Kitabı oku: «Poems of Coleridge», sayfa 5

LOVE

 
  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
  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;
  And she was there, my hope, my joy,
      My own dear Genevieve!
 
 
  She leant against the armed man,
  The statue of the armed knight;
  She stood and listened to my lay,
      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.
 
 
  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,
  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;
  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,
    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!
 
 
  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,
  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;
  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
      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;—
 
 
  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
  That tenderest strain of all the ditty,
  My faltering voice and pausing harp
      Disturbed her soul with pity!
 
 
  All impulses of soul and sense
  Had thrilled my guileless Genevieve;
  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,
      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.
 
 
  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,
  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,
  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,
      My bright and beauteous Bride.
 

1798-1799.

THE THREE GRAVES

A FRAGMENT OF A SEXTON'S TALE PART I

 
  The grapes upon the Vicar's wall
    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:
  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,
    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.
 
 
  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,
    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,
  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—
    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.
 
 
  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
    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:
  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!
  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
    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.
 
 
  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.
 
 
  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,
    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:
  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,
    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.
 
 
  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,
    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—
  O curse this woman, at whose house
    Young Edward woo'd his wife.
 
 
  "By night and day, in bed and bower,
    O let her cursed be!!! "
  So having prayed, steady and slow,
    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:
  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
    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?"
 
 
  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,
    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:
  "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:
    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!"
 
 
  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,
   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:
  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
  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
   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.
 
 
  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,
   But closelier did she cling,
  And turned her face and looked as if
   She saw some frightful thing.
 

PART II

 
  To see a man tread over graves
    I hold it no good mark;
  '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
    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!
 
 
  "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,
    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;
  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;
  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 look'd as if he thought
    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.
 
 
  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!
    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;
 
 
  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
    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;
  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
    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.
 
 
  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,
    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:
  "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
    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.
 
 
  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
    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,
  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,
    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.
 
 
  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.
 
 
  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,
    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;
  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;
  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,
    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.
 
 
  Both groan'd 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
    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;
  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!–[Note of S.T.C.—l8l5.]

DEJECTION: AN ODE

 
  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,
  Or the dull sobbing drafty 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,
     (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,
     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!
 

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,
  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
  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
  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
  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
  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,
  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—
  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!
  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,
  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—
  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.
 

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,
  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,
    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—
    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!
  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, or blasted tree,
  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,
  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, even to frenzy bold!
      What tell'st thou now about?
      '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,
  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,
      '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:
  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,
    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,
  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.