The Complete Works of Samuel Taylor Coleridge (Illustrated Edition). Samuel Taylor Coleridge
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But stern on Harland roll’d her brother’s eye,
They fought, they fell — her brother and her love!
To Death’s dark house did grief-worn Anna haste, 5
Yet here her pensive ghost delights to stay;
Oft pouring on the winds the broken lay —
And hark, I hear her—’twas the passing blast.
I love to sit upon her tomb’s dark grass,
Then Memory backward rolls Time’s shadowy tide; 10
The tales of other days before me glide:
With eager thought I seize them as they pass;
For fair, tho’ faint, the forms of Memory gleam,
Like Heaven’s bright beauteous bow reflected in the stream.
TO THE EVENING STAR
O meek attendant of Sol’s setting blaze,
I hail, sweet star, thy chaste effulgent glow;
On thee full oft with fixéd eye I gaze
Till I, methinks, all spirit seem to grow.
O first and fairest of the starry choir, 5
O loveliest ‘mid the daughters of the night,
Must not the maid I love like thee inspire
Pure joy and calm Delight?
Must she not be, as is thy placid sphere
Serenely brilliant? Whilst to gaze a while 10
Be all my wish ‘mid Fancy’s high career
E’en till she quit this scene of earthly toil;
Then Hope perchance might fondly sigh to join
Her spirit in thy kindred orb, O Star benign!
PAIN
Once could the Morn’s first beams, the healthful breeze,
All Nature charm, and gay was every hour: —
But ah! not Music’s self, nor fragrant bower
Can glad the trembling sense of wan Disease.
Now that the frequent pangs my frame assail, 5
Now that my sleepless eyes are sunk and dim,
And seas of Pain seem waving through each limb —
Ah what can all Life’s gilded scenes avail?
I view the crowd, whom Youth and Health inspire,
Hear the loud laugh, and catch the sportive lay, 10
Then sigh and think — I too could laugh and play
And gaily sport it on the Muse’s lyre,
Ere Tyrant Pain had chas’d away delight,
Ere the wild pulse throbb’d anguish thro’ the night!
ON A LADY WEEPING
IMITATION FROM THE LATIN OF NICOLAUS ARCHIUS
Lovely gems of radiance meek
Trembling down my Laura’s cheek,
As the streamlets silent glide
Thro’ the Mead’s enamell’d pride,
Pledges sweet of pious woe, 5
Tears which Friendship taught to flow,
Sparkling in yon humid light
Love embathes his pinions bright:
There amid the glitt’ring show’r
Smiling sits th’ insidious Power; 10
As some wingéd Warbler oft
When Spring-clouds shed their treasures soft
Joyous tricks his plumes anew,
And flutters in the fost’ring dew.
MONODY ON A TEA-KETTLE
O Muse who sangest late another’s pain,
To griefs domestic turn thy coal-black steed!
With slowest steps thy funeral steed must go,
Nodding his head in all the pomp of woe:
Wide scatter round each dark and deadly weed, 5
And let the melancholy dirge complain,
(Whilst Bats shall shriek and Dogs shall howling run)
The tea-kettle is spoilt and Coleridge is undone!
Your cheerful songs, ye unseen crickets, cease!
Let songs of grief your alter’d minds engage! 10
For he who sang responsive to your lay,
What time the joyous bubbles ‘gan to play,
The sooty swain has felt the fire’s fierce rage; —
Yes, he is gone, and all my woes increase;
I heard the water issuing from the wound — 15
No more the Tea shall pour its fragrant steams around!
O Goddess best belov’d! Delightful Tea!
With thee compar’d what yields the madd’ning Vine?
Sweet power! who know’st to spread the calm delight,
And the pure joy prolong to midmost night! 20
Ah! must I all thy varied sweets resign?
Enfolded close in grief thy form I see;
No more wilt thou extend thy willing arms,
Receive the fervent Jove, and yield him all thy charms!
How sink the mighty low by Fate opprest! — 25
Perhaps, O Kettle! thou by scornful toe
Rude urg’d t’ ignoble place with plaintive din.
May’st rust obscure midst heaps of vulgar tin; —
As if no joy had ever seiz’d my breast
When from thy spout the streams did arching fly, — 30
As if, infus’d, thou ne’er hadst known t’ inspire
All the warm raptures of poetic fire!
But hark! or do I fancy the glad voice —
‘What tho’ the swain did wondrous charms disclose —
(Not such did Memnon’s sister sable drest) 35
Take these bright arms with royal face imprest,
A better Kettle shall thy soul rejoice,
And with Oblivion’s wings o’erspread thy woes!’
Thus Fairy Hope can soothe distress and toil;
On empty Trivets she bids fancied Kettles boil! 40
GENEVIEVE
Maid of my Love, sweet Genevieve!
In Beauty’s light you glide along:
Your eye is like the Star of Eve,
And sweet your voice, as Seraph’s song
Yet not your heavenly beauty gives 5
This heart with Passion soft to glow:
Within your soul a voice there lives!
It bids you hear the tale of Woe.
When sinking low the sufferer wan
Beholds no hand outstretch’d to save, 10
Fair, as the bosom of the Swan
That rises graceful o’er the wave,