LINENOTES:
Title] Allegorical Lines on the Same Subject MS. Cottle.
[5]
When the scythes-man o'er his sheaf
Caroll'd in the yellow vale
MS. Cottle.
When the rustic o'er his sheaf
Caroll'd in, &c.
1797.
[Note. The text of Stanza ii dates from 1803.]
[9] foolish] poor fond MS. Cottle.
[15] Soon upon this sheltered walk, MS. Cottle, Second
Version.
[16] to fade, and rot. MS. Cottle.
TO THE REV. GEORGE COLERIDGE[173:1]
OF OTTERY ST. MARY, DEVON
With some Poems
Notus in fratres animi paterni.
Hor. Carm. lib. ii. 2.
A blesséd lot hath he, who having passed
His youth and early manhood in the stir
And turmoil of the world, retreats at length,
With cares that move, not agitate the heart,
To the same dwelling where his father dwelt; 5
[174]And haply views his tottering little ones
Embrace those agéd knees and climb that lap,
On which first kneeling his own infancy
Lisp'd its brief prayer. Such, O my earliest Friend!
Thy lot, and such thy brothers too enjoy. 10
At distance did ye climb Life's upland road,
Yet cheer'd and cheering: now fraternal love
Hath drawn you to one centre. Be your days
Holy, and blest and blessing may ye live!
To me the Eternal Wisdom hath dispens'd 15
A different fortune and more different mind—
Me from the spot where first I sprang to light
Too soon transplanted, ere my soul had fix'd
Its first domestic loves; and hence through life
Chasing chance-started friendships. A brief while 20
Some have preserv'd me from life's pelting ills;
But, like a tree with leaves of feeble stem,
If the clouds lasted, and a sudden breeze
Ruffled the boughs, they on my head at once
Dropped the collected shower; and some most false, 25
False and fair-foliag'd as the Manchineel,
Have tempted me to slumber in their shade
E'en mid the storm; then breathing subtlest damps,
Mix'd their own venom with the rain from Heaven,
That I woke poison'd! But, all praise to Him 30
Who gives us all things, more have yielded me
Permanent shelter; and beside one Friend,
Beneath the impervious covert of one oak,
I've rais'd a lowly shed, and know the names
Of Husband and of Father; not unhearing 35
Of that divine and nightly-whispering Voice,
Which from my childhood to maturer years
Spake to me of predestinated wreaths,
Bright with no fading colours!
Yet at times
My soul is sad, that I have roam'd through life 40
Still most a stranger, most with naked heart
[175]At mine own home and birth-place: chiefly then,
When I remember thee, my earliest Friend!
Thee, who didst watch my boyhood and my youth;
Didst trace my wanderings with a father's eye; 45
And boding evil yet still hoping good,
Rebuk'd each fault, and over all my woes
Sorrow'd in silence! He who counts alone
The beatings of the solitary heart,
That Being knows, how I have lov'd thee ever, 50
Lov'd as a brother, as a son rever'd thee!
Oh! 'tis to me an ever new delight,
To talk of thee and thine: or when the blast
Of the shrill winter, rattling our rude sash,
Endears the cleanly hearth and social bowl; 55
Or when, as now, on some delicious eve,
We in our sweet sequester'd orchard-plot
Sit on the tree crook'd earth-ward; whose old boughs,
That hang above us in an arborous roof,
Stirr'd by the faint gale of departing May, 60
Send their loose blossoms slanting o'er our heads!
Nor dost not thou sometimes recall those hours,
When with the joy of hope thou gavest thine ear
To my wild firstling-lays. Since then my song
Hath sounded deeper notes, such as beseem 65
Or that sad wisdom folly leaves behind,
Or such as, tuned to these tumultuous times,
Cope with the tempest's swell!
Those various strains,
Which I have fram'd in many a various mood,
Accept, my Brother! and (for some perchance 70
Will strike discordant on thy milder mind)
If aught of error or intemperate truth
Should meet thine ear, think thou that riper Age
Will calm it down, and let thy love forgive it!
Nether-Stowey, Somerset, May 26, 1797.
FOOTNOTES:
LINENOTES:
Motto] lib. i. 2 S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829, 1834.
[10] Thine and thy Brothers' favourable lot. 1803.
[30] That I woke prison'd! But (the praise be His 1803.
[33-4]
I as beneath the covert of an oak
Have rais'd
1803.
[35] not] nor 1797, 1803, S. L. 1817, 1828, 1829.
[47-9]
Rebuk'd each fault, and wept o'er all my woes.
Who counts the beatings of the lonely heart
1797, 1803.
Between 52-3 My eager eye glist'ning with memry's tear
1797.
[62] thou] thou all editions to 1834.
Between 66-7 Or the high raptures of prophetic Faith
1797, 1803.
[68] strains] songs 1797, 1803.
ON THE CHRISTENING OF A FRIEND'S CHILD[176:1]
This day among the faithful plac'd
And fed with fontal manna,
O with maternal title grac'd,
Dear Anna's dearest Anna!
While others wish thee wise and fair, 5
A maid of spotless fame,
I'll breathe this more compendious prayer—
May'st thou deserve thy name!
Thy mother's name, a potent spell,
That bids the Virtues hie 10
From mystic grove and living cell,
Confess'd to Fancy's eye;
Meek Quietness without offence;
Content in homespun kirtle;
True Love; and True Love's Innocence, 15
White Blossom of the Myrtle!
Associates of thy name, sweet Child!
These Virtues may'st thou win;
With face as eloquently mild
To say, they lodge within. 20
So, when her tale of days all flown,
Thy mother shall be miss'd here;
When Heaven at length shall claim its own
And Angels snatch their Sister;
Some hoary-headed friend, perchance, 25
May gaze with stifled breath;
And oft, in momentary trance,
Forget the waste of death.
Even thus a lovely rose I've view'd
In summer-swelling pride; 30
Nor mark'd the bud, that green and rude
Peep'd at the rose's side.
[177]
It chanc'd I pass'd again that way
In Autumn's latest hour,
And wond'ring saw the selfsame spray 35
Rich with the selfsame flower.
Ah fond deceit! the rude green bud
Alike in shape, place, name,
Had bloom'd where bloom'd its parent stud,
Another and the same! 40
1797.
FOOTNOTES:
OF A LATIN INSCRIPTION BY THE REV. W. L. BOWLES IN
NETHER-STOWEY CHURCH
Depart in joy from this world's noise and strife
To the deep quiet of celestial life!
Depart!—Affection's self reproves the tear
Which falls, O honour'd Parent! on thy bier;—
Yet Nature will be heard, the heart will swell, 5
And the voice tremble with a last Farewell!
1797.
[The Tablet is erected to the Memory of Richard Camplin, who died Jan.
20, 1792.
'Lætus abi! mundi strepitu curisque remotus;
Lætus abi! cæli quâ vocat alma Quies.
Ipsa fides loquitur lacrymamque incusat inanem,
Quæ cadit in vestros, care Pater, Cineres.
Heu! tantum liceat meritos hos solvere Ritus, 5
Naturæ et tremulâ dicere Voce, Vale!']
FOOTNOTES:
LINENOTES:
[6] Et longum tremulâ L. R. 1836.
THIS LIME-TREE BOWER MY PRISON[178:1]
[ADDRESSED TO CHARLES LAMB, OF THE INDIA HOUSE, LONDON]
In the June of 1797 some long-expected friends paid a visit to the
author's cottage; and on the morning of their arrival, he met with an
accident, which disabled him from walking during the whole time of their
stay. One evening, when they had left him for a few hours, he composed
the following lines in the garden-bower.[178:2]
Well, they are gone, and here must I remain,
This lime-tree bower my prison! I have lost
Beauties and feelings, such as would have been
[179]Most sweet to my remembrance even when age
Had dimm'd mine eyes to blindness! They, meanwhile, 5
Friends, whom I never more may meet again,
On springy[179:1] heath, along the hill-top edge,
Wander in gladness, and wind down, perchance,
To that still roaring dell, of which I told;
The roaring dell, o'erwooded, narrow, deep, 10
And only speckled by the mid-day sun;
Where its slim trunk the ash from rock to rock
Flings arching like a bridge;—that branchless ash,
Unsunn'd and damp, whose few poor yellow leaves
Ne'er tremble in the gale, yet tremble still, 15
Fann'd by the water-fall! and there my friends
Behold the dark green file of long lank weeds,[179:2]
That all at once (a most fantastic sight!)
Still nod and drip beneath the dripping edge
Of the blue clay-stone.
Now, my friends emerge 20
Beneath the wide wide Heaven—and view again
The many-steepled tract magnificent
Of hilly fields and meadows, and the sea,
With some fair bark, perhaps, whose sails light up
The slip of smooth clear blue betwixt two Isles 25
Of purple shadow! Yes! they wander on
In gladness all; but thou, methinks, most glad,
My gentle-hearted Charles! for thou hast pined
And hunger'd after Nature, many a year,
In the great City pent, winning thy way 30
With sad yet patient soul, through evil and pain
And strange calamity! Ah! slowly sink
Behind the western ridge, thou glorious Sun!
Shine in the slant beams of the sinking orb,
[180]Ye purple heath-flowers! richlier burn, ye clouds! 35
Live in the yellow light, ye distant groves!
And kindle, thou blue Ocean! So my friend
Struck with deep joy may stand, as I have stood,
Silent with swimming sense; yea, gazing round
On the wide landscape, gaze till all doth seem 40
Less gross than bodily; and of such hues
As veil the Almighty Spirit, when yet he makes
Spirits perceive his presence.
A delight
Comes sudden on my heart, and I am glad
As I myself were there! Nor in this bower, 45
This little lime-tree bower, have I not mark'd
Much that has sooth'd me. Pale beneath the blaze
Hung the transparent foliage; and I watch'd
Some broad and sunny leaf, and lov'd to see
The shadow of the leaf and stem above 50
Dappling its sunshine! And that walnut-tree
Was richly ting'd, and a deep radiance lay
Full on the ancient ivy, which usurps
Those fronting elms, and now, with blackest mass
[181]Makes their dark branches gleam a lighter hue 55
Through the late twilight: and though now the bat
Wheels silent by, and not a swallow twitters,
Yet still the solitary humble-bee
Sings in the bean-flower! Henceforth I shall know
That Nature ne'er deserts the wise and pure; 60
No plot so narrow, be but Nature there,
No waste so vacant, but may well employ
Each faculty of sense, and keep the heart
Awake to Love and Beauty! and sometimes
'Tis well to be bereft of promis'd good, 65
That we may lift the soul, and contemplate
With lively joy the joys we cannot share.
My gentle-hearted Charles! when the last rook
Beat its straight path along the dusky air
Homewards, I blest it! deeming its black wing 70
(Now a dim speck, now vanishing in light)
Had cross'd the mighty Orb's dilated glory,
While thou stood'st gazing; or, when all was still,
Flew creeking o'er thy head, and had a charm[181:1]
For thee, my gentle-hearted Charles, to whom 75
No sound is dissonant which tells of Life.
1797.
FOOTNOTES:
LINENOTES:
Title] This Lime-Tree Bower my Prison. A Poem Addressed, &c. An.
Anth.: the words 'Addressed to', &c., are omitted in Sibylline
Leaves, 1828, 1829, and 1834.
[1-28]
Well, they are gone, and here must I remain,
Lam'd by the scathe of fire, lonely and faint,
This lime-tree bower my prison! They, meantime,
My Friends, whom I may never meet again,
On springy heath, along the hill-top edge 5
Wander delighted, and look down, perchance,
On that same rifted dell, where many an ash
Twists its wild limbs beside the ferny rock
Whose plumy[178:A] ferns forever nod and drip
Spray'd by the waterfall. But chiefly thou 10
My gentle-hearted Charles! thou who had pin'd
MS. Letter to Southey, July 17, 1797.
[178:A] The ferns that grow in moist places grow five or six together,
and form a complete 'Prince of Wales's Feather'—that is plumy. Letter
to Southey.
[1-28]
Well they are gone, and here I must remain
This lime-tree, . . . hill-top edge
Delighted wander, and look down, perchance,
On that same rifted dell, where the wet ash
Twists its wild limbs above, . . . who hast pin'd
MS. Letter to Lloyd [July, 1797].
[3] Such beauties and such feelings, as had been An. Anth.,
S. L.
[4] my remembrance] to have remembered An. Anth.
[6] My Friends, whom I may never meet again An. Anth., S.
L.
[22] tract] track An. Anth., S. L. 1828.
[24] bark, perhaps, which lightly touches An. Anth.
[28] hast] had'st An. Anth.
[31] patient] bowed MS. Letter to Southey.
[34] beams] heaven MS. Letter to Southey.
38 foll.
Struck with joy's deepest calm, and gazing round
On the wide view[180:A] may gaze till all doth seem
Less gross than bodily; a living thing
That acts upon the mind, and with such hues
As clothe th' Almighty Spirit, when he makes.
MS. Letter to Southey.
[180:A] You remember I am a Berkleyan. Note to Letter.
[40] (for wild r. wide; and the two following lines thus:
Less gross than bodily; and of such hues
As veil the Almighty Spirit
Errata, S. L., p. [xii].)
As veil the Almighty Spirit, when he makes
1828.
41 foll.
Less gross than bodily, a living thing
Which acts upon the mind and with such hues
As cloathe the Almighty Spirit, when he makes
An. Anth., S. L.
45 foll.
As I myself were there! Nor in the bower
Want I sweet sounds or pleasing shapes. I watch'd
The sunshine of each broad transparent leaf
Broke by the shadows of the leaf or stem
Which hung above it: and that walnut tree
MS. Letter to Southey.
[55] branches] foliage MS. Letter to Southey.
[56] and though the rapid bat MS. Letter to Southey.
[60-64] om. in MS. Letter to Lloyd.
[61-2] No scene so narrow but may well employ MS. Letter to
Southey, An. Anth.
[65] My Sister and my Friends MS. Letter to Southey: My Sara
and my Friends MS. Letter to Lloyd.
[70] Homewards] Homeward MS. Letter to Lloyd.
[71] om. in MS. Letter to Lloyd. in the light An. Anth.,
S. L. (omit the before light. Errata, S. L., [p. xii]).
[72] Cross'd like a speck the blaze of setting day MS. Letter
to Southey: Had cross'd the mighty orb's dilated blase. MS. Letter to
Lloyd.
[73] While ye [you MS. Letter to Lloyd] stood MS. Letter to
Southey.
[74] thy head] your heads MSS. Letters to Southey and Lloyd.
[75] For you my Sister and my Friends MS. Letter to Southey:
For you my Sara and my Friends MS. Letter to Lloyd.
THE FOSTER-MOTHER'S TALE[182:1]
A DRAMATIC FRAGMENT
[From Osorio, Act IV. The title and text are here printed
from Lyrical Ballads, 1798.]
Foster-Mother. I never saw the man whom you describe.
Maria. 'Tis strange! he spake of you familiarly
As mine and Albert's common Foster-mother.
Foster-Mother. Now blessings on the man, whoe'er he be,
That joined your names with mine! O my sweet lady, 5
As often as I think of those dear times
When you two little ones would stand at eve
On each side of my chair, and make me learn
All you had learnt in the day; and how to talk
In gentle phrase, then bid me sing to you— 10
'Tis more like heaven to come than what has been!
Maria. O my dear Mother! this strange man has left me
Troubled with wilder fancies, than the moon
[183]Breeds in the love-sick maid who gazes at it,
Till lost in inward vision, with wet eye 15
She gazes idly!—But that entrance, Mother!
Foster-Mother. Can no one hear? It is a perilous tale!
Maria. No one.
Foster-Mother. My husband's father told it me,
Poor old Leoni!—Angels rest his soul!
He was a woodman, and could fell and saw 20
With lusty arm. You know that huge round beam
Which props the hanging wall of the old Chapel?
Beneath that tree, while yet it was a tree,
He found a baby wrapt in mosses, lined
With thistle-beards, and such small locks of wool 25
As hang on brambles. Well, he brought him home,
And rear'd him at the then Lord Velez' cost.
And so the babe grew up a pretty boy,
A pretty boy, but most unteachable—
And never learnt a prayer, nor told a bead, 30
But knew the names of birds, and mock'd their notes,
And whistled, as he were a bird himself:
And all the autumn 'twas his only play
To get the seeds of wild flowers, and to plant them
With earth and water, on the stumps of trees. 35
A Friar, who gather'd simples in the wood,
A grey-haired man—he lov'd this little boy,
The boy lov'd him—and, when the Friar taught him,
He soon could write with the pen: and from that time,
Lived chiefly at the Convent or the Castle. 40
So he became a very learnéd youth.
But Oh! poor wretch!—he read, and read, and read,
Till his brain turn'd—and ere his twentieth year,
He had unlawful thoughts of many things:
And though he prayed, he never lov'd to pray 45
With holy men, nor in a holy place—
But yet his speech, it was so soft and sweet,
The late Lord Velez ne'er was wearied with him.
[184]And once, as by the north side of the Chapel
They stood together, chain'd in deep discourse, 50
The earth heav'd under them with such a groan,
That the wall totter'd, and had well-nigh fallen
Right on their heads. My Lord was sorely frighten'd;
A fever seiz'd him, and he made confession
Of all the heretical and lawless talk 55
Which brought this judgment: so the youth was seiz'd
And cast into that hole. My husband's father
Sobb'd like a child—it almost broke his heart:
And once as he was working in the cellar,
He heard a voice distinctly; 'twas the youth's, 60
Who sung a doleful song about green fields,
How sweet it were on lake or wild savannah,
To hunt for food, and be a naked man,
And wander up and down at liberty.
He always doted on the youth, and now 65
His love grew desperate; and defying death,
He made that cunning entrance I describ'd:
And the young man escap'd.
Maria. 'Tis a sweet tale:
Such as would lull a listening child to sleep,
His rosy face besoil'd with unwiped tears.— 70
And what became of him?
Foster-Mother. He went on shipboard
With those bold voyagers, who made discovery
Of golden lands. Leoni's younger brother
Went likewise, and when he return'd to Spain,
He told Leoni, that the poor mad youth, 75
Soon after they arriv'd in that new world,
In spite of his dissuasion, seiz'd a boat,
And all alone, set sail by silent moonlight
Up a great river, great as any sea,
And ne'er was heard of more: but 'tis suppos'd, 80
He liv'd and died among the savage men.
1797.
FOOTNOTES: