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

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I hate that Andrew Jones: he’ll breed

His children up to waste and pillage.

I wish the press-gang or the drum

With its tantara sound would come,

And sweep him from the village!

I said not this, because he loves

Through the long day to swear and tipple;

But for the poor dear sake of one

To whom a foul deed he had done,

A friendless Man, a travelling Cripple!

For this poor crawling helpless wretch

Some Horseman who was passing by,

A penny on the ground had thrown;

But the poor Cripple was alone

And could not stoop — no help was nigh.

Inch-thick the dust lay on the ground

For it had long been droughty weather:

So with his staff the Cripple wrought

Among the dust till he had brought

The halfpennies together.

It chanc’d that Andrew pass’d that way

Just at the time; and there he found

The Cripple in the mid-day heat

Standing alone, and at his feet

He saw the penny on the ground.

He stopp’d and took the penny up.

And when the Cripple nearer drew,

Quoth Andrew, “Under half-a-crown.

What a man finds is all his own,

And so, my Friend, good day to you.”

And hence I said, that Andrew’s boys

Will all be train’d to waste and pillage;

And wish’d the press-gang, or the drum

With its tantara sound, would come

And sweep him from the village!

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OR

THE LAST STAGE OF AVARICE.

Oh now that the genius of Bewick were mine

And the skill which He learn’d on the Banks of the Tyne;

When the Muses might deal with me just as they chose

For I’d take my last leave both of verse and of prose.

What feats would I work with my magical hand!

Book-learning and books should be banish’d the land

And for hunger and thirst and such troublesome calls

Every alehouse should then have a feast on its walls.

The Traveller would hang his wet clothes on a chair

Let them smoke, let them burn, not a straw would he care.

For the Prodigal Son, Joseph’s Dream and his Sheaves,

Oh what would they be to my tale of two Thieves!

Little Dan is unbreech’d, he is three birthdays old,

His Grandsire that age more than thirty times told,

There’s ninety good seasons of fair and foul weather

Between them, and both go a stealing together.

With chips is the Carpenter strewing his floor?

It a cartload of peats at an old Woman’s door?

Old Daniel his hand to the treasure will slide,

And his Grandson’s as busy at work by his side.

Old Daniel begins, he stops short and his eye

Through the lost look of dotage is cunning and sly.

’Tis a look which at this time is hardly his own,

But tells a plain tale of the days that are flown.

Dan once had a heart which was mov’d by the wires

Of manifold pleasures and many desires:

And what if he cherish’d his purse? ‘Twas no more

Than treading a path trod by thousands before.

’Twas a path trod by thousands, but Daniel is one

Who went something farther than others have gone;

And now with old Daniel you see how it fares

You see to what end he has brought his grey hairs.

The pair sally forth hand in hand; ere the sun

Has peer’d o’er the beeches their work is begun:

And yet into whatever sin they may fall,

This Child but half knows it and that not at all.

They hunt through the street with deliberate tread,

And each in his turn is both leader and led;

And wherever they carry their plots and their wiles,

Every face in the village is dimpled with smiles.

Neither check’d by the rich nor the needy they roam,

For grey-headed Dan has a daughter at home;

Who will gladly repair all the damage that’s done,

And three, were it ask’d, would be render’d for one.

Old Man! whom so oft I with pity have ey’d,

I love thee and love the sweet boy at thy side:

Long yet may’st thou live, for a teacher we see

That lifts up the veil of our nature in thee.

A whirl-blast from behind the hill

Rush’d o’er the wood with startling sound:

Then all at once the air was still,

And showers of hailstones patter’d round.

Where leafless Oaks tower’d high above,

I sate within an undergrove

Of tallest hollies, tall and green,

A fairer bower was never seen.

From year to year the spacious floor

With wither’d leaves is cover’d o’er,

You could not lay a hair between:

And all the year the bower is green.

But see! where’er the hailstones drop

The wither’d leaves all skip and hop,

There’s not a breeze — no breath of air —

Yet here, and there, and every where

Along the floor, beneath the shade

By those embowering hollies made,

The leaves in myriads jump and spring,

As if with pipes and music rare

Some Robin Good-fellow were there,

And all those leaves, that jump and spring,

Were each a joyous, living thing.

Oh! grant me Heaven a heart at ease

That I may never cease to find,

Even in appearances like these

Enough to nourish and to stir my mind!

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Though the torrents from their fountains

Roar down many a craggy steep,

Yet they find among the mountains

Resting-places calm and deep.

Though almost with eagle pinion

O’er the rocks the Chamois roam.

Yet he has some small dominion

Which no doubt he calls his home.

If on windy days the Raven

Gambol like a dancing skiff,

Not the less he loves his haven

On the bosom of the cliff.

Though the Sea-horse in the ocean

Own no dear domestic cave;

Yet he slumbers without motion

On the calm and silent wave.

Day and night my toils redouble!

Never nearer to the goal,

Night and day, I feel the trouble,

Of the Wanderer in my soul.

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When Ruth was left half desolate,

Her Father took another Mate;

And so, not seven years old,

The slighted Child at her own will

Went wandering over dale and hill

In thoughtless freedom bold.

And she had made a pipe of straw

And from that oaten pipe could draw

All sounds of winds and floods;

Had built a bower upon the green,

As if she from her birth had been

An Infant of the woods.

There came a Youth from Georgia’s shore,

A military Casque he wore

With splendid feathers drest;

He brought them from the Cherokees;

The feathers nodded in the breeze

And made a gallant crest.

From Indian blood you deem him sprung:

Ah no! he spake the English tongue

And bare a Soldier’s name;

And when America was free

From battle and from jeopardy

He cross the ocean came.

With hues of genius on his cheek

In finest tones the Youth could speak.

— While he was yet a Boy

The moon, the glory of the sun,

And streams that murmur as they run

Had been his dearest joy.

He was a lovely Youth! I guess

The panther in the wilderness

Was not so fair as he;

And when he chose to sport and play,

No dolphin ever was so gay

Upon the tropic sea.

Among the Indians he had fought,

And with him many tales he brought

Of pleasure and of fear,

Such tales as told to any Maid

By such a Youth in the green shade

Were perilous to hear.

He told of Girls, a happy rout,

Who quit their fold with dance and shout