Kitabı oku: «Poems of Coleridge», sayfa 8

THE PICTURE

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;² while oft unseen,
  Hurrying along the drifted forest-leaves,
  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,
  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
  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
  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!
 
 
  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
  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!
  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,
  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.
 
 
  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
  Clothes as with net-work: here will 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
  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,
  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
  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,
  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
  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
  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,
  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,
  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-shapes the other. Stay awhile,
  Poor youth, who scarcely dar'st lift up thine eyes!
 
 
  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
  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
  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,
  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:
  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,
  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,
  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,
  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
  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 burst?
  The landscape on my sight! Two crescent hills
  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,
  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,
  Close by the waterfall, 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 pillow'd on a sleeping dog—
  One arm between its fore-legs, and the hand
  Holds loosely its small handful of wildflowers,
  Unfilletted, and of unequal lengths.
  A curious picture, with a master's haste
  Sketched on a strip of pinky-silver skin,
  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—
  The pressure still remains! O blessed 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!
  More beautiful than whom Alcæus 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,
  Why beats it thus? Through yonder coppicewood
  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,
  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 follow'd her:
  And I may be her guide the long wood through.
 

1802.

THE GARDEN OF BOCCACCIO

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

1828.

THE TWO FOUNTS

STANZAS ADDRESSED TO A LADY [MRS. ADERS] ON HER RECOVERY WITH UNBLEMISHED LOOKS, FROM A SEVERE ATTACK OF PAIN

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

1826.

A DAY-DREAM

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

?1807.

SONNET

TO A FRIEND WHO ASKED, HOW I FELT WHEN THE NURSE FIRST PRESENTED MY INFANT TO ME

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

1796.

LINES TO W. LINLEY, ESQ

WHILE HE SANG A SONG TO PURCELL'S MUSIC

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

1797.

DOMESTIC PEACE

[FROM THE FALL OF ROBESPIERRE, ACT I.]

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

1794.

SONG

SUNG BY GLYCINE IN ZAPOLYA, ACT II. SCENE 2

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

1815.

HUNTING SONG

[ZAPOLYA, ACT IV. SCENE 2]

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

1815.