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

That through his brain are travelling,

And, starting up, to Bruce’s heart

He launch’d a deadly jav’lin!

Fair Ellen saw it when it came,

And, stepping forth to meet the same,

Did with her body cover

The Youth her chosen lover.

And, falling into Bruce’s arms,

Thus died the beauteous Ellen,

Thus from the heart of her true-love

The mortal spear repelling.

And Bruce, as soon as he had slain

The Gordon, sail’d away to Spain,

And fought with rage incessant

Against the Moorish Crescent.

But many days and many months,

And many years ensuing,

This wretched Knight did vainly seek

The death that he was wooing:

So coming back across the wave,

Without a groan on Ellen’s grave

His body he extended,

And there his sorrow ended.

Now ye who willingly have heard

The tale I have been telling,

May in Kirkonnel churchyard view

The grave of lovely Ellen:

By Ellen’s side the Bruce is laid,

And, for the stone upon his head,

May no rude hand deface it,

And its forlorn ‘Hic jacet’.

Strange fits of passion I have known,

And I will dare to tell,

But in the lover’s ear alone,

What once to me befel.

When she I lov’d, was strong and gay

And like a rose in June,

I to her cottage bent my way,

Beneath the evening moon.

Upon the moon I fix’d my eye,

All over the wide lea;

My horse trudg’d on, and we drew nigh

Those paths so dear to me.

And now we reach’d the orchard plot,

And, as we climb’d the hill,

Towards the roof of Lucy’s cot

The moon descended still.

In one of those sweet dreams I slept,

Kind Nature’s gentlest boon!

And, all the while, my eyes I kept

On the descending moon.

My horse mov’d on; hoof after hoof

He rais’d and never stopp’d:

When down behind the cottage roof

At once the planet dropp’d.

What fond and wayward thoughts will slide

Into a Lover’s head —

”O mercy!” to myself I cried,

”If Lucy should be dead!”

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She dwelt among th’ untrodden ways

Beside the springs of Dove,

A Maid whom there were none to praise

And very few to love.

A Violet by a mossy stone

Half-hidden from the Eye!

— Fair, as a star when only one

Is shining in the sky!

She liv’d unknown, and few could know

When Lucy ceas’d to be;

But she is in her Grave, and Oh!

The difference to me.

A slumber did my spirit seal,

I had no human fears:

She seem’d a thing that could not feel

The touch of earthly years.

No motion has she now, no force

She neither hears nor sees

Roll’d round in earth’s diurnal course

With rocks and stones and trees!

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”Begone, thou fond presumptuous Elf,

Exclaim’d a thundering Voice,

Nor dare to thrust thy foolish self

Between me and my choice!”

A falling Water swoln with snows

Thus spake to a poor Briar-rose,

That all bespatter’d with his foam,

And dancing high, and dancing low,

Was living, as a child might know,

In an unhappy home.

”Dost thou presume my course to block?

Off, off! or, puny Thing!

I’ll hurl thee headlong with the rock

To which thy fibres cling.”

The Flood was tyrannous and strong;

The patient Briar suffer’d long,

Nor did he utter groan or sigh,

Hoping the danger would be pass’d:

But seeing no relief, at last

He venture’d to reply.

”Ah!” said the Briar, “Blame me not!

Why should we dwell in strife?

We who in this, our natal spot,

Once liv’d a happy life!

You stirr’d me on my rocky bed —

What pleasure thro’ my veins you spread!

The Summer long from day to day

My leaves you freshen’d and bedew’d;

Nor was it common gratitude

That did your cares repay.”

When Spring came on with bud and bell,

Among these rocks did I

Before you hang my wreath to tell

That gentle days were nigh!

And in the sultry summer hours

I shelter’d you with leaves and flowers;

And in my leaves now shed and gone

The linnet lodg’d and for us two

Chaunted his pretty songs when you

Had little voice or none.

But now proud thoughts are in your breast —

What grief is mine you see.

Ah! would you think, ev’n yet how blest

Together we might be!

Though of both leaf and flower bereft,

Some ornaments to me are left —

Rich store of scarlet hips is mine,

With which I in my humble way

Would deck you many a Winter’s day,

A happy Eglantine!

What more he said, I cannot tell.

The stream came thundering down the dell

And gallop’d loud and fast;

I listen’d, nor aught else could hear,

The Briar quak’d and much I fear.

Those accents were his last.

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A PASTORAL.

His simple truths did Andrew glean

Beside the babbling rills;

A careful student he had been

Among the woods and hills.

One winter’s night when through the Trees

The wind was thundering, on his knees

His youngest born did Andrew hold:

And while the rest, a ruddy quire

Were seated round their blazing fire,

This Tale the Shepherd told.

I saw a crag, a lofty stone

As ever tempest beat!

Out of its head an Oak had grown,

A Broom out of its feet.

The time was March, a chearful noon —

The thaw-wind with the breath of June

Breath’d gently from the warm South-west;

When in a voice sedate with age

This Oak, half giant and half sage,

His neighbour thus address’d.

”Eight weary weeks, thro’ rock and clay,

Along this mountain’s edge

The Frost hath wrought both night and day,

Wedge driving after wedge.

Look up, and think, above your head

What trouble surely will be bred;

Last night I heard a crash—’tis true,

The splinters took another road —

I see them yonder — what a load

For such a Thing as you!”

You are preparing as before

To deck your slender shape;

And yet, just three years back — no more —

You had a strange escape.

Down from yon Cliff a fragment broke,

It came, you know, with fire and smoke

And hither did it bend its way.

This pond’rous block was caught by me,

And o’er your head, as you may see,

’Tis hanging to this day.

The Thing had better been asleep,

Whatever thing it were,

Or Breeze, or Bird, or fleece of Sheep,

That first did plant you there.

For you and your green twigs decoy

The little witless Shepherd-boy

To come and slumber in your bower;

And trust me, on some sultry noon,

Both you and he, Heaven knows how soon!

Will perish in one hour.

”From me this friendly warning take” —

— The Broom began to doze,

And thus to keep herself awake

Did gently interpose.

”My thanks for your discourse are due;

That it is true, and more than true,

I know and I have known it long;

Frail is the bond, by which we hold

Our being, be we young or old,

Wise, foolish, weak or strong.”

Disasters, do the best we can,

Will reach both great and small;

And he is oft the wisest man,

Who is not wise at all.

For me, why should I wish to roam?