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

This spot is my paternal home,

It is my pleasant Heritage;

My Father many a happy year

Here spread his careless blossoms, here

Attain’d a good old age.

Even such as his may be may lot.

What cause have I to haunt

My heart with terrors? Am I not

In truth a favor’d plant!

The Spring for me a garland weaves

Of yellow flowers and verdant leaves,

And, when the Frost is in the sky,

My branches are so fresh and gay

That You might look on me and say

This plant can never die.

The butterfly, all green and gold,

To me hath often flown,

Here in my Blossoms to behold

Wings lovely as his own.

When grass is chill with rain or dew,

Beneath my shade the mother ewe

Lies with her infant lamb; I see

The love, they to each other make,

And the sweet joy, which they partake,

It is a joy to me.

Her voice was blithe, her heart was light;

The Broom might have pursued

Her speech, until the stars of night

Their journey had renew’d.

But in the branches of the Oak

Two Ravens now began to croak

Their nuptial song, a gladsome air;

And to her own green bower the breeze

That instant brought two stripling Bees

To feed and murmur there.

One night the Wind came from the North

And blew a furious blast,

At break of day I ventur’d forth

And near the Cliff I pass’d.

The storm had fall’n upon the Oak

And struck him with a mighty stroke,

And whirl’d and whirl’d him far away;

And in one hospitable Cleft

The little careless Broom was left

To live for many a day.

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Oft I had heard of Lucy Gray,

And when I cross’d the Wild,

I chanc’d to see at break of day

The solitary Child.

No Mate, no comrade Lucy knew;

She dwelt on a wild Moor,

The sweetest Thing that ever grew

Beside a human door!

You yet may spy the Fawn at play,

The Hare upon the Green;

But the sweet face of Lucy Gray

Will never more be seen.

”To-night will be a stormy night,

You to the Town must go,

And take a lantern, Child, to light

Your Mother thro’ the snow.”

”That, Father! will I gladly do;

’Tis scarcely afternoon —

The Minster-clock has just struck two,

And yonder is the Moon.”

At this the Father rais’d his hook

And snapp’d a faggot-band;

He plied his work, and Lucy took

The lantern in her hand.

Not blither is the mountain roe,

With many a wanton stroke

Her feet disperse, the powd’ry snow

That rises up like smoke.

The storm came on before its time,

She wander’d up and down,

And many a hill did Lucy climb

But never reach’d the Town.

The wretched Parents all that night

Went shouting far and wide;

But there was neither sound nor sight

To serve them for a guide.

At daybreak on a hill they stood

That overlook’d the Moor;

And thence they saw the Bridge of Wood

A furlong from their door.

And now they homeward turn’d, and cry’d

”In Heaven we all shall meet!”

When in the snow the Mother spied

The print of Lucy’s feet.

Then downward from the steep hill’s edge

They track’d the footmarks small;

And through the broken hawthorn-hedge,

And by the long stone-wall;

And then an open field they cross’d,

The marks were still the same;

They track’d them on, nor ever lost,

And to the Bridge they came.

They follow’d from the snowy bank

The footmarks, one by one,

Into the middle of the plank,

And further there were none.

Yet some maintain that to this day

She is a living Child,

That you may see sweet Lucy Gray

Upon the lonesome Wild.

O’er rough and smooth she trips along,

And never looks behind;

And sings a solitary song

That whistles in the wind.

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OR

DUNGEON-GILL FORCE

A PASTORAL.

I.

The valley rings with mirth and joy,

Among the hills the Echoes play

A never, never ending song

To welcome in the May.

The Magpie chatters with delight;

The mountain Raven’s youngling Brood

Have left the Mother and the Nest,

And they go rambling east and west

In search of their own food,

Or thro’ the glittering Vapors dart

In very wantonness of Heart.

II.

Beneath a rock, upon the grass,

Two Boys are sitting in the sun;

It seems they have no work to do

Or that their work is done.

On pipes of sycamore they play

The fragments of a Christmas Hymn,

Or with that plant which in our dale

We call Stag-horn, or Fox’s Tail

Their rusty Hats they trim:

And thus as happy as the Day,

Those Shepherds wear the time away.

III.

Along the river’s stony marge

The sand-lark chaunts a joyous song;

The thrush is busy in the Wood,

And carols loud and strong.

A thousand lambs are on the rocks,

All newly born! both earth and sky

Keep jubilee, and more than all,

Those Boys with their green Coronal,

They never hear the cry,

That plaintive cry! which up the hill

Comes from the depth of Dungeon-Gill.

IV.

Said Walter, leaping from the ground,

”Down to the stump of yon old yew

I’ll run with you a race.” — No more —

Away the Shepherds flew.

They leapt, they ran, and when they came

Right opposite to Dungeon-Gill,

Seeing, that he should lose the prize,

”Stop!” to his comrade Walter cries —

James stopp’d with no good will:

Said Walter then, “Your task is here,

’Twill keep you working half a year.”

V.

”Till you have cross’d where I shall cross,

Say that you’ll neither sleep nor eat.”

James proudly took him at his word,

But did not like the feat.

It was a spot, which you may see

If ever you to Langdale go:

Into a chasm a mighty Block

Hath fallen, and made a bridge of rock;

The gulph is deep below,

And in a bason black and small

Receives a lofty Waterfall.

VI.

With staff in hand across the cleft

The Challenger began his march;

And now, all eyes and feet, hath gain’d

The middle of the arch.

When list! he hears a piteous moan —

Again! his heart within him dies —

His pulse is stopp’d, his breath is lost,

He totters, pale as any ghost,

And, looking down, he spies

A Lamb, that in the pool is pent

Within that black and frightful rent.

VII.

The Lamb had slipp’d into the stream,

And safe without a bruise or wound

The Cataract had borne him down

Into the gulph profound,

His dam had seen him when he fell,

She saw him down the torrent borne;

And while with all a mother’s love

She from the lofty rocks above

Sent forth a cry forlorn,

The Lamb, still swimming round and round

Made answer to that plaintive sound.

VIII.

When he had learnt, what thing it was,

That sent this rueful cry; I ween,

The Boy recover’d heart, and told

The sight which he had seen.

Both gladly now deferr’d their task;

Nor was there wanting other aid —

A Poet, one who loves the brooks

Far better than the sages’ books,

By chance had thither stray’d;

And there the helpless Lamb he found

By those huge rocks encompass’d round.

IX.

He drew it gently from the pool,