This sea that bares her bosom to the moon,-
The winds, that will be howling at all hours,
And are upgather'd now like sleeping flowers,-
For this, for every thing, we are out of tune;
It moves us not. Great God! I'd rather be
A Pagan, suckled in a creed outworn:
So might I, standing on this pleasant lea,
Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn;
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea,
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn.
O'er the wide earth, on mountain and on plain,
Dwells in the affections and the soul of man
A Godhead, like the universal Pan,
But more exalted, with a brighter train :
And shall his bounty be dispensed in vain,
Shower'd equally on city and on field,
And neither hope nor steadfast promise yield
In these usurping times of fear and pain?
Such doom awaits us. Nay! forbid it, Heaven!
We know the arduous strife, the eternal laws
To which the triumph of all good is given,—
High sacrifice and labour without pause
Even to the death: else wherefore should the eye
Of man converse with immortality?
There is a bondage worse, far worse, to bear
Than his who breathes, by roof and flower and wall
Pent in, a tyrant's solitary Thrall.
'Tis his who walks about in the open air
One of a Nation who henceforth must wear
Their fetters in their souls: for who could be,
Who, even the best, in such condition free
From self-reproach, reproach that he must share
With human nature? Never be it ours
To see the sun how brightly it will shine,
And know that noble feelings, manly powers,
Instead of gathering strength, must droop and pine;
And earth, with all her pleasant fruits and flowers,
Fade and participate in man's decline!
Methought I saw the footsteps of a throne
Which mists and vapours from mine eyes did shroud,
Nor view of who might sit thereon allow'd;
But all the steps and ground about were strown
With sights the ruefullest that flesh and bone
Sick, hale, old, young, who cried before that cloud"Thou art our king, O Death! to thee we groan."
Those steps I clomb, the mists before me gave
Smooth way; and I beheld the face of One
Sleeping alone within a mossy cave,
With her face up to heaven, that seem'd to have
Pleasing remembrance of a thought foregone:
A lovely Beauty in a summer grave!
SAMUEL TAYLOR COLERIDGE.
1772-1834.
All thoughts, all passions, all delights,
Whatever stirs this mortal frame,
All are but ministers of Love,
And feed his sacred flame.
Oft in my waking dreams do I
Live o'er again that happy hour
When midway on the mount I lay
Beside the ruin'd tower.
The moonshine, stealing o'er the scene,
Had blended with the lights of eve,
And she was there, my hope, my joy,
My own dear Genevieve.
She lean'd against the armed man,
The statue of the armed knight;
She stood and listen'd to my lay
Amid the lingering light.
Few sorrows hath she of her own,
My hope, my joy, my Genevieve :
She loves me best whene'er I sing
The songs that make her grieve.
I play'd a soft and doleful air,
I sang an old and moving story,
An old rude song that suited well
The ruin wild and hoary.
She listen'd, with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes, and modest grace,
For well she knew I could not choose
But gaze upon her face.
I told her of the knight that bore
Upon his shield a burning brand;
And how for ten long years he woo'd
The Lady of the Land :
I told her how he pined; and ah!
The deep, the low, the pleading tone
With which I sang another's love
Interpreted my own.
She listen'd, with a flitting blush,
With downcast eyes, and modest grace;
And she forgave me that I gazed
Too fondly on her face.
But when I told the cruel scorn
That crazed this bold and lovely knight,
And how he roam'd the mountain woods,
Nor rested, day or night;
And how he cross'd the woodman's paths,
Through briars and swampy mosses beat;
How boughs rebounding scourged his limbs,
And low stubs gored his feet;
That sometimes from the savage den,
And sometimes from the darksome shade,
And sometimes starting up at once
In green and sunny glade,
There came, and look'd him in the face,
An Angel beautiful and bright,
And that he knew it was a Fiend,
This miserable Knight;
And how, unknowing what he did,
He leap'd amid a murderous band
And saved from outrage worse than death
The Lady of the Land;
And how she wept, and clasp'd his knees;
And how she tended him in vain,
And ever strove to expiate
The scorn that crazed his brain;
And how she nursed him in a cave;
And that his madness went away
When on the yellow forest-leaves
A dying man he lay ;
His dying words ;-But when I reach'd
That tenderest strain of all the ditty
My faltering voice and pausing harp
Disturb'd her soul with pity.
All impulses of soul and sense
Had thrill'd my guileless Genevieve :
The music and the doleful tale,
The rich and balmy eve;
And hopes, and fears that kindle hope,
An undistinguishable throng,
And gentle wishes long subdued,
Subdued and cherish'd long.
She wept, with pity and delight;
She blush'd, with love and virgin shame;
And, like the murmur of a dream,
I heard her breathe my name.
Her bosom heaved,-she stepp'd aside,
As conscious of my look she stepp'd;
Then suddenly, with timorous eye,
She fled to me, and wept.
She half-enclosed me in her arms;
She press'd me with a meek embrace;
And, bending back her head, look'd up
And gazed upon my face.
'Twas partly love, and partly fear,
And partly 'twas a bashful art
That I might rather feel than see
The swelling of her heart.
I calm'd her fears, and she was calm,
And told her love with virgin pride:
And so I won my Genevieve,
My bright and beauteous Bride.
I ask'd my Fair, one happy day,
What I should call her in my lay,-
By what sweet name from Rome or Greece :
Lalage, Neæra, Chloris,
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