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

Ye muses! whom I love so well.

Who’s yon, that, near the waterfall,

Which thunders down with headlong force,

Beneath the moon, yet shining fair,

As careless as if nothing were,

Sits upright on a feeding horse?

Unto his horse, that’s feeding free,

He seems, I think, the rein to give;

Of moon or stars he takes no heed;

Of such we in romances read,

—’Tis Johnny! Johnny! as I live.

And that’s the very pony too.

Where is she, where is Betty Foy?

She hardly can sustain her fears;

The roaring waterfall she hears,

And cannot find her idiot boy.

Your pony’s worth his weight in gold,

Then calm your terrors, Betty Foy!

She’s coming from among the trees,

And now, all full in view, she sees

Him whom she loves, her idiot boy.

And Betty sees the pony too:

Why stand you thus Good Betty Foy?

It is no goblin, ‘tis no ghost,

‘Tis he whom you so long have lost,

He whom you love, your idiot boy.

She looks again — her arms are up —

She screams — she cannot move for joy;

She darts as with a torrent’s force,

She almost has o’erturned the horse,

And fast she holds her idiot boy.

And Johnny burrs and laughs aloud,

Whether in cunning or in joy,

I cannot tell; but while he laughs,

Betty a drunken pleasure quaffs,

To hear again her idiot boy.

And now she’s at the pony’s tail,

And now she’s at the pony’s head,

On that side now, and now on this,

And almost stifled with her bliss,

A few sad tears does Betty shed.

She kisses o’er and o’er again,

Him whom she loves, her idiot boy,

She’s happy here, she’s happy there,

She is uneasy every where;

Her limbs are all alive with joy.

She pats the pony, where or when

She knows not, happy Betty Foy!

The little pony glad may be,

But he is milder far than she,

You hardly can perceive his joy.

“Oh! Johnny, never mind the Doctor;

“You’ve done your best, and that is all.”

She took the reins, when this was said,

And gently turned the pony’s head

From the loud waterfall.

By this the stars were almost gone,

The moon was setting on the hill,

So pale you scarcely looked at her:

The little birds began to stir,

Though yet their tongues were still.

The pony, Betty, and her boy,

Wind slowly through the woody dale:

And who is she, betimes abroad,

That hobbles up the steep rough road?

Who is it, but old Susan Gale?

Long Susan lay deep lost in thought,

And many dreadful fears beset her,

Both for her messenger and nurse;

And as her mind grew worse and worse,

Her body it grew better.

She turned, she toss’d herself in bed,

On all sides doubts and terrors met her;

Point after point did she discuss;

And while her mind was fighting thus,

Her body still grew better.

“Alas! what is become of them?

“These fears can never be endured,

“I’ll to the wood.” — The word scarce said,

Did Susan rise up from her bed,

As if by magic cured.

Away she posts up hill and down,

And to the wood at length is come,

She spies her friends, she shouts a greeting;

Oh me! it is a merry meeting,

As ever was in Christendom.

The owls have hardly sung their last,

While our four travellers homeward wend;

The owls have hooted all night long,

And with the owls began my song,

And with the owls must end.

For while they all were travelling home,

Cried Betty, “Tell us Johnny, do,

“Where all this long night you have been,

“What you have heard, what you have seen,

“And Johnny, mind you tell us true.”

Now Johnny all night long had heard

The owls in tuneful concert strive;

No doubt too he the moon had seen;

For in the moonlight he had been

From eight o’clock till five.

And thus to Betty’s question, he

Made answer, like a traveller bold,

(His very words I give to you,)

“The cocks did crow to-whoo, to-whoo,

“And the sun did shine so cold.”

— Thus answered Johnny in his glory,

And that was all his travel’s story.

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How rich the wave, in front, imprest

With evening-twilight’s summer hues,

While, facing thus the crimson west,

The boat her silent path pursues!

And see how dark the backward stream!

A little moment past, so smiling!

And still, perhaps, with faithless gleam,

Some other loiterer beguiling.

Such views the youthful bard allure,

But, heedless of the following gloom,

He deems their colours shall endure

‘Till peace go with him to the tomb.

— And let him nurse his fond deceit,

And what if he must die in sorrow!

Who would not cherish dreams so sweet,

Though grief and pain may come tomorrow?

Glide gently, thus for ever glide,

O Thames! that other bards may see,

As lovely visions by thy side

As now, fair river! come to me.

Oh glide, fair stream! for ever so;

Thy quiet soul on all bestowing,

‘Till all our minds for ever flow,

As thy deep waters now are flowing.

Vain thought! yet be as now thou art,

That in thy waters may be seen

The image of a poet’s heart,

How bright, how solemn, how serene!

Such heart did once the poet bless,

Who, pouring here a later ditty,

Could find no refuge from distress,

But in the milder grief of pity.

Remembrance! as we glide along,

For him suspend the dashing oar,

And pray that never child of Song

May know his freezing sorrows more.

How calm! how still! the only sound,

The dripping of the oar suspended!

— The evening darkness gathers round

By virtue’s holiest powers attended.

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“Why William, on that old grey stone,

“Thus for the length of half a day,

“Why William, sit you thus alone,

“And dream your time away?

“Where are your books? that light bequeath’d

“To beings else forlorn and blind!

“Up! Up! and drink the spirit breath’d

“From dead men to their kind.

“You look round on your mother earth,

“As if she for no purpose bore you;

“As if you were her first-born birth,

“And none had lived before you!”

One morning thus, by Esthwaite lake,

When life was sweet I knew not why,

To me my good friend Matthew spake,

And thus I made reply.

“The eye it cannot chuse but see,

“We cannot bid the ear be still;

“Our bodies feel, where’er they be,

“Against, or with our will.

“Nor less I deem that there are powers,

“Which of themselves our minds impress,

“That we can feed this mind of ours,

“In a wise passiveness.

“Think you, mid all this mighty sum

“Of things for ever speaking,

“That nothing of itself will come,

“But we must still be seeking?

“ — Then ask not wherefore, here, alone,

“Conversing as I may,

“I sit upon this old grey stone,

“And dream my time away.”

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Up! up! my friend, and clear your looks,

Why all this toil and trouble?

Up! up! my friend, and quit your books,

Or surely you’ll grow double.

The sun above the mountain’s head,

A freshening lustre mellow,