WITH AN UNFINISHED POEM.
Thus far my scanty brain hath built the rhyme Elaborate and swelling;--yet the heart Not owns it. From thy spirit-breathing powers I ask not now, my friend! the aiding verse Tedious to thee, and from thy anxious thought Of dissonant mood. In fancy (well I know) From business wand"ring far and local cares, Thou creepest round a dear-loved sister"s bed With noiseless step, and watchest the faint look, Soothing each pang with fond solicitude, And tenderest tones medicinal of love.
I, too, a sister had, an only sister--[1]
She loved me dearly, and I doted on her; To her I pour"d forth all my puny sorrows; (As a sick patient in a nurse"s arms,) And of the heart those hidden maladies-- That e"en from friendship"s eye will shrink ashamed.
O! I have waked at midnight, and have wept Because she was not!--Cheerily, dear Charles!
Thou thy best friend shalt cherish many a year; Such warm presages feel I of high hope!
For not uninterested the dear maid I"ve view"d--her soul affectionate yet wise, Her polish"d wit as mild as lambent glories That play around a sainted infant"s head.
He knows (the Spirit that in secret sees, Of whose omniscient and all-spreading love Aught to implore were impotence of mind!) [2]
That my mute thoughts are sad before his throne,-- Prepared, when He his healing ray vouchsafes, Thanksgiving to pour forth with lifted heart, And praise him gracious with a brother"s joy!
1794.
[Footnote 1: This line and the six and a half which follow are printed, by mistake, as a fragment in the first volume of the "Poetical Works", 1834, p. 35. Ed.]
[Footnote 2: "I utterly recant the sentiment contained in the line
Of whose omniscient and all-spreading love Aught to "implore" were impotence of mind,--
it being written in Scripture, "Ask," and it shall be given you! and my human reason being, moreover, convinced of the propriety of offering "pet.i.tions" as well as thanksgivings to Deity." S. T. C. 1797. "I will add, at the risk of appearing to dwell too long on religious topics, that on this my first introduction to Coleridge, he reverted with strong compunction to a sentiment which he had expressed in earlier days upon prayer. In one of his youthful poems, speaking of G.o.d, he had said,--
--"Of whose all-seeing eye Aught to demand were impotence of mind."
This sentiment he now so utterly condemned, that, on the contrary, he told me, as his own peculiar opinion, that the act of praying was the highest energy of which the human heart was capable--praying, that is, with the total concentration of the faculties; and the great ma.s.s of worldly men and of learned men he p.r.o.nounced absolutely incapable of praying." "Mr. De Quincey in Tait"s Magazine, September, 1834, p.515."
"Mr. Coleridge, within two years of his death, very solemnly declared to me his conviction upon the same subject. I was sitting by his bed-side one afternoon, and he fell--an unusual thing for him--into a long account of many pa.s.sages of his past life, lamenting some things, condemning others, but complaining withal, though very gently, of the way in which many of his most innocent acts had been cruelly misrepresented. "But I have no difficulty," said he, "in forgiveness; indeed, I know not how to say with sincerity the clause in the Lord"s Prayer, which asks forgiveness "as we forgive". I feel nothing answering to it in my heart. Neither do I find, or reckon, the most solemn faith in G.o.d as a real object, the most arduous act of the reason and will;--O no! my dear, it is "to pray", to pray as G.o.d would have us; this is what at times makes me turn cold to my soul. Believe me, to pray with all your heart and strength, with the reason and the will, to believe vividly that G.o.d will listen to your voice through Christ, and verily do the thing he pleaseth thereupon--this is the last, the greatest achievement of the Christian"s warfare on earth. "Teach" us to pray, O Lord!" And then he burst into a flood of tears, and begged me to pray for him. O what a sight was there!" "Table Talk," vol. i. p. 162. Ed.]
TO THE NIGHTINGALE.
Sister of lovelorn poets, Philomel!
How many bards in city garret spent, While at their window they with downward eye Mark the faint lamp-beam on the kennell"d mud, And listen to the drowsy cry of watchmen, (Those hoa.r.s.e, unfeather"d nightingales of time!) How many wretched bards address thy name, And hers, the full-orb"d queen, that shines above.
But I do hear thee, and the high bough mark, Within whose mild moou-mellow"d foliage hid, Thou warblest sad thy pity-pleading strains.
O I have listen"d, till my working soul, Waked by those strains to thousand phantasies, Absorb"d, hath ceas"d to listen! Therefore oft I hymn thy name; and with a proud delight Oft will I tell thee, minstrel of the moon, Most musical, most melancholy bird!
That all thy soft diversities of tone, Though sweeter far than the delicious airs That vibrate from a white-arm"d lady"s harp, What time the languishment of lonely love Melts in her eye, and heaves her breast of snow, Are not so sweet, as is the voice of her, My Sara--best beloved of human kind!
When breathing the pure soul of tenderness, She thrills me with the husband"s promised name!
1794.
TO SARA.
The stream with languid murmur creeps In Lumin"s flowery vale; Beneath the dew the lily weeps, Slow waving to the gale.
"Cease, restless gale," it seems to say, "Nor wake me with thy sighing: The honours of my vernal day On rapid wings are flying.
"To-morrow shall the traveller come, That erst beheld me blooming, His searching eye shall vainly roam The dreary vale of Lumin."
With eager gaze and wetted cheek My wonted haunts along, Thus, lovely maiden, thou shalt seek The youth of simplest song.
But I along the breeze will roll The voice of feeble power, And dwell, the moon-beam of thy soul, In slumber"s nightly hour.
1794
TO JOSEPH COTTLE,
Unboastful Bard! whose verse concise, yet clear, Tunes to smooth melody unconquer"d sense, May your fame fadeless live, as never-sere The ivy wreathes yon oak, whose broad defence Embowers me from noon"s sultry influence!
For, like that nameless rivulet stealing by, Your modest verse to musing quiet dear, Is rich with tints heaven-borrow"d;--the charm"d eye Shall gaze undazzled there, and love the soften"d sky.
Circling the base of the poetic mount, A stream there is, which rolls in lazy flow Its coal-black waters from oblivion"s fount: The vapour-poison"d birds, that fly too low, Fall with dead swoop, and to the bottom go.
Escaped that heavy stream on pinion fleet Beneath the mountain"s lofty-frowning brow, Ere aught of perilous ascent you meet, A mead of mildest charm delays th" unlabouring feet.
Not there the cloud-climb"d rock, sublime and vast, That, like some giant king, o"er-glooms the hill; Nor there the pine-grove to the midnight blast Makes solemn music! but th" unceasing rill To the soft wren or lark"s descending trill, Murmurs sweet undersong mid jasmine bowers.
In this same pleasant meadow, at your will, I ween, you wander"d--there collecting flowers Of sober tint, and herbs of med"cinable powers!
There for the monarch-murder"d soldier"s tomb You wove th" unfinish"d wreath of saddest hues; And to that holier chaplet added bloom, Besprinkling it with Jordan"s cleansing dews.
But lo! your Henderson awakes the Muse-- His spirit beckon"d from the mountain"s height!
You left the plain, and soar"d mid richer views.
So Nature mourn"d, when sank the first day"s light, With stars, unseen before, spangling her robe of night!
Still soar, my friend! those richer views among, Strong, rapid, fervent, flashing fancy"s beam!
Virtue and truth shall love your gentler song; But poesy demands th" impa.s.sion"d theme.
Wak"d by heaven"s silent dews at eve"s mild gleam, What balmy sweets Pomona breathes around!
But if the vext air rush a stormy stream, Or autumn"s shrill gust moan in plaintive sound, With fruits and flowers she loads the tempest-honour"d ground!
1795.
CASIMIR.
If we except Lucretius and Statius, I know no Latin poet, ancient or modern, who has equalled Casimir in boldness of conception, opulence of fancy, or beauty of versification. The Odes of this ill.u.s.trious Jesuit were translated into English about 150 years ago, by a G. Hils, I think.
[1] I never saw the translation. A few of the Odes have been translated in a very animated manner by Watts. I have subjoined the third Ode of the second Book, which, with the exception of the first line, is an effusion of exquisite elegance. In the imitation attempted, I am sensible that I have destroyed the effect of suddenness, by translating into two stanzas what is one in the original. 1796.