Samuel Coleridge - The Complete Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge

Where dwells the Fury Form, whose unheard name

With eager eye, pale cheek, suspended breath,

And lips half-opening with the dread of sound, 105

Unsleeping Silence guards, worn out with fear

Lest haply ‘scaping on some treacherous blast

The fateful word let slip the Elements

And frenzy Nature. Yet the wizard her,

Arm’d with Torngarsuck’s power, the Spirit of Good, 110

Forces to unchain the foodful progeny

Of the Ocean stream; — thence thro’ the realm of Souls,

Where live the Innocent, as far from cares

As from the storms and overwhelming waves

That tumble on the surface of the Deep, 115

Returns with far-heard pant, hotly pursued

By the fierce Warders of the Sea, once more,

Ere by the frost foreclosed, to repossess

His fleshly mansion, that had staid the while

In the dark tent within a cow’ring group 120

Untenanted. — Wild phantasies! yet wise,

On the victorious goodness of high God

Teaching reliance, and medicinal hope,

Till from Bethabra northward, heavenly Truth

With gradual steps, winning her difficult way, 125

Transfer their rude Faith perfected and pure.

If there be Beings of higher class than Man,

I deem no nobler province they possess,

Than by disposal of apt circumstance

To rear up kingdoms: and the deeds they prompt, 130

Distinguishing from mortal agency,

They choose their human ministers from such states

As still the Epic song half fears to name,

Repelled from all the minstrelsies that strike

The palace-roof and soothe the monarch’s pride. 135

And such, perhaps, the Spirit, who (if words

Witnessed by answering deeds may claim our faith)

Held commune with that warrior-maid of France

Who scourged the Invader. From her infant days,

With Wisdom, mother of retired thoughts, 140

Her soul had dwelt; and she was quick to mark

The good and evil thing, in human lore

Undisciplined. For lowly was her birth,

And Heaven had doomed her early years to toil

That pure from Tyranny’s least deed, herself 145

Unfeared by Fellow-natures, she might wait

On the poor labouring man with kindly looks,

And minister refreshment to the tired

Way-wanderer, when along the rough-hewn bench

The sweltry man had stretched him, and aloft 150

Vacantly watched the rudely-pictured board

Which on the Mulberry-bough with welcome creak

Swung to the pleasant breeze. Here, too, the Maid

Learnt more than Schools could teach: Man’s shifting mind,

His vices and his sorrows! And full oft 155

At tales of cruel wrong and strange distress

Had wept and shivered. To the tottering Eld

Still as a daughter would she run: she placed

His cold limbs at the sunny door, and loved

To hear him story, in his garrulous sort, 160

Of his eventful years, all come and gone.

So twenty seasons past. The Virgin’s form,

Active and tall, nor Sloth nor Luxury

Had shrunk or paled. Her front sublime and broad,

Her flexile eyebrows wildly haired and low, 165

And her full eye, now bright, now unillumed,

Spake more than Woman’s thought; and all her face

Was moulded to such features as declared

That Pity there had oft and strongly worked,

And sometimes Indignation. Bold her mien, 170

And like an haughty huntress of the woods

She moved: yet sure she was a gentle maid!

And in each motion her most innocent soul

Beamed forth so brightly, that who saw would say

Guilt was a thing impossible in her! 175

Nor idly would have said — for she had lived

In this bad World, as in a place of Tombs,

And touched not the pollutions of the Dead.

‘Twas the cold season when the Rustic’s eye

From the drear desolate whiteness of his fields 180

Rolls for relief to watch the skiey tints

And clouds slow-varying their huge imagery;

When now, as she was wont, the healthful Maid

Had left her pallet ere one beam of day

Slanted the fog-smoke. She went forth alone 185

Urged by the indwelling angel-guide, that oft,

With dim inexplicable sympathies

Disquieting the heart, shapes out Man’s course

To the predoomed adventure. Now the ascent

She climbs of that steep upland, on whose top 190

The Pilgrim-man, who long since eve had watched

The alien shine of unconcerning stars,

Shouts to himself, there first the Abbey-lights

Seen in Neufchâtel’s vale; now slopes adown

The winding sheep-track vale-ward: when, behold 195

In the first entrance of the level road

An unattended team! The foremost horse

Lay with stretched limbs; the others, yet alive

But stiff and cold, stood motionless, their manes

Hoar with the frozen night-dews. Dismally 200

The dark-red dawn now glimmered; but its gleams

Disclosed no face of man. The maiden paused,

Then hailed who might be near. No voice replied.

From the thwart wain at length there reached her ear

A sound so feeble that it almost seemed 205

Distant: and feebly, with slow effort pushed,

A miserable man crept forth: his limbs

The silent frost had eat, scathing like fire.

Faint on the shafts he rested. She, meantime,

Saw crowded close beneath the coverture 210

A mother and her children — lifeless all,

Yet lovely! not a lineament was marred —

Death had put on so slumber-like a form!

It was a piteous sight; and one, a babe.

The crisp milk frozen on its innocent lips, 215

Lay on the woman’s arm, its little hand

Stretched on her bosom.

Mutely questioning,

The Maid gazed wildly at the living wretch.

He, his head feebly turning, on the group

Looked with a vacant stare, and his eye spoke 220

The drowsy calm that steals on worn-out anguish.

She shuddered; but, each vainer pang subdued,

Quick disentangling from the foremost horse

The rustic bands, with difficulty and toil

The stiff cramped team forced homeward. There arrived, 225

Anxiously tends him she with healing herbs,

And weeps and prays — but the numb power of Death

Spreads o’er his limbs; and ere the noontide hour,

The hovering spirits of his Wife and Babes

Hail him immortal! Yet amid his pangs, 230

With interruptions long from ghastly throes,

His voice had faltered out this simple tale.

The Village, where he dwelt an husbandman,

By sudden inroad had been seized and fired

Late on the yester-evening. With his wife 235

And little ones he hurried his escape.

They saw the neighbouring hamlets flame, they heard

Uproar and shrieks! and terror-struck drove on

Through unfrequented roads, a weary way!

But saw nor house nor cottage. All had quenched 240

Their evening hearth-fire: for the alarm had spread.

The air clipt keen, the night was fanged with frost,

And they provisionless! The weeping wife

Ill hushed her children’s moans; and still they moaned,

Till Fright and Cold and Hunger drank their life. 245

They closed their eyes in sleep, nor knew ‘twas Death.

He only, lashing his o’erwearied team,

Gained a sad respite, till beside the base

Of the high hill his foremost horse dropped dead.

Then hopeless, strengthless, sick for lack of food, 250

He crept beneath the coverture, entranced,

Till wakened by the maiden. — Such his tale.

Ah! suffering to the height of what was suffered,

Stung with too keen a sympathy, the Maid

Brooded with moving lips, mute, startful, dark! 255

And now her flushed tumultuous features shot

Such strange vivacity, as fires the eye