Poems of Coleridge

ODE TO TRANQUILLITY

 
  Tranquility! 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,
      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,
      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:
  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;
      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,
      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—
  A wild and dream-like trade of blood and guile,
  Too foolish for a tear, too wicked for a smile!
 

1801.

FRANCE: AN ODE

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,
    Midway the smooth and perilous slope reclined,
  Save when your own imperious branches swinging,
    Have made a solemn music of the wind!
  Where, like a man beloved of God,
  Through glooms, which never woodman trod,
    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!
    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
    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!
  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,
      And Britain join'd 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;
  Yet still my voice, unaltered, sang defeat
    To all that braved the tyrant-quelling lance,
  And shame too long delay'd and vain retreat!
  For ne'er, O Liberty! with partial aim
  I dimmed thy light or damped thy holy flame;
    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
  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;
    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,
  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!
  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,
    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
    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;
      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?
    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,
  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;
    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,
    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,
  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.
 

February 1798.

FEARS IN SOLITUDE

WRITTEN IN APRIL 1798, DURING THE ALARM OF AN INVASION

 
  A Green and silent spot, amid the hills,
  A small and silent dell! O'er stiller place
  No singing sky-lark ever poised himself.
  The hills are heathy, save that swelling slope,
  Which hath a gay and gorgeous covering on,
  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,
  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
  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,
  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
  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
  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—
  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!
  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
  Countless and vehement, the sons of God,
  Our brethren! Like a cloud that travels on,
  Steam'd up from Cairo's swamps of pestilence,
  Even so, my countrymen! have we gone forth
  And borne to distant tribes slavery and pangs,
  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
  Engulf'd in Courts, Committees, Institutions,
  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;
  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,
  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
  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,
   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,
  Forth from his dark and lonely hiding-place,
  (Portentous sight!) the owlet Atheism,
  Sailing on obscene wings athwart the noon,
  Drops his blue-fringed lids, and holds them close,
  And hooting at the glorious sun in Heaven,
  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
  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,
  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,
  (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
  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,
  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
  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,
  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,
  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!
  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
  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,
  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
  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
  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.
  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,
  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
  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,
  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.—
  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
  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,
  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
  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
  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
  In the distant tree: which heard, and only heard
  In this low dell, bow'd 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,
  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
  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,
  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!
  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
  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
  Is soften'd, and made worthy to indulge
  Love, and the thoughts that yearn for human kind.
 

NETHER STOWEY, April 2Oth, 1798.

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 garden-bower.

 
  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 dimmed mine eyes to blindness! They, meanwhile,
  Friends, whom I never more may meet again,
  On springy 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,
  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,
  Unsunned and damp, whose few poor yellow-leaves
  Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still,
  Fanned by the water-fall! and there my friends
  Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds,
  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
  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
  Of purple shadow! Yes! they wander on
  In gladness all; but thou, me thinks, most glad,
  My gentle-hearted Charles! for thou hast pined
  And hungered after Nature, many a year,
  In the great City pent, winning thy way
  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
  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
  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,
  This little lime-tree bower, have I not marked
  Much that has soothed me. Pale beneath the blaze
  Hung the transparent foliage; and I watched
  Some broad and sunny leaf, and loved to see
  The shadow of the leaf and stem above,
  Dappling its sunshine! And that walnut-tree
  Was richly tinged, 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
  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;
  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 promised good,
  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
  (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
  For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom
  No sound is dissonant which tells of Life.
 

1797.