Samuel Coleridge - The Complete Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Or Autumn’s shrill gust moan in plaintive sound,

With fruits and flowers she loads the tempest-honor’d ground.

THE SILVER THIMBLE

THE PRODUCTION OF A YOUNG LADY, ADDRESSED TO THE AUTHOR OF THE POEMS ALLUDED TO IN THE PRECEDING EPISTLE

She had lost her Silver Thimble, and her complaint being

accidentally overheard by him, her Friend, he immediately sent

her four others to take her choice of.

As oft mine eye with careless glance

Has gallop’d thro’ some old romance,

Of speaking Birds and Steeds with wings,

Giants and Dwarfs, and Fiends and Kings;

Beyond the rest with more attentive care 5

I’ve lov’d to read of elfin-favour’d Fair ——

How if she long’d for aught beneath the sky

And suffer’d to escape one votive sigh,

Wafted along on viewless pinions aery

It laid itself obsequious at her feet: 10

Such things, I thought, one might not hope to meet

Save in the dear delicious land of Faery!

But now (by proof I know it well)

There’s still some peril in free wishing ——

Politeness is a licensed spell, 15

And you, dear Sir! the Arch-magician.

You much perplex’d me by the various set:

They were indeed an elegant quartette!

My mind went to and fro, and waver’d long;

At length I’ve chosen (Samuel thinks me wrong) 20

That, around whose azure rim

Silver figures seem to swim,

Like fleece-white clouds, that on the skiey Blue,

Waked by no breeze, the selfsame shapes retain;

Or ocean-Nymphs with limbs of snowy hue 25

Slow-floating o’er the calm cerulean plain.

Just such a one, mon cher ami,

(The finger shield of industry)

Th’ inventive Gods, I deem, to Pallas gave

What time the vain Arachne, madly brave, 30

Challeng’d the blue-eyed Virgin of the sky

A duel in embroider’d work to try.

And hence the thimbled Finger of grave Pallas

To th’ erring Needle’s point was more than callous.

But ah the poor Arachne! She unarm’d 35

Blundering thro’ hasty eagerness, alarm’d

With all a Rival’s hopes, a Mortal’s fears,

Still miss’d the stitch, and stain’d the web with tears.

Unnumber’d punctures small yet sore

Full fretfully the maiden bore, 40

Till she her lily finger found

Crimson’d with many a tiny wound;

And to her eyes, suffus’d with watery woe,

Her flower-embroider’d web danc’d dim, I wist,

Like blossom’d shrubs in a quick-moving mist: 45

Till vanquish’d the despairing Maid sunk low.

O Bard! whom sure no common Muse inspires,

I heard your Verse that glows with vestal fires!

And I from unwatch’d needle’s erring point

Had surely suffer’d on each finger-joint 50

Those wounds, which erst did poor Arachne meet;

While he, the much-lov’d Object of my choice

(My bosom thrilling with enthusiast heat),

Pour’d on mine ear with deep impressive voice,

How the great Prophet of the Desart stood 55

And preach’d of Penitence by Jordan’s Flood;

On War; or else the legendary lays

In simplest measures hymn’d to Alla’s praise;

Or what the Bard from his heart’s inmost stores

O’er his Friend’s grave in loftier numbers pours: 60

Yes, Bard polite! you but obey’d the laws

Of Justice, when the thimble you had sent;

What wounds your thought-bewildering Muse might cause

‘Tis well your finger-shielding gifts prevent.

SARA.

REFLECTIONS ON HAVING LEFT A PLACE OF RETIREMENT

Sermoni propriora. — HOR.

Low was our pretty Cot: our tallest Rose

Peep’d at the chamber-window. We could hear

At silent noon, and eve, and early morn,

The Sea’s faint murmur. In the open air

Our Myrtles blossom’d; and across the porch 5

Thick Jasmins twined: the little landscape round

Was green and woody, and refresh’d the eye.

It was a spot which you might aptly call

The Valley of Seclusion! Once I saw

(Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness) 10

A wealthy son of Commerce saunter by,

Bristowa’s citizen: methought, it calm’d

His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse

With wiser feelings: for he paus’d, and look’d

With a pleas’d sadness, and gaz’d all around, 15

Then eyed our Cottage, and gaz’d round again,

And sigh’d, and said, it was a Blesséd Place.

And we were bless’d. Oft with patient ear

Long-listening to the viewless skylark’s note

(Viewless, or haply for a moment seen 20

Gleaming on sunny wings) in whisper’d tones

I’ve said to my Belovéd, ‘Such, sweet Girl!

The inobtrusive song of Happiness,

Unearthly minstrelsy! then only heard

When the Soul seeks to hear; when all is hush’d, 25

And the Heart listens!’

But the time, when first

From that low Dell, steep up the stony Mount

I climb’d with perilous toil and reach’d the top,

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

The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep; 30

Grey clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields;

And river, now with bushy rocks o’er-brow’d,

Now winding bright and full, with naked banks;

And seats, and lawns, the Abbey and the wood,

And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-spire; 35

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

Seem’d imag’d in its vast circumference: 40

No wish profan’d my overwhelméd heart.

Blest hour! It was a luxury, — to be!

Ah! quiet Dell! dear Cot, and Mount sublime!

I was constrain’d to quit you. Was it right,

While my unnumber’d brethren toil’d and bled, 45

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 Howard’s eye

Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth: 50

And he that works me good with unmov’d 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 55

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 hand, 60

Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight

Of Science, Freedom, and the Truth in Christ.

Yet oft when after honourable toil

Bests the tir’d mind, and waking loves to dream,

My spirit shall revisit thee, dear Cot! 65

Thy Jasmin 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. 70

Speed it, O Father! Let thy Kingdom come!

RELIGIOUS MUSINGS

A DESULTORY POEM, WRITTEN ON THE CHRISTMAS EVE OF 1794

This is the time, when most divine to hear,

The voice of Adoration rouses me,

As with a Cherub’s trump: and high upborne,

Yea, mingling with the Choir, I seem to view

The vision of the heavenly multitude, 5

Who hymned the song of Peace o’er Bethlehem’s fields!

Yet thou more bright than all the Angel-blaze,

That harbingered thy birth, Thou Man of Woes!

Despiséd Galilaean! For the Great

Invisible (by symbols only seen) 10

With a peculiar and surpassing light