Title] Introduction to the Tale of the Dark Ladie M. P.: Fragment, S.
T. Coleridge English Minstrelsy, 1810.
Opening stanzas
O leave the Lilly on its stem;
O leave the Rose upon the spray;
O leave the Elder-bloom, fair Maids!
And listen to my lay.
A Cypress and a Myrtle bough,
This morn around my harp you twin'd,
Because it fashion'd mournfully
Its murmurs in the wind.
And now a Tale of Love and Woe,
A woeful Tale of Love I sing:
Hark, gentle Maidens, hark! it sighs
And trembles on the string.
But most, my own dear Genevieve!
It sighs and trembles most for thee!
O come and hear what cruel wrongs
Befel the dark Ladie.
The fifth stanza of the Introduction finds its place as the fifth
stanza of the text, and the sixth stanza as the first.
[3] All are] Are all S. L. (For Are all r. All are.
Errata, p. [xi]).
[5-6]
O ever in my waking dreams
I dwell upon
M. P., MS. erased.
[15] lay] harp M. P., MS., L. B.
[[21] soft] sad M. P., MS. erased.
[23] suited] fitted M. P., MS., L. B.
[24] That ruin] The Ruin M. P., MS., L. B.: The ruins E.
M.
[34] The low, the deep MS., L. B.
[35] In which I told E. M.
[42] That] Which MS., L. B. that] this M. P., MS., L.
B.
[43] And how he roam'd M. P. that] how MS. erased.
Between 44-5
And how he cross'd the Woodman's paths [path E. M.]
Tho' briars and swampy mosses beat,
How boughs rebounding scourg'd his limbs,
And low stubs gor'd his feet.
M. P.
[45] That] How M. P., MS. erased.
[51] that] how M. P., MS. erased.
[53] that] how M. P., MS. erased.
[54] murderous] lawless M. P.
[59] ever] meekly M. P. For still she MS. erased.
[61] that] how M. P., MS. erased.
[78] virgin-] maiden-M. P., MS., L. B.
[79] murmur] murmurs M. P.
Between 80-1
| I saw her bosom |
|
heave
rise and swell, |
Heave and swell with inward sighs—
I could not choose but love to see
Her gentle bosom rise. |
M. P., MS. erased.
[81] Her wet cheek glowed M. P., MS. erased.
[94] virgin] maiden MS. erased.
After 96
And now once more a tale of woe,
A woeful tale of love I sing;
For thee, my Genevieve! it sighs,
And trembles on the string.
When last I sang [sung E. M.] the cruel scorn
That craz'd this bold and lonely [lovely E. M.] knight,
And how he roam'd the mountain woods,
Nor rested day or night;
I promis'd thee a sister tale
Of Man's perfidious Cruelty;
Come, then, and hear what cruel wrong
Befel the Dark Ladie.
End of the Introduction M. P.
ODE TO GEORGIANA, DUCHESS OF
DEVONSHIRE[335:1]
ON THE TWENTY-FOURTH STANZA IN HER 'PASSAGE OVER
MOUNT GOTHARD'
And hail the Chapel! hail the Platform wild!
Where Tell directed the avenging dart,
With well-strung arm, that first preservst his child,
Then aim'd the arrow at the tyrant's heart.
Splendour's fondly-fostered child!
And did you hail the platform wild,
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell!
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! 5
Whence learn'd you that heroic measure?
[336]Light as a dream your days their circlets ran,
From all that teaches brotherhood to Man
Far, far removed! from want, from hope, from fear!
Enchanting music lulled your infant ear, 10
Obeisance, praises soothed your infant heart:
Emblazonments and old ancestral crests,
With many a bright obtrusive form of art,
Detained your eye from Nature: stately vests,
That veiling strove to deck your charms divine, 15
Rich viands, and the pleasurable wine,
Were yours unearned by toil; nor could you see
The unenjoying toiler's misery.
And yet, free Nature's uncorrupted child,
You hailed the Chapel and the Platform wild, 20
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell!
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
Whence learn'd you that heroic measure?
There crowd your finely-fibred frame 25
All living faculties of bliss;
And Genius to your cradle came,
His forehead wreathed with lambent flame,
And bending low, with godlike kiss
Breath'd in a more celestial life; 30
But boasts not many a fair compeer
A heart as sensitive to joy and fear?
And some, perchance, might wage an equal strife,
Some few, to nobler being wrought,
Corrivals in the nobler gift of thought. 35
Yet these delight to celebrate
Laurelled War and plumy State;
Or in verse and music dress
Tales of rustic happiness—
[337]Pernicious tales! insidious strains! 40
That steel the rich man's breast,
And mock the lot unblest,
The sordid vices and the abject pains,
Which evermore must be
The doom of ignorance and penury! 45
But you, free Nature's uncorrupted child,
You hailed the Chapel and the Platform wild,
Where once the Austrian fell
Beneath the shaft of Tell!
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure! 50
Whence learn'd you that heroic measure?
You were a Mother! That most holy name,
Which Heaven and Nature bless,
I may not vilely prostitute to those
Whose infants owe them less 55
Than the poor caterpillar owes
Its gaudy parent fly.
You were a mother! at your bosom fed
The babes that loved you. You, with laughing eye,
Each twilight-thought, each nascent feeling read, 60
Which you yourself created. Oh! delight!
A second time to be a mother,
Without the mother's bitter groans:
Another thought, and yet another,
By touch, or taste, by looks or tones, 65
O'er the growing sense to roll,
The mother of your infant's soul!
The Angel of the Earth, who, while he guides[337:1]
His chariot-planet round the goal of day,
All trembling gazes on the eye of God 70
A moment turned his awful face away;
And as he viewed you, from his aspect sweet
New influences in your being rose,
Blest intuitions and communions fleet
With living Nature, in her joys and woes! 75
[338]Thenceforth your soul rejoiced to see
The shrine of social Liberty!
O beautiful! O Nature's child!
'Twas thence you hailed the Platform wild,
Where once the Austrian fell 80
Beneath the shaft of Tell!
O Lady, nursed in pomp and pleasure!
Thence learn'd you that heroic measure.
1799.
FOOTNOTES:
LINENOTES:
Sub-title] On the 24th stanza in her Poem, entitled 'The
Passage of the Mountain of St. Gothard.' M. P.
[1-2]
Lady, Splendor's foster'd child
And did you
M. P.
[7] your years their courses M. P.
[9] Ah! far remov'd from want and hope and fear M. P.
[11] Obeisant praises M. P.
[14] stately] gorgeous M. P.
31 foll.
But many of your many fair compeers
[But many of thy many fair compeers M. P.]
Have frames as sensible of joys and fears;
And some might wage an equal strife
An. Anth.
[34-5]
(Some few perchance to nobler being wrought),
Corrivals in the plastic powers of thought.
M. P.
[35] Corrivals] co-rivals An. Anth., S. L. 1828.
[36] these] these S. L. 1828, 1829.
[40] insidious] insulting M. P.
[45] penury] poverty M. P., An. Anth.
[47] Hail'd the low Chapel M. P., An. Anth.
[51] Whence] Where An. Anth., S. L. 1828, 1829.
[56] caterpillar] Reptile M. P., An. Anth.
[76] O Lady thence ye joy'd to see M. P.
A CHRISTMAS CAROL[338:1]
I
The shepherds went their hasty way,
And found the lowly stable-shed
Where the Virgin-Mother lay:
And now they checked their eager tread,
For to the Babe, that at her bosom clung, 5
A Mother's song the Virgin-Mother sung.
II
They told her how a glorious light,
Streaming from a heavenly throng,
Around them shone, suspending night!
While sweeter than a mother's song, 10
Blest Angels heralded the Saviour's birth,
Glory to God on high! and Peace on Earth.
III
She listened to the tale divine,
And closer still the Babe she pressed;
And while she cried, the Babe is mine! 15
The milk rushed faster to her breast:
Joy rose within her, like a summer's morn;
Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.
Thou Mother of the Prince of Peace,
Poor, simple, and of low estate! 20
That strife should vanish, battle cease,
O why should this thy soul elate?
Sweet Music's loudest note, the Poet's story,—
Didst thou ne'er love to hear of fame and glory?
V
And is not War a youthful king, 25
A stately Hero clad in mail?
Beneath his footsteps laurels spring;
Him Earth's majestic monarchs hail
Their friend, their playmate! and his bold bright eye
Compels the maiden's love-confessing sigh. 30
VI
'Tell this in some more courtly scene,
To maids and youths in robes of state!
I am a woman poor and mean,
And therefore is my soul elate.
War is a ruffian, all with guilt defiled, 35
That from the agéd father tears his child!
VII
'A murderous fiend, by fiends adored,
He kills the sire and starves the son;
The husband kills, and from her board
Steals all his widow's toil had won; 40
Plunders God's world of beauty; rends away
All safety from the night, all comfort from the day.
VIII
'Then wisely is my soul elate,
That strife should vanish, battle cease:
[340]I'm poor and of a low estate, 45
The Mother of the Prince of Peace.
Joy rises in me, like a summer's morn:
Peace, Peace on Earth! the Prince of Peace is born.'
1799.
FOOTNOTES:
LINENOTES:
[8] a] an M. P., An. Anth.
[35] War is a ruffian Thief, with gore defil'd M. P., An.
Anth.
[37] fiend] Thief M. P., An. Anth.
After 49
Strange prophecy! Could half the screams
Of half the men that since have died
To realise War's kingly dreams,
Have risen at once in one vast tide,
The choral music of Heav'n's multitude
Had been o'erpower'd, and lost amid the uproar rude!
ESTEESI.
M. P., An. Anth.
TALLEYRAND TO LORD GRENVILLE[340:1]
A METRICAL EPISTLE
[As printed in Morning Post for January 10, 1800.]
To the Editor of The Morning Post.
Mr. Editor,—An unmetrical letter from Talleyrand to Lord
Grenville has already appeared, and from an authority too high
to be questioned: otherwise I could adduce some arguments for
the exclusive authenticity of the following metrical epistle.
The very epithet which the wise ancients used, 'aurea
carmina,' might have been supposed likely to have determined
the choice of the French minister in favour of verse; and the
rather when we recollect that this phrase of 'golden verses'
is applied emphatically to the works of that philosopher who
imposed silence on all with whom he had to deal. Besides is
it not somewhat improbable that Talleyrand should have
preferred prose to rhyme, when the latter alone has got the
chink? Is it not likewise curious that in our official answer
no notice whatever is taken of the Chief Consul, Bonaparte, as
if there had been no such person [man Essays, &c., 1850]
existing; notwithstanding that his existence is pretty
generally admitted, nay that some have been so rash as to
believe that he has created as great a sensation in the world
as Lord Grenville, or even the Duke of Portland? But the
Minister of Foreign Affairs, Talleyrand, is acknowledged,
which, in our opinion, could not have happened had he written
only that insignificant prose-letter, which seems to precede
Bonaparte's, as in old romances a dwarf always ran before to
proclaim the advent or arrival of knight or giant. That
Talleyrand's character and practices more resemble those of
some regular Governments than Bonaparte's I admit; but this
of itself does not appear a satisfactory explanation. However,
let the letter speak for itself. The second line is
supererogative in syllables, whether from the oscitancy of the
transcriber, or from the trepidation which might have
overpowered the modest Frenchman, on finding himself in the
act of writing to so great a man, I shall not dare to
determine. A few Notes are added by
Your servant,
Gnome.
P.S.—As mottoes are now fashionable, especially if taken from out of
the way books, you may prefix, if you please, the following lines from
Sidonius Apollinaris:
'Saxa, et robora, corneasque fibras
Mollit dulciloquâ canorus arte!'
TALLEYRAND, MINISTER OF FOREIGN AFFAIRS AT PARIS, TO LORD GRENVILLE,
SECRETARY OF STATE IN GREAT BRITAIN FOR FOREIGN AFFAIRS, AUDITOR OF THE
EXCHEQUER, A LORD OF TRADE, AN ELDER BROTHER OF TRINITY HOUSE, ETC.
My Lord! though your Lordship repel deviation
From forms long establish'd, yet with high consideration,
I plead for the honour to hope that no blame
Will attach, should this letter begin with my name.
I dar'd not presume on your Lordship to bounce, 5
But thought it more exquisite first to announce!
My Lord! I've the honour to be Talleyrand,
And the letter's from me! you'll not draw back your hand
Nor yet take it up by the rim in dismay,
As boys pick up ha'pence on April fool-day. 10
I'm no Jacobin foul, or red-hot Cordelier
That your Lordship's ungauntleted fingers need fear
An infection or burn! Believe me, 'tis true,
With a scorn like another I look down on the crew
That bawl and hold up to the mob's detestation 15
The most delicate wish for a silent persuasion.
A form long-establish'd these Terrorists call
Bribes, perjury, theft, and the devil and all!
And yet spite of all that the Moralist[341:1] prates,
'Tis the keystone and cement of civilized States. 20
[342]Those American Reps![342:1] And i' faith, they were serious!
It shock'd us at Paris, like something mysterious,
That men who've a Congress—But no more of 't! I'm proud
To have stood so distinct from the Jacobin crowd.
My Lord! though the vulgar in wonder be lost at 25
My transfigurations, and name me Apostate,
Such a meaningless nickname, which never incens'd me,
Cannot prejudice you or your Cousin against me:
I'm Ex-bishop. What then? Burke himself would agree
That I left not the Church—'twas the Church that left me. 30
My titles prelatic I lov'd and retain'd,
As long as what I meant by Prelate remain'd:
And tho' Mitres no longer will pass in our mart,
I'm episcopal still to the core of my heart.
No time from my name this my motto shall sever: 35
'Twill be Non sine pulvere palma[342:2] for ever!
Your goodness, my Lord, I conceive as excessive,
Or I dar'd not present you a scroll so digressive;
And in truth with my pen thro' and thro' I should strike it;
But I hear that your Lordship's own style is just like it. 40
Dear my Lord, we are right: for what charms can be shew'd
In a thing that goes straight like an old Roman road?
The tortoise crawls straight, the hare doubles about;
And the true line of beauty still winds in and out.
It argues, my Lord! of fine thoughts such a brood in us 45
To split and divide into heads multitudinous,
While charms that surprise (it can ne'er be denied us)
Sprout forth from each head, like the ears from King Midas.
Were a genius of rank, like a commonplace dunce,
Compell'd to drive on to the main point at once, 50
What a plentiful vintage of initiations[342:3]
[343]Would Noble Lords lose in your Lordship's orations.
My fancy transports me! As mute as a mouse,
And as fleet as a pigeon, I'm borne to the house
Where all those who are Lords, from father to son, 55
Discuss the affairs of all those who are none.
I behold you, my Lord! of your feelings quite full,
'Fore the woolsack arise, like a sack full of wool!
You rise on each Anti-Grenvillian Member,
Short, thick and blustrous, like a day in November![343:1] 60
Short in person, I mean: for the length of your speeches
Fame herself, that most famous reporter, ne'er reaches.
Lo! Patience beholds you contemn her brief reign,
And Time, that all-panting toil'd after in vain,
(Like the Beldam who raced for a smock with her grand-child) 65
Drops and cries: 'Were such lungs e'er assign'd to a man-child?'
Your strokes at her vitals pale Truth has confess'd,
And Zeal unresisted entempests your breast![343:2]
Though some noble Lords may be wishing to sup,
Your merit self-conscious, my Lord, keeps you up, 70
Unextinguish'd and swoln, as a balloon of paper
Keeps aloft by the smoke of its own farthing taper.
Ye sixteens[343:3] of Scotland, your snuffs ye must trim;
Your Geminies, fix'd stars of England! grow dim,
[344]And but for a form long-establish'd, no doubt 75
Twinkling faster and faster, ye all would go out.
Apropos, my dear Lord! a ridiculous blunder
Of some of our Journalists caused us some wonder:
It was said that in aspect malignant and sinister
In the Isle of Great Britain a great Foreign Minister 80
Turn'd as pale as a journeyman miller's frock coat is
On observing a star that appear'd in Bootes!
When the whole truth was this (O those ignorant brutes!)
Your Lordship had made his appearance in boots.
You, my Lord, with your star, sat in boots, and the Spanish 85
Ambassador thereupon thought fit to vanish.
But perhaps, dear my Lord, among other worse crimes,
The whole was no more than a lie of The Times.
It is monstrous, my Lord! in a civilis'd state
That such Newspaper rogues should have license to prate. 90
Indeed printing in general—but for the taxes,
Is in theory false and pernicious in praxis!
You and I, and your Cousin, and Abbé Sieyes,
And all the great Statesmen that live in these days,
Are agreed that no nation secure is from vi'lence 95
Unless all who must think are maintain'd all in silence.
This printing, my Lord—but 'tis useless to mention
What we both of us think—'twas a curséd invention,
And Germany might have been honestly prouder
Had she left it alone, and found out only powder. 100
My Lord! when I think of our labours and cares
Who rule the Department of foreign affairs,
And how with their libels these journalists bore us,
Though Rage I acknowledge than Scorn less decorous;
Yet their presses and types I could shiver in splinters, 105
Those Printers' black Devils! those Devils of Printers!
In case of a peace—but perhaps it were better
To proceed to the absolute point of my letter:
For the deep wounds of France, Bonaparte, my master,
Has found out a new sort of basilicon plaister. 110
But your time, my dear Lord! is your nation's best treasure,
I've intruded already too long on your leisure;
If so, I entreat you with penitent sorrow
To pause, and resume the remainder to-morrow.
1800.
FOOTNOTES: