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COLERIDGE

LIFE

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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

1 The dates for Coleridge's poems are made up from the Shepherd-Prideaux and the Haney bibliographies, and from the excellent notes to Campbell's edition of the Poetical Works.

Bathed in rich amber-glowing floods of light;

Nor in yon gleam, where slow descends the day,

With western peasants hail the morning ray!

Ah! rather bid the perished pleasures

move,

A shadowy train, across the soul of Love!

O'er disappointment's wintry desert fling Each flower that wreathed the dewy locks of Spring,

When blushing, like a bride, from Hope's trim bower

She leapt, awakened 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,` Chaste Joyance dancing in her brightblue eyes;

As erst when from the Muses' calm abode

I came, with Learning's meed not unbestowed:

When as she twined a laurel round my brow,

And met my kiss, and half returned my

Vow,

O'er all my frame shot rapid my thrilled heart,

And every nerve confessed 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,

Mocks the tired eye, and scatters the loud note,

I trace her footsteps on the accustomed lawn,

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Or mine the power of Proteus, changeful God! 1

A flower-entangled Arbor I would seem To shield my Love from Noontide's sultry beam:

Or bloom a Myrtle, from whose odorous 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,

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!

As when the Savage, who his drowsy frame

Had basked 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

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As water-lilies ripple thy slow stream! Dear native haunts! where Virtue still is gay,

Where Friendship's fixed star sheds a mellowed ray,

Where Love a crown of thornless Roses wears.

Where soften'd Sorrow smiles within her tears;

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 attuned heart-string with delight

No more shall deck your pensive Pleasures sweet

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.

Scenes of my Hope! the aching eye ye leave

Like yon bright hues that paint the clouds of eve!

Tearful and saddening with the saddened blaze

Mine eye the gleam pursues with wistful

gaze:

Sees shades on shades with deeper tint

impend,

Till chill and damp the moonless night descend. 1793. 1796.

LEWTI

OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHANT

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

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.

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,
Onward to the moon it passed;
Still brighter and more bright it grew,
With floating colors not a few,

Till it reach'd the moon at last :
Then the cloud was wholly bright,
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! 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:
Its hues are dim, its hues are gray
Away it passes from the moon!
How mournfully it seems to fly,

Ever fading more and more,
To joyless regions of the sky-
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

And yet, thou didst not look unkind.

I saw a vapor in the sky.
Thin, and white, and very high;
I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud:

Perhaps the breezes that can fly
Now below and now above,
Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud
Of Lady fair-that died for love.
For maids, as well as youths, have
perished

From fruitless love too fondly cherished. 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,

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!

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
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,
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.

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
Her bosom heave, and heave for me!
Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind!
To-morrow Lewti may be kind.

1794. April 13, 1798.

LA FAYETTE

As when far off the warbled strains are heard

That soar on Morning's wing the vales among;

Within his cage the imprisoned matin bird

Swells the full chorus with a generous

song:

He bathes no pinion in the dewy light, 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 win try night,

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!

1794. December 15, 1794.

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(Viewless, or haply for a moment seen Gleaming on sunny wings) in whispered tones

I've said to my beloved, "Such, sweet girl!

The inobtrusive song of Happiness, Unearthly minstrelsy! then only heard When the soul seeks to hear; when all is hushed,

And the heart listens!"

But the time, when first From that low dell, steep up the stony mount

I climbed with perilous toil and reached the top,

Oh! what a goodly scene! Here the bleak mount,

The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep;

Gray clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields:

And river, now with bushy rocks o'er browed.

Now winding bright and full, with naked banks:

And seats, and lawns, the abbey and the wood,

And cots, and hamlets, and faint cityspire;

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

Seemed imaged in its vast circumfer

ence:

No wish profaned my overwhelmed heart. Blest hour! It was a luxury,-to be!

Ah! quiet dell! dear cot, and mount sublime!

I was constrained to quit you. Was it right,

While my unnumbered brethren toiled and bled,

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 How

ard's eye

Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth:

And he that works me good with unmoved 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

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

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Thy jasmine 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. Speed it, O Father! Let thy Kingdom come! 1795. October, 1796.

TIME REAL AND IMAGINARY

AN ALLEGORY

ON the wide level of a mountain's head, (I knew not where, but 'twas some faery place)

Their pinions, ostrich-like, for sails outspread,

Two lovely children run an endless race, A sister and a brother!

This far outstript the other; Yet ever runs she with reverted face, And looks and listens for the boy behind:

For he, alas! is blind!

O'er rough and smooth with even step he passed,

And knows not whether he be first o last. ?1... 1817.

THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY

PRISON

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 gardenbower. (Coleridge.)

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

Included by Coleridge among his "Juvenile Poems." There is no other evidence to indicate at what date it was written. See, however, a manuscript note of 1811 on the same subject, given in Anima Poetae at the beginning of Chapter VIII.

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