[243:1] First published in the Morning Post, April 16, 1798: included in quarto pamphlet published by J. Johnson, 1798: reprinted in Morning Post, Oct. 14, 1802: included in Poetical Register for 1808-9 (1812); in Fears in Solitude, &c., printed by Law and Gilbert, (?) 1812; in Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. Lines 85, 98 are quoted from 'France, a Palinodia', in Biog. Lit., 1817, i. 195. To the first Morning Post version (1798) an editorial note was prefixed:—

Original Poetry.

The following excellent Ode will be in unison with the feelings of every friend to Liberty and foe to Oppression; of all who, admiring the French Revolution, detest and deplore the conduct of France towards Switzerland. It is very satisfactory to find so zealous and steady an advocate for Freedom as Mr. Coleridge concur with us in condemning the conduct of France towards the Swiss Cantons. Indeed his concurrence is not singular; we know of no Friend to Liberty who is not of his opinion. What we most admire is the avowal of his sentiments, and public censure of the unprincipled and atrocious conduct of France. The Poem itself is written with great energy. The second, third, and fourth stanzas contain some of the most vigorous lines we have ever read. The lines in the fourth stanza:—

'To scatter rage and trait'rous guilt
 Where Peace her jealous home had built,'

to the end of the stanza are particularly expressive and beautiful.

To the second Morning Post version (1802) a note and Argument were prefixed:—

The following Ode was first published in this paper (in the beginning of the year 1798) in a less perfect state. The present state of France and Switzerland give it so peculiar an interest at the present time that we wished to re-publish it and accordingly have procured from the Author a corrected copy.

Argument.

'First Stanza. An invocation to those objects in Nature the contemplation of which had inspired the Poet with a devotional love of Liberty. Second Stanza. The exultation of the Poet at the commencement of the French Revolution, and his unqualified abhorrence of the Alliance against the Republic. Third Stanza. The blasphemies and horrors during the domination of the Terrorists regarded by the Poet as a transient storm, and as the natural consequence of the former despotism and of the foul superstition of Popery. Reason, indeed, began to suggest many apprehensions; yet still the Poet struggled to retain the hope that France would make conquests by no other means than by presenting to the observation of Europe a people more happy and better instructed than under other forms of Government. Fourth Stanza. Switzerland, and the Poet's recantation. Fifth Stanza. An address to Liberty, in which the Poet expresses his conviction that those feelings and that grand ideal of Freedom which the mind attains by its contemplation of its individual nature, and of the sublime surrounding objects (see Stanza the First) do not belong to men, as a society, nor can possibly be either gratified or realised, under any form of human government; but belong to the individual man, so far as he is pure, and inflamed with the love and adoration of God in Nature.'

LINENOTES:

Title] The Recantation: an Ode. By S. T. Coleridge. 1798.

[1]

and] or 1802.

[2]

Veering your pathless march without controul 1802.

[5]

night-birds] night bird's 1798, 4o, 1802: night-birds' S. L., 1828, 1829.

[6]

slope] steep 1798, 4o, 1802, P. R.

[12]

way] path 1802.

[23]

smote air, earth, and sea] smote earth, air, and sea 1798, 4o, P. R.: shook earth, air, and sea 1802.

[24]

foot] feet 1798.

[26]

lofty] eager 1802.

[27]

sang] sung 1798, 4o, P. R.

[30]

marched] mov'd 1802.

[34]

the] that 1802.

[35]

flung] spread 1802.

[41]

But] I 1802.

[44]

that sweet music] those sweet Pæans 1802.

[46]

e'er was] ever 1798, 4o, P. R.

[51]

deep-scarr'd] deep-scar'd 1798, 4o, P. R., S. L.

[53]

insupportably] irresistibly 1802.

[54]

ramp] tramp 1828, 1829, 1834, 1852. [Text of 1834 is here corrected.]

[58]

reproached] rebuk'd 1802.

[59]

said] cried 1802.

[62]

compel] persuade 1802.

[63]

call the Earth] lo! the earth's 1802.

[64]

those] these 4o, P. R.

[66]

caverns] cavern 1834, 1852. [Text of 1834 is here corrected.]

[69]

And ye that flying spot the [your 1802] mountain-snows 1798: And ye that fleeing spot the mountain-snows 4o, P. R.

[75]

stormy] native 1802.

[77]

taint] stain 1802.

[79]

patriot] patient 1798, 1802.

[80]

Was this thy boast 1802.

[81]

Kings in the low lust] monarchs in the lust 1802.

[85-9]

The fifth stanza, which alluded to the African Slave Trade as conducted by this Country, and to the present Ministry and their supporters, has been omitted, and would have been omitted without remark if the commencing lines of the sixth stanza had not referred to it.

VI
Shall I with these my patriot zeal combine?
 No, Afric, no! they stand before my ken
 Loath'd as th' Hyaenas, that in murky den
 Whine o'er their prey and mangle while they whine,
 Divinest Liberty! with vain endeavour

1798.

[87]

burst] break 1802. and] to B. L., i. 194. name] name B. L.

[91]

strain] pomp B. L.

[92]

in] on 1802.

[95]

Priestcraft's] priesthood's 4o, P. R.: superstition's B. L.

[97]

subtle] cherub B. L.

[98]
To live amid the winds and move upon the waves

1798, 4o, P. R.

To live among the winds and brood upon the waves

1802.

[99]

there] there 1798: then 4o, P. R. that] yon 1802.

[100]

scarce] just 1802.

[102]
Yes, as I stood and gazed my forehead bare

1802.

[104]

with] by 1802.

THE OLD MAN OF THE ALPS[248:1]

Stranger! whose eyes a look of pity shew,
 Say, will you listen to a tale of woe?
 A tale in no unwonted horrors drest;
 But sweet is pity to an agéd breast.
 This voice did falter with old age before; 5
 Sad recollections make it falter more.
 Beside the torrent and beneath a wood,
 High in these Alps my summer cottage stood;
 One daughter still remain'd to cheer my way,
 The evening-star of life's declining day: 10
 Duly she hied to fill her milking-pail,
 Ere shout of herdsmen rang from cliff or vale;
 When she return'd, before the summer shiel,
 On the fresh grass she spread the dairy meal;
 Just as the snowy peaks began to lose 15
 In glittering silver lights their rosy hues.
 Singing in woods or bounding o'er the lawn,
 No blither creature hail'd the early dawn;
 And if I spoke of hearts by pain oppress'd.
 When every friend is gone to them that rest; 20
 Or of old men that leave, when they expire,
 Daughters, that should have perish'd with their sire—
 Leave them to toil all day through paths unknown,
 And house at night behind some sheltering stone;
 Impatient of the thought, with lively cheer 25
 She broke half-closed the tasteless tale severe.
 She play'd with fancies of a gayer hue,
 Enamour'd of the scenes her wishes drew;
 And oft she prattled with an eager tongue
 Of promised joys that would not loiter long, 30
 [249]Till with her tearless eyes so bright and fair,
 She seem'd to see them realis'd in air!
 In fancy oft, within some sunny dell,
 Where never wolf should howl or tempest yell,
 She built a little home of joy and rest, 35
 And fill'd it with the friends whom she lov'd best:
 She named the inmates of her fancied cot,
 And gave to each his own peculiar lot;
 Which with our little herd abroad should roam,
 And which should tend the dairy's toil at home, 40
 And now the hour approach'd which should restore
 Her lover from the wars, to part no more.
 Her whole frame fluttered with uneasy joy;
 I long'd myself to clasp the valiant boy;
 And though I strove to calm her eager mood, 45
 It was my own sole thought in solitude.
 I told it to the Saints amid my hymns—
 For O! you know not, on an old man's limbs
 How thrillingly the pleasant sun-beams play,
 That shine upon his daughter's wedding-day. 50
 I hoped, that those fierce tempests, soon to rave
 Unheard, unfelt, around my mountain grave,
 Not undelightfully would break her rest,
 While she lay pillow'd on her lover's breast;
 Or join'd his pious prayer for pilgrims driven 55
 Out to the mercy of the winds of heaven.
 Yes! now the hour approach'd that should restore
 Her lover from the wars to part no more.
 Her thoughts were wild, her soul was in her eye,
 She wept and laugh'd as if she knew not why; 60
 And she had made a song about the wars,
 And sang it to the sun and to the stars!
 But while she look'd and listen'd, stood and ran,
 And saw him plain in every distant man,
 By treachery stabbed, on Nansy's murderous day, 65
 A senseless corse th' expected husband lay.
 A wounded man, who met us in the wood,
 Heavily ask'd her where my cottage stood,
 And told us all: she cast her eyes around
 As if his words had been but empty sound. 70
 Then look'd to Heav'n, like one that would deny
 That such a thing could be beneath the sky.
 Again he ask'd her if she knew my name,
 [250]And instantly an anguish wrench'd her frame,
 And left her mind imperfect. No delight 75
 Thenceforth she found in any cheerful sight,
 Not ev'n in those time-haunted wells and groves,
 Scenes of past joy, and birth-place of her loves.
 If to her spirit any sound was dear,
 'Twas the deep moan that spoke the tempest near; 80
 Or sighs which chasms of icy vales outbreathe,
 Sent from the dark, imprison'd floods beneath.
 She wander'd up the crag and down the slope,
 But not, as in her happy days of hope,
 To seek the churning-plant of sovereign power, 85
 That grew in clefts and bore a scarlet flower!
 She roam'd, without a purpose, all alone,
 Thro' high grey vales unknowing and unknown.
Kind-hearted stranger! patiently you hear
 A tedious tale: I thank you for that tear. 90
 May never other tears o'ercloud your eye,
 Than those which gentle Pity can supply!
 Did you not mark a towering convent hang,
 Where the huge rocks with sounds of torrents rang?
 Ev'n yet, methinks, its spiry turrets swim 95
 Amid yon purple gloom ascending dim!
 For thither oft would my poor child repair,
 To ease her soul by penitence and prayer.
 I knew that peace at good men's prayers returns
 Home to the contrite heart of him that mourns, 100
 And check'd her not; and often there she found
 A timely pallet when the evening frown'd.
 And there I trusted that my child would light
 On shelter and on food, one dreadful night,
 When there was uproar in the element, 105
 And she was absent. To my rest I went:
 I thought her safe, yet often did I wake
 And felt my very heart within me ache.
 No daughter near me, at this very door,
 Next morn I listen'd to the dying roar. 110
 Above, below, the prowling vulture wail'd,
 And down the cliffs the heavy vapour sail'd.
 Up by the wide-spread waves in fury torn,
 Homestalls and pines along the vale were borne.
 The Dalesmen in thick crowds appear'd below 115
 [251]Clearing the road, o'erwhelm'd with hills of snow.
 At times to the proud gust's ascending swell,
 A pack of blood-hounds flung their doleful yell:
 For after nights of storm, that dismal train
 The pious convent sends, with hope humane, 120
 To find some out-stretch'd man—perchance to save,
 Or give, at least, that last good gift, a grave!
 But now a gathering crowd did I survey,
 That slowly up the pasture bent their way;
 Nor could I doubt but that their care had found 125
 Some pilgrim in th' unchannel'd torrent drown'd.
 And down the lawn I hasten'd to implore
 That they would bring the body to my door;
 But soon exclaim'd a boy, who ran before,
 'Thrown by the last night's waters from their bed, 130
 Your daughter has been found, and she is dead!'
The old man paused—May he who, sternly just,
 Lays at his will his creatures in the dust;
 Some ere the earliest buds of hope be blown,
 And some, when every bloom of joy is flown; 135
 May he the parent to his child restore
 In that unchanging realm, where Love reigns evermore!

March 8, 1798.

Nicias Erythraeus.

FOOTNOTES:

[248:1] First published in the Morning Post, March 8, 1798: first collected P. and D. W., 1877-80: not included in P. W., 1893. Coleridge affixed the signature Nicias Erythraeus to these lines and to Lewti, which was published in the Morning Post five weeks later, April 13, 1798. For a biographical notice of Janus Nicius Erythraeus (Giovanni Vittorio d'Rossi, 1577-1647) by the late Richard Garnett, see Literature, October 22, 1898.

TO A YOUNG LADY[252:1]

[Miss Lavinia Poole]

ON HER RECOVERY FROM A FEVER

Why need I say, Louisa dear!
 How glad I am to see you here,
 A lovely convalescent;
 Risen from the bed of pain and fear,
 And feverish heat incessant. 5
The sunny showers, the dappled sky,
 The little birds that warble high,
 Their vernal loves commencing,
 Will better welcome you than I
 With their sweet influencing. 10
Believe me, while in bed you lay,
 Your danger taught us all to pray:
 You made us grow devouter!
 Each eye looked up and seemed to say,
 How can we do without her? 15
Besides, what vexed us worse, we knew,
 They have no need of such as you
 In the place where you were going:
 This World has angels all too few,
 And Heaven is overflowing! 20

March 31, 1798.

FOOTNOTES:

[252:1] First published in the Morning Post, Dec. 9, 1799, included in the Annual Anthology, 1800, in Sibylline Leaves, 1828, 1829, and 1834.

LINENOTES:

Title] To a Young Lady, on Her First Appearance After A Dangerous Illness. Written in the Spring of 1799 [1799 must be a slip for 1798]. M. P., An. Anth.

[1]

Louisa] Ophelia M. P., An. Anth.

[6-7]
The breezy air, the sun, the sky,
 The little birds that sing on high

M. P., An. Anth.

[12]

all] how M. P., An. Anth.

[13]

grow] all M. P., An. Anth.

[16]

what] which M. P., An. Anth.

[17]

have] had M. P., An. Anth.

[19]

This] The M. P.

Below 20 Laberius M. P., An. Anth.

LEWTI[253:1]

OR THE CIRCASSIAN LOVE-CHAUNT

At midnight by the stream I roved,
 To forget the form I loved.
 Image of Lewti! from my mind
 Depart; for Lewti is not kind.
 The Moon was high, the moonlight gleam 5
 And the shadow of a star
 Heaved upon Tamaha's stream;
 But the rock shone brighter far,
 The rock half sheltered from my view
 By pendent boughs of tressy yew.— 10
 So shines my Lewti's forehead fair,
 Gleaming through her sable hair.
 Image of Lewti! from my mind
 Depart; for Lewti is not kind.
[254]I saw a cloud of palest hue, 15
 Onward to the moon it passed;
 Still brighter and more bright it grew,
 With floating colours not a few,
 Till it reached the moon at last:
 Then the cloud was wholly bright, 20
 With a rich and amber light!
 And so with many a hope I seek,
 And with such joy I find my Lewti;
 And even so my pale wan cheek
 Drinks in as deep a flush of beauty! 25
 Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind,
 If Lewti never will be kind.
The little cloud—it floats away
 Away it goes; away so soon!
 Alas! it has no power to stay: 30
 Its hues are dim, its hues are grey—
 Away it passes from the moon!
 How mournfully it seems to fly,
 Ever fading more and more,
 To joyless regions of the sky— 35
 And now 'tis whiter than before!
 As white as my poor cheek will be,
 When, Lewti! on my couch I lie,
 A dying man for love of thee.
 Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind— 40
 And yet, thou didst not look unkind.
I saw a vapour in the sky,
 Thin, and white, and very high;
 [255]I ne'er beheld so thin a cloud:
 Perhaps the breezes that can fly 45
 Now below and now above,
 Have snatched aloft the lawny shroud[255:1]
 Of Lady fair—that died for love.
 For maids, as well as youths, have perished
 From fruitless love too fondly cherished. 50
 Nay, treacherous image! leave my mind—
 For Lewti never will be kind.
Hush! my heedless feet from under
 Slip the crumbling banks for ever:
 Like echoes to a distant thunder, 55
 They plunge into the gentle river.
 The river-swans have heard my tread.
 And startle from their reedy bed.
 O beauteous birds! methinks ye measure
 Your movements to some heavenly tune! 60
 O beauteous birds! 'tis such a pleasure
 To see you move beneath the moon,
 I would it were your true delight
 To sleep by day and wake all night.
[256]I know the place where Lewti lies, 65
 When silent night has closed her eyes:
 It is a breezy jasmine-bower,
 The nightingale sings o'er her head:
 Voice of the Night! had I the power
 That leafy labyrinth to thread, 70
 And creep, like thee, with soundless tread,
 I then might view her bosom white
 Heaving lovely to my sight,
 As these two swans together heave
 On the gently-swelling wave. 75
Oh! that she saw me in a dream,
 And dreamt that I had died for care;
 All pale and wasted I would seem,
 Yet fair withal, as spirits are!
 I'd die indeed, if I might see 80
 Her bosom heave, and heave for me!
 Soothe, gentle image! soothe my mind!
 To-morrow Lewti may be kind.

1798.

FOOTNOTES:

[253:1] First published in the Morning Post (under the signature Nicias Erythraeus), April 18, 1798: included in the Annual Anthology, 1800; Sibylline Leaves, 1817, 1828, 1829, and 1834. For MS. versions vide Appendices. 'Lewti was to have been included in the Lyrical Ballads of 1798, but at the last moment the sheets containing it were cancelled and The Nightingale substituted.' (Note to reprint of L. B. (1898), edited by T. Hutchinson.) A copy which belonged to Southey, with the new Table of Contents and The Nightingale bound up with the text as at first printed, is in the British Museum. Another copy is extant which contains the first Table of Contents only, and Lewti without the addition of The Nightingale. In the M. P. the following note accompanies the poem:—'It is not amongst the least pleasing of our recollections, that we have been the means of gratifying the public taste with some exquisite pieces of Original Poetry. For many of them we have been indebted to the author of the Circassian's Love Chant. Amidst images of war and woe, amidst scenes of carnage and horror of devastation and dismay, it may afford the mind a temporary relief to wander to the magic haunts of the Muses, to bowers and fountains which the despoiling powers of war have never visited, and where the lover pours forth his complaint, or receives the recompense of his constancy. The whole of the subsequent Love Chant is in a warm and impassioned strain. The fifth and last stanzas are, we think, the best.'

[255:1] This image was borrowed by Miss Bailey (sic) in her Basil as the dates of the poems prove. MS. Note by S. T. C.

LINENOTES:

Title] Lewti; or the Circassian's Love Chant M. P.

Between lines 14-15

I saw the white waves, o'er and o'er,
 Break against the distant shore.
 All at once upon the sight,
 All at once they broke in light;
 I heard no murmur of their roar,
 Nor ever I beheld them flowing,
 Neither coming, neither going;
 But only saw them o'er and o'er,
 Break against the curved shore:
 Now disappearing from the sight,
 Now twinkling regular and white,
 And Lewti's smiling mouth can shew
 As white and regular a row.
 Nay, treach'rous image from my mind
 Depart; for Lewti is not kind.

M. P.

[52]

For] Tho' M. P.

Between lines 52-3

This hand should make his life-blood flow,
 That ever scorn'd my Lewti so.
I cannot chuse but fix my sight
 On that small vapour, thin and white!
 So thin it scarcely, I protest,
 Bedims the star that shines behind it!
 And pity dwells in Lewti's breast
 Alas! if I knew how to find it.
 And O! how sweet it were, I wist,
 To see my Lewti's eyes to-morrow
 Shine brightly thro' as thin a mist
 Of pity and repentant sorrow!
 Nay treach'rous image! leave my mind—
 Ah, Lewti! why art thou unkind?
[53]

Hush!] Slush! Sibylline Leaves (Errata, S. L., p. [xi], for Slush r. Hush).