Samuel Coleridge - The Complete Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge (Illustrated Edition)

”You run about, my little maid,

Your limbs they are alive;

If two are in the churchyard laid,

Then ye are only five.”

”Their graves are green, they may be seen,”

The little Maid replied,

”Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,

And they are side by side.”

”My stockings there I often knit,

My ‘kerchief there I hem;

And there upon the ground I sit —

I sit and sing to them.”

”And often after sunset, Sir,

When it is light and fair,

I take my little porringer,

And eat my supper there.”

”The first that died was little Jane;

In bed she moaning lay,

Till God released her of her pain,

And then she went away.”

”So in the churchyard she was laid,

And all the summer dry,

Together round her grave we played,

My brother John and I.”

”And when the ground was white with snow,

And I could run and slide,

My brother John was forced to go,

And he lies by her side.”

”How many are you then,” said I,

”If they two are in Heaven?”

The little Maiden did reply,

”O Master! we are seven.”

”But they are dead; those two are dead!

Their spirits are in heaven!”

’Twas throwing words away; for still

The little Maid would have her will,

And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

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Shewing how the practice of Lying may be taught.

I have a boy of five years old,

His face is fair and fresh to see;

His limbs are cast in beauty’s mould,

And dearly he loves me.

One morn we stroll’d on our dry walk,

Our quiet house all full in view,

And held such intermitted talk

As we are wont to do.

My thoughts on former pleasures ran;

I thought of Kilve’s delightful shore,

My pleasant home, when Spring began,

A long, long year before.

A day it was when I could bear

To think, and think, and think again;

With so much happiness to spare,

I could not feel a pain.

My boy was by my side, so slim

And graceful in his rustic dress!

And oftentimes I talked to him

In very idleness.

The young lambs ran a pretty race;

The morning sun shone bright and warm;

”Kilve,” said I, “was a pleasant place,

And so is Liswyn farm.”

”My little boy, which like you more,”

I said and took him by the arm —

”Our home by Kilve’s delightful shore,

Or here at Liswyn farm?”

”And tell me, had you rather be,”

I said and held-him by the arm,

”At Kilve’s smooth shore by the green sea,

Or here at Liswyn farm?”

In careless mood he looked at me,

While still I held him by the arm,

And said, “At Kilve I’d rather be

Than here at Liswyn farm.”

”Now, little Edward, say why so;

My little Edward, tell me why;”

”I cannot tell, I do not know.”

”Why this is strange,” said I.

”For, here are woods and green hills warm:

There surely must some reason be

Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm,

For Kilve by the green sea.”

At this, my boy hung down his head,

He blush’d with shame, nor made reply;

And five times to the child I said,

”Why, Edward, tell me, why?”

His head he raised — there was in sight,

It caught his eye, he saw it plain —

Upon the house-top, glittering bright,

A broad and gilded vane.

Then did the boy his tongue unlock,

And thus to me he made reply;

”At Kilve there was no weathercock,

And that’s the reason why.”

Oh dearest, dearest boy! my heart

For better lore would seldom yearn

Could I but teach the hundredth part

Of what from thee I learn.

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It is the first mild day of March:

Each minute sweeter than before,

The redbreast sings from the tall larch

That stands beside our door.

There is a blessing in the air,

Which seems a sense of joy to yield

To the bare trees, and mountains bare,

And grass in the green field.

My Sister! (‘tis a wish of mine)

Now that our morning meal is done,

Make haste, your morning task resign;

Come forth and feel the sun.

Edward will come with you, and pray,

Put on with speed your woodland dress,

And bring no book, for this one day

We’ll give to idleness.

No joyless forms shall regulate

Our living Calendar:

We from to-day, my friend, will date

The opening of the year.

Love, now an universal birth,

From heart to heart is stealing,

From earth to man, from man to earth,

— It is the hour of feeling.

One moment now may give us more

Than fifty years of reason;

Our minds shall drink at every pore

The spirit of the season.

Some silent laws our hearts may make,

Which they shall long obey;

We for the year to come may take

Our temper from to-day.

And from the blessed power that rolls

About, below, above;

We’ll frame the measure of our souls,

They shall be tuned to love.

Then come, my sister I come, I pray,

With speed put on your woodland dress,

And bring no book; for this one day

We’ll give to idleness.

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By Derwent’s side my Father’s cottage stood,

(The Woman thus her artless story told)

One field, a flock, and what the neighbouring flood

Supplied, to him were more than mines of gold.

Light was my sleep; my days in transport roll’d:

With thoughtless joy I stretch’d along the shore

My father’s nets, or from the mountain fold

Saw on the distant lake his twinkling oar

Or watch’d his lazy boat still less’ning more and more

My father was a good and pious man,

An honest man by honest parents bred,

And I believe that, soon as I began

To lisp, he made me kneel beside my bed,

And in his hearing there my prayers I said:

And afterwards, by my good father taught,

I read, and loved the books in which I read;

For books in every neighbouring house I sought,

And nothing to my mind a sweeter pleasure brought.

Can I forget what charms did once adorn

My garden, stored with pease, and mint, and thyme,

And rose and lilly for the sabbath morn?

The sabbath bells, and their delightful chime;

The gambols and wild freaks at shearing time;

My hen’s rich nest through long grass scarce espied;

The cowslip-gathering at May’s dewy prime;

The swans, that, when I sought the water-side,

From far to meet me came, spreading their snowy pride.

The staff I yet remember which upbore

The bending body of my active sire;

His seat beneath the honeyed sycamore

When the bees hummed, and chair by winter fire;

When market-morning came, the neat attire

With which, though bent on haste, myself I deck’d;

My watchful dog, whose starts of furious ire,

When stranger passed, so often I have check’d;

The redbreast known for years, which at my casement peck’d.

The suns of twenty summers danced along, —

Ah! little marked, how fast they rolled away:

Then rose a stately hall our woods among,

And cottage after cottage owned its sway.

No joy to see a neighbouring house, or stray

Through pastures not his own, the master took;

My Father dared his greedy wish gainsay;