet of
Sonnets'. Lines 64 to the end are omitted, and the last paragraph runs
thus:

The Sonnet has been ever a favourite species of composition with me; but
I am conscious that I have not succeeded in it. From a large number I
have retained ten only, as seemed not beneath mediocrity. Whatever more
is said of them, ponamus lucro.                  S. T. COLERIDGE.

[_Note._ In a copy of the Edition of 1797, now in the Rowfant Library,
S. T. C. comments in a marginal note on the words 'I have never yet been
able to discover sense, nature, or poetic fancy in Petrarch's poems,'
&c.--'A piece of petulant presumption, of which I should be more ashamed
if I did not flatter myself that it stands alone in my writings. The
best of the joke is that at the time I wrote it, I did not understand a
word of Italian, and could therefore judge of this divine Poet only by
bald translations of some half-dozen of his Sonnets.']


[Pp. 243-245.]

ADVERTISEMENT

I have excepted the following Poems from those, which I had determined
to omit. Some intelligent friends particularly requested it, observing,
that what most delighted me when I was "young in _writing_ poetry, would
probably best please those who are young in _reading_ poetry: and a man
must learn to be _pleased_ with a subject, before he can yield that
attention to it, which is requisite in order to acquire a just taste." I
however was fully convinced, that he, who gives to the press what he
does not thoroughly approve in his own closet, commits an act of
disrespect, both against himself and his fellow-citizens. The request
and the reasoning would not, therefore, have influenced me, had they not
been assisted by other motives. The first in order of these verses,
which I have thus endeavoured to _reprieve_ from immediate oblivion, was
originally addressed "To the Author of Poems published anonymously, at
Bristol." A second edition of these poems has lately appeared with the
Author's name prefixed; and I could not refuse myself the gratification
of seeing the name of that man among my poems, without whose kindness
they would probably have remained unpublished; and to whom I know myself
greatly and variously obliged, as a Poet, a Man and a Christian.

The second is entitled "An Effusion on an Autumnal Evening; written in
early youth." In a note to this poem I had asserted that the tale of
Florio in Mr. Rogers' "Pleasures of Memory" was to be found in the
Lochleven of Bruce. I did (and still do) perceive a certain likeness
between the two stories; but certainly not a sufficient one to justify
my assertion. I feel it my duty, therefore, to apologize to the Author
and the Public, for this rashness; and my sense of honesty would not
have been satisfied by the bare omission of the note. No one can see
more clearly the _littleness_ and futility of imagining plagiarisms in
the works of men of Genius; but _nemo omnibus horis sapit_; and my mind,
at the time of writing that note, was sick and sore with anxiety, and
weakened through much suffering. I have not the most distant knowledge
of Mr. Rogers, except as a correct and elegant Poet. If any of my
readers should know him personally, they would oblige me by informing
him that I have expiated a sentence of unfounded detraction, by an
unsolicited and self-originating apology.

Having from these motives re-admitted two, and those the longest of the
poems I had omitted, I yielded a passport to the three others, [pp. 256,
262, 264] which were recommended by the greatest number of votes. There
are some lines too of Lloyd's and Lamb's in this Appendix. They had been
omitted in the former part of the volume, partly by accident; but I
have reason to believe that the Authors regard them, as of inferior
merit; and they are therefore rightly placed, where they will receive
some beauty from their vicinity to others much worse.


VI

FEARS IN SOLITUDE, / Written in 1798, during the Alarm of an Invasion. /
To which are added, / France, an Ode; / And / Frost at Midnight. / By S.
T. COLERIDGE. / London: / Printed for J. Johnson, in St. Paul's
Churchyard. / 1798. /                                             [4{o}.

_Collation._--Half-title, Fears in Solitude, . . . Frost at Midnight,
(six lines) [Price ONE SHILLING and SIXPENCE.], one leaf, unpaged;
Title, one leaf, unpaged; Text, pp. [1]-23; Advertisement of 'Poems, by
W. Cowper', p. [24].


VII

The / PICCOLOMINI, / or the / First Part of WALLENSTEIN, / A Drama / In
Five Acts. / Translated From The German Of / Frederick Schiller / By /
S. T. COLERIDGE. / LONDON: / Printed for T. N. Longman and O. Rees,
Paternoster Row. / 1800. /                                        [8{o}.

_Collation._--Half-title, Translation from a Manuscript Copy attested by
the Author / THE PICCOLOMINI, or the First Part of WALLENSTEIN. /
Printed by G. Woodfall, Pater-noster Row /, one leaf, unpaged; Title,
one leaf, unpaged; Preface of the Translator, pp. [i]-ii; two pages of
Advertisements commencing with: Plays just published, etc.; one leaf
unpaged; on the reverse Dramatis Personae; Text, pp. [1]-214; _In the
Press, and speedily will be published_, From the German of Schiller, THE
DEATH OF WALLENSTEIN; Also WALLENSTEIN'S CAMP, a Prelude of One Act to
the former Dramas; with an Essay on the GENIUS OF SCHILLER. By S. T.
COLERIDGE. N.B. The Drama will be embellished with an elegant Portrait
of WALLENSTEIN, engraved by CHAPMAN, pp. [215]-[216].


VIII

The / DEATH / of / WALLENSTEIN. A Tragedy / In Five Acts. / Translated
from the German of / FREDERICK SCHILLER, / By / S. T. COLERIDGE. /
LONDON: / Printed for T. N. Longman and O. Rees, Paternoster Row, / _By
G. Woodfall, No. 22, Paternoster-Row_. / 1800. /                  [8{o}.

_Collation._--Title, one leaf, unpaged; General Title, Wallenstein. / A
Drama / In Two Parts. / Translated, &c., _ut supra_, one leaf, unpaged;
Preface of the Translator, two leaves, unpaged; on reverse of second
leaf Dramatis Personae; Text, pp. [1]-157; The Imprint, _Printed by G.
Woodfall, No. 22, Paternoster-Row, London_, is at the foot of p. 157;
Advertisement of 'Books printed by T. N. Longman', &c., p. [158].

[The Frontispiece (sometimes attached to No. VII) is an engraving in
stipple of Wallenstein, by J. Chapman.]


IX

[=Poems=], / By / S. T. COLERIDGE. / Felix curarum, &c. (six lines as on
title of No. II). Third edition. / LONDON: / Printed by N. Biggs,
Crane-Court, Fleet-street, / For T. N. Longman and O. Rees, Pater- /
Noster-Row. / 1803. /                                             [8{o}.

_Collation._--Title, one leaf, p. [i]; Contents, pp. [iii]-[iv];
Preface, pp. [v]-xi; Text, pp. [1]-202; The Imprint, Biggs, Printer,
Crane-Court, Fleet-street, is at the foot of p. 202.

[The Preface consists of the Preface to the First and Second Editions
as reprinted in No. IV, with the following omissions from that to the
Second Edition, viz. Lines 1-5, and Lines 37-45. The Preface to the
First Edition (pp. [v]-viii) is signed S. T. C. The Preface to the
Second Edition (pp. ix-xi) has no heading, but is marked off by a line
from the Preface to the First Edition.

The Third Edition contains all the poems published in the First and
Second Editions except (1) To the Rev. W. J. H. (1796); (2) Sonnet to
Kosciusko (1796); (8) Written after a Walk (1796); (4) From a Young Lady
(1796); (5) On the Christening of a Friend's Child (1797); (6)
Introductory Sonnet to C. Lloyd's 'Poems on the Death of Priscilla
Farmer' (1797). The half-title to the Sonnets, p. [79], omits the words
'Attempted in the Manner, &c. (see No. V).

The Introduction to the Sonnets is reprinted on pp. 81-4, verbatim from
the Second Edition.]


X

POEMS, / By / S. T. COLERIDGE, Esq. /                             [8{o}.

_Collation._--Half-title (as above), one leaf, p. [1]; The Imprint, Law
and Gilbert, Printers, St. John's Square, London, is at the foot of p.
[2]; Text, pp. [3]-16; The Imprint, Printed by Law and Gilbert, St.
John's Square, London, is at the foot of p. 16 [n. d. ? 1812].

_Contents._--

Fears in Solitude, pp. [3]-9: France, an Ode, pp. 10-13: Frost at
Midnight, pp. 14-16.

[The three poems which form the contents of the Pamphlet were included
in the _Poetical Register_ for 1808-1809 which was reissued in 1812. The
publishers were F. G. and S. Rivington, the printers Law and Gilbert,
St. John's Square, Clerkenwell. The type of the pamphlet is the type of
the _Poetical Register_, but the poems were set up and reprinted as a
distinct issue. There is no record of the transaction, or evidence that
the pamphlet was placed on the market. It was probably the outcome of a
private arrangement between the author and the publisher of the
_Poetical Register_.]


XI

REMORSE. / A Tragedy, / In Five Acts. / _By_ S. T. COLERIDGE. / Remorse
is as the heart, in which it grows: / If that be gentle, it drops balmy
dews / Of true repentance; but if proud and gloomy, / It is a
poison-tree, that pierced to the inmost / Weeps only tears of poison! /
Act I. Scene I. / LONDON: / Printed for W. Pople, 67, Chancery Lane. /
1813. / _Price Three Shillings._ /                                [8{o}.

_Collation._--Title, one leaf, pp. [i]-[ii]; The Imprint, _W. Pople,
Printer, 67, Chancery Lane_, is at the foot of the Reverse; Preface, pp.
[iii]-viii; Prologue, pp. [ix]-[x]; Dramatis Personae, p. [xi]; Text,
pp. [1]-72; The Imprint, W. Pople, Printer, 67, Chancery Lane, London,
is at the foot of p. 72.


XII

REMORSE, &c. (as in No. XI); [=Second Edition.=] / LONDON: / Printed for
W. Pople, 67, Chancery Lane. / 1813. / _Price Three Shillings._ / [8{o}.

_Collation._--Title, one leaf, pp. [i]-[ii]; The Imprint, _W. Pople,
Printer, 67, Chancery Lane_, is at the foot of p. [ii]; Preface, pp.
[iii]-vi; Prologue, pp. [vii]-[viii]; Dramatis Personae, p. [ix]; Text,
pp. [1]-73; Appendix, pp. [75]-78; The Imprint, W. Pople, Printer, 67,
Chancery Lane, London, is at the foot of p. 78.


XIII

_Remorse_, &c. (as in No. XI); [=Third Edition.=] / London: Printed for
W. Pople, 67, Chancery Lane. / 1813. /                            [8{o}.

For collation vide _supra_, No. XII.


XIV

SIBYLLINE LEAVES: / A / [=Collection of Poems.=] / By / S. T. COLERIDGE,
Esq. / LONDON: / Rest Fenner, 23, Paternoster Row. / 1817. /      [8{o}.

_Collation._--Half-title, one leaf, [=Sibylline Leaves.=] / By / S. T.
Coleridge Esq. /, unpaged; Title, one leaf, unpaged; The Imprint, _S.
Curtis, Printer, Camberwell_, is at the foot of the Reverse of the
Title; Preface, pp. [i]-iii; 'Time, Real and Imaginary,' 'The Raven,'
'Mutual Passion,' pp. v-x; Errata, pp. [xi]-[xii]; Half-title, THE RIME
/ Of The / ANCIENT MARINER / In Seven Parts, p. [1]; Motto from T.
Burnet, _Archæol. Phil._, p. 68, p. [2]; Text, pp. 3-303; The Imprint,
Printed by John Evans & Co. St. John-Street, Bristol, is at the foot of
p. [304].

[Signatures B-U are marked Vol. ii, i. e. Vol. ii of the _Biographia
Literaria_. The printer's bills, which are in my possession, show that
in the first instance the Poems were reckoned as Volume ii, and that, in
1816, when the prose work had grown into a second volume, as Volume iii.
The entire text of the second volume, afterwards entitled _Sibylline
Leaves_, with the exception of the preliminary matter, pp. [i]-[xii],
was printed by John Evans & Co. of Bristol--signatures B-G in
November-December 1814, and signatures H-U between January and July
1815. The unbound sheets, which were held as a security for the cost of
printing &c., and for money advanced, by W. Hood of Bristol, John
Matthew Gutch, and others, were redeemed in May 1817 by a London
publisher, Rest Fenner, and his partner the Rev. Samuel Curtis of
Camberwell. The _Biographia Literaria_ was published in July and
_Sibylline Leaves_ in August, 1817. See note by J. D. Campbell in _P.
W._, 1893, pp. 551, 552.]


PREFACE

The following collection has been entitled SIBYLLINE LEAVES, in allusion
to the fragmentary and widely scattered state in which they have been
long suffered to remain. It contains the whole of the author's poetical
compositions, from 1793 to the present date, with the exception of a few
works not yet finished, and those published in the first edition of his
juvenile poems, over which he has no controul.[1150:1] They may be
divided into three classes: First, A selection from the Poems added to
the second and third editions, together with those originally published
in the LYRICAL BALLADS,[1150:2] which after having remained many years
out of print, have been omitted by Mr. Wordsworth in the recent
collection of all his minor poems, and of course revert to the author.
Second, Poems published at very different periods, in various obscure or
perishable journals, etc., some with, some without the writer's consent;
many imperfect, all incorrect. The third and last class is formed of
Poems which have hitherto remained in manuscript. The whole is now
presented to the reader collectively, with considerable additions and
alterations, and as perfect as the author's judgment and powers could
render them.

In my Literary _Life_, it has been mentioned that, with the exception of
this preface, the SIBYLLINE LEAVES have been printed almost two years;
and the necessity of troubling the reader with the list of
errata[1151:1] [forty-seven in number] which follows this preface, alone
induces me to refer again to the circumstances, at the risk of ungenial
feelings, from the recollection of its worthless causes.[1151:2] A few
corrections of later date have been added.--Henceforward the author must
be occupied by studies of a very different kind.

  Ite hinc, CAMŒNÆ! Vos quoque ite, suaves,
  Dulces CAMŒNÆ! Nam (fatebimur verum)
  Dulces fuistis!--Et tamen meas chartas
  Revisitote: sed pudenter et raro!
                  VIRGIL, _Catalect._ vii.[1151:3]

At the request of the friends of my youth, who still remain my friends,
and who were pleased with the wildness of the compositions, I have added
two school-boy poems--with a song modernized with some additions from
one of our elder poets.[1151:4] Surely, malice itself will scarcely
attribute their insertion to any other motive, than the wish to keep
alive the recollections from early life.--I scarcely knew what title I
should prefix to the first. By imaginary Time,[1151:5] I meant the state
of a school-boy's mind when, on his return to school, he projects his
being in his day dreams, and lives in his next holidays, six months
hence: and this I contrasted with real Time.


CONTENTS

[Poems first published in 1796 and in 1797 are marked with an asterisk.
Poems first published in 1817 are italicized. N.B. The volume was issued
without any Table of Contents or Index of First Lines.]

                                                                    PAGE

  _Time, Real and Imaginary: an Allegory_                              v
  The Raven                                                           vi
  Mutual Passion                                                      ix
  The Rime of the Ancient Mariner [with the marginal glosses]          3
  The Foster-Mother's Tale                                            41

  Half-title

  POEMS / OCCASIONED BY POLITICAL EVENTS / OR / FEELINGS CONNECTED
      WITH THEM                                                     [47]
  Wordsworth's sonnet beginning 'When I have borne in memory what
      has tamed' is printed on                                      [48]
  *Ode to the Departing Year [Half-Title]                           [49]
  France: _An Ode_                                                    59
  Fears in Solitude                                                   64
  Recantation. _Illustrated in the Story of the Mad Ox_               75
  Parliamentary Oscillators                                           83

  Half-title

  [=Fire, Famine, and Slaughter.=] / A War Eclogue. / With / An
      Apologetic Preface /                                          [87]
  Mottoes from _Claudian_ and _Ecclesiasticus_                      [88]
  [_AN APOLOGETIC PREFACE_]                                           89
  Fire, Famine and Slaughter                                         111

  Half-title

  LOVE-POEMS                                                       [117]
  Motto (eleven lines) from 'Petrarch'                             [118]
  Love                                                               119
  Lewti, or the Circassian Love-chant                                124
  The Picture, or the Lover's Resolution                             128
  _The Night-Scene: A Dramatic Fragment_                             136
  *To an Unfortunate Woman, _Whom the Author had known in the days
      of her Innocence_                                              141
  To an Unfortunate Woman at the Theatre                             142
  Lines composed in a Concert-room                                   144
  The Keep-sake                                                      146
  _To a Lady, with Falconer's 'Shipwreck'_                           148
  To a Young Lady, _On her Recovery from a Fever_                    150
  Something Childish, but very Natural. _Written in Germany_         152
  Home-sick. _Written in Germany_                                    153
  Answer to a Child's Question                                       154
  _The Visionary Hope_                                               155
  _The Happy Husband. A Fragment_                                    157
  _Recollections of Love_                                            159
  On Re-visiting the Sea-Shore, After Long Absence, _Under strong
      medical recommendation not to bathe_                           161

  Half-title

  'MEDITATIVE POEMS / IN / BLANK VERSE'                            [163]
  Motto (eight lines) from _Schiller_                              [164]
  Hymn _Before Sunrise, in the Vale of Chamouny_                     165
  Lines _Written in the Album at Elbingerode, in the Hartz Forest_   170
  *On observing a Blossom _On the 1st February, 1796_                173
  *The Eolian Harp, _Composed at Clevedon, Somersetshire_            175
  *Reflections _On having left a Place of Retirement_                178
  *To the Rev. George Coleridge, _Of Ottery St. Mary, Devon_. With
      some Poems                                                     182
  Inscription _For a Fountain on a Heath_                            186
  A Tombless Epitaph                                                 187
  This Lime-tree Bower my Prison                                     189
  To a Friend _Who had declared his intention of writing no more
      Poetry_                                                        194
  _TO A GENTLEMAN. Composed on the night after his recitation of a
      Poem on the Growth of an Individual Mind_                      197
  The Nightingale; a Conversation Poem                               204
  Frost at Midnight                                                  210

  Half-title

  [=The=] / [=Three Graves=] /                                     [215]
  The Three Graves. A Fragment of a Sexton's Tale                    217

  Half-title

  ODES / AND / MISCELLANEOUS POEMS                                 [235]
  Dejection: _An Ode_                                                237
  Ode to Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, _On the 24th stanza in
      her 'Passage over Mount Gothard'_                              244
  Ode to Tranquillity                                                249
  *To a Young Friend, _On his proposing to Domesticate with the
      Author_ Composed in 1796                                       251
  Lines _To W. L., Esq., while he sang a song to Purcell's Music_    255
  Addressed to a Young Man of Fortune _Who abandoned himself to an
      indolent and causeless Melancholy_                             256
  *Sonnet to the River Otter                                         257
  *Sonnet. _Composed on a journey homeward; the Author having
      received intelligence of the birth of a Son, September 20,
      1796_                                                          258
  *Sonnet, _To a Friend who asked, how I felt when the Nurse first
      presented my Infant to me_                                     259
  The Virgin's Cradle-Hymn. Copied from a Print of the Virgin, in a
      Catholic village in Germany                                    260
  Epitaph, on an Infant. ['Its balmy lips the Infant blest.']        261
  Melancholy. A Fragment                                             262
  _Tell's Birth-place. Imitated from Stolberg_                       263
  A Christmas Carol                                                  265
  _Human Life. On the Denial of Immortality. A Fragment_             268
  An Ode to the Rain. _Composed before daylight_ [etc.]              270
  _The Visit of the Gods. Imitated from Schiller_                    274
  America to Great Britain. _Written in America, in the year 1810._
      [By Washington Allston, the Painter.]                          276
  Elegy, Imitated from one of Akenside's Blank-verse Inscriptions    279
  The Destiny of Nations. A Vision                                   281


XV

קינת ישרון

A Hebrew Dirge, / Chaunted in the Great Synagogue, / St. James's Place,
Aldgate, / On the / Day of the Funeral of her Royal Highness / The /
Princess Charlotte. / By Hyman Hurwitz, / Master of the Royal Academy, /
Highgate: / With a Translation in / English Verse, By S. T. Coleridge,
Esq. / London: / _Printed by H. Barnett_, 2, _St. James's Place,
Aldgate_; / And Sold by T. Boosey, 4, Old Broad Street; / Lackington,
Allen, and Co. Finsbury Square; / Briggs and Burton, 156, Leadenhall
Street; and / H. Barnett, Hebrew Bookseller, 2, St. James's / Place,
Aldgate. / 1817.                                                  [8{o}.

_Collation._--Half-title, קינת ישרון / A Hebrew Dirge. /, pp. [1]-[2];
Title, p. [3]; Text, pp. [4]-13. The text of the translation is printed
on pp. 5, 7, 9, 11, and 13.


XVI

CHRISTABEL: / Kubla Khan, / A Vision; / The Pains of Sleep. / By / S. T.
COLERIDGE, Esq. / LONDON: Printed For John Murray, Albemarle-Street, /
By William Bulmer and Co. Cleveland-Row, / St. James's. / 1816. / [8{o}.

_Collation._--Half-title, one leaf, [=Christabel=], &c., pp. i-ii;
Title, one leaf, pp. iii-iv; Preface, pp. [v]-vii; Second half-title,
Christabel. / Part 1, pp. [1]-[2]; Text, pp. [3]-48; '[=Kubla Khan=] /
or / A Vision in a Dream': Half-title, one leaf, pp. [49]-[50]; 'Of the
/ Fragment of Kubla Khan', pp. [51]-54; Text, pp. [55]-58; '[=The Pains
of Sleep=]': Half-title, pp. [59]-[60]; Text, pp. 61-61; The Imprint,
LONDON: Printed by W. Bulmer and Co. / Cleveland-row, St. James's /, is
at the foot of p. 64.

[The pamphlet (1816) was issued 'price 4_s._ 6_d._ _sewed_'. The cover
was of brown paper.]


XVII

CHRISTABEL, &c. / By S. T. Coleridge, Esq. / Second Edition. / LONDON: /
Printed For John Murray, Albemarle-Street, / By William Bulmer and Co.
Cleveland-Row, / St. James's. / 1816. /                           [8{o}.

_Collation._--_Vide_ No. XVI.

[The half-title, CHRISTABEL, is in Gothic Character.]


XVIII

CHRISTABEL, &c. / By / S. T. Coleridge, Esq. / Third Edition. / LONDON:
/ Printed For John Murray, Albemarle-Street, / By William Bulmer and Co.
Cleveland-Row, / St. James's. / 1816. /                           [8{o}.

_Collation._--_Vide_ No. XVI.

[The half-title, CHRISTABEL, is in Gothic Character.]


XIX

ZAPOLYA: A / Christmas tale, / In Two Parts: / [=The Prelude=] /
Entitled / "THE USURPERS' FORTUNE;" And / [=The Sequel=] / Entitled /
"THE USURPER'S FATE." / By / S. T. Coleridge, Esq. / _LONDON_: Printed
for Rest Fenner, Paternoster Row. / 1817. /                       [8{o}.

_Collation._--Half-title, ZAPOLYA, one leaf; Title, one leaf;
Advertisement, one leaf; Characters, one leaf; Four leaves unpaged;
Text, Prelude, pp. [1]-31; Additional Characters, p. [34]; ZAPOLYA
(headed, [=Usurpation Ended=]; / or / SHE COMES AGAIN. /), pp. [85]-128.
The imprint, S. Curtis, Camberwell Press, is at the foot of p. 128.
Eight pages of advertisements dated September, 1817, are bound up with
the volume as issued in a brown paper cover.


XX

The / Poetical Works / Of / S. T. Coleridge, / Including the Dramas of /
Wallenstein, Remorse, and Zapolya. / In three Volumes. / Vol. I. / [Vol.
II, &c.] London: / William Pickering. / MDCCCXXVIII. /            [8{o}.

_Collation._--Vol. I. Half-title, one leaf, The / Poetical Works / of /
S. T. Coleridge. / Vol. I. /, p. [i]; Title, one leaf, p. [iii]; The
Imprint, Thomas White, Printer, / Johnson's Court. /, is at the foot of
p. [iv]; Contents, Volume I, Volume II, Volume III, pp. [v]-x; Preface,
To the First and Second Editions, pp. [1]-6; Half-title, one leaf,
Juvenile Poems, p. [7]; Text, pp. [9]-363; The Imprint, Thomas White,
Printer, / Crane Court. /, below the figure of a girl watering flowers
surmounted by the motto TE FAVENTE VIREBO, is in the centre of p. [554].
[A vignette and double wreath of oak and bay leaves is in the centre of
the title-page of Vols. I, II, III.]

Vol. II. Half-title, one leaf; Title, one leaf, with Imprint at the foot
of the Reverse, unpaged; Half-title, The Rime / Of / The Ancient
Mariner. / In Seven Parts. /, p. [1]; Motto from T. Burnet, in centre of
p. [2]; Text, pp. [3]-370; The Imprint, Thomas White, Printer, /
Johnson's Court. /, is at the foot of p. 370.

Vol. III. Half-title, one leaf; Title, one leaf; The Imprint, Thomas
White, Printer, / Johnson's Court. /, is at the foot of the Reverse,
unpaged; Half-title, The / Piccolomini, / Or / The First Part of
Wallenstein. / A Drama. / Translated from the German of Schiller /, p.
[1]; Preface of the Translator, p. [3]; Text, pp. [5]-428; The Imprint
Thomas White, Printer / Johnson's Court. /, is at the foot of p. 428.


[Pp. [1]-6]

PREFACE

[The Preface is the same as that of 1803.]


CONTENTS


VOLUME I

                                                                    PAGE
JUVENILE POEMS

  Genevieve                                                          [9]
  Sonnet to the Autumnal Moon                                         10
  Time, Real and Imaginary. An Allegory                               11
  Monody on the Death of Chatterton                                   12
  Songs of the Pixies                                                 19
  The Raven                                                           25
  Absence. A Farewell Ode                                             28
  Lines on an Autumnal Evening                                        30
  The Rose                                                            35
  The Kiss                                                            37
  To a Young Ass                                                      39
  Domestic Peace                                                      41
  The Sigh                                                            42
  Epitaph on an Infant ['Ere Sin could blight']                       43
  Lines written at the King's-Arms, Ross                              44
  Lines to a beautiful Spring in a Village                            46
  On a Friend who died of a Frenzy-fever induced by calumnious
      reports                                                         48
  To a Young Lady with a Poem on the French Revolution                51
  Sonnet   I. My heart has thanked thee, Bowles                       54
    "     II. As late I lay in Slumber's Shadowy Vale                 55
    "    III. Though roused by that dark Vizir Riot rude              56
    "     IV. When British Freedom for an happier land                57
    "      V. It was some Spirit, Sheridan!                           58
    "      VI. O what a loud and fearful Shriek                       59
    "     VII. As when far off                                        60
    "    VIII. Thou gentle Look                                       61
    "      IX. Pale Roamer through the Night                          62
    "       X. Sweet Mercy!                                           63
    "      XI. Thou bleedest, my Poor Heart                           64
    "     XII. To the Author of The Robbers                           65
  Lines, composed while climbing Brockley Coomb                       66
  Lines in the Manner of Spenser                                      67
  Imitated from Ossian                                                70
  The Complaint of Ninathoma                                          72
  Imitated from the Welsh                                             73
  To an Infant                                                        74
  Lines in answer to a Letter from Bristol                            76
  To a Friend in Answer to a melancholy Letter                        82
  Religious Musings                                                   84
  The Destiny of Nations. A Vision                                   104


SIBYLLINE LEAVES

Half-title

  I. POEMS OCCASIONED BY POLITICAL EVENTS OR / FEELINGS CONNECTED
      WITH THEM                                                    [127]
  Motto--fourteen lines--'When I have borne in memory what has
      tamed', Wordsworth                                           [128]
  Ode to the Departing Year                                          131
  France, an Ode                                                     139
  Fears in Solitude                                                  144
  Fire, Famine, and Slaughter                                        155

Half-title

  II. Love Poems                                                   [159]
  Motto--eleven lines of a Latin Poem by Petrarch                  [160]
  Love                                                               161
  Lewti, or the Circassian Love-chaunt                               167
  The Picture, or the Lover's Resolution                             171
  The Night Scene, a Dramatic Fragment                               179
  To an Unfortunate Woman                                            184
  To an Unfortunate Woman at the Theatre                             186
  Lines composed in a Concert Room                                   188
  The Keepsake                                                       191
  To a Lady, with Falconer's Shipwreck                               194
  To a Young Lady on her recovery from a Fever                       196
  Something Childish, but very Natural                               198
  Home-sick: written in Germany                                      200
  Answer to a Child's Question                                       202
  The Visionary Hope                                                 203
  The Happy Husband                                                  205
  Recollections of Love                                              207
  On revisiting the Sea-shore                                        209

Half-title

  III. MEDITATIVE POEMS. / IN BLANK VERSE                          [211]
  Motto--eight lines (translated) from Schiller                    [212]
  Hymn before Sun-rise, in the Vale of Chamouny                      213
  Lines written in an Album at Elbingerode, in the Hartz Forest      218
  On Observing a Blossom on the First of February                    221
  The Eolian Harp                                                    223
  Reflections on having left a place of Retirement                   227
  To the Rev. George Coleridge                                       231
  Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath                              235
  A Tombless Epitaph                                                 237
  This Lime-tree Bower my Prison                                     239
  To a Friend who had declared his intention of writing no more
      Poetry                                                         244
  To a Gentleman [Wordsworth] composed on the night after his
      recitation of a Poem on the growth of an individual mind       247
  [The Nightingale; a Conversation Poem                             253]
  Frost at Midnight                                                  261

Half-title                                                         [265]

  THE THREE GRAVES                                                 [267]

Half-title

  ODES / AND / MISCELLANEOUS POEMS                                 [287]
  Dejection, An Ode                                                  289
  Ode to Georgiana Duchess of Devonshire                             296
  Ode to Tranquillity                                                300
  To a Young Friend, on his proposing to domesticate with the
      Author                                                         302
  Lines to W. L., Esq., while he sang a song to Purcell's Music      306
  Addressed to a Young Man of Fortune                                307
  Sonnet To the River Otter                                          309
  ---- Composed on a journey homeward after hearing of the birth of
      a Son                                                          310
  ---- To a Friend                                                   311
  The Virgin's Cradle Hymn                                           312
  Epitaph on an Infant. ['Its balmy lips the Infant blest']          313
  Melancholy, A Fragment                                             314
  Tell's Birth-place                                                 315
  A Christmas Carol                                                  317
  Human Life                                                         320
  The Visit of the Gods                                              321
  Elegy, imitated from Akenside                                      324

Half-title

  Kubla Khan: / Or, / A Vision In A Dream                          [327]
  Of The Fragment Of Kubla Khan                                    [329]
  Kubla Khan                                                       [332]
  [The Pains of Sleep                                               334]
  Apologetic Preface to "Fire, Famine, and Slaughter"                337

END OF VOL. I


VOLUME II

Half-title

  The Rime / of / The Ancient Mariner. / In Seven Parts. /           [1]
  Motto (From T. Burnet, _Archæol. Phil._, p. 68)                    [2]
  THE ANCIENT MARINER. Part I                                          3
                       Part II                                         8
                       Part III                                       12
                       Part IV                                        17
                       Part V                                         21
                       Part VI                                        27
                       Part VII                                       33

Half-title

  CHRISTABEL                                                        [39]
  Preface                                                           [41]
  CHRISTABEL. Part I                                                  43
              Conclusion to Part I                                    56
              Part II                                                 59
              Conclusion to Part II                                   73

Half-title

  Prose in Rhyme: Or, / Epigrams, Moralities, and Things / Without
      a Name                                                        [75]
  Mottoes:--
                       Ἔρωϛ ἀεὶ λάληθρος ἑταῖρος.
          In many ways does the full heart reveal
          The presence of the love it would conceal;
          But in far more th' estranged heart lets know,
          The absence of the love, which yet it fain would shew.
  Duty surviving Self-love                                          [77]
  Song. ['Tho' veiled in spires,' &c.]                                78
  Phantom or Fact? A Dialogue in Verse                                79
  Work without Hope                                                   81
  Youth and Age                                                       82
  A Day-dream. ['My eyes make pictures,' &c.]                         84
  To a Lady, offended by a sportive observation                       86
  Reason for Love's Blindness                                         86
  Lines suggested by the Last Words of Berengarius                    87
  The Devil's Thoughts                                                89
  The Alienated Mistress                                              93
  Constancy to an Ideal Object                                        94
  The Suicide's Argument                                              96
  The Blossoming of the Solitary Date-tree                            97
  Fancy in Nubibus                                                   102
  The Two Founts                                                     103
  Prefatory Note to the Wanderings of Cain                           105
  The Wanderings of Cain                                             109

Half-title

  Remorse. / A Tragedy. / In Five Acts. /                          [119]
  Remorse. A TRAGEDY                                                 121
  Appendix                                                         [232]

Half-title

  Zapolya: / A Christmas Tale. / In Two Parts.                     [237]

       Πὰρ πυρὶ χρὴ τοιαῦτα λέγειν χειμῶνος ἐν ὥρᾳ
                                  _Apud Athenæum._

  Advertisement                                                    [238]
  Part I. The Prelude / Entitled / "The Usurper's Fortune." /      [241]
  Part II. The Sequel / Entitled / "The Usurper's Fate"              274


VOLUME III

  The Piccolomini, / Or / The First Part of Wallenstein. / A Drama. /
      Translated from the German of Schiller /                         1
  The / Death of Wallenstein. / A Tragedy, / In Five Acts            249


XXI

THE / POETICAL WORKS / Of / S. T. COLERIDGE, / Including the Dramas of /
Wallenstein, Remorse, and Zapolya. / In Three Volumes. / Vol. I, Vol.
II, &c. / LONDON: William Pickering. / MDCCCXXIX.                 [8{o}.

_Collation._--Vol. I. Title, one leaf, p. [iii]; The Imprint, Thomas
White, Printer, / Johnson's Court. /, is at the foot of p. [iv];
Contents, pp. [v]-x; Preface, pp. [1]-7; Half-title, JUVENILE POEMS, p.
[9]; Text, pp. [11]-353; The Imprint, Thomas White, &c., below a figure
of a girl as in No. XX, is in the centre of p. 354.

[The Half-title and Mottoes are the same as in Vol. I of 1828, No. XX.]

Vol. II. Title, one leaf; The Imprint, Thomas White, Printer, /
Johnson's Court. /, is at the foot of the Reverse, unpaged; Half-title,
The Rime / of / THE ANCIENT MARINER. / In Seven Parts. /, p. [1]; Motto
from T. Burnet, _Archæol. Phil._, p. 68, p. [2]; Text, pp. [3]-394; The
Imprint, Thomas White, &c., is at the foot of p. 394.

[The Half-titles and Mottoes are the same as in Vol. II of 1828, No.
XX.]

Vol. III. For Collation see Vol. III of 1828, No. XX.

[The Title-page of this edition (Vols. I, II, III) is ornamented with
the Aldine Device, and the Motto, Aldi / Discip. / Anglvs./]


PREFACE

The Preface is the same as that of 1808 and 1828, with the addition of
the following passage (quoted as a foot-note to the sentence:--'I have
pruned the double-epithets with no sparing hand; and used my best
efforts to tame the swell and glitter both of thought and
diction.')--'Without any feeling of anger, I may yet be allowed to
express some degree of surprize, that after having run the critical
gauntlet for a certain class of faults, which I had, viz. a too ornate,
and elaborately poetic diction, and nothing having come before the
judgement-seat of the Reviewers during the long interval, I should for
at least seventeen years, quarter after quarter, have been placed by
them in the foremost rank of the _proscribed_, and made to abide the
brunt of abuse and ridicule for faults directly opposite, viz. bald and
prosaic language, and an affected simplicity both of matter and
manner--faults which assuredly did not enter into the character of my
compositions.--LITERARY LIFE, i. 51. Published 1817.' In the _Biog.
Lit._ (loc. cit.) the last seven lines of the quotation read as
follows--'judgement-seat in the interim, I should, year after year,
quarter after quarter, month after month (not to mention sundry petty
periodicals of still quicker revolution, 'or weekly or diurnal') have
been for at least seventeen years consecutively dragged forth by these
into the foremost rank of the _proscribed_, and forced to abide the
brunt of abuse, for faults directly opposite, and which I certainly had
not. How shall I explain this?'

_Contents._--The Contents of Vols. I and III are identical with the
Contents of Vols. I and III of 1828 (No. XX): A 'Song' (Tho' veiled in
spires of myrtle wreath), p. 78, and 'The Alienated Mistress: A
Madrigal' (If Love be dead, &c.), p. 93 of Vol. II, 1828, are omitted in
Vol. II of 1829; and 'The Allegoric Vision,' 'The Improvisatore, or John
Anderson, My Jo, John' [New Thoughts on old Subjects], and 'The Garden
of Boccaccio' are inserted in Vol. II of 1829; between 'The Wanderings
of Cain' and 'Remorse', pp. 116-42. The text of 1829, which J. D.
Campbell followed in _P. W._, 1893, differs from that of 1828.


XXII

The / Poetical Works / Of / Coleridge, Shelley, and Keats. / Complete in
One Volume. / Paris / Published by A. and W. Galignani / No. 18, Rue
Vivienne / 1829. /                                                [8{o}.

_Collation._--General half-title, one leaf; The imprint, Printed by
Jules Didot Senior, / Printer to His Majesty, Rue du Pont-de-Lodi, No.
6, is on the reverse of the half-title; Title, one leaf, unpaged; Notice
of the Publishers, one leaf, unpaged; half-title, The / Poetical Works /
of / Samuel Taylor Coleridge. / pp. [i-ii]; Contents, pp. [iii]-iv;
Memoir of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, pp. [v]-xi; Text, pp. [1]-225.

[_Note._--A lithographed vignette of a Harp, &c., is in the centre of
the title-page. The frontispiece consists of three portraits of
Coleridge (Northcote), Shelley, and Keats, engraved by J. T. Wedgwood.

The contents are identical with those of 1829, with the following
additions: (1) 'Recantation--illustrated in the story of the Mad Ox';
(2) 'The Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladie' (as published in
the _Morning Post_, Dec. 21, 1799); (3) 'The Composition of a Kiss'; (4)
'To a Friend together with an unpublished Poem'; (5) 'The Hour when we
shall meet again'; (6) 'Lines to Joseph Cottle'; (7) 'On the Christening
of a Friend's Child'; (8) 'The Fall of Robespierre'; (9) 'What is
Life?'; (10) 'The Exchange'; (11) Seven Epigrams, viz. (1) 'Names'; (2)
Job's Luck'; (3) 'Hoarse Maevius', &c.; (4) 'There comes from old
Avaro's', &c.; (5) 'Last Monday', &c.; (6) 'Your Poem ', &c. (7) 'Swans
sing', &c. ('Job's Luck' had been republished in _The Crypt_, 1827, and
the other six in _The Keepsake_, 1829.) 'Fancy in Nubibus, or the Poet
in the Clouds' (vide _ante_, p. 435), p. 216, was repeated on p. 217,
under the title 'Sonnet, composed by the Seaside, October 1817', with
two variants, 'yield' for 'let' in line 4, and 'To' for 'Own' in line 5.
'Love's Burial-Place', and Song, 'Tho' veiled', &c., which had appeared
in 1828, were not included in _Galignani_, 1829.]


XXIII

The Devil's Walk; / A Poem. / By / Professor Porson. / Edited with a
Biographical Memoir and Notes, By / H. W. Montagu, / Author of
Montmorency, Poems, etc. etc. etc. / Illustrated with Beautiful
Engravings on wood by Bonner and / Sladen, After the Designs of R.
Cruikshank. / Γνωθι σεαυτον / London: / Marsh and Miller, Oxford Street.
/ And Constable and Co. Edinburgh. [1830.]                       [12{o}.

_Collation._--Title, one leaf, p. [iii]; The Imprint, London: / Printed
by Samuel Bentley, / Dorset-Street, Fleet-Street, is in the centre of p.
[iv]; Preface, pp. [v]-viii; Text, pp. [9]-32; 'Variations', p. 33;
Advertisement of New Works Published by Marsh and Miller, p. [34]-[36].

[_Note._--The motto Γνωθι κ.τ.λ may have suggested Coleridge's lines
entitled 'Self-knowledge' (_ante_, p. 487). The Pamphlet is enclosed in
a paper cover, The Devil's Walk; / By / Professor Porson. / With
Illustrations by R. Cruikshank. / London: / Marsh and Miller. / 1830. /
_Price One Shilling._ / The Illustrations consist of a Frontispiece and
five others to face pp. 10, 14, 19, 24, and 31.]


XXIV

The Devil's Walk; / a Poem. / By / S. T. Coleridge, Esq. / And / Robert
Southey, Esq. L.L. D. etc. / Edited with a Biographical Memoir, &c.
(five lines as in No. XXIII). Γνωθι σεαυτον / Second Edition. / London:
Alfred Miller, 137, Oxford Street; / And Constable, Edinburgh; /
Griffin, Glasgow; and Milliken, Dublin. / [1830].                [12{o}.

_Collation._--Title, one leaf, p. [iii]; The Imprint, as in No. XXIII,
is in the centre of p. [iv]; Advertisement, pp. [v]-vi; Preface, pp.
[vii]-x; Text, pp. 11-32; Variations, p. 33; Advertisement (as in No.
XXIII), p. [34].

[_Note._--The Advertisement, which is dated _October, 1830_, states that
the 'Devil's Walk' 'has now put forth its fifteen thousandth copy', and
apologizes for 'an error respecting its authorship'. The Second edition
forms part of a volume entitled Facetiae, Being a General Collection of
the Jeux d' Esprit which have been illustrated by Robert Cruikshank.
London: William Kidd, 6, Old Bond Street. MDCCCXXXI. It is followed by
the 'Devil's Visit', and 'The Real Devil's Walk.']


XXV

Ten Etchings, / Illustrations of the / Devil's Walk. / By / Thomas
Landseer. / London: / Published by R. G. Standing, / 24, Cornhill. /
1831. /                                                          [Folio.

_Collation._--Title, one leaf, unpaged; The imprint, London: / Henry
Baylis, Johnson's Court, Fleet-Street. /, is at the foot of the Reverse.
The Devil's Walk. A Word at Starting, pp. 1-14, is followed by the
illustrations, unpaged, with a single stanza at the foot of each
illustration.


XXVI

THE POETICAL WORKS Of / S. T. COLERIDGE / Vol. I, Vol. II, &c. / LONDON
/ William Pickering / 1834 /                                      [8{o}.

_Collation._--Vol. I. Half-title, The Poetical Works Of / S. T.
Coleridge / In Three Volumes / Vol. I, one leaf, p. [i]; Title, one
leaf, pp. [iii]-[iv]; The Imprint, Charles Whittingham / London /, is at
the foot of p. [iv]; Preface, pp. [v]-x; Contents, pp. [xi]-xiv; Text,
pp. [1]-288; The Imprint, London: / Printed by C. Whittingham, Tooks
Court. /, is at the foot of p. 288.

Vol. II. Half-title (as in Vol. I), Vol. II, one leaf, pp. [i]-[ii];
Title, one leaf, pp. [iii]-[iv]; The Imprint (as in Vol. I) is at the
foot of p. iv: Contents, pp. [v]-vi; Text, pp. [1]-338; The Imprint (as
in Vol. I) is at the foot of p. 338.

Vol. III. Half-title (as in Vol. I), pp. [i]-[ii]; Title, one leaf, pp.
[iii]-[iv]; The Imprint (as in Vol. I) is at the foot of p. [iv];
Half-title, The Piccolomini, &c., p. [1]; Preface to the First Edition,
p. [3]; Text, pp. [5]-330; 'Love, Hope, and Patience in Education', p.
331; Erratum, p. [332]; The Imprint (as in Vol. I) is at the foot of p.
[332].

[_Note._--This edition, the last printed in the lifetime of the author,
was reprinted in 1835, 1840, 1844, 1847, &c. The Title-page is
ornamented with the Aldine device and motto as in No. XXI.]


CONTENTS

[Preface, same as 1829, No. XXI, pp. [v]-x; the titles of Poems not
published or collected before 1834 are italicized.]

                                                      Page  Page of the
Half-title                                            1834    present
                                                              edition
JUVENILE POEMS                                         [1]
  Genevieve                                             3       19
  Sonnet. To the Autumnal Moon                          3        5
  _Anthem for the Children of Christ's Hospital_        4        5
  Time, real and imaginary                              5      419
  Monody on the Death of Chatterton                     6       13
  Songs of the Pixies                                  13       40
  The Raven                                            18      169
  _Music_                                              20       28
  _Devonshire Roads_                                   21       27
  _Inside the Coach_                                   22       26
  _Mathematical Problem_                               23       21
  _The Nose_                                           27        8
  _Monody on a Tea-Kettle_                             29       18
  _Absence, a Farewell Ode_                            30       29
  _Sonnet. On Leaving School_                          31       29
  _To the Muse_                                        32        9
  _With Fielding's Amelia_                             33       37
  _Sonnet. On hearing that his Sister's Death was
      inevitable_                                      33       20
  _On Seeing a Youth affectionately welcomed by a
      Sister_                                          34       21
  _The same_                                           35       78
  _Pain_                                               35       17
  _Life_                                               36       11
  Lines on an Autumnal Evening                         36       51
  The Rose                                             40       45
  The Kiss                                             41       63
  To a Young Ass                                       43       74
  _Happiness_                                          44       30
  Domestic Peace                                       48       71
  The Sigh                                             48       62
  Epitaph on an Infant                                 49       68
  _On Imitation_                                       50       26
  _Honor_                                              50       24
  _Progress of Vice_                                   53       12
  Lines written at the King's Arms, Ross               54       57
  _Destruction of the Bastile_                         55       10
  Lines to a beautiful Spring in a Village             57       58
  On a Friend who died of a Frenzy Fever induced by
      calumnious reports                               58       76
  To a Young Lady, with a Poem on the French
      Revolution                                       60       64
  Sonnet    I. "My Heart has thanked thee, Bowles"     62       84
  ----     II. "As late I lay in Slumber's Shadowy
                   Vale."                              63       80
  ----    III. "Though roused by that dark vizir Riot
                   rude"                               64       81
  ----     IV. "When British Freedom for a happier
                   land"                               64       79
  ----      V. "It was some Spirit, Sheridan!"         65       87
  ----     VI. "O what a loud and fearful shriek"      66       82
  ----    VII. "As when far off"                       66       82
  ----   VIII. "Thou gentle look"                      67       47
  ----     IX. "Pale Roamer through the Night!"        68       71
  ----      X. "Sweet Mercy!"                          68       93
  ----     XI. "Thou Bleedest, my Poor Heart!".        69       72
  ----    XII. To the Author of the Robbers.           70       72
  Lines composed while climbing Brockley Coomb         70       94
  Lines in the Manner of Spenser                       71       94
  Imitated from Ossian                                 73       38
  The Complaint of Ninathoma                           74       39
  Imitated from the Welsh                              75       58
  To an Infant                                         75       91
  Lines in Answer to a Letter from Bristol             76       96
  To a Friend in Answer to a melancholy Letter         80       90
  Religious Musings                                    82      108
  The Destiny of Nations, a Vision                     98      131

Half-title

  Sibylline Leaves. / I. Poems occasioned by Political
          Events / Or Feelings Connected / With
          them. /                                    [119]
  Motto--When I have borne in memory, &c. (fourteen
          lines), Wordsworth                         [120]
      Ode to the Departing Year                      [121]     160
      France, an Ode                                  128      243
      Fears in Solitude                               132      256
      Fire, Famine, and Slaughter                     141      237

  II. LOVE POEMS                                     [145]
  Motto--eleven lines from a Latin poem of Petrarch  [145]
          Love                                       [145]     330
      _The Ballad of the Dark Ladie. A Fragment_      150      293
      Lewti, or the Circassian Love Chaunt            152      253
      The Picture, or the Lover's Resolution          155      369
      The Night Scene, a Dramatic Fragment            162      421
      To an Unfortunate Woman                         166      172
      To an Unfortunate Woman at the Theatre          167      171
      Lines Composed in a Concert Room                168      324
      The Keepsake                                    170      345
      To a Lady, with Falconer's Shipwreck            172      424
      To a Young Lady on her recovery from a Fever    173      252
      Something Childish, but very Natural            174      313
      Home-sick: written in Germany                   175      314
      Answer to a Child's Question                    176      386
      A Child's Evening Prayer                        176      401
      The Visionary Hope                              177      416
      The Happy Husband                               178      388
      Recollections of Love                           179      409
      On revisiting the Sea-Shore                     181      359

  III. MEDITATIVE POEMS. / In Blank Verse            [183]
  Motto--eight lines translated from Schiller        [183]
      Hymn before Sunrise, in the Vale of Chamouni    183      376
      Lines written in the Album at Elbingerode in
          the Hartz Forest                            187      315
      On observing a Blossom on the First of February 189      148
      The Æolian Harp                                 190      100
      Reflections on having left a place of
          Retirement                                  393      106
      To the Rev. George Coleridge                    196      173
      Inscription for a Fountain on a Heath           199      381
      A Tombless Epitaph                              200      413
      This Lime-Tree Bower my Prison                  201      178
      To a Friend, who had declared his intention of
          writing no more Poetry                      205      158
      To William Wordsworth, composed on the night
          after his recitation of a Poem on the growth
          of an individual mind                       206      403
      The Nightingale                                 211      264
      Frost at Midnight                               216      240
      The Three Graves                                219      267

  ODES AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS                        235
      Dejection, an Ode                               235      362
      Ode to Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire         241      335
      Ode to Tranquillity                             244      360
      To a Young Friend, on his proposing to
          domesticate with the Author                 246
      Lines to W. L. while he sang a song to
          Purcell's Music                             249      286
      Addressed to a Young Man of Fortune             249      157
      Sonnet. To the River Otter                      250       48
      ---- Composed on a journey homeward after
          hearing of the birth of a son               251      153
      ---- To a Friend                                252      154
      The Virgin's Cradle Hymn                        252      417
      Epitaph on an Infant                            253      417
      Melancholy, a Fragment                          253       73
      Tell's Birth Place                              254      309
      A Christmas Carol                               256      338
      Human Life                                      258      425
      _Moles_                                         259      430
      The Visit of the Gods                           259      310
      Elegy, imitated from Akenside                   261       69
      _Separation_                                    262      397
      _On Taking Leave of ----_                       263      410
      The Pang more sharp than all                    263      457
      Kubla Khan                                      266      295
      The Pains of Sleep                              270      389
      _Limbo_                                         272      429
      _Ne plus ultra_                                 273      431
      Apologetic Preface to Fire, Famine, and
          Slaughter                                   274

END OF VOL. I


VOLUME II

  THE ANCIENT MARINER.
      Part    I.                                        1      187
       "     II.                                        5      189
       "    III.                                        7      192
       "     IV.                                       10      196
       "      V.                                       13      198
       "     VI.                                       18      202
       "    VII.                                       23      206

  CHRISTABEL, Part I                                   28      213
      Conclusion to Part I                             39      225
      Part II                                          41      227
      Conclusion to Part II                            53      235

Half-title

  MISCELLANEOUS POEMS                                 [55]
  Motto Ἔρωϛ ἀεί, &c. In many ways, &c. (four lines)
      _Alice du Clos; or, the Forked Tongue. A
          Ballad_                                      57      469
      _The Knight's Tomb_                              64      432
      _Hymn to the Earth_                              65      327
      _Written during a temporary blindness, 1799_     67      305
      _Mahomet_                                        68      329
      _Catullian Hendecasyllables_                     69      307
      Duty surviving Self-Love                         69      459
      Phantom or Fact? a dialogue in Verse             70      484
      _Phantom_                                        71      393
      Work without Hope                                71      447
      Youth and Age                                    72      439
      A Day Dream                                      74      385
      First Advent of Love                             76      443
      _Names_                                          76      318
      _Desire_                                         77      485
      _Love and Friendship opposite_                   77      484
      _Not at home_                                    77      484
      To a Lady offended by a sportive observation     78      418
      Lines suggested by the Last Words of Berengarius 79      460
      _Sancti Dominici Pallium_                        80      448
      The Devil's Thoughts                             83      319
      _The two round Spaces on the Tombstone_          87      353
      _Lines to a Comic Author_                        89      476
      Constancy to an Ideal Object                     90      455
      The Suicide's Argument                           91      419
      The Blossoming of the Solitary Date Tree         92      395
      _From the German_                                95      311
      Fancy in Nubibus                                 96      435
      The Two Founts                                   96      454
      The Wanderings of Cain                           99      288
      Allegoric Vision                                109     1091
      New Thoughts on Old Subjects                    117      462
      The Garden of Boccaccio                         127      478
      _On a Cataract_                                 131      308
      _Love's Apparition and Evanishment_             132      488
      _Morning Invitation to a Child_                 133
      _Consolation of a Maniac_                       135
      _A Character_                                   137      451
      _The Reproof and Reply_                         140      441
      _Cholera Cured beforehand_                      142
      _Cologne_                                       144      477
      _On my joyful departure from the same City_     144      477
      _Written in an Album_                           145
      _To the Author of the Ancient Mariner_          145
      _Metrical Feet. Lesson for a Boy_               145      401
      _The Homeric Hexameter described and
          exemplified_                                146      307
      _The Ovidian Hexameter described and
          exemplified_                                146      308
      _To the Young Artist, Kayser of Kayserworth_    147      490
      _Job's Luck_                                    147
      _On a Volunteer Singer_                         148
      _On an Insignificant_                           148
      _Profuse Kindness_                              148
      _Charity in Thought_                            148      486
      _Humility the Mother of Charity_                149      486
      _On an Infant which died before Baptism_        149      312
      _On Berkeley and Florence Coleridge_            149
      ""Γνῶθι σεαυτόν, _&c._                              150      487
      "_Gently I took_," _&c._                        151      488
      _My Baptismal Birthday_                         151      490
      _Epitaph_                                       152      491

Half-title

  Remorse! / A Tragedy. / In Five Acts. /            [153]
  Dramatis Personae.                                 [154]     819
      Remorse.                                        155      820
      Appendix.                                      [237]     881

Half-title, Motto, &c.

  Zapolya: / A Christmas Tale / In Two Parts /       [241]
  Advertisement.                                     [242]     883
      Zapolya.                                       [243]     884

END OF VOL. II


VOLUME III

Half-title

  The Piccolomini; / Or, the First Part of
          Wallenstein. / A Drama. /Translated from
          the German of Schiller. /                    [1]
  Preface to the First edition                         [3]     598
      The Piccolomini                                  [5]     600

Half-title

  The / Death of Wallenstein. / A Tragedy. / In Five
          Acts: /                                    [193]
  Preface of The Translator / To the First
          Edition. /                                 [195]     724
  Dramatis Personae                                  [198]     726
      The Death of Wallenstein                       [199]     726
      Love, Hope, and Patience in Education           331      481
      Erratum                                        [332]


XXVII

THE POETICAL AND DRAMATIC WORKS of Samuel Taylor Coleridge; With a Life
of the Author. London: John Thomas Cox, 84 High Holborn. MDCCCXXXVI.
                                               [8{o}, pp. lxxviii + 403.

The Life of the Author is followed by an Appendix containing
'Coleridge's Will', and 'Contemporary Notices of the Writings and
Character of Coleridge'.

The Contents consist of the Poems published in 1797, together with 'The
Nightingale'; 'Love'; 'The Ancient Mariner'; 'The Foster Mother's Tale';
four poems and seven sonnets reprinted from 1796; 'On a late Connubial
Rupture'; and the 'Three Sonnets . . . in the manner of Contemporary
Writers' reprinted from the _Poetical Register_. The Poems conclude with
'A Couplet, written in a volume of Poems presented by Mr. Coleridge to
Dr. A.'--a highly respected friend, the loss of whose society he deeply
regretted--

  To meet, to know, to love--and then to part,
  Is the sad tale of many a human heart.

For the 'Couplet', vide _ante_, p. 410, 'To Two Sisters', ll. 1, 2. Dr.
A. was probably John Anster, LL.D., the translator of Goethe's _Faust_.

The Dramatic Works consist of 'The Piccolomini' and 'The Death of
Wallenstein'.


XXVIII

THE POETICAL AND DRAMATIC WORKS of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, with a Life
of the Author. London: Tho{s}. Allman 42 Holborn Hill 1837.
                                                [16{mo}, pp. viii + 392.

_Note._--The 'Life of the Author' does not form part of this edition.
The Contents are identical with those of No. XXVII. The frontispiece
depicts the 'Ancient Mariner' and the 'Wedding Guest'. The title-page,
'Drawn and Engraved by J. Romney,' is embellished with a curious
vignette depicting a man in a night-cap lying in bed. A wife, or
daughter, is in attendance. The vignette was probably designed to
illustrate some other work.


XXIX

THE POETICAL WORKS of Samuel Taylor Coleridge with Life of the Author.
London: Charles Daly, 14, Leicester Street, Leicester Square, _n. d._
                                          [16{mo}, pp. xxxii + [35]-384.

The Contents consist of 'The Ancient Mariner' (with the marginal glosses
printed at the end of the poem); the Poems of 1796, 1797, with a few
exceptions: 'The Piccolomini'; 'The Death of Wallenstein'; 'The Dark
Ladié'; 'The Raven'; 'A Christmas Carol'; and 'Fire, Famine, and
Slaughter'--i. e. of poems then out of copyright, or reprinted from the
_Morning Post_.


XXX

The Ancient Mariner, and other Poems. By S. T. Coleridge. Price
Sixpence. London: Sherwood, Gilbert, and Piper, Paternoster-Row.
MDCCCXLIII. J. Scott, Printer, 50, Hatfield Street.
                                                  [16{mo}, pp. iv + 148.

_Note._--This edition formed one of the 'Pocket English Classics'. An
illustrated title-page depicts the 'skiff-boat' with its crew of the
Ancient Mariner, the Holy Hermit, the Pilot, and the Pilot's boy, who is
jumping overboard. The flag bears the legend 'The Antient Mariner and
Minor Poems By S. T. Coleridge'. The Contents include 'The Ancient
Mariner', with the marginal glosses printed at the end of the poem; and
a selection of poems published in 1796, 1797.


XXXI

THE POEMS of S. T. Coleridge [Aldine device and motto] London William
Pickering 1844.                                    [8{o}, pp. xvi + 372.

_Note._--The Contents of this volume, issued by Mrs. H. N. Coleridge as
sole editress, consist of the Poems (not the Dramatic Works) included in
1834, with the following omissions, (1) Music, (2) Devonshire Roads, (3)
Inside the Coach, (4) Mathematical Problem, (5) The Nose, (6) Monody on
a Tea-kettle, (7) 'The Same,' 'I too a sister had', &c., (8) On
Imitation, (9) Honor, (10) Progress of Vice, (11) The Two round spaces
on the Tombstone; and the following additions, already republished in
_Lit. Remains_, 1836, Vol. I, (1) Epigram, 'Hoarse Mævius', &c., (2)
Casimir ad Lyram, (3) On the Christening of a Friend's Child, (4)
Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladie, (5) An Ode to the Rain, (6)
The Exchange, (7) Complaint, 'How seldom, Friend', &c., (8) 'What is
Life', (9) Inscription for a Time-Piece, (10) Ἐπιτάφιον αὐτόγραπτον. Four
songs from the dramas were also included. The German originals of (1)
Schiller's 'Lines on a Cataract', (2) Friederike Brun's 'Chamouny at
Sunrise', and (3) Schiller's distiches on the 'Homeric Hexameter' and
the 'Ovidian Elegiac Metre' are printed on pp. 371, 372.


XXXII

THE POEMS of S. T. Coleridge [Aldine device and motto] London William
Pickering 1848.                                    [8{o}, pp. xvi + 372.

The Contents are identical with those of No. XXXI, with the exception of
two additional 'Notes' (pp. 371, 372) containing the German original of
Matthisson's _Milesisches Märchen_, and two stanzas of Cotton's
_Chlorinda_, of which 'Separation' (_ante_, p. 397) is an adaptation.


XXXIII

THE RAVEN, A Christmas Tale, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Esq.
Illustrated with Eight Plates, By an Old Traveller. [_n. d._]

_Collation._--Oblong folio, pp. i-vi + eight scenes unpaged, faced by
eight lithographs.


XXXIV

THE POEMS of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Edited by Derwent and Sara
Coleridge. A New Edition. London: Edward Moxon, Dover Street. 1852.
         [8{o}, pp. xxvii ('Advertisement', and 'Editors' Preface to the
          Present Edition', pp. [v]-xiv) + 378 + 'Notes', pp. [379]-388.


_ADVERTISEMENT_

This volume was prepared for the press by my lamented sister, Mrs. H. N.
Coleridge, and will have an additional interest to many readers as the
last monument of her highly-gifted mind. At her earnest request, my name
appears with hers on the title-page, but the assistance rendered by me
has been, in fact, little more than mechanical. The preface, and the
greater part of the notes, are her composition:--the selection and
arrangement have been determined almost exclusively by her critical
judgment, or from records in her possession. A few slight corrections
and unimportant additions are all that have been found necessary, the
first and last sheets not having had the benefit of her own revision.

                                               DERWENT COLERIDGE.

  ST. MARK'S COLLEGE, CHELSEA,
           _May_ 1852.


PREFACE TO THE PRESENT EDITION [1852]

As a chronological arrangement of Poetry in completed collections is now
beginning to find general favour, pains have been taken to follow this
method in the present Edition of S. T. Coleridge's Poetical and Dramatic
Works, as far as circumstances permitted--that is to say, as far as the
date of composition of each poem was ascertainable, and as far as the
plan could be carried out without effacing the classes into which the
Author had himself distributed his most important poetical publication,
the 'Sibylline Leaves,' namely, POEMS OCCASIONED BY POLITICAL EVENTS, OR
FEELINGS CONNECTED WITH THEM; LOVE POEMS; MEDITATIVE POEMS IN BLANK
VERSE; ODES AND MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. On account of these impediments,
together with the fact, that many a poem, such as it appears in its
ultimate form, is the growth of different periods, the agreement with
chronology in this Edition is approximative rather than perfect: yet in
the majority of instances the date of each piece has been made out, and
its place fixed accordingly.

In another point of view also, the Poems have been distributed with
relation to time: they are thrown into three broad groups, representing,
first the Youth,--secondly, the Early Manhood and Middle Life,--thirdly,
the Declining Age of the Poet; and it will be readily perceived that
each division has its own distinct tone and colour, corresponding to the
period of life in which it was composed. It has been suggested, indeed,
that Coleridge had four poetical epochs, more or less diversely
characterised,--that there is a discernible difference betwixt the
productions of his Early Manhood and of his Middle Age, the latter being
distinguished from those of his Stowey life, which may be considered as
his poetic prime, by a less buoyant spirit. Fire they have; but it is
not the clear, bright, mounting fire of his earlier poetry, conceived
and executed when 'he and youth were house-mates still.' In the course
of a very few years after three-and-twenty all his very finest poems
were produced; his twenty-fifth year has been called his _annus
mirabilis_. To be a 'Prodigal's favourite--[1169:1]then, worse truth! a
Miser's pensioner,' is the lot of Man. In respect of poetry, Coleridge
was a 'Prodigal's favourite,' more, perhaps, than ever Poet was before.

       *       *       *       *       *

[The poems] produced before the Author's twenty-fourth year [1796],
devoted as he was to the 'soft strains' of Bowles, have more in common
with the passionate lyrics of Collins and the picturesque wildness of
the pretended Ossian, than with the well-tuned sentimentality of that
Muse which the overgrateful poet has represented as his earliest
inspirer. For the young they will ever retain a peculiar charm, because
so fraught with the joyous spirit of youth; and in the minds of all
readers that feeling which disposes men 'to set the bud above the rose
full-blown' would secure them an interest, even if their intrinsic
beauty and sweetness were less adequate to obtain it.

       *       *       *       *       *

The present Editors have been guided in the general arrangement of this
edition by those of 1817 and 1828, which may be held to represent the
author's matured judgment upon the larger and more important part of
his poetical productions. They have reason, indeed, to believe, that the
edition of 1828 was the last upon which he was able to bestow personal
care and attention. That of 1834, the last year of his earthly
sojourning, a period when his thoughts were wholly engrossed, so far as
the decays of his frail outward part left them free for intellectual
pursuits and speculations, by a grand scheme of Christian Philosophy, to
the enunciation of which in a long projected work his chief thoughts and
aspirations had for many years been directed, was arranged mainly, if
not entirely, at the discretion of his earliest Editor, H. N.
Coleridge. . . Such alterations only have been made in this final
arrangement of the Poetical and Dramatic Works of S. T. Coleridge, by
those into whose charge they have devolved, as they feel assured, both
the Author himself and his earliest Editor would at this time find to be
either necessary or desirable. The observations and experience of
eighteen years, a period long enough to bring about many changes in
literary opinion, have satisfied them that the immature essays of
boyhood and adolescence, not marked with any such prophetic note of
genius as certainly does belong to the four school-boy poems they have
retained, tend to injure the general effect of a body of poetry. That a
writer, especially a writer of verse, should keep out of sight his
third-rate performances, is now become a maxim with critics; for they
are not, at the worst, effectless: they have an effect, that of diluting
and weakening, to the reader's feelings, the general power of the
collection. Mr. Coleridge himself constantly, after 1796, rejected a
certain portion of his earliest published _Juvenilia_: never printed any
attempts of his boyhood, except those four with which the present
publication commences, and there can be no doubt that the Editor of 1834
would ere now have come to the conclusion, that only such of the
Author's early performances as were sealed by his own approval ought to
form a permanent part of the body of his poetical works.

       *       *       *       *       *

It must be added, that time has robbed of their charm certain sportive
effusions of Mr. Coleridge's later years, which were given to the public
in the first gloss and glow of novelty in 1834, and has proved that,
though not devoid of the quality of genius, they possess upon the whole,
not more than an ephemeral interest. These the Editors have not scrupled
to omit on the same grounds and in the same confidence that has been
already explained.

       *       *       *       *       *

                                                            S. C.

  CHESTER PLACE, REGENT'S PARK.
      _March_, 1852.

The Contents of 1852 correspond with those of 1844, 1848, with the
following omissions: (1) Anthem for the Children of Christ's Hospital;
(2) Sonnet, 'Farewell, parental scenes', &c.; (3) To the Muse; (4) With
Fielding's Amelia; (5) Sonnet, 'On receiving an account', &c.; (6)
Sonnet, 'On seeing a Youth', &c.; (7) Pain; (8) Epigram, 'Hoarse
Mævius', &c.; (9) Casimir ad Lyram; (10) 'On the Christening', &c.; (11)
Elegy imitated from Akenside; (12) Phantom; (13) Allegoric Vision; (14)
Reproof and Reply; (15) Written in an Album, 'Parry', &c.; (16) To the
Author of the Ancient Mariner; (17) Job's Luck; (18) On a Volunteer
Singer; together with four songs from the dramas.

The additions were (1) Sonnet to Pitt, 'Not always', &c.; (2) Sonnet,
'Not Stanhope', &c.; (3) To the Author of Poems published anonymously at
Bristol; (4) The Day-Dream, 'If thou wert here', &c.; (5) The
Foster-Mother's Tale; (6) A Hymn; (7) The Alienated Mistress. A
Madrigal; (8) To a Lady, 'Tis not the lily brow', &c.; (9) Song, 'Tho'
veiled', &c.; (10) L'envoy. 'In vain we supplicate', &c.

The Notes, pp. 379-88, contain, _inter alia_, the Latin original of
'Kisses' (vide _ante_, p. 46), and the Sonnet, 'No more my visionary
Soul shall dwell', attributed by Southey to Favell (vide _ante_, p. 68).


XXXV

THE DRAMATIC WORKS of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Edited by Derwent
Coleridge. A New Edition. London: Edward Moxon, Dover Street. 1852.
                                                   [8{o}, pp. xvi + 427.


CONTENTS

  Remorse. A Tragedy in Five Acts.
  Zapolya. A Christmas Tale. In two Parts. Part I. The Prelude, &c.
  Zapolya. Part II. The Sequel, entitled 'The Usurper's Fate.'
  The Piccolomini; or the first part of 'Wallenstein.' A Drama.
      Translated from Schiller.
  The Death of Wallenstein. A Tragedy. In Five Acts.
  Notes.

_Note._--The Preface contains a critical estimate of _Remorse_ and
_Zapolya_, and of the translation of Schiller's _Wallenstein_. At the
close of the Preface [pp. xii-xiv] the Editor comments on the strictures
of a writer in the _Westminster Review_, Art. 3 July 1850 (vide _ante_,
p. 811), and upholds the merits of the Translation as a whole. The
Preface is dated 'St. Mark's College, Chelsea, _July_, 1852'.


XXXVI

THE COMPLETE WORKS of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. With an Introductory
Essay upon his Philosophical and Theological opinions. Edited by
Professor Shedd. In Seven Volumes. Vol. vii. New York: Harper &
Brothers, Publishers, Nos. 329 and 331 Pearl Street, Franklin Square.
1853.

Second Title.--The Poetical and Dramatic Works of Samuel Taylor
Coleridge. New York: Harper & Brothers. 1853.   [8{o}, pp. xiv + 15-702.

The Contents are identical with those of 1834, with ten additions first
collected in 1844. The Fall of Robespierre is included in the Dramatic
Works. 'Lines in Answer to a Letter from Bristol', pp. 67-70, are
reprinted as 'Lines Written at Shurton Bars near Bridgewater', pp. 103-5
(vide _ante_, p. 96). Vol. vii was republished with an Index to the
preceding six volumes in 1854.


XXXVII

THE POEMS of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Edited by Derwent and Sara
Coleridge. With a Biographical Memoir By Ferdinand Freiligrath.
Copyright Edition. Leipzig Bernhard Tauchnitz 1860.

_Collation._--General Half-title, one leaf, Collection of British
Authors. Vol. 512. The Poems, &c. (4 lines). In One Volume, p. [i];
Title, p. [iii]; Half-title, Biographical Memoir of Samuel Taylor
Coleridge. By Ferdinand Freiligrath, p. [iv]; Advertisements, p. [v];
Biographical Memoir, pp. [vi]-xxviii; Advertisement (to ed. of 1852),
p. xxix; Preface, pp. [xxxi]-xl; Contents, pp. [xli]-xlv. Text, pp.
[1]-336; Notes, pp. [337]-344.


XXXVIII

THE POEMS of S. T. Coleridge. London: Bell and Daldy. 1862.
                                                [16{mo}, pp. xiii + 299.


XXXIX

THE POEMS of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Edited by Derwent and Sara
Coleridge. With an Appendix. A New Edition. London: Edward Moxon & Co.,
Dover Street. 1863.

[8{o}, pp. xxvii + [1]-378 + Notes, pp. [379]-388 + Appendix, pp.
[391]-404.

The text of the Poems is identical with that of 1852, but a fresh
'Advertisement', pp. [iii]-iv, is prefixed to the 'Advertisement' dated
May, 1852.


_ADVERTISEMENT_

The last authorised edition of S. T. Coleridge's Poems, published by Mr.
Moxon in 1852, bears the names of Derwent and Sara Coleridge, as joint
editors. In writing my name with my sister's, I yielded to her
particular desire and request, but the work was performed almost
entirely by herself. My opinion was consulted as to the general
arrangement, and more especially as to the choice or rejection of
particular pieces. Even here I had no occasion to do more than confirm
the conclusions to which she had herself arrived, and sanction the
course which she had herself adopted. I shared in the responsibility,
but cannot claim any share in the credit of the undertaking. This
edition I propose to leave intact as it came from her own hands. I wish
it to remain as one among other monuments of her fine taste, her solid
judgment, and her scrupulous conscientiousness.

A few pieces of some interest appear, however, to have been overlooked.
Two characteristic sonnets, not included in any former edition of the
Poems, have been preserved in an anonymous work, entitled 'Letters,
Recollections, and Conversations of S. T. Coleridge.' These with a
further selection from the omitted pieces, principally from the Juvenile
Poems, have been added in an Appendix. So placed, they will not at any
rate interfere with the general effect of the collection, while they add
to its completeness.

All these buds of promise were once withdrawn, and, afterwards
reproduced by the Author. It is not easy now to draw a line of
separation, which shall not be deemed either too indulgent, or too
severe. [The concluding lines of the 'Advertisement' dealt with
questions of copyright].
                                               DERWENT COLERIDGE.


APPENDIX

[First printed in 1863.]

   1. To Nature. [_Letters, Conversations_, &c., 1836, i. 144.]
   2. Farewell to Love. [Ibid., i. 143.]
   3. 'I yet remain', &c. [First six lines by W. L. Bowles.]
   4. Count Rumford's Essays. [By W. L. Bowles.]
   5. 'The early Year's', &c. [Ver perpetuum, _ante_, p. 148.]
   6. To the Rev. W. J. H. [1796.]
   7. To a Primrose. [_The Watchman_.]
   8. On the Christening of a Friend's Child. [1797.]
   9. Mutual Passion. [_Sibylline Leaves._]
  10. From a Young Lady. [The Silver Thimble, _ante_, p. 104.]
  11. Translation of a Paraphrase of the Gospels. [_Biog. Lit._, 1807,
          i. 203, 204.]
  12. Israel's Lament. [_Ante_, pp. 433, 434.]

_Notes._--(1) No. 4 forms part of a Poem 'On Mr. Howard's Account of
Lazarettos,' _Sonnets, with other Poems_, 1794, pp. 52, 53. See Mr. T.
Hutchinson's note in the _Athenæum_, May 3, 1902.

(2) An MS. of No. 10, 'From a Young Lady', is preserved in the library
of Rugby School. The poem is dated August, 1795, and is partly in the
'Young Lady's' handwriting. It is signed 'Sara[*h*] Fricker', a proof
that her future husband meant from the first to alter the spelling of
her name.

(3) The frontispiece of this edition is a lithograph by W. Hall of a
portrait of Coleridge, aet. 26, formerly in the possession of Thomas
Poole.


XL

THE POEMS of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Edited by Derwent and Sara
Coleridge. With an Appendix. A new and enlarged edition, with a brief
Life of the author. London: E. Moxon and Co., 44 Dover Street. [1870.]
                                                 [8{o}, pp. lxvii + 429.

_Note._--The Contents of 1870 are identical with those of 1863, with the
addition of an Introductory Essay (i. e. a Critical Memoir) by Derwent
Coleridge, pp. xxiii-lix. 'The Rime of the Ancyent Mariner,' in Seven
Parts, was reprinted verbatim from the original as it appeared in
_Lyrical Ballads_, 1798. The Introductory Memoir (an 'Essay in a Brief
Model') has never been reprinted.


XLI

THE RAVEN. A Poem by Samuel Taylor Coleridge. Illustrated by Ella
Hallward With an Introduction by the Hon. Stephen Coleridge. H. S.
Nichols L{td}, 39 Charing Cross Road London W.C. MDCCCXCVIII.     [4{o}.

_Note._--The text is printed on 14 sheets, unpaged. There are thirteen
illustrations and other embellishments.


XLII

OSORIO A Tragedy _As originally written in_ 1797 By Samuel Taylor
Coleridge Now first printed from a Copy recently discovered by the
Publisher with the Variorum Readings of 'Remorse' and a Monograph on The
History of the Play in its earlier and later form by the Author of
'Tennysoniana' London John Pearson York Street Covent Garden 1873.
                                                  [8{o}, pp. xxii + 204.


XLIII

THE POETICAL WORKS of Samuel Taylor Coleridge Edited with an
Introductory Memoir and Illustrations by William B. Scott. London.
George Routledge and Sons. [1874.]              [8{o}, pp. xxviii + 420.


XLIV

THE POETICAL WORKS OF COLERIDGE AND KEATS With a Memoir of Each Four
Volumes in Two. New York Published by Hurd and Houghton Boston: H. O.
Houghton and Company The Riverside Press, Cambridge. 1878.        [8{o}.

Vol. I, pp. cxl + 372.

Vol. II, pp. vi + 331 + pp. xxxvi + 438 (Life and Poetical Works of
Keats).

_Note._--This edition was a reprint of the 'Poetical and Dramatic Works'
of 1852.


XLV

THE POETICAL AND DRAMATIC WORKS OF SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE. FOUNDED ON
THE AUTHOR'S LATEST EDITION OF 1834 WITH MANY ADDITIONAL PIECES NOW
FIRST INCLUDED, AND A COLLECTION OF VARIOUS READINGS Volume the First
[Volume the Second, &c.] [The Aldine device and motto.] London Basil
Montagu Pickering 196 Piccadilly 1877. [Reissued, with additions and
with the imprint of London Macmillan and Co. 1880.]

_Contents._--Vol. I. Contents, &c., pp. viii; Memoir of S. T. Coleridge,
pp. [ix]-cxviii; Poems, pp. [1]-217; Appendix (including Southey's
Translation of a 'Greek Ode on Astronomy', &c.), pp. 219-224.

Vol. II. Contents, &c., pp. xii; Poems, pp. [1]-352; Supplement, pp.
355*-364*; Appendix, pp. 353-381.

Vol. III. Remorse, and Zapolya, pp. 290.

Vol. IV. Fall of Robespierre, and _Translation of Schiller's
'Wallenstein'_, pp. 413.

_Note._--The Editor, Richard Herne Shepherd, included in the first two
volumes the poems published by Coleridge in 1796, 1797, _An. Anth._,
1800, 1803, _Sibylline Leaves_ (1817), 1828, 1829, 1834, together with
those published by H. N. Coleridge in _Literary Remains_, 1836, by Sara
and Derwent Coleridge in 1844, 1852 (with the exception of the Hymn,
1814), and by Derwent Coleridge in the Appendix of 1863.

The following poems collected from various sources were reprinted for
the first time:--

Vol. I. (1) Julia; (2) First version of the Sonnet to the Rev. W. L.
Bowles; (3) On a late Connubial Rupture; (4) Sonnets signed Nehemiah
Higginbottom.

Vol. II. (1) Talleyrand to Lord Granville; (2) A Stranger Minstrel; (3)
To Two Sisters, &c.; (4) Water Ballad; (5) Modern Critics; (6) 'The Poet
in his lone', &c. [Apologia, &c., _ante_, p. 345]; (7) Song, ex
improviso, &c.; (8) The Old Man of the Alps; (9) Three Epigrams from
_The Watchman_; (10) Sonnet on the birth of a son; (11) On Deputy
----; (12) To a Musical Critic; (13) Εγωενκαιπαν; (14) The Bridge-street
Committee; (15) 'What boots to tell', &c.; (16) Mr. Baker's Courtship;
(17) Lines in a German Student's Album; (18) On Kepler; (19) Distich
from the Greek.

The Supplement published in 1880 (Vol. II, pp. 355*-364*) contains (1)
Monody on Chatterton [First Version]; (2) To the Evening Star; (3) Anna
and Harland; (4) Translation of Wrangham's _Hendecasyllabi_, &c.; (5) To
Miss Brunton; (6) The Mad Monk. Bibliographical matter of interest and
importance is contained in the Memoir, and in the Notes to Vol. II, pp.
375-381. Variants of the text, derived from the _Morning Post_, and from
earlier editions, are printed as footnotes to the text. In Vol. III. the
Editor supplies a collation of the text of _Remorse_ as published in
1852 with that of _Osorio_ [London: John Pearson, 1873] and with that of
the First and Second Editions of _Remorse_ published in 1813.


XLVI

The Poetical Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge. With Life. Engravings on
Steel. Gale and Inglis. Edinburgh: Bernard Terrace. London: 26
Paternoster Square. [1881.]                     [8{o}, pp. xxviii + 420.

_Note._--This edition includes the _Fall of Robespierre_, and
_Christobell_. _A Gothic Tale_ as published in the _European Magazine_,
April, 1815.


XLVII

THE POETICAL WORKS of Samuel Taylor Coleridge Edited with Introduction
and Notes by T. Ashe, B.A. of St. John's College, Cambridge In Two
Volumes. London George Bell and Sons, York Street Covent Garden 1885.
[The Frontispiece of Vol. I is a portrait of S. T. Coleridge, aet. 23,
from a crayon drawing by Robert Hancock: of Vol. II, a view of Greta
Hall, Keswick.]                                                   [8{o}.

Vol. I. Title, &c., pp. [iii]-xiv; Introduction, &c., pp. [xv]-clxxxvi;
Poems, pp. 1-212.

Vol. II. Contents, &c., pp. [v]-xiii; Poems, pp. 1-409.

_Note._--Section 3 of the Introduction, pp. cxxxviii-clxxxvi, supplies a
Bibliography of the Poems. The Dramas are not included in the _Poetical
Works_. In the 'Table of Contents' poems not included in 1834 are marked
by an asterisk, but of these only three, (1) 'The Tears of a Grateful
People'; (2) 'The Humour of Pallas' ['My Godmother's Beard'], and (3)
'Lines written in the Common Place Book of Miss Barbour', were collected
for the first time. The 'Introduction', the work of a genuine poet,
contains much that is valuable and interesting, but the edition as a
whole is by no means an advancement on _P. and D. W._, 1877-1880.


XLVIII

THE POETICAL WORKS of Samuel Taylor Coleridge Edited with a Biographical
Introduction by James <DW18>s Campbell [=London=] Macmillan and Co. And
New York 1893 _All rights reserved._             [8{o}, pp. cxxiv + 667.

_Contents._--Authorities cited in the Introduction--Corrigenda, p. vi;
Preface, pp. [vii]-x; Introduction, pp. [xi]-cxxiv; Poems, pp. [1]-210;
Dramatic Works, pp. [211]-442; Addenda, (i) Epigrams, pp. [443]-453,
(ii) Fragments from a Common Place Book, pp. 453-458, (iii) Fragments
from various sources, pp. [459]-470; (iv) Adaptations, pp. [471]-474;
Appendix A. The Raven, pp. [475]-476; Appendix B. Greek Prize Ode, &c.
[from MS.], pp. 476-477; Appendix C. To a Young Ass [from MS.], pp.
477-478; Appendix D. Osorio [from MSS.], pp. 479-512; Appendix E. The
Rime of the Ancient Mariner [1798], pp. 512-520; Appendix F. Mont Blanc.
The Summit of the Vale of Chamouny, an Hour before Sunrise--An Hymn
(_Coleorton Letters_, 1887, i. 26-29), pp. 521-522; Appendix G.
Dejection: An Ode (_M. P._, Oct. 4, 1802), pp. 522-524; Appendix H. To a
Gentleman [W. Wordsworth] (_Coleorton Letters_, i. 213-218), pp.
525-526; Appendix I. Apologetic Preface to 'Fire, Famine and Slaughter',
pp. 527-533; Appendix J. Allegoric Verses, pp. 534-537; Appendix K.
Titles, Prefaces, and Contents, &c., pp. 537-559; Notes, pp. [561]-654;
Index to the Poems, &c., pp. [655]-659; Index to First Lines, pp.
[661]-667.

The Poems include all those published in 1877-1880 with the addition of
the _Hymn_, first published in 1852, and the omission of 'The Old Man of
the Alps' (_M. P._, Apr. 13, 1798) together with the following pieces
collected for the first time (*), or printed for the first time from
MSS. (MS.):--(1) Dura Navis (MS.); (2) Nil pejus, &c. (MS.); (3) Quae
nocent, &c. (MS.); (4) Invocation (MS.); (5) On a Lady Weeping (MS.);
(6) A Wish written, &c. (MS.); (7) An Ode in the Manner of Anacreon
(MS.); (8) A Lover's Complaint, &c.; (9) To Fortune (*); (10) The Faded
Flower (*); (11) On Bala Hill [by R. Southey] (MS.); (12) Count Rumford
[by W. L. Bowles] (*); (13) Verses to J. Horne Tooke (*); (14) Ad
Vilmum Axiologum (MS.); (15) The Snowdrop (MS.); (16) To Matilda Betham,
&c. (*); (17) Homeless (*); (18) Sonnet. Translated from Marini (MS.)
(19) A Sunset (MS.); (20) Tears of a Grateful People (*); (21) To Mary
Pridham (MS.).

Of the Epigrams, pp. 443-455, the following were first printed from MS.,
(1) 'You're careful', &c.; (2) 'Say what you will', &c.; (3) On an
Insignificant 'No doleful', &c.; (4) On a Slanderer 'From yonder tomb',
&c.; (5) 'Money I've heard', &c.

Of fifty-four Fragments from a Common Place Book eighteen were first
printed in _Literary Remains_, i. 277-281, and the rest were published
or collected for the first time: of sixty-six Fragments from Various
Sources thirty-three were first published from MSS., and others were
collected for the first time.

Much had been accomplished by the Editor of _P. and D. W._, 1877-1880,
but the excellence of the critical apparatus, the style and substance of
the critical and explanatory notes, and the amount and quality of fresh
material have made and must continue to make the Edition of 1893 the
standard edition of Coleridge's _Poetical Works_. The 'Introductory
Memoir' was republished as 'A Narrative of the Life of Samuel Taylor
Coleridge', Macmillan, 1894.


XLIX

COLERIDGE'S POEMS _A Facsimile Reproduction Of The Proofs And MSS. Of
Some_ OF THE POEMS EDITED BY THE LATE JAMES <DW18>s CAMPBELL _Author of
"Samuel Taylor Coleridge, A Narrative of the Events of his Life"; and
Editor of "The Poetical Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge."_ With Preface
and Notes By W. Hale White Westminster Archibald Constable and Co. 1899.

_Note._--This volume contains a reprint of a volume of proofs endorsed
'Coleridge's MSS. Corrected Copy of a Work'--'Mr. Cottle's', and a
facsimile reproduction of three MSS., with the original erasures and
alternative readings. The volume of proofs formerly in the possession of
J. <DW18>s Campbell was reproduced by him, and he added the facsimile of
the MSS. in the British Museum which he had deciphered and prepared for
publication. Four years after his death the sheets were bound up and
published with an elucidatory preface by Mr. W. Hale White. A copy of
this literary curiosity as it was left by Mr. Campbell, without the
Preface, is in the possession of the Editor.


L

CHRISTABEL By Samuel Taylor Coleridge Illustrated by a Facsimile of the
Manuscript And by Textual and other Notes By Ernest Hartley Coleridge
Hon. F.R.S.L. London: Henry Frowde MCMVII.          [8{o}, pp. ix + 113.

_Note._--The Frontispiece is a photogravure (by Emery Walker) of a
pastel drawing of S. T. Coleridge aet. 26. The Collotype Facsimile
(thirty-eight leaves unpaged) is inserted between pp. 53 and 54. The
text, as collated with three MSS., two transcriptions, and the First
Edition, &c., is on pp. 61-96; a Bibliographical Index [Appendix IV] on
pp. 111-113. This Edition (dedicated to the Poet's grand-daughters Edith
and Christabel Rose Coleridge) was issued by Henry Frowde at the expense
of the Royal Society of Literature.


LI

THE POEMS OF COLERIDGE With An Introduction By Ernest Hartley Coleridge
And Illustrations By Gerald Metcalfe John Lane The Bodley Head London,
W. John Lane Company New York.

[8{o}, pp. xxxi + 460 + Index to the Poems [461]-466 + Index to First
Lines [469]-477.]

_Note._--The Illustrations consist of twenty-three full-page
illustrations, together with numerous headings, tailpieces, and
vignettes. The Contents include all poems previously published which
were not subject to the law of copyright:--'The Walk Before Supper',
'The Reproof and Reply', and 'Sancti Dominici Pallium' were printed for
the first time from the original MSS.


LII

THE RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER. By Samuel Taylor Coleridge, Illustrated
by Twenty-Five Poetic and Dramatic Scenes, Designed and Etched By David
Scott, Member of the Scottish Academy of Painting. Edinburgh: Alexander
Hill, 50, Princes Street; Ackermann & Co. London. M. DCCC. XXXVII.
[Folio.

_Note._--Text with marginal glosses in Gothic letters, pp. [5]-25 +
twenty-four full-page etchings unpaged, preceded by an illustrated
title-page. Scenes from Coleridge's Rime of the Ancient Mariner, By
David Scott, S.A. [Etching of the Ancient Mariner on a storm-tost coast
ringing a bell, with a motto (_from Kubla Khan_) "All who saw would cry
Beware", COLERIDGE.] Edinburgh Published By Alex{r}. Hill, 50 Princes
Street 1837. The cloth binding is embellished with a vignette--a lyre
encircled by a winged serpent.


LIII

COLERIDGE'S RIME OF THE ANCIENT MARINER Illustrated by J. Noel Paton,
R.S.A. Art Union of London 1863 [W. H. M{c}Farlane Lithog{r} Edinburgh]
[Oblong Folio.

_Note._--The text, pp. [1]-12, is followed by twenty full-page
illustrations. The title-page and cloth binding are embellished with a
symbolic vignette--a cross-bow, with twisted snake, resting on a cross
encircled with stars.


LIV

THE POETICAL WORKS of Samuel T. Coleridge Edited, with a Critical
Memoir, By William Michael Rossetti. Illustrated By Thomas Seccombe.
London: E. Moxon, Son, & Co., Dover Street.      [8{o}, pp. xxxii + 424.

_Note._--In a Note affixed to the 'Prefatory Notice' the Editor states
that this edition includes all Coleridge's 'Dramas . . . with the
exception of _Zapolya_. In lieu of this _The Fall of Robespierre_, which
has never as yet been reprinted in England, is introduced.'


FOOTNOTES:

[1135:1]

  Felix curarum &c.
  . . . . . . . . . . . . Nos otia vitae
  Solamur cantu, ventosaque gaudia famae
  Quaerimus.
                      STATIUS, _Silvarum_ lib. iv, iv, ll. 46-51.

[1135:2] The following Advertisement was issued on a separate sheet:--

London, April 16. / _This day was Published._ / Printed on Wove Paper,
and Hot-Pressed, / Price 5_s._ in Boards,--Fools-cap 8 vo. / POEMS / ON
VARIOUS SUBJECTS, by / S. T. COLERIDGE, / Late of Jesus College,
Cambridge. / [=London=]: Printed for G. G. and J. Robinsons,
Pater-Noster Row, and / J. Cottle, Bookseller, Bristol; and to be had of
the / PUBLISHERS of the WATCHMAN / 1796. /

[1136:1] From 'An Evening Address to a Nightingale', by Cuthbert
Shaw--Anderson's _British Poets_, xi. 564.

[1136:2]

  'Why may not LANGHORNE, simple in his lay,
   _Effusion_ on _Effusion_, pour away?'
                        _The Candidate_, ll. 41-2.

[1140:1] The ancient little Wits wrote many poems in the shape of Eggs,
Altars, and Axes. (_MS. Note by S. T. C._)

[1140:2] The title of the volume is 'Sonnets and Odes, by Henry Francis
Cary. Author of an Irregular Ode to General Elliot. London 1787.'

Lines 6-9 of the Sonnet read thus:--

  From him deriv'd who shun'd and spurn'd the throng
  And warbled sweet, thy Brooks and streams among,
  Lonely Valclusa! and that heir of Fame
  Our English Milton--

Line 14 reads:--

  A grandeur, grace and spirit all their own.

The Poems were the first publication of 'Dante' Cary, then a boy of
fifteen, whom Coleridge first met at Muddiford in October, 1816, and
whose translation of the _Divina Commedia_ he helped to make famous.

[1141:1] The three Sonnets of Bowles are not in any Edition since the
last quarto pamphlet of his Sonnets. (_MS. Note by S. T. C._)

[1144:1] Ossian.

[1146:1] Compare _The Pursuits of Literature_, Dialogue 1, lines 50, 55,
56.

  The self-supported melancholy Gray

         *       *       *       *       *

  With his high spirit strove the master bard,
  And was his own _exceeding great_ reward.

The first Dialogue was published in May 1794. The lines on Gray may have
suggested Coleridge's quotation from Genesis, chap. xv, ver. 1, which is
supplied in a footnote to line 56.

[1150:1] The 'Eolian Harp', with the title 'Effusion xxxv. Composed
August 20, 1795, at Clevedon, Somersetshire', was first published in
1796, and included as 'Composed at Clevedon' in 1797 and 1803. It is
possible that it may have been originally printed in a newspaper.

[1150:2] The fourth and last edition of the _Lyrical Ballads_ was issued
in 1805.

[1151:1] The List numbers thirty, and of these not more than twenty are
strictly speaking _Errata_. Of the remainder the greater number are
textual corrections, emendations, and afterthoughts.

[1151:2] The allusion is to the prolonged and embittered controversy
between Coleridge and his friends at Bristol, who had printed his works
and advanced him various sums of money on the security of the sheets as
printed and the future sale of the works when published. They were angry
with him for postponing completion of these works, and keeping them out
of their money, and he was naturally and reasonably indignant at the
excessive sum charged for paper and printing. The fact was that they had
done and intended to do him a kindness, but that in so far as it was a
business transaction he suffered at their hands.

[1151:3] The title of these Iambic lines is 'Relictis Aliis Studiis
Philosophiam Epicuream amplectitur'.

[1151:4] Ben Jonson, vide _ante_, p. 1118.

[1151:5] Vide _ante_, pp. 419, 420.

[1169:1] See Wordsworth's _P. W._ 1896, in. 21: _The Small Celandine_,
ll. 21, 22.




BIBLIOGRAPHICAL APPENDIX


No. I

POEMS FIRST PUBLISHED IN NEWSPAPERS
OR PERIODICALS


_The Cambridge Intelligencer._

  Lines written at the King's Arms, Ross, formerly the
        House of the Man of Ross                          Sept. 27, 1794
  Absence                                                  Oct. 11, 1794
  Sonnet [Anna and Harland]                                Oct. 25, 1794
  Sonnet [Genevieve]                                        Nov. 1, 1794
  To a Young Man of Fortune, &c.                           Dec. 17, 1796
  Ode for the Last Day of the Year, 1796                   Dec. 31, 1796
  Parliamentary Oscillators                                 Jan. 6, 1798


_The Morning Chronicle._

  To Fortune                                                Nov. 7, 1793
  Elegy [Elegy imitated from Akenside]                    Sept. 23, 1794
  Epitaph on an Infant. 'Ere sin could blight', &c.       Sept. 23, 1794

  _Sonnets on Eminent Characters._
     I. To the Honourable Mr. Erskine                       Dec. 1, 1794
    II. Burke                                               Dec. 9, 1794
   III. Priestley                                          Dec. 11, 1794
    IV. La Fayette                                         Dec. 15, 1794
     V. Kosciusko                                          Dec. 16, 1794
    VI. Pitt                                               Dec. 23, 1794
   VII. To the Rev. W. L. Bowles                           Dec. 26, 1794
  VIII. Mrs. Siddons                                       Dec. 29, 1794
    IX. To William Godwin                                  Jan. 10, 1795
     X. To Robert Southey                                  Jan. 14, 1795
    XI. To Richard Brinsley Sheridan, Esq.                 Jan. 29, 1795

  To Lord Stanhope                                         Jan. 31, 1795
  Address to a Young Jack Ass and its tethered Mother,
        In Familiar Verse                                  Dec. 30, 1794


_The Watchman._

  No. 1. To a Young Lady with a Poem on the French
             Revolution                                     Mar. 1, 1796
  No. 2. Casimir. Ad Lyram. Imitation. 'The solemn-breathing
             air', &c.                                      Mar. 9, 1796
  No. 3. Elegy. 'Near the lone Pile', &c.                  Mar. 17, 1796
         The Hour when we shall meet again. 'Dim hour',
             &c.                                           Mar. 17, 1796
  No. 4. 'The early Year's fast-flying Vapours stray'      Mar. 25, 1796
         A Morning Effusion. 'Ye Gales', &c.               Mar. 25, 1796
  No. 5. To Mercy. 'Not always should the Tears', &c.       Apr. 2, 1796
         Recollection. 'As the tir'd savage', &c.           Apr. 2, 1796
  No. 6. Lines on Observing a Blossom on the First of
             February, 1796. 'Sweet Flower that peeping',
             &c.                                           Apr. 11, 1796
  No. 8. To a Primrose. 'Thy smiles I note', &c.           Apr. 27, 1796
  No. 9. Epitaph on an Infant. [Reprinted from the
             _Morning Chronicle_, Sept. 23, 1794.] 'Ere
             Sin could blight', &c.                          May 5, 1796


_The Monthly Magazine._

  On a Late Connubial Rupture, (ii, p. 647)                   Sept. 1796
  Reflections on Entering into Active Life, (ii, p. 732.)
      'Low was our pretty Cot', &c.                            Oct. 1796
  Sonnets attempted in the Manner of Contemporary Writers,
      (iv, p. 374)                                             Nov. 1797


_The Annual Register._

  Lines to a Beautiful Spring in a Village, (xxxviii, pp. 494-5)    1796
  Tranquillity, An Ode. (xliii, pp. 525-6)                          1801
  Stanzas Addressed to a Lady on Her Recovery from a severe attack
      of Pain. (The Two Founts.) (lxix, pp. 537-8)                  1827


_The Morning Post._

  To an Unfortunate Woman in the Back Seats of the Boxes
      at the Theatre. 'Maiden that with sullen brow'        Dec. 7, 1797
  Melancholy: A Fragment                                   Dec. 12, 1797
  Fire, Famine, and Slaughter: A War Eclogue                Jan. 8, 1798
  The Old Man of the Alps.                                  Mar. 8, 1798
  The Raven                                                Mar. 10, 1798
  Lines Imitated from Catullus. 'My Lesbia', &c.           Apr. 11, 1798
  Lewti, or the Circassian Love Chaunt                     Apr. 13, 1798
  The Recantation: An Ode                                  Apr. 16, 1798
  Moriens Superstiti. 'The hour-bell sounds', &c.           May 10, 1798
  A Tale. [Recantation. Illustrated in the Story of the
      Mad Ox]                                              July 30, 1798
  The British Stripling's War-Song                         Aug. 24, 1799
  The Devil's Thoughts                                     Sept. 6, 1799
  Lines written in the Album at Elbingerode               Sept. 17, 1799
  Lines Composed in a Concert Room                        Sept. 24, 1799
  To a Young Lady. 'Why need I say', &c.                    Dec. 9, 1799
  Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladié               Dec. 21, 1799
  Ode to Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire                  Dec. 24, 1799
  A Christmas Carol                                        Dec. 25, 1799
  Talleyrand to Lord Granville                             Jan. 10, 1800
  The Mad Monk                                             Oct. 13, 1800
  Inscription for a Seat by the Road-side, &c.             Oct. 21, 1800
  Alcaeus to Sappho                                        Nov. 24, 1800
  The Two Round Spaces: A Skeltoniad                        Dec. 4, 1800
  On Revisiting the Sea Shore                             Sept. 15, 1801
  Tranquillity, An Ode                                      Dec. 4, 1801
  The Picture, or The Lover's Resolution                   Sept. 6, 1802
  Chamouni. The Hour before Sunrise. A Hymn               Sept. 11, 1802
  The Keepsake                                            Sept. 17, 1802
  How seldom Friend, &c. [The Good Great Man]             Sept. 23, 1802
  Inscription on a Jutting Stone over a Spring            Sept. 24, 1802
  Dejection: An Ode                                         Oct. 4, 1802
  Ode to the Rain                                           Oct. 7, 1802
  France: An Ode                                           Oct. 14, 1802
  The Language of Birds. 'Do you ask, what the Birds
      say?' &c.                                            Oct. 16, 1802
  The Day-dream. From an Emigrant to his Absent Wife       Oct. 19, 1802


_The Courier._

  The Exchange of Hearts                                   Apr. 16, 1804
  Lines on a King-and-Emperor-making Emperor and King
      (Adaptation)                                        Sept. 12, 1806
  Farewell to Love. [_Morning Herald_, Oct. 11,
      1806]                                               Sept. 27, 1806
  To Two Sisters                                           Dec. 10, 1807
  Epitaph on an Infant. 'Its milky lips', &c.              Mar. 20, 1811
  The Hour Glass (Adaptation)                              Aug. 30, 1811
  The Virgin's Cradle Hymn                                 Aug. 30, 1811
  Mutual Passion (Adaptation)                             Sept. 21, 1811


_The Friend._

  [Ode to Tranquillity]                              No. 1, June 1, 1809
  The Three Graves, A Sexton's Tale                No. 6, Sept. 21, 1809
  Hymn. _Before Sun-rise, in the Vale of
      Chamouny_                                    No. 11, Oct. 26, 1809
  Tis True, IDOLOCLASTES SATYRANE                  No. 14, Nov. 23, 1809


_The Gentleman's Magazine._

  Farewell to Love. (lxxxv, p. 448)                                 1815
  Overlooked Poem by Coleridge. The Volunteer Stripling. (xxix,
      p. 160, N. S.)                                                1848


_Felix Farley's Bristol Journal._

  Fancy in Nubibus, or The Poet in the Clouds               Feb. 7, 1818
  Written on a Blank Leaf of Faulkner's Shipwreck,
      presented by a friend to Miss K                      Feb. 21, 1818


_Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine._

  Fancy in Nubibus. (Vol. vi, p. 196)                          Nov. 1819
  The poet in his lone, &c. [Apologia, &c.] (Vol. xi, p. 12)   Jan. 1822
  The Old Man's Sigh: A Sonnet. (Vol. xxxi, p. 956)           June, 1832


_Co-operative Magazine and Monthly Herald._

  On the Prospect of Establishing a Pantisocracy in
      America                                               Apr. 6, 1826


_Literary Magnet._

  An Impromptu on Christmas Day, &c.        N. S., Vol. iii, 1827, p. 71


_The Evening Standard._

  Sancti Dominici Pallium                                   May 21, 1827


_The Crypt, a Receptacle for Things Past._

  Job's Luck                                            1827, pp. 30, 31


_The Literary Souvenir._

  The Exchange                                              1826, p. 408
  Lines Suggested by the Last Words of Berengarius           1827, p. 17
  [Epitaphium Testamentarium]                                1827, p. 17
  Youth and Age                                               1828, p. 1
  What is Life?                                             1829, p. 346


_The Bijou, 1828._

  The Wanderings of Cain. A Fragment                              p.  17
  Work without Hope                                                   28
  Youth and Age                                                      144
  A Day Dream. 'My eyes make pictures'                               146
  The Two Founts                                                     202


_The Amulet._

  New Thoughts on Old Subjects. The Improvisatore        1828, pp. 37-47
  Three Scraps                                          1833, pp. 31, 32
     (i) Love's Burial Place.
    (ii) The Butterfly.
   (iii) A Thought suggested by a View of Saddleback in Cumberland.


_New York Mirror._

  Lines written in Miss Barbour's Common Place Book        Dec. 19, 1829


_The Keepsake._

  The Garden of Boccaccio                                   1829, p. 282
  Song, Ex Improviso, &c.                                   1830, p. 264
  The Poet's Answer to a Lady's Question, &c. 'O'er
      wayward Childhood', &c.                               1830, p. 279


_The Athenæum._

  Water Ballad                                             Oct. 29, 1831

_Friendship's Offering, 1834._

                                                                    PAGE
  My Baptismal Birthday                                              163
  Fragments from the Wreck of Memory, &c.--
     I. Hymn to the Earth                                            165
    II. English Hexameters, written during a temporary Blindness,
            in the Year 1799                                         167
   III. The Homeric Hexameter, &c.                                   168
    IV. The Ovidian Elegiac Metre, &c.                               168
     V. A Versified Reflection. 'On stern BLENCARTHUR'S', &c.        168
  Love's Apparition and Evanishment                                  355
  Lightheartednesses in Rhyme--
     I. The Reproof and Reply                                        356
    II. In Answer to a Friend's Question. 'Her attachment may
            differ', &c.                                             359
   III. Lines to a Comic Author, on an abusive Review                359
    IV. An Expectoration, &c. 'As I am (_sic_) Rhymer', &c.          360
  Expectoration the Second. 'In COLN, a town of monks and bones'     360


_The New Monthly Magazine._

  The Faded Flower                                             Aug. 1836


_Dublin University Magazine._

  A Stranger Minstrel                                 1845, xxvi, 112-13


No. II

EPIGRAMS AND JEUX D'ESPRIT FIRST PUBLISHED IN
NEWSPAPERS AND PERIODICALS

   1. An Apology for Spencers. _Watchman_, No. 4, Mar. 25, 1796.
   2. On a Late Marriage between an Old Maid, &c. Ibid., No. 5, April 2,
          1796.
   3. On an Amorous Doctor. Ibid., ibid.
   4. 'Of smart pretty Fellows', &c. Ibid., p. 159.
   5. On Deputy ----. _M. P._, Jan. 2, 1798.
   6. To a Well-known Musical Critic, &c. _M. P._, Jan. 4, 1798.
   7. Hippona. _M. P._, Aug. 29, 1799.
   8. On a Reader of His Own Verses. _M. P._, Sept. 7, 1799.
   9. On a Report of a Minister's Death. 'Last Monday', &c. _M. P._,
          Sept. 18, 1799.
  10. 'Jem writes his Verses', &c. _M. P._, Sept. 23, 1799.
  11. On Sir Rubicund Naso. _M. P._, Dec. 7, 1799.
  12. Job's Luck, 1799. _M. P._, Sept. 26, 1801.
  13. On the Sickness of a Great Minister. _M. P._, Oct. 1, 1799.
  14. To a Virtuous Oeconomist. _M. P._, Oct. 28, 1799.
  15. 'Jack drinks fine wines', &c. _M. P._, Nov. 16, 1799.
  16. To Mr. Pye. _M. P._, Jan. 24, 1800.
  17. 'If the guilt of all lying', &c. _An. Anth._, 1800.
  18. 'O would the Baptist', &c. _An. Anth._, 1800.
  19. Occasioned by the Former. 'I hold of all', &c. _An. Anth._, 1800.
  20. 'As Dick and I at Charing Cross', &c. _An. Anth._, 1800.
  21. To a Proud Parent. _An. Anth._, 1800.
  22. Rufa. _An. Anth._, 1800.
  23. On a Volunteer Singer. _An. Anth._, 1800.
  24. Occasioned by the Last. 'A joke (cries Jack)', &c. _An. Anth._,
          1800.
  25. Song to be Sung by the Lovers of all the Noble Liquors, &c.
          _M. P._, Sept. 18, 1801.
  26. Epitaph on a Bad Man. _M. P._, Sept. 22, 1801.
  27. Drinking _versus_ Thinking. _M. P._, Sept. 25, 1801.
  28. The Wills of the Wisp. _M. P._, Dec. 1, 1801.
  29. To a Certain Modern Narcissus. _M. P._, Dec. 16, 1801.
  30. To a Critic. _M. P._, Dec. 16, 1801.
  31. Always Audible. _M. P._, Dec. 19, 1801.
  32. Pondere non Numero. _M. P._, Dec. 26, 1801.
  33. 'To Wed a fool'. _M. P._, Dec. 26, 1801.
  34. What is an Epigram? _M. P._, Sept. 23, 1802.
  35. 'Charles, grave or merry', &c. Sept. 23, 1802.
  36. 'An Evil Spirit's on thee, friend '. _M. P._, Sept. 23, 1802.
  37. 'Here lies the Devil', &c. _M. P._, Sept. 23, 1802.
  38. To One who Published in Print. _M. P._, Sept. 23, 1802.
  39. 'Scarce any scandal', &c. _M. P._, Sept. 23, 1802.
  40. 'Old Harpy jeers', &c. _M. P._, Sept. 23, 1802.
  41. To a Vain Young Lady. _M. P._, Sept. 23, 1802.
  42. A Hint to Premiers and First Consuls. _M. P._, Sept. 27, 1802.
  43. 'From me, Aurelia', &c. _M. P._, Oct. 2, 1802.
  44. For a House-dog's Collar. _M. P._, Oct. 2, 1802.
  45. 'In vain I praise thee', &c. _M. P._, Oct. 2, 1802.
  46. Epitaph on a Mercenary Miser. _M. P._, Oct. 9, 1802.
  47. A Dialogue between an Author and his Friend. _M. P._, Oct. 11,
          1802.
  48. Μωροσοφία or Wisdom in Folly. _M. P._, Oct. 11, 1802.
  49. 'Each Bond-street buck', &c. _M. P._, Oct. 11, 1802.
  50. From an old German Poet. _M. P._, Oct. 11, 1802.
  51. On the Curious Circumstance, that in the German, &c. _M. P._, Oct.
          11, 1802.
  52. Spots in the Sun. _M. P._, Oct. 11, 1802.
  53. 'When Surface talks', &c. _M. P._, Oct. 11, 1802.
  54. To my Candle. The Farewell Epigram. _M. P._, Oct. 11, 1802.
  55. The Taste of the Times. _Athenæum_, Jan. 9, 1904.
  56. 'An Excellent Adage', &c. _The Friend_, No. 12, Nov. 9, 1809.
  57. Epigram on the Secrecy of a Certain Lady. _The Courier_, Jan. 3,
          1814.
  58. To a Lady who requested me to write a Poem on Nothing. _Gazette of
          Fashion_, Feb. 2, 1822.
  59. Authors and Publishers. _News of Literature_, Dec. 10, 1825.
  60. Association of Ideas. _Fraser's Magazine_, Jan. 1835.
  61. To a Child. 'Little Miss Fanny'. _Athenæum_, Jan. 28, 1888.


No. III

POEMS INCLUDED IN ANTHOLOGIES AND OTHER WORKS

                                                                    PAGE
   1. _Poems, supposed to have been written..._ By Thomas
          Rowley,... 1794.
        Monody on the Death of Chatterton                            xxv

   2. _Poems by Francis Wrangham, M.A._, 1795.
        Translation of Hendecasyllabi ad Bruntonam, &c.               79
        To Miss Brunton with the Preceding Translation.

   3. _Poems on the Death of Priscilla Farmer._ By her grandson
          Charles Lloyd, 1796.
        Sonnet. 'The Piteous sobs', &c.

   4. _Lyrical Ballads_, 1798.
        The Rime of the Ancyent Marinere                               1
        The Foster Mother's Tale                                      53
        The Nightingale                                               63
        The Dungeon                                                  139

   5. _Lyrical Ballads_ (in two volumes), 1800.
        Vol. I. Love [with the four poems published in 1798]         138

   6. _Annual Anthology_, 1800.
        *Lewti, or The Circassian Love-Chant                          23
        *To a Young Lady, on her first Appearance after a Dangerous
            Illness.                                                  32
        *Recantation, Illustrated in the Story of the Mad Ox          59
        *Lines Written in the Album at Elbingerode, in the Hartz
            Forest                                                    74
        *A Christmas Carol                                            79
        To a Friend, who had declared his intention of writing no
            more Poetry                                              103
        This Lime-Tree Bower my Prison. A Poem, addressed to
            CHARLES LAMB, of the India House, London                 140
        To W. L. Esq. while he sung a Song to Purcell's Music.       156
        *The British Stripling's War-Song                            173
        Something childish, but very natural. Written in Germany     192
        Home-Sick. Written in Germany                                193
        *Ode to GEORGIANA, Dutchess of Devonshire                    212
        *Fire, Famine, and Slaughter. A War Eclogue                  231
        *The Raven                                                   240
        *To an unfortunate Woman. 'Sufferer, that with sullen brow'  291

[_Note._ Poems marked with an asterisk were reprinted from the _Morning
Post_.]

   7. _Memoirs of the late Mrs. Robinson_, &c. Four
          volumes, 1801.
        A Stranger Minstrel                              Vol. iv, p. 141

   8. _Melmoth's Beauties of British Poets_, 1801.
        To a Young Ass                                                21
        To a Spring in a beautiful Village                           119
        The Sigh                                                     167
        The Kiss                                                     201

   9. _The Wild Wreath._ Edited by M. E. Robinson, 1804.
        The Mad Monk                                                 142

  10. _The Poetical Register and Repository of the Fine Arts._

      Vol. II. For 1802 (1803).

        *Chamouny. The Hour before Sunrise. A Hymn                   308
        *Inscription on a Jutting Stone over a Spring                338
        *The Picture; or, The Lover's Resolution                     354

      Vol. III. For 1803 (1805).

        From the German of Leasing. 'I ask'd my fair', &c. [Signed
            'Harley Philadelphia'.]                                  274
        Sonnets, Attempted in the Manner of 'Contemporary
            Writers'                                                 346

      Vol. IV. For 1804 (1805).

        The Exchange.

      Vol. VI. For 1806, 1807 (1811).

        On a Late Connubial Rupture in High Life                     365

      Vol. VII. For 1808, 1809 (1812).

        Fears in Solitude. By S. T. Coleridge, Esq.                  227
        France, An Ode. By S. T. Coleridge, Esq.                     332
        Frost at Midnight. By S. T. Coleridge Esq.                   530

[_Note._ Sonnets Attempted, &c., in Vol. III, and On a Late, &c., in
Vol. VI, were reprinted from the _Monthly Magazine_: the three poems in
Vol. VII were reprinted from the quarto pamphlet of 1798, and were again
set up as a small octavo pamphlet by Law & Gilbert, the printers of the
_Poetical Register_. Vide Bibliography, No. X.]

  11. _Selection of Poems for Young Persons_, by J. Cottle.
          Third edition, n. d.
        Epitaph on an Infant                                         129
        Sonnet to the River Otter                                    155
        Domestic Peace                                               157

  12. _English Minstrelsy_; being a Selection of Fugitive Poetry from
          the Best English Authors. Two volumes, 1810.

      Vol. II.

        Fragment. S. T. Coleridge ['Introduction to the Tale of the
          dark Ladie' as published in the Morning Post]              131

  13. _Poetical Class-Book._ Edited by W. F. Mylius, 1810.
        This Lime Tree Bower my Prison.

  14. _Nugæ Canoræ_. Poems by Charles Lloyd, 1819.
        Sonnet. 'The piteous sobs ', &c.                             145

  15. _The British Minstrel._ Glasgow, 1821.
        The Three Graves

  16. _Castle Dangerous._ By Sir W. Scott, 1832. Notes by J. G.
          Lockhart. Galignani, 1834.
        The Knight's Tomb. 'Where is the grave', &c.                  10

  17. _A History of . . . Christ's Hospital._ By the Rev. W.
          Trollope, 1834.
        Julia                                                        192

  18. _Letters, Conversations_, &c., of S. T. Coleridge. In
          two volumes, 1836.

      Vol. I.

        Farewell to Love                                             143
        To Nature.                                                   144
        Sonnet. To Lord Stanhope                                     217

      Vol II.

        'What boots to tell how o'er his grave'                       75

  19. _Early Recollections_, &c. By Joseph Cottle, 1837.

      Vol. I.

        Monody on . . . Chatterton, ll. 137-54                        32
        To W. J. H. While playing on his flute                        33
        The Fox and Statesman, &c.                                   172
        Sonnet. To Lord Stanhope                                     203
        Written After a Walk Before Supper                           209
        To an unfortunate Young Woman, Whom I had known in the days
            of her Innocence. 'Maiden! that with sullen brow'.       213
        Allegorical Lines on the same subject. 'Myrtle Leaf, that
            ill besped'                                              214
        On an Unfortunate Woman at the Theatre                       216
        On an Unfortunate, &c.                                       217
        EXAMPLES. 'O what a life', &c.                               226
        Another Specimen, describing Hexameters, &c.                 226
        Another Specimen. 'In the Hexameter', &c.                    227
        The English Duodecasyllable. 'Hear my beloved', &c.          227
        Foster-Mother's Tale                                         235
        To a Friend, [Charles Lloyd (_sic_)] who had declared
            his intention, &c., ll. 17-35                            245
        Lines Addressed to Joseph Cottle                             283
        'As oft mine eye', &c. [The Silver Thimble]                  236
        Sonnets, Attempted in the Manner of Contemporary Writers     290
        To the Author of the Ancient Mariner                         293

      Vol. II.

        Five 'Epigrams, translated . . . from the German'           65-6
        My Love. 'I ask'd my love', &c.                               67
        _Joan of Arc_, Book the Second. 4{o}, 1796 (including the
            lines claimed by S. T. C.)                            241-52

  20. _The Book of Gems._ Edited by S. C. Hall, 1838.

        The Garden of Boccaccio                                       51
        Love                                                          52
        The Nightingale                                               53
        Lines written in the Album at Elbingerode, &c.                58
        Recollections of Love                                         59

  21. _Memoirs of William Wordsworth._ In two volumes, 1851.

      Vol. I.

        English Hexameters. 'William, my teacher', &c.               139

  22. _An Old Man's Diary._ By J. Payne Collier, 1871, 2.

        My Godmother's Beard                         Part I, pp. 34, 35.
        Epigram. 'A very old proverb commands', &c.
        Epitaph on Sir James Mackintosh. [The Two Round
            Spaces on the Tombstone]                 Part I, pp. 61, 62.
        A Character. 'A Bird who for his other sins'
            (15 lines)                                   Part IV, p. 57.

  23. _Unpublished letters from Samuel Taylor Coleridge to the Rev.
          John Prior Estlin_: Communicated to the Philobiblon Society.

        To An Unfortunate Princess. [On a Late Connubial, &c.]        20
        Lines Addressed to J. Horne Tooke. 'Britons! when last', &c.  22

  24. _Letters from the Lake Poets. . . To Daniel Stuart_, 1889.

       Alcaeus to Sappho                                              16

  25. _Memorials of Coleorton._ Edited by W. Knight. Two vols., 1887.

      Vol. I.

        Mont Blanc, The Summit of the Vale of Chamouny, An Hour
            before Sunrise--A Hymn. [As sent to Sir George
            Beaumont.]                                                26
        To WILLIAM WORDSWORTH. Composed for the greater part
            on the same night after the finishing of his recitation
            of the Poem in thirteen Books, on the Growth of his
            own Mind. [As sent to Sir G. Beaumont, Jan. 1807.]

  26. _Golden Treasury of Songs and Lyrics._ Edited by F. T. Palgrave
          1896.

        Love                                                         199
        Kubla Khan                                                   308
        Youth and Age                                                323


No. IV

POEMS FIRST PRINTED OR REPRINTED IN _Literary Remains_, 1836.


Vol. I.

  The Fall or Robespierre                                              1
  Julia                                                               33
  '--I yet remain' (By W. L. Bowles)                                  34
  To the Rev W. J. Hort                                               35
  To Charles Lamb ('Thus far my scanty brain', &c.)                   36
  To the Nightingale                                                  38
  To Sara ('The stream', &c.)                                         39
  To Joseph Cottle                                                    40
  Casimir ('The solemn-breathing air', &c.)                           41
  Darwiniana ('Dim Hour', &c.)                                        43
  'The Early Year's fast-flying', &c. [Ver perpetuum].                44
  To a Primrose                                                       47
  On the Christening of a Friend's Child                              48
  Inscription by the Rev. W. L. Bowles, &c.                           50
  Translation                                                         50
  Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladie                          50
  Epilogue to the Rash Conjuror                                       52
  Psyche                                                              53
  Complaint ('How seldom Friend', &c.)                                53
  An Ode to the Rain                                                  54
  Translation of a Passage in Ottfried's . . . Paraphrase of the
      Gospels                                                         56
  Israel's Lament, &c.                                                57
  Sentimental                                                         59
  The Alternative                                                     59
  The Exchange                                                        59
  What is Life!                                                       60
  Inscription for a Time-Piece                                        60
  Επιτάφιον αὐτογραπτόν                                                     60


POEMS AND POETICAL FRAGMENTS.

  'My Lesbia', &c.                                                   274
  'Pity, mourn in plaintive tones'                                   274
  Moriens superstiti                                                 275
  Morienti superstes                                                 275
  The Stripling's War Song. Imitated from Stolberg                   276
  Eighteen Fragments from Note book (1795-8)                      277-81
  'I mix in life, and labour to seem free.' [To ----]                280
  Farewell to Love                                                   280
  'Within these circling hollies', &c. [An Angel Visitant]           280
  Grant me a Patron                                                  281


POEMS FIRST PRINTED OR REPRINTED IN _Essays on His Own Times_, 1850.

Vol. III.

  Recantation. Illustrated in the story of the Mad Ox                963
  Parliamentary Oscillators                                          969
  The Devil's Thoughts                                               972
  The British Stripling's War Song                                   988
  Tranquillity. An Ode                                               991
  The Day Dream. _From an Emigrant to his absent Wife_               993
  Mutual Passion                                                     995
  The Alienated Mistress ('If love be dead', &c.)                    997
  To a lady (''Tis not the lily', &c.)                               997
  A Thought suggested by the View of Saddleback, &c.                 997
  L'Envoy to 'Like a Lone Arab' ('In vain we', &c.)                  998




INDEX OF FIRST LINES


                                                                    PAGE
  A bird, who for his other sins                                     451
  A blesséd lot hath he, who having passed                           173
  A green and silent spot, amid the hills                            256
  'A heavy wit shall hang at every lord'                             973
  A joke (cries Jack) without a sting                                961
  A little further, O my father                                      288
  A long deep lane                                                   992
  A lovely form there sate beside my bed                             484
  A low dead Thunder mutter'd thro' the night                       1005
  A Lutheran stout, I hold for Goose-and-Gaundry                     975
  A maniac in the woods                                              993
  A mount, not wearisome and bare and steep                          155
  A poor benighted Pedlar knock'd                                    967
  A sumptuous and magnificent Revenge                               1000
  A sunny shaft did I behold                                    426, 919
  A sworded man whose trade is blood                                 397
  A wind that with Aurora hath abiding                              1011
  Ah! cease thy tears and sobs, my little Life                        91
  Ah! not by Cam or Isis, famous streams                             424
  All are not born to soar--and ah! how few                           26
  All look and likeness caught from earth                            393
  All Nature seems at work. Slugs leave their lair             447, 1111
  All thoughts, all passions, all delights                           330
  Almost awake? Why, what is this, and whence                        211
  An evil spirit's on thee, friend! of late!                         964
  An excellent adage commands that we should                         971
  An Ox, long fed with musty hay                                     299
  And arrows steeled with wrath                                      994
  And cauldrons the scoop'd earth, a boiling sea                     989
  And in Life's noisiest hour                                       1002
  And my heart mantles in its own delight                           1002
  And Pity's sigh shall answer thy tale of Anguish                   990
  And re-implace God's Image of the Soul                             994
  And this place our forefathers made for man                        185
  And this reft house is that the which he built                     211
  And with my whole heart sing the stately song                      994
  And write Impromptus                                               989
  Are there two things, of all which men possess                     361
  As Dick and I at Charing Cross were walking                        960
  As I am a Rhymer                                                   477
  As late each flower that sweetest blows                             45
  As late I journey'd o'er the extensive plain                        11
  As late I lay in Slumber's shadowy vale                             80
  As late, in wreaths, gay flowers I bound                            33
  As late on Skiddaw's mount I lay supine                            350
  As long as ere the life-blood's running                            961
  As oft mine eye with careless glance                               104
  As some vast Tropic tree, itself a wood                           1001
  As the shy hind, the soft-eyed gentle Brute                       1013
  As the tir'd savage, who his drowsy frame                         1023
  As when a child on some long Winter's night                         85
  As when far off the warbled strains are heard                       82
  As when the new or full Moon urges                                1005
  At midnight by the stream I roved                                  253
  Auspicious Reverence! Hush all meaner song                   131, 1024
  Away, those cloudy looks, that labouring sigh                       90


  Be proud as Spaniards! Leap for pride ye Fleas!                    980
  'Be, rather than be called, a child of God'                        312
  Behind the thin Grey cloud                                         992
  Behold yon row of pines, that shorn and bow'd                     1006
  Beneath the blaze of a tropical sun                                396
  Beneath this stone does William Hazlitt lie                        962
  Beneath this thorn when I was young                                269
  Beneath yon birch with silver bark                                 293
  Benign shooting stars, ecstatic delight                           1015
  Bob now resolves on marriage schemes to trample                    953
  Bright cloud of reverence, sufferably bright                       998
  Britannia's boast, her glory and her pride                         970
  Britons! when last ye met, with distant streak                     150
  Broad-breasted Pollards, with broad-branching heads                992
  Broad-breasted rook-hanging cliff that glasses                     988
  By many a booby's vengeance bit                                    953


  Charles, grave or merry, at no lie would stick                     964
  Charles! my slow heart was only sad, when first                    154
  Child of my muse! in Barbour's gentle hand                         483
  Come, come thou bleak December wind                               1001
  Come hither, gently rowing                                         311
  Come; your opinion of my manuscript                                967
  Cupid, if storying Legends tell aright                              46


  Dear Charles! whilst yet thou wert a babe, I ween                  158
  Dear native Brook! wild Streamlet of the West                       48
  Dear tho' unseen! tho' I have left behind                          468
  Deep in the gulph of Vice and Woe                                   12
  Depart in joy from this world's noise and strife                   177
  Didst thou think less of thy dear self                             965
  Dim Hour! that sleep'st on pillowing clouds afar                    96
  Discontent mild as an infant                                       991
  Do call, dear Jess, whene'er my way you come                       962
  Do you ask what the birds say? The Sparrow, the Dove               386
  Dormi, Jesu! Mater ridet                                           417
  Due to the Staggerers, that made drunk by Power                    989


  Each Bond-street buck conceits, unhappy elf                        968
  Each crime that once estranges from the virtues                   1011
  Earth! thou mother of numberless children, the nurse and the
      mother                                                         327
  Edmund! thy grave with aching eye I scan                            76
  Encinctured with a twine of leaves                                 287
  Ere on my bed my limbs I lay (1803)                                389
  Ere on my bed my limbs I lay (1806)                                401
  Ere Sin could blight or Sorrow fade                                 68
  Ere the birth of my life, if I wished it or no                     419
  Eu! Dei vices gerens, ipse Divus                                   981


  Farewell, parental scenes! a sad farewell                           29
  Farewell, sweet Love! yet blame you not my truth                   402
  Fear no more, thou timid Flower                                    356
  'Fie, Mr. Coleridge!--and can this be you?                         441
  Flowers are lovely, Love is flower-like                     1085, 1086
  Fond, peevish, wedded pair! why all this rant?                     984
  For ever in the world of Fame                                     1013
  Frail creatures are we all! To be the best                         486
  Friend, Lover, Husband, Sister, Brother                            392
  Friend of the wise! and Teacher of the Good                        403
  Friend pure of heart and fervent! we have learnt                  1008
  Friends should be _weigh'd_, not _told_; who boasts to have won    963
  From his brimstone bed at break of day                             319
  From me, Aurelia! you desired                                      966
  From Rufa's eye sly Cupid shot his dart                            952
  From yonder tomb of recent date                                    955


  Gently I took that which ungently came                             488
  Γνῶθι σεαυτόν!--and is this the prime                                  487
  Go little Pipe! for ever I must leave thee                        1016
  God be with thee, gladsome Ocean                                   359
  Gōd ĭs oŭr Strēngth ănd oŭr Rēfŭge                                    326
  God no distance knows                                              989
  God's child in Christ adopted,--Christ my all                      490
  God's Image, Sister of the Cherubim                                994
  Good Candle, thou that with thy brother, Fire                      969
  Good verse most good, and bad verse then seems better               96
  Grant me a Patron, gracious Heaven! whene'er                       995
  Great goddesses are they to lazy folks                            1008


  Hail! festal Easter that dost bring                                  1
  Hast thou a charm to stay the morning-star                   376, 1074
  He too has flitted from his secret nest                            457
  Hear, my belovéd, an old Milesian story                            307
  Hear, sweet Spirit, hear the spell                       420, 552, 849
  Heard'st thou yon universal cry                                     10
  Hence, soul-dissolving Harmony                                      28
  Hence that fantastic wantonness of woe                             157
  Hence! thou fiend of gloomy sway                                    34
  Her attachment may differ from yours in degree                     484
  Here's Jem's first copy of nonsense verses                         983
  Here lies a Poet; or what once was he                             1089
  Here lies the Devil--ask no other name                             964
  Here sleeps at length, poor Col., and without screaming            970
  High o'er the rocks at night I rov'd                        1050, 1051
  High o'er the silver rocks I rov'd                                1049
  Hippona lets no silly flush                                        955
  His native accents to her stranger's ear                          1011
  His own fair countenance, his kingly forehead                     1005
  Hoarse Maevius reads his hobbling verse                            955
  How long will ye round me be swelling                               39
  How seldom, friend! a good great man inherits                      381
  'How sweet, when crimson colours dart                              353
  How warm this woodland wild Recess                                 409
  Hush! ye clamorous Cares! be mute                                   92


  I ask'd my fair one happy day                                      318
  I fancy whenever I spy Nosy                                        953
  I from the influence of thy Looks receive                          999
  I have experienced the worst the world can wreak on me            1004
  I have heard of reasons manifold                                   418
  I heard a voice from Etna's side                                   347
  I heard a voice pealing loud triumph to-day                       1014
  I hold of all our viperous race                                    959
  I know it is dark; and though I have lain                          382
  I know 'tis but a dream, yet feel more anguish                     998
  I love, and he loves me again                                     1118
  I mix in life, and labour to seem free                             292
  I never saw the man whom you describe                              182
  I note the moods and feelings men betray                           448
  I sigh, fair injur'd stranger! for thy fate                        152
  I stand alone, nor tho' my heart should break                     1010
  I stood on Brocken's sovran height, and saw                        315
  I too a sister had! too cruel Death                                 21
  I touch this scar upon my skull behind                             984
  I wish on earth to sing                                           1017
  I yet remain To mourn                                             1124
  If dead, we cease to be; if total gloom                            425
  If fair by Nature                                                 1012
  If I had but two little wings                                      313
  If Love be dead                                                    475
  If Pegasus will let _thee_ only ride him                            21
  If the guilt of all lying consists in deceit                       954
  If thou wert here, these tears were tears of light                 386
  If while my passion I impart                                        58
  Imagination, honourable aims                                       396
  Imagination, Mistress of my Love                                    49
  In a cave in the mountains of Cashmeer                             993
  In darkness I remain'd--the neighbour's clock                      990
  In Köhln, a town of monks and bones                                477
  In many ways does the full heart reveal                            462
  In Spain, that land of Monks and Apes                              974
  In the corner _one_                                               1012
  In the hexameter rises the fountain's silvery column               308
  In this world we dwell among the tombs                             991
  In vain I praise thee, Zoilus                                      966
  In vain I supplicate the Powers above                             1087
  In Xanadu did Kubla Khan                                           297
  It is an ancient Mariner                                           187
  It is an ancyent Marinere                                         1030
  It may indeed be phantasy, when I                                  429
  It was some Spirit, Sheridan! that breath'd                         87
  Its balmy lips the infant blest                                    417


  Jack drinks fine wines, wears modish clothing                      958
  Jack finding gold left a rope on the ground                        971
  Jack Snipe                                                         982
  Jem writes his verses with more speed                              956
  Julia was blest with beauty, wit, and grace                          6


  Kayser! to whom, as to a second self                               490
  Know thou who walk'st by, Man! that wrapp'd up in lead, man        961
  Know'st thou the land where the pale citrons grow                  311


  Lady, to Death we're doom'd, our crime the same                    392
  Last Monday all the Papers said                                    956
  Leanness, disquietude, and secret Pangs                            990
  Lest after this life it should prove my sad story                 1090
  Let clumps of earth, however glorified                            1008
  Let Eagle bid the Tortoise sunward soar                           1001
  Let those whose low delights to Earth are given                    427
  Light cargoes waft of modulated Sound                              988
  Like a lone Arab, old and blind                                    488
  Like a mighty Giantess                                             991
  Little Miss Fanny                                                  987
  Lo! through the dusky silence of the groves                         33
  Lov'd the same Love, and hated the same hate                       994
  Lovely gems of radiance meek                                        17
  Low was our pretty Cot! our tallest Rose                           106
  Lunatic Witch-fires! Ghosts of Light and Motion!                   979


  Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve                                    19
  Maid of unboastful charms! whom white-robed Truth                   66
  Maiden, that with sullen brow                                      171
  Mark this holy chapel well                                         309
  Matilda! I have heard a sweet tune played                          374
  Mild Splendour of the various-vested Night                           5
  Money, I've heard a wise man say                                   972
  Most candid critic, what if I                                      962
  Mourn, Israel! Sons of Israel, mourn                               433
  Much on my early youth I love to dwell                              64
  My dearest Dawtie                                                  984
  My eyes make pictures, when they are shut                          385
  My father confessor is strict and holy                             969
  My heart has thanked thee, Bowles! for those soft strains       84, 85
  My heart seraglios a whole host of Joys                            990
  My Lesbia, let us love and live                                     60
  My Lord! though your Lordship repel deviation                      341
  My Maker! of thy power the trace                                   423
  My Merry men all, that drink with glee                             979
  My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined                     100, 1021
  Myrtle-leaf that, ill besped                                       172


  Names do not always meet with Love                                 997
  Nature wrote Rascal on his face                                    991
  Nay, dearest Anna! why so grave?                                   418
  Near the lone pile with ivy overspread                              69
  Never, believe me                                                  310
  No cloud, no relique of the sunken day                             264
  No cold shall thee benumb                                         1015
  No doleful faces here, no sighing                                  954
  No more my visionary soul shall dwell                               68
  No more 'twixt conscience staggering and the Pope                  460
  No mortal spirit yet had clomb so high                            1004
  No private grudge they need, no personal spite                     972
  Nor cold, nor stern, my soul! yet I detest                         824
  Nor travels my meandering eye                                       97
  Not always should the Tear's ambrosial dew                          83
  Not hers To win the sense by words of rhetoric                    1007
  Not, Stanhope! with the Patriot's doubtful name                     89
  Nothing speaks our mind so well                                    975
  Now! It is gone--our brief hours travel post                       974
  Now prompts the Muse poetic lays                                    13


  O ----! O ----! of you we complain                                 977
  O beauty in a beauteous body dight                                 999
  O! Christmas Day, Oh! happy day!                                   460
  O fair is Love's first hope to gentle mind                         443
  O form'd t'illume a sunless world forlorn                           86
  O Friend! O Teacher! God's great Gift to me                       1081
  O! I do love thee, meek _Simplicity_                               210
  O! it is pleasant, with a heart at ease                            435
  O leave the Lily on its stem                                      1053
  O man! thou half-dead Angel!                                       994
  O meek attendant of Sol's setting blaze                             16
  O mercy, O me, miserable man                                      1005
  O Muse who sangest late another's pain                              18
  O Peace, that on a lilied bank dost love                            94
  O! Superstition is the giant shadow                               1007
  O th' Oppressive, irksome weight                                  1000
  O thou wild Fancy, check thy wing! No more                          51
  O thron'd in Heav'n! Sole King of kings                            438
  O what a loud and fearful shriek was there                          82
  O what a wonder seems the fear of death                            125
  O would the Baptist come again                                     959
  O'er the raised earth the gales of evening sigh                    996
  O'er wayward childhood would'st thou hold firm rule                481
  O'erhung with yew, midway the Muses mount                         1003
  Of him that in this gorgeous tomb doth lie                         961
  Of late, in one of those most weary hours                          478
  Of one scrap of science I've evidence ocular                       985
  Of smart pretty Fellows in Bristol are numbers, some               952
  Oft o'er my brain does that strange fancy roll                     153
  Oft, oft methinks, the while with thee                             388
  Oh! might my ill-past hours return again                             7
  Oh! the procrastinating idle rogue                                 817
  Old age, 'the shape and messenger of Death'                        989
  Old Harpy jeers at castles in the air                              965
  On nothing, Fanny, shall I write?                                  973
  On stern Blencartha's perilous height                              347
  On the broad mountain-top                                          992
  On the sky with liquid openings of Blue                           1109
  On the tenth day of September                                     1084
  On the wide level of a mountain's head                             419
  On wide or narrow scale shall Man                                   30
  Or Wren or Linnet                                                 1002
  Once again, sweet Willow, wave thee                               1018
  Once could the Morn's first beams, the healthful breeze             17
  Once more! sweet Stream! with slow foot wandering near              58
  One kiss, dear Maid! I said and sigh'd                              63
  Oppress'd, confused, with grief and pain                           436
  Our English poets, bad and good, agree                             968
  Outmalic'd Calumny's imposthum'd Tongue                            989
  Over the broad, the shallow, rapid stream                          998


  Pains ventral, subventral                                          985
  Pale Roamer through the night! thou poor Forlorn                    71
  Parry seeks the Polar ridge                                        972
  Pass under Jack's window at twelve at night                        963
  Pensive at eve on the _hard_ world I mus'd                         209
  Perish warmth                                                      989
  Phidias changed marble into feet and legs                          984
  Pity! mourn in plaintive tone                                       61
  Plucking flowers from the Galaxy                                   978
  Pluto commanded death to take away                                 957
  Poor little Foal of an oppressed race                               74
  Promptress of unnumber'd sighs                                      55


  Quae linquam, aut nihil, aut nihili, aut vix sunt mea. Sordes      462
  Quoth Dick to me, as once at College                               414


  Repeating Such verse as Bowles                                     977
  Resembles life what once was deem'd of light                       394
  Richer than Miser o'er his countless hoards                         57
  Rush on my ear, a cataract of sound                                990


  Sad lot, to have no Hope! Though lowly kneeling                    416
  Said William to Edmund I can't guess the reason                    951
  Say what you will, Ingenious Youth                                 954
  Scarce any scandal, but has a handle                               965
  Schiller! that hour I would have wish'd to die                      72
  Sea-ward, white gleaming thro' the busy scud                       997
  Semper Elisa! mihi tu suaveolentia donas                          1010
  Seraphs! around th' Eternal's seat who throng                        5
  She gave with joy her virgin breast                                306
  'She's secret as the grave, allow!'                                971
  Since all that beat about in Nature's range                        455
  Sing, impassionate Soul! of Mohammed the complicate story         1016
  Sister of love-lorn Poets, Philomel                                 93
  Sisters! sisters! who sent you here?                               237
  Sleep, sweet babe! my cares beguiling                              417
  Sly Beelzebub took all occasions                                   957
  Smooth, shining, and deceitful as thin Ice                         990
  So great the charms of Mrs. Mundy                                  976
  So Mr. Baker heart did pluck                                       973
  Sole maid, associate sole, to me beyond                           1004
  Sole Positive of Night                                             431
  Some are home-sick--some two or three                              443
  Some, Thelwall! to the Patriot's meed aspire                      1090
  Some whim or fancy pleases every eye                               970
  Songs of Shepherds and rustical Roundelays                        1018
  Southey! thy melodies steal o'er mine ear                           87
  Speak out, Sir! you're safe, for so ruddy your nose                958
  Spirit who sweepest the wild Harp of Time                          160
  Splendour's fondly-fostered child                                  335
  Stanhope! I hail, with ardent Hymn, thy name                        89
  Stop, Christian passer-by!--Stop, child of God               491, 1088
  Stranger! whose eyes a look of pity shew                           248
  Stretch'd on a moulder'd Abbey's broadest wall                      73
  Strong spirit-bidding sounds                                       399
  Strongly it bears us along in swelling and limitless billows       307
  Such fierce vivacity as fires the eye                              991
  Such love as mourning Husbands have                                998
  Swans sing before they die--'twere no bad thing                    960
  Sweet flower! that peeping from thy russet stem                    148
  Sweet Gift! and always doth Elisa send                            1009
  Sweet Mercy! how my very heart has bled                             93
  Sweet Muse! companion of my every hour                              16


  Tell me, on what holy ground                                   71, 501
  Terrible and loud                                                  991
  That darling of the Tragic Muse                                     67
  That France has put us oft to rout                                 968
  That Jealousy may rule a mind                                      484
  The angel's like a flea                                           1009
  The body, Eternal Shadow of the finite Soul                       1001
  The Brook runs over sea-weeds                                      992
  The builder left one narrow rent                                  1003
  The butterfly the ancient Grecians made                            412
  The cloud doth gather, the greenwood roar                          653
  The Devil believes that the Lord will come                         353
  The dubious light sad glimmers o'er the sky                         36
  The dust flies smothering, as on clatt'ring wheel                   56
  The early Year's fast-flying vapours stray                         148
  The fervid Sun had more than halv'd the day                         24
  The Fox, and Statesman subtile wiles ensure                       1089
  The Frost performs its secret ministry                             240
  The grapes upon the Vicar's wall                                   276
  The guilty pomp, consuming while it flares                         990
  The hour-bell sounds, and I must go                                 61
  The indignant Bard composed this furious ode                        27
  The mild despairing of a Heart resigned                            991
  The Moon, how definite its orb                                     997
  The piteous sobs that choke the Virgin's breath                    155
  The Pleasures sport beneath the thatch                             997
  The poet in his lone yet genial hour                               345
  The reed roof'd village still bepatch'd with snow                 1002
  The rose that blushes like the morn                                973
  The shepherds went their hasty way                                 338
  The silence of a City, how awful at Midnight                       999
  The singing Kettle and the purring Cat                            1003
  The sole true Something--This! In Limbo's Den                      429
  The solemn-breathing air is ended                                   59
  The spruce and limber yellow-hammer                               1002
  The stars that wont to start, as on a chace                        486
  The stream with languid murmur creeps                               38
  The subtle snow                                                    993
  The Sun (for now his orb 'gan slowly sink)                         990
  'The Sun is not yet risen                                          469
  The Sun with gentle beams his rage disguises                      1010
  The sunshine lies on the cottage-wall                              993
  The swallows Interweaving there                                    992
  The tear which mourn'd a brother's fate scarce dry                  20
  The tedded hay, the first fruits of the soil                       345
  The tongue can't speak when the mouth is cramm'd with earth        994
  Then Jerome did call                                              1019
  There are, I am told, who sharply criticise                        816
  There are two births, the one when Light                           362
  There comes from old Avaro's grave                                 954
  There in some darksome shade                                      1018
  Thicker than rain-drops on November thorn                         1010
  This be the meed, that thy song creates a thousand-fold echo       391
  This day among the faithful plac'd                                 176
  This, Hannah Scollock! may have been the case                      981
  This is now--this was erst                                          22
  This is the time, when most divine to hear                         108
  This Sycamore, oft musical with bees                               381
  This way or that, ye Powers above me                               974
  This yearning heart (Love! witness what I say)                     362
  Thou bleedest, my poor Heart! and thy distress                      72
  Thou gentle Look, that didst my soul beguile                        47
  Thou who in youthful vigour rich, and light                        349
  Though friendships differ endless _in degree_                     1012
  Tho' Miss ----'s match is a subject of mirth                       952
  Tho' much averse, dear Jack, to flicker                             37
  Tho' no bold flights to thee belong                                  9
  Though rous'd by that dark Vizir Riot rude                          81
  Though veiled in spires of myrtle-wreath                           450
  Three truths should make thee often think and pause                966
  Through weeds and thorns, and matted underwood                     369
  Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme                       78
  Thus she said, and all around                                     1015
  Thy babes ne'er greet thee with the father's name                  960
  Thy lap-dog, Rufa, is a dainty beast                               960
  Thy smiles I note, sweet early Flower                              149
  Thy stern and sullen eye, and thy dark brow                        994
  'Tis hard on Bagshot Heath to try                                   26
  'Tis mine and it is likewise yours                                 997
  'Tis not the lily-brow I prize                                     483
  'Tis sweet to him who all the week                                 314
  'Tis the middle of night by the castle clock                       215
  'Tis true, Idoloclastes Satyrane                                   413
  To be ruled like a Frenchman the Briton is both                    953
  To know, to esteem, to love,--and then to part                     410
  To praise men as good, and to take them for such                   486
  To tempt the dangerous deep, too venturous youth                     2
  To wed a fool, I really cannot see                                 963
  Tom Hill, who laughs at Cares and Woes                             974
  Tom Slothful talks, as slothful Tom beseems                        967
  Tranquillity! thou better name                                     360
  Trōchĕe trīps frŏm long tŏ shōrt                                     401
  Truth I pursued, as Fancy sketch'd the way                        1008
  'Twas my last waking thought, how it could be                      454
  'Twas not a mist, nor was it quite a cloud                        1000
  'Twas sweet to know it only possible                               992
  Two things hast thou made known to half the nation                 964
  Two wedded hearts, if ere were such                               1003


  Unboastful Bard! whose verse concise yet clear                     102
  Unchanged within, to see all changed without                       459
  Under the arms of a goodly oak-tree                               1048
  Under this stone does Walter Harcourt lie                          962
  Underneath an old oak tree                                         169
  Ungrateful he, who pluck'd thee from thy stalk                      70
  Unperishing youth                                                  308
  Up, up! ye dames, and lasses gay                                   427
  Up, up! ye dames, ye lasses gay                                    942
  Upon the mountain's edge with light touch resting                  393
  Utter the song, O my soul! the flight and return of Mohammed       329


  Verse, a breeze mid blossoms straying                              439
  Verse, pictures, music, thoughts both grave and gay                482
  Verse, that Breeze mid blossoms straying                          1085
  Virtues and Woes alike too great for man                            37
  Vivit sed mihi non vivit--nova forte marita                         56


  Water and windmills, greenness, Islets green                      1009
  We both attended the same College                                  955
  We pledged our hearts, my love and I                               391
  Well! If the Bard was weather-wise, who made                 362, 1076
  Well, they are gone, and here must I remain                        178
  We've conquer'd us a Peace, like lads true metalled                972
  We've fought for Peace, and conquer'd it at last                   972
  What a spring-tide of Love to dear friends in a shoal             1010
  What boots to tell how o'er his grave                             1011
  What is an Epigram? a dwarfish whole                               963
  What never is, but only is to be                                   999
  What now, O Man! thou dost or mean'st to do                        414
  What pleasures shall he ever find                                    4
  What though the chilly wide-mouth'd quacking chorus                476
  Whate'er thou giv'st, it still is sweet to me                     1010
  When British Freedom for an happier land                            79
  When Hope but made Tranquillity be felt                           1004
  When Surface talks of other people's worth                         969
  When the squalls were flitting and fleering                        980
  When they did greet me father, sudden awe                          152
  When thieves come, I bark: when gallants, I am still               966
  When thou to my true-love com'st                                   326
  When thy Beauty appears                                           1016
  When Youth his faery reign began                                    62
  Whene'er the mist, that stands 'twixt God and thee                 487
  Where Cam his stealthy flowings most dissembles                    988
  Where deep in mud Cam rolls his slumbrous stream                    35
  Where graced with many a classic spoil                              29
  Where is the grave of Sir Arthur O'Kellyn                          432
  Where true Love burns Desire is love's pure flame                  485
  Where'er I find the Good, the True, the Fair                      1011
  Wherefore art thou come?                                           989
  While my young cheek retains its healthful hues                    236
  Whilst pale Anxiety, corrosive Care                                 69
  Whom should I choose for my Judge?                                1000
  Whom the untaught Shepherds call                                    40
  Why is my Love like the Sun?                                      1109
  Why need I say, Louisa dear                                        252
  William, my teacher, my friend                                     304
  Wisdom, Mother of retired Thought                                  991
  With Donne, whose muse on dromedary trots                          433
  With many a pause and oft reverted eye                              94
  With many a weary step at length I gain                             56
  With secret hand heal the conjectur'd wound                        988
  With skill that never Alchemist yet told                           995
  Within these circling hollies woodbine-clad                        409
  Within these wilds was Anna wont to rove                            16


  Ye Clouds! that far above me float and pause                       243
  Ye drinkers of Stingo and Nappy so free                            978
  Ye fowls of ill presage                                           1017
  Ye Gales, that of the Lark's repose                                 35
  Ye harp-controlling hymns                                         1006
  Ye souls unus'd to lofty verse                                       8
  Yes, noble old Warrior! this heart has beat high                   317
  Yes, yes! that boon, life's richest treat                          466
  Yet art thou happier far than she                                   62
  Yon row of bleak and visionary pines                              1006
  You're careful o'er your wealth 'tis true                          958
  You come from o'er the waters                                      987
  You loved the daughter of Don Manrique?                            421
  You mould my Hopes, you fashion me within                         1002
  Your Poem must _eternal_ be                                        959


Oxford: Horace Hart, Printer to the University




TRANSCRIBER'S NOTES:


Ellipses in the text are represented as in the original. Ellipses in
poetry are indicated by a row of asterisks.

The quotation marks in THE RIME OF THE ANCYENT MARINERE are exactly as
printed in the original.

Changes have been made to the text to reflect the corrections mentioned
in the Errata of both volumes. The Errata are included for completeness.

Inconsistencies in spelling, hyphenation, and accents have been left as
in the original.

Some corrections have been made to the text. A list follows.

Volume I:

     page xiii: V. Koskiusko. [MS. _Letter_, Dec. 17, 1794.]
     {original is missing period and has closing parenthesis
     instead of bracket}

     page xvii: Youth and Age. [MS. S. T. C.:{original is missing
     period after C} MSS. (1, 2) Notebook.]

     page 51: 28 gleam] gleams _1796_, _1797_, _1803_{original has
     11803}, _1893_.

     page 207: When the ivy-tod{original has ivv-tod} is heavy

     page 218: [Lines 82, 83, . . . palfrey white.]{ending bracket
     is missing in original}

     page 237: 20 _Both_] FAMINE _M.{period missing in original} P._

     page 256: Title] Fears &c. Written, April 1798, during the
     Alarms of an Invasion _MS.{original has extraneous comma} W._

     page 328: Deep was the shudder, O Earth!{exclamation point
     missing in original}

     page 368: Dear Lady!{exclamation point missing in original}
     friend devoutest

     page 376: (1) _MS. A_, sent to Sir George Beaumont, Oct. 1803
     (see _Coleorton Letters_){ending parenthesis is missing in
     original}, 1886, i. 26;

     page 442: "{quotation mark missing in original}Thus, long
     accustom'd

     page 445: 'I guess we shall have rain to-day!'{quotation mark
     missing in original}

     Footnote [133:1] Balda-Zhiok, i. e.{period missing in
     original} mons altitudinis

     Footnote [256:1] alarm respecting the threatened invasion.
     {original has extraneous quotation mark}

     Footnote [293:1] Coleridge synchronizes the _Dark Ladié_ (a
     poem which he was 'preparing' with the _Christabel_){ending
     parenthesis is missing in original}].

Volume II:

     page 564: [Between 19 and 31] And marking that the moonlight
     came from thence,{original has period}

     page 607 (line 137): The soldier's boldness
     constitutes{original has constitues} his freedom.

     page 718: [56] _Octavio (coldly)._ _1800_, _1828_,
     _1829_.{Note removed as a duplicate of [55].}

     page 731: [_Before_ 72] _Duchess (anxiously)._ _1800_,{comma
     is missing in original} _1828_

     page 741: [39] _Wallenstein (with eager expectation)._{period
     is missing in original} Well?

     page 754: [117{original has 17}] _thou_

     page 765: _BUTLER and GORDON._{period is missing in original}

     page 771: [_After_ 9] [_WALLENSTEIN shudders and turns
     pale{original has extraneous closing parenthesis}._

     page 850 (line 91): What if{original has opening parenthesis
     followed by the word if} (his stedfast eye still beaming pity

     page 868: removed superscripted 1 at the end of line 1 as
     there is no footnote

     page 879: [255] and suddenly stabs ORDONIO.{period is missing
     in original}

     page 879: [Note. In his.... [For MS. version of this variant
     see note on p. 597.]]{original is missing second closing
     bracket}

     page 906 (line 181): added the word "Is" at the beginning of
     the line--verified in The Poetical and Dramatic Works of
     Samuel Taylor Coleridge, published by Harper Brothers, New
     York, 1854

     page 929: [112] _Laska (recovering himself)._{period is
     missing in original}

     page 934 (line 292): devotion is akin to love,{original has
     period after the comma}

     page 982: First collected _P. and D. W.{period is missing in
     original}_

     page 1146: {original has unmatched opening bracket}For lines
     1-63 vide _ante_, No. III

     page 1158: _Apud Athenæum.{original has a comma}_

     Footnote [598:1] (an undramatic superstition ... pleasing
     associations, as the Sun and Moon) {original has duplicate
     word Astrology before and after the material in parentheses}

To maintain consistency, initials referring to manuscripts are spaced
throughout the text.

Dates and manuscript references in the linenotes are in italics in the
original. Italics markup has been removed to make reading easier.

When there is more than one poem on a page, the linenotes in the
original repeat the title. This title has been removed. When there is
more than one scene on a page, the linenotes in the original repeat the
scene number. This number has been removed.

In "The Piccolomini," some of the drama is written in prose. The lines
are numbered. Where words are hyphenated in the original, the parts have
been rejoined and the first part of the word moved down to the beginning
of the following line. In the list below, the slash indicates where the
hyphen occurs in the original.

  Act I, Scene VI:
      lines 5-6     orders/--no
      lines 7-8     counter/manded

  Act II, Scene VIII:
      lines 23-24   determina/tion

  Act II, Scene XII:
      lines 5-6     splen/did
      lines 15-16   Tie/fenbach
      lines 31-32   tale-/bearers
      lines 34-35   gold.--/And
      lines 58-59   Rudolph--/a    [moved up]
      lines 99-100  Fron/tignac!--Snapped
      lines 111-112 con/fidentially

  Act II, Scene XIII:
      lines 11-12   me--/talk
      lines 23-24   pre/cedence
      lines 25-26   permission--/Good
      lines 44-45   com/plaint
      lines 46-47   Chaly/beate
      lines 59-60   Mara/das
      lines 65-66   com/pliment!--For
      lines 66-67   re/maining
      lines 68-69   Lieutenant-/General

  Act II, Scene XIV:
      lines 22-23   brother!--/Hast
      lines 72-73   over-scrupu/lously
      lines 76-77   army-/purveyancer

In the Preface to "The Death of Wallenstein," the lines are numbered.
Where words are hyphenated in the original, the parts have been rejoined
and the first part of the word moved down to the beginning of the
following line. In the list below, the slash indicates where the hyphen
occurs in the original.

  lines 1-2    Wallen/stein
  lines 10-11  trans/lated
  lines 12-13  com/parative
  lines 28-29  His/tory
  lines 47-48  Piccolo/mini        [moved up]
  lines 61-62  Trans/lator
  lines 68-69  com/pensation

In Act I, Scene I of "The Triumph of Loyalty," the lines are numbered.
Where words are hyphenated in the original, the parts have been rejoined
and the first part of the word moved down to the beginning of the
following line. In the list below, the slash indicates where the hyphen
occurs in the original.

  lines 5-6     Cas/tilian
  lines 60-61   judge/ment--she

In Appendix I, part of the poem "Youth and Age" has numbered lines.
Where words are hyphenated in the original, the parts have been rejoined
and the first part of the word moved down to the beginning of the
following line. In the list below, the slash indicates where the hyphen
occurs in the original.

  lines 13-14   spark/ling
  lines 16-17   side/--out

In Appendix II, the "Allegoric Vision" has numbered lines. Where words
are hyphenated in the original, the parts have been rejoined and the
first part of the word moved down to the beginning of the following
line. In the list below, the slash indicates where the hyphen occurs in
the original.

  lines 26-27   disap/pointments
  lines 59-60   im/mediately
  lines 74-75   pin/ing
  lines 77-78   move/ments
  lines 91-91   sprink/lings
  lines 106-107 extre/mity
  lines 123-124 some/thing
  lines 127-128 uncer/tainty
  lines 148-149 over/taken         [moved up]
  lines 161-162 demean/our         [moved up]
  lines 170-171 dim-/eyed          [moved up]
  lines 181-182 mys/teries

In Appendix III, the "Apologetic Preface to 'Fire, Famine, and
Slaughter'" has numbered lines. Where words are hyphenated in the
original, the parts have been rejoined and the first part of the word
moved down to the beginning of the following line. In the list below,
the slash indicates where the hyphen occurs in the original.

  lines 2-3     cul/tivated
  lines 25-26   Anti-/Gallican
  lines 34-35   com/pensated
  lines 38-39   illus/trious
  lines 147-148 appari/tions
  lines 157-158 imagina/tion       [moved up]
  lines 170-171 con/cluded
  lines 174-175 epigram/matic      [moved up]
  lines 193-194 occa/sion
  lines 207-208 re/published
  lines 251-252 pass/age           [moved up]
  lines 267-268 com/pared
  lines 278-279 tran/scendant
  lines 285-286 wil/fully
  lines 301-302 disposi/tions
  lines 302-303 punish/ment
  lines 308-309 hypotheti/cally
  lines 315-316 calum/niators
  lines 319-320 anti-/prelatist    [moved up]
  lines 339-340 per/secution
  lines 353-354 con/tented
  lines 359-360 tempta/tion
  lines 361-362 tolera/tion
  lines 370-371 sup/port
  lines 378-379 Church-anti/quity  [moved up]
  lines 381-382 church-/communion  [moved up]
  lines 394-395 ex/pressed
  lines 399-400 inter/misceant
  lines 408-409 alle/gorical       [moved up]
  lines 437-438 dun/geoning
  lines 439-440 con/cerning        [moved up]
  lines 454-455 charac/ters
  lines 464-465 truth,--/when
  lines 467-468 main/taining
  lines 472-473 primi/tive
  lines 478-479 reli/gious

In the Bibliography, the following items have line numbers in the
original:

  III. Introduction to "A Sheet of Sonnets",
    V. "Preface to the First Editon" and "Preface to the Second Edition"

The line numbers have been removed from the prose paragraphs. To
indicate where the lines end in the original, a / slash mark has been
used.





End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Complete Poetical Works of Samuel
Taylor Coleridge, by Samuel Taylor Coleridge

*** 