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

“And tell me, had you rather be,”

I said and held him by the arm,

“At Kilve’s smooth shore by the green sea,

“Or here at Liswyn farm?”

In careless mood he looked at me,

While still I held him by the arm,

And said, “At Kilve I’d rather be

“Than here at Liswyn farm.”

“Now, little Edward, say why so;

My little Edward, tell me why;”

“I cannot tell, I do not know,”

“Why this is strange,” said I.

“For, here are woods and green-hills warm;

“There surely must some reason be

“Why you would change sweet Liswyn farm

“For Kilve by the green sea.”

At this, my boy, so fair and slim,

Hung down his head, nor made reply;

And five times did I say to him,

“Why? Edward, tell me why?”

His head he raised — there was in sight,

It caught his eye, he saw it plain —

Upon the house-top, glittering bright,

A broad and gilded vane.

Then did the boy his tongue unlock,

And thus to me he made reply;

“At Kilve there was no weathercock,

“And that’s the reason why.”

Oh dearest, dearest boy! my heart

For better lore would seldom yearn,

Could I but teach the hundredth part

Of what from thee I learn.

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A simple child, dear brother Jim,

That lightly draws its breath,

And feels its life in every limb,

What should it know of death?

I met a little cottage girl,

She was eight years old, she said;

Her hair was thick with many a curl

That cluster’d round her head.

She had a rustic, woodland air,

And she was wildly clad;

Her eyes were fair, and very fair,

— Her beauty made me glad.

“Sisters and brothers, little maid,

“How many may you be?”

“How many? seven in all,” she said,

And wondering looked at me.

“And where are they, I pray you tell?”

She answered, “Seven are we,

“And two of us at Conway dwell,

“And two are gone to sea.

“Two of us in the churchyard lie,

“My sister and my brother,

“And in the churchyard cottage, I

“Dwell near them with my mother.”

“You say that two at Conway dwell,

“And two are gone to sea,

“Yet you are seven; I pray you tell

“Sweet Maid, how this may be?”

Then did the little Maid reply,

“Seven boys and girls are we;

“Two of us in the churchyard lie,

“Beneath the churchyard tree.”

“You run about, my little maid,

“Your limbs they are alive;

“If two are in the churchyard laid,

“Then ye are only five.”

“Their graves are green, they may be seen,”

The little Maid replied,

“Twelve steps or more from my mother’s door,

“And they are side by side.

“My stockings there I often knit,

“My ‘kerchief there I hem;

“And there upon the ground I sit —

“I sit and sing to them.

“And often after sunset, Sir,

“When it is light and fair,

“I take my little porringer,

“And eat my supper there.

“The first that died was little Jane;

“In bed she moaning lay,

“Till God released her of her pain,

“And then she went away.

“So in the churchyard she was laid,

“And all the summer dry,

“Together round her grave we played,

“My brother John and I.

“And when the ground was white with snow,

“And I could run and slide,

“My brother John was forced to go,

“And he lies by her side.”

“How many are you then,” said I,

“If they two are in Heaven?”

The little Maiden did reply,

“O Master! we are seven.”

“But they are dead; those two are dead!

“Their spirits are in heaven!”

‘Twas throwing words away; for still

The little Maid would have her will,

And said, “Nay, we are seven!”

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I heard a thousand blended notes,

While in a grove I sate reclined,

In that sweet mood when pleasant thoughts

Bring sad thoughts to the mind.

To her fair works did nature link

The human soul that through me ran;

And much it griev’d my heart to think

What man has made of man.

Through primrose-tufts, in that sweet bower,

The periwinkle trail’d its wreathes;

And ‘tis my faith that every flower

Enjoys the air it breathes.

The birds around me hopp’d and play’d:

Their thoughts I cannot measure,

But the least motion which they made,

It seem’d a thrill of pleasure.

The budding twigs spread out their fan,

To catch the breezy air;

And I must think, do all I can,

That there was pleasure there.

If I these thoughts may not prevent,

If such be of my creed the plan,

Have I not reason to lament

What man has made of man?

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I.

There is a thorn; it looks so old,

In truth you’d find it hard to say,

How it could ever have been young,

It looks so old and grey.

Not higher than a two-years’ child,

It stands erect this aged thorn;

No leaves it has, no thorny points;

It is a mass of knotted joints,

A wretched thing forlorn.

It stands erect, and like a stone

With lichens it is overgrown.

II.

Like rock or stone, it is o’ergrown

With lichens to the very top,

And hung with heavy tufts of moss,

A melancholy crop:

Up from the earth these mosses creep,

And this poor thorn they clasp it round

So close, you’d say that they were bent

With plain and manifest intent,

To drag it to the ground;

And all had joined in one endeavour

To bury this poor thorn for ever.

III.

High on a mountain’s highest ridge,

Where oft the stormy winter gale

Cuts like a scythe, while through the clouds

It sweeps from vale to vale;

Not five yards from the mountain-path,

This thorn you on your left espy;

And to the left, three yards beyond,

You see a little muddy pond

Of water, never dry;

I’ve measured it from side to side:

‘Tis three feet long, and two feet wide.

IV.

And close beside this aged thorn,

There is a fresh and lovely sight,

A beauteous heap, a hill of moss,

Just half a foot in height.

All lovely colours there you see,

All colours that were ever seen,

And mossy network too is there,

As if by hand of lady fair

The work had woven been,

And cups, the darlings of the eye,

So deep is their vermilion dye.

V.

Ah me! what lovely tints are there!

Of olive-green and scarlet bright,

In spikes, in branches, and in stars,

Green, red, and pearly white.

This heap of earth o’ergrown with moss

Which close beside the thorn you see,

So fresh in all its beauteous dyes,

Is like an infant’s grave in size

As like as like can be:

But never, never any where,

An infant’s grave was half so fair.

VI.

Now would you see this aged thorn,

This pond and beauteous hill of moss,

You must take care and chuse your time

The mountain when to cross.

For oft there sits, between the heap

That’s like an infant’s grave in size,

And that same pond of which I spoke,

A woman in a scarlet cloak,

And to herself she cries,

“Oh misery! oh misery!

“Oh woe is me! oh misery!”

VII.

At all times of the day and night

This wretched woman thither goes,