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

Did he repair, to build the Fold of which

His flock had need. ‘Tis not forgotten yet

The pity which was then in every heart

For the Old Man — ands ‘tis believ’d by all

That many and many a day he thither went,

And never lifted up a single stone.

There, by the Sheepfold, sometimes was he seen

Sitting alone, with that his faithful Dog,

Then old, beside him, lying at his feet.

The length of full seven years from time to time

He at the building of this Sheepfold wrought,

And left the work unfinished when he died.

Three years, or little more, did Isabel,

Survive her Husband: at her death the estate

Was sold, and went into a Stranger’s hand.

The Cottage which was nam’d The Evening Star

Is gone, the ploughshare has been through the ground

On which it stood; great changes have been wrought

In all the neighbourhood, yet the Oak is left

That grew beside their Door; and the remains

Of the unfinished Sheepfold may be seen

Beside the boisterous brook of Green-head Gill.

Table of Contents

The Eolian Harp

Reflections on Having Left a Place of Retirement

This Lime-Tree Bower My Prison

Frost at Midnight

Fears in Solitude

The Nightingale: A Conversation Poem

Dejection: An Ode

To William Wordsworth

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My pensive Sara! thy soft cheek reclined

Thus on mine arm, most soothing sweet it is

To sit beside our Cot, our Cot o’ergrown

With white-flowered Jasmin, and the broad-leaved Myrtle,

(Meet emblems they of Innocence and Love!)

And watch the clouds, that late were rich with light,

Slow saddening round, and mark the star of eve

Serenely brilliant (such would Wisdom be)

Shine opposite! How exquisite the scents

Snatched from yon beanfield! and the world so hushed!

The stilly murmur of the distant Sea

Tells us of silence.

And that simplest Lute,

Placed lengthways in the clasping casement, hark!

How by the desultory breeze caressed,

Like some coy maid half yielding to her lover,

It pours such sweet upbraiding, as must needs

Tempt to repeat the wrong! And now, its strings

Boldlier swept, the long sequacious notes

Over delicious surges sink and rise,

Such a soft floating witchery of sound

As twilight Elfins make, when they at eve

Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land,

Where Melodies round honey-dropping flowers,

Footless and wild, like birds of Paradise,

Nor pause, nor perch, hovering on untamed wing!

O! the one Life within us and abroad,

Which meets all motion and becomes its soul,

A light in sound, a sound-like power in light,

Rhythm in all thought, and joyance everywhere—

Methinks, it should have been impossible

Not to love all things in a world so filled;

Where the breeze warbles, and the mute still air

Is Music slumbering on her instrument.

And thus, my Love! as on the midway slope

Of yonder hill I stretch my limbs at noon,

Whilst through my half-closed eyelids I behold

The sunbeams dance, like diamonds, on the main,

And tranquil muse upon tranquility:

Full many a thought uncalled and undetained,

And many idle flitting phantasies,

Traverse my indolent and passive brain,

As wild and various as the random gales

That swell and flutter on this subject Lute!

And what if all of animated nature

Be but organic Harps diversely framed,

That tremble into thought, as o’er them sweeps

Plastic and vast, one intellectual breeze,

At once the Soul of each, and God of all?

But thy more serious eye a mild reproof

Darts, O beloved Woman! nor such thoughts

Dim and unhallowed dost thou not reject,

And biddest me walk humbly with my God.

Meek Daughter in the family of Christ!

Well hast thou said and holily dispraised

These shapings of the unregenerate mind;

Bubbles that glitter as they rise and break

On vain Philosophy’s aye-babbling spring.

For never guiltless may I speak of him,

The Incomprehensible! save when with awe

I praise him, and with Faith that inly feels;

Who with his saving mercies healèd me,

A sinful and most miserable man,

Wildered and dark, and gave me to possess

Peace, and this Cot, and thee, heart-honored Maid!

Table of Contents

Low was our pretty Cot; our tallest Rose

Peep’d at the chamber-window. We could hear

At silent noon, and eve, and early morn,

The Sea’s faint murmur. In the open air

Our Myrtles blossom’d; and across the porch

Thick Jasmins twined: the little landscape round

Was green and woody, and refresh’d the eye.

It was a spot which you might aptly call

The Valley of Seclusion! Once I saw

(Hallowing his Sabbath-day by quietness)

A wealthy son of commerce saunter by,

Bristowa’s citizen: methought it calm’d

His thirst of idle gold, and made him muse

With wiser feelings: for he paus’d, and look’d

With a pleas’d sadness, and gaz’d all around,

Then eyed our Cottage, and gaz’d round again,

And sigh’d, and said, it was a Blessed Place.

And we were bless’d. Oft with patient ear

Long-listening to the viewless skylark’s note

(Viewless, or haply for a moment seen

Gleaming on sunny wings) in whisper’d tones

I’ve said to my Beloved, ‘Such, sweet Girl!

The inobtrusive song of Happiness,

Unearthly minstrelsy! then only heard

When the Soul seeks to hear; when all is hush’d,

And the Heart listens!’

But the time, when first

From that low Dell, steep up the stony Mount

I climb’d with perilous toil and reach’d the top.

Oh! what a goodly scene! the bleak mount,

The bare bleak mountain speckled thin with sheep;

Grey clouds, that shadowing spot the sunny fields;

And river, now with bushy rocks o’erbrow’d,

Now winding bright and full, with naked banks;

And seats, and lawns, the Abbey and the wood,

And cots, and hamlets, and faint city-spire;

The Channel, the Islands and white sails,

Dim coasts, and cloud-like hills, and shoreless Ocean-

It seem’d like Omnipresence! God, methought,

Had built him there a Temple: the whole World

Seem’d in its vast circumference:

No profan’d my overwhelmed heart.

Blest hour! It was a luxury,-to be!

Ah! quiet Dell! dear Cot, and Mount sublime!

I was constrain’d to quit you. Was it right,

While my unnumber’d brethren toil’d and bled,

That I should dream away the entrusted hours

On rose-leaf beds, pampering the coward heart

With feelings all too delicate for use?

Sweet is the tear that from some Howard’s eye

Drops on the cheek of one he lifts from earth:

And he that works me good with unmov’d face,

Does it but half: he chills me while he aids,

My benefactor, not my brother man!

Yet even this, this cold beneficence

Praise, praise it, O my Soul! oft as thou scann’st

The sluggard Pity’s vision-weaving tribe!

Who sigh for Wretchedness, yet shun the Wretched,

Nursing in some delicious solitude

Their slothful loves and dainty sympathies!

I therefore go, and join head, heart, and hand,

Active and firm, to fight the bloodless fight

Of Science, Freedom, and the Truth in Christ.

Yet oft when after honourable toil

Rests the tir’d mind, and waking loves to dream,