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

Of the intended pile, which would have been

Some quaint odd plaything of elaborate skill,

So that, I guess, the linnet and the thrush,

And other little builders who dwell here,

Had wonder’d at the work. But blame him not,

For old Sir William was a gentle Knight

Bred in this vale to which he appertain’d

With all his ancestry. Then peace to him

And for the outrage which he had devis’d

Entire forgiveness. — But if thou art one

On fire with thy impatience to become

An Inmate of these mountains, if disturb’d

By beautiful conceptions, thou hast hewn

Out of the quiet rock the elements

Of thy trim mansion destin’d soon to blaze

In snow-white splendour, think again, and taught

By old Sir William and his quarry, leave

Thy fragments to the bramble and the rose,

There let the vernal slow-worm sun himself,

And let the redbreast hop from stone to stone.

In the School of —— is a tablet on which are inscribed, in gilt letters, the names of the federal persons who have been Schoolmasters there since the foundation of the School, with the time at which they entered upon and quitted their office. Opposite one of those names the Author wrote the following lines.

If Nature, for a favorite Child

In thee hath temper’d so her clay,

That every hour thy heart runs wild

Yet never once doth go astray,

Read o’er these lines; and then review

This tablet, that thus humbly rears

In such diversity of hue

Its history of two hundred years.

— When through this little wreck of fame,

Cypher and syllable, thine eye

Has travell’d down to Matthew’s name,

Pause with no common sympathy.

And if a sleeping tear should wake

Then be it neither check’d nor stay’d:

For Matthew a request I make

Which for himself he had not made.

Poor Matthew, all his frolics o’er,

Is silent as a standing pool,

Far from the chimney’s merry roar,

And murmur of the village school.

The sighs which Matthew heav’d were sighs

Of one tir’d out with fun and madness;

The tears which came to Matthew’s eyes

Were tears of light, the oil of gladness.

Yet sometimes when the secret cup

Of still and serious thought went round

It seem’d as if he drank it up,

He felt with spirit so profound.

— Thou soul of God’s best earthly mould,

Thou happy soul, and can it be

That these two words of glittering gold

Are all that must remain of thee?

The Two April Mornings.

We walk’d along, while bright and red

Uprose the morning sun,

And Matthew stopp’d, he look’d, and said,

”The will of God be done!”

A village Schoolmaster was he,

With hair of glittering grey;

As blithe a man as you could see

On a spring holiday.

And on that morning, through the grass,

And by the steaming rills,

We travell’d merrily to pass

A day among the hills.

”Our work,” said I, “was well begun;

Then, from thy breast what thought,

Beneath so beautiful a sun,

So sad a sigh has brought?”

A second time did Matthew stop,

And fixing still his eye

Upon the eastern mountain-top

To me he made reply.

Yon cloud with that long purple cleft

Brings fresh into my mind

A day like this which I have left

Full thirty years behind.

And on that slope of springing corn

The selfsame crimson hue

Fell from the sky that April morn,

The same which now I view!

With rod and line my silent sport

I plied by Derwent’s wave,

And, coming to the church, stopp’d short

Beside my Daughter’s grave.

Nine summers had she scarcely seen

The pride of all the vale;

And then she sang! — she would have been

A very nightingale.

Six feet in earth my Emma lay,

And yet I lov’d her more,

For so it seem’d, than till that day

I e’er had lov’d before.

And, turning from her grave, I met

Beside the churchyard Yew

A blooming Girl, whose hair was wet

With points of morning dew.

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A Conversation.

We talk’d with open heart, and tongue

Affectionate and true,

A pair of Friends, though I was young,

And Matthew seventy-two.

We lay beneath a spreading oak,

Beside a mossy seat,

And from the turf a fountain broke,

And gurgled at our feet.

Now, Matthew, let us try to match

This water’s pleasant tune

With some old Border-song, or catch

That suits a summer’s noon.

Or of the Church-clock and the chimes

Sing here beneath the shade,

That half-mad thing of witty rhymes

Which you last April made!

On silence Matthew lay, and eyed

The spring beneath the tree;

And thus the dear old Man replied,

The grey-hair’d Man of glee.

”Down to the vale this water steers,

How merrily it goes!

Twill murmur on a thousand years,

And flow as now it flows.”

And here, on this delightful day,

I cannot chuse but think

How oft, a vigorous Man, I lay

Beside this Fountain’s brink.

My eyes are dim with childish tears.

My heart is idly stirr’d,

For the same sound is in my ears,

Which in those days I heard.

Thus fares it still in our decay:

And yet the wiser mind

Mourns less for what age takes away

Than what it leaves behind.

The blackbird in the summer trees,

The lark upon the hill,

Let loose their carols when they please,

Are quiet when they will.

With Nature never do they wage

A foolish strife; they see

A happy youth, and their old age

Is beautiful and free:

But we are press’d by heavy laws,

And often, glad no more,

We wear a face of joy, because

We have been glad of yore.

If there is one who need bemoan

His kindred laid in earth,

The houshold hearts that were his own,

It is the man of mirth.

”My days, my Friend, are almost gone,

My life has been approv’d,

And many love me, but by none

Am I enough belov’d.”

”Now both himself and me he wrongs,

The man who thus complains!

I live and sing my idle songs

Upon these happy plains,”

”And, Matthew, for thy Children dead

I’ll be a son to thee!”

At this he grasp’d his hands, and said,

”Alas! that cannot be.”

We rose up from the fountain-side,

And down the smooth descent

Of the green sheep-track did we glide,

And through the wood we went,

And, ere we came to Leonard’s Rock,

He sang those witty rhymes

About the crazy old church-clock

And the bewilder’d chimes.

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— It seems a day,

One of those heavenly days which cannot die,

When forth I sallied from our cottage-door,

And with a wallet o’er my shoulder slung,

A nutting crook in hand, I turn’d my steps

Towards the distant woods, a Figure quaint,

Trick’d out in proud disguise of Beggar’s weeds

Put on for the occasion, by advice

And exhortation of my frugal Dame.

Motley accoutrements! of power to smile

At thorns, and brakes, and brambles, and, in truth,

More ragged than need was. Among the woods,

And o’er the pathless rocks, I forc’d my way

Until, at length, I came to one dear nook

Unvisited, where not a broken bough

Droop’d with its wither’d leaves, ungracious sign

Of devastation, but the hazels rose

Tall and erect, with milk-white clusters hung,