Samuel Coleridge - The Complete Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge

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 skylarks 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

TO FORTUNE

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

— 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!

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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

ON BALA HILL

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.

LINES: 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 noontide 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

IMITATED FROM THE WELSH

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.

LINES: 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,